Ik it's prob a while after but did you have a part 4 to Taken-ish ? I loveee it so far!!
Gosh thankyouuu for liking the story I had a terrible time writing it 😭🙏🏽
And that was supposed to be the last part tbh but ig I didn't clarify it so I'm gonna write a part 4 for taken-ish and a part 2 for the worst distraction and I'm thinking of just, jamming it up into one single part.
Summary: Todd Stevens needs help getting the girl. You need help not proposing too early. Neither of you believe in subtlety.
Warnings: Slow-burn yearning, Enemies, lovers, enemies again, kinda fuck buddies… plus smut, angst, fluster, and too many useless feelings, wingmaning, dry comedy because of course it's me and probably regret. Be warned: Everyone is in horny jail.
The worst distraction -Todd Stevens
Taken-ish -Bob Floyd
A/n: A continuation and hopefully satisfying closure for my two fics (mentioned above) that y’all apparently couldn’t get enough of. I tried, okay? Don’t come for me if it’s not peak genius-- I was in a slump 😞👎
There are TWO couples. Yes, TWO. And yes, this is an ×reader fic, because obviously I like my chaos personalized.
You can read this from whichever perspective you crave: want Todd? Go Todd. Want Bob? Go Bob. I even labeled them so your brain doesn’t explode: (Y/n/b) = Bobs’ Y/n, (Y/n/t) = Todd’s Y/n. Try not to mix them up-- it’s confusing, I know, I live here too.
Enjoy. Laugh. Cry. Or just sit in awe at my questionable life choices. Might be a part two… because clearly, I can’t let chaos rest. It's mostly written from the perspective of Bob's (Y/n) and Todd Stevens.
The window was smaller than he remembered.
Or he was bigger.
Which felt... personal.
Todd Stevens hung there anyway-- half in, half out-- one arm braced against the inside frame, the other still awkwardly hooked outside like he hadn't fully committed to the crime yet. His suit jacket had already lost the will to live somewhere during the flight, and now the rest of him was following.
"Fantastic," he muttered, forehead resting briefly against the wood. "Breaking and entering. Into my own fucking house. Love a full-circle moment."
He'd left his keys.
Not lost them. Not misplaced. No, that would imply accident.
He had knowingly left them in his hotel suite in Switzerland-- just sitting there on the nightstand, beside his watch, like they paid rent and he was the idiot who moved out.
And now here he was.
At five in the morning.
In San Diego.
Climbing through a kitchen window like a raccoon with a law degree.
He shifted slightly, the frame digging into his ribs in a way that felt deserved. For a second, he just... stayed there. Suspended. Eyes closing despite himself.
It was quiet. Cool. The kind of early-morning stillness that made everything feel paused, like the world hadn't fully loaded yet.
Honestly?
He could sleep like this.
Which was concerning.
If his mother walked in, she'd skip concern entirely and go straight to this is why you're still unmarried.
A beat.
"...she won't even be wrong."
He exhaled slowly, letting his head tip forward again. Just for a second. Just to rest his eyes.
Life had very specific sense of humor lately.
Single. Pushing forty. Running a law firm that owned more of his time than he did.
Flying across continents on command like some overpaid, under-rested courier for his father's expectations.
And now?
Stuck in a window.
Because he forgot his keys.
Again.
"Unbelievable," he mumbled. "I can remember case law from 2008 but not where I put my own damn--"
His elbow slipped.
That did it.
"--okay, no, we're committing--"
He shoved himself forward with a grunt, shoulders finally clearing the frame with all the grace of someone who had absolutely not stretched beforehand. There was a brief, undignified moment where he was convinced he might actually get stuck-- like fully, permanently lodged in his childhood kitchen window, discovered hours later by a housekeeper who would have to call his father like, sir, your son is... installed.
"Come on--" he hissed under his breath, wriggling inelegantly. "You ran a fraternity, you can handle a window--”
A lie. Frat parties had mostly trained him to ignore chaos, not physically escape it.
One last push--
And then gravity remembered him.
He dropped the remaining distance with a dull thud, landing on the kitchen floor harder than intended, breath leaving him in a quiet, offended exhale.
"...great."
Todd stayed there.
Flat on his back. One arm flung out, the other still half-tangled in his own shirt like he'd lost a fight with it on the way down.
He stared up at the ceiling.
The same ceiling.
Same beams. Same stupid, expensive lighting fixture his father insisted was "subtle."
"Yeah," he said softly, to absolutely no one, "this feels right."
For a second, he didn't move.
Didn't have to.
Didn't want to.
The tile was cold against his back, but not unpleasant. Just... grounding. Real. A lot simpler than everything else waiting for him upstairs.
Because upstairs meant--
His father.
The conversation.
The inevitable lecture disguised as concern, or concern disguised as criticism. Hard to tell, these days. Maybe it had always been the same thing.
You should've called.
You're late.
You're cutting it close.
You could've handled that better.
Todd let out a quiet breath through his nose.
"Yeah," he murmured. He turned his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the dim outline of the kitchen, all polished surfaces and untouched stillness. It looked like no one had lived here in years.
Maybe they hadn't.
Not really.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then let it fall back to the floor.
There was a very real, very tempting option in front of him.
Just... stay here.
Sleep.
Right here on the kitchen floor like a man who had officially given up on dignity as a concept.
Wake up in a few hours, pretend this never happened, and book the longest flight available just to see if distance could fix personality.
"...fuck me," he sighed, eyes slipping closed again. "strong plan. no notes."
A pause.
Then, quieter--
"God, I'm tired."
His luck had probably run out years ago.
Back when he was still Todd Stevens, president of Kappa Nu Alpha, walking into rooms like he owned them, like everything was under control, like consequences were things that happened to other people.
The glory days.
He huffed out something that might've been a laugh.
"...ah yes," he muttered, voice barely there now. "walking into rooms like I knew what I was doing. Mostly just hoping no one noticed I had no idea."
And for a moment-- just a moment-- he let himself lie there in the half-dark, somewhere between sleep and waking, not quite ready to get up, not quite ready to deal with anything waiting for him beyond this room.
Just... existing.
Until-- he got thirsty.
He hauls himself up on the kitchen counter like it's a mildly hostile gym apparatus, knees complaining, back groaning. The fridge light flicks on and bless its florescent soul. He reaches for the one drink he absolutely loathes-- because his dad would mock it, and obviously that makes it irresistible. Pours it into a glass like a reluctant scientist, sniffs it, cringes, takes a sip anyway.
Eyes closed. Tiny, ridiculous victories: the hum of the fridge, the creak of the old floorboards, the smell of pine-scented air that somehow never leaves this cabin. Scars in the wood, scars in himself. Dark, awkward, slightly sticky-- but his. Home.
Though the house should have felt normal, it didn't. Foggy brain on autopilot caught a creak in the floorboards. Nobody-- retired parents, non-existent early-rising staff--should be awake. He waved it off, muttering to himself about haunted childhood houses, because what else do you do when you're too tired to be afraid?
He leaned over the counter, head in hands, wheezing softly. Even at thirty-nine, a fully grown man, the idea of something moving in the corner of his eye would have him sprinting to his parents' room like a five-year old scared of a horror movie. And then, of course, something did.
He lifted the glass--
Footsteps.
Fast.
Like, unreasonably fast.
From behind.
There is something uniquely horrifying about hearing someone sprinting at you when you are not looking at them. Your brain does this fun little delay thing where it goes, huh, that's weird, instead of move, idiot.
Todd turned--
Something slammed into him, hard and precise, all leverage and zero hesitation.
His chest hit the counter with a solid thud, breath punching out of him in a way that felt personal. The glass clattered somewhere to his left, water spilling, and before he could even process the angle of impact, his arms were yanked back, wrists wrenched together--
"Don't-- move."
He grunted, the surprise and pain combining into something like betrayal-- because really, who attacks a man just trying to drink water before sunrise?
A knee drove into his lower back. Not enough to break, but enough to make a point.
Todd hissed, cheek pressed cold against marble that probably cost more than his first car. "Jesus--"
"Who are you?" the voice snapped. Female. Sharp. Close. "What are you doing here?"
Old age, he realized miserably, had finally caught up. Also, apparently, so had every ounce of dignity he thought he had--screaming like a distressed maiden while being body-slammed into his own kitchen counter.
He let out a strained breath that might've been a laugh if his lungs weren't currently negotiating terms. "You know, I usually at least get dinner first--"
"Shut up." The pressure increased. Definitely on purpose.
"Yeah, no, that tracks," he muttered into the counter. "Home invasion, light assault, terrible bedside manner-- really strong opening--"
"Name." Firmer now. Less room for commentary.
Todd shifted, just enough to be annoying about it. The knee pressed harder in response. Noted.
"Okay, first of all," he grunted, "you're in my house--"
"Wrong answer."
"That's not--" he cut himself off with a sharp exhale as his shoulder protested. "--that's not how answers work."
"Name."
There was a beat.
Todd closed his eyes for half a second, because of course this was happening. Of course this was how his morning was going. Dragged across states for a party he didn't want to attend, only to get tackled in his own kitchen by what felt like a highly trained, extremely aggressive raccoon.
"...Todd," he said finally, voice flat. "Todd Stevens."
Silence.
Not the house kind this time.
The other kind.
The knee didn't move, but something shifted-- subtle, almost imperceptible. The grip on his wrists loosened just enough to register as hesitation instead of restraint.
"...Stevens?" she repeated, closer now.
He huffed out something between a breath and a laugh. "Yeah, that's usually how names work. You say them, people--"
"Hold still."
"...right, because I have so many options at this exact moment."
There was movement behind him. A shift of weight. The faint sound of fabric, closer than before. He could feel her there now--really feel her-- like proximity had weight.
Then fingers at his jaw.
Firm. Unapologetic.
She turned his face just enough, angling it toward the weak light filtering through the blinds.
Todd blinked against it, squinting slightly, already over this entire situation.
There was a pause.
A longer one.
And then--
"...oh."
The pressure lifted. Not completely, but enough that he could actually breathe like a person instead of a cautionary tale.
A beat.
"...the fuck are you doing here?" You said, a grin visible in your tone.
Todd slowly straightened, one hand rubbing his sore back like it had personally betrayed him, eyes scanning the scene: pajama shorts, a white shirt suspiciously dusted with... cheese? No, Cheez-It dust. And that grin. That way-too-bright-for-5AM grin, like someone had shoved a flashlight into her soul. It was (Y/n/b).
His father's junior. The goddaughter. And, apparently, the universe's idea of a personal attack in human form.
"What the 'fuck' am I doing in my OWN house?" Todd waved a hand at the ceiling like it might confess. "Important question. Very important. You see, I was called in for laundry. Yeah, weekends pay extra. Thrilling, I know. And you, Miss (Y/n/b)-- what are YOU doing in MY kitchen at five a.m., looking like you've been hired to assassinate me for breakfast? And why-- oh god, why-- did you just body-slam me like I'm a bag of groceries?"
“You’re focusing on the wrong thing. Why were you so easy to take down?”
Todd blinked at you. Once. Twice. Like his brain had to reboot just to process the audacity.
“Easy to--” he let out a short, disbelieving laugh, pointing at himself, “I was half asleep. I had one eye open and a dream about toast still loading. Congratulations, you’ve successfully defeated a man buffering.”
He straightened a little, wincing. “Also, for the record, I wasn’t ‘easy to take down.’ I chose not to escalate. Out of respect. For the furniture. And my spine. Which you’ve apparently declared optional.”
A beat. Then, squinting at you--
“And why are you so comfortable tackling people before sunrise? Is this a hobby? Do you have a schedule? Should I be stretching before entering my own kitchen now?”
You stared at him for a second, then scoffed.
“Sorry, do you want me to not tackle suspicious men lurking in dark kitchens? Is that the new policy? ‘See potential threat, offer him tea’?”
You gestured at him vaguely.
“You crept in silently, stood in the shadows, and reached for something like you were about to monologue. That’s not ‘homeowner behavior,’ Todd-- that’s criminal with confidence.”
A beat. Then you squinted.
“And yeah, maybe stretch next time. That was…alarmingly easy. I’ve had sturdier arrests from people in flip-flops.”
You paused, then added, almost thoughtfully--
“Also, for the record, if you were a burglar? You’d be in handcuffs already. So really, this is me going easy on you.”
Todd dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to uninstall the morning.
“…Right. Great. Outstanding work, officer.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled, exhaled like he deserved hazard pay for breathing. “Round two-- what are you doing here?” A vague, exhausted gesture at the kitchen. “Don’t you have a job? A precinct? Crimes that aren’t me hydrating?”
Todd blinked. “…Huh?” He leaned in, hand cupped to his ear. “Sorry, I left my telepathy in my other house. Try that again?”
You shrugged again, even smaller this time. “Mmff…’spended.”
“…What?”
“Mm-- spen--”
“What are you saying?” Todd squinted at you like if he focused hard enough subtitles might appear.
Your phone suddenly crackled to life from somewhere inside your pajama shirt pocket--
“--she got suspended,--”
A burst of laughter followed. Male voice. Then another. Then three people talking over each other like it was a group sport.
You rolled your eyes, already fishing the phone out. “Oh my god, shut up--”
Todd froze. “…I’m sorry, what?”
On the phone, the voice came back, louder now, amused beyond reason--
“Was that the intruder? Did you neutralize him or--”
“The ‘intruder’,” you deadpanned, flipping the screen on and angling it toward Todd, “is the chief’s son.”
A beat.
“Say hi, Todd.”
Three faces tried--and failed--to fit into frame at once, jostling like it was a clown car situation.
“Hi, Todd!”
“Hey man--wow he really does look like bo--”
“Not really though, maybe an evil, corrupted version of b--”
Todd stared at the screen, then gave a tight, painfully polite little wave, smile stretched thin with secondhand embarrassment and betrayal.
“…Hi.”
Todd shook his head like he could physically reboot the situation.
“--okay wait no, absolutely not, we’re not just glossing over that,” he said, pointing at you like you’d committed crimes against logic. “Suspended. For what?”
You exhaled like this was beneath you. Deep sigh. Eye roll.
“My ex tried to light my yard on fire,” you said, deadpan. “So I broke his nose and shaved his head.”
Todd just…blinked.
“…you--” he gestured vaguely, like the sentence might assemble itself if he waved hard enough, “--you what?”
You shrugged. “Self-defense. Personal expression. Community service, arguably.”
Todd stared at you, then dragged a hand down his face again. “Your boyfriend? The one I met at that party?” He frowned, genuinely confused. “He seemed…nice.”
Your reaction was immediate.
You went red. Like--alarmingly red. Your lips did this whole traitorous wobble into a shy smile, and before Todd could even process that personality switch, you slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Not Bob,” you hissed, scandalized. “Bob is an angel.”
“Mmph--?!” Todd tried, deeply against his will.
“And he’s not my--” you paused, blinking rapidly, suddenly fascinated by the concept of the floor. “Well. Not yet. He’s not my boyfriend yet. We just-- haven’t-- officially-- done the-- thing.”
Todd slowly peeled your hand off his face, eyes narrowed.
“…You tackled me like a SWAT team and this is where you get shy?”
You straightened instantly, composure snapping back like a rubber band.
“I’m talking about my ex,” you said, scowling now. “Ugly-ass bitch. Arsonist. Bad hair. I improved two out of three.”
Todd’s eye twitched. Once. Then again. Slowly, deliberately. He clenched his teeth and let the words slip out through gritted teeth.
“So…how long…are you suspended for?”
You shrugged casually. “Probably a week or so.”
Todd let out a nervous, sarcastic laugh, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge the thought from his brain.
“And…you, uh…plan on staying here the entire time?”
You didn’t answer.
Todd glanced up, ready with another sarcastic remark-- then stalled. The air shifted. Subtle, but enough.
“…What,” he said, slower now, “did I ask it in the wrong tone or--”
“Todd,” you cut in, too quick, too flat. Then quieter, eyes dropping, “I don't like going back.”
A beat.
Todd frowned. “Back where?”
You huffed a small, humorless laugh, like the question itself was the punchline. “That’s the thing, Todd. There isn’t really a back.”
Silence stretched, uncomfortable and thin.
“Parents are gone,” You added, matter-of-fact in a way that wasn’t matter-of-fact at all. “Place doesn’t feel like anything. Just walls and…stuff.” A shrug that didn’t quite land. “Didn’t feel like sitting in it.”
Todd shifted, the sarcasm draining out of him in real time, leaving him standing there with…feelings. Disgusting.
“…So,” You went on, softer, “I came here. Because, I don’t know. It’s…quite. Peaceful. People exist.” A tiny glance at him. “Better than my own head.”
Another pause.
Then, almost as an afterthought--
“But yeah, sure. I can go, if that’s what you were getting at.”
Todd blinked at you, caught between irritation and something else entirely.
“…I asked if you had work,” he muttered, rubbing his face again, voice a notch less sharp. “Not--” he gestured vaguely, uselessly, “--all that.”
A beat.
“…Kitchen’s big,” he added, gruff, already turning away like it didn’t matter. “Just-- maybe don’t tackle the homeowner again.”
He bent down, grabbed his jacket from the floor, and started toward the staircase, muttering under his breath. What the hell am I even doing? He pinched the bridge of his nose. Insensitive. Totally insensitive. And she probably thinks I just…don’t care. God, I’m such an idiot. Haven't changed a bit.
...
I tiptoed to the edge of the living room, neck craned like a confused heron at a fashion show, watching Todd stomp up the stairs like he was personally carrying the weight of all the tragically single children who had to share in the universe.
“Evolution really phoned it in on these ones.” I picked up and popped my forgotten lollipop in my mouth. Don’t look at me like that. You’re not my immune system.
“Sure, evolution flopped on them… but apparently it missed the memo on you, too.”
“Missed the memo on me? Sweetie, you’re still reading the instructions wrong.”
Jake immediately mocked the line from behind the phone screen, puffing out his chest like a cartoon parrot. “Ohhh, you’re still reading the instructions wrong!” he squeaked, passing the phone to Mickey, who rolled their eyes and handed it over to the movie so the gang could finally get back to the plot. Six in the morning, all of them awake, just for fun. Very sweet of them to include me in their weekly movie night-- even though my bedroom is literally next door back in San Diego.
I flopped onto the couch dramatically, tossing a pillow behind my head, and let myself sink into the chaos. The lollipop made an obligatory cameo in my mouth. Javy, being the human audiobook he is, immediately started narrating the part of the book that happened before the scene we were watching, like someone felt the need to provide a backstory for my backstory.
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I almost saw the ceiling tiles spin. “Oh, good. Context. Because what I really needed at six a.m. was a lecture in why this is happening before it happens-- gosh you guys are SO boringggg-ah. When is Bob coming bac--”
“Babe… you’re losing the ‘IDGAF war.’ Like, spectacularly.”
“Losing the war? Honey, they didn’t even let me enlist. On account of my poet’s temperament. Clearly too much yearning for military precision.” I snorted, choking on the watermelon lollipop, sitting up and patting myself on the back coughing like an puking cat.
Jake’s voice drifted in from somewhere off-screen, already exhausted. “Oh my god, please-- spare us. You’ve relapsed into Yearning™ again--”
“I KNOW, I KNOW! Having a crush is humiliating, I’m literally a grown adult, I should be filing taxes not feelings--”
“How is it a crush if you’re both equally-- what is it-- smitten? Smote? Smitted? Smashed--”
“It’s a crush as long as I don’t get down on my knees for Bob Floy--”
“EW?!”
“EWW--WHAT--”
“STAWP--”
“NOT LIKE THAT!” I snapped, sitting up like a disgraced Victorian woman. “Knee. Singular. One (1) knee. For honorable, chivalrous purposes. Holier than thou reasons. For marriage. For devotion. For putting a ring on a man who looked past my mental instability, saw my ass and said, ‘yeah, I’d still hit-- emotionally.’”
“Bob is a boobs man, by the way,” Jake added, crunching popcorn like a menace.
“…huh? Sorry sweetie. Mommy was too busy being distracted by her own absolutely ENORMOUS bazonkas, what was that?”
“Hilarious,” Javy deadpanned.
“SHUT UP-- BOTH OF YOU-- THIS IS THE PART WHERE HE BABYTRAPS LOUIS!” The screen shook as mickey repeatedly patted Jake down to shut him up.
“Dicks,” I groaned, sliding further down the couch until I was basically horizontal. “Every single one of you. No morals. No decorum. Men used to ride horses.”
The birds outside had clearly unionized. There was no other explanation for the sheer coordination of it-- chirping like they were getting paid per note. It was aggressively peaceful.
I blinked awake into it.
The cabin-- no, estate, let’s be honest, my godfather didn’t do “cabin” unless it came with suspicious wealth-- sat wrapped in that soft, golden morning light that made everything look like a lifestyle ad for people who own linen. The curtains breathed lazily in the breeze, sunlight slipping through in gentle stripes like it had nowhere better to be. It was quiet in that expensive way. The kind of quiet that implies generational wealth and good credit.
My eyes drifted across it all, slow and reverent.
God. This place was nice.
Like, offensively nice.
Like, “why do I suddenly want to bake bread from scratch and forgive my enemies” nice.
And also-- critically-- too big.
Too big for one person.
…too big for two people.
My brain, traitor that it was, immediately filled in the vacancy.
Me.
Bob Floyd.
I paused.
“…pardon,” I muttered to absolutely no one, already feeling the heat crawl up my neck like I’d been personally caught by God.
Still. Hypothetically.
Purely for architectural assessment reasons.
We could make it work.
There was space. So much space. A kitchen that could survive my cooking attempts. A porch that practically demanded slow mornings and bad decisions. Outside, I could already picture it-- white fence, slightly crooked because we “did it ourselves” (we did not), two dogs with names that start off ironic and become sincere.
Three kids.
…four, if we’re feeling ambitious. Or if I get emotionally attached halfway through and start talking about “the narrative arc of our family.”
I squinted at the ceiling.
“Alright,” I whispered, deeply serious. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We don’t even share a Netflix account yet.”
A bird chirped louder, like it disagreed.
I rolled onto my side, pressing my cheek in the plush couch armrest. “Mind your business,” I told it.
“--so, you got the ring?” Javy’s voice yanked me clean out of my domestic delusion like a disgruntled landlord.
I blinked at nothing for a second. “Ring…”
Oh.
The ring.
Right.
The ring I picked out immediately after my first kiss with that absurdly gentle, terrifyingly husband-shaped man, Bob Floyd. The ring that said I’m normal about this while actively disproving that statement.
“Yeah,” I said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near deranged but composed. “I got it.”
My hand came up on instinct, fingers finding the thin chain around my neck. It was tucked there, hidden like a secret I absolutely wanted people to ask about.
I pulled it out slightly, just enough for the metal to catch the light.
It was…simple.
Of course it was.
A brushed silver band-- nothing flashy, no obnoxious diamonds screaming for attention. Just one small, inset stone, pale blue, almost grey depending on how the light hit it. The kind of color you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. The kind of detail that rewards you for looking closer.
Painfully Bob Floyd coded.
Understated. Steady. Soft in a way that sneaks up on you.
My thumb brushed over it, slow, absent.
God.
I couldn’t wait.
It was that exact feeling-- when you’ve got the perfect gift for someone and their birthday is still days away and it physically pains you to act normal. Like you’re sitting on a secret so good it’s vibrating in your bones.
Except this wasn’t for a friend.
This was for the love of my life.
This was me, fully intending to legally, emotionally, and spiritually trap a man into loving me forever.
…
I paused.
“…that sounded threatening,” I admitted.
“The fuck?” Mickey leaned closer to the camera like he could physically inspect my life choices through pixels. “You dropped that kind of money and didn’t even get a box?”
“Of course I got a box,” I scoffed, immediately clutching my necklace like a Victorian widow. “I just-- keep it close. For… emotional support. Pre-game rituals. Psychological conditioning for the inevitable.”
I smiled at the ring like it might smile back.
Jake made a soft, theatrical coo. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t wannaaa--”
“Shut the fuck up, blonde man,” I snapped without looking up. “I can see your nipples through that whorish shirt. Put them away. This is a sacred moment.”
“First of all,” Jake sat up straighter, offended, “stop being ungrateful. Those nipples are doing community service.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Javy cut in, lowering the movie volume like a tired teacher regaining control of a classroom. “What’s the plan though? How are you proposing?”
I sat up, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of my shirt like I was about to present a PowerPoint titled Operation: Wife Him Up.
“Well,” I began, dignified. “If you would all kindly quiet down, my court jesters--”
“Don’t call us that.”
“--my prince,” I continued louder, “will accompany me to my goddaddy's retirement party--”
“Please don’t call him that either--”
“--in two days. As my plus one,” I emphasized, because that mattered. “We’ll have a lovely time. Enchanting. Effortless. People will look at us and think, ‘wow, love is real and also mildly intimidating.’”
Jake gagged audibly.
“And then,” I pressed on, undeterred, “I sneak him away. Up the mountain. Very cinematic. Wind in the hair, soft lighting, nature personally rooting for me--”
“Basic as fu--”
“--and then I get down on one knee,” I finished, glaring through the screen, “and I say, marry me.”
There was a beat.
“…okay, yeah, that part’s cute,” Javy admitted.
“Thank you,” I said, gracious. “And then it branches.”
“Oh no,” Mickey muttered.
“If he says yes,” I continued, counting on my fingers, “we live happily ever after. Beautiful. Stunning. Critics love it.”
“And if he says no?” Jake asked, already grinning.
I paused.
“…I push him off the mountain,” I said calmly. “And spend the rest of my life romanticizing it as a tragic love story.”
Silence.
“Sounds about right,” Javy nodded.
“Yep.”
“Totally valid,” Jake agreed. “Because what else is a girl supposed to do, really.”
I giggled into my sleeve, rubbing my feet together like a mosquito that just got away with something illegal. Heat crawled up my face, stupid and unstoppable, the kind of giddy that made you want to knock on wood, spin in a circle, do something before the universe noticed and revoked your privileges.
Because this--this felt dangerously like luck.
And I don’t do luck. Historically, luck sees me coming and crosses the street.
But now? Now I had him.
And I wasn’t about to sit around and let fate “take its course” like some passive side character. No. Absolutely not. I was grabbing destiny by the collar, shaking it, and going, mine. we’re doing this now.
Because if this didn’t work--if Bob Floyd, the blueprint, the final boss of “good men actually exist,” looked at me and went hmm… no thanks--
Then that was it. Curtains.
I’d accept defeat gracefully. Pivot. Reinvent.
Switch teams.
Find myself a very quiet, very lethal blonde Russian woman with deadpan humor, eyes that look like they’ve seen too much, and the general aura of someone who could dismantle me emotionally and physically in under thirty seconds--and call it divine intervention.
A sign from God, really.
I sighed, the manic sparkle softening into something quieter, warmer. The movie murmured in the background through my phone, all distant dialogue and muffled explosions. Javy had already tapped out-- soft, unashamed snoring bleeding into the mic like ambient noise. Jake and Mickey were still there, but only barely, the sound of lazy chewing and occasional commentary drifting in and out like they were haunting the call.
I sank deeper into the couch, fingers still curled loosely around the ring at my chest.
“Yeah,” I murmured to no one in particular, a small smile lingering. “This is gonna work.”
The low growl of an engine cutting off outside crackled through the speakers, and I perked up instantly-- like a dog who absolutely knows that sound means soft chaos is about to enter the building.
Right on cue, the door slammed open.
Natasha’s voice cut through first, sharp and already mid-argument. “--I swear to God, Bradley, if you ever say that again--”
Bradley bolted past the camera like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, one hand clamped over his crotch. “MOVE-- bathroom-- EMERGENCY--”
“Of course,” I muttered, watching him disappear. “Bladder of a goose. Spirit of a coward.”
Payback aka Rueben-- ambled into frame next, completely unbothered, flashing me those stupidly charming dimples in a silent what’s up. I unsuccessfully winked at him, eye closing halfway before giving up and twitching instead. He nodded like we’d just concluded a business deal.
Then everything dissolved into noise.
Voices layered over each other, someone laughing too loud, someone else yelling for snacks, a thud that definitely shouldn’t have been that loud. Javy snorted himself awake mid-chaos, confused and offended, which only made it worse. The camera lost focus, tilted, caught half a ceiling, someone’s shoulder, a flash of carpet--
--and then went completely black.
“Yep,” I huffed, smiling despite myself. “There they go.”
The audio kept going, muffled now, like my phone had been sacrificed face-first into the couch. Just distant shouting and the occasional HEY-- WHO ATE-- echoing into oblivion.
I yawned, stretching lazily, bones popping in quiet protest. The warmth of the room, the soft noise, the earlier giddiness settling into something drowsy and sweet--
Yeah. I could sleep.
In a second.
Just-- one more thing.
Only after I see my beautiful boy.
And like the universe had been eavesdropping-- rude-- the screen flickered back to life.
A blur of movement. Colors. Someone’s arm. The edge of a wall--
--and then it settled.
Him.
My peace. My soft landing. My man, my almost-husband, my federally approved source of serotonin.
Bob Floyd, standing slightly off to the side, having clearly retreated from the circus. The sunlight caught on his aviator prescription glasses, flashing briefly before softening again. He tucked himself into a quieter corner of the condo, like he always did-- gentle escape artist.
His lips curved into that small, shy smile, the one that didn’t demand attention but stole it anyway. Those soft lines at the corners of his mouth-- God. I was unwell about those lines. Clinically.
His eyes found me immediately.
Bright. Awake. Warm.
Alive in that way that made you feel seen instead of observed.
Meanwhile, on my end, I was fully horizontal, double chin proudly clocked in, face squished into the couch like I’d been gently dropped from a height. I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny corner preview and didn’t even bother fixing it.
Let him see the real me.
He was gonna marry this face.
God.
This man had no idea.
No idea that in approximately forty-eight hours, I was going to wife him up so aggressively it would alter the trajectory of his entire bloodline.
I smiled at him, slow and soft, like I wasn’t currently plotting lifelong commitment.
“Hey,” I murmured.
Mine.
His lips parted-- soft, sacred, about to say something that would’ve rewired my entire nervous system.
“Ho--”
“HOW WILL YOU FACE GOD, MISS (Y/N/B)?!”
I jerked. Full body, soul leaving my mortal shell for half a second as thunder pounded down the stairs in the form of one (1) deeply offended Todd Stevens.
My phone smacked straight into my face.
“--OW--”
Call: ended.
No goodbye. No closure. Just me, concussed and spiritually blue-balled.
I scrambled off the couch, immediately dropping into a defensive crouch behind it like this was a hostage situation. Hands up. Palms out. De-escalation mode.
Todd appeared at the bottom of the stairs, red-faced, clutching his dignity like it had personally betrayed him.
“Your PARENTS live two blocks away from your apartment back in Switzerland!” he thundered. “Your mother gave me a sandwich before I boarded my flight thirteen hours ago!”
“OKAY AND?!” I shot back. “I never said they were dead!”
“LIAR! You said you had nowhere to go!”
“I said I couldn’t go!” I snapped, indignant. “There’s a difference! My dad’s cat hates me, Todd! She bites my feet! I can’t go there--”
He dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to uninstall himself from existence. “How embarrassing. Why did you lie? Oh my god, I believed that. I am so tired--”
“There, there,” I cooed, stepping out from behind the couch like a brave little idiot. “It happens. You’re getting old. Memory issues are very nor--”
“Miss (Y/N/B),” he cut in, voice tight, “I’m going to need you to back off. I am having a fit right now. I will not be very gentlemanly.”
I gasped. “Wow. Not very nice, is it? Let’s take a few deep breaths. In… and out you go--”
“And out you go,” he snapped, pointing toward the door like he’d been rehearsing it. “There’s the do--”
“You can’t kick me out,” I said, calm as a monk. “Your father invited me.”
“This is my house.”
“Mmm,” I hummed thoughtfully. “Not yet. Not until their bones are decaying six feet under.”
He froze.
“You--” he choked. “You are-- fuck.” He turned away, pacing once like a man trying not to commit a felony. “I’m overreacting. I need a breath.”
“There we go,” I said, soothingly, like I hadn’t just implied future inheritance via death.
He inhaled. Exhaled. Shoulders dropping a fraction.
“…I’m sorry,” he muttered finally. “I just-- I had plans for my stay here that did not involve an outsider, and I’m… I’m a perfectionist, alright? And you being here hinders my plans. A lot. That’s why I might be crashing out like a teenager--”
“Was the plan killing your parents and taking over their inheritance?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Ye--” he started, then stopped. “…what? No. God, no... No.”
I stared at him.
“…very convincing.”
He rubbed his face again, defeated.
“It must be hard,” I went on, softer now, almost sympathetic. “Being an only child and having to share. Must feel like all your bones are being ripped out of your skin, huh?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“…yes.”
I nodded solemnly.
“Tragic.”
“What’s the plan though?” I asked, already inching sideways toward the door like a criminal with manners. “Just so I can… respectfully avoid your oath and not, y’know-- hinder your divine journey. I got plans of my own so I understand.”
“Ugh, it’s just--” Todd scrubbed his face, pacing once. “It’s complicated, okay? I’ve got like a million moving parts and two days to make it work.”
“Mm. Mm-hmm. Hate that for you.” I nodded with deep, fake empathy, body continuing its slow, elegant retreat. One foot. Then the other.
“And it sucks because I don’t have anyone to lean on for--”
“--okay wow devastating, prayers up--” I murmured, already halfway through the doorway.
“--and I just feel like it would be so much easier if I could just have a--”
“--yep, God’s ineffable plans, who are we to question--” I said, fully outside now, hand on the frame, spiritually gone--
“--wingman.”
I froze.
Silence.
A beat.
My head slowly reappeared in the doorway like a cursed jack-in-the-box.
“…wingman?”
Todd hesitated. “…yeah.”
Another beat.
Then--
I stepped back in.
Fully.
Door shut behind me.
Grin loading… loading… complete.
“Oh,” I said, rolling my shoulders like I’d just been activated. “Oh, now you’re speaking my language.”
I pointed at myself. “PhD in Wingmaniship. Minor in Emotional Manipulation-- ethical, mostly. Double major in Vibes and Timing.”
Todd blinked. “That’s not--”
“Lay it on me, champ,” I cut in, dragging a chair around and sitting on it backwards like I was about to coach him through a life-changing play. “Who are we seducing, impressing, psychologically destabilizing in a romantic way?”
“I don’t-- destabilizing?”
“Figure of speech,” I waved it off. “We’re stabilizing. With flair.”
He stared at me, exhausted already.
“…this is a bad idea.”
“Incorrect,” I said immediately. “This is the best idea you’ve had all day. You’re welcome in advance.”
I leaned in, eyes sharp now, all teasing gone--just a flicker of something dangerously competent.
“Start talking.”
He dropped onto the couch like gravity had a personal vendetta against him. Eye bags. Deadpan stare. The general aura of a man who had been emotionally drop-kicked by fate and then asked to say thank you.
“…so,” he started, voice already apologizing for existing, “you remember my… uh… the girl that I to--”
“Your enemies-to-lovers situationship?” I cut in. “Yeah, I remember. What about her? She gay?”
“What? No--no, God, I hope not. I really fucking lov--” he choked, immediately correcting himself, “--like her.”
“Circle of life, baby,” I nodded. “Continue your tragic monologue.”
He sighed, long and suffering. “The last time I saw her was in university. Second last semester. Back when I was… you know how frat boys are. I was a--”
“Brainless himbo slut? Say it with your chest.”
“--playboy.”
“Right. A glorified brainless himbo slut. Please proceed.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So yeah. I didn’t exactly leave a good first impression.”
“Don’t they all.”
“…or second. Or third.” He winced. “Fourth might’ve had potential but-- no. No, that was bad too.”
“Consistency is key,” I murmured.
“Can you just-- listen?”
“To a man? In this economy? Bold of you--”
“Fine, I’ll just-- leave--”
“No no no--” I lunged forward, grabbing the air like I was reeling him back in. “I’m sorry. I’m sat. I’m seated. Continue your flop era.”
He exhaled, staring somewhere into the middle distance like the memory itself owed him money.
“…we didn’t part well either. I thought I tried to fix things,” he admitted, quieter now. “But that’s bullshit. I was too late.”
I winced for him. “Oof. Late to the function, late to accountability. Classic.”
A beat.
“So what now?” I asked, tilting my head. “You want help making a better… what, fifth impression?”
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “No. I already ruined that myself.”
“…huh?”
“I uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the floor. “I ran into her.”
Silence.
I blinked.
He blinked.
“…and?” I leaned forward like a detective about to solve a crime.
“…and I sort of… kind of…”
I leaned even closer. “Todd Stevens, if you don’t finish that sentence--”
“…fumbled,” he finished weakly.
I sat back, hand over my mouth.
“…no.”
He nodded once. Dead.
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“You had timing, growth, narrative tension-- everything lined up--” I pointed at him like a disappointed coach, “--and you still fumbled like it was part of the plan?”
“It wasn’t on purpose--”
“--how do you pre-ruin a redemption arc?”
“It was a situation--”
“--what did you do, trip? combust? confess tax fraud--”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It was worse.”
I went still.
“…worse than tax fraud.”
A beat.
“that’s a good boy…”
“all that attitude just to end up like this?”
“pathetic.”
“go on-- beg properly this time. don’t embarrass yourself.”
Todd blinked like his brain had just blue-screened.
His face crumpled-- flushed, scrunched, devastated --as he slowly sank down the couch in defeat, like a fallen war general accepting his fate. One arm dangled dramatically. A soft, tragic whine escaped him.
“I’m… fucked.”
I went very still.
Then-- slowly-- sat forward.
Elbows on knees. Fingers steepled. Eyes gleaming like I’d just been handed state secrets.
A beat.
“And I,” I said, voice low with dangerous excitement, “am sat.”
Another beat. I pointed at him like a director calling action.
“Speak, Todd Stevens,” I declared. “Confess your sins. Ruin my peace.”
I tilted my head, a grin spreading, feral and delighted.
“Make it cinematic.”
“Right. Of course it's cinematic. Truly Oscar-worthy. I especially loved the part where I forgot my fucking lines.”
“I’d say nice to see you, but that would be a lie.” She leaned back just enough to look him over, teeth bared in a slow, predatory grin-- like she was already dissecting him, already unimpressed. And god, he fucking liked that.
“And we don’t do honesty in my kind of hell, do we?”
Awweee, you’re sweet for checking in 😭… me? I started five things at once, abandoned all of them, and now I’m just emotionally invested in doing nothing. So… peak productivity, really.
Oh the crushing weight of an extremely manageable task.
thanks for the tag @solivagant-reverie @mrgrungusthefrog! had to make a list on the notes app for this one 😭
not doing gifs, bc there’s absolutely no good gifs for joshua. damson my boy they’re doing you dirty 😔
also this was so hard for no fucking reason. probably bc if there’s already a pairing, i ship them way too much for me to develop a crush on one of them lmao
tbf, i actually couldn’t choose between the two rhaenyras. milly alcock is my princess. emma d’arcy is my queen.
absolutely no pressure tags — @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @demiebarnes @slutdier @sassandscribbles @eterna1reverie @ladymiseryy @ornateglass (not me tagging literally everyone i know, i’m sorry you guys 😔)
I got tagged in this one twice so I’m gonna do my Lewis crushes then non Lewis crushes
Thanks for tagging me: @lives-in-midgard
Bob Floyd:
Bob reynolds:
Calvin Evans
Rocco Gauthier (including marina too cause she also a crush of mine)
Rhett Abbott
Jordan weaver
In my opinion all Lewis characters are hot (cause Lewis) but these are my favorites of the movies and shows of his Ive seen (so sorry miles, Todd,Harrison and any others lol)
Gosh I am LATE to this. Tagged by the amazing and lovely love of my life who never forgets me @iristheplanet16. I will burn the world for you, and I apologize for the late reblog, the black plague got to me 💔💔
Synopsis: You’re busy turning the guy who ditched you at the altar into a sniveling mess, which is fair because the ghosts of bad decisions don't haunt themselves, and Bob decides that’s exactly the kind of madness he wants in his life forever.
Warnings: violence but like… cardio, ex‑fiancé learns bones are optional, Bob confesses his feelings while you’re mid‑felony, surprisingly fluffy for something that involves leg‑bashing, romance blooming in the ashes of poor decision‑making, everyone needs jail except Bob, probably.
A/n: last part of my crack fic, I promise.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
The motel looked like it was built out of sadness and expired coupons. A sagging neon sign buzzed “VAC NCY,” which felt like an omen or a dare. You parked your battered truck under the broken streetlight, windows fogged slightly from the cheap bong you’d been hitting like it owed you rent.
The smoke tasted like disappointment and citrus. Fitting.
Your “husband” had run off here. For his honeymoon.
With his side-piece.
In the same city.
Like he thought you’d just… vanish before you ripped his head off.
You let out a slow exhale that turned into a laugh halfway through. A bad one. The kind that made stray animals leave the area.
Man didn’t leave the goddamn planet.
Bold.
Stupid.
Almost admirable in a Darwin Award sort of way.
You could sit here forever, plotting revenge… or you could just start now. “...Decisions, decisions.”
You grabbed the bat from the passenger seat. Wood, worn, wrapped in barbed wire you’d scavenged off a fence because your coping skills were evolving in terrible directions. You stepped out into the night, high enough to be fearless and sober enough to be efficient.
You slam the barbed wire bat into the side window of his car, shards spiderwebbing across the glass.
The horn honks obnoxiously.
Again. Beep.
And again. Beep dies.
Room 12B.
“I BUST THE WINDOWS OUT YOUR CAR!”
You fling the door open and swing your bat with a theatrical flourish. CRASH! Glass shatters, bits spraying across the floor. You spin, grinning, like a conductor leading an orchestra of chaos.
“And, no, it didn't mend my broken heart”
You lean on the bat for balance, singing directly at them, eyes glittering with mischief. "Wait! That… that’s my favorite mug! Please-- okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t, but still!" You just roll your eyes and tilt your head dramatically, as if their protests are background noise.
“I'll probably always have these ugly scars”
You stomp across the room, stepping over toppled chairs, swinging the bat at a dresser for good measure. A lamp teeters dangerously and falls with a loud crash. "Look, I get it, okay?! I see the bat! I acknowledge your feelings, but… we can talk?! I’ll even… I’ll even apologize?" You hum the next line, completely ignoring them.
“But right now I don't care about that part”
You twirl around, bat held high, laughing, almost dancing between smashed furniture. Your energy is gleeful, chaotic, unstoppable.
"Okay, okay, what if… what if I just… pretend to faint? Would that… work? No? Alright, noted."
“I bust the windows out your car”
Another swing, another crash. You take a dramatic bow, hair flying into your face, eyes locked on them. Their muffled yelling barely registers as part of the soundtrack.
“After I saw you layin' next to her”
You stomp closer, bat tapping rhythmically against the floor, letting your voice boom with theatrical indignation. They flinch but you lean into the moment, face wild with glee.
“I didn't wanna, but I took my turn”
You swing the bat again, narrowly missing a pile of clothes. You stop mid-swing, tilt your head, and let out a breathy laugh as if admitting some minor regret-- then shrug and go right back to it.
“I'm glad I did it 'cause you had to learn”
You finish with a dramatic flourish, chest heaving, bat raised high. You step back, surveying the chaotic ruin of the room with satisfaction. They try one last desperate plea.
"Can we maybe… negotiate the bat’s angle? Like… less face-level, more floor-level?"
His lover cowered in the corner under some pathetic motel blanket that looked like it carried every disease except dignity. His arm was thrown out in front of her like he was making a heroic last stand in a shampoo commercial.
He wasn’t brave enough to commit to the pose, though. His hand shook.
You tilted your head. “Cute. Real National Geographic of you.”
You tapped the bat on the floor once. “You ran away from the altar. In your car. With an Instagram trail. And left your location on. Babe, you practically sent me a GPS route with sparkles.”
His lover whimpered. He flinched.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice rising an octave, eyes darting from the bat to your face. “We can talk. We can be civil.”
You smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “I’m being civil. This is me being civil.”
Then you swung.
The bat cracked into his leg. Clean. Crisp. Efficient.
He dropped onto one knee like he was proposing again, but worse.
His lover shrieked. He hissed in pain, hand flying to his thigh.
“Why-- why would you--” he gasped.
“You left me at the altar,” you said, shrugging, “and you didn’t even run far. That’s insulting. A girl deserves effort.”
His breath shook with pain and dread. “You’re insane.”
You grinned wider. “Finally, you’re catching on.”
He tried to scoot back, dragging his hurt leg, putting himself between you and his trembling lover like it actually mattered.
“You won’t hurt her,” he said, voice trembling but trying to sound firm.
“Relax,” you said, lowering the bat. “I’m not here for her.”
His shoulders sagged in tiny relief.
You leaned in close, voice dropping to something bright and terrible.
“I’m here for you.”
His eyes widened. The hate, the fear, the resentment-- it all boiled right to the surface.
“You ruin everything,” he spat. “Every room you enter, every person you touch, every--”
You cut him off with a little “tsk.”
“You married me. That’s on you.”
He stared at you like you were a fuse about to blow.
You tapped the bat onto your shoulder and exhaled one more thin ribbon of smoke.
“Now,” you said, pointing the tip of the bat at his chest, “where’s the ring? I’m not leaving without my property.”
His face drained.
It was right there-- the dread, the hatred, the total disbelief that you’d come storming in like divine vengeance wrapped in lace and barbed wire.
Trevor Phillips would’ve been proud.
You're covered in dust, sweat, and righteous fury. And your runaway fiancé leaned against the wall, somehow pulled out a gun from under the curtain, a gun he definitely doesn’t know how to use, shaking so hard it looks like he’s trying to stir soup with it.
He still manages to yell:
“You’re acting like I betrayed you, when YOU KIDNAPPED ME, you lunatic!”
You tilt your head. “Kidnapped? Really? I escorted you. In my trunk. With snacks.”
“They were cough drops!”
“They were MENTHOL!”
“BECAUSE YOU KNOCKED ME OUT AND STOLE MY STUFF! THAT’S NOT COURTSHIP, (Y/N)!”
Your eyelid twitches. “I was being romantic.”
“If romance means duct tape, then buddy, you need a therapist more than I need a funeral.”
You take one slow, offended step inside. “I gave you a beautiful life. A home. A proposal.”
“You proposed with a ZIP TIE.”
“It was symbolic!”
“OF WHAT, (Y/N)?! CAPTIVITY?! STOCKHOLM SYNDROME?!”
You growl. “You should’ve stayed. You had it good.”
“Oh, I’m SORRY, I didn’t realize being handcuffed to a radiator counted as ‘having it good.’ My mistake.”
You lunge forward. Your ex backs up so fast he hits the peeling wallpaper.
“You ungrateful little--”
“No. No, shut up. Shut up and listen, you desert cryptid with a driver’s license. You wanna know why I ran?”
You stop. Mostly because you dont expect people to ever direct their volume back at you. Except maybe Micah.
His lover peeks from behind the mattress like she’s watching a wildlife documentary about predators.
Your ex jabs a finger at your chest.
“You don’t marry people, (Y/n). You collect them. You drag them into your tornado of chaos, and then you call it love.”
Your jaw tenses.
“You don’t listen. You don’t compromise. You don’t even ask. You just TAKE.”
He points toward the broken doorway.
“And yeah, I ran. Because I didn’t want my honeymoon to be a two-week manhunt ending with us setting a Wendy’s on fire.”
You blink. Hard.
The ex keeps going, because he knows if he stops he’ll lose courage and probably bodily functions.
“You want loyalty? Respect? A spouse? Then stop acting like love is something you can beat out of people with fear. No one stays with you because they want to. They stay because they’re scared you’ll chase them.”
Your breathing gets rough. Not the angry kind. The kind you get when someone hits a nerve you pretend you dont have.
Your ex lowers the gun but keeps his glare.
“You wanna know the truth? You don’t need a Husband. You need help. Real help. Someone who can tell you that kidnapping people isn’t normal human bonding.”
The room is silent.
You stare at him, violent energy simmering behind his eyes but something almost human bleeding through.
Your ex swallows, then adds-- because he’s panicking and doesn’t know when to stop:
“And also your proposal speech was terrible. You can’t ask someone to marry you while holding them upside down.”
You twitch. “It was dramatic.”
“It was a concussion.”
You exhale through his nose like a bull deciding whether or not to gore a matador.
Finally, you mutter:
“You could’ve just… said no.”
Your ex throws his hands up. “YOU HAD ME IN A CHAIR.”
You consider this.
Then nod. “Fair.”
He winces, his lover clutching the towel closer as she meekly helps him up and lean on her for support, matching your height from the safe distance he created between you three. “You’re chaotic, violent, scary… but underneath? Still a child with a grudge. No one’s ever gonna take you seriously.”
You sharpy laugh. “Take me seriously? I’ll carve a map of your regrets into your ribcage and mail you home in pieces so your mother can finally see what kind of disappointment she raised.”
“You know, for someone who looks like a cross between a nightmare and a trash heap, you really thought anyone would stick around for your… whatever this is.”
“I know, it’s wild. I destroy a few lives and suddenly everyone’s obsessed.”
He huffed, irritated in the most beautiful way possible for a rage baiter to look at, voice rising, hands flapping like he was trying to swat invisible flies made of his own bitterness. But it distracted you enough from the fact that the lover had slipped his gun into the sad excuse of a towel and basically crawled to the other side of the room, behind you.
“Nobody’s gonna risk their peace for you! Nobody! You’re a nightmare! You’re--”
Another voice sliced through the rant like a clean, irritated knife.
“Risk my peace? My guy, I met her and immediately lost peace, dignity and probably a few brain cells.”
“WHO EVEN IS THAT. Seriously. Who invited him but also thank you--”
“I regret nothing.”
“…Yep. There it is. The cosmic middle finger I was waiting for.”
You turned so fast your hair whipped your cheek.
And there he was.
Bob.
Backlit by the flickering motel sign.
One arm in a cast.
Chest heaving from running.
Face flushed enough to give away every thought he wished he didn’t have.
In his good hand, he had the ex’s lover in a locked grip, her small pistol dangling in her fingers, her eyes wide like she’d been caught stealing snacks instead of trying to shoot you.
But all you saw were his stupid, beautiful blue eyes.
He came back.
Your breath caught. Your heart tripped over itself. Something in your ribs went warm and dizzy.
“You… came back?” It came out like a confession disguised as a question.
Bob swallowed. Hard. His face went even redder. He looked down for a second, bracing himself, then mumbled:
“Uh… yeah. You… left something with me.”
He awkwardly reached into his jacket, still holding the would-be shooter like she was a misbehaving toddler, and pulled out…
Your wedding veil.
Crumpled. Singed on one edge. Still dusted with dried road grit from when you’d been firing at police cars out the passenger window and accidentally smacked him with it.
Your ex gagged on air and karma.
His lover blinked like someone had unplugged her and plugged her back in.
Bob mentally drafted his resignation letter from reality.
You, meanwhile, lit up like he had just handed you a newborn kitten and a winning lottery ticket at the same time.
“My veil…” you whispered, ridiculously soft for someone who’d just promised to kill two people in under five minutes.
Bob nodded, ears flaming. “You shoved it in my pocket when you were reloading and yelling at me to drive faster.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting away, voice dropping into something unbearably honest. “I… figured you’d want it back. I’m really glad I got to keep it though, even for just a little while.”
The ex deadpanned, “You came back-- for a veil?”
Bob didn’t even look at him.
“No,” he said simply. “I came back for her.”
Your knees almost gave out.
The ex’s lover tried to wriggle again, and Bob snapped, without breaking eye contact with you, “Can you not, miss? Im kind of having a moment here.”
You stared at him, veil held in your fingertips, heart climbing right up your throat.
For once, you had no words.
And Bob, breathless and terrified and completely gone for you, looked like he’d come back a thousand times if you asked.
The motel room was still vibrating like it had personally filed a complaint with the universe.
Glass crunched under her boots, each step punctuating the absurdity of the scene.
Her ex wheezed against the wall like a deflating balloon, and his lover froze mid-gasp, eyes enormous, hands hovering like they might take flight.
And Bob…
Bob stepped toward you like you were the only thing worth moving for.
He gently set aside the person he’d just disarmed, barely sparing her a glance, and crossed the last few steps to you. His hands shook, but not from fear of the gun. He reached out, slow, careful, and slid the bat from your fingers. It hit the floor with a soft thud.
You stared at him, chest rising and falling like you might float away with each breath, eyes wide with that bright, dizzy mix of awe and confusion. His eyes found yours, unflinching, gentle, and achingly tender, like he’d carry your heart in his hands if you let him.
And then he breathed out, barely steady, voice low:
His fingers traced the curve of your wrist, slow and shy, like he was memorizing the shape of your heartbeat through your pulse.
“And somehow it’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. I don’t get it. I’m scared and in love and apparently that’s just… my life now.”
Your ex choked on air.
Bob didn’t even blink.
He stepped closer, until your foreheads hovered like fragile constellations, his breath brushing yours like a whispered secret across the space between you two.
“I didn’t know fear could be pretty until I met you.”
A soft laugh escaped him, overwhelmed and helpless.
“I didn’t know someone could make me flinch and blush at the same time either, but congratulations. You managed both.”
A delicate sound slipped from you-- part gasp, part laugh-- and Bob’s gaze betrayed him, flicking to the curve of your mouth before he caught himself, a soft exhale escaping.
“You terrify me so beautifully it feels like a compliment,” he whispered. “It’s like being chased by a sunset that’s also wielding a weapon.”
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt without you meaning to.
He exhaled, eyes closing for a fleeting moment, feeling the gravity of your presence settle over him like sunlight on water.
“Being near you feels like standing too close to fireworks,” he murmured. “I might lose a limb… but I can’t look away. You’re the best kind of danger.”
He lifted his head, meeting your eyes again.
And you-- blood on your cheek, veil sticking out of his pocket, bat on the floor-- looked at him like he’d hung the moon.
The whole room went silent.
It was ridiculous, dramatic, messy as hell.
And somehow perfect.
“I’m not built for chaos,” he breathed, eyes trembling on hers, “but I’d walk into yours without thinking. If it came down to it… I wouldn’t run. Not from you. Not even when it costs me the quiet life I swore I needed.”
Your eyes filled up.
“But Bob…” you began, a soft, trembling pause hanging between them, your chest rising and falling like you were trying to keep yourself from floating away. A tiny sniffle broke free, and your lips quivered, quaking with equal parts desperation and absurdity.
“I… I have a restraining order… from three governments and a very angry llama sanctuary.”
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, clutching him as if you could hold him in place, stop him from leaving, or maybe even stop the world itself from moving without you. In that one fragile grip, you poured all your chaos, all your vulnerability, all your impossibly loud, impossible-to-ignore heart.
Bob’s lips curved into a soft, breathy laugh-- not mocking, not teasing-- but like he’d found the sun shining in the middle of a storm. He let the sound settle between you, a warm, steady presence that made you tremble even more-- half frustration, half relief, half awe.
Tears threatened to spill, and you sniffled again, the absurdity of your words making you laugh through the ache. He leaned just a fraction closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, eyes glimmering with unspoken devotion, as if he’d stake everything just to stay here, in this improbable, chaotic, beautiful moment.
Your grip on his shirt didn’t loosen-- not for a heartbeat-- not for a second. And in the midst of broken glass, adrenaline, and international chaos, the world shrank until it was just the two of you: a little ridiculous, a little broken, and completely, perfectly yours.
Your lips quivered, and then a small, broken laugh escaped you, bubbling up through you tears. You sniffled, wiping at your cheeks, lifted a trembling hand and lightly smacked his chest. “Don’t laugh,” you said, voice soft but trembling. “I’m serious. I’m wanted in six nations, and one of these nations has a reward out for me. And… they’re really specific about the hair color.”
Bob stood there like gravity had personally targeted him, shifting his weight, fingers brushing your sleeve as if touching you anchored him to the planet he wasn’t sure he trusted anymore. “Six nations think you’re dangerous. I think you’re the first thing that’s ever made me feel alive.”
You snorted, half-laughing, half-sniffling, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand like you were trying to pretend you weren’t feeling anything at all. “Yeah, terrifying people is my brand. You should see my LinkedIn.”
Bob huffed a nervous laugh, eyes darting to the bruise on your arm before flicking back up. “LinkedIn? What do you put under skills? Arson? Mass panic?” You tilted your head, lips quivering with a grin that made something in his chest twist. “Basically. And somehow you signed up anyway.”
He swallowed hard, scratching the back of his neck as he shifted closer, bumping your shoe with his like he didn’t mean to but absolutely did. “Signed up? I feel like I was… coerced by pure magnetism and poor life choices.” You tugged lightly at his shirt, just enough to check he wasn’t bolting. “Terrified and staying? That’s commitment, Bob. I approve.”
He flushed deeply, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Commitment… yeah, that’s one word for it. Another might be-- completely insane.” She leaned in, their foreheads brushing in a way that felt too intimate, too chaotic, too them. “Oh, you’re already completely insane. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
Bob laughed, breathless, shaking his head while his eyes softened in a way that made your chest feel strange. “Maybe. But… maybe it’s worth it. I hope our names are touching on the government watch list. Even if your bat looks like it wants my soul.” You smirked, brushing a stray hair from his face with a touch that made him go very still. “See? Already terrified, already yours. Efficient little human, aren’t you?”
He reached out, hand hovering then settling lightly near yours, not quite touching but definitely choosing to stay in your gravity. “Yeah… maybe. For you, I’d probably be terrified forever and call it fun.” Your grin broke through the last of your sniffling, eyes sparkling with manic joy.
“Good. Because I plan on terrifying you for the rest of your life. Congratulations, you’re signed up.”
---
Bob sat at his usual spot in front of the pool table, hands resting on the edge like he was waiting for a bus instead of a cue ball. The hard deck smelled like stale beer and faint despair-- comforting, really. Around him, the dagger squad bickered like usual: chalk flew, insults ricocheted off the walls, someone kicked the table leg. Normal chaos.
But Bob. Bob was… wrong. Too white. Too quiet. Like he had personally negotiated with death and got a polite “we’ll call you later.” Hangman leaned in, snapping his fingers in front of Bob’s face.
“Oi. You good?”
Bob blinked. Polite. Too polite. Smile plastered on, teeth showing just enough to make it human. “Perfect.”
The squad exchanged looks. Furrowed brows. Confused smiles. Someone snorted. Lowkey worried. Bob had been… off ever since his leave.
“Its been so long since we last saw you. You… extended your leave. Everything… alright?”
Bob shrugged like a man demonstrating perfect posture for a life-size mannequin. “Perfect.”
Another glance, more intense. Something was definitely broken here, but in a weird, elegant way.
“How was the wedding?”
Bob froze for a second, eyes flicking like he was being chased by memory grenades. He blinked once, slowly. “Perfect.”
Cue the silent internal screaming from the squad.
“How was Tehachapi? You… bring back anything? Souvenir?”
Bob paused. His gaze softened, millions of unspoken emotions flickering across his face. His fingers twitched slightly, resting against the edge of the table, trembling like he wasn’t sure he could hold onto the moment.
And then, slowly, almost disbelievingly, he lifted his hand. His eyes stayed locked on it as if he’d never seen it before. There, on his ring finger, a decent, unmistakably expensive-looking ring caught the light. His lips parted, a quiet laugh escaping him before he turned his gaze toward the guys.
“I… uh…” Bob’s voice wobbled, coming out in this tiny, awkward little breath, like he was scared the words might spook and run off if he pushed them too hard. His fingers curled shyly, brushing over the ring with the kind of gentleness people use on fragile things they secretly can’t believe belong to them. His cheeks warmed, eyes lowering like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.
“I… brought a wife.”
It landed soft, almost bashful, like he was admitting to a crush rather than a life-altering decision, his whole face lighting up with this stunned, sweet glow that made it look like the thought alone gave him butterflies.
Synopsis: Bob Floyd just wanted to go home. Now he’s chauffeur, audience, and semi-hostage to a chaotic outlaw bride who refuses to let him breathe, or leave.
Warnings: Forced stays, profanities, babygirling bob with gunshots, adult venues aka strip clubs, and pure unhinged energy, dry humor. Basically a crack fic if you will.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 4
The car bounced along the cracked asphalt of the empty desert road, Bob gripping the dashboard like it might launch itself out of his hands any second.
“You do realize we’re not exactly in a hurry, right?” he asked cautiously. “Why are we stopping--”
You veered sharply, kicking up dust across the airstrip. “Bob,” you said, voice low and dangerous, “don’t look away. I hate it when you’re not terrified… or distracted by me.”
He squirmed. “Uh… explain why we’re stopping?”
“Explain?” you cackled. “Why ruin the suspense? Part of the thrill is watching you sweat while I drive us straight into death. And… maybe because I like seeing you flustered.”
Bob blinked. “Uh… okay. But we are stopping. I can see that. Can you explain why?”
You didn’t answer. You never answered. You just pointed vaguely at the runway like it might explain itself.
A young woman-- maybe twentyish, with more energy than sense-- came sprinting over from a hangar, papers flapping everywhere. She practically vaulted into the car window.
“Where the FUCK is my husband, Wadea!” you hissed.
“Here!” she gasped, shoving the stack into your hands. “All the manifests, coordinates, flight logs--”
You ripped through them like a hurricane, cursing with a creativity that made Bob blink.
“Holy-- fuck, shit, Christ on a pogo stick-- who writes this garbage?” you yelled.
The girl flinched. You slapped her on the back so hard she staggered forward. “Thanks, kid. Now get the hell outta here and pray I don’t turn you into a skipping rope with your own intestines if the jet isn’t fixed by the time I get back!”
“Uh… right… got it…” she mumbled, scampering back to the hangar as fast as her legs could carry her.
You slammed the papers onto the dashboard. “Jet’s a mess. Engine’s crying. Hydraulics are sobbing. And Bob-- guess what?”
Bob groaned, already knowing this wasn’t going to be good. “You're crazy?”
“I have coordinates.” You revved the engine like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. “My husband’s coordinates. And I'm going after him.”
You slammed the gearshift forward and the car practically leapt off the airstrip. Gravel spat behind you like the earth itself was offended.
Bob let his head thump back against the seat. “Fantastic. Great. Sweet. Drop me off at the curb before I witness an actual homicide. I’d like to go home with my soul un-haunted.”
You snorted. “Please. You think I’m gonna let you out now? After you survived my driving twice? You’re basically bonded to me at this point.”
Bob gave you a pointed stare. “This isn’t trauma‑bonding. This is me begging for survival.”
“Same thing.”
He groaned. “I’m getting heartburn and I’m not even thirty-five.”
You flicked him a glance. “That’s cute. Your age is showing.”
“My will to live is showing,” he muttered. “Barely.”
You nudged his knee with yours. “Don’t pretend you’re not having fun. I saw that tiny smile earlier.”
“That wasn’t a smile,” Bob said, straight-faced. “That was my facial muscles giving up.”
You let out a laugh sharp enough to rattle the dashboard. “Liar. You like hanging out with me.”
“I like breathing. Which is different. And increasingly difficult.”
“Bob.” You reached over and patted his thigh. “Relax. I’m not gonna kill anyone in front of you. I’m classy.”
“Oh great,” he said dryly. “So I’m gonna hear it from inside the car instead.”
“Good boy,” you said, grinning. “You’re catching on.”
He glared sideways at you, but he wasn’t actually mad. More like… resigned to the universe’s clownery. “You know, if you weren’t terrifying, you might actually be charming.”
“If?” you shot back. “Buddy, I’m both. That’s the appeal.”
Bob slumped deeper into the seat. “I literally just needed a ride…”
“And look at you now,” you said cheerfully. “Car chase pending. Emotional growth pending. Maybe a gunfight. Memories you’ll cherish on your deathbed.”
He squinted at you. “Why are you selling this like it’s a spa package?”
You shrugged. “Because with my driving, it kinda is. High adrenaline. Deep tissue panic. Emotional exfoliation.”
“I hate how that almost made sense.”
You flashed him a grin as the car shot back onto open road. “Stick with me, Bob. I’ll make your life interesting.”
Bob sighed, shaking his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
But his lips twitched.
Just barely.
Enough that you caught it.
“You smiled,” you teased.
“It was a grimace,” he insisted.
“Sure it was.”
He let out a dramatic groan. “I wanna go home.”
“You will,” you promised. “After we kidnap my fiancé.”
Bob didn’t even bother looking shocked this time. “Yeah. Why not. Sure. Let’s go commit a felony before lunch.”
“Attaboy.”
His sigh was the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate. But he wasn’t trembling anymore. He was… bantering.
Progress.
---
The desert night wrapped around the car like a big, empty blanket. No radio. No yelling. No wild cackling from you. Just the hum of the engine and a stretch of road so dark it felt like the headlights were trying to carve reality out of nothingness.
Bob sat slouched in the passenger seat, arms loose for once, breathing actually normal. After everything, the silence felt… weirdly gentle. He kept glancing at you, waiting for the moment you'd burst into another rant about intestines or flamethrowers or your runaway fiancé.
You didn’t.
You just drove.
The moon was low, hanging over the cracked asphalt like it was eavesdropping.
Bob finally exhaled. “Didn’t think you were capable of being quiet.”
You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Shut up. I can be silent. Sometimes.”
“Yeah, when you’re unconscious.”
A snort, your fingers tapping the wheel. “Keep talking, and I’ll put you back in that state.”
His smile was small but real. “There she is.”
You didn’t answer. Not immediately.
The road kept pulling you both forward, the desert stretching out, soft and endless. Then, miles ahead, the faint glow of Los Santos started to flicker on the horizon. Neon veins of pink and blue crawling up the skyline.
The closer you got, the more the noise of civilization seeped in. A distant helicopter. A siren far off. The low buzz of traffic. Like the world was returning from the dead.
Bob watched the lights, distracted, until he realized…
You still hadn’t said anything back.
He turned toward you. You were gripping the wheel a little too tightly. Not enough to look scared. But enough to look human.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Me?” You scoffed, staring straight ahead. “I’m always fine. I’m the picture of sanity and emotional stability.”
Bob raised a brow. “You threatened to make someone into a jump rope two hours ago.”
“That was a figure of speech.”
“It really wasn’t.”
You laughed, but it was thin. Like it cracked at the edges. “Relax. I’m not spiraling. Just thinking.”
“About?”
The lights were growing brighter now. The city starting to swallow the desert silence.
You shrugged. Casual. Shrugging off a truth that was too heavy to actually shake off. “Nothing dramatic. Just… people.”
Bob went quiet. He knew if he pushed too hard, you’d dodge it with jokes and chaos and explosive metaphors.
You surprised him.
“It’s stupid,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the first signs of the city. “But you ever notice how… people want the thrill, not the aftermath? They want someone wild, sure, but only if it’s fake. Only if you can turn it off when they’re tired. If you’re loud, they want quiet. If you’re quiet, they want loud. If you’re messed up, they want you fixed. And if you’re fine, they want you interesting.”
Bob shifted. You didn’t talk like this. Ever.
Your voice stayed light, but there was this tiny tremor. Barely there. Just enough for him to hear.
“They want excitement,” you said. “But no one wants to actually… take a chance on you. Not the real you. Not the messy parts. Not the parts that need something.” You tapped the wheel, restless. “Nobody wants to risk caring. They just like pretending they would.”
The city lights flooded through the windshield now. Warm. Loud. Alive. Everything you weren’t in that moment.
Bob watched your profile. The hard edges weren’t gone. Just dented. Softened by something you didn’t know how to hide.
He swallowed. “That why you’re chasing your fiancé?”
A hollow laugh escaped you. “My fiancé ran from the altar with his side piece. I’m not chasing him because of love. I’m chasing him because I’m dramatic and vindictive and slightly unhinged.” Then, quieter: “And because… I guess I thought… maybe this time someone actually wanted me.”
Bob didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t joke. Didn’t make a nervous noise. Didn’t go stiff with fear like before.
He just looked at you the way people look at fragile things they didn’t know were fragile.
Like he was seeing you for the first time.
And the chaos of Los Santos finally swelled around the car, a roar of honking, flashing neon, noisy intersections, and heat vibrating off the pavement. Cars swerving. Pedestrians shouting. A whole city alive with too much.
But inside your little car?
It felt quieter than the desert. Softer than the night.
Bob rested his arm on the console, inches from yours. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I think someone would risk it. If you gave them half a chance.”
You glanced at him.
He held the look. Not scared. Not overwhelmed.
Just honest.
You forced a shaky, lopsided smile. “Careful, Bob. Compliment me again, and I’ll keep you forever.”
He smirked. “That is scary.”
But he didn’t pull his arm back.
The city swallowed you both whole the second you rolled off the freeway. Neon, horns, yelling, street racers ripping past…it was classic Los Santos chaos.
Which, unfortunately for Bob, was exactly the moment you got talkative again.
Like… very talkative.
You pointed at a random street corner. “See that liquor store? I once held up the cashier with a water gun. Full of bleach. Dude cried like I threatened him with a nuke.”
Bob blinked. “Bleach? Why?”
“I panicked! It was the closest thing in the trunk!”
“Why was bleach in the trunk?”
You waved him off. “Irrelevant. Look, look-- over there.”
You swerved a little just to point harder. “That alley? Did a getaway sprint through it once wearing a wedding dress. I tripped, knocked into a dumpster, and some raccoon attacked me for interrupting its dinner.”
Bob rubbed his face. “I feel like every sentence you say is a cry for help.”
“Aw, thanks.” You beamed. “Anyway! That rooftop up ahead? I jumped off it.”
Bob jerked upright. “What?!”
“Relax, there was a pool under it.”
He squinted. “Was there?”
“…That’s not important right now.”
He groaned at the windshield. “Why do you have a history with every surface in this city?”
“I get bored easily.”
The car zipped past a row of billboards and you pointed at one without hesitation. “Oh! That commercial shoot? I robbed their prop truck.”
Bob stared. “You robbed actors?”
“Actors aren’t real people, Bob. Stay with me.”
Traffic slowed and you leaned forward, excited. “This intersection right here? I lost five cop cars on it. Five. One spun out into a taco stand. One hit a hydrant. One hit *another* cop car. Beautiful chaos. Ten outta ten.”
Bob exhaled dramatically. “And I’m assuming you were completely sober for all of this?”
You snorted. “Offended you’d even ask. I’m at my most creative when I’m sober.”
“And this road?” Bob asked, rubbing his temples as you zipped down a busy boulevard. “Let me guess. Another crime scene in your highlight reel?”
“Oh yeah,” you said proudly, nodding at the cracked pavement. “This one was legendary. Stole a cop car, drove it straight through a pedestrian mall, and threw their donuts at them while I escaped.”
Bob let out a long, suffering sigh. “You weaponized pastries.”
“Powdered ones. They explode better.”
He slumped back in his seat. “I genuinely don’t know how you aren’t in prison.”
You grinned. “I’m charming.”
“You’re something.”
A gang of bikers roared past and you pointed after them. “See those guys? They once chased me for stealing their motorcycles.”
Bob frowned. “Wait… plural?”
“…I panicked again.”
He stared at you, completely deadpan now. “You panic a lot.”
You shrugged with zero shame. “Panic fuels creativity.”
The car cut through another intersection, lights flashing by the windows, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance. Los Santos’ usual brand of insanity roared around you both.
Bob sighed in defeat. “I swear… the more you talk, the less shocked I get.”
“Aww,” you said sweetly. “You’re acclimating.”
“No, I’m dissociating,” he muttered.
“Same thing,” you chirped.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, but there was a tiny smile too. “I should’ve accepted my fate at the gas station.”
“And yet,” you said, patting his knee, “here you are. Still alive. Still cute. Still stuck with me.”
Bob shook his head, staring out at the chaos of the city. “If anyone else told me half this stuff, I’d think they were lying.”
You smirked. “But you believe me?”
“…Unfortunately, yes.” He sighed. “You sound way too confident to be making this up.”
“Aw. Trust. How adorable.”
Bob muttered something under his breath.
You grinned wider.
Yeah.
He was definitely getting used to you.
---
The car cruises past the massive mansion in Rockford Hills. Bob glances out the window, eyebrows raising at the pristine lawn, the fountain, and the absurd size of the place.
“Thats where the snake lives.”
“....I don't know but I've got a feeling you're talking about Miss Micah.” he says slowly.
You snort. “Yeah. Micah. Professional headache, criminal mastermind, and the reason therapists invented eye-rolls.”
Bob blinks. “She… robs banks, right?”
“Robs banks,” you confirm, voice flat. “And somehow manages to make everyone around her miserable at the same time. Seriously, she could give lessons in passive-aggressive chaos.”
Bob leans back, trying to stay neutral. “Sounds… complicated.”
“Complicated?” you scoff, pointing at the mansion. “Bob, look at this place. This is what happens when you take a person who’s morally bankrupt, add a trust fund, and sprinkle it with delusions of grandeur. That pool? Probably full of her ego. Those palm trees? Decorating for the weekly meltdown.”
Bob doesn’t respond, just watches, eyebrows twitching.
“She once tried to sell me the idea that a diamond heist counts as ‘networking,’” you continue, throwing your hands up. “Networking! Bob, the only thing she networks is misery. And somehow, she makes it look fancy.”
“And… you hang out with her?” Bob asks cautiously.
“Hang out?” you hiss. “Bob, I survive her. That’s friendship in our world. Otherwise, I’d toss her out the front gate and let the crows handle her. For sport. For sanity. For the sheer joy of watching her freak out because someone used the toaster wrong.”
You shake your head, glaring at the mansion. “And don’t get me started on her obsession with retiring. Retiring, Bob! As if all of life is some pre-planned career ladder ending in a recliner and a yacht. She talks about it like it’s the only option left, like she’s the tragic hero of her own lazy soap opera. It’s infuriating. She’s still capable of chaos, Bob, and instead she pretends like kicking back is the pinnacle of existence. I can’t. I just… can’t.”
Bob lets out a low, unimpressed whistle. “She’s… intense.”
“Intense?” you repeat incredulously. “Bob, she’s chaos in silk sheets, a disaster in designer shoes, and somehow thinks everyone owes her a nap just because she’s tired of life. Consider this your warning: don’t get involved unless you enjoy headaches, sarcasm, spontaneous robberies, BETRAYAL and endless whining about retirement plans.”
The car passes the fountain again. Sunlight glints off the wrought iron gate. Bob just nods slowly, letting your rant wash over him, the quiet calm in the passenger seat contrasting hilariously with your unfiltered fury at Micah’s very existence.
Bob’s knuckles are white on the dashboard. You haven’t even parked yet, and he already looks like he aged five years.
“So… airport?” he asks, every syllable lined with exhausted hope.
“In a minute,” you say, breezy, like he didn’t ask you this ten times already. “I’ve got business.”
He stares out the window. Neon. Glitter. A suspicious man vomiting into a bush.
“A strip club?” he deadpans. “What business could you possibly have in a strip club?”
You don’t even blink. “I work here.”
Bob inhales like he’s preparing to dive underwater. “As in… you’re a s-sex... Uh worker?”
You laugh. Loud. The kind of laugh that makes the bouncer straighten up like he just heard the national anthem. You whip the keys at him, and he catches them like you handed him a priceless artifact.
“Miss (Y/N),” he says, bowing his head with reverence.
You pat his cheek with the confidence of a woman who owns the world and hasn’t noticed. “How ya doin’, Baldy.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and the bouncer like he’s watching a wildlife documentary and just realized he’s not at the top of the food chain.
You stride to the entrance, and Bob follows reluctantly, like the doorway might bite him.
“No, Bobby,” you say, tossing hair off your shoulder. “I own this place.”
He stops mid-step. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me.”
“You own a strip club,” he repeats slowly, “and you live… in a trailer.”
You wave him off, already bored with his confusion. “I’m the embodiment of simplicity. Minimalism. Spiritual purity. All that crap.”
You push open the doors. Inside, the club is pure sensory overload: neon slicing through darkness, perfume and stage lights, velvet curtains, bodies moving like they’ve got rent due, and a cash counter working harder than anyone else in the building.
Bob just… stares. Hard. Like if he doesn’t blink, maybe reality will snap back into its normal shape.
You lean toward him, voice low. “Bobby, close your mouth unless you plan on catching something in it.”
He snaps it shut immediately.
A dancer rushes past, wearing three sequins and a dream. “Boss!” she calls to you. “The new sound system? Fixed!”
You give her finger guns. “Knew you could do it, sweetheart.”
Bob mutters under his breath, “You… have employees.”
You shoot him a look. “I also have a business license. And taxes. Don’t remind me.”
You stride down the hallway toward backstage like Moses parting the Red Sea. People flatten themselves against the walls for you. Someone hands you a clipboard. Someone else hands you a drink. Someone whispers, “The queen is here.”
Bob trails behind, shoulders tucked, arms close, walking like he’s trying not to disturb the wildlife.
The backstage door swings open. Controlled chaos. Glitter. Shouting. Someone crying over fake eyelashes. Someone else celebrating because her tips doubled. It’s a fever dream.
Bob stops dead in the doorway.
You turn back to him. “Bobby. Welcome to my peaceful little corner of the universe.”
He stares at you, at the club, back at you. “I just… wanted to go to the airport.”
You clap him on the shoulder. “And you will. After I finish running my empire.”
He exhales through his nose, defeated. “Why do I feel like this is going to take hours?”
You lift your chin smugly. “Because you’re finally catching on.”
You walk off with purpose, and he has no choice but to follow, his soul quietly leaving his body one strip-lit hallway at a time.
Backstage is a glitter-coated warzone, and you step into it like an empress returning to her throne.
“My princesses!” you announce, arms wide.
Instant chaos.
Four dancers swarm you at once, squealing, hugging, grabbing your shoulders, talking over each other like caffeinated parrots.
“Boss, you will NOT believe what Sapphire said last night--”
“I swear that customer had NO teeth.”
“Guess who got dumped again?”
“Your eyeliner is so much better today, three nights ago you looked like you lost a fight with a Sharpie.”
They unload ninety-eight metric tons of gossip in about thirty seconds, all while Bob stands a few feet away with the energy of a man who accidentally chose the wrong exit in a shopping mall and now fears death.
One of the girls finally notices him.
“Uh… who’s that?” she asks, eyeing him like a stray kitten someone brought in. “He’s cute. Kind of helpless. This is a cute one.”
The others turn in unison.
“Ohhhhhh no,” another gasps. “Is this the husband? No offense, boss, but he looks like he irons his socks.”
Bob swallows. Hard. He does.
You laugh, flicking a hand dismissively. “No, no. This is Bobby.”
“Bobby,” one repeats, stepping closer and inspecting him like he’s a new product line. “He doesn’t look like your type at all.”
“He’s not,” you say cheerfully. “He’s just… stuck with me today.”
Bob forces a tiny wave. “Hi. I’m--”
The girls collectively “awwwww” like he’s a small, confused pet.
You clap your hands once. “Ladies, be angels and show Bobby a good time while I’m in my meeting.”
Bob’s soul leaves his body.
“Wait, I don’t-- I’m fine-- I’ll just--” he stammers, attempting to retreat behind you like a toddler hiding behind their mother.
Too late.
You’re already striding toward a grimy door marked STAY THE FUCK OUT in peeling red paint.
The girls descend on Bob like glittery, high-heeled vultures.
“So what do you do, Bobby?” one purrs.
“Ever had a lap dance?” another asks casually. “Strictly academic question.”
A third loops her arm through his. “You smell like responsibility.”
“I-- I should really-- she said I-- meeting-- I’m fine-” Bob sputters, trying to politely edge away as if that’s physically possible with three dancers latched onto him.
He turns, seeking you like a man begging for divine intervention, but you’ve already disappeared behind the door, shutting it with a final authoritative thunk.
Bob stands there, surrounded, trapped, and blushing so hard his ears glow.
One dancer pats his cheek. “Relax, sweetheart. She said good time, not life-changing trauma.”
“It’s not mandatory,” another adds. “But it is fun.”
Bob quietly considers passing out.
---
The meeting room looks like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream ate a crime documentary and threw up on the walls.
There’s a corkboard covered in photos, maps, scribbles, and exactly one piece of red string that connects everything to a picture of you with the handwritten caption “GAY.”
And you’re currently halfway through choking Micah against the wall with that very board. She’s pinned like a disgraced moth. Micah’s grinning like she’s winning even while losing oxygen.
Across the room, Frankie stands with her arms crossed, expression flat as expired soda. Beside her, Leslie squints through her glasses, leaning on her cane like she’s watching two raccoons fight in her backyard for the six-hundredth time this year.
Nobody is surprised. Just disappointed.
That’s when the door slams open so hard it bounces off the stopper.
Bob bursts in like a man escaping a war zone.
His belt is undone. His pants are barely hanging on. His shirt is untucked, buttons misaligned like he lost a fight with gravity. His glasses cling to his face out of sheer loyalty. Three perfect lipstick prints decorate his cheek, jaw, and the side of his neck like badges he did not ask for.
He is breathing hard. His hair is tragic. His eyes scream trauma and fury in equal measure.
The room freezes.
Micah-- still half-choked-- actually pauses her struggle just to stare at him.
Leslie’s eyebrows crawl up like they’re fleeing her forehead.
Frankie mutters, “Lord have mercy,” not like a prayer, more like commentary.
Bob gulps, because the weight of four women’s judgmental silence is a physical force.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
You slowly loosen your grip on Micah, who wheezes but still manages a smug smirk like she’s found new ammo against you for life.
Bob blinks at you. At Micah. At the corkboard. At the red string pointing to “GAY.”
He tries again.
“Y-you need to…” he gestures vaguely toward himself, pants slipping another millimeter, “…we’re leaving. Now.”
The room just stares.
Not hostile. Not mocking.
Just silently judging.
Bob inhales shakily. His voice cracks. “Please.”
A bead of sweat rolls down his temple.
The silence is unbearable.
Leslie pats his shoulder. “Baby, you look like you need a nap and an exorcism.”
Bob nearly collapses.
You’re sprawled in your boss chair like a raccoon who won the lottery, watching Bob recover from his brush with three overly-friendly dancers.
“You know,” you grin, “I cleared the stage, brought in the best, and you-- sweet little wreck-- you ran like a deer on roller skates. Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.”
Bob’s jaw ticks. He tightens his belt like it personally betrayed him. “They were very persistent,” he mutters, voice cracking with leftover terror.
Frankie points at him with her pen. “So that’s the dude she claimed the universe delivered to her?”
Micah snorted. “More like she hijacked the delivery truck.”
Leslie doesn’t bother looking up from scrawling angry notes on the heist board. “The one she swore was ‘ride or die’? Looks like he doesn't get a choice on either.” She just gives Bob a tiny nod, the kind people do in airports at 3 a.m. when they don’t want interaction but feel socially obligated.
You wave a hand. “Please, people. No. This is my emotional support platonic hostage. I’m mildly attracted to him, but it’s very tasteful and no one’s suing.”
Bob jumps in like a man escaping a sinking ship.
“S-sorry to interrupt, but I should go home. There’s a flight… three hours from now… and I’d like to be on it. I just-- this was great. Really. You’re all… interesting. And, uh, I hope your revenge is… fulfilling?”
Frankie bursts into laughter so hard she nearly drops her notebook. “Revenge? Baby, you sound like you’re leaving a review on Yelp before dying.”
Micah smirks without looking at him. Leslie lets out a sigh so dramatic it could power a wind turbine.
She mutters, “I showed up to plan a heist. Instead I’m watching the Canadian Fruitcake wrangle her emotional support Boy Scout.”
Bob actually bows his head like he’s accepting the insult at a graduation ceremony. “I didn’t ask to be part of this.”
You grin. “Nobody ever does. It’s my charm.”
Frankie snaps her fingers at him. “Hey, breathe. In through the nose, out through the trauma.”
Bob tries. It fails. His exhale sounds like a man mourning his own life choices.
Frankie slaps his shoulder. “Relax, Romeo. I’ll drop you at the airport. It’s on the way to my drag race.”
He looks at her like she’s the first real adult he’s ever met.
Frankie claps her palms together. “Alright, choir boy. We done here yeah? Fuck y'all, I'll get the getaway cars upgraded by Tuesday.” Then grabbing her keys she grabs Bob's arm. “Let’s get you to the airport before you melt through the floor.”
You don’t say anything.
You’re too busy fiddling with the paperweight on your desk.
Which is, famously, a severed finger suspended in resin.
A tasteful one, though. Very artisanal.
Your thumb grazes it like it’s a worry stone.
Because yeah, you know Bob wants to go home.
You know this is your fault.
But he’s… cute.
And quiet.
And weirdly gentle with the chaos orbiting you.
And for once you don’t want to let something go before you absolutely have to.
You mutter, barely audible, “No.”
Frankie blinks. “No? No what?”
Her voice lilts with that kinda confusion, equal parts judgment and amusement.
You stare at the finger in resin like it can save you.
Heat crawls up your neck.
Ugh. Feelings. Gross.
“Bob is… gonna go with me,” you force out.
Frankie’s eyebrows jump. “Why he gonna do that?”
“Because…” You scramble. Your brain is running Windows 95.
“Because I… have something to do with.... Lamar.”
Frankie: “Girl, what?”
You double down like an absolute lunatic.
“Since you’re gonna see Lamar anyway, Bob is gonna see Lamar too, so we should all go together. Group project. Very efficient. I can… drop him at the airport on the way.”
It’s such a pathetic, messy excuse the whole room goes still for a second.
Bob nods slowly, relieved. “Yeah. No. That… makes sense.”
He clutches the strap of his duffel like a lifeline.
“But can we please hurry? I’m starting to feel… sick.”
You keep rubbing the resin finger, pretending your face isn’t warm.
Frankie bites back a grin. “Mhm. Whatever you say, (Y/n).”
The universe has never judged you harder.
---
Frankie rockets through traffic on her radioactive-green Bagger like someone dared her to rack up the highest number of traffic violations before sunset. You follow in your red Bodhi, but slower than usual.
Which for you means: only risking three lives per block instead of ten.
Bob notices instantly.
Because Bob is cursed with awareness.
He sits stiff in the passenger seat, hands in his lap, shoulders tense. He keeps glancing at you, then at the road, then back at you like he’s waiting for the other shoe to explode.
“You’re… quiet,” he finally says.
He sounds scared. Not of you, for once.
Of the silence.
You grunt. “Talking’s overrated.”
He blinks. “You say that, but usually you’re narrating my imminent death.”
“I can multitask.”
He tries not to smile. Fails. “Traffic’s not even bad right now. Weirdly peaceful.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
The way you say it makes him sit up straighter. He can feel something different in the air, but he can’t name it.
You sure as hell won’t.
Your jaw is tight. Your grip on the steering wheel even tighter.
Every time Frankie swerves ahead of you, you don’t chase her as aggressively as usual. You stay a few feet back.
Like putting distance between you and the moment where you actually drop Bob off and watch him disappear through an airport gate forever.
Bob glances your way again. “Hey. We’re almost there. I’ll… be out of your hair soon.”
You shrug like it’s nothing. Like that sentence didn’t poke you right in the ribs.
“Yeah,” you mutter. “Lucky me.”
He doesn’t hear the crack in it. But he feels it.
The tension in the car thickens, subtle but impossible to ignore.
He shifts in his seat, trying to cut the heaviness. “I’ve gotta say, though… I’m kinda proud of you.”
You scoff. “For what? Not flipping a car today?”
“For driving under the speed of sound. It’s impressive. Really shows growth.”
You deadpan, “Keep talking and I’ll show you a ditch.”
He laughs, soft and nervous, but it fades quickly when you don’t laugh with him.
He watches you watch the road, brows furrowed, lips pressed tight like you’re holding back a dozen unsaid things.
Bob swallows. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
The lie lands between you like a warm stone.
He looks forward again. “I’m… excited to go home. Just--”
He hesitates.
You feel the hesitation in your bones.
“--I hope I’m not leaving you with too much of a mess to deal with.”
You keep your face blank. “I always deal.”
He nods. Doesn’t push. He wouldn’t dare. But he keeps glancing, like he can’t stop trying to read a language you’ll never let him speak.
Frankie speeds ahead, cursing at a taxi.
You trail behind her, not catching up.
Not ready.
Bob shifts again, nervous. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… you driving this slow is making me nauseous. Like existentially.”
You snort. It saves you. It saves the moment.
You flick on your blinker like you’re doing something normal, something sane. “Relax, Bobby.” Your voice is steady again, walls rebuilt. “You’ll get home.”
He exhales, relieved. “Good. Because I genuinely feel like if you hit one more yellow light, I might cry.”
Your mouth twitches. You do not look at him.
The tension stays exactly where you want it:
Unsaid. Unacknowledged.
And tightening, quietly, with every slow turn of the wheel.
The red Bodhi bounced down the cracked street like it had a vendetta against physics. You gripped the wheel, knuckles white, one eye on Bob, the other on Frankie weaving ahead on her green Bagger like she had a personal scoreboard for street chaos.
“Okay, so…” Bob started, voice calm enough to make your ears bleed, “you said ‘drop me off,’ right?”
“Yep!” you shouted over the roar of the engine. “Totally! But… you know… detours happen.”
Bob’s jaw tightened. “Detours? Detours usually don’t involve me almost dying!”
“Fun fact!” you yelled, slamming the Bodhi into a pothole for dramatic effect, “I love detours. It makes the heart grow stronger!”
Bob groaned. Frankie, riding past like a green tornado, waved lazily. “Y’all need to chill. Grove Street’s two blocks that way… ish.”
“Two blocks or two lightyears?” you called back. “Time’s relative, Bob. Physics is a suggestion!”
Bob’s face was somewhere between “I’m going to throw up” and “I want to legally disown you.” “You are terrifying.”
Then you saw her-- Lamia-- leaning casually against the wall, weapons lined up like she was hosting a gun-themed fashion show. You slowed… way too much.
“LAMIA!” you screamed. The engine hiccuped over your enthusiasm.
In one smooth, overly dramatic motion, you yanked a Desert Eagle from the dashboard-- Bob’s knee accidentally hitting it just enough to make it swing in your hands-- and thrust it out the window like a weird, awkward semaphore. It was supposed to be a simple gesture: “I’m here for the guns I ordered, no funny business.”
Except… some absolute genius in a nearby corner didn’t get the memo.
“She’s drawing!” the idiot gangster yelled, firing a warning shot into the air. “COVER HER!”
And just like that, a ripple of chaos spread faster than a Vine compilation gone viral.
Gunfire erupted.
Bob screamed. “OH MY GOD, WE’RE DEAD!”
And immediately, every rival gang in a three-block radius decided that this was the perfect time to shoot at you.
“Ohhh,” you said, eyes wide, “this isn’t… supposed to--”
BOOM! A ricochet hit the Bodhi, making Bob scream like a banshee trapped in a car horn.
“You started a gang war!” he yelled, holding onto the dashboard for dear life.
“It’s… accidental! Sorta! Maybe!” you admitted, throwing your hands in the air while Frankie swerved expertly on her green Bagger, giggling manically.
Frankie yelled back, “Y/N! Stop causing problems! Or I swear I’m leaving you behind!”
You laughed. “Too late, Frankie! We’re in the middle of it now!”
Bob pressed his face against the seat. “I didn’t sign up for this. I’m a gentle man! I-- AHH!”
A rival gang car tried to cut you off. You honked, swerved, and accidentally nudged it into a dumpster. “Oops. Dumpster’s a valid roadblock, right?”
Frankie zipped ahead, waving. “Y’all are making me look bad!”
Lamia, guns still neatly arranged, shouted, “Girl, you’ve got two seconds to pay for the bullets or I start charging interest!”
“Ohhhh, interest! I love interest!” you yelled, slamming the Bodhi into a wheelie ramp for added chaos.
Bob just screamed. Frankie groaned. And somewhere, a dog barked like it knew this was peak insanity.
“Relax, Bob!” you said, narrowly dodging a low-flying trash can. “We’re fine! Totally fine!”
Bob, voice muffled against the dashboard, muttered, “I’m not fine… I’m not alive enough to be fine.”
The red Bodhi screeched to a halt mid-street as bullets ricocheted off every conceivable surface. Smoke curled from a trashcan you may or may not have hit with the car. You threw open your door with a wild grin.
“Bob!” you yelled, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him out into the street. “We’re going in! Don’t just stand there!”
Bob’s knees hit the asphalt, and he dropped to them like a man who’d just realized he was in the wrong career path. “I-- no-- I’m… praying!”
You laughed, twirling your Desert Eagle like a baton. “Pray faster, buddy! Or at least sound convincing!”
Frankie had abandoned her green Bagger completely, diving behind a dumpster and popping up just enough to shoot over it. “GIRL! YOU DONE LOST YO’ DAMN MIND!” she shrieked, dodging behind a dumpster and gesturing wildly.
“I KNOW!” you yelled back, firing wildly. “THIS IS FUN!”
Lamia, lounging lazily against a wall, raised an eyebrow, twirling a pistol between her fingers. “Girl… for real? You gotta make a whole damn production just to grab what’s yours?”
You grinned, dodging a stray shot, bullets pinging off the Bodhi behind you. “What can I say… I aim to impress. You keeping score?”
Bob dropped to the ground again, forehead pressed to the pavement, mumbling prayers under his breath. “God, grant me strength… courage… and a bulletproof vest the size of Texas, because this girl…”
Frankie fired a shot in frustration. “Stop smiling like a maniac! You gon’ get us killed!”
You pirouetted dramatically, bullets pinging past. “Relax! I call this ‘bullet ballet.’ It’s very avant-garde!”
Bullets flew, curses echoed, and everyone in a three-block radius seemed to have joined the war-- against each other. Somehow, nobody actually hit anyone. It was like watching toddlers fight with nerf guns while a hurricane passed through.
Then, slowly… miraculously… the street fell silent. People peeked out from behind dumpsters and corners, muttering empty threats and gestures of revenge, then scurried off like the universe just shrugged and said, eh, not today.
You turned to check on Bob, triumphant grin plastered across your face. “See? Nothing to worry about!”
Nothing… except that someone-- some idiot-- fired a single stray shot just as everyone started standing up. Time slowed.
Bob gasped as the bullet found him square in the arm, taking the blow meant for you. He stumbled, clutching his injury, teeth gritted.
Bob slumped down the gritty brick wall of Grove Street like someone had unplugged him. His arm was on fire, his shirt was ruined, and his patience had officially died a valiant, screaming death somewhere back during Detour Number Twelve. He’d promised himself he’d keep it together, be civil, be the bigger man. But getting shot for the first time ever because some unhinged woman-child wanted to “just swing by a shortcut” had him cussing in his head in a language only men who grew up painfully polite ever discover.
“Stop looking at it like that. I’ve had worse papercuts.”
He inhaled through his teeth, ready to let loose the first real, chest-deep “what the hell is WRONG with you” he’d ever aimed at a woman in his whole respectful Midwestern life.
Then you dropped to your knees beside him.
Except you were crying.
Not a cute little sniffle. No. Full grief-stricken, face-crumpled, snot-collecting, someone-stole-her-puppy-and-set-the-puppy-on-fire crying.
“Bobby, it’s okay,” you wailed, leaning over his bullet wound like you personally delivered him from the womb. “You’re fine. It’s literally just a hole. People have holes all the time.”
His whole brain stalled.
You jabbed at your own ribs, hip, shoulder, thigh. “I got shot here, and here, and here-- this one was crazy bad actually-- This is nothing, my guy at the pawn shop patched me up with duct tape once! You’re gonna be fine too so stop crying, God, you're being so dramatic.”
He blinked at you. Slow. Betrayed. “I’m… not… crying.”
You froze, then looked at him as if he’d just told her the sky wasn’t real. Then your bottom lip trembled. Then you started bawling harder.
Like a faucet someone broke.
Bob forgot about his bullet wound for a solid five seconds. Which, frankly, offended him. He’d earned that pain fair and square.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, voice cracking in a way that made his dignity file for retirement.
“I DON’T KNOW!” you sobbed. “I JUST-- YOU GOT SHOT AND I GOT YOU SHOT AND I DIDN’T MEAN TO AND I-- AND I-- AND YOU’RE SO SMALL AND BREAKABLE AND YOU MAKE THIS LITTLE SOUND WHEN YOU’RE IN PAIN AND--”
He did not make a sound.
He absolutely did. He knew he did. But he refused to acknowledge it.
And then, because the world had ceased making sense two days ago, you hiccup-laughed through the tears, the messy, desperate kind that made your eyes shine like someone punched you in the emotions.
Bob stared at you.
Then he laughed.
Sharp at first, then soft, then rolling in his chest until the pain in his arm kicked him in the teeth again. He pressed his good hand to his face, still laughing, still hurting, still ridiculously alive in this nightmare fever dream you’d dragged him into.
Frankie and Lamia stood a few feet away, staring down at the emotional dumpster fire happening on the pavement.
Lamia nudged Frankie. “That him? The ‘husband’ she keep claimin’ like a coupon?”
Frankie squinted at Bob, who was half-laughing, half-bleeding, while you ugly-cried on his shoulder. “If he ain’t, he better start practicin’. She already got his life on layaway.”
“You’re impossible,” he managed.
“You’re bleeding,” you choked.
“You’re crying.”
You sniffled, wiped your face on the back of your hand like a feral raccoon, and muttered, “Shut up. I hate this. You’re stressing me out.”
He nodded. “Me too. I liked my arm better before it had a hole.”
Then, unexpectedly, he reached out his good hand, tapped your shoulder with the gentlest, dumbest little pat, and smiled through the pain. “Thanks for worrying though.”
You tried to stop crying. Failed. Tried again. Failed louder.
He sighed.
You were exhausting.
He maybe adored you a tiny bit.
He definitely hated that about himself.
---
The ride to the airport was the calmest stretch of road Bob had seen in two whole days. Frankie had patched him up with this breezy competence that made him feel like the world might actually start making sense again. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, wished him luck, and sprinted off to make her race call time like she hadn’t just stitched up a stranger with battlefield efficiency.
Now it was just him, the open road, a cool breeze, and approximately six illegal firearms rattling in the backseat.
Also you. Still crying.
Not loud crying. Not wailing. Just this endless, steady leak from your eyes like they’d forgotten how to turn off.
Driving. Crying. Sniffing. Crying harder. Sniffing louder. Crying like you were singlehandedly refilling the ocean.
Bob sat in the passenger seat, holding his bandaged arm, watching your cheeks shine like you'd been caught in a rainstorm no one else could see.
“You know,” he said carefully, “there’s a minimum tear requirement for driving. I think you exceeded it about… forty minutes ago.”
You hiccupped. “I’m fine.”
Another sniff. Wet. Tragic.
“You’re fogging up the windshield.”
“Shut u-up.”
He nodded. “Just saying… if we crash, I’d like to blame it on the bullets, not the flood.”
That earned the tiniest upwards twitch of your mouth. Barely there. Gone instantly.
He leaned back, pleased with himself. “See? Progress. That was almost a smile.”
You glared at the road through watery eyes. “I wasn’t smiling. I was breathing.”
“Right. Happens to me too. Every time I breathe, it accidentally looks joyful.”
Another sniff. Another wipe of your sleeve across her whole face.
A pause.
You muttered, “You almost died.”
“(Y/n), I stubbed my toe yesterday and made the same noise.”
“You got shot, Bob. Stop trying to be fun--”
“It grazed me. I’ve had worse injuries from assembling IKEA.”
“You scared me! I hate being scared! It makes me feel like an idiot and I don’t like feeling like an idiot!”
He bit back a laugh. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not planning to die today. I’ve got a plane to catch. And apparently you’ve got… what is it? A revenge quest? A manhunt? A divorce?”
“It’s not a divorce if he never filed it,” you grumbled.
“Right. So a… strongly-worded separation?”
Despite herself, she snorted. It was wet and ugly and absolutely hilarious.
He grinned. “There it is.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You smacked the steering wheel once, frustrated at her own face. “Stop trying to be funny.”
“I’m trying to keep us alive. You’re driving like the road insulted your bloodline.”
You sucked in a breath, trying desperately not to smile again. It was genuinely impressive how much you resisted happiness.
You pulled into the airport drop-off lane and slammed the car into park, keeping your chin tucked down so he couldn’t see your eyes.
He opened his door slowly. “Well. Guess this is--”
“Don’t say goodbye,” you muttered.
“Alright. Uh… later?”
You nodded, still facing forward, tears falling silently again like your eyes were malfunctioning.
He stepped out. Turned back to her window. “Hey.”
You didn’t look.
“I hope you get your revenge on your husband,” he said softly. “Just… maybe try not to kill him.”
Your voice wobbled, tiny. “No promises.”
He smiled. A real one. Warm in a way he didn’t understand and didn’t want to think too hard about.
“Take care, okay?”
You didn’t respond.
He started walking toward the terminal.
Behind him, through the hum of engines and rolling suitcases, your voice carried after him.
“I’m gonna miss you.”
He stopped for half a second.
Then he kept walking.
Because if he looked back, you'd start crying even harder.
And if you cried harder, he had a sinking suspicion he’d get right back in the car.
---
The payphone receiver was sticky. Naturally. Because airports are glamorous like that. Bob pinched it between two fingers, like it might bite him, and punched in the number he’d known since he was eight.
It rang twice.
Then his mother’s voice burst through like she’d been sitting beside the phone this whole time.
“Robert Floyd. If you are dead, this better be the ghost of you calling.”
Bob sighed through his nose, tired and fond and slightly concussed from the past forty-eight hours. “Ma', I’m not dead.”
“You disappeared for two days.”
“I know.”
“Two days, Robert.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You think I don’t watch the news? Things exploding, police running around like headless chickens, helicopters, fires. And you don’t call your mother.”
Bob scrubbed his face with his free hand. “I was busy, I coul--.”
“Oh. Busy. Sure. Of course. And the President was busy last week when he nearly fell off that stage. Busy with what, Robert?”
He hesitated.
A kid ran past behind him, dragging their suitcase like it owed them money. The airport loudspeaker crackled something unintelligible. His arm throbbed like someone had stuffed a tiny, furious squirrel under the skin.
“...Just stuff.”
His mother clicked her tongue so hard it could’ve cracked marble. “Is ‘stuff’ her? The gremlin girl you keep getting into trouble with? That bride that I left you alone with for 5 minu---”
Bob stared up at the ceiling. “Ma'. She’s not a gremlin.”
“Does she sleep? Does she eat vegetables? Does she own a single legal document in her name? Robert, sweetie, be serious.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
“So she did do something.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your voice went all defensive, like when you were ten and tried to smuggle home a wounded possum.”
Bob let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Ma', I’m fine. Really. I’m at the airport. I’m coming home.”
That softened her. He heard it instantly.
“Oh, honey. I’ve got the boys losing their minds waiting for you. Your nephews climbed the shed roof this morning because they said Uncle Bob ‘would want them to be brave.’”
Bob cringed. “Tell them I said no such thing.”
“I already did. They said you’re lying because you’re not here to stop them.”
He sighed again, but this one was warm. “I’ll be home in a few hours.”
“You better. And Bobby?”
He straightened unconsciously. “Yeah?”
“Love you. And if she’s the reason you got shot, bring her. I need to visually confirm whether you’re finally into crazy girls like every other Floyd man.”
“MOM.”
“Well? Did she at least apologize?”
“It wasn’t her fault!”
“So she did something.”
“Goodbye, Ma.”
“No running off again!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And Robert?”
The payphone cord creaked as he shifted. His left arm hung useless in its cast, itching like hell. Out of habit, he dipped his good hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, trying to get comfortable. Probably gum wrappers, maybe a receipt, maybe a miracle if the universe felt charitable.
His fingers brushed something soft.
Not his fabric. Not airport junk.
Something delicate, threaded, familiar in the strangest way.
“…Robert? Robert, are you breathing or should I call someone?” his mother crackled in his ear.
He didn’t answer. He carefully pinched the corner of it and pulled.
The veil unfurled into the dim yellow airport light like a secret slipping out. Ivory fabric. A faint smudge of gunpowder at the edge. One of the beaded pieces twinkled like it had no business being that pretty after everything they’d crawled through.
His breath caught in the middle of whatever excuse he’d been forming.
His mom kept chattering, but her voice faded into the background like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
He just stared.
He wasn’t supposed to have this. You had been screaming, firing wildly over his shoulder, feet braced on broken tiles, hair everywhere, and you’d shoved this into his hands like he was the safest place you could think to put something precious. Like you trusted him with it. Like you weren’t worried he’d drop it, or get shot again, or get himself arrested in the next thirty seconds.
His thumb grazed the lace. It felt stupidly gentle against the bandages on his palm.
Somewhere through the haze, his mother snapped, “Bobby? Hello? Earth to my disaster child?”
He blinked back in. “Sorry, Ma. I… uh. Found something.”
“Is it ticking?”
“No.”
“Is it hers?”
His pulse jumped. “Wh-- why would you assume that?”
“You went very quiet in the way men do when they’re either staring at a woman or a sports score.”
Bob looked at the veil again, swallowed carefully, and tucked it back into his pocket like it might float away.
He paused.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, like that would convince anybody.
“...If she makes you smile like you’re smiling right now, don’t be stupid about it.”
His cheeks went embarrassingly warm, which only meant his mom had scored another psychic victory from three states away.
He slipped the veil back into his coat, where it rested stupidly soft against his chest, like it belonged there.
He hung up the phone, glared at it for being an accomplice, then tugged his ruined shirt into place.
That tiny smile he definitely wasn’t wearing refused to go anywhere.
The announcement for his flight slid over the airport speakers, flat and inevitable. Bob barely lifted his head. He reached for his wallet again, thumb tracing the stupid lump of cash she’d stuffed in there like she was packing him off to summer camp instead of a federal disaster zone.
He shouldn’t have opened it. But he did.
The bills were still jammed in crooked. Her handwriting on the note still crooked-er.
put dis towad therapy. u deserv it after knowin me. p.s NOT airport nachos
He exhaled through his nose, slow. The kind of breath you take when something hurts somewhere you can’t point to.
The veil in his jacket shifted when he moved, brushing his chest like an echo of her hands shoving it at him while bullets cracked overhead.
He closed the wallet. No smile. No dramatics. Just a small, quiet stillness settling behind his ribs.
They called his flight again.
Bob swallowed, straightened, and walked toward the gate like a man heading somewhere he was supposed to go… leaving behind the place he actually wanted to be.
Synopsis: Your groom sprinted out of the chapel like a roach from sunlight. Bob just offered a polite ride home. 6 hours later he’s your panicked hostage in a trailer held together by duct tape, humping you out of sheer survival instinct while wondering if compliance lowers his chances of being buried in the desert.
Warnings: Non-consensual hitchhiker acquisition (Bob is basically the world’s politest hostage), Bob attempting escape exactly zero times because he is scared, confused, and too Midwestern to be rude, Dry-humping of the “I swear I’m only doing this because she told me to” variety, Violence, threats, and flirting all delivered with the same exact tone. Stockholm Syndrome speedrun but Bob is not sure if it’s his or yours
Part 1 Part 3 Part 4
Micah merges back onto the road like she’s been driving getaway cars since the womb. You sit in the passenger seat, raccoon in your lap, picking a fight with existing air molecules just to stay warm. “You broke my window last month.”
“You shouldn’t have locked it.”
“It was my house.”
“Semantics.”
Micah groans in that ancient-soul way she reserves only for you. “You still owe me sixty bucks.” You blink. “For what.”
“The window.”
“That was last month. Time passed. It’s irrelevant.”
“Physics disagrees.”
“You disagree with physics.”
“Only when you’re involved.”
Bob watches this exchange with the expression of a man witnessing a natural disaster from inside the tornado.
You glance back at him, lower lip jutting out dramatically. “You’re mad at me.”
Bob stiffens. “I’m not mad. I’m terrified. There’s a difference.” You pout harder. “You abandoned me.”
“I escaped,” Bob corrects, voice cracking like he’s about to confess to war crimes. “I escaped a kidnapping.”
Micah snorts. “Kidnapping? She once duct-taped me to my own chair because I wouldn’t loan her my truck. You don’t get special treatment.” You point at Bob. “See? You’re fine. Micah survived.”
“Survived is a strong word.”
Bob rubs his face. “I don’t think you have anything to be upset about. I’m the one who’s been dragged into a high-speed… wedding-adjacent crime spiral.”
You scoff. “You got to ride in a helicopter.”
“It crashed!”
“Barely.”
Micah holds up a hand like she’s conducting an orchestra of idiots. “Enough, fruitcake. Where am I dropping him?”
Michael raises an eyebrow. “You two gonna live together?”
“NO.” Bob says so fast he chokes on his own breath. “We absolutely will not.”
You flick crumbs from your wedding dress at him. “Where are you going to find a bus back to base? In the middle of Blaine County? There are more cows than bus stops out here.”
Bob tries to summon authority but only manages mild panic. “I will find a way.”
Michael laughs under her breath. “He won’t. You know he won’t.” You lean back, raccoon under your arm like a cursed teddy bear. “He’s being dramatic. We’re going to my place.”
Bob’s hands fly up. “I am not stepping foot in your house. I barely survived the inside of your car.”
“Unreasonable,” you mutter. “I vacuumed last year.”
Micah finally drags her gaze from the road to the rearview mirror, eyes narrowing at Bob like she’s analyzing his tax fraud potential. “Hold on. How do you two even know each other?”
Bob hesitates, painfully.
You don’t. “He saved me.”
Bob sputters. “No I didn’t. I offered you a tissue because you were crying outside the altar. Then you hijacked my entire existence.”
Micah pinches the bridge of her nose so hard the car should swerve from the force of her disappointment. “So let me get this straight. Leslie asked me to pick up the lunatic bride in a cratered field… and she already kidnapped some vanilla guy along the way?”
You shrug. “He seemed like an accessory.”
Bob: “I’m a person.”
You: “An accessory with feelings. Same thing.”
Micah sighs, resigned to the end times. “I'm sorry, don't mind her much, she's not on her meds today, probably.”
“You are a woman who likes men who dance like sluts!!!!”
“And YOU are the cunt of the litter.”
And the three of you barrel down the empty highway, your bickering filling the car like smoke, Bob quietly preparing his obituary, and Micah wondering why she ever left witness protection in the first place.
Micah stares at the raccoon. “Speaking of dead, chuck that shit out, I'm not kidding.”
You tighten your grip. “He’s family.”
“He’s roadkill.”
“He’s an icon.”
“He’s decomposing.”
“Let him.”
You pet the raccoon lovingly. “He died doing what he loved.”
Micah: “What. Existing?”
You: “Being dramatic.”
Micah bangs her head against the headrest. “I’d call you a disaster, but that would insult disasters.”
“And I’d call you human, but even animals have more decency.” you smacked your lips.
Micah glared at you from the side of her eye. “Why don't you shut the fuck up, and look at Wikipedia pages for sucking cock?”
“Aight, one sec.” You pretended to look through your busted up sad excuse of a phone. “Awe shi, it says I have to keep my mouth open for this one, boss.”
Cue Bob sinking into the backseat.
---
Micah pulls up to your trailer like she’s delivering two war criminals to their natural habitat. The car slows. The dread does not.
Your home sits under the drowning sun like it committed several felonies.
The siding is peeling in long, sad strips. Half the windows are covered in duct tape so aggressively it looks medical. There’s a lawn chair on the roof for no reason except spiritual chaos. A tire swing hangs from a pole that is definitely not meant to support anything. The yard has three items: broken toaster, broken chair, and a mailbox with your name spray-painted on it in what is either red paint or yesterday’s crime.
Bob stares at it, slack-jawed. “This is… your house?” You shrug. “It’s got character.”
Micah mutters, “It’s got tetanus.”
A piece of metal falls off the roof as if to agree.
You heft the dead raccoon and jump out of the car. Bob follows slowly, like the ground might be booby-trapped.
Micah stays leaning on her steering wheel, watching you two approach the front door with the deadened patience of someone who’s been through too much.
Bob whispers, “Is it safe?”
You unlock the door. The lock spins three times even though you only turned it once. “Define safe.”
He doesn’t answer. Smart.
Inside, the place looks exactly like Trevor Phillips renovated it blindfolded during a nervous breakdown.
The carpet used to be beige. Now it’s beige-adjacent with stains that look like confessions. The couch is held up on one side by a stack of old phone books from years that should not exist anymore. A hole in the drywall is stuffed with a stuffed animal you probably won in a bar fight. The kitchen counter features one lonely plate, a mug that says “World’s Okayest Human,” and a crowbar.
You toss the raccoon onto the couch like it’s checking in at a motel. It sinks into the cushions with a puff of dust that immediately attacks Bob’s lungs.
Bob coughs so hard he almost bends in half. “You LIVE here?”
You blink. “Not all the time.”
“That’s… that’s worse.”
Micah steps inside just enough to look around, then steps right back out. “Nope. Not today. I’m not risking my immune system for either of you.”
You wave her off. “Coward.”
“Survivor,” she corrects.
Bob’s eyes dart over every surface like he expects something to crawl out and introduce itself. “Is that… a frying pan taped to the wall?”
You nod. “It’s for emergencies.”
“What kind of emergen--“
He’s cut off by a loud BANG in the back room followed by something that hisses.
Bob nearly jumps into orbit.
Micah sighs. “Yeah. I’m leaving. Leslie said keep you alive. Being in this building is technically the opposite of that.”
You grin. “Don’t be dramatic, old fart.”
Micah gestures broadly at the entire trailer. “This place breathes mold.”
You open your mouth to argue, but a chunk of ceiling plaster falls beside you like a mic drop.
Bob whisper-squeaks.
Micah backs toward her car. “Sunday. Heist. Be clean. Be sober. Don’t bring corpses. And dear god, fix whatever’s living in your wall.”
You salute her with a greasy spatula you picked up off the counter. “Aye aye, captain.”
Micah gets in the car and drives off so fast the dust cloud forms a halo of regret behind her.
Bob stands there helplessly, staring at the disaster he willingly walked into.
You slap him on the shoulder. “Welcome home.” He looks like he’s going to faint.
Perfect.
The trailer door squeaks shut behind you both, sounding like it’s begging for mercy. You rummage through a pile of laundry that may or may not be clean and toss Bob something vaguely cloth-shaped.
“Here. Clothes.” Bob holds it up between two fingers like it’s radioactive. “This is… a shirt?”
You shrug. “Technically. It passed the vibe check.”
“It has a bullet hole.”
“One. Chill.”
He’s too polite to argue out loud, but his eyes are giving a TED Talk on human suffering.
You start changing right there, zero hesitation, peeling off your ruined wedding dress like it’s yesterday’s crimes. Bob goes stiff, staring at the wall, the ceiling, the dead raccoon, anywhere that isn’t you. There is not a molecule of personal space in this trailer, and it shows.
He mumbles, ears red, “Do you… want me to step outside?” You yank on a pair of shorts that should not legally count as fabric. “Why? You afraid of knees?”
“I’m afraid of everything happening right now,” he says honestly.
You pull on a tank top with a rip that makes it look like you fought a lawnmower and lost. “There. I’m dressed. See? Modesty.”
Bob risks a glance. “That tank top is held together with hope.”
“And staples.”
He doesn’t even want to ask.
You clap your hands together, proud. “Okay. Hospitality time. You want anything?”
Bob opens his mouth, naively. “Do you have water?”
You walk to the fridge. Open it.
Inside sits: half a lemon, a jar of something that blinks, and a single canned beer that expired during the Obama era.
You gesture inside the fridge like Vanna White presenting disappointment. “We got… vibes.” Bob closes his eyes. “Anything not haunted?”
You open the cupboard.
A tumbleweed of ramen packets falls out. All beef flavor. Every one expired two years ago. Something scurries deeper inside the darkness.
You nod solemnly. “Yeah. Air’s probably the safest meal in here.”
He changes into the shirt you gave him. It’s three sizes too big, smells faintly of gasoline, and says “BITE ME” in glittery letters across the chest.
He sighs. “Do you… have pants?”
You hand him sweatpants with a hole in the knee the size of a tax audit. “Fashion.”
He hesitates. “Are these clean?”
You think about it. “Clean-ish.”
“You didn’t wash them, did you?”
“I thought about washing them.”
He stares at you like that alone is a felony.
You flop onto the couch, kicking your legs up, raccoon resting half on your thigh like a cursed throw pillow. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Bob sits on the farthest corner of the couch, spine straight, hands folded like he’s being held hostage by the concept of gravity itself.
“Are you sure this thing is… dead?” he whispers, flicking his eyes to the raccoon. You pat its back affectionately. “Yeah. Probably.”
Bob gives a tiny strangled noise. You grin. “Relax. You’re safe here.”
Right on cue, the ceiling creaks with the sound of something angry and alive dragging itself across the beams.
Bob: “I don’t think the trailer agrees.”
You lift your legs so the unknown ceiling creature doesn’t land on them. “If it falls through, we’ll feed it ramen.”
Bob whispers to himself, defeated, “I want to go home.” You toss him a blanket with a cigarette burn shaped like Texas. “This IS home. Temporary. Chaotic. Slightly diseased. But home.”
He sinks into the couch like he’s accepted his fate.
The trailer TV is playing some grainy late-night documentary about dolphins saving fishermen, but you aren’t even glancing at it. You’re pacing the two steps of available floor space, hands flying, telling Bob about your “fun memories,” which are honestly more like crime scene confessions delivered with the brightness of a camp counselor.
“So then I told the paramedic he had no right to confiscate my flamethrower because technically I made it myself, right? And anyway the fire was already out by then so—”
Bob’s eyes go big. “You… made a flamethrower.”
You wave him off. “Don’t be dramatic. You can make one with, like, three household items and a lack of self-preservation.”
He lets out a short, shocked laugh before he realizes he did it. Just a small little puff of amusement, like his soul cracked a window open.
You stop mid-sentence. “Well well. Look who’s got a personality under all that fear.”
His face does that polite-horrified thing therapists do when a client says “I’m fine” while actively bleeding.
He mutters, “You’re so… no offense, but this trailer is unbelievably unhygienic. Like, impressively unhygienic. I think the mold just winked at me.”
She shrugs, flicking a crumb off the counter. “I know, I know. I don’t get it either. These walls collect dust like they’re trying to cosplay as deserts. You’re vertical. Act like it.”
Bob actually laughs, a startled bark like he wasn’t expecting his own lungs to participate. He cuts it off instantly and straightens up, trying to reassemble his Responsible Adult face.
“It’s okay,” he says, palms raised like he’s de-escalating her drywall. “Stuff like this happens when people are… going through something. I can give you some tips to help get things under control.”
She leans her hip against the counter, innocent as a wolf in lipstick. “You can give one. That’ll be enough for me.”
His brain flatlines for a beat. He blinks. Hard.
“…O…one?” he echoes, voice cracking like a teenager caught sneaking out.
She smirks, eyes dropping just low enough for him to realize his own implication before he can deny it.
Bob’s ears go bright red. He spins toward the sink like it personally offended him. “Cleaning tip. I meant cleaning tip.”
“Sure you did. But seriously, what that mouth do?”
“Complain, constantly. About everything.”
“Mmm, that’s hot. I like a mouth that complains. Think I can make it beg too?”
He groans into his palms, regretting every choice that led him to this trailer, this woman, and this sentence. Underneath it, he’s trying very hard not to smile.
He stiffens again, posture snapping back into military-perfect. “For the record, I’m not… enjoying this. I’m simply… coping.”
“Cute coping,” you say, dropping onto the couch beside him, knee knocking his. “Tell me something about you, then. Make it fair.”
He fidgets with the hem of the shirt you gave him, looking like he’s confessing to the priest. “There’s nothing interesting. I… like flying. I like quiet. I like order.”
“Gross,” you say affectionately. “Continue.”
He huffs a tiny laugh again. And you catch it. Every molecule of it. You tilt your head. “Y’know… you have a pretty smile.”
His face BLUSHES so fast it’s like someone slapped a tomato filter on him.
The smile dies instantly. He clamps his lips together like they’re violating protocol.
You gasp dramatically. “No. NO. Bring that back. Did you just hide it? Did you just SMOTHER your own smile in my trailer?”
He mutters, mortified, “It wasn’t a smile.”
“Oh? Then what was it? A malfunction? A wind pattern? A solar flare?”
He glares at the wall. “Drop it.”
You scoot closer just to annoy him. “I’m not dropping anything. Smile again.”
“No.”
“C’monnn,” you poke his arm, “you’ll get wrinkles from frowning.”
“Good,” he mutters. “Then maybe people will stop kidnapping me.”
You poke him again. “Smile.”
He grabs the couch cushion and hides behind it like a chastity shield. “Stop it.”
You peel the cushion down inch by inch. “Show me the teeth, Bob.”
“It wasn’t teeth,” he protests. “It was… barely an exhale.”
You sit back, smirking. “Fine. Then you’re scared because you know once you start smiling around me, you’ll never stop.”
His whole face goes even redder, which is honestly a medical marvel.
“That’s not— that’s not true,” he stammers.
You pat his knee. “It’s adorable how bad you are at lying.”
He makes a little wounded noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.
On the TV, a dolphin jumps majestically.
Bob quietly watches it with the expression of a man who’s reconsidering every life choice, but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth he’s fighting like it owes him money.
You elbow him. “There it is. I SAW IT.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-uh.”
“That wasn’t--”
You grin like the devil just won custody. “Bob, sweetheart… you’re kind of cute when you’re suffering.”
He sinks deeper into the couch, hiding his face in his hands.
“Are… are you suffering from depression?”
He says it so gently, like he’s checking if you’ve been shot.
You plop down on the couch, grab your lighter, and say, “Suffering? No. I’m great at it. Medal-worthy, honestly.”
He looks both horrified and impressed.
Then you spark up a bong like this is a casual Tuesday night Bible study and gesture for him to take a hit.
He flinches backward like you’ve offered him a live grenade.
“No thank you. I don’t… partake.”
You squint at him. “Cigarettes then? I don’t smoke those. They’re bad for you.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t prefer anything.”
You blink at him. “So you just… raw-dog reality?”
He exhales through his nose. “I… try not to.”
You offer the bong again just to mess with him. He waves you off with both hands, mumbling something about flight clearance and lung function.
You flop back onto the couch, giggling. He relaxes, sitting beside you like he’s finally accepted his fate. The lights buzz overhead. A coyote thumps somewhere under the floorboards. And for the first time all day, he’s not trying to escape through the nearest window.
He actually smiles.
Small, shy, stupid as hell.
And you notice he’s stopped looking at the mess and started looking at you instead.
At some point between your rant about why cereal tastes better at night and your heartfelt speech about raccoons being “just misunderstood trash pandas with depression,” you notice Bob’s head keeps doing that slow gravity-defying dip.
That thing where he blinks too long, then snaps awake like he’s been caught cheating on a math test.
Meanwhile your legs are already sprawled across his lap like you claimed him as furniture. So you nudge him with your foot. Not hard, just a soft kick to the ribs.
“Processing what?” You wiggle your toes at him. “Your own exhaustion? Go take the bed before you faceplant into my carpet and get tetanus.”
He shakes his head stubbornly, which would be cute if it weren’t so tragic. “I’m fine. I need to leave at sunrise anyway. Probably better if I don’t sleep.”
You pause. The room suddenly feels too still.
You’ve gone months without tolerating anyone for more than ten minutes, and somehow this exhausted, anxious, Boy Scout-coded man has been here for hours and you haven’t threatened his life even once.
Kind of messed up how much you’re enjoying the company.
You try to bury the weird soft feeling under your usual nonsense. “What, you scared I’ll bite you if you lie down?”
He sputters, cheeks going a little pink. “N-no. I just--”
You stretch your legs across his lap again, slow this time, deliberately. Your toes brush his hip. His breath catches like you just hit him with a defibrillator.
“It’s one bed,” you murmur, pretending you’re not watching his face like it’s entertainment. “I don’t snore. I don’t steal blankets. I only bite when asked nicely.”
His brain bluescreens so hard you swear you can hear fans spinning.
“I-- I don’t think-- That’s not-- I wouldn’t want to, uh, intrude.”
You grin, leaning back on your hands, all lazy challenge. “You’re already in my trailer, princess. Damage is done.”
He swallows. Hard.
His hand twitches like he’s debating touching your ankle but terrified it might summon the devil.
You tilt your foot, sliding it higher on his thigh just to watch him malfunction. “C’mon, Bob. Bed’s right there. Or are you planning to sit up all night staring at the door like you’re guarding the Ark of the Covenant?”
He exhales shakily. “I just… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
You lift one eyebrow. “Babe, if I didn’t want you here, you’d be parked outside on the lawn with the lawn chairs and the rusty bike frame.”
That earns the tiniest smile.
He’s flustered, tired, and absolutely on the verge of giving in.
And you’re sitting there acting like your foot isn’t basically writing his obituary on his thigh.
The bed is shockingly clean. Like unsettlingly clean .It was the kind of clean that made Bob instinctively check for hidden cameras. “This is unsettling,” he muttered.
Bob notices immediately, because of course he does. He’s lying stiff on top of the thin sheet, staring at the ceiling like he expects it to leak acid.
“You know,” he whispers, voice low so the night doesn’t shatter, “your bed is… uh. Way cleaner than everything else here.”
You grunt, already half under the blanket like a gremlin preparing for hibernation. “Yeah. Was planning to absolutely destroy my husband the second we walked in, so. Needed a sanitary battlefield.”
Bob goes silent for a full three seconds.
Then: “Oh.”
That “oh” has trauma baked into it.
You don’t elaborate. You’re lying two inches from him, finally calm, finally still. For the first time all day, you’re not pacing or ranting or trying to light something on fire “for ambiance.”
It’s almost peaceful.
He slowly relaxes. His shoulders unclench. The mattress warms between you. He lets his eyes drift closed.
You behave.
For maybe… twenty seconds.
Then you whisper into the semi-darkness, voice suspiciously innocent, “So… Bob.”
His eyes snap open. “Yes?”
“Be honest.” You roll onto your stomach, chin propped on your hands. “Are you a virgin?”
Bob convulses so violently the bed creaks. “Why would you even-- why--WHAT-- no! No, I’m not!”
You blink innocently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, y’know. Happens to the best pilots.”
“I AM NOT--” He cuts himself off, whisper-screaming. “I’m not a virgin.”
“Say it with your chest.”
“I’m not a--” He notices you grinning and shuts down. “I hate this.”
You pat his shoulder. “I can hear the capital V from here, babe.”
He lets out a noise that might be a groan or a prayer.
You wiggle closer. The mattress squeaks treacherously. “So what was her name?”
Bob freezes like a deer in headlights. “Nope. I’m not doing storytime.”
“Come onnnn.” You poke his cheek. “I gave you my entire psychological profile today.”
“That wasn’t a profile,” Bob mutters. “That was a cry for help in twelve chapters.”
“Still counts.”
He tries to hold it in, but a tiny, hopeless laugh escapes him. Just a single soft huff. Barely there.
You beam like you won a prize. “There it is. The pretty smile.”
He immediately wipes the smile off his face like you just insulted his bloodline. “Stop that.”
“You stop that.”
“What am I stopping?!”
“Your face. Being shy. It’s illegal in my trailer.”
“Everything is illegal in your trailer!”
You gasp loudly. “My bed is legal.”
“Your bed is suspicious.”
“Suspiciously legal.”
He covers his face with both hands.
You lean over and whisper, “If you’re scared I’ll bite you, you can say that.”
Bob chokes.
You grin wider. “Relax. You’re not my type.”
He looks almost relieved until you add:
“My type is… guys who panic when I ask if they're virgins.”
“I’m going to sleep on the floor.”
“You are absolutely not. That floor has seen things.”
He sighs like a man accepting death, then does that tiny, cautious shuffle toward the edge of the mattress. The kind where he moves half a centimeter at a time, like sudden motion might attract your attention and get him mauled.
“I’m not saying today traumatized me, but if someone asked me to describe my emotional state, I’d probably just… gesture vaguely at a dumpster fire. You know? Like, ‘That. That’s me.’”
You’re too busy flicking the hem with deliberate boredom, letting his entire rant wash over you untouched. Honestly, you only register that he’s speaking because he breathes between words.
It’s one of your ex… situationships’. At least you think it is. Hard to keep track of who stormed out, who cried, and who you might have hypothetically buried in the desert. Memory’s a fickle creature.
Bob tugs self-consciously at the fabric. “Is this shirt supposed to feel tight? It’s tight. I think it shrank. Do shirts shrink instantly? Or is this like a-- like a panic thing? Is my body doing something? Am I dying?”
“If the shirt’s tight, that’s your problem. Or mine. Depends if I decide to pull it off you.”
He flushes. Adorable. Tragic. Boring. Until your fingers trace the hem again, just idly, your knuckles brushing his stomach.
You don’t even mean to do it. You’re just spacing out while he talks, your brain on autopilot, thinking about how this shirt looks better on him than it ever did on the guy who owned it last.
Your fingertip slips. Grazes skin.
Bare skin.
Then lower.
Right into the soft trail of hair leading down from his stomach.
Bob freezes so hard he might have transcended matter. His inhale is sharp enough to cut glass.
You blink. Slow. Owlish.
Oh.
That’s interesting.
You do it again. Just a tiny stroke with one finger, purely for science. The reaction is immediate: his breath stutters, his hips twitch, and he lets out a noise so embarrassingly human you almost snort.
“So that’s all it takes to shut you up,” you murmur. “Good to know.”
“I-- I wasn’t-- I mean--” He’s glitching like a thrift-store blender.
Your gaze drops to the spot you touched. The shirt lifts slightly, exposing more of the trail. A literal invitation from the universe. A breadcrumb path directly to bad decisions.
Curiosity kicks you in the face. Not gentle curiosity. Not sweet curiosity. The violent kind. The kind that ruins evenings and possibly lives.
You hook the hem of the shirt with one finger and tug it up a fraction more, eyes narrowing like you’ve discovered a shiny new button to press repeatedly.
Bob swallows. Hard. “What are you doing?”
“Field research,” you say, voice flat. “Don’t move.”
He moves anyway. A tremble this time.
And that does it. That’s the moment the idea forms, fully grown and feral, and your brain says:
Yeah. I’m getting on top of him.
This is about to go downhill in the horniest way possible.
You lean back, crack your knuckles, and grin at him with the exact energy of someone who has no brakes installed.
---
You shift your weight forward slightly, pressing your soft folds against his still-flaccid length through the fabric of both your pants. Bob freezes, eyes wide, his chest hitching with every shallow breath. His hands tremble at your sides, caught between wanting to pull away and not daring to. “W-wait…” he manages, the word small and uncertain, swallowed by the heavy air around you.
His hands clamp onto your hips like he’s suddenly realized your pelvis is trying to start a war. His face is glowing an impressive shade of panic-red, and his eyes flick between your smug expression and the very obvious place where your bodies are no longer being polite. “P-please… just…” he whispers, voice thin, quivering, probably questioning every life choice that led to this exact second. You note, silently, that he’s adorably doomed, and also-- maybe-- so are you, but at least it’s entertaining.
You lean down slightly, pressing your forehead against his chest as you continue to grind against him slowly. Bob's hands tighten on your hips almost painfully as he tries to lift you off him. "Y-you don't... we just met today..."
You laugh, sharp and teasing, your breath warm against his chest, grin like the universe just handed you the remote to his nervous system. "I know, I know..." You shift your weight again, pressing harder against his growing length. "But... don't you want to?" Your voice is low and husky, full of unspoken promises.
Bob's self-control is crumbling fast. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing gently as he pulls you even closer. His cock is now fully hard and leaking pre-cum inside his pants. "Fuck... (Y/N)..." He whispers hoarsely. "This is wrong..."
His voice drops, low and rough, betraying him despite every attempt at restraint. “You don’t know what you’re… fuck.” He arches instinctively, hard against you, a living contradiction. "I'm serious... stop before I..." he stammers, the threat dissolving into something more like a plea.
As you trace the shape of his hardening length through his boxers, Bob lets out a choked gasp. His eyes squeeze shut as he feels every ridge and vein under your exploring fingers. You grind down harder against him intentionally now-- slowly rolling your hips in circles that make his cock twitch.
He’s so hard I could outline him with a crayon. And these flimsy boxers? Criminal. I can feel every bit of him. And now my brain’s doing a census on his foreskin status. Great. Perfect. Very normal. Definitely not cut. Calling it like a weatherman.
Your hips grind down harder and your brain immediately throws itself off a cliff: oh wow, that’s definitely the head of him, right there, right under you, fat and leaking and completely ruining those pathetic boxers. And now you’re picturing it, uncut and heavy and flushed and-- fantastic, you’re feral. “Fucking hell…” slips out of you before you can pretend to have dignity.
“I swear, if this is how you treat strangers, I’m terrified to know what you do with people you actually like. You tease...”
His words hit you like heat, low and rough, his breath scraping over your skin. The moment he yanks you down, the pressure is perfect, shockingly good, his cock grinding right against the spot that’s been pulsing for him since the second you climbed into his lap. The sound that escapes you isn’t dignified. Whatever. Dignity is a luxury item right now.
You smirk, teeth catching your lip, because if he thinks calling you a tease is an insult… adorable. His hips jerk up again, harder this time, like his body is trying to override whatever caution his brain keeps desperately slamming the brakes with.*
"Tease?" you murmur against his jaw, voice thick with heat. "You say that like you’re not rutting against me like you’re seconds from losing it."
His grip tightens, fingers biting into the meat of your thighs, and the groan he lets out sounds like something that escaped without permission. His cock drags perfectly through the soaked barrier of fabric, and he shivers like he hates how good it feels.
"Keep talking," he pants, voice wrecked, "and I’m not gonna last long enough for you to be smug about it."
You keep moving slowly, letting the tension build, and suddenly Bob’s hands are all over your thighs, gripping like he’s scared to let go. He yanks you down onto him, groaning, “Shit… fuck it.” His grip shifts to your hips, stopping your teasing motions entirely, and he humps into you clumsily but insistently, two layers of clothing doing little to dull the friction. His gaze is intense, flustered, almost apologetic-- like he can’t believe you’re already driving him crazy this fast.
Every roll of his hips sends a hot pulse of need straight through you. His length presses into your clit relentlessly, making it impossible to think. “You want to play games? Huh?” he pants, a mixture of frustration and desire in his voice. His grip on your hips tightens as he lifts and slams you down, each motion forcing you to surrender. “…Try me now,” he murmurs, almost as if daring you to complain.
You clutch his shoulders as his hips roll up, controlled and relentless, each movement teasing you mercilessly through the fabric. Your body moves in sync, desperate for more, and a whimper slips out. “More…” you beg, nails pressing into him as if you could make him feel your need.
Bob bites back a groan, hips jerking faster under your impatience. Without warning, he wraps an arm around your waist and shoves you onto the bed. He follows quickly, positioning himself between your legs and grinding into you with feral intensity, hands clutching your hips as if he’s afraid you might disappear.
Your hands claw at his shirt, desperation clear. “Come on… just a little…” Bob shakes his head, rationality fighting the haze in his eyes. “No… no pants off. We’re strangers…” You whimper, voice breaking: “Just the tip… please…” He groans at the words, pleasure sparking uncontrollably, then smashes his lips to yours, swallowing your plea. “Shh…” The world narrows to the press of his body against yours, chaotic and irresistible.
You two start humping each other desperately through your clothes, completely lost in the moment. Bob's thick length slides against your pussy, the dry humping generating a surprising amount of friction. Your lips are locked in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as you both chase your orgasm desperately.
Your hips move in sync, frantic, desperate, friction through fabric building to a maddening rhythm. Bob’s length rubs insistently against you, groans escaping both your mouths as your messy, open kiss steals all rational thought. Hands grip hair and shoulders, bodies slamming together, his hand digging into your ass to press you closer. Every thrust, every rub, screams flustered need and chaotic desire.
The pressure against your clit is unbearable, your hips moving desperately to chase the friction. Bob’s kiss deepens, tongue forcing itself into your mouth, matching the frantic rhythm of your dry humping. “Ngh… fuck…” he groans, voice ragged, echoing the chaos in your veins.
Heat explodes through you both as your orgasms hit simultaneously. Bob’s hips jerk into yours, thick length throbbing through fabric, soaking it with his release against your sensitive core. You scream into his mouth, grinding desperately against the wetness, every nerve alight. Panting, tangled, spent, you cling to each other as the aftershocks ripple through your bodies. Bob pulls back slowly, staring at the damp spot on his pants, then looks at you, wide-eyed and stunned, something unreadable flickering across his face.
He drags a hand down his face, staring at the damp patch like it personally offended him. “I came… in my pants. Like… a teenager. A dumbass, horny teenager.” His voice trails off, muttering incomprehensibly as he tries to process what just happened, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, utterly defeated.
You smirk at him, still buzzing from your unexpected release. Slowly, deliberately, your foot traces the wet patch on his pants, sliding upward along his torso, across the taut fabric of his shirt, until it reaches his chin. You lift it gently, forcing his gaze to meet yours. Bob freezes mid-breath, eyes wide, cheeks burning as he stammers, completely undone by the combination of your grin and your audacious, teasing touch.
"Not to be rude, but how does one respectfully request another round of this but now with being pinned to a wall?"
---
There is a very fine line between ‘sleeping comfortably’ and ‘this will haunt you for life,’ and congratulations, Bob, you’d bulldozed right over it. Bob, for reasons that would never be explained rationally, spent the entire night with his face pressed firmly against your chest, and no, he didn’t leave a single hint in his memory that this was socially unacceptable.
Morning filtered in soft and golden, and for a while, nothing happened. Not the world, not the chaos, not even the lingering headache from the helicopter crash or the endless walk along a sun-bleached highway. Just you and Bob, tangled together in an accidental cocoon of warmth.
Bob’s head lifted slightly, just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, neither of you moved. His usual jittery, fidgety energy was muted by exhaustion, replaced by something quieter, almost reverent.
“You… uh…” His voice cracked halfway through, embarrassed and hesitant. “…don’t smell as bad as I thought you would after… last night.”
You snorted softly, a little tired laugh escaping, and reached to push a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “You mean… I didn’t ruin your face?”
He blinked at you like you’d just solved a centuries-old mystery. “I… don’t think so. Maybe it was… nice?”
And there it was. Just for a heartbeat, all the chaos, the chases, the crashes, the running-- it shrank to nothing. Two exhausted humans staring at each other, not wanting to move, not wanting to ruin the fragile peace.
Then-- BANG!-- the door slammed open. Ronnae stumbled in, eyes wide, hair disheveled, arms flailing like a tornado trapped in human form.
“OH MY GOD, (Y/n)-- THE BIKERS! THE BIKERS ATTACKED THE METH LAB! CHEF-- SHE LOST-- HER FINGER!”
Bob shot upright, spilling backward slightly in his panic, while you grabbed him instinctively, holding him close even as your morning calm evaporated into absolute chaos.
The universe really woke up and chose nonsense for breakfast.
Ronnae came in screaming like a malfunctioning fire alarm, babbling about bikers and severed fingers, and you… you were still half-asleep, trying to process basic nouns.
Your brain basically lagged.
“Wait… Chef lost her fucking what?”
Ronnae was pacing, waving her hands like she was trying to land a plane inside the trailer. “Her finger! Like, gone! Vanished! The bikers took it or it fell off, I don’t know, there was too much screaming and someone threw a pot at me!”
You blinked, eyes half-lidded, hair all over your face. “Those bikers? The same bikers I baked brownies for last week? The ones I literally offered sunscreen because they looked crispy?”
Ronnae whimpered like you’d personally invented betrayal. “You blew up their trailer park (Y/n). Again.”
You groaned, grabbed a pillow, then used it as a battering ram to shove yourself out of bed. “Ronnae, if you ever wake me up like this again, I’m gonna eat both your arms. Raw. No seasoning.”
Bob, poor man, looked like he’d just been dropped into a tornado made of unhinged women. His curls were everywhere, his expression pure terror. “What-- what is happening? Where are you going?”
You were already pulling on your boots, yawning like this was just another Tuesday. “I’ll be back in a minute. Gotta deal with some biker drama. Don’t stress. Totally normal.”
“Normal?” Bob squeaked.
You pointed at him. “You. Stay. Ronnae will feed you. Take care of him, he’s my guest. My very special guest.” You threw him a wink that made him look ready to faint.
Ronnae nodded reluctantly, like she’d been handed a bomb disguised as a human. “I’ll… get him eggs?”
“Whatever. Just make sure he doesn’t run away. I’m dropping him off in the city myself.”
You stomped outside.
Bob scrambled after you, voice cracking like a teenager’s. “No need! Really! I can take a cab! Any cab! First cab I see!”
You were already swinging your leg over a random dirt bike that probably wasn’t yours. “NO!”
The engine revved like it hated its life.
Ronnae held onto Bob’s shoulders to stop him from bolting. He whimpered. She sighed.
You took off, dust swirling behind you like dramatic punctuation, leaving Bob in the doorway staring after you like he had just witnessed the prequel to his obituary.
Bob hovered near the couch like it was a trapdoor to hell, inching down slowly, every muscle stiff, neck turning like a haunted doll. The trailer felt weirdly more dangerous without you in it, which said a lot about the situation his life had swan-dived into.
Ronnae stood across from him, arms crossed, head tilted, eyes narrowed. Pure dominance display. Like a lizard puffing up its throat, but somehow more chaotic.
She looked exactly like she sounded: scraggly blond hair sticking out in sad little tufts, big frantic eyes, a nose that looked like it had been broken once per fiscal quarter, denim vest two sizes too small, shorts that should have been retired in 1995, and combat boots covered in mysterious stains that absolutely had stories behind them. None good.
She sniffed. Loudly. “You don’t look like a prostitute.”
Bob blinked. Hard. “What?”
“Well, you don’t!” She waved at him, offended on his behalf. “Boss was supposed to get married today and that is obviously not you. So I’m thinkin’ either she dragged home a prostitute or… you’re something else. But you’re way too… clean. Soft. Moisturized. Definitely not a prostitute.”
He stared at her. “Uh… I don’t know?? A hostage??”
She gasped. “Oh. Oh that makes more sense actually.”
He choked. “It does?!”
Ronnae nodded proudly like she’d solved a tough math problem. “Yeah! Kidnapping is totally her love language.”
Bob made a noise that wasn’t human.
She plopped onto the armchair opposite him and slapped her thighs. “Well! I’m Ronnae. Her trusty assistant. I live right next door.” She pointed out the window at a trailer that looked like it would lose a fight with a sneeze. “Real convenient for emergencies, gunfights, midnight errands, cleaning out bloodstains-- basically HR wouldn’t know what to do with me.”
Bob swallowed, wishing he’d just stayed asleep forever. “…Cool?”
“So!” Ronnae clapped her hands. “Breakfast. What do you want?”
He hesitated. “Uh… pancakes?”
She winced like he’d just kicked a puppy. “Oof. Don’t prefer those anymore.”
Bob paled. “…Why?”
“Let’s just say Chef used to make pancakes. Chef no longer has a finger. Pancake association is… emotionally complicated right now.”
Bob nodded slowly, horrified.
Ronnae leaned forward, whispering like they were in a spy movie. “Also we’re out of syrup because she drank it during her breakdown last week. But that part’s personal, so don’t mention it.”
He stared.
She stared back.
Silence.
Then she slapped her knees again. “Eggs it is!”
---
Bob stepped out of the trailer like a man escaping a hostage video, hoping for “fresh air” and getting a lungful of boiling, aggressively hostile atmosphere. The desert slapped him in the face with a heatwave that felt personal.
He wheezed instantly. “Oh my-- this is… this is soup. This is air soup.”
Within three minutes, sweat crawled down his spine like tiny regret spiders. He wasn’t the kind of guy who went shirtless unless there was an ocean, a doctor, or mortal necessity involved. Unfortunately, this heat counted as the third one. So off came the shirt. Not proudly. Not confidently. More like peeling off a band-aid while apologizing to the universe.
The crackheads who lived around your place, the ones who normally avoided your trailer like it radiated secondhand felony charges, were suddenly out and about. And staring. At him.
Hard.
They squinted. They nodded approvingly. One even fanned himself.
Bob clutched his shirt to his chest like it was armor. “Please don’t look at me like I’m… meat. I am not meat. I’m-- I'm Bob.”
He retreated into what was technically your “yard” but functionally a crime scene with some personality. Rusted car parts, a kiddie pool filled with what he hoped was just rainwater, and a collection of dented tin cans stacked like a shrine to bad decisions.
He spotted a folding chair-- old, bent, but not actively on fire-- so he sat. Carefully.
It made a noise like an elderly man standing up too fast. But it held.
For eight seconds.
Then Bob felt a weight drop into his lap.
His whole soul left his body.
He launched upward with a scream that could’ve summoned paramedics. The folding chair folded for real this time, collapsing dramatically like it had been waiting for this moment.
A raccoon blinked up at him from the wreckage.
A very alive raccoon.
A raccoon that, yesterday, you had confidently declared dead after it toppled out of the helicopter wreckage and refused to move for twenty minutes.
Bob pointed at it, voice shrill. “No! No, no, no-- YOU-- YOU WERE DEAD! She said you were DEAD!”
The raccoon stretched, yawned, then sat back like a grumpy uncle. It gave him a look that said, yeah, well, I got better, nerd.
Bob backed up until he hit the trailer door. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t nature. This is witchcraft.”
From inside, Ronnae yelled, “If it sits on your lap again, just accept it! That means it likes you!”
Bob whimpered, “I don’t want it to like me!”
The raccoon toddled after him with the confidence of someone who paid rent there.
Bob panicked. “Please stop!”
Ronnae yelled again, “It won’t bite unless you scream!”
Bob screamed louder.
The raccoon perked up like it had discovered its favorite hobby.
Bob held his shirt like a shield against the tiny undead menace wandering toward him.
He had never missed you more in his entire life.
---
The poor man had finally given up fighting the heat, the raccoon, the broken chair, the universe… all of it. At some point he slid down into the patchy dirt outside your trailer, half-propped against a sun-bleached tire, eyelids drooping in sheer exhaustion.
The desert hummed. A tumbleweed rolled by like it was judging him.
Bob Floyd, naval aviator, Top Gun graduate, certified sweetheart… was napping in a yard that looked like the set of a documentary titled Meth & Other Life Choices.
Then an engine rumbled.
A deep, throaty growl of a red truck-- your beloved, dented-to-hell, barely street-legal beast-- rolled into view. You slammed the brakes so hard dust exploded everywhere.
You climbed out with a face that could have incinerated a grown man. Pure rested fury. Fury with errands.
Then you spotted him.
And your whole expression did a backflip. The anger dropped, replaced by something soft and stupidly fond. A grin cracked across your face, wide and mischievous.
You leaned against your metal railing, arms crossed, hips cocked, voice dropping into a teasing purr.
“Well well well… look at that. Did some angel drop a shirtless tourist into my yard?”
Bob groggily peeled one eye open. The sun hit you behind the shoulders, and for a second he looked like he thought he was hallucinating.
“Wh-where… where have you been all day?” he mumbled, sounding halfway offended, halfway relieved.
You whistled at him. “Awwww, sunshine, did you miss me?”
He rubbed his eyes, trying to hide the tiny relieved smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s been five hours. Anyone would wonder.”
You sauntered over, hands in your pockets, tilting your head at him. “You waiting on me? That’s cute.”
He shook his head, but he wasn’t blushing, just… honest. “I wasn’t waiting. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
You paused, smile turning softer, realer. “Well… I’m here. And I’m good. Thanks for checking.”
Bob exhaled, shoulders loosening a little. “Good.”
You squatted down beside him, elbow nudging his knee. “Look at you. All cozy out here. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were enjoying yourself.”
He gave a small, tired laugh. “Enjoying might be pushing it. Surviving? Yes.”
“That’s my guy.” You flicked his shin lightly. “Gold star for not dying.”
He rolled his eyes, but fondly. “You said you’d be back in a minute.”
“I said I thought it’d be a minute. Bikers are dramatic.” You bumped his shoulder gently. “Plus I had to bring my truck home. Priorities.”
“Mm.”
You brushed some dirt off his arm. “Glad you’re still in one piece, Bob.”
“I’m glad you are too.”
You froze for just half a second, not expecting that, then smiled wider. Full teeth. Full warmth.
“…You know,” you mused, “if I didn’t know you, I’d catcall you from here to the gas station.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Please don’t.”
You stood, offering him a hand. “Only because you asked nicely.”
He took it, letting you pull him up. His grip wasn’t desperate, just steady.
You smirked. “C’mon, handsome. Let’s get you inside before the raccoon comes back for round two.”
He didn’t even argue. He followed, shaking his head, a quiet little smile stuck on his face like it wasn’t going anywhere.
---
An hour later, Bob sat in the passenger seat of your truck like a man bracing for turbulence, fiddling with the radio because silence in a vehicle like this felt like a threat. Every station was some new flavor of unhinged Los Santos nonsense.
Static.
A guy screaming about aliens breeding with goats.
Static.
A woman advertising her psychic services while audibly cooking something.
Static.
A political rant that sounded suspiciously like the man had swallowed a microphone and some meth.
Bob grimaced. “What does ‘government-enhanced rats’ even *mean*?”
He clicked to another station. Someone was shouting about crystals. Not the healing ones.
He sighed. “This is worse.”
Meanwhile, through the open driver’s window, he could hear your voice in hushed, furious bursts. Except hushed wasn’t really your thing. You were hissing at Ronnae like a feral cat that had reached its daily limit.
“I swear I didn’t touch your emergency cash!”
“Then why did I find the ENVELOPE IN THE FREEZER.”
“I thought it was a good hiding spot…”
“IT WAS LABELED ‘DO NOT FREEZE.’”
“I thought that was reverse psychology!”
Bob winced and turned the radio down. The aliens-and-goats guy was quieter than you were.
Then your footsteps crunched across the dirt.
He looked up.
And froze.
You were wearing the same tattered, dirt-stained, ripped wedding dress from yesterday. The one that had been dragged across gravel, soaked in gasoline fumes, and-- at one point-- used to clean a gun.
You tossed your bag into the truck bed and wiped your hands on the skirt like it was just casual athleisure.
Bob deadpanned, “Why are you wearing that again.”
You opened the driver’s door and leaned in with a dazzling, feral smile. “Baby, just because you might be going home doesn’t mean my plan stopped. I’m still gonna boil my fiancé alive when I find him.”
Bob stared straight ahead. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“You don’t.” You slid into the seat. “It’s better for both of us.”
He nodded. “Yeah. You do you.”
You turned the ignition. The truck roared like it was coughing up an old demon.
As you pulled out of the yard, Bob reached for the radio again, tuning into another talk show.
A man’s voice crackled through:
“…and THAT is why pigeons are government drones created to spy on LA county--”
Bob blinked. “What… what are they even talking about?”
“Nope.” You swatted his hand away and cranked the dial to your favorite station. Ear-bleeding, headache-inducing rock blasted through the truck so violently the mirrors shook.
Bob flinched. “Could we maybe not--”
“This is culture.”
“It’s noise.”
“It’s therapy.”
“It’s trauma.”
You glared at him. “My truck, my rules.”
He leaned over and switched the station back to the alien-goat guy.
You slammed it back to rock.
He switched it again.
You switched it harder.
He sighed. “This is going to be a very long drive.”
You smirked. “Only for you, sweetheart.”
The truck rattled, the radio screeched, and the desert stretched ahead like it was bracing for whatever chaos you two were about to unleash on Los Santos.
if I can't marry Trevor phillips, I will BE Trevor phillips.
Synopsis: Two strangers meet at the worst possible moment. It gets worse. Then... not exactly better. Sometimes, you don't pick the story. Sometimes, the story drags you by the collar, kidnaps you, karate-chops you in the face and insists you stay for dinner.
Warnings: May contain excessive chaos, mild vehicular theft, and a side of emotional whiplash. Characters might make terrible decisions. Smut: Explicit dry humping, strategic grinding, and a lot of 'oops, don't stop.'
Some people pick their battles. Bob Floyd's battles pick him.
“I object!”
It hit the church like someone hurled a grenade packed with vowels. The whole place jolted. People gasped. Someone dropped a hymnal that slapped the floor like punctuation.
The priest flinched so hard he nearly lost grip of his little booklet. His eyes went wide, and for a moment he genuinely looked like a Windows update had started inside his skull. Never in his thirty-four-wedding streak had anyone objected. He clearly thought objections were a Hollywood myth, like good buffet chicken or punctual grooms.
All heads swung toward the grand doors, which had slammed open so hard even Jesus on the stained glass looked startled. A woman stood there, breathless and wild, clutching the frame like she’d sprinted through heartbreak, traffic, and several bad decisions to make it here. Her dress wrinkled, her hair sticking to her cheeks, eyes shining with that tender, dangerous hope people only get right before they ruin everything.
Pretty. The heartbreaking, inconvenient kind.
The groom twitched as if someone had pulled a string in his spine. His whole face collapsed in on itself. Not guilt exactly. More like recognition. The kind that’s been living in his bones, drained so fast it was basically a live medical emergency. His eyes ping-ponged between the bride, who froze mid-smile, and the interloper, who looked one good breath away from crying or confessing to a federal crime.
Then he cracked. Full meltdown. He bolted down the aisle, nearly taking out a flower girl, grabbed the woman by the waist and kissed her. Not a sweet, tasteful wedding-appropriate kiss. Full tongue. The kind of kiss that makes bystanders reconsider their life choices.
Right next to Bob Floyd.
People gasped. Someone said “no way.” Someone else said “called it.”
The priest dropped his booklet.
Poor Bob, a man whose social circle consisted solely of his mother, dragged to this wedding in Tehachapi, because apparently he was her emotional support human. He looked about as thrilled as a raccoon in a ball pit.
The sounds these two were making. Honestly, the church acoustics did not deserve that sort of disrespect.
Bob just stood there, stiff as a coat rack, while his mum clutched her pearls with Olympic-level vigor. He counted ten whole seconds of this unholy ceremony.
“They should be arrested,” she muttered, louder, “for disgraceful behavior. On holy floors! With witnesses!”
Bob could feel the blush creeping up his neck like a betrayal. He tried to shush her, but she barreled on.
“Selfish boy! That poor bride-- standing there like a ghost while he-- this is obscene, Robert. Obscene.”
“Ma',” Bob whispered with enough desperation to end wars, “please, for the love of everything, use your inside voice.”
She scoffed. “I am.”
She was absolutely not.
People stared like they’d been hypnotized. Trauma has a way of slowing gravity.
Then suddenly the lovers broke apart, hands still tangled, and raced out of the church like they were running toward a meadow full of bad choices.
Silence hit harder than the objection had.
Slowly, like a spotlight being dragged by fate, everyone turned to the bride.
She looked wrecked. Shock, heartbreak, and the beginning stages of an identity crisis swirled together on her face. Bob felt it in his chest, because he’s annoyingly empathetic like that. His mum muttered, “Shameful man,” with the spiritual conviction of someone hexing him on the spot.
Bob nodded, unable to disagree. The poor bride looked like her soul had been yanked out and slapped.
He wanted to look away but couldn’t. Couldn’t leave her there, suspended in the ruins of a life she’d walked toward so bravely thirty minutes ago.
The priest cleared his throat. Tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. “So… that was…” His eyes flickered helplessly around the room, his soul visibly trying to file insurance claims.
She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’d better not ever put a girl through summ’at like this. I raised you better than… whatever that lad just did.”
“I won’t.” His voice was low, sincere. “Promise.”
Her hand squeezed his arm.
All around them, people shifted, murmured, whispered the tragedy aloud while pretending not to.
But Bob stayed still. Heart heavy. Witness to the quiet unraveling of a stranger’s world.
Some moments you don’t need to be part of to feel. They just pull you in whether you want them or not.
And this one? This one dug right under his ribs and settled.
Everyone exhaled.
Bob scratched his cheek, awkward, useless, wishing he could hand her a cup of tea or a refund for her emotional damage. He didn’t know what the protocol was for witnessing a romance-nuke at close range.
But he did know one thing.
His group chat was going to combust when they heard about this.
And that thought, pathetic as it was, flickered some tiny scrap of humor into the madness.
The church thinned out slowly, like the room itself had lost the strength to hold so many people after what just happened. Clusters of relatives murmured as they slipped past the pews, whispering the story aloud even though everyone had witnessed the exact same tragedy.
Bob watched the bride sink to the floor, knees folding under her like she was a Victorian saintess fainting in a painting. Her veil slid off one shoulder. Her bouquet toppled somewhere near her heel. She didn’t cry. Didn’t wail. Just folded, gentle as dust settling.
And nobody went to her.
Bob found that unsettling. In situations like this, people should swarm. Comfort. Hover. Bring tissues. Offer tea that tastes like pity. Something.
But these people? These fine upstanding guests of the groom? They walked around her like she was fragile flooring they didn’t want to scuff. Shame, guilt, cowardice, all wrapped up in polite avoidance.
Maybe none of them wanted to face the shrapnel of their relative’s disaster.
Maybe they didn’t want to see the girl he’d pulverized.
Even the priest, poor man still glitching from the emotional malware he had downloaded today, managed only a stuttered blessing before shuffling out, clutching his booklet like a broken shield.
Someone slid the useless band off the bride’s head and placed it on the pew beside her. No words. Just a quiet surrender. And then they left too.
The girl stayed small and still on the floor, like grief had shrunk her.
Bob stood, wiping his palms on his trousers, moving sideways to leave. “Well,” he muttered to his mum, trying to find humor in the debris, “I’ve seen worse weddings.”
She didn’t laugh. Not even close.
He should’ve known. She was already stepping into the aisle, marching toward the bride with that unstoppable Leemore resolve, chin set with purpose.
Bob’s stomach dropped. “Ma',” he whispered, horror crawling up his neck, “leave her be. Please. This is not-- she might go rogue. Or bite. Or scream. Or-- I don’t know-- throw her bouquet at you.”
His mother waved him off like he was being dramatic. “Don’t be daft, Bobby.”
“I’m begging.”
“Stop fussing.”
He followed anyway, dread pounding in his ribs. The last thing he wanted was to square up with a heartbroken woman if the bride’s grief detonated at his mother.
But his mother kept going, determined and gentle all at once, the sole person in the room refusing to abandon the girl who’d just been hollowed out in front of everyone.
Bob’s mum knelt beside the girl like she’d done this a hundred times, like comforting heartbroken brides was just part of a Tuesday. She placed a careful hand on the girl’s shoulder, warm and steady, not forcing eye contact, just offering presence.
“Love,” she said softly, her thick accent wrapping around the word like a blanket, “you’re not alone. Not tonight.”
The bride barely looked up. Her eyes were somewhere far away, lost in the space where shock protects you by pulling the world out of focus. She stared at the floor like it was the only thing holding her together.
Bob hovered a few steps behind them, feeling like an intruder in a moment that wasn’t his. Up close, she was even more beautiful. Not the decorative kind. The human kind. The kind that makes you furious at anyone who’d dare hurt her.
What a waste, he thought, stomach twisting. That man didn’t just break her heart, he broke something sacred. Doing that to a girl like her felt like vandalism.
His mother snapped her fingers sharply. “Robert.”
He jolted. “Yes?”
“Water. She’ll faint at this rate.”
He blinked. “Right. Yes.” He hurried off like a soldier sent on an errand, grabbed the first bottle he found from a refreshment table that had definitely not been meant for emotional triage, and returned.
He crouched down awkwardly, not too close, not too far, holding the bottle out. “Here. Um… hydration. It’s good.”
She stared at it. Blank. Like he’d handed her a physics equation.
His mother nudged the bottle closer to her gently. “Take it, love. Just a sip.”
After a moment, the girl’s fingers curled around it. She didn’t drink yet. She just held it like she needed to remember how.
Bob’s mum reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from the bride’s forehead, tender in that confident, competent way only mothers and very old nurses can be. “You’re doin’ just fine. Just breathe. Let yourself feel whatever you’re feelin’.”
Then her phone rang. Loud. Inappropriate. Absolutely the worst ringtone for this moment. Blasting Careless Whisper as if it was determined to ruin the vibe.
She grimaced. “Lord above.” She checked the caller ID, face tightening. “I have to take this. Robert, stay with her.”
Bob nearly choked. “Me? Why me?”
“Because I said so,” she hissed, already standing. “If she needs anything, you be there. Don’t argue. Be a gentleman.”
He opened his mouth to argue anyway, but she shot him a glare that could disassemble furniture.
He shut up instantly.
And then she was gone, stepping into the hallway with her phone pressed to her ear.
Silence settled over the two of them. Heavy, raw, awkward, delicate. The girl stayed curled toward the floor, water bottle limp in her hand, breathing uneven but quiet.
And Bob stayed beside her, heart thrumming uncomfortably, trying to look anywhere but her heartbreak while refusing to leave her alone in it.
He stood there like the world’s most useless guard dog, hands shoved into his pockets, the knot of his tie suddenly feeling two sizes too small. It wasn’t choking him because it was tight, but because awkwardness apparently tightened fabric by osmosis.
The girl still hadn’t drunk the water. She just stared at the bottle like it might hold answers or poison.
He shifted his weight. Tried to breathe normally. Failed.
“Um,” he started, voice soft, careful. “I know it feels like too much,” he said gently. “Just keeping it in your hand is enough.”
Nothing. Not even a blink.
He tried again, lowering his voice a little. “That guy… the groom… he’s an idiot. A world-class idiot. You didn’t deserve any of that.”
Still nothing. Her breath was slow, shallow. Like she was suspended between worlds.
Bob closed his eyes, cringing at himself. Okay. Talking wasn’t working. He should just shut up.
So he did.
For seven agonizing seconds.
Then he tried a different angle, sitting on the edge of the pew, leaving space between them. “It’s alright if you can’t look up yet. Or talk. Or… exist properly. It’s okay if you feel frozen. A stunt like that would knock the soul out of anyone for a minute.”
No reaction.
He sighed through his nose. Fine. Another approach.
“That was beyond cruel,” he murmured, more to fill the air than anything. “Honestly, if you want me to go punch him, I will. I’m not good at punching, I’ll probably break my hand, but the effort will be there.”
A tiny breath escaped her, too faint to count as a sound.
He shut up again. Because if he kept talking, he’d either start rambling or hyperventilating.
The silence pressed in again. Heavy, uncooperative.
Desperation nudged him into saying something he instantly regretted. “At least he didn’t leave you for someone ugly? That’d be worse, right? Like… demoralizing?”
The moment the words left his mouth, he winced. “I’m sorry. That was-- I didn’t mean-- I’m just trying here.”
A shaky breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite anything.
He tried softer, almost whispering. “It’s not you. You’re… you’re stunning. He didn’t run because something was wrong with you. He ran because something was wrong with him. Seriously wrong.”
Then, finally, finally,
she looked up.
Her eyes were watery, glassy, swimming with the kind of pain that rearranges a person. She didn’t speak. Didn’t wipe her cheeks. Didn’t even blink much.
She just looked at him, like she was surfacing from deep underwater and he was the first living thing she saw.
She just… stared at him.
Three seconds. That’s all it took. Three full seconds of unbroken eye contact, and Bob Floyd short-circuited like someone poured water into a desktop from 2004. His face went red, then redder, then somehow managed to find a shade nature never intended. He opened his mouth, muttered something that might’ve been English or might’ve been a bird hitting a window, and then, mercifully, his phone rang.
His mother’s name glowed on the screen. He fumbled to answer. “H-hey, Ma--”
Her voice blasted through. She was already halfway out the door of the church’s side hall with his aunt, apparently borrowing his uncle’s truck. She’d be fine. She hung up before he could even ask why she abandoned him in this socially radioactive moment.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and turned back to the woman like he wasn’t actively dying inside. “Um. Do you… need anything before I go?”
It took her a full minute to answer. A whole minute during which Bob contemplated the life choices that led him here.
Then she finally croaked, “Do you have a car?”
He blinked. Her voice. Her voice was basically a celestial event. Why was he being stupid? Why did oxygen suddenly feel like a privilege?
“Oh. Right. Uh-- yeah. I can give you a ride.”
She stood up slowly. He jumped in front of her and offered a hand, all gentlemanly, then immediately regretted it when she bypassed him entirely to push herself up using the church pedestal. He yanked his hand back like it had personally offended her.
Then came the height thing. She was standing on the small stage, barely an inch taller than him just from that, and somehow it scrambled his instincts. Not protectiveness exactly, just… something he wasn't ready to unpack tonight. Not now. Not ever.
She cracked her neck. And then her back. Like a tired cryptid. Then she drifted toward the statue of Jesus like this was totally normal behavior.
Bob watched with a puzzled little frown as she opened the hollow chest beneath the statue. It was always empty during the wedding rehearsals, so he had no idea what she--
Okay, she pulled out an actual gun.
Not a cute “pew pew” handgun. Not a wedding prop. A full-blown submachine gun that had absolutely no business existing within fifty feet of a unity candle.
Bob’s soul left his body. “Okay, WHAT--”
“Good,” she muttered, checking the weapon with practiced ease. “Because that motherfucker snitched on me.”
Only then did he register the sirens wailing closer, echoing against the church walls.
And suddenly this fragile, quiet woman, the one who practically whispered her words and tilted her head like a startled bird, was holding something that could turn his brain into abstract art in under a second.
Bob Floyd’s life did not flash before his eyes. No, his life sat in the backseat, buckled up, filing a strongly worded complaint.
His face was pure panic, the kind of panic normally reserved for people who accidentally hit “Reply All” on a work email. Except instead of awkward colleagues, he had fifty police cars behind him, sirens screaming like they wanted to peel his skin off.
He swerved left, right, left again, dodging pedestrians who absolutely did not deserve to be trauma cameo’ed into whatever nightmare this was. Every horn blaring at him felt like a personal attack.
Meanwhile the woman he offered a ride home was half hanging out his passenger window, white fluffy wedding dress whipping in the wind like a furious ghost, shotgun in hand, yelling curses creative enough to make Satan take notes.
Bob clung to the wheel with one hand and to the back of her dress with the other, because if she fell out he would simply ascend out of embarrassment or guilt or both. “Please,” he begged the universe, “do not let me drop the homicidal bride.”
This is absolutely a coma dream. I bonked my head at the wedding and now my brain is stuck on a loading screen showing me nonsense cutscenes.
I am not built for this. I organize wrenches by emotional vibe. This is basically an action movie and I am one papercut away from passing out.
Why is the police convoy behind us like we stole the moon? She caught her husband cheating, that’s not what usually grounds for a statewide alert.
He nearly clipped a lamp post. “No no no nope nope nope--” He yanked the wheel, and somehow, miraculously, they didn’t die.
She fired three shots out the window like they were celebratory fireworks. “STEP RIGHT UP, YOU UNWASHED GOVERNMENT PUPPETS!”
Bob whimpered. Actual whimper. “Please stop antagonizing them!”
A curb appeared out of nowhere. He swerved again, practically folded over the wheel. His knuckles were the color of printer paper. His soul was the color of regret.
*I was supposed to go home. Eat leftovers. Watch something boring and comforting. Play with my nieces and nephews. Spend this leave with my mom. NOT OUTRUN AN ENTIRE PRECINCT WITH A RAMPAGING BRIDE IN FULL COMBAT MODE.*
She cackled, actually cackled, hair flying, dress nearly ripping out of his grip. “HIT THE GAS!”
“I’M ALREADY HITTING THE GAS!” he screeched back. “THIS IS A SEDAN, NOT A ROCKET!”
But the cops kept coming.
And Bob kept driving.
And somewhere, deep in his bones, he mourned the gentle, peaceful man he used to be… roughly twenty minutes ago.
The second he clocked a helicopters blades swinging overhead, Bob’s face turned into the physical embodiment of the word “why.”
He gripped the wheel like it was the last functional neuron in his brain. His tie felt like it was trying to strangle him for sport.
And her? The delicate, devastated, heartbroken bride?
Yeah, no.
That girl almost tripped, vaulted halfway out the passenger window, gun raised, screaming curses that could peel paint.
“WHORES! ALL OF YOU!” she bellowed at the cops, firing like she was reenacting a war documentary she watched while drunk.
Bob choked on his own voice. “What do you MEAN whores?! They’re literally doing their JOBS!”
She didn’t hear him. Or she did and simply did not care. She had bigger goals, like committing several felonies and maybe a few war crimes before dinner.
A bullet pinged off a stop sign above them. Bob's lips curled downwards in an attempt not to scream and weep at the same time.
She was hanging halfway out the window, gun blazing, when her veil decides it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil and whacks her square in the eye.
“Son of a-- Fuuuck!” she howls, pawing at her face like it betrayed her personally. She rips the thing off and fling it at Bob. “Here! Guard this with your life! I need it later! If you so much as breathe on it, I will personally haunt your ass for seven generations!” Bob lets out a strangled hiss, shoving it into his pants pocket like it’s a grenade. He swears, swerves, and almost eats a lamppost.
This was so far out of his lane his lane no longer existed. His entire personality was built for library behavior, and now he was drifting corners with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping her dress so she didn’t fall out and turn his windshield into trauma.
“What even IS my life?” he hissed at the universe. “I was supposed to clap politely at a wedding! Now I’m an accessory! To something! I don’t even KNOW what!”
She kicked a side mirror off a police cruiser and whooped like she’d won a prize.
“DRIVE, TAXI BOY!”
“I AM DRIVING!” Bob screeched in a voice that cracked like a teenager discovering emotions. “I CAN’T DRIVE MORE THAN I AM CURRENTLY DRIVING.”
She laughed. Like a maniac. Like a woman reborn. Like Trevor Phillips after three days without supervision.
He swerved left, right, accidentally onto a sidewalk, and screamed apologies at pedestrians who scattered like pigeons.
“What did you DO?” he yelled over the wind. “To get chased by THIS MANY UNITS?! Did you-- did you assassinate the mayor?!”
She shot at a cop tire and shouted back, “I GOT DUMPED!”
“That is NOT a proportional response!”
“HE CALLED THE COPS ON ME!”
Bob’s voice cracked again. “FOR WHAT?!”
“I BROKE HIS FRONT DOOR.”
“With what?!”
“My emotions!”
Bob wanted to cry. Or laugh. Or pass out. He wasn’t picky at this point.
A bullet zinged past his mirror.
He yelped like a kicked puppy.
She cackled.
The cops yelled something about “armed suspect, unknown accomplice” into their radios, which felt deeply rude to Bob personally.
“This is a nightmare,” he whispered. “My ma' told me to ‘make memories.’ I didn’t think she meant traumatic ones.”
“TURN LEFT!” she shrieked.
“That’s not a street, that’s a building! I don’t have insurance for this level of decision-making!”
“TRUST ME!”
He didn’t. At all.
But panic made him obedient, so he jerked the wheel.
The hatchback crashed through a flimsy wooden delivery door like a dying shopping cart, fishtailed through crates of oranges, shot out the other side of the warehouse, and skidded into an alley narrow enough to qualify as a suggestion.
The cops tried to follow. Three cars wedged themselves immediately.
One officer yelled, “WHY THE FUCK IS THIS ALLEY ONLY TWO MOLECULES WIDE?!”
Bob slammed the brakes, panting like he’d run a marathon in a sauna.
The bride slid back into her seat, hair wild, dress shredded, gun casually resting on her lap like it was a kitten.
She smirked. “You’re good at this.”
Bob stared at her. Pale. Shaking. Possibly clinically deceased.
“I don’t…” he rasped, chest heaving, “I don’t even know your name.”
She wiped a smear of dust off her cheek with the same calm vibe as someone choosing between shampoo brands. Then she stuck her hand out like this was a meet-cute in a grocery store and not a felony buffet.
“(Y/n) (L/n).”
Like the apocalypse wasn’t currently idling behind them in jammed police cars.
Bob stared at your hand like it might explode. It didn’t. Yet. He swallowed, brain doing that Windows shutdown noise.
“Bob,” he croaked. “Bob Floyd. Please don’t shoot me.”
You snorted. “If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, you’d be a hood ornament by now.”
His soul left his body briefly.
He blinked at you, pale and trembling. “Why would you say that to me.”
You were already hopping out of the car, boots squelching in orange mush. “Come on, Bobby boy. We gotta move before Officer Cardio back there wiggles free.”
He just sat there for one more tragic second, hands limp on the wheel, reconsidering every decision that led him from a peaceful pew to being on a first-name basis with someone who treated danger like a recreational sport.
He climbed out after you, whispering to absolutely no one, “I hate this day. So much.”
They ducked behind a dumpster that smelled like someone had murdered a salad in it. Bob was panting like he’d run five marathons in a row. You, meanwhile, looked… bored.
Actually bored. Like the police chase was the slow part of your day.
“We need a new car,” you muttered, head popping up over the dumpster lid.
Bob grabbed your shoulder and yanked you back down so fast you almost bit your tongue. “No. No! We’re not stealing anything else. I’m not a criminal. I’m a man who wanted cake.”
You blinked at him. “And now you’re a man who needs a getaway vehicle. Growth.”
Before he could protest, you scampered toward the alley entrance, crouched like a raccoon hunting for snacks. Bob hissed after you.
“Don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you!”
“Then everything in this city belongs to me,” you shot back, already eyeing a parked toyota like it had personally offended you.
He slapped his palm over his face. “Lady, you cannot--”
You smashed the window with the butt of the gun.
“OH MY GOD,” Bob whisper‑yelled, which should’ve been physically impossible. “You cannot JUST DO THAT!”
You pulled your sleeve over your fist to brush away the glass. “Relax, Bob Floyd. It’s unlocked now.”
“That’s not what unlocked means!”
You slid inside the stolen car, fiddling with wires like you’d majored in Felony Engineering. Bob hovered outside, hopping nervously like a man choosing between fight, flight, and vomit.
“Get in,” you demanded.
“No! I’m going home. I want a shower. And my bed. And maybe a therapist.”
You pointed the gun at the passenger seat. Not at him. At the seat.
Weirdly worse.
He stopped so fast his shoes screeched. “Why are you aiming at the seat?!”
You jabbed the barrel into the cushion like you were interrogating it. “Because this seat? This seat’s about to have a really bad day if you keep wasting my time.”
“That isn’t normal! That isn’t a normal sentence!”
You threw him a wild‑eyed glare. “Normal died back at the wedding, sweetheart. Get. In.”
He lifted his hands. “You’re threatening upholstery.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve blown up better things for worse reasons.”
“That’s… that’s extremely concerning!”
You took a step closer, gun still pressed to the fabric. “Last chance before I redecorate this car with stuffing and your regret.”
“NO!”
You lowered the gun slightly, your face crumpling in the most dramatic, wounded pout known to mankind.
“Wow. So you’re really gonna leave a woman who just got dumped at the altar. After she was humiliated. And chased. And dragged through fruit guts. And emotionally assaulted by architecture?”
Bob’s jaw dropped. “What does that even mean--”
“Y’know what… fine.” You slumped in the seat, lower lip trembling like you trained for it. “Just go home then. Leave me here. Alone. In my ripped dress. With my broken heart. And a warrant.”
He stared.
“Somebody though, said he would give me a ride. All men do is lie.”
He stared harder.
You sniffled.
He caved.
“Ffffff--” Bob dragged a hand down his face. “Fine. Fine. God. Alright. Move over.”
Your pout instantly snapped into a smug, sunshiney grin as you scooted to the side. “Knew you had a soul.”
“I regret it,” he said, sliding in. “I regret every molecule of this.”
You tossed him the hotwired ignition wires. “Then move faster, civilian. I’m on a schedule.”
“Where are we going?” Bob asked, voice cracking like he hadn’t hit puberty until this exact nightmare.
You cracked your neck, staring dead ahead. “To find that son of a bitch who left me at the altar. I’m gonna rearrange his internal organs with my bare hands.”
Bob blinked fast. “Fantastic. Incredible. Love that for you. But also… why were we getting chased by cops? Like specifically? Because I feel like there were… a lot.”
You shrugged with one shoulder, as if talking about your favorite ice cream flavor. “Could be anything, really.”
“Anything?”
“Yeah. Maybe the meth thing--”
“The meth WHAT?”
“Or the guns I sold to the Chinese--”
Bob slapped the dashboard. “To the WHO?”
“Or the body I buried by the highway but honestly, that could’ve been anybody’s fault.”
He stared at you like you’d told him you eat drywall for breakfast. “You’re joking. You have to be joking.”
You scoffed. “Wow. Rude. You’ve never heard of me?”
“No! Why would I have heard of you?!”
You looked genuinely offended. “I’m kind of famous. At least locally. Once. Maybe twice. Depends which wanted list you read.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You flicked his forehead. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re acting like I’m unstable.”
“You just listed felony bingo!”
Before you could retort, a police siren whooped somewhere behind them.
Both of you froze.
Slowly… in perfect synch… you slid down in your seats until your heads were below window level and the car looked completely driverless.
Bob hissed, “This is the worst plan ever. Literally ever.”
You whispered back, “Shut up. Nobody questions a ghost car.”
“A ghost car?!” he squeaked. “That is your strategy?!”
You nudged the steering wheel with your knee, the car swerving like a drunk shopping cart. “Put those big blue eyes away, dude, now is not the time and relax. I’ve done this before.”
“That does not make me feel safer!”
The police cruiser rolled past… then slowed… then crawled forward like it was considering filing a complaint.
Bob’s voice was barely a whisper. “If we die like this, I’m haunting you.”
“You won’t die,” you muttered, eyes barely peeking over the dash. “You’re too boring. Universe loves keeping boring people alive.”
The siren blipped once. Bob actually whimpered.
Then, miraculously, the cruiser sped off.
You popped upright and slammed your foot back on the gas. “See? Easy. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Murdering my husband.”
Bob dragged a hand over his face. “Yeah. Super normal road trip we’re having.”
You grinned like a demon on vacation. “Buckle up, Bobby‑boy. Los Santos is gonna be fun.”
“I wanna go hom--”
“Sweetheart, that whining is lovely, but hand over the map. Someone out there thinks they’re safe, and I’d like to fix that.”
--
You slammed the T-stop door behind you like the universe owed you money. “Snacks,” you announced, as if that explained the propane tank tucked under your arm. Bob froze, one hand gripping the wheel, the other palm pressed against his forehead, trying to comprehend how his life had turned into a low-budget GTA mission.
They’d parked behind the world’s saddest gas station, the kind of place where even the sun refused to shine properly. Bob had his forehead on the steering wheel, whispering prayers to every deity he could remember from childhood.
She kicked open the door, arms loaded with nonsense.
Not snacks. Not drinks. Not anything sane.
A hot dog she absolutely didn’t pay for.
A propane tank she definitely shouldn’t be holding.
And a raccoon.
A very alive, very offended raccoon.
Bob’s soul left his body. “Why… why is it in the car? Why is IT in the car?”
“It followed me.”
“It FOLLOWED you?” He pointed at the raccoon, who hissed like the devil warming up his vocals. “It looks like it followed you because you stuffed it in your dress!”
“It’s called improvising! We’re laying low.”
“WE ARE NOT LAYING LOW WE ARE COMMITTING THE SEVEN DEADLIEST FELONIES AT ONCE!”
The raccoon launched itself onto the dashboard. Bob screamed. You cheered.
“Look at him! He’s a natural fighter!”
“He’s rabid!”
“He’s spirited.”
“He’s EATING MY REGISTRATION.”
You reached forward and tried to pry the raccoon off the documents. It hissed louder. Bob climbed halfway across the seat like a man escaping a shark.
“Okay, okay,” you muttered, wrestling the beast. “Maybe he’s a little spicy.”
“Spicy? SPICY?!” Bob slapped the ceiling with sheer panic. “I am one speeding ticket away from crying on my ma’s porch and you brought a biological weapon into the car!”
You plopped the raccoon on your lap like a misbehaving toddler. “Relax. Worst case? He bites a cop.”
“I am going HOME.” Bob pointed at the desert like it was salvation. “I’m dropping you off at the nearest getaway bunker, safe house, crime hole, whatever you criminals use. My MAMA is waiting for me!”
“You’re dramatic.” You shrugged. “Also, we’re going to Los Santos.”
“We are NOT going to Los S--”
Police sirens rolled into the gas station lot. Both froze. The raccoon growled.
You slapped Bob’s arm. “GET DOWN.”
“I AM NOT GETTING DOWN AGAIN, LAD--!”
You yanked him by the collar so hard he nearly swallowed his tongue. They slid low in their seats until it looked like the raccoon was the primary driver.
Two cops stepped out, stared at the scene inside the car, and recoiled.
“Is that… is that a raccoon committing identity theft?”
“Nope. Not today. We aren’t paid enough.”
They got back into their cruiser and drove off without another word.
Bob and you remained frozen. The raccoon burped.
Bob whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his own misery, “I should’ve stayed in bed. I should’ve listened to my horoscope. It said ‘avoid chaos.’ It said ‘beware emotionally unstable women.’ It said--”
“You read horoscopes?”
“IT DOESN’T MATTER.”
You popped open the hot dog package, took a massive bite, and talked through it. “So. Los Santos?”
Bob closed his eyes like he was accepting death. “Please let the raccoon kill me first.”
The car rattled down the road like every piece was held together by spite. Bob kept glancing over at you, still in the shredded wedding dress, raccoon curled in your lap like a furry crime accomplice.
He cleared his throat, then winced as a piece of lace that used to be your sleeve flew off and hit him in the cheek.
He glanced sideways at you.
“Uh… aren’t you… uncomfortable in that dress?”
You peeled a strip of tulle out of your armpit like it was a receipt.
“No. I’m good.”
“It’s ripped in twelve places.”
“Adds ventilation.”
“There’s blood on the hem.”
“Not mine.”
He made a strangled noise. “You could… change? Into literally anything else?”
You shook your head, absolutely unfazed.
“Why? As soon as I rearrange his guts, the wedding’s back on.”
Bob’s face did a full reboot. “I’m sorry-- what?”
“That’s why I’m keeping it on.” You flicked nonexistent dust off the bodice. “Gotta stay in theme.”
“The theme is WHAT?!”
You grinned at him, feral and sparkling. “Commitment.”
Bob tightened his seatbelt like he was praying to it.
“But really... You, uh… must be… devastated. With… what happened. At the altar.”
You snorted. “Devastated? Honey, I had bets placed on it.”
Bob blinked. Twice. “You… expected your fiancé’s lover to stand up and object?”
“I expected the little coward to bolt. Girl did me a favor.” You stretched your arms like you just finished yoga instead of attempted homicide.
“No wonder he BEGGED me not to hide any guns in the dress. The whole week before the wedding.”
Bob’s eyes widened. “He… begged?”
“Yep. Practically cried.” You smirked. “He knew if she pulled something like that, I’d put a bullet in both of them and smoke a cigar over the corpses.”
The raccoon chittered supportively, like it had held the lighter.
Bob looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that put him in this car.
“I am… mildly traumatized just hearing that.”
“Mildly?” You grinned. “I can try harder next time.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t.”
Silence. Then he cleared his throat again, very gently, like you were a bomb with opinions.
“So… when you, uh… find him… what exactly are you planning to do?”
You tilted your head, smiling in that way that made Bob tighten his seatbelt.
“Oh, you know… nothing major. Just a little… corrective punishment. The kind that makes the news.”
Bob nearly swerved into a bush.
“Okay. So. Maybe-- just maybe-- it’s healthier to… move on.”
You blinked. Slowly. “Move… on?”
“Yes. Away from violence. And… homicide.”
He swallowed. “Just… general life advice. No emotional involvement. No… personal interest.”
You stared at him.
Then your mouth curled into a slow, wicked grin.
“Aww. You wanna be my emotional support friend.”
His hands flailed. “No. I-- That’s not-- I’m just saying you shouldn’t ruin your life--”
“You sound so caring,” you cooed, poking his arm. “So loving. So… responsible.”
Bob’s soul left his body. “I’m literally none of those things.”
“Sure, husband.”
“Husband?!” His voice cracked like a teenager.
You shrugged innocently.
“Well, if you’re gonna intervene in my murder plans with advice and concern, you might as well take responsibility.”
“I DO NOT WANT RESPONSIBILITY!”
“You have it. It’s yours now.”
“N.O.”
You patted his shoulder. “Congrats on the marriage. No take-backs.”
Bob stared ahead, shell-shocked. “I… I think I’m going to faint.”
“You can faint later, darling,” you smirked. “We’re driving to Los Santos.”
“Darl-- Stop calling me that.”
“Nope.”
The raccoon patted Bob’s leg sympathetically. Bob nearly cried.
The stolen car rattled over the uneven road leaving the gas station, and Bob’s hands gripped the wheel a little too tightly. He stole a glance at you from the corner of his eye. “So… how exactly are we planning to get to Los Santos in this?” He jerked a thumb at the barely-holding-it-together heap of metal they were cruising in. “This car’s-- honestly-- probably one pothole away from… well, whatever happens when a car dies screaming.”
You shrugged, leaning back like you had zero cares in the world. “We’ll get there.”
Bob squinted at you. “That’s it? That’s your master plan?”
“Yep.” You smirked, fingers tapping a weird rhythm on the dashboard. “We just… drive. Pray. Maybe the car survives.”
“Pray,” he echoed. “Of course. That explains so much about you.” He shook his head, muttering under his breath.
“Excuse me?” You gasped, clutching your chest like he’d insulted your soul. “Did I just hear my favorite bean counter talking back?”
Bob blinked. “I am not a bean counter.”
“Hmm,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Sounds suspiciously like one.”
Bob just shakes his head.
“Oh, come on,” you said, smirking like you were holding a secret weapon. “You calculate, you plan… probably chart the trajectories of your own sneezes at night. Admit it, boring man.”
“I’m a WSO,” he said, pitching his voice like it would make it sound impressive. “In the Navy. Top Gun. Actual Top Gun.”
You froze mid-laugh, eyes flickering to him with genuine sparkle. “Wait. Flying?”
Bob nodded, a little smug. “Yep. Flying jets. Precision. Strategy. Danger. High stakes.”
Your grin widened, teeth just barely catching the dim dashboard light. “No way. I was… well, let’s say I used to fly too. Air Force.” You leaned back casually, twisting the wheel a little, almost like showing off. “Before they grounded me.”
Bob frowned. “Grounded?”
“Grounded. Discharged. Psych evaluation said I was… unstable.” You shrugged like it was no big deal. “Couldn’t risk letting me pilot one of their pretty jets. Apparently being unpredictable at Mach 2 is frowned upon.”
He blinked. “Whoa… okay. So… you’re saying you were a… Canadian Air Force pilot?”
Your grin faltered slightly, eyes narrowing like a predator spotting a misstep. “Canadian?” you said, voice dangerously casual, like a threat wrapped in syrup. “Did I say I was Canadian?”
Bob froze. “Uh… well… I--”
“You assumed,” you hissed, leaning closer. The car rattled beneath you, and the raccoon on your lap gnawed lazily on the submachine gun, clicking teeth against metal like a tiny, terrifying percussion section. “You assumed. That’s… cute. Very cute. Like watching a baby deer try to fight a bear.”
“I-- I didn’t mean--” he stammered, eyes wide as he noticed the raccoon’s tail twitching dangerously. “It’s just… your accent!”
You leaned back, voice dropping to the calm of a bomb about to explode. “My accent, huh? You like mocking it? Or did you just want to die early?”
Bob’s hands clenched the wheel so hard his knuckles went white. “No! No! I-- uh-- I respect accents! All accents! Especially… uh… military… accents!”
You smirked slowly, eyes glittering with chaotic delight. “Cute. Very cute. You’re… lucky I like my submachine gun chewed on by raccoons. Otherwise, I might make you test your respect.”
The raccoon gnawed again, louder, like punctuation on the threat. Bob swallowed hard, muttering under his breath: “Yeah… definitely too many things in this car I’m not supposed to survive…”
“But yeah, pilot. Top tier. Until they realized I might actually enjoy blowing things up for fun.”
Bob chuckled despite himself. “Well… that explains a lot.”
You leaned closer, elbows resting on your knees, that crooked grin that could make a storm feel like a sunny day creeping back. “And you… Top Gun, eh? That’s cute. Bet you thought you were tough. Bet you never had a car chase like this while dodging cops and stealing a car, huh?”
“Hey,” he shot back, mock offense in his voice. “I do have experience dodging things at high speed. Jets… missiles… sometimes logic.”
“Mm,” you said, tilting your head, “but can your Navy WSO survive this chaos?”
Bob’s eyes narrowed, and you could practically see the cogs in his mind turning as he slowed the car just enough to swerve around a pothole. “You’re really asking me to prove myself to a… criminal, reckless, possibly psychotic ex-pilot?”
“Yup,” you said, voice casual, like you were ordering a coffee. “Old married couple dynamics, remember? You drive. I taunt. Classic.”
Bob smirked, muttering to himself: “I don’t know whether to call a psychiatrist or buy popcorn.”
You snorted. “Both. Definitely both.”
Bob’s hands were tight on the wheel, face pale, eyes glued to the road. “Okay… okay… just… keep straight… breathe…”
You leaned over, poking at his sides like a cat with a grumpy human toy. “Mm… hands so strong… working hard, aren’t they?” Your voice was low, teasing, fingers dancing along the side of his ribs.
You smirked, leaning closer so your shoulder brushed his arm. “Exactly. Imagine what they could do when they’re not holding a wheel.”
Bob swallowed hard, voice shaky. “Uh… ma’am! I-- We are not that close!”
“Oh, I know,” you purred, poking him again, pressing a little more firmly. “That’s why it’s fun. A little panic, a little… tension… makes you… attentive.”
“Attentive?!” he sputtered, gripping the wheel tighter. “I-- We’re going to-- uh… I--”
You traced your fingers lightly along his side again. “Relax, grumpy man. Focus. The thrill helps.”
He flushed bright red, stammering. “Thrill… yes… driving… I mean, the car--”
HALT.
You squealed, pointing at the road. “Ohhh! A cow!”
Bob squinted through the windshield. “Yeah… I see it. Big, brown, very… cow.” He honked hesitantly. Hoooonk.
The cow blinked. Slowly. Like Bob had just insulted its entire family tree.
“I said, move,” Bob muttered, honking again. “Please move.”
You leaned over, grinning. “You sound like a dad at a preschool talent show. Very… commanding.”
“I’m driving!” he snapped, hands gripping the wheel.
You laughed, tilting your head. “Relax, grumpy man. I’ll help.”
Bob hesitated. “…Help?”
“Yes. You know. Like a wife would. Already in full passive-aggressive mode. Supportive. Motivating. And judging everything you do.” You smirked. “Get on with it, Sugar.”
Bob groaned, eyes flicking nervously between you and the cow. “Sugar?”
You shrugged innocently. “Just trying out a new dynamic. Makes you sweat. Works every time.”
Finally, Bob stepped out, muttering, “Okay… polite cow… we can do this.” He crouched slightly, hands out like he was approaching a wild animal in a National Geographic special. “Uh… excuse me, ma’am… could you… move a bit?”
The cow stared. Completely still. Like Bob personally owed it child support.
“Try talking softer,” you suggested from the driver’s side, arms crossed. “Maybe compliment its horns. Flatter it. Ask about its day.”
Bob muttered under his breath, “I… I don’t know how to talk cow…”
You grinned, stepping out, brushing past him. “It’s okay, dear. I’ll supervise. You just… you know… be sweet.”
The cow blinked again. Bob took a step closer, a hesitant inch. The raccoon on your shoulder shrieked something-- probably advice or a curse.
“This is… terrifying,” he whispered.
“Cute,” you said, leaning on his shoulder. “I like my men flustered and gently scared by farm animals.”
Then, a low rumble from behind the hills.
You froze. “…That’s… not good.”
Bob looked back. “Uh… probably just… rocks? Very large rocks?”
From behind the ridge, a herd appeared. Not running, not trotting… charging. Full-on, fury-of-nature-charging.
“WHY ARE THEY MAD?!” you screamed, half-laughing, half-panicking.
“HOW WOULD I KNOW?!” Bob shouted, grabbing your arm.
The raccoon screeched. You grabbed it, tossing the submachine gun aside like it was yesterday’s mail.
“RUN!” you yelled. “ABANDON THE CAR! HILLS! NOW!”
Bob stumbled after you, both of you zig-zagging like cartoon humans, the cow herd thundering behind. Somewhere, a particularly judgmental cow made a noise that sounded suspiciously like,“Serves you right.”
You two tumble up the hill like two idiots who accidentally broke into a stampede documentary, Bob practically wheezing, you clutching the raccoon like it’s your emotional support chaos goblin.
The second you’re far enough that the cows look like tiny, furious dots, Bob just drops onto the dirt, spreads out like he’s auditioning to be a chalk outline, and gasps,
“I hate today. I hate your car. I hate cows. I hate--”
You plop down beside him, still smug, barely winded. “You love me.”
He turns his head, hair stuck to his forehead, expression pure ‘why is this my life.’
“Ma’am, I barely survived your hands on my ribs. I’m not emotionally stable enough to love anything right now.”
You grin, nudging him with your boot. “Oh relax. You survived angry cows. You can handle me.”
“Barely.”
He sits up, rubbing his face, trying to regain dignity he absolutely does not have.
“We need another car. Preferably one without… raccoons. Or bullet holes. Or… you.”
You scoff. “Rude. And the raccoon has feelings.”
The raccoon chitters. It sounds offended. Maybe homicidally.
Bob lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Sorry. You’re wonderful. Please don’t chew on the wires of anything else I need to live.”
You stretch your back, glance down the hill at the cows-- still pacing like a furry hit squad. “So. Los Santos is still, what, hours away? On foot?”
Bob stares at you with a despair no man his age should have to endure. “We are not walking to Los Santos.”
“You got a better idea, lover boy?”
He stands, brushes dirt off his pants, and takes a long, soul-destroyed breath. “I’m going to hate myself for this… but we’ll find the nearest farmhouse and steal another car.”
You light up like someone handed you a grenade labeled “fun.”
“Yessss. Crime round two.”
He points at you, the last shred of authority trembling in his voice. “No flirting with me while I’m hot-wiring it. I can’t handle multitasking like that.”
You stalk up close, smirking. “I think you can handle way more than you think.”
His knees buckle a little. “Please don’t. My heart is already doing gymnastics.”
You pat his cheek like he’s a nervous golden retriever. “Come on, husband. We’ve got a car to steal.”
“Stop calling me that!”
The raccoon scampers ahead like it’s leading the heist. You fall into step behind Bob, humming obnoxiously.
He mutters under his breath, “I’m becoming a criminal. With a feral ex–Air Force gremlin. And a raccoon.”
You grin, smug as sin. “Dream team.”
And off you go, toward your next terrible decision.
The two of you trudged up the dirt path toward the farmhouse, sweaty, filthy, traumatized by cows, and accompanied by a raccoon that looked like it was reconsidering its allegiance.
The house sat peacefully under the sunset. Cozy. Quiet. Birds chirping.
You kicked open the door with the energy of someone who had never once experienced peace. “Let’s find car keys before the cows track our scent.”
The inside was… shockingly clean. Too clean. Like a grandma lived there, except everything smelled faintly of gasoline and gun oil.
Bob scanned the room. “There’s no car outside at all. Maybe they--”
He stopped.
You stopped.
Both of you stared at the giant metal handles on the floorboards.
You grinned. “Secret trapdoor. Always a good sign.”
Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. “Always. Yep. Fantastic.”
You yanked it open. A rush of cold air whooshed up. A ladder led down into a massive underground space lit by industrial lights.
Bob squinted. “…What… is that… shape?”
You took three eager steps forward.
Then gasped like someone had handed you a puppy covered in diamonds.
“BOBBY. LOOK.”
Bob leaned over your shoulder.
Then instantly leaned back.
Hard.
A helicopter.
A full-size, freshly polished, loaded-to-the-teeth helicopter sat beneath the farmhouse like someone forgot it there during a crime-themed garage sale.
“A HELICOPTER,” you beamed, practically vibrating. “We HIT THE JACKPOT.”
Bob raised both hands like he was negotiating with the universe. “How… how is that relevant? We can’t steal a helicopter!”
“We can absolutely steal a helicopter.”
“We can’t even FLY a helicopter!”
You blinked. “You can’t.”
Bob stared at you like you’d just admitted you eat roofing nails for breakfast. “You can fly it?”
You put your hands on your hips. “Bob. Sweet man. Husband. I own an airstrip.”
“That is NOT THE SAME--”
“It’s close enough.”
“It is not close enough!”
You walked a slow circle around the aircraft, admiring it like it was a centerfold. “This baby is perfect. Smooth. Powerful. Hot.”
Bob rubbed his temples.
“You’re talking about the helicopter like it’s a person.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“I am NOT JEALOUS OF A HELICOPTER!”
“You sound jealous.”
He threw his hands up. “I literally asked who you even are five minutes ago. I don’t know if I can trust you to fly anything, let alone my body.”
You gasped dramatically, hand to your chest. “You don’t trust me? After everything we’ve been through? The cows? The bullets? The raccoon?”
The raccoon chittered like it sided with you. Obviously.
Bob groaned. “Please don’t guilt-trip me into aerial death.”
You opened your mouth to retort.
Then froze. Bob did too.
Voices outside. Engines. Footsteps.
Lots of them.
You exhaled slowly.
“…Yeah. So. Funny story.”
Bob whispered, panicked, “What did you do?”
“This is…might be... Could be technically…” You winced. “The private stash house of my rival weapon suppliers.”
Bob stared at you in pure betrayal.
“Rival. Weapon. Suppliers.”
“Hey, in my defense, I forgot they owned this place.”
“How do you forget THAT?!”
“They changed the curtains! It threw me off!”
Heavy boots thudded above.
Someone shouted your name.
In a tone that implied they’d love to mount your head like a hunting trophy.
Bob looked pale enough to pass as a ghost. “What did you do to make them THIS angry?”
“…I blew up their last shipment. Accidentally. On purpose.”
Bob pressed a hand to his heart like it needed comfort.
“So when you say ‘they’re mad,’ are we talking annoyed, angry, or financially devastated?”
You winced. “Column three.”
He blinked. “Financially devastated?”
“Think… divorce settlement but with more explosives.”
“Please tell me it wasn’t millions.”
“It wasn’t millions.”
“Thank--”
“It was many millions.”
“Why do I keep getting in cars with you.”
Bob inhaled the deepest, most defeated breath known to humanity. “Get in the helicopter.”
You grinned. “Thought you said we can’t steal a helicopter.”
“I CHANGED MY MIND.”
The raccoon already climbed into the cockpit.
The helicopter sits in the shed like it’s actively judging both of you.
You climb into the pilot seat, hiking your torn wedding dress so high Bob nearly faints.
“Focus on the controls, Lieutenant Virgin,” you say.
Bob trips over a gas can. “I wasn’t-- I didn’t-- I HAVE experience.”
“With what? Reciting safety manuals at parties?”
He makes a wounded noise and hurries to the giant rusted lever on the wall. The one that opens the roof hatch. Supposedly.
You stare at the controls.
There are… a lot of them.
“These buttons look like someone lied to them about their purpose,” you mutter.
Bob tugs the lever. Nothing. Not even a sympathy squeak.
“You sure this thing flies?” he pants.
“Sure? Absolutely not.”
You flip a switch. The helicopter growls like you insulted its mother.
Bob whips around. “What did you just do?”
“I’m building trust.”
“That is not how trust works!”
Outside, footsteps crunch. Voices. Someone yells, “Check the shed!”
Bob pales. “They’re coming.”
“No kidding,” you say, flicking another switch. “The universe never sends me friends.”
The helicopter warbles ominously.
Bob runs back to the lever, braces his feet like he’s filming an inspirational fitness ad, and yanks.
Nothing.
“You’re embarrassing both of us,” you tell him.
“I’m TRYING!”
He pulls again.
Still nothing.
You consider the six pedals at your feet. “Why does this thing have more pedals than my trauma?”
“You DO NOT TOUCH THE PEDALS.”
You immediately touch a pedal.
The entire helicopter BUCKS like it hates its life.
“Stop pressing things!”
“I’m troubleshooting!”
“Troubleshooting is not pressing random death buttons!”
Another pedal. Another hell-noise.
Outside, someone tries the shed door. Hard.
Bob throws himself at the lever with a strangled cry that would make a choir upset.
The lever shrieks, croaks, then suddenly gives way like an elderly man collapsing in a supermarket aisle.
The roof hatch above groans open, dust raining down. “Ha!” Bob gasps, triumphant. “I did it!”
“Congrats,” you say. “One of us is competent. Shocking twist.”
He glares, crawling into the passenger seat. “Can you actually fly this thing?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the truth?”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
“Have you ever--”
You pull the throttle.
The helicopter launches upward like it’s running from its taxes.
The shed walls explode outward as the rotors slice them open like a can of cursed tuna.
Bob: screaming politely.
You: grinning like a raccoon that found fireworks.
Outside, someone yells, “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
Bob grips the seat. “We’re going to die!”
“We’re all going to die eventually,” you say cheerfully. “I just like to stay on schedule.”
The helicopter wobbles, swings, nearly spins.
Bob shrieks. “Can you stop doing THAT?!”
“I didn’t DO anything!”
“You EXISTED!”
You pat the console. “Relax. She likes me.”
A panel immediately falls off.
Bob stares at you like he regrets every choice that led him to this moment.
You shrug. “See? She likes surprises.”
And then the helicopter shoots into the sky, leaving behind splinters, screams, and at least three rival criminals rethinking their entire career path.
No sorry, the helicopter EXPLODES out of the shed like someone kicked a metal beehive into the sky.
Chunks of wall fly. A pitchfork spears the air. A chicken commits immediate suicide by panic-flapping into a beam.
You yank the controls.
Bob screams like he’s being exorcised.
Below, the rivals burst out of the farmhouse, guns raised, absolutely offended that their illegal property is airborne.
They open fire.
Bob presses himself to the seat like he’s trying to phase through it.
“They’re SHOOTING! They’re ACTUALLY SHOOTING!”
“What did you expect? A farewell brunch?”
A bullet zips past his ear.
He covers his head. “Tell me you know what you’re doing!”
“Of course I do.”
“Your ‘of course’ has never meant anything comforting.”
Another bullet hits the helicopter’s belly, which makes a noise suspiciously like a dying toaster.
You shove the cyclic forward.
Bob slams into your shoulder.
“HELP ME,” you shout at him, because why not.
“WITH WHAT? I’m an any-minute-now widower and we’re not even married!”
“Throw something at them!”
He looks around desperately:
foam extinguisher
first-aid kit
your bouquet (now wilted and vaguely threatening)
a single potato
He grabs the potato.
He shouts, “THIS IS A TERRIBLE WEAPON!”
“It’s better than your tie choice!”
He panics and hurls it.
It does nothing except mildly confuse one rival who now thinks God is pelting him with produce.
Another bullet hits the tail. The helicopter jerks violently.
The fire extinguisher rolls under Bob’s feet.
He steps on it. It goes off like a white dragon having a tantrum. The cockpit fills with foam so thick it’s practically dairy.
Bob coughs, “I CAN’T SEE!”
“You barely use your eyes anyway, four eyes!”
“We’re going to DIE covered in MILK BUBBLES.”
“It’s a statement.”
The rivals below yell things like:
“WHY IS IT SPRAYING?”
“IS THAT SOAP?”
“THEY’RE DISRESPECTING US.”
You wipe the foam off your face and yank the stick upward.
Bob grabs onto you for dear life, full body weight, like a terrified toddler with facial hair.
You level it out sharply. Bob’s soul briefly leaves his body.
The extinguisher clatters around violently, bonking him in the shin.
He yelps. You pretend not to laugh.
Below, the gunmen shoot uselessly into the sky, still yelling.
One of them, apparently the leader, screams at the clouds,
“GET BACK HERE, YOU FOAM-THROWING VARMINTS!”
Bob peers out the window, white with foam and terror. “We’re… alive.”
“For now.”
He looks at you, broken. “Who ARE you?”
You grin, feral. “Your emotional support wife if you want to keep that heart beating.”
He makes a noise that sounds like someone unplugged his courage.
The helicopter rattles, rises, and disappears into the clouds while the rivals keep firing at literal nothing.
A perfect disaster exit.
The helicopter drifted over the desert like it finally decided to cooperate for once, and Bob was… calm.
Not normal-person calm.
Bob calm.
Which meant he was only mildly trembling instead of vibrating out of his seat.
You were humming to yourself, tapping buttons you definitely didn’t have permission to touch, wedding dress moving in the air draft like you were an unhinged angel on a mission.
Bob risked a glance at you, swallowed, then tried something dangerously close to… conversation.
“…Can I ask you something?”
You smirked, eyes on the horizon. “If it’s about the raccoon chewing the wires, he’s doing great. Don’t stress him out.”
“It’s not-- I mean-- no.” He exhaled like he was psyching himself up for a final exam. “I just… want to know how… bad this is.”
You arched a brow. “Bad in what sense? Morally? Legally? Spiritually?”
“Yes?”
You giggled, just a little wicked. “Bob… you have to be more specific. I do a lot of things badly.”
His hands tightened on his knees. “I mean you. Your… criminal level.”
“Oh! That.” You waved a hand like he’d asked about your favorite snack. “I’m cute about it.”
“You are not cute about it.”
“Excuse me, I’m adorable about it.”
“You threw a grenade at a shed.”
“It was an ugly shed.”
He blinked at you. “So… you weren’t… forced into this life?”
You tilted your head, a ghost of something honest in your smile.
“No. I just chose… not to be boring.”
He stared at the console. “That actually makes a depressing amount of sense.”
You nudged his knee with yours, casual, teasing, like the world wasn’t spiraling behind you in a crime-ridden nightmare.
“And don’t go doing the whole sad puppy thing again. I already told you. Discharged from the Air Force or not, I was always like this. They just spotted it too late.”
Bob’s expression did something soft. Too soft. It annoyed you in that warm, irritating way. “…So you’re not doing all this because you’re hurt?”
You snorted. “Of course I’m hurt. My fiancé dumped me at the altar. But that’s not why I steal helicopters. That’s just for fun.”
Bob pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about stress-induced hair loss.
You leaned back, grin sly. “Relax. I’m not dragging you into anything too illegal.”
“Too?” His voice squeaked.
You shrugged. “We’re already in a stolen helicopter. Standards are low.”
His eyes lifted to yours, nervous but… curious. “And me being here… doesn’t annoy you?”
You rolled your eyes. “If you annoyed me, you’d be dead.”
He nodded slowly. “Right. I don’t know if that’s… sweet or threatening.”
“Darling, with me? It’s always both.”
He made a tiny dying-whale sound that filled your heart with a very inconvenient fondness.
You reached over, nudged his chin so he’d stop staring at the floor.
“Hey.”
He looked up.
“Out of all the people I could’ve stolen to drive me around,” you said lightly, “I’m kinda glad it was you.”
Bob froze.
You could practically see the blue screen of death behind his eyes. “Wha-- why-- I--”
“There it is,” you sighed fondly. “The stroke voice.”
He covered his face with his hands.
You kept flying, smiling to yourself like chaos was your love language.
“But seriously, I’m just… trying to understand,” he said, gripping the side of his seat like the helicopter might suddenly remember gravity. “How did you even get into this? The crime thing. You look like someone who should be yelling at a barista for getting your latte wrong, not--” he gestured vaguely at the sky “--whatever this is.”
You let out a small laugh. “Right. Because this is totally a normal Tuesday for you.”
“I mean, it’s not my ideal Tuesday, no.”
You adjusted a switch like you were tuning a radio instead of piloting a stolen aircraft. “Okay, well, the short version? I didn’t ‘get into crime.’ I kind of… slid into it while the universe repeatedly punted me in the face.”
“That sounds encouraging,” he muttered.
“I grew up in a place that was basically one long ‘don’t touch the ground, it’s lava’ challenge. My mom was a tyrant with nice hair, my dad bailed so hard he probably left a crater. I joined the Air Force because flying was the only thing that made sense. It was either that or developing a lifelong arson habit.”
Bob blinked. “I feel like you’re implying that didn’t get avoided.”
“Let me finish.” you nudged the helicopter slightly left because apparently that was no big deal.
“And like I told ya before, they kicked me out. Something about ‘emotional volatility’ and ‘unpredictable combat responses.’ Which is rude, because my combat responses were extremely predictable. Punch first. Yell later.”
Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”
“So I ended up out in the desert. Met a girl who was… let’s just say she was aggressively persuasive in the ‘you’re wasted on legality’ department. She was smart, and charming, and absolutely a bad influence with great bone structure.”
“Right,” Bob said, defeated. “Romantic criminal mentorship. Classic.”
“We pulled jobs together. Big ones. Stupid ones. Fun ones. And she taught me that being good at something illegal sometimes feels better than being mediocre at something legal.”
Bob groaned. “Why does that actually make sense…”
“And then she died.”
Bob blinked, genuinely horrified. “Oh… I’m so sorry… your friend… she died?”
You snorted, tossing your hair back like it was nothing. “No. No, she resurrected. Typical M. Snake-ass bitch.”
Bob froze. “…Resurrected?”
“Yeah,” you continued, voice casually deadly. “Turns out, she lied about everything. Ran off with the dough, got our other friend killed, bought a huge mansion, and-- wait for it-- had two kids with a male prostitute. Can you even imagine?”
Bob’s jaw dropped. “That… that’s… wow. That’s… I don’t even--”
You leaned closer, smirking like it was the most normal thing in the world. “See, loyalty, Bob… loyalty is my kink. That’s why I know exactly who gets it and who doesn’t. And that bitch? Doesn’t.”
Bob shivered. “…You’re terrifying.”
You grinned. “Cute, right?”
Bob just shook his head.
You shrugged. “Things escalated. I got good. Too good. Developed a reputation. Did some… entrepreneurial expansions. One thing led to another, and now half the state wants me in handcuffs, one wants me dead, and one wants me to sign their baby.”
Bob let out a strangled noise. “What baby. Why.”
“No idea. Cute kid, though.”
He stared at you like you’d just confessed to tax fraud on purpose.
“So basically you’re telling me you had a traumatic childhood, military rejection, a morally questionable soulmate, and now you’re a desert menace with an above-average skillset.”
“Bob… sweetie… that was the short version.”
He slumped back into his seat, eyes hollow. “I asked for this. I did this to myself.”
You patted his shoulder with the exact energy of someone comforting a squirrel. “At least you know I’m talented.”
“Talented,” he repeated weakly. “In crime.”
“Among other things.”
He shut his eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re my punishment for every bad decision I’ve ever made?”
You grinned. “Because you are.”
And the helicopter kept flying like none of this was deeply concerning.
He braced a hand on the console like that would save him from your chaos. “You know, I came here to attend a wedding, not to test the limits of my insurance coverage midair.”
You angled closer anyway, because personal space was for people who didn’t commit felonies before breakfast. “Relax. You look cute when you’re stressed.”
His eyes opened just a sliver. “You keep saying that like it’s some kind of comfort.”
“Because it is,” you replied, leaning in until he could practically count your eyelashes. “Your little panic face? Adorable.”
He let out a noise that was half groan, half prayer for deliverance. “Why does every compliment from you feel like the setup to a crime I’m going to get blamed for?”
The helicopter gave a sad little cough. A warning light blinked. Then another one. Then the big, dramatic one that absolutely meant fuel is about to bail on you just like your ex did.
He went rigid instantly. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
You tilted your head, still inches from his mouth, unbothered. “Depends. What do you think it is?”
“I think we’re about to fall out of the sky.”
“Then yes,” you chirped, “you’re so smart, Bobby.”
“Stop calling me that like we’re not about to die.” His voice cracked on the last word, which honestly just made him cuter. Unfair.
You dragged a finger along his jaw, purely to watch him short‑circuit. “You know, for a guy who fixes aircraft, you’re shockingly bad at enjoying the ride.”
“The ride is ending,” he snapped, reaching for controls that were well past caring. “Why are you flirting right now?”
You shrugged, leaning even closer, your breath brushing his cheek. “Because you’re cute. And because your scared face is, like, illegally precious. And because if we crash, I’d rather go out annoying you.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue but his brain finally caught up to your proximity. His breath hitched.
“Can you,” he whispered, “at least give me space to panic properly?”
“Nope.”
The helicopter sputtered again, dropping a few inches in the air like it had just given up on both of you.
You grinned wider. “Guess we’re landing.”
“Landing?” His voice went shrill. “Landing implies control. We have zero.”
“Then we’re… arriving. Very fast.”
He gave you a tired, terrified look. “Why do I feel like you’re having the best day of your life?”
“Because I am.”
The helicopter didn’t just sputter. It coughed, like it was offended you’d ever expected it to keep working. Then it lurched downward in a very aggressive “nope.”
Bob let out a shrill noise he absolutely did NOT intend. “WE ARE FALLING. WE ARE ACTUALLY FALLING.”
You grabbed the console, eyes wide. “BOB, DO SOMETHING!”
“I AM DOING SOMETHING. I’M PANICKING. IT’S MY ONLY SKILL RIGHT NOW.”
The horizon tilted. The sky spun. Both of you screamed so loudly the helicopter probably judged you.
“WHY IS IT DROPPING LIKE THIS?” you yelled.
“BECAUSE IT HAS NO FUEL,” Bob shrieked back. “WHICH YOU KNEW. WHICH YOU ANNOUNCED. LIKE IT WAS A FUN FACT.”
The helicopter jerked again. You both screamed louder.
“OKAY, OKAY-- IF WE DIE, TELL MY MOM I--” Bob started.
“NOPE, NOT LISTENING, YOU’RE NOT GIVING A DYING SPEECH,” you barked, clinging to his arm like a terrified koala.
“I’M ALLOWED TO BE SENTIMENTAL IF I’M ABOUT TO CRASH INTO-- OH MY GOD-- WHAT IS THAT?!”
You squinted between screams. “A FIELD OF FLOWERS! OMG WE’RE GONNA DIE PRETTY!”
“That is NOT comforting!”
The helicopter spun once. Just once. Dramatically. Pettily. Like it wanted the moment to be cinematic.
Both of you let out a mutual, bloodcurdling “AAAAAAAAAAA--”
Then KABOOM-- not actual explosive kaboom, just the loud thump of a helicopter belly‑flopping into soft petals.
Everything went white and yellow and pink as the two of you were swallowed by flowers. The helicopter thunked to a stop, tilted like it was equally tired of this plotline.
Bob popped up out of the flowers like an angry prairie dog, hair full of daisies, eyes wild. “I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS DAY.”
You were sprawled beside him, coughing up pollen, looking like some feral, deranged fairy. “We lived! See? I told you this was romantic.”
“ROMANTIC?” Bob screeched. “ROMANTIC? I JUST MET GOD FOR HALF A SECOND AND HE LOOKED DISAPPOINTED IN ME.”
You flicked a petal off his cheek. “But we’re alive.”
You grinned, lying back in the flowers. “Bob… admit it. This was kinda fun.”
He stared at you. At the helicopter. At the flowers. At the sky.
Then he let out the most exhausted groan known to mankind. “Why do I feel like this is only the second worst thing you’re dragging me into today?”
And somewhere behind you both, the helicopter made a tiny, metallic ping, as if agreeing wholeheartedly.
---
The helicopter smoked behind them like a metallic bonfire. You were already grinning, a vodka bottle inexplicably in your hand as if the crash had conjured it.
You throw your arms wide, voice dramatic. "My bravest knight! Come hither!"
Before he can protest, you reach up, pull him down to your height, and smash a big, sloppy kiss onto his cheek.
"Mmmwah!" you exclaim, lips lingering just long enough to be ridiculous.
You let him go, stepping back with a flourish. "Okie… you are dismissed," you declare, straightening your imaginary crown like the absurd queen of disaster you are.
“Perfect,” you said, taking a swig. “Just perfect. Look at this mess! I call it… artistic chaos. And we’re the centerpiece.”
Bob stands there stiff as a statue, eyes huge, breathing too shallow, looking like someone unplugged his soul and forgot to plug it back in.
You, obviously, deal with trauma in the healthiest way possible: annoying someone else. “Hey,” you poke his shoulder. “Earth to Tall Glass of PTSD. Blink twice if you’re alive.”
Nothing.
You poke him again, harder. “Blink once if you’re a ghost.”
Still nothing. His eye twitches. Progress.
You lean in front of him, waving your hand right in his line of sight. “You good? You’re doing the whole thousand-yard stare thing. I have been nothing but agressive and creepy to you, please respond.”
His jaw works silently, like his brain is buffering. Then looks up at her with those huge, wrecked blue eyes, a tiny trickle of blood sliding down his forehead.
That wrecked, pretty-boy face? Someone should warn him not to look at people like that. Someone like me. Someone who wouldn’t listen to the warning.
A beat passes.
…would I still be into this if I had a functional relationship with my father?
You poke his cheek.
That does it.
He blurts, voice cracking in the most pitiful way possible, “Please, miss (Y/N). I do not play about my non-verbal time.”
You hiccup. “Your… what?”
He squeezes his eyes shut, groaning. “My… my coping time. I meant my coping time. I-- just-- give me a minute, okay?”
You grin, absolutely delighted. “Your non-verbal time. Got it. I’ll schedule around it.” Then loop your arm through his and tug him forward. “But right now, come on. You can have all the non-verbal time you want once we’re not standing next to a flaming disaster.”
Bob blinked, frozen. “I… I can’t even. Did you… where did you get that?” he eyed the bottle with furrowed brows and sanity barely holding on.
“Details, details! One thing you gotta understand about me is that I'm utterly reliant on my beverages.” you cackled, waving the bottle like a conductor’s baton. “Survival is boring. Chaos is fun. Fun is mandatory. Get with the program, Floyd!”
Bob exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound halfway between despair and a dying fish. “I’m done. I’m going home.”
You laughed so hard you nearly toppled over. “Home? Bob, home is a sad little box of socks and responsibility! We are fire and confusion! Home doesn’t even exist in our equation!”
Bob’s shoulders sagged like he’d aged twenty years in five seconds. “THERE IS NO US. I mean it. I’m leaving. Right now. Alone. Away from… from… this!” He gestured vaguely at you, the smoking wreckage, and the world apparently trying to end all at once.
You blew a raspberry, bending down to pluck a cute little flower from the graveyard that you created, skipping over to bob and tucking out over his ear. “It'll be okieee~”
Bob closed his eyes, exhausted and done, gently grabbing your hands and moving them away from his face. “I need to sit by the ocean about this. Get some fresh Air. Goodbye.”
You stomped dramatically. “Air? You want air? You don’t deserve air! Air is for boring people who haven’t just survived literal catastrophe while holding a vodka bottle!”
He blinked. Blinked again. “I… I think I do deserve air. And definitely a therapist. Or a sandwich. Preferably both.”
Without another word, he turned and started trudging down the empty road, every step radiating defeat. You spun around, waving your bottle like a tiny flag of anarchy.
“Go!” you shouted, voice sharp and manic. “Walk your little responsible feet into oblivion! Feel your despair, Floyd! Bask in the mundanity you deserve! Leave me to… to exist! Alone!”
Bob muttered under his breath, head in hands. “I’ve officially hit my maximum capacity for chaos. And I’m still alive.”
“Maximum capacity is for quitters! And we’re winners! Winners don’t do boring!” you yelled, taking another triumphant swig.
You fling your arms out dramatically, voice echoing across the empty dirt like a soap-opera queen who missed her calling.
“Unbelievable! I’m just a girl with big, soft boobs! I do NOT deserve this level of emotional abandonment!”
Bob doesn’t even look back. The man is committed to the bit of ignoring you.
So naturally, you get louder.
“HELLO? TRAUMA BUDDIES ARE SUPPOSED TO STICK TOGETHER! I HAVE ASSETS! PREMIUM ONES!”
He kept walking. You kept yelling. And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, Bob realized… he might secretly kind of hate leaving, but not enough to actually stay.
---
Bob’s feet ached. His shoulders ached. His soul might’ve fractured somewhere between 10 a.m. and now. The empty road stretched forever, like the universe had taken one look at him and thought: Yeah, don't let this bitch have a break.
He glanced at the smoldering wreckage in the distance. Yep. Still there. Yep. Still her. Yep. Still vodka in hand. And you thought 2025 was going to be chill, Floyd.
“Why,” he muttered to no one but himself, “why does she exist like this? Why is there a human being allowed to be… that?”
His brain, which had been firing on chaos overload since breakfast, started to talk back.
Her smile. Her laugh. The vodka. The wreckage. The yelling. The screaming.
The insanity.
You’re never going to see normal again, his brain said, sharply, like a disappointed therapist.
“I know,” he said, out loud now, just to argue. “I know. And that’s the point. That’s the horror. That’s… whatever the opposite of fun is.”
He stumbled slightly over a pothole. “Brilliant. That’s literally me now. Stumbling. Mile into nowhere. Phone dead. No car. Just… me. And the memory of chaos incarnate.”
Oh, don’t even start with the memory, his brain snapped. You will never live this down. She is a storm and you are wet tissue paper.
“Shut up!” Bob yelled. Then immediately covered his mouth, embarrassed, because he knew the car, if one existed, would not appear if he yelled at thin air. “No one likes a drama king,” he muttered.
A car appeared on the horizon. His hands shot up instinctively. Civilization. Adult life. Salvation is here, and it's got four-wheels.
The car slowed. Bob took a deep breath, feeling both relief and the urge to dramatically narrate: Here comes the cavalry. Here comes humanity. I am safe. I am alive. I am… leaving.
But of course, he couldn’t resist one last thought, whispered bitterly to himself: And yet, somehow, she will haunt my nightmares. Somehow, vodka-wielding, smoke-swirling, chaos incarnate… she will haunt me forever.
He got into the car, slammed the door, and sat in silence, letting the engine carry him toward whatever normal was. And in the back of his head, the unrelenting commentary continued:
Congratulations, Floyd. You survived her. But she survived you too. And that’s the part no one talks about.
The car smelled faintly of leather and something faintly sweet, like vanilla and morning coffee. Bob slumped into the seat, letting out a long, dramatic groan.
“Where’re you headed?” the driver asked, voice casual, calm, like nothing in the world could faze her.
“Uh… anywhere with a way back home?” Bob muttered, rubbing at the grime on his forehead. “Away from… everything. Chaos. Life. Vodka bottles. Helicopters.”
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that made the world feel less like it was about to explode. “Sounds like a solid plan. Home’s underrated anyway.”
“Solid,” Bob repeated. “Yes. Totally solid. Completely safe. Totally… normal. Definitely not… traumatized and exhausted.”
“Hmm,” she said, glancing at him with a faint grin. “Exhausted and traumatized. Got it. That’s… very specific.”
Bob groaned again. “It’s been a full day. Ten in the morning to eleven at night. Nonstop chaos. I have… no capacity left for anything but silently regretting every life choice that got me here.”
She nodded, hands resting lightly on the wheel. “I get it. Some days just… happen. Like the universe decided to prank you personally. But at least you survived?”
“Barely,” he muttered. “And I am never, ever, under any circumstances, seeing... that again.”
She let out a soft chuckle. “Noted. Loud and clear.”
A pause fell between them, filled only by the hum of the tires on the asphalt. She glanced at him briefly, expression unreadable but faintly amused. “So… running from chaos, huh?”
“Uh… yeah. Hobby. Lifestyle choice. Mixed bag.” Bob tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Mostly I just survive. That’s my superpower. Mediocre at everything else.”
“Mediocre is fine,” she said, smiling faintly, calm as if she could handle anything the world threw at her. “Consistency’s the real deal anyway.”
Bob blinked. “…I guess. But apparently, the universe has other ideas.”
“Maybe,” she said, shrugging lightly. “Or maybe it’s just making life interesting. Either way, you’re in the right car. That counts for something.”
Bob let out a soft, exhausted laugh. “…Right car. Sure. That’s comforting. I think.”
She hummed quietly, almost to herself, glancing at him once with that faint smirk. “Trust me, you’ll survive this. Probably with dignity. Or… at least minimal embarrassment.”
Bob leaned back, letting the hum of the engine fill the silence. For the first time since morning, he felt a tiny flicker of… ease. Not home yet. Not safe yet. But maybe, just maybe, not completely doomed.
Bob glanced around the car-- not the obvious leather and coffee smells, but the vibe. The soft hum of tires, the faint scent of vanilla, the music playing from the radio. Classic jazz. Miles Davis, maybe. Or some equally ancient stuff that made him blink in disbelief.
“…Who even listens to this anymore?” he muttered, mostly to himself.
She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised, but smiled faintly. “Apparently, some of us.”
Bob felt a small, incredulous smile tug at his lips. “…I do. I like it. People think it’s boring, but it’s… nice. Simple. Honest.”
“Exactly,” she said, nodding. “And old movies too. I mean, nobody my age cares about them. My friends… they mock me relentlessly for it. Relentlessly.” She laughed softly, a calm, warm sound that made him feel almost… normal.
Bob chuckled, feeling the tension in his shoulders loosen slightly. “…Relentless mockery. I get that. People think I’m weird for liking-- well, for liking anything, really.”
She gave a small, conspiratorial grin. “Then we’re a perfect pair. Misfits of taste. Bonded by bad reviews and eye rolls.”
For a moment, there was just the hum of the road, the soft music, and the shared understanding between two people who liked the same old things that everyone else ignored. Bob felt… lighter. Maybe. A little.
He cleared his throat, trying to shift the conversation somewhere safe. “…So… where are you headed?”
“Oh,” she said casually, hands steady on the wheel, voice calm as ever. “Just picking up a friend.”
Bob blinked. “…Oh. Okay. Cool.”
Another pause fell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy. Comfortable. A little quiet, a little warm, like stepping out of a storm into shade.
And for the first time all day, Bob let himself almost believe that maybe the world wasn’t entirely out to ruin him.
Some ancient classic rock leaks through the cracked speakers of Michael’s car, the kind people call “timeless” even though it sounds like it’s been stored in a damp basement since the 80s. She hums along, low and steady, steering with one hand. For once, Bob lets his shoulders drop. He leans his head against the window, eyelids fluttering shut.
For exactly three seconds, he almost relaxes. He pictures how the Dagger Squad would react if they saw him now. Phoenix would laugh herself dead. Fanboy would voice-tape the whole thing. Payback and Fritz would shove him into witness protection by force. Halo would stare at him like he’d fallen off his own moral compass.
He breathes out. Maybe he’ll survive this day after all.
Then the car slows.
Not the gentle slowing of traffic. The pre-doom kind. The “your ancestors are whispering run” kind.
Bob opens one eye.
Then the other.
His soul tries to escape through his pores.
Because there you are.
Sitting on the curbside in your torn wedding dress, mascara streaked, veil-less, holding a vodka bottle like it’s a life achievement award. And next to you… the raccoon. The same raccoon that was hissing at strangers an hour ago. Except now it’s sprawled out like it saw God and God drop-kicked it.
The woman stops the car. Deadpan. Zero shock. Zero blinking. Just two tired eyes staring at you like she saw this coming since birth.
You stare back, equally dead inside.
Bob doesn’t breathe.
You tilt your chin. “Micah.”
Micah exhales like a disappointed aunt. “(Y/n).”
A beat of silence. Bob’s heart leaves his body.
Micah taps the steering wheel. “What the fuck are you doing in the middle of nowhere. Not that this is surprising for you, but weren’t you getting married today?”
You look at the bottle, then the raccoon, then Micah. “I’m working on it.”
Micah squints. “Working on it.”
“Groom ran away.”
Micah immediately laughs. That classic, exhausted, I’m-too-old-for-this laugh that sounds like a punchline and a breakdown at the same time. Bob thinks it might actually kill him.
You point the bottle at her like it’s a gavel. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” Micah says, still laughing. “I’m celebrating. Finally, someone had the sense to run.”
You glare. “Pick a time to get cute, princess.”
Bob sinks deeper into the seat, regretting every life choice that led him to this exact road.
Micah finally waves you off. “Get in the damn car. Leslie wants both of us alive and preferably not covered in crime for the Sunday heist.”
You take one last heroic swig from the vodka bottle, stand, and scoop the raccoon up like it’s your emotional support pet rock. Then, without hesitation, you smash the bottle on the asphalt.
Glass everywhere. Bob jumps. Micah doesn’t flinch.
She points at the raccoon. “No. Absolutely not. You’re not dragging a dead raccoon into my car.”
You clutch it tighter. “He’s coming.”
“He’s not.”
“He is.”
Micah rubs her temples. “You don’t need a dead raccoon.”
“I need closure.”
“You need therapy.”
“And a ride.”
Bob can feel his soul dissolving like a cheap tablet in water.
Micah throws her hands up. “Fine. But if that thing leaks anything on my seats, I’m leaving both of you on the highway.”
You smirk, raccoon in arm, and pull open the door.
Bob scoots as far as humanly possible against his window, silently praying for rescue.
Micah mutters, “Leslie owes me so much for this.”
You hop into shotgun like the universe is finally behaving, then twist around, snag Bob’s tie from the back seat, and yank him forward so hard he makes a noise usually reserved for vacuum cleaners eating socks.
“And you, Bob floyd. I am going to choke you with out red string of fate, 'cause how DARE you.”
Hiii! Soooo I just wanted to say you SINGLE HANDEDLY REFUELED MY READERS SLUMP AND IM HERE FOR IT!!!
I am hopelessly in love and obsessing over Lewis Pullman (who isn’t 🤭) and I just can’t stop reading about him and you have been the most amazing writer I’ve found so far!
Your 2AM SleepWalker fic HAD ME GIGGLING AT 2AM! Lol I was trying soooo hard not to wake up my baby or my man 😂😂😂🤭 I loved it soooo much! It was so adorable and just so Bob!
Anyway, I hope you’re having the most amazing Thanksgiving break! I wish you nothing but love and happiness 🫶🏼🫶🏼 also remember to drink some water and tell yourself you love you! 🥰🥰
Hiii oh my god, this message basically kicked down my door, kissed me on the forehead and handed me emotional stability for the week.
I’m genuinely so soft right now. The fact that you were giggling at 2AM while trying not to wake your family up? That’s cinema. That’s poetry. That’s everything Bob Floyd stands for as a concept.
Also yes… Lewis Pullman. I understand. I too am merely a civilian trying to survive the gravitational pull of that man’s existence.
Thank you for reading, for the love, for the serotonin, for the whole paragraph that made me feel like someone just tucked me into bed. I hope your Thanksgiving was gentle and full of little joys. Drink some water too, since you told on me first.
Sending you the warmest, most unhinged gratitude. 🤍🤍🤍🤍
hey so I read the worst distraction like uhhhhhhh ok idk how long ago but I heard thru the grapevine that you were working on a part 2(also that it’s part of the taken-ish universe which I haven’t finished reading yet but I will soon) soooo like maybe you could add me to the tag list 😝😝
please I am freaking obsessed with that fic and ur writing
Djdisjsidndj yassss ofc I can add you to the list! And I hope you like the taken-ish series too. Love yaaaa
Ik it's prob a while after but did you have a part 4 to Taken-ish ? I loveee it so far!!
Gosh thankyouuu for liking the story I had a terrible time writing it 😭🙏🏽
And that was supposed to be the last part tbh but ig I didn't clarify it so I'm gonna write a part 4 for taken-ish and a part 2 for the worst distraction and I'm thinking of just, jamming it up into one single part.
hi hi! i just read 9 months of 'why me' and omg. i need to tell you. it's your first fic of yours that i have ever read and my life has been changed!!! your writing style is beautiful and i love the way you write dialogue. please keep it up! you are so so so talented <3
I’m actually clutching my chest like a dramatic Victorian heroine right now. 😩
Thank you. Seriously.
My neurons did a backflip. I’m so glad the writing clicked for you, and the dialogue love? That’s my weakness.
You’re ridiculously sweet for this, and I’m keeping your message in my emotional pocket forever. 🤍🤍🤍
I don't know if you do requests or not, but I have literally been obsessed with your writing. And neeeeed more. ❤️
And I am on a huge Bob Floyd kick. Any chance you can write something involving Bob and the reader trying for a baby? Then one day the reader is sick, Bob takes care of her until something in the back of her mind tells her to take a test. Long story short... they become pregnant with a boy and a girl. But like they are just domestic and cute. Lots of weird food choices, decorating the nursery, going to appointments together, Bob feels the babies move for the first time and becomes obsessed, the Dagger squad also jumping in to help. Just like.. sigh... utter fluff.
Haiii, I am SO sorry for the late reply anon.
I just wanted to make good first impressions for my first request. Thankyou SO much for this. It was a great fic idea.
Though I hadn't quite dipped my toe in that category of the fics yet. Yknow... Babies and stuff. But it was such a thrill to write! Pardon any wrong information tho, I am quite a virgin myself so 😿
So thankyou again, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
✧ Synopsis: They fucked. Hard. Hormones went wild. Cravings escalated. And somehow, a tiny human happened.
✧ Warnings: Smut: oral, breeding, body worship, and absolutely sexy Bob Floyd, Big Dick Energy™ (Bob is fully owning it), Ultimate husband behavior: doting, teasing, worshipping you, Fluff overload: cuddles, kisses, and adorableness, Pregnancy hours: cravings, exhaustion, hormones, and baby brain, Attempted humor: chaotic, awkward, silly moments included, Cute chaos: messy hair, silly smiles, waddling, and general heart-melting moments
The whole ratatouille thing isn't that special. Grab any white boy's hair and you control him.
The dimly lit room cast shadows that danced across your bare skin as Bob Floyd knelt between your thighs, his face buried in your pussy. Your fingers were tangled in his sandy blond hair, gripping tightly as you arched your back, pushing yourself further onto his eager tongue.
“So pretty... Say it back, tell me you're pretty.”
Your back arched, moans spilling out as Bob found that sweet, perfect spot. Fingers tangled in his hair, you pulled him right where you wanted him, every inch of his face coated in your slick. His muffled groans pressed into you, vibrating through your sensitive core until your knees threatened to buckle.
Fights with Bob Floyd were dangerous, mostly because his apology involved snacks, cuddles, and the occasional four-hour tongue session.
“Atta girl...”
LORD TAKE M--
Your hips rolled against his face, shameless and deliberate. He tasted you everywhere-- your slick coated his cheeks, chin, and even fogged his glasses-- and you held his head in your hands like reins, guiding him exactly where you wanted. He ate you out with an intensity that made your knees shake.
The room was filled with the symphony of wet sounds and muffled praises. Bob's tongue swirling around your clit while he hummed contentedly like a man who had found heaven between his wife's legs. "So sweet..."
No one would’ve expected Bob Floyd to be like this. Not this needy, this shameless, this… talkative. His eyes were glued to you, lips and tongue busy, and yet he found words-- muffled, wet, and utterly devoted.
“Can I eat this pretty pussy forever?” he asked, voice husky and muffled against you.
You gasped at the audacity of it, but he wasn’t done. “Do you like how I worship this sweet cunt?” His moan vibrated against your folds, and it made your knees weak.
“Should I keep going until you squirt all over my face?”
And there it was-- Bob Floyd, the quiet, sweet, somehow deadly patient man you’d married, suddenly talkative in the best, filthiest way possible, leaving you shocked, moaning, and completely undone.
A loud, sharp squeal escaped you as your body jolted with a sudden orgasm. Bob’s face was drenched, glasses sliding down, and he looked up like he’d just completed the most satisfying task in the universe. “You okay, honey?” he hummed, completely smug.
His tongue traced every drop, hungrily licking you clean while your knees threatened to give out. He looked up, eyes sparkling, voice low and teasing: “I could get used to this, you know… you’re ridiculously easy to please.”
You yanked him away gently, resting his face on your thigh to give your overstimulated cunt a reprieve. Panting and shaking from your release, you grinned wickedly. “That was… cute, Bob, really,” you breathed, voice low and teasing. “But it’s barely even a warm-up. Next time, I expect effort.”
Bullshit.
He hummed softly, playful trouble in his eyes. “That so, m’love?” he murmured, crawling over you, lips exploring every inch. Your neck alone demanded ten kisses, and he happily obliged, making you arch and bite your lip with every one.
You tugged his face up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back and scoffing. “I’ve had spicier from you in my dreams.”
That sweet Bob smile twisted into something wicked. Towering above you, his shadow swallowed your body, voice husky and firm. “I will shift your womb, woman,” he murmured, like a king claiming his throne.
Lip between teeth, smirk in check. Who knew Bob Floyd could be this commanding? You did. Every night actually. You mentally sighed, rolled your eyes, and spread your legs anyway. Invitation clear, and very much appreciated.
Hips already rolling, you whispered between moans,“You keep talking like that and don't even think about pulling out.”
“That's exactly what I was aiming for, darlin'.”
“Oh~ you wanna breed me, Bob Floyd?”
“I do. If my gorgeous wife tells me I can.”
“Mm, needy husband now?”
“Only for you. I'm so lucky.”
“You gonna fill me up, Bob?”
“Every last drop if you let me.”
“I’ll let you fuck the life out of me, husband.”
“Yes ma'am.”
He didn’t even hesitate, sliding inside you with slow, deliberate precision. Every inch of him stretched and filled you, and your hips bucked instinctively, chasing the friction that already had your nerves alight. You gasped, nails digging into his back as the burn spread deliciously, unrelenting.
“Fuck…” you whispered through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut.
He smirked, pressing closer, letting you feel every inch of him. You whimpered, breath catching, and tried to adjust, but it only made it sharper.
Finally, all you could manage with a strained voice rough with both pain and pleasure, the words slipping out between sharp breaths, “Fuck you, Bob Floyd...”
---
“FUCK YOU, BOB FLOY-- AHHH! LET GO, WOMAN!” Hangman’s knuckles were white, teeth clenched as he hissed through gritted teeth.
Your hand was wrapped around his wrist like a vice, eyes blazing, veins screaming, and you pushed. Hard. Hangman had promised to “fill in for Bob” and now he understood exactly how naïve that statement was.
“Breathe! Just-- breathe!” he gasped, face turning red, eyes watering, and somehow still trying to keep his hand from being crushed into pulp.
You did not breathe. You cursed. The world, Bob, your parents, the human race, the concept of pain itself-- all of it.
“I WILL FUCKING KILL EVERYONE WHO THINKS THIS IS FAIR-- AHHH!” Your voice cracked, and Hangman’s wrist gave a sickening pop. He screamed like a man summoning every regret in his lineage. “FUCK YOU, ROBERT FLOYD! I HOPE YOUR SOUL GETS STUCK IN A TRAFFIC JAM FOREVER!”
“Oh god oh god oh god,” Hangman squealed as your grip tightened further.
"SHUT UP JAK--"
"MY HAND--"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU SAY THAT AGAIN IMMA RIP YOUR TONGUE OUTTA YOUR HEAD--"
"MY HANDDDD--"
His fingers were bending in ways nature never intended. He tried to push your hand off, failed, and felt an immediate, punishing crunch against his bones. Somewhere in there, he realized you had actually broken his hand.
You didn’t pause. You cursed the pain, you cursed the room, you cursed your own fucking uterus. “I HATE YOU, ROBERT FLOYD! I HATE YOU! I HATE-- AHHH-- EVERYONE!”
The midwives were trying not to die laughing while also coaching you, the alarms were blaring, the monitors were going wild, and Hangman was gripping the gurney for dear life, muttering under his breath, “Why-- why did I think this would be fun… why am I alive…”
You whimpered to Hangman, face pale and eyes red. "I'm gonna die, Jake..."
Hangman hissed back. "You try dying and watch me pull you back by your hair 'cause ain't no way you broke my hand for nothin'."
Then, with one final, monumental heave that could have powered a small city, a tiny, wailing human erupted into the world. You collapsed back, heaving, drenched in sweat, lungs burning, every fiber of your body screaming in betrayal-- and finally, just for a second, your eyes landed on the baby. Tiny, perfect, screaming… and completely oblivious to the chaos that had just birthed it.
And that’s when the doors flew open. Bob barreled in like a storm, chest heaving, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes darting wildly. He skidded to your side, but his gaze didn’t land on the baby. No, it landed entirely, completely, utterly on you.
Your exhausted eyes met his, and all you could muster, rasping through the exhaustion and the pain and the fire of childbirth, was:
“Fuck… you… Robert Floyd.”
And then, blissful, merciful, chaotic sleep took you, leaving Hangman blinking at his mangled hand and the midwives snickering behind their masks, while Bob just hovered, chest heaving, looking like he might cry, faint, or start cursing himself for being late-- all at once.
---
Babies were supposed to be tiny miracles, little bundles of joy that made life sweeter, softer, and somehow brighter. Everyone said that, and everyone lied-- or maybe they just forgot the part about the in-between.
The in-between was where the magic tangled itself with chaos. Where the tiny heartbeat inside her made Bob grin like an idiot one minute and panic the next. Where his normally sweet, gentle wife turned into a storm god with a flair for dramatic sighs, random tears, and very specific midnight cravings.
It was supposed to be cute and tender, and sometimes it was. But mostly? It was weird. It was messy. It was adorable, infuriating, and completely impossible to ignore. And Bob? He was learning fast that loving a pregnant wife meant preparing for anything: sudden laughter, sudden rage, and the occasional, inexplicable need for three pickles stacked on top of a donut.
Pregnancy was a joy, yes. But the in-between… the in-between was pure, chaotic life.
First indication was… something that shouldn’t have happened.
I married the sweetest person alive, which is why it’s absolutely terrifying to see you sitting on the bathroom floor with a faucet in pieces.
-Bob Floyd
Bob had always considered himself a lucky man. Lucky enough to fly, lucky enough to live, lucky enough to somehow marry a woman as sweet as honey. Sweet enough to rival his own gentle, soft-spoken manners.
Which is why the scene in front of him felt like walking in on a felony he had not, in any universe, prepared for.
You sat on the bathroom floor like a guilty dog and an exhausted tenant at the same time. Knees up. Hands clasped. Eyes somewhere between “I’m fine” and “bury me.” And behind you… the sink. The brutally defeated sink. Its faucet lay on its side like it had tapped out of this mortal plane. A bucket caught the remaining drips, each drop loud enough to sound like judgment.
Bob leaned on the doorframe and blinked like he was rebooting his brain.
“…My love.”
You groaned into your palms. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Bob nodded very slowly. “Uh-huh.”
“It kept dripping,” you said, eyes flashing with the kind of rage poets wish they could bottle. “Every three seconds. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like it was mocking me. Like it was taunting me, Bob.”
He tried very hard not to smile. “So you… destroyed it?”
“I didn’t destroy it.” You pointed at the faucet with wounded dignity. “I liberated it. There's a big difference.”
“Right.” He stepped in and crouched beside you. “And how exactly did liberation happen?”
You sighed through your soul. “I tried to tighten it. Nicely. With kindness.”
“And?”
“It kept dripping.”
Bob inhaled like he already knew he didn’t want the next answer. “And then?”
“…I ripped it off.”
“With tools?”
You shook your head.
“With your hands?”
You whispered, “…maybe.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. You stared at him like daring him to continue was an act of mutiny.
“I’m not laughing at you,” he tried.
“You’re literally smiling, Robert.”
“Smiling isn’t laughing.”
“It’s betrayal.”
He sat next to you, shoulder bumping yours. “Baby, you can bench-press half the squad if you’re irritated enough. I’m honestly surprised the sink lasted this long.”
Your bottom lip betrayed you with a wobble. “I didn’t mean to break it. I was just… tired. And annoyed. And it wouldn’t stop. And I just--” Your voice cracked. “I snapped.”
Bob’s entire heart folded up like origami.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. People lose fights with plumbing all the time.”
“No one does that.”
“Sure they do,” he lied, rubbing your back. “How do you think plumbers make money?”
You sniffed. “I’m hazardous.”
“You’re adorable.”
“I’m a loser.”
“You’re my wife.”
“I broke a sink.”
“My wife broke a sink with her bare hands,” he corrected softly. “Honestly? That’s kind of impressive.”
You pulled back, red-eyed and dramatic. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” Bob smiled, warm enough to soften concrete. “Honey, I married a woman who terrifies Marines twice her size. A sink didn’t stand a chance.”
A tired laugh escaped you. You wiped your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to go full Hulk.”
“I know.” He kissed your forehead. “We’ll fix it.”
“We?”
“I’m never letting you near a wrench unsupervised again.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Fair.”
He helped you up, brushing off your knees. “Next time something drips, you call me.”
“And if you’re not home?”
“Then you sit there and stare at it until I get back.”
You groaned dramatically. “That’s torture.”
“Better than replacing the entire plumbing system.”
You bumped his shoulder as you walked out. “One time. I break one sink and suddenly I’m on a watchlist.”
Bob smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist.
“One time. And you did it adorably.”
---
Second was… another thing that made him pause.
Bob liked to tell people his wife loved him in a way that made him feel embarrassingly lucky. You hugged him like he mattered, listened like he was interesting, and smiled at him like you’d been waiting all day just to see his face.
Which is why the look you were giving him now made his stomach drop straight through the floor.
He’d barely stepped through the door when you stiffened, nose scrunching like something had slapped you in the face.
You had jerked back so fast he thought he’d startled you.
“Bob,” you whispered, eyes wide, “you smell… sharp.”
“…Sharp?” he repeated, half-baffled, half-worried.
You nodded, bracing a hand on the counter like you needed grounding. “Like… bright. Too bright. It’s cutting the back of my nose.”
“It’s just residual jet fuel,” he murmured, trying to keep things light. “You’ve hugged me after flights before.” then mumbled with a small pout, “...even said it smelled hot.”
“Not like this,” you breathed, shaking your head as if the very scent stung. “It’s everywhere. It feels like it’s… crawling.”
Bob felt something cold pinch the inside of his chest. You looked pale, off-balance, like your senses had turned against you.
“Hey,” he said softly, touching your arm with careful distance. “I’ll shower. Sit down, okay?”
You nodded, grateful and exhausted.
He cleaned up faster than he ever had in his life, scrubbing until he smelled like absolutely nothing. When he stepped out, wrapped in clean clothes and hope, he felt prepared.
Until he walked back into the living room and found you crouched by the door.
Sniffing his shoes.
“Sweetheart?” he asked, voice gentle as a hand on glass. “What’re you doing?”
You startled, cheeks heating up. “I just… wanted to see if it was the smell. Or me.”
“…By smelling my shoes?”
You nodded, looking embarrassingly earnest.
His confusion didn’t last. You looked tired. And overwhelmed. And a little scared of yourself.
He walked over slowly. “Does everything smell like that right now?”
“Not everything,” you muttered, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Just… you. And food. And soap. And coffee this morning? I almost gagged. I thought I was losing it.”
Bob’s heart twisted. He brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Let’s skip cooking. What sounds okay to you?”
You hesitated, guilt flickering in your eyes. “Nothing… normal.”
“Normal’s overrated,” he said. Quiet, certain.
You came back with tortillas, yogurt, and pickles.
He said nothing. Just watched the way your shoulders relaxed the second you tasted it, like your body finally eased up on its own war.
Bob sat beside you, steady and patient, his hand resting warm on your thigh.
“You’re not in trouble,” he said when he saw embarrassment flicker across your face. “You’re allowed to feel however you feel.”
You let out a weak laugh. “Even when I act like you’re a walking chemical spill?”
He shook his head, smiling softly. “Especially then.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, your breathing slow and cautious but finally not strained.
Bob kissed the crown of your head.
Whatever was happening to you, he’d walk through it with you. Every odd craving. Every strange reaction. Every exhausted moment.
Even if you sniffed his shoes again tomorrow.
---
Third was… well, by then he knew something was up.
Never in his life had Bob done anything to deserve a tissue box thrown at him.
Yet here he was, ducking with a grace he didn’t know he possessed, as the plush rectangle sailed past his ear and smacked against the wall with a muffled thunk.
He barely had time to recover before the follow-up came: a sharp, precise kick aimed at his hip.
“Out!” the voice rang, soft but impossibly firm.
Bob stumbled back, rubbing his neck, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “…Out?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was alien.
His wife-- gentle, sweet, usually the softest presence in the room-- was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression stormy but somehow still somehow luminous, like a thundercloud made of honey.
He blinked. “…For…?”
“You said I was fat,” you accused, voice trembling somewhere between mock outrage and actual indignation.
Bob’s jaw slackened. “…I-- no. I didn’t--”
“Liar!” you exclaimed, waving a finger like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of chaos. “You totally implied it! Your words are weapons, you know that?!”
He held up his hands slowly. “I… Bob Floyd, married to you, lover of chaos, appreciator of all things gentle… swear on everything I hold dear, I did not mean that.”
“Yeah? Well, intentions don’t matter!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was a trespasser in his own bedroom.
Bob froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “No. That… that’s not what-- what I meant at all! I meant… light! Light, brightness, warmth! You fill a room like sunlight! Light of my life--”
“Light? Fill??” you echoed, voice trembling with a mix of laughter and faux outrage. “Oh, sure, Bob. You love me so much you just happen to describe me as… expanding? Overflowing?”
“I-- no! Not overflowing! Not full in that way! I’m trying to say… you make everything better. You’re amazing! I--”
“Out!”
Bob backed away slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, confusion thick in his chest. “Okay. Out…” He shuffled toward the hall, shoulders hunched, dog tilting its head like it was witnessing some strange new ritual.
This week… this week had been weird. Unusually weird. Not just the kicked-out-of-your-bedroom weird, but the kind of weird that prickled at his gut.
And he knew it.
---
Bob stands in the hallway with the same expression he uses when the coffee machine breaks: calm, resigned, and fully aware this is how he dies.
Phoenix is planted in front of him like a stone statue someone accidentally gave sentience to. Completely blank face. Not a flicker. In her hand, held out like a cursed artifact, is a pregnancy test. It’s one of those aggressively pink ones with a giant cartoon smiley face on the screen, like the plastic is more excited about this than either of them.
They stare. They stare longer. Bob feels his soul leave his body, come back, and then leave again.
He drags in a breath. “Do you want me to die?”
Her deadpan somehow gets even flatter, which he didn’t think was medically possible. She thrusts the test closer, as if he hadn’t already burned the sight of it into his retinas.
“So that’s a yes,” he mutters.
Her brows finally twitch, the slightest offended micro-flinch. “Why would you die?”
He winces.
“Because no matter how I open my mouth right now, it’s gonna sound like I implied she gained weight, I don’t want to get folded like laundry in my own home.”
"Why are you panicking?"
“Because my wife is gorgeous and powerful and capable of lifting me like a foldable chair, and I don’t want to provoke that power.”
Phoenix just keeps staring. Still offering the smiley-faced doom stick.
"Nat, I am serious. she’ll say ‘what did you mean by that,’ and I’ll die before I figure out an answer.”
“This is a normal conversation. You’re the only one having a meltdown.” she smirks, clearly enjoying.
Bob tries to look calm. Truly. He does his best impression of a functional adult as he takes the pregnancy test from Phoenix, nodding like this is a grocery receipt and not a potential life-altering prophecy.
He holds it delicately, like it’s a bird egg or a live grenade.
“Cool,” he says, voice cracking in a way he hopes she didn’t hear. “So… uh… we just wait, right? No big deal.”
Phoenix stares at him. The human embodiment of a flatline.
Bob inhales. Slow. Dramatic. “Because if it’s positive then… that’s… that’s a whole human. A human that’s half me.” His eyes go wide. “Phoenix, that’s a crime.”
She blinks once. “Calm down.”
“I am calm,” he says, absolutely not calm. His hands are shaking like he’s holding a squirrel that might bite. “I’m so calm I might throw up.”
Phoenix watches him come undone with the emotional support of a brick wall. “You’re sweating.”
“Because this is terrifying!” He gestures wildly with the test, immediately realizing he might disturb its cosmic forces and freezing in place. “Sorry. Sorry. Don’t move the magic stick. Got it.”
He sucks in a breath like he’s trying to inflate his own courage.
“If this is positive, then-- then there’s a baby. A baby, Phoenix. A baby with my genes. Do you know how irresponsible that sounds?”
Phoenix’s expression doesn’t change at all. “You’ll be fine.”
“No, no, those are the words people say right before someone passes out.” He presses a hand to his chest. “My heart is doing parkour.”
“Breathe,” she says.
“I am breathing! That’s the problem, I can hear it.”
Phoenix finally, mercifully, reaches out and steadies his wrist so he doesn’t fling the test across the room. “Bob. It’s just a test. Two minutes.”
He nods, then shakes his head, then nods again, looking like he’s rebooting.
“Two minutes. Okay. Yeah. I can do two minutes. I can be a parent for two minutes.”
She corrects him. “That’s not what I said.”
“I know,” he says, already pacing in a tight anxious circle, clutching the test like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. “I’m spiraling. Just let me spiral with dignity.”
“You don’t have dignity.”
He stops. Squints at her. “That’s fair.”
---
Bob sits on the couch like someone propped him upright with broomsticks. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. Breathing shallow, like inhaling too hard might set you off.
In front of you both, the coffee table looks like a crime scene built out of snack food. Ice cream tubs sweating. Half-melted sundaes. Donuts. Chips. Something from Wendy’s that definitely wasn’t on the menu. It looks like Bob raided five stores, a gas station, and possibly a truck.
And right in the middle of it all, like Moses parting the edible Red Sea, sits that tiny pink pregnancy test.
Just existing. Haunting him. Mocking him.
The silence is suffocating. Well-- suffocating for him. You’re just staring at him with the expression of a woman prepared to commit violence with her bare hands.
Bob swallows. The sound is so loud it could be legally classified as a cry for help.
He coughs once, weakly, like he’s testing whether you’ll let him live. “So… uh… you okay?”
No reaction. Just those razor-sharp eyes, slicing through him like you're auditioning to be a guillotine.
He nods to himself. Stares forward again. “Cool. Cool-cool-cool.”
But his gaze keeps flicking toward the pink stick. Like it’s whispering to him. Like it’s telling him his life is over and diapers are expensive.
He finally caves. Slowly-- slowly-- he reaches for it, trying to slide it out of sight, out of mind, out of the universe. “Let’s… just put this away before it gives us both anxiety, yeah?” he whispers.
His fingers are an inch away when your hand shoots out.
You snatch the test with so much force he flinches like you just fired a weapon next to his ear. His soul leaves his body, returns, leaves again.
He recoils, rubbing the back of his neck, mortified. “Right. Yep. That’s yours. Sorry. My bad. I’ll just, uh… sit here and… stop touching things.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
You look furious. You look dangerous. You look like you might peel your husband like an apple.
And Bob, poor Bob, sitting among the ruins of a thousand calories, has the realization hit him again like a train:
All the mood swings. All the nausea. All the aggression.
He thought it might be a baby.
He thought you might be pregnant.
And judging by the way you’re staring at him, he absolutely should not have thought that.
He gives a tiny, strangled laugh. “I just-- I don’t know. You were… different. And I thought-- I thought maybe…” Another micro-flinch. “I wasn’t trying to say you were… y’know. Bigger. I love your body. All of it. Always. Forever. Please don’t kill me.”
You continue glaring.
He sinks two centimeters into the couch cushions.
“Cool,” he whispers hoarsely. “Loving this vibe. Totally calm.”
The test sits in your grip, pink, smug, and definitely about to ruin his life one way or another.
You stand up suddenly, pointing a finger right at Bob’s face like you’re about to assassinate his soul, your eyes blazing a little-- but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth that betrays how ridiculous this all is.
Bob doesn’t flinch. He leans in just enough to meet your finger with a faint, adoring smile, letting it rest against his cheek. “Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, like a knight pledging allegiance. “Your majesty, I accept full responsibility for… literally everything.”
You hiss something incomprehensible, but he nods like he’s taking notes for future reference. “Uh-huh. Got it. Noted. I will never, ever, under any circumstance… forget this moment,” he murmurs, voice practically vibrating with affection and a dash of terror.
Then, as you turn to storm toward the bathroom, he carefully slides off the couch, following at a cautious, respectful distance.
He’d planted himself outside the bathroom like some loyal, malfunctioning security system. Arms crossed. Then uncrossed. Then crossed again because apparently that felt less stupid. His knee bounced so hard the hallway mirror vibrated, so he slapped a hand on it like “shh, don’t snitch.”
He tried to act casual. Casual, like a man who was not currently sweating through his shirt. He leaned on the wall. Immediately slipped a little because he forgot he’d just mopped yesterday. Straightened up like nothing happened. Cleared his throat for absolutely no reason. Then pretended to scroll his phone even though the screen was black because he hadn’t unlocked it.
At one point he crouched down to tie his shoe. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
He whispered to the door, “Take your time,” in the softest voice, and then added way too fast, “Not… too much time, but like, whatever time you need. No pressure. Zero pressure. Negative pressure. Vacuum.”
Silence.
He nodded to himself, pacing two steps left, two steps right, like a guard dog who read one too many self-help books about giving his partner space. And when he heard the faintest rustle inside the bathroom, he immediately froze in a pose that absolutely screamed I wasn’t listening through the door please ignore everything about me.
His heartbeat was doing drumline choreography. His face was lit up with that terrified-hoping-praying look he only ever got around her.
And still, he hovered. Trying so hard not to be in the way. Failing in the cutest way imaginable.
Bob had been “sweeping” the hallway for an hour-- or rather, standing there holding a broom like it was a piece of equipment he’d never been trained on. Every few seconds, he’d glance at the closed bedroom door, chest tight, mind running every possible scenario he didn’t want to think about.
When the door finally opened, you stepped out.
Your eyes were puffy, clearly from crying, but there was something calmer in your expression now-- like you’d finally stopped fighting some internal storm. That soft glow wasn’t dramatic or magical, just… you looking like someone who’d been through something heavy and decided to breathe again.
His whole body went still.
“Hey,” Bob said quietly. Not loud, not awkwardly high-- just that gentle, slightly nervous tone he always used when he wasn’t sure if everything was okay.
You gave him a small smile. The kind of smile that had made him fall for you the first time and every day since. Even now, with your face blotchy from tears, it hit him like a tidal wave.
Then, with a sniff and a shaky attempt at humor, you asked, “Do you… know how to deal with diapers?”
Bob blinked. Once. Twice.
He absolutely did not know how to deal with diapers. Or babies. Or… this. But he did what he always did when confronted with something terrifying-- he tried to give you a soft, steady presence, even if his insides were a mess.
“I-- uh… probably not,” he admitted with a little half-laugh, voice tight. He stepped closer, drawn in by instinct more than thought.
His mouth opened, but no words came out. You watched him closely, and he could see it-- that small flicker of worry in your eyes. Like you were bracing for disappointment. Like you thought maybe he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you to go through this, or didn’t want the life it implied.
His face was frozen. His eyes full. His throat locked up.
And that silence-- that frozen moment-- made your expression fall.
But then you looked closer. Squinted a little. “Bob… are you crying?”
He swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered. But his voice cracked on the word, giving him away completely.
Before you could say anything else, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. Not a dramatic collapse-- just Bob holding on to you like you were the only stable thing in the world. His shoulders shook once, then again. Soft, quiet tears. Pure relief. Overwhelm. Hope.
You held him, your hand sliding into his hair, grounding him as he tried-- unsuccessfully-- to pull himself together.
“There, there Bob, I know diapers are expensive.”
After a long moment, he sniffed and pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. They were a little red, a little puffy, but he didn’t try to hide it anymore.
“I’m happy,” he finally managed, breath trembling. “I’m really… really happy. I just--” He laughed weakly, embarrassment creeping in. “I genuinely have no idea what to do with diapers.”
It came out so honest, so Bob, that you couldn’t help it-- a soft laugh bubbled out of you, and he gave a shy, crooked smile at the sound.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the dampness away. “We’ll figure it out,” you said gently.
Bob nodded, breathing out a shaky exhale, eyes still shining but finally calm. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft, warm, certain because you were certain. “Yeah… we will.”
---
The plan was adorable. The execution, in theory, foolproof.
Unfortunately, they forgot who their friends were.
Hangman’s living room looks suspiciously like someone let a hurricane loose in a cowboy boot store, but whatever, you and Bob step over the boots, the magazines, and the cat toys like you didn’t come here to drop life-altering news on six fully grown children.
You slide the little gift box across the coffee table with the kind of hopeful flourish that deserves a soundtrack. It’s cute, pastel, tied with a bow. The perfect “let them figure it out and cry” moment.
Hangman opens it, peers in, and you can actually see the exact second this goes off the rails.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, starry-eyed. “You two bought a romper… for my daughter.”
Your brows twitch. Bob’s soul visibly leaves his body.
His “daughter” leaps onto the couch, hissing like a demon in polyester. Hangman’s already scooping him up. “Look how cute she’s gonna be!” he announces, tugging the romper over one struggling paw. The cat yowls like she’s being drafted into the ninth circle of hell.
“My little angel hates clothes,” Hangman says proudly as the cat tries to bite his thumb off. “She gets that from me.”
Phoenix is in the corner, arms crossed, grinning like she already saw the ultrasound photos and helped name the baby. She catches your eye, gives you a tiny nod that says I told Bob first, fight me.
The rest of the squad?
Fanboy: scrolling on his phone.
Payback: trying to untangle something from his shoelace.
Rooster: filming Hangman losing a battle with his own pet.
Coyote slipped into the bathroom yawning.
None of them have the faintest clue.
Bob clears his throat, the picture of exhausted fatherhood before it’s even started. “So… we’re actually… expecting.”
Fanboy doesn’t look up. “Expecting what?”
You blink. Bob blinks. Phoenix chokes on her drink.
Rooster tosses a fry in his mouth. “Food delivery? Because I could eat.”
Hangman is still getting mauled. “Guys, focus. My cat is adorable.”
There’s a long beat where you and Bob just stare at them, this collection of aviators who could disarm a missile at Mach 2 but cannot, apparently, understand basic human communication.
Phoenix finally claps her hands. “Pregnant, you idiots. They’re pregnant.”
The room freezes.
".....Bob Floyd you did the do?!"
Coyote’s face, popping out from the bathroom, lit up like someone had shoved a firework in his chest. “Wait… we’re uncles now? Like, real uncles?!”
Fanboy practically vibrated with glee, bouncing in place. “Bob Floyd… you did it first! First to get married, first to bring a baby into the squad… I-- this is so amazing! I can’t even!”
Rooster’s eyes were sparkling. “We get to hold the baby? We get to spoil it? We get to be the fun ones before they ruin it with rules?!”
Hangman, still nursing his mangled hand from earlier chaos, shook his head, trying to stay composed, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth. “Congrats, man. And yeah… you’re officially the benchmark. The baby’s going to be ridiculously spoiled, thanks to us.”
Coyote hopped from one foot to the other. “Tiny little humans running around! And we’re the uncles! We get to teach them chaos and bad jokes!”
Fanboy leaned close to Bob, voice soft with awe, practically bouncing on his toes. “This baby is about to be loved into oblivion. Honestly, it should feel honored.”
Bob and you just exchanged a glance, deadpan smiles barely holding back laughter. The squad was already completely smitten. Every squeal, every flail, every wide-eyed squeaky declaration of uncle-dom was pure love, and somehow-- somehow-- it made your hearts feel bigger just watching them.
You and Bob share the same deadpan expression, the one that hides both homicidal urges and fierce affection for these morons you somehow consider friends.
It’s always a blast telling life-shattering news to people whose combined IQ flickers like a cheap bulb.
---
Bob was the kind of husband who, when you sent him out to buy pickles at 3 a.m., came back with two jars of pickles, a pack of Oreos, a bottle of sparkling water, and three different types of cheese-- just in case you “needed a snack.” He was a little extra, but in the best way.
And you? You were a hormonal disaster wrapped in a pregnant glow that, one minute, made you feel like a goddess and the next, like a potato in a tank top. The “glow” was… debatable.
“Bob, I feel so fat,” you said one morning, glaring at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Your bump had popped out like a volleyball, and it was a shock every time you looked down and realized it wasn’t going away.
Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mouth full of cereal. He paused, looking over at you with an expression that said, I know better than to say anything dumb right now. He put his spoon down slowly, his eyes softening with affection.
“No, babe. You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You glared at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t say that.”
Bob blinked. “What?”
“You just said I’m beautiful. Which means you’re admitting I’m fat.” You crossed your arms over your chest, frowning at him. You knew you were being irrational, but at that moment, it felt like the logical conclusion.
Bob’s eyes widened. “No, no, no! That’s not what I--” He scrambled up from the bed and started to wave his hands frantically in front of him. “You’re not fat, babe. You’re carrying our baby, you’re glowing, and--”
“Stop, Bob,” you groaned. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but now I just feel like a balloon with legs. I’m not glowing, I’m miserable.”
Bob sat beside you on the bed, his hand resting on your back. “Okay, okay. Let’s compromise. You’re beautiful in every way, and this baby bump? Totally worth it. You’re literally growing a person.”
And then cupping your face, pecking you lips once, “And I know I don't understand you sometimes, but I will spend eternity trying to figure you out.”
You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you trying to win points for being a good husband? Because you are. You’re doing it.”
Bob smiled, obviously relieved. “I just love you.”
---
It starts innocent. Sweet, even. You and Bob are curled up on the couch, his hand on your stomach like he’s trying to decode Morse code from a blueberry-sized human.
Then Bob says, “What about… Mabel?”
You blink at him like he’s suggested naming the kid after a defunct tractor brand.
“Mabel? Bob, that’s the name of a woman who knits angry scarves.”
He looks mildly offended. “You like old names.”
“Vintage names, baby. Not… dust.”
And just like that, war begins.
Phoenix is the first casualty, because she walks in at the wrong time and immediately gets conscripted.
“What about something strong,” she suggests, stealing Bob’s coffee and ignoring his wounded gasp. “Something with presence. Like… Zara. Or Nova. Or Clementine. Something that sounds like she could steal my lunch money.”
Bob nods thoughtfully. You shake your head violently. “I’m not naming my child after a fruit OR a car.”
Cue Fanboy bursting in like he was summoned by the stupidity. “Name it after something cool. Something legendary.”
“Absolutely not,” Bob says.
“You didn’t even hear my suggestion.”
“Because you,” Bob says, “are about to name my child after a spaceship.”
Fanboy’s offended. “It was going to be Millennium, thank you.”
Rooster strolls in next, eating from a bag of chips like this is his Roman colosseum entertainment. “I say name the baby after me.”
“No.”
He shrugs. “Just putting greatness on the table.”
Hangman swans in with his cat under one arm, already exhausted by everyone else’s mediocrity. “If you want a powerful name, you should obviously go with Jake.”
You throw a pillow at his head. “I wouldn’t even name my toaster Jake.”
Hangman gasps like you’ve stabbed his patriotic spirit. “You wound me.”
The cat hisses. Probably in agreement.
Bob puts a hand on your thigh, calm and gentle, like he’s trying to restore order in a collapsing kingdom. “What about something meaningful? Something that feels like us.”
You soften for a second. “Like… June?”
His whole face lights up. And then Phoenix ruins it.
“She’s not being born in June.”
“It’s a name, Natasha.”
Fanboy pipes up, “If we’re breaking rules, can we name her after months in Klingon?”
“No.”
Hangman adjusts his cat, who is glaring at all of humanity. “Look, if you two insist on being boring, at least let the rest of us throw in middle names.”
Everyone starts shouting suggestions.
Rooster: “Blaze.”
Fanboy: “Starfire.”
Phoenix: “Please stop.”
Hangman: “Denim. Or Wrangler.”
You stare at them like you’re witnessing the end of civilization.
Bob leans in, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear. “We’re picking it ourselves, right?”
Your hand finds his. “Absolutely. They’re banned.”
Hangman lifts his cat’s paw like he’s making him wave. “She’s offended she wasn’t chosen as godmother.”
The cat swipes at him.
“See?” you deadpan. “Even your cat says no.”
The arguing continues for another ten minutes before everyone realizes the two of you are ignoring them and whispering quietly to each other, tossing soft names back and forth, testing how they sound, how they feel, how they fit.
And despite the noise, the chaos, the absolute incompetence of your beloved friends, the two of you land on a few that make you both smile.
Something yours. Something gentle. Something that feels like home.
Of course, the squad still thinks it was their idea.
They’re wrong. Obviously.
---
Midnight cravings were a whole other disaster.
Bob was not a fan of the 2 a.m. kitchen raids, but he did them anyway. You’d waddle into the kitchen in the dark, the refrigerator light flicking on, and Bob would stumble in behind you like a loyal puppy.
“My world, you’ve got to stop eating in the middle of the night. You’re gonna give yourself indigestion.”
You, on the other hand, were a woman on a mission. “Bob, I need chocolate-- and don’t say anything about the Oreos. I already ate those, too.”
Bob sighed dramatically. “You’re gonna be the first pregnant person to have a heart attack from eating sugar.”
“You’re not my mom,” you shot back, grabbing a jar of Nutella and a spoon. “Mind your business.”
“I’m just saying--”
“You’re just too cute,” you interrupted, with Nutella smeared on your cheek. “What would I do without you?”
Bob smiled softly, like he didn’t even mind that you’d eaten an entire pint of ice cream, some gummy bears, and had almost finished off the Nutella. “You’d probably make a mess without me,” he said, reaching out to wipe the Nutella off your cheek. “But I’ve got your back.”
---
“Wake up, husband. I need your back right now.”
It’s 3:07 a.m.
The world is quiet. Peaceful.
Then you shake Bob awake like you’re trying to resuscitate a startled walrus.
“Bobby,” you whisper. “I need something.”
His eyes open instantly. The man thinks you’re in labor forty weeks early. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurting? Is it the baby? Say words.”
“I need,” you say, with solemn importance, “a grilled cheese dipped in… mango pickle.”
Bob stares at you like the universe just asked him to solve quantum physics. “Mango. Pickle.”
“And grilled cheese. Together.” You nod. “Please Robert. I can feel it in my soul.”
He rubs his face with both hands, muttering something so husband-coded it might legally qualify as prayer. But he gets up. Because he loves you. And because he’s too tired to argue with a pregnant person radiating sacred cravings energy.
He shuffles to the kitchen, hair sticking up like a confused baby chick, and begins assembling culinary war crimes.
The moment the pan sizzles, someone knocks on the door.
Bob jumps like he wasn’t expecting visitors during his personal episode of Chopped: Pregnancy Edition.
He opens it to find Phoenix, holding a toolbox. “I smelled burning from next door. Thought you were dying.”
You appear in the hallway. “It’s not cheese. It’s destiny.”
Fanboy nods solemnly. “I get it.”
“You knocked-up too?”
Phoenix walks in, sees the mango pickle jar, and freezes. “Are you two… cooking a felony?”
Bob stands at the stove, flipping the sandwich with the precision of a man resigned to weirdness. “She wants it. I’m making it. Please don’t judge me.”
“You’re flipping it like it’s a bomb,” Phoenix says.
“Feels like one,” he mutters.
The squad trickles in because apparently none of them sleep like normal humans. Also, they live right next door. Rooster rubs his eyes. Payback yawns. Hangman arrives last, holding his grumpy cat like a hostage.
Hangman leans over Bob’s shoulder. “That smells awful.”
The cat hisses.
Rooster winces. “Dude, don’t give that to her. She’ll throw up on your shirt.”
You glare at him. “I won’t.”
Bob slides the monstrosity onto a plate. “Everyone stop talking. She’s happy and that’s what matters.”
Fanboy claps softly like Bob just performed a magic trick.
Bob walks it over to you with the devotion of a man delivering a royal offering. You take one bite.
The entire room watches.
Your eyes widen. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Bob sags against the counter, whispering, “Thank god.”
Hangman crosses his arms. “So are we all making you snacks at nightmare o’clock now?”
“No.” You smile smugly. “Just Bob.”
The squad collectively pats his shoulder like he’s been drafted.
Bob just smiles at you, tired and soft, his whole face saying he’d do it a thousand times if it meant you smiled like that again.
And for once, the squad doesn’t tease him.
Well… until Hangman mutters, “The baby's gonna have rotten tastebuds.”
The cat hisses at him.
Accurate.
---
Then there was the insomnia phase. It hit at around week 30. You couldn’t sleep to save your life, no matter what you tried. Not only did your body feel like it was carrying a small planet, but Bob also snored like a bear trapped in a cave.
You tried to ignore it at first, rolling over in bed to put your pillow over your ears. But that didn’t work. You tried nudging him to roll onto his side. That didn’t work either.
Finally, you gave up.
You shuffled out of bed, grabbing your pillow, and dragging yourself to the couch. It was going to be a long night.
But just as you settled in, hoping to catch at least a few hours of sleep, you heard it.
The sound of snoring-- louder, closer, and right in your ear.
You groaned and turned over, only to find Bob, with his eyes closed, his body curled around you. He had followed you out to the couch.
“Bob,” you muttered, half-amused, half-frustrated. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t open his eyes, but his hand reached out to pull you closer. “I can’t sleep without you.”
You sighed, rolling your eyes, but honestly? It was kind of cute. Very cute. Your husband was the epitome of cute.
“Bob,” you grumbled again, but it was less of an argument and more of a why are you so perfect tone.
Bob let out a sleepy hum, nuzzling into your neck. “If you’re not sleeping, I’m not sleeping,” he mumbled.
And even though you were exhausted, even though he’d just invaded your personal space in the middle of your insomniac meltdown, you couldn’t help but smile. He was, in fact, the ultimate husband material.
---
Pregnancy hormones were like turning a dial labeled “mildly flirty” all the way up to feral chaos. One second you were normal, the next you were the apex predator of lust, eyes locking onto Bob like he owed her an apology and a blowjob.
Girls’ night out was supposed to be wholesome. It was not. You were a few weeks pregnant and acting like a Victorian heiress fainting on a sofa. Hand on your debatable "flat" stomach, you sighed loudly enough to be heard three tables over.
“The baby is craving a vacation in the south of France.”
Natalie tch'ed mid–lip gloss application. “You’ve been pregnant for five minutes. The only trip you’re taking is to the bathroom.”
“Oh?,” you said, sipping your drink like a queen with medical delusions. “I'll have you know, I don’t control the baby’s desires, Nat. If the fetus wants a beach villa and a man named Laurent bringing us pastries, who am I to interfere?”
Reuben’s girlfriend snorted so hard she almost inhaled her straw. “Girl, how are you pregnant already? It’s only been what? Half a year? You didn’t even try to run out your warranty.”
You sighed. “If my husband wasn’t so stupidly fuckable, I would not be in this biological hostage situation.”
All three girls exploded like feral parrots.
“Not Bob Floyd!” Natalie slapped the table. “He looks like he asks permission to breathe near you.”
The third girl, Esha chimed in, already a little tipsy. “No, he looks like he sets a timer during sex. Like, ‘uh oh sweetie, I’ve hit my thrust quota for the day.’”
The table roared. Actual shrieking. A waiter turned around like he was checking if someone needed emergency services.
You stared at them. Pleasantly. Smiling. Meanwhile, your soul was halfway to the moon.
Because the truth was sitting in your throat like a grenade:
Excuse me, my husband has a cute face, a killer fat cock, and eats me like he’s fulfilling a sacred oath. I am pregnant because he is dangerously good at what he does.
But instead you just said, with the politeness of a woman trying not to commit violence:
“Haha. Totally. Vanilla. Definitely not rearranging my spine. Sure.”
They kept giggling. You kept sipping. Your child, allegedly craving France, was probably already judging these women.
Finally, you rolled your eyes and muttered, “Sorry my husband is perfect. As if that’s my fault.”
Natalie waved a hand dramatically. “Whatever, you’re glowing. That’s how I know the sex is still good.”
“Trust me, if the glow ever fades, you’ll hear him crying first.” you smirked into your drink. “And good honestly, I’d hate for all his effort to go unappreciated.”
Natalie huffs. “See, this is why you’re the married one and I’m in situationships with men who fear soap.”
“My guy’s idea of effort is remembering which side of the bed is mine.” another chimed in.
You, shaking your head, picked up the menu and immediately frowned, like it had personally betrayed you. Your eyes darted across page after page, each dish a tiny assault on your already fragile pregnancy brain. “Why… why are there so many options?” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.
Natalie peeked over your shoulder, trying not to grin. “Uh… it’s a menu? You know… food?”
“No, Natalie. It’s a test. A trap designed to see if I can survive adulthood and motherhood at the same time. Look at this! Pasta! Risotto! Tiny salads! Enchiladas! And what if the baby hates the wrong one?” You jabbed a finger at the menu as if stabbing it for being cruel.
Esha tried to intervene, giving a sympathetic shrug. “It’s literally just food, you know…”
Also, baby brain.
“Just food?!” you snapped, voice rising like you were addressing a jury. “Do you even see what’s happening here? Each choice is a commitment. Every wrong pick could result in permanent regret. Or-- worse-- the baby judging me silently while it’s still forming in my uterus!”
Rueben's girlfriend leaned in, wide-eyed. “Uh… maybe the baby will just… like food?”
“Oh no. It’s not that simple!” you gasped, grabbing the edge of the table for support. “If I choose the shrimp risotto, the baby could have preferred chicken! If I pick the chicken, the baby may secretly wish I’d ordered the pasta! There’s no winning, I tell you. None. Absolute chaos!”
Natalie snorted, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “Okay… I have to say, I did not expect to witness this level of dramatic culinary panic.”
You threw your napkin down in defeat, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh. “God, I’m so mad... I’m going home to touch my husband’s tits so I won’t be mad anymore.”
Cue eyes rolling back to their brains.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. You picked it up, saw the name, and a grin spread across your face.
“Ooooh, a pretty boy calling me,” you murmured, cheeks warming.
“Who’s thiiiis?” you say with a smirk, your voice teasing even over the phone.
“Hmm… could it be your devoted husband calling to remind you how much he misses you?” Bob’s voice is playful, but there’s a soft warmth underneath.
You giggle, tilting your head. “Oh really? Is that what you’re calling yourself now? Devoted, huh?”
“Absolutely,” he says, chuckling. “And very concerned about my gorgeous wife being out on her own. Are you being good?”
“Good?” you laugh, resting your belly against the couch. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I might be a little… mischievous.”
“Mischievous?” he repeats, mock horror in his tone. “I can’t have that. I might have to come collect my troublemaker myself.”
You hum, delighted. “Oh, I think you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d love it more than anything,” he says, voice melting soft. “I miss you. I miss this-- hearing your voice, laughing with you, just… being you.”
“Hmm,” you sigh playfully, “you better hurry then, or I’ll have all the fun by myself.”
“Impossible,” he murmurs, a warm smile in his voice. “I’ll be there soon, and then all the fun will be ours. Count every second, m'love.”
You grin, feeling your heart swell. “I’m counting… and I’ll be waiting, hands and heart ready.”
Bob laughs softly, the kind that makes you feel safe and cherished. “That’s my girl. See you soon, my beautiful wife.”
“And you, my handsome, insufferably sweet husband,” you whisper before hanging up, already feeling him near.
You hang up, cheeks still warm from hearing Bob’s voice.
Your friends are frozen, deathpan, eyes barely twitching as they take you in.
“…So… we’re not enough for you anymore?” one murmurs, voice flat but just a touch heartbroken.
You giggle, leaning back and wiggling your fingers at them. “Oh, silly! You’ll always be enough. But… he’s just my perfect boy, okay?”
The twitch in their eyes grows just a little, betraying their amusement, and one of them huffs softly. “Absolutely disgusting.”
You laugh, pressing a hand to your belly, feeling all warm and fuzzy. “Disgusting? Girl, even talking to him isn't enough, I need to be inside his white blood cells and protect him.”
They groan in perfect unison, tiny smiles flickering, “Touch grass.”
You slam your hands on the table, making the cutlery rattle and your excitement practically vibrate through the room. “Touching grass isn't enough. I need to be fuckin' railed.”
The engine hums outside. You glance up-- Bob’s trusty navy blue truck.
You giggle, wave goodbye to your friends, and rise, swaying a little as you walk toward him.
He’s already out of the car, hurrying, eyes locked on you, a smile that melts you waiting at the curb.
You meet him halfway; he brushes a strand of hair from your face, you laugh softly, leaning into him.
From inside, your friends watch through the window, hands pressed to the glass, eyes wide, tiny twitches betraying their jealousy as they take in your perfectly lovey-dovey bubble.
“Absolutely unfair.”
“They’re literally showing off and it’s illegal.”
“Jealous doesn’t even start to cover it.”
---
You waddle inside, belly swaying slightly, the soft jingle of the front door announcing your arrival.
Bob follows behind, keys jingling in his hand, and the moment his eyes land on you… his grin brightens, then falters ever so slightly.
That look. The one that makes his heart skip and a warm, fluttery feeling spread through him. Playful. Mischievous. Softly dangerous in the most adorable way.
“Uh-oh,” he murmurs, his voice half-laugh, half-whisper. “What is my pretty wife plotting now?”
He can’t help it-- his grin grows, giddy and full of love, and he takes a small step closer, drawn to you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
Even just standing near you makes his chest feel too full, and he silently vows: no matter what she’s planning… he’s exactly where he wants to be.
Bob barely gets another breath out when your hand lifts, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants with slow, intentional purpose.
He freezes. His smile flickers. His soul briefly leaves his body.
You look up at him with the most solemn, ceremonial expression known to man, like you’re about to pass down a royal verdict.
“Top me,” you declare, voice grave and steady. “I deserve it.”
It sounds less like a request and more like you’re announcing a sentence from the High Court of Horny Pregnant Wives.
Bob blinks once. Twice. His ears go pink.
“Sweetheart… you can’t just--”
But you’re still holding his waistband like it’s evidence.
And you look terrifyingly committed.
“I… I can’t dare,” he says, voice soft but firm. “There’s a bun in the oven, my love. That’s… that’s strictly off-limits territory.”
You tilt your head, eyes wide and soft, shimmering with a little pout. “Doesn’t my dark circles make me look… irresistible?” then with a offended gasp, “You’re telling me my exhaustion isn't attractive?”
He cups her face, looking into her eyes with all the warmth he feels. “Exhaustion? I don’t see it. I see the woman I love… more stunning than ever. Always.”
You giggle teethily, leaning into his touch, your belly brushing against him slightly, eyes wide and sparkling as you look up at him with all the adorableness in the world.
“Then fuck m--”
“Nope.”
“Come on, Bob… just a little…” you whisper, voice soft and teasing, tilting your head.
He freezes, his grin faltering as he sees that mischievous glint. “Absolutely not,” he says, voice firm but gentle, hands lingering on your sides. “It’s too… I don’t know, darling. Feels weird. And… the baby might be watching.”
Your expression freezes into a calm, terrifying stillness-- like a storm gathering. Bob swallows hard, already regretting ever thinking “no” was an option.
“Whatever… whatever my goddess wants,” he whispers, voice soft and shaky, eyes wide and full of helpless adoration.
You tilt your head slightly, letting the tiniest smirk play on your lips. His hands hover uncertainly, unsure whether to pull you close or just stay frozen, completely undone by your gaze.
“You’ve got me, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice barely audible, like saying it aloud makes him even more vulnerable.
Your giggle is quiet but triumphant, brushing your belly lightly against him. His arms move almost automatically, wrapping you close, like a magnet drawn to your pull. Bob is utterly, hopelessly in love-- and completely yours.
Time passed, as it always does, and soon the chaos of bringing a tiny human into the world would test even the strongest hearts…
Your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep and the haze of labor, only to catch the sight of Bob curled up beside you, his cheeks streaked with tears, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
He grips your hand like he’s afraid you might vanish, burying his face against it. “I… I can’t… we’re never doing this again!” he mutters dramatically, voice thick with emotion. “Never! You could’ve died! I-- God, I can’t… I can’t risk it ever again!”
You blink, still half-asleep, trying not to giggle at the sheer theatricality of him, the way he’s completely undone, completely vulnerable, and completely in love with you all at once.
“Pissing me the fuck off all by yourself, handsome?,” you whisper, squeezing his hand back gently, your lips twitching at his ridiculous, heart-melting panic.
Bob lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face in your hand again, whispering, “Never… never again,” though you know that in a week, he’ll be smitten and hopeless all over again.
Your gaze drifts lazily across the room, still heavy with exhaustion. On the other side, your dad leans in, gently handing you a cup of water. You manage a small, grateful smile as Bob hovers nearby, carefully helping you sit up.
A wince escapes you as your feet brush against the bed railing, and your dad immediately moves to the edge of the hospital bed, softly massaging them, as if trying to soothe every ache and worry away.
Bob instinctively leans closer to take over, hands hovering nervously, but your dad shoots him a sharp, almost-faulting glare, as if to say “this is your doing, young man.”
Your mom sits beside you, damp cloth in hand, gliding it gently over your sweaty forehead. Her voice is soft and steady, brimming with pride. “You did so well… so, so well,” she murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your face.
You close your eyes briefly, letting the mixture of care and love wash over you-- the quiet strength of your parents, the shaky devotion of your husband, and the overwhelming sense of everything they’ve all endured together.
“Look at those little hands! Already plotting world domination… or just snack time? Either works.”
Your eyes flutter open, heavy and hazy, and you take a slow, groggy blink. Across the room, a figure blocks part of your view-- Hangman, a little hunched over the crib, his hand in a cast from the labor chaos, but still smiling like nothing could bother him. Somehow, even injured, he radiates this strange, chaotic warmth.
A soft smile spreads across your lips, and you turn your head to Bob. “So… what did you name the baby?” you ask quietly, voice still thick with sleep.
Bob grins, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “I named her Lila,” he says softly, pride and love threading through every syllable.
Your lips part, eyes lighting up. “A girl…” you whisper, the realization warm and strange all at once.
Bob nods, a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes. “Yep… and I named her all by myself. So you...” he smiles, “...can have all the fun naming the baby boy.”
Your heart stops. “Wait… baby boy?” you croak, eyes widening in shock.
Your gaze drops, and there it is-- Hangman standing carefully, cradling two babies in his arms. One sleeps peacefully, tiny chest rising and falling, while the other stares dead-on at Hangman’s face, eyes wide and unwavering.
Twins.
You blink, dumbfounded, then glance at Bob, who just smirks, shrugging like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Hangman, oblivious to the chaos he’s caused, gives a small, proud hum, adjusting the sleeping baby with one hand, the other still in a cast, but handling them both like it’s second nature.
Your lips curl into a mixture of awe, exhaustion, and laughter. “Twins,” you breathe, shaking your head, utterly overwhelmed, and secretly thrilled.
“Bob… I think the diaper budget just filed for bankruptcy.”
kianamaiart
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