some people are soft only for you ⁃ robert "bob" floyd
pairings: robert "bob" floyd x bartender!reader word count: 12.7k words synopsis: he’s always been the quiet one. the one who stayed in the background, who never asked for more. but what happens when you realize the one person who’s always been there... is the one you’ve been waiting for? warnings: angst, slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, hurt/comfort, rainy confessions, a slap (but it’s earned), crying, kissing in the rain, bob floyd being soft, robert floyd rights. flight log: since the bob floyd fic won in the poll (because you all have incredible taste), this is for the quiet love enjoyers, the slow burn believers, and everyone who’s ever yelled at a fictional man for not speaking up sooner. this fic is full of rain, longing, and everything i think bob floyd deserves. thank you for waiting. i hope it hugs your heart a little. disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist
Bob remembered the first time he saw you like it was branded somewhere behind his ribs.
It had been a regular Friday at the Hard Deck, the kind where the sun dipped just right over the water, warm enough to blur the windows and paint the inside gold. He was sitting at his usual table in the corner, a few chairs down from Hangman who was busy retelling a story no one had asked to hear again.
Phoenix had already rolled her eyes twice while Bob had his drink in hand, half-listening, half-wishing he had stayed home when the door opened and Penny stepped through with someone trailing behind her.
You.
She had one hand on your shoulder, ushering you in like someone showing off a prized secret, and that was when everything stopped for him. Bob didn’t know if it was the way you tilted your head when Penny said something under her breath, or the fact that you smiled like you weren’t quite used to smiling in public.
You were trying, and he could see that. How? Well, you looked like someone trying not to look nervous, someone trying to belong. He swore, just for a second, his heart forgot what it was supposed to do.
Meanwhile, everyone else had started noticing, too. Bradley leaned forward against the bar, Jake straightened up in that too-obvious way he did when he wanted to be looked at, and Coyote muttered something under his breath that made Payback laugh.
The squad was buzzing in a way they hadn’t in weeks, and Bob just sat there with his drink, watching you smile at Penny like she was your only anchor in the room.
Penny introduced you like it was nothing, just her niece, newly in town, helping out behind the bar for a while. You were taking a break from your old job as Penny said. Needed a change of scenery.
She said it like it was temporary, like you were just passing through, but Bob felt something else settle in his chest, like he already knew you were going to be here a while. Long enough to change things.
He remembered how you looked at each of them, Bradley first. You laughed at something he said and tilted your head a little, fingers brushing your necklace as if you were already a little charmed. It wasn't your fault.
Rooster could make most people smile, but Bob saw the way your eyes lingered a bit longer than they did with the others. The way your shoulders loosened near him, and the way you leaned in.
Too bad for Bob, he thought. Even then.
But he stayed quiet, like he always did. Just watched, then helped you carry a crate of soda to the backroom when Penny got busy. You smiled at him and said thanks like it actually meant something. And that, God, that was enough to get him through the rest of the week.
Over the next few months, he watched the way you folded into the rhythm of the place. You learned everyone’s drinks, picked up on who tipped and who didn’t, and started finishing Penny’s sentences before she could.
You were quick, you were sharp, but you were never cruel. Bob saw the way you looked when you thought no one was paying attention, those small, tired moments when the bar was loud but you looked somewhere far away. He wanted to ask. He never did.
Then, came the Rooster thing. It wasn’t a thing, not really, at least (and hopefully) not yet, but Bob knew what it looked like to hope. He recognized it in himself first, every time you looked up when Rooster walked in, every time your laugh came a little easier with him.
Rooster was kind to you. He flirted without meaning to. Sometimes he meant to. You flirted back. You wore that same necklace every time he was scheduled to drop in after a flight.
Bob just watched, quiet as ever.
As time went on, he kept finding reasons to linger near the bar after the rest of the squad left. Just to make sure you locked the doors safely, just to offer to walk you to your car. Sometimes, you talked. Not about much, like the weather, and how loud the jukebox was that night.
Once, you asked him if he ever got tired of being the responsible one. He didn’t know how to answer.
He had started to think he would be okay with this, just being around. Being the guy who stayed, who didn’t push, who was always polite and careful and useful. It was enough. Until it started to hurt. Until he realized that every time he saw you with Rooster, something in him flickered in a way he didn’t know how to control.
And still, he said nothing, because it wasn’t his place, and because he wasn’t the kind of man who made grand gestures. He was the kind of man who waited, who hoped quietly, and who stayed.
But lately, he had started wondering; how long could someone wait before they started to break a little?
It was a Friday night when it happened, one of those rare evenings where the entire Dagger Squad managed to show up at the same time, no drills the next morning and nothing but hours ahead to kill.
The Hard Deck was busier than usual, the kind of full that meant Penny had music playing just a little too loud and the laughter at the pool table spilled all the way to the back booths.
Bob had arrived early, the way he usually did, already nursing something mild as the others filtered in. He didn’t expect you to join them.
You normally stayed behind the bar, that was your world. You floated through it like someone who belonged to it, moving with purpose and comfort, like the chaos never touched you. So, when you slid into the booth beside him, smiling as you bumped your knee gently against his, Bob almost dropped his glass.
“Hope this seat’s not taken,” you said, already settling in.
Bob blinked, then smiled, the quiet kind that reached his eyes before it reached his mouth. “Nope, it’s yours.”
Meanwhile, Rooster dropped into the space on Bob’s other side, his laugh already halfway through some joke Phoenix had muttered earlier.
Fanboy was busy chatting up someone near the bar, Payback and Coyote deep in some debate about the rules of darts, and for a moment, Bob sat there with you to his left and Rooster to his right, wondering how he had become the center of gravity in a scene that made his chest tighten just a little.
You turned toward Rooster almost immediately, picking up where you’d left off earlier at the bar when you had been talking about music. “So, you’re telling me you still don’t know who Joni Mitchell is?” you asked, eyebrows lifted.
Rooster raised his hands in mock surrender as he leaned forward slightly, glancing past Bob to meet your eyes. “Look, I’ve heard the name. That counts for something, right?”
You scoffed as you grabbed a fry from the basket in front of you. “Barely, ‘cause that’s like saying you’ve heard of air.”
Bob watched you as you laughed, watched Rooster roll his eyes and reach for his drink, and as the two of you kept trading playful jabs, he stayed quiet, sipping slowly.
He wasn’t left out, not really, but he nodded when you said something funny, smiled when Rooster responded, but no one was talking to him directly. He didn’t mind, not really.
Then you turned toward him, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow. “Bob, please tell me you have decent taste in music. Help me out here.”
He set down his glass as he met your gaze. “I, uh, I like Joni Mitchell,” he said, voice steady but soft.
You grinned, leaning a little closer. “See? I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
Bob blinked again, heart thudding once in his chest like it had just remembered it had a job to do. He smiled as he looked down, trying not to read too far into it, trying not to catalog the way you had said it.
You turned back to Rooster almost immediately, still half-laughing as you grabbed another fry and tossed it onto his plate like a challenge.
As the conversation moved on, the rest of the squad trickled closer, Jake finally giving up on his conquest at the bar and dropping into the seat beside Phoenix.
The table filled with the usual rhythm, jokes and teasing and interrupted stories, but Bob couldn’t shake the way you kept leaning slightly toward Rooster as you talked.
He couldn’t help noticing how Rooster’s shoulder brushed his own whenever he turned to respond to you, how Bob was caught in the middle of something he wasn’t part of.
He laughed when they laughed, nodded when someone addressed him, answered questions when they came his way, but he felt it. That quiet weight of watching something unfold next to him, knowing he was only a bystander. He didn’t resent it, and he didn’t resent you.
He just wished, for one brief, selfish moment, that you would lean his way again.
Across the table, Phoenix caught Bob’s eye as Rooster launched into some story about flying low over the mountains in Nevada. She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head slightly toward you, her meaning loud and clear.
Beside her, Hangman smirked as he sipped from his beer, then shot Bob a look so exaggerated it almost tipped into performance, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, a slow shake of his head that said, Seriously, Floyd?
Bob didn’t react. He kept his gaze fixed on the half-empty fry basket and picked at the edge of his napkin like there was something fascinating about the texture.
He could feel their eyes though, the silent conversation that he knew was happening in looks and subtle nudges. He knew what they were thinking, and he refused, absolutely refused, to let it show on his face.
Because you were still sitting beside him, warm and easy and relaxed, legs crossed in his direction, and he wasn’t about to mess that up by getting caught staring or doing something stupid like hoping.
So, he kept his voice casual when he joined the conversation, offering a quiet “Sounds intense,” after Rooster finished his story, even though he’d barely heard a word of it.
Phoenix didn’t drop it. She leaned forward on her elbows as she looked at him again, this time mouthing a word Bob didn’t want to see but definitely understood.
Talk.
He took a long sip of his drink instead.
Meanwhile, you laughed at something Rooster said, and Bob felt your hand brush his arm briefly as you leaned into the table to grab a napkin. It wasn’t anything. Not really, but his breath still caught for a second before he swallowed it down.
Then Hangman leaned in, voice low but pointed. “So, Floyd,” he said with an easy smile that always meant trouble, “any updates in your love life? Anyone we should know about?”
Phoenix didn’t even try to be subtle. She turned her head and looked directly at you, then back to Bob.
Bob didn’t flinch. He took another bite of his burger as if Hangman had just asked him about the weather. “Nothing new,” he said simply.
“Tragedy,” Hangman muttered, shaking his head with a grin.
Beside him, Phoenix rolled her eyes and sat back as she sipped from her straw, but not before muttering under her breath, just loud enough for Bob to hear, “Coward.”
Bob didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his expression even as he folded his napkin in half again, smoothing the crease with his thumb. If he answered now, it would only draw more attention.
If he said anything, you might notice, and the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were a spectacle in someone else’s drama.
You deserved better than that, and he didn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable, even accidentally.
So he sat there, listening to the noise of the table rise around him, with your shoulder brushing his again as you turned back to ask Rooster a question about call signs.
He told himself it was enough, that this was fine, because you were beside him. You had chosen that seat. Maybe not for the reason he wanted, but you were there.
And that was more than he’d ever expected. Right?
Bob had just managed to pull himself back into the rhythm of the table, laughing politely, nodding at the right moments, forcing his attention onto Coyote’s rant about someone double-parking their Bronco again, when Jake looked at him.
Not a glance, not a passing look. A full, deliberate pause. Mischief flickered behind Hangman’s eyes like a match just waiting to be lit. His expression was easy, casual even, but Bob knew him too well by now. That look always meant something was about to go sideways.
Bob met his gaze briefly, brows furrowing. Jake tilted his head slightly and raised his glass in a mock toast. Then he shifted in his seat, leaned forward on his elbows, and with surgical precision, turned toward you.
“Hey,” Jake started, voice pitched just right to cut through the noise, “how are you settling in? Penny’s got you working double shifts lately, huh?”
You smiled as you wiped a bit of salt off your fingers. “Yeah, she’s been trusting me with more lately. Not sure if that’s a compliment or if she’s just trying to avoid the late-night crowd.”
Jake chuckled. “Well, if it’s a compliment, you’ve earned it. You handle this place better than half the guys I’ve flown with.”
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That is not a high bar, Bagman.”
“True,” Jake grinned, tapping his glass lightly against the table. “But still, you’ve got something the rest of us don’t.”
Bob tried not to react. He stared down at the condensation ring forming around his glass and took a breath.
Jake continued, voice smooth, casual, laced with something just clever enough to be dangerous. “You’ve got the whole ‘people actually like talking to you’ thing, and I mean that. I’ve seen the way folks stay longer when you’re behind the bar.”
You shrugged modestly, eyes warm. “Well, I listen, so I think that helps.”
Jake smiled, then glanced, briefly but intentionally, at Bob. “Yeah, listening’s a skill, but not everyone’s good at it.”
Bob didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but his fingers curled just slightly around his glass.
Then Jake leaned back and turned toward you again. “You ever get bored of it, though? Listening to people talk about themselves all night?”
You laughed under your breath as you picked up your drink. “Sometimes. Depends on the person, but I don’t mind hearing people’s stories.”
Jake nodded slowly. “What about yours? Who listens to you?”
Bob’s eyes lifted before he could stop them.
You blinked, like you hadn’t been expecting the question to come from him, and there was a beat of silence. Then, you smiled, softer this time. “I don’t know. I guess… not many people ask.”
“Maybe they should,” Jake said, tone light, almost teasing. “Bet it’d surprise a few of us.”
You laughed again, brushing it off as you reached for another fry. “You trying to psychoanalyze me now?”
Jake shrugged. “Nah, just think good people deserve someone who listens back.”
Bob looked down again, heat crawling behind his ears.
Then, Jake turned toward him, casual as ever, and nudged his shoulder once with the back of his knuckles. “Right, Floyd?”
Bob blinked, glancing up, catching the quick glint in Jake’s eye and the faint curve of a grin playing on his lips.
“Y-yeah,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I think so.”
He didn’t dare look at you then. He just reached for his glass again, swallowing the thought before it could become a word.
Jake sat back, satisfied, sipping his drink like nothing had happened, but Bob could feel it. The shift, the air had changed, and even if you didn’t notice yet, even if you still leaned toward Rooster when you laughed, there was something unspoken now settling between you and Bob.
Something Jake had poked loose just enough to rattle, and Bob wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank him or strangle him for it.
A few hours later, the bar was mostly empty, and the energy had dimmed into something quieter, more settled. The jukebox had long since shut off, the chairs were stacked, and Phoenix had waved a lazy goodnight as she ducked out with Coyote and Payback trailing behind her.
Bradley had left earlier, slipping out with a promise to come by for coffee sometime this week. Jake lingered just long enough to shoot Bob another smug glance before tipping his hat and disappearing into the parking lot.
Bob stayed.
He sat at the corner of the bar, sipping the last of something watered down, watching you move through the final closing routine with practiced ease.
You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on wiping down the counter and counting the register, but when you turned to grab your keys, you paused, just slightly, like you had sensed something.
"Bob!" Your brows lifted. “You’re still here?”
Bob straightened a little as he stood, quickly clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. I—I mean, I figured you might need, well, I remembered earlier you said your car’s still not fixed, and I didn’t want you walking home or calling a ride this late.”
You blinked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Bob.”
His name sounded different coming from you, like you actually meant it.
He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking somewhere near your shoulder. “I just thought… maybe I could drive you? If that’s okay. I mean, if you’re not already set.”
There was a small pause before you nodded once, keys still in hand.
“That’s really sweet, but—” you glanced out the front window toward the beach, where the tide was low and the moon was soft, casting everything in blue and silver. “Can I walk the beach first? Just for a few minutes. I usually do that after closing, and it helps me clear my head.”
Bob blinked, surprised by the question, then nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure, of course.”
You smiled again, smaller this time, and pushed through the door with a soft jingle of keys. He followed at a quiet distance, careful not to hover too close.
The night air was cooler than earlier, carrying the sharp, familiar scent of salt and old wood. The sand crunched lightly beneath your shoes as you stepped off the boardwalk and started down the beach, slow and quiet.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The ocean moved in the background, steady and gentle, waves lapping at the shore like they had all the time in the world. You walked with your arms loosely folded, head tilted toward the water, and Bob kept a respectful step behind, not quite beside you but not far either.
Eventually, you looked over your shoulder and nodded toward the waterline. “You can walk next to me, you know. I don’t bite.”
Bob smiled softly, catching up. “I know.”
You didn’t speak again for a bit, just let the sand and the sound of the tide fill the silence. He could see the tension easing from your shoulders as you walked, your steps slowing like you didn’t want to go home just yet, and honestly, he didn’t want to drive you there just yet either. He was content just being here.
Then, you glanced at him again, eyes curious. “You always stay this late?”
Bob shook his head. “Only tonight.”
“Because of my car?”
He hesitated for a beat, then answered truthfully. “Because of you.”
You didn’t say anything at first, and he didn’t expect you to, but he felt the shift again, small and quiet, like maybe you were seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time in a while. And for once, he didn’t look away.
After a few more minutes of walking, you drifted closer to where the water met the shore, the waves just brushing past your shoes. Bob followed carefully, keeping the rhythm, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The silence wasn’t awkward. It felt like it belonged there, like it was allowed to stretch without needing to be filled.
Then, you glanced over at him, your voice cutting through the quiet in a thoughtful tone. “You’re really quiet around me, you know.”
Bob looked over, a little startled. “What?”
“You barely talk,” you said, not unkindly, just honest. “I mean, I’ve known you for a few months now and I think I know more about Payback’s dog than I do about you.”
He let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
“So?” you prompted, a little amused. “What’s your deal, Floyd? You always this mysterious or is it just around me?”
Bob looked down for a second, as if considering how much to give. Then, he smiled, faint but genuine. “It’s not just you. I’ve always been like this.”
You nodded slowly. “That’s not a bad thing. Just means I’ve got to ask more questions.”
Bob chuckled under his breath, then glanced sideways. “You really want to know?”
“Sure,” you said, looking out toward the dark water. “If you don’t mind.”
He was quiet again for a beat, then offered, “I grew up in Kentucky. Small town. Lots of farms, lots of quiet. My parents still live there.”
You glanced back at him. “That tracks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You’ve got that whole, dependable small-town guy energy,” you said, smiling a little. “Like you know how to fix fences and drive stick.”
Bob gave a modest shrug. “I do.”
You laughed lightly, then looked ahead again. “I didn’t grow up anywhere near that quiet. My parents moved around a lot, military family and stuff. I barely unpacked before we’d be gone again. Think we lived in seven states before I turned ten.”
Bob glanced at you, his expression softening. “That sounds tough.”
“It was,” you admitted, not quite looking at him. “You get good at starting over, but not at staying. Penny was always the one stable person in my life. She’d send postcards wherever we were. Always signed them with something dumb like ‘Don’t forget who makes the best cheese cake.’”
Bob smiled at that. “She still say that?”
“She texted me that two weeks ago when I didn’t answer her call. I was sleeping!”
He chuckled again, a quiet sound in the open air. “She really loves you.”
“I know,” you said softly, then paused. “I think that’s why I came out here. Just needed something steady for once.”
Bob was quiet for a moment, walking beside you with the surf lapping softly just ahead. Then he asked, “Do you feel like you found that?”
You looked at him for a long second, then smiled—not wide, not dramatic, just enough to reach your eyes.
“I think I might,” you said.
Bob nodded once, eyes on the sand as he kept walking beside you.
By the time the two of you looped back near the edge of the boardwalk, the night had settled into something heavier, quieter. The kind of stillness that came when the world was finally tired enough to rest.
The ocean whispered nearby, all foam and pull, and the wind tugged gently at the hem of your jacket. You were walking closer now, shoulder just brushing his every few steps, not quite touching but near enough to notice when he shifted, near enough to feel the warmth coming off his sleeve.
You stopped walking first, and Bob paused beside you without question, turning toward the water as you looked out at it like it had something to say.
“I was kind of a mess when I got here,” you said, voice soft but deliberate. The words came out like something you’d carried for too long.
Bob turned slightly, watching your profile in the dim light, the way your gaze drifted to the horizon like it hurt to look back at the shore.
“I didn’t really say that to anyone, not even Penny. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, let alone out loud, but I was.” You exhaled, quiet and tired. “I was… really low. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t feel muchand I kept thinking maybe that was just how life was supposed to be.”
Bob didn’t interrupt. He stood there with you, steady, like an anchor just close enough to hold.
“Then Penny offered me the guest room,” you said. “Told me to stop pretending I was okay. Told me to come out here, take a break, just… breathe.”
You looked over at him slowly, your eyes searching his face like you were trying to see if he could hold what you were about to say next. “I didn’t think I’d stay. I figured I’d be gone in a few days.”
Bob swallowed, watching you now, completely still.
“But something about this place felt different,” you continued, eyes soft but steady. “The people. The ocean. The quiet. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I had to earn my spot just to exist. And I think—” your voice dipped slightly, careful now “—I think I found someone worth staying for.”
Bob’s breath caught, subtle but real. His fingers curled slightly in the pockets of his jacket. His heart made that same familiar leap, too hopeful, too fast. Then, he forced himself to slow it down, to be rational, to not assume.
He looked down briefly, then back up, eyes skimming your face. “Bradley’s… a good guy.”
You blinked. “What?”
Bob gave a small nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “He’s got a good heart. People like him. He’s easy to talk to, and I know he likes you.”
There was a pause, and then you turned to face him fully, the line of your shoulders shifting toward him like something inside you had snapped tight.
“It’s not Rooster.”
Bob blinked, startled. “It’s not?”
You took a slow step closer, not too close, but enough that the space between you suddenly felt deliberate. “It’s not. I meant someone else.”
His eyes searched yours, uncertain. You weren’t smiling anymore, not the playful, teasing grin you wore behind the bar. This was something rawer, something truer, and it pulled the breath from his lungs in a quiet wave. Your expression was open in a way he hadn’t seen before, like you were letting him see behind a curtain you normally kept closed.
There was something in your eyes now, too, like something deeper than curiosity, warmer than casual affection. A look that didn’t hide how long you’d been watching him the way he’d been watching you.
“I’m talking about someone who stays behind without being asked. Someone who waits for me after closing, who always listens even when I have nothing worth saying,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “Someone who never tries to take up all the space in the room, but somehow makes it feel safer just by being there.”
Bob looked away for a second, then back at you. He was trying not to fall headfirst into the thing you were offering. He was trying to protect himself, because he couldn’t quite believe it, not yet. “He sounds… lucky,” he said, careful not to let his voice shake.
You watched him, your brow furrowing just slightly. “Yeah,” you said. “I think he is, or he would be. If he felt the same.”
Your eyes didn’t leave his. They stayed right there, open, waiting, soft in the edges but bright with something that looked like hope, or maybe just the kind of yearning that lived in quiet places. The kind that never demanded anything, just wanted to be seen.
Bob stood there with his breath held like he might drop something if he exhaled. And still, he said nothing.
Because the part of him that loved you the most was the same part that was terrified to believe this was real.
- You -
After you bared your soul to Bob Floyd, nothing dramatic happened. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t tilt. You didn’t wake up the next day wrapped in some cinematic resolution.
What came instead was quieter. He hadn’t said anything that night, and in the days that followed, his silence stretched long enough to feel like an answer you didn’t want to hear.
At first, you tried to give him space. Maybe he needed time. You told yourself that, over and over, like a mantra you didn’t quite believe. He was thoughtful, cautious by nature.
Maybe he just didn’t know what to do with a moment like that, with someone standing in front of him asking him to be sure about something he had never dared to want out loud.
You excused his distance the first few days, chalked it up to nerves or work or some internal battle he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.
Then a week passed. Then two.
Meanwhile, life kept moving around you. Penny teased you about always being lost in your head. The Dagger Squad still came in for drinks and darts and nights that ended in someone losing a bet. Rooster flirted with a girl from town. Phoenix rolled her eyes at every single one of Jake’s one-liners.
And Bob? Bob was there, technically. He came in with the group, always on time, always polite. He nodded when you greeted him, smiled when the moment called for it, but the quiet between you was different now. Measured. Careful.
He didn’t stay behind after closing anymore. He didn’t sit at the bar with his hands folded while you cleaned up. He didn’t offer to walk you out to your car or wait by the door pretending he just happened to be there.
You noticed every time he left before the music ended. You noticed when he talked more to Phoenix, when he stared harder at his drink. You noticed when he didn’t look at you unless you spoke directly to him.
Then, came the creeping thoughts, the ones that curled around your ribs at night when you tried to sleep. Had you misread it all? The glances, the soft silences, the way he always stayed just a little longer than he needed to.
You wondered if he regretted letting you say it. If he wished you hadn’t. If your honesty had ruined something that wasn’t even fully alive to begin with.
You started second-guessing your words. You replayed that night in your head so many times it felt like a memory pressed under glass.
And still, Bob said nothing.
You didn’t want to chase him. You didn’t want to make him feel cornered or forced, but the hurt settled in slowly, like the way ocean salt clings to your skin long after you’ve dried off.
You missed him.
Missed him in the kind of way that snuck up on you during the little moments, the quiet in between shifts, the way you’d glance up out of habit and expect to see him leaning against the wall, waiting.
But he was gone, not completely, but just enough to make you feel the difference. And you were starting to wonder if he had ever really been yours to begin with.
You remember having a joke before about having a thing for Rooster. He was easy to like. Loud in a charming way, confident without being cruel, handsome in that classic, all-American way that turned heads when he walked into the bar. He made people laugh. He made you laugh.
For a while, it was enough to have him flirt with you across the counter, toss you a wink after landing a bullseye at the dartboard, tease you about your drink preferences like it was some shared secret. It was simple, and safe in its own shallow way.
But somewhere along the line, somewhere between closing shifts and long glances and the sound of Bob’s voice saying your name just once in a quiet room, you realized it had never really been about Rooster.
Because while everyone else was turning up the volume, Bob was steady. He didn’t try to impress anyone, didn’t spin stories or flash that practiced grin. He was just there. Patient, observant, always listening, and always waiting.
And now, without meaning to, your thoughts kept looping back to him. You saw him in the quiet moments, where nothing loud or clever could fill the space. The ones where presence mattered more than words.
And maybe that was why it hurt more than you expected, because you hadn’t just liked Bob. You’d started seeing him.
He wasn’t loud or traditionally flashy, but he had that kind of presence you didn’t fully appreciate until it was missing. He was tall, sure, but never made himself bigger than the room. His movements were careful, efficient, like someone who knew how to blend in but never truly disappear.
There was a softness to the way he carried himself, thoughtful and precise, like everything he did had purpose. His sandy hair always looked like it needed a few more minutes in the mirror, but it somehow worked on him, just slightly ruffled, like he’d been running his hand through it all day.
And his eyes, behind those glasses, were the kind you didn’t notice until you really looked. Clear blue, a little shy, always gentle, but there were moments when they caught the light just right and made your breath catch.
You remembered that night on the beach. The way he’d looked at you when you said it, really said it, and how something in his face had almost cracked. You thought he might say something then. Anything, but he hadn’t. He’d just looked at you with those quiet, stunned eyes and let the moment pass.
Now, two weeks later, it was all still sitting with you.
And no amount of Rooster’s charm or Jake’s jokes or Phoenix’s sideways glances could fill the space Bob had left behind.
Because it wasn’t just a crush anymore. It wasn’t something light or flirty or fun. It was something that had snuck up on you when you weren’t watching. And it was wearing glasses and a quiet smile and a name that was starting to taste like longing every time you said it.
The worst part was that he hadn’t said anything.
Not that he’d rejected you outright, and certianly not that he’d laughed or pulled away or looked horrified. He just... hadn’t said anything. And that silence? It was louder than any no you’d ever heard.
As the days stretched on, you started wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe you’d read too far into a kind gesture, misinterpreted a kind man. Maybe he had never looked at you that way.
Maybe he had been kind because that’s just who he was, and you’d gone and ruined everything by making it more than that. It would’ve been easier if he’d told you you were wrong. If he’d said he didn’t see you like that.
At least then you could’ve buried it properly, but this? This careful avoidance, this half-hearted politeness when you passed behind the bar, this space he put between you every time you were in the same room, it just felt worse.
Meanwhile, your thoughts kept looping in circles, dragging you into places you didn’t want to go. Was he ashamed of you? Had your honesty made him uncomfortable? Had he gone home that night and replayed it all with a wince, wondering why someone like you would even think he could feel the same?
You didn’t want to believe that. Not from Bob, but your brain didn’t care. It was like it made its own monsters in the dark.
Maybe he’d been disgusted, maybe he thought you were too much, too forward, and too broken. You’d been vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. You’d said things you didn’t even mean to say until they were already out of your mouth.
What if he had seen you differently after that? What if he pitied you?
Then, there was the deeper, more painful thought; the one that caught in your throat every time it surfaced. What if he had wanted to say something, but decided not to because he didn’t want you like that? What if the reason he didn’t speak was because it was easier to walk away than to face the disappointment in your eyes?
You started pulling back, even when you didn’t mean to. You smiled less, you lingered at the bar a little longer to avoid walking past him, you laughed at Hangman’s stupid jokes just to fill the silence.
You pretended Rooster still made your heart skip, even though he never had, but not in the way Bob did, at least. You tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that you hadn’t stood in front of him, heart open and hands shaking, asking for something small and simple.
You weren’t asking him to love you. You’d only wanted to know if he could. And now? Now you didn’t even know if he’d ever really seen you at all.
Eventually, you started blaming yourself.
Not just for saying too much, but for believing in the first place that you ever had a chance. The more time passed, the more it sunk in; how foolish you must have looked, how naive you must have sounded, standing there that night like some starry-eyed fool thinking that your feelings meant something.
You played it back in your head, the way his eyes had gone wide, the way his mouth opened and closed, the way the silence stretched just long enough to hurt. And still, you told yourself he needed time. That he was shy, or overwhelmed, or maybe just stunned by the idea that anyone could want him like that.
But now, after two weeks of polite distance and half-smiles that felt like placeholders, you saw the truth for what it was. You’d read too far into everything. You’d taken his kindness and mistook it for something more. You’d turned his gentle nature into something romantic because it was easier to believe he could love you than it was to admit how lonely you were.
Meanwhile, every moment you’d clung to before started crumbling under closer inspection.
That time he stayed late to walk you to your car? He probably just didn’t want you walking alone. The way he listened when you talked about your childhood? Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he wasn’t holding on to your words the way you were holding on to his silence. Maybe he never looked at you the way you looked at him. Maybe he never even saw you that way.
Then, came the part that stung worst of all. You had told him. You had shown him. And still, he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t come back with an apology or a gentle letdown. He hadn’t asked if you were okay or said he needed time or even offered you a friend’s honesty. He had just... faded.
And that left you with only one conclusion. You must have imagined it all.
You must have taken every quiet moment and twisted it into a fairytale. You must have seen something in him that was never really there. And how embarrassing was that?
How delusional had you been to think someone like Bob Floyd, kind and steady and good in a way you hadn’t known people could be, could ever look at someone like you and feel the same?
The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. You weren’t subtle. You had laid everything out for him, eyes wide, voice shaking, heart damn near bleeding at his feet. And he hadn’t even had to say no.
His silence had done the job for him. It was almost worse this way, the slow drip of rejection hidden under the surface of normalcy. At least if he’d said he didn’t feel the same, you could’ve begun to heal. Now all you had were the pieces of something you had built alone. And the painful knowledge that none of it, not a single part, had ever belonged to you.
“Hey,” Bradley said gently, his voice low and a little rough around the edges. “Hey, look at me.”
The sound of your name broke through the haze, pulling you back to yourself just enough to flinch. You hadn’t realized anyone had come outside.
You hadn’t realized how long you’d been sitting there, knees tucked up slightly, arms loose at your sides, eyes fixed on some blurred spot in the distance where the sky met the sea. You jumped when you felt the hand on your shoulder, then turned quickly, heart skipping.
Bradley stood just behind you, looking more serious than you were used to seeing him. He held a bottle in one hand and worry in his eyes, the kind that didn’t need explaining.
Without saying much else, he moved around and sat beside you on the porch swing, the old chains creaking softly under the added weight. He handed you the beer without ceremony and leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the swing, close but not quite touching.
Penny had all but pushed you out here fifteen minutes ago, and she told you she didn’t care how many glasses needed washing or how many people still needed tabs, then she said you were zoning out again, and it was starting to scare her.
You hadn’t argued, so you’d come out and settled on the swing you’d talked her into buying last spring, swearing it would bring in more customers, give the place a softer edge. Now, it just felt like a place to fall apart quietly.
“I’d be stupid to ask if you’re okay,” Bradley said after a moment, cracking the cap off his own bottle and taking a small sip.
You forced a small, shaky laugh. “I’m fine.”
But he turned his head toward you, sharp and certain, before you could even blink. “Do not lie to me, sweetheart.”
The words landed heavy, not cruel, but weighted in the way that told you he wasn’t going to let it slide this time. He knew, maybe not everything, and maybe not the full mess of what you were holding, but enough, enough to call it what it was.
You didn’t speak at first. The beer sat cold in your hand, untouched, forgotten. The swing moved just slightly beneath you both, the creak of the chain giving your silence rhythm.
You felt the wind slip through your hair, and you stared straight ahead, trying to find something steady in the blur of night lights reflecting off parked cars and distant waves.
It felt like something in you had cracked open, not loudly, but slowly, and all the thoughts you’d tried to keep buried had begun to spill into everything, every glance, every breath, every reminder of what you’d said and what he hadn’t.
And now Bradley was here, waiting quietly beside you, like he’d seen the whole thing unravel without ever needing you to say a word.
You didn’t answer him right away, and Bradley didn’t push. He just let the silence settle between you again, steady as the tide. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the glass of his beer bottle before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
The porch light buzzed faintly above, casting a soft glow over the railing, and the hum of conversation from inside the Hard Deck faded into the background.
“I won’t ask,” he said eventually, eyes fixed ahead. “But I’ll tell you something, and you don’t have to say a word back. Just... let me talk, alright?”
You nodded once, barely more than a tilt of your head. It was all the permission he needed.
“When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me this story about how she met my dad,” he began, voice easy and even, like he wasn’t trying to make it serious, just keep it honest.
“She said he used to come into this greasy little diner she worked at every Sunday, like clockwork. Sat at the same booth, ordered the same thing, barely said more than a few words to her the first month. She thought he was sweet, kind of quiet, kind of awkward.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, somewhere far away from the parking lot and the bar and whatever weight you were both carrying.
“She swore she caught him staring sometimes, but he always looked away too fast. She used to joke that he looked like he was trying to memorize her but didn’t want her to notice. Said he always left good tips, always thanked her, but never flirted. Not once, but for weeks.”
There was a softness to Bradley’s voice now, one that only came when he talked about his mother. You’d heard it before, usually in quieter moments, and it always held a kind of reverence that made you ache.
“Then one night,” he continued, “she was working a late shift, and rain was coming down hard, place was almost empty. She was wiping down the counter when he came in soaking wet, no umbrella, no coat, just dripping all over the floor. She asked what the hell he was doing out in that weather, and he said he forgot his wallet the last time he came in. Handed it over like he’d come all that way for something that dumb.”
He paused for a beat, then smiled faintly. “But she swore he didn’t forget anything. He just needed an excuse to come back. That was the night he asked if he could walk her home.”
The wind rustled gently through the nearby trees, and for a moment it felt like you could almost see it, that little diner, the rain on the windows, the quiet rhythm of something small beginning.
“She said she knew then,” Bradley said, finally glancing over at you. “Said she knew that someone who came back just to give her a reason to see him again was someone who’d stay.”
You looked away quickly, eyes burning with something you didn’t want to explain. He didn’t mention Bob. He didn’t have to, and you could hear it in the way he told the story. Y
ou could feel the shape of it beneath every word. And still, he didn’t push. He just leaned back again, letting the swing move with the wind, like time could slow down if he just let it.
For a while, you didn’t say anything. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the space between your shoes and the wooden porch floor, your fingers tracing the rim of the bottle without really noticing, but something about Bradley’s voice, about the softness in that story, had carved out enough silence inside you that the words finally had somewhere to land.
“I really thought he felt the same,” you said quietly, barely more than a breath.
Bradley didn’t react right away. He stayed still, just listening, not pushing you to keep going, not rushing to fill the quiet. So, you kept talking, because now that it had started spilling, you didn’t know how to stop.
“I told myself not to hope. I mean... I’ve done this before. I’ve fallen for people who were never mine to begin with, but this time it felt different, slower, softer. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, it just… built. And I thought maybe he was just waiting, maybe he was scared, but it’s been two weeks and he’s barely even looked at me.”
Bradley let out a quiet breath through his nose, nodding once like he understood more than you realized. You glanced at him, and he didn’t look smug or surprised, just calm, like someone you could lean on without asking.
“I keep thinking,” you said, your voice cracking just a little, “how stupid I must’ve been to think he actually wanted me. Like I made it all up in my head, every little look, every quiet moment. Maybe I’m just… too much.”
Bradley turned to you then, his eyes steady as they met yours. He didn’t speak right away. He just reached out and gently placed his hand over yours, grounding you.
“You’re not too much,” he said, firm but quiet. “Don’t ever think that, and you weren’t stupid. Anyone who made you feel like you were? That’s on them, not you.”
Your chest tightened. The tears you’d been holding back all day finally started pushing at the edges. You didn’t even try to stop them this time. You looked away, blinking hard, and then Bradley shifted beside you, opening his arms just a little like he wasn’t sure you’d take the offer.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You leaned into him, your forehead pressing to his shoulder as his arms came around you in a firm, steady hug. Not romantic. Not complicated. Just warm and solid and safe. You let yourself breathe for the first time in days.
And then, the door creaked open behind you. You froze.
Bradley tensed slightly beneath you, then turned his head toward the door. You didn’t move right away, but your heart sank before you even heard the voice.
“Oh,” Bob said, voice clipped and uncertain. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You pulled back slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you turned your head just enough to see him standing there in the open doorway, his hand still on the handle like he hadn’t fully stepped out. His eyes flicked from you to Bradley and back, unreadable in the low porch light.
Before you could say a word, he nodded once, quick, awkward, and stepped back inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft, final click. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
And this time, it wasn’t just yours. Was it really?
Bradley exhaled slowly, leaning back on the swing as you pulled away. His arm dropped to his side, but his eyes stayed on you, studying the way your posture had changed. You were still sitting, but something in you had shifted, gone taut like a wire pulled too tight. He saw it before you even stood.
“He saw something that wasn’t what it looked like,” he said quietly. “If it matters that much to you, go tell him.”
You looked at him then, heart already rising into your throat. “What if it’s too late?”
Bradley gave a small smile, nothing showy, just enough to feel real. “Then at least you’ll know you tried.”
You were already on your feet before he finished speaking.
Your boots hit the wooden porch hard as you turned toward the Hard Deck and pushed the door open, the warm noise of the bar spilling out into the night.
Inside, everything looked the same as it always did, Jake and Natasha nursing drinks at the high-top, Javy half-asleep on the couch by the jukebox, Mickey talking to a girl at the bar, but Bob wasn’t there.
Panic flared up as your eyes scanned the room again, faster this time. You moved toward the others, voice already raised a little louder than you meant it to be.
“Where’s Bob?”
Jake looked up from his drink, raising one brow with a smirk already forming. “Left a minute ago,” he said, drawing the words out with that usual drawl. “Looked like he had something on his mind.”
Phoenix gave him a side-glare, but Jake only grinned, tilting his beer bottle toward you. “Might wanna hurry, darlin’. Pretty sure he’s heading for the parking lot.”
Then, he winked.
You didn’t wait for the rest. You were already turning, already pushing through the door again before Phoenix could finish rolling her eyes. The night air hit you fast as you broke into a run, boots hitting pavement, heart racing, breath uneven as your eyes searched the parking lot for any sign of him.
But he was nowhere to be found. Not near the cars, not by the road, not leaning against the building like he sometimes did when he needed air.
You turned in a slow circle, breath catching, chest tightening, and for a moment you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d already lost him.
The first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky like a warning, low and distant, but enough to make you glance upward. The clouds had thickened without you noticing, dark smudges swallowing the stars you’d barely registered when you ran out here.
You kept walking anyway, your breath catching somewhere between hope and regret, your boots pounding across the vast stretch of asphalt that seemed to go on forever.
The Hard Deck’s parking lot felt impossibly big now, like it had swallowed him whole. You turned one way, then another, looking past the cars and over the fence toward the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of his figure in the dark. Nothing. No movement, no headlights, just the hum of silence.
And then, the sky split open.
The thunder cracked louder this time, and a second later the rain came down hard and fast, no preamble, no gentle drizzle. Just a sudden downpour, sharp and cold and unrelenting.
It soaked you instantly, plastering your shirt to your skin and pushing your hair down over your forehead. You stopped in the middle of the lot, blinking against the water, teeth clenched as you spun in one last desperate circle.
“Shit,” you breathed out, voice swallowed by the storm. “Shit!”
You kicked at a puddle with the side of your foot, frustration rising until it choked you. Then, slowly, without really thinking about it, you turned away from the cars and walked across the lot toward the dunes.
The sand felt cold under your boots as you stepped over the edge of the boardwalk, then softer as it gave under your feet. The tide was coming in slow and steady, the ocean dark and wild beneath the storm, but you didn’t stop. You moved closer until the wind off the water hit your skin like a slap.
The rain kept falling, heavier now, washing over your arms and shoulders and cheeks, mixing with the tears you didn’t even realize had started until your vision blurred.
You stopped walking, right where the wet sand met the dry, and you let your knees give a little, sinking down just enough to wrap your arms around yourself. The tears came harder now, not the quiet kind, but the full-body kind. The kind you only let loose when there’s no one around to see it.
Because what was wrong with you?
Why did you always love the wrong people, or love the right ones at the wrong time?
Why did your heart have to choose the person who couldn’t say anything back?
Why did you open yourself up at all, when it only ever ended like this, alone, soaked to the bone, watching the world pretend not to notice?
You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it didn’t matter. The wind carried it away.
And then, so softly you almost didn’t feel it, something touched your shoulder.
You looked up, eyes stinging.
An umbrella had been tilted over you, its wide canopy blocking the worst of the rain. The water still dripped off the edges, pooling around you in the sand, but suddenly the sound wasn’t so loud. The sky felt a little less heavy.
Someone had come back.
- Bob -
It was the way your head rested against Bradley’s shoulder that did it. Not the hug itself. Not even the rainclouds already threatening the sky. It was the intimacy of it. The ease.
The way you leaned into him like you belonged there. Bob had seen plenty of hugs before. He’d even been on the receiving end of one or two from you. But this was different.
This looked like something he wasn’t supposed to see.
“Oh,” Bob said quietly, voice tight in his throat. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You turned toward him, startled, but he didn’t wait for you to explain. He just nodded once and backed into the doorway before the swing could creak again, before you or Bradley could say anything that might make it worse. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him felt final, like the end of a page he hadn’t meant to write.
He moved quickly across the bar, making his way to where the squad was still lounging. He didn’t say much. Just a quiet “Night,” as he passed Phoenix, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask, and then Coyote, who was halfway through a drink.
He didn’t even glance at Jake, who was mid-laugh over something Mickey said. Bob didn’t want to hear the jokes. He didn’t want a conversation. He just wanted to leave before whatever was knotted in his chest made its way to his face.
Outside again, the air felt heavier. Humid and tense. He inhaled slowly as he walked across the lot, weaving between cars toward the overflow patch of gravel on the far end of the property where he had parked earlier.
The bar had been packed when he arrived. He hadn’t minded the extra walk then. Now, he was grateful for it. Maybe the distance would help clear his head.
He reached for his door handle, only to pause. His keys were not in his pocket.
He checked again. Patting down the front, the side. Even crouched to peek under the car in case he’d dropped them on the walk out. Nothing.
Bob closed his eyes, jaw tightening as the first flicker of lightning cracked across the clouds. A second later, thunder rolled in low and slow behind it. Of course. Of course. He exhaled sharply, eyes stinging more than he wanted to admit, and turned on his heel.
The back door was closer than the front, so he made his way around the building and slipped in through the rear entrance near the storage room. Inside, the music was muffled and the lights were dimmer, but the voices of his squad were unmistakable.
Jake looked up first, brows lifted in surprise. “What the hell, man? I thought you just left.”
Bob didn’t slow his pace. “I forgot my keys,” he muttered, stepping toward their table with zero interest in lingering.
Jake blinked at him, then grinned slowly. “And you came all the way back for that? You sure it’s not because your one true love is still in the vicinity?”
Bob rolled his eyes, hand outstretched. “Give me the keys, Seresin.”
Bradley, who had just come back inside from the porch, walked past Jake and dropped into the seat beside Mickey with a dramatic sigh. Then he looked up at Bob, eyes calm, and said, “Go get your girl.”
Bob froze, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
Bradley just gave him a pat on the shoulder and leaned back, tossing an arm over the back of the booth like he hadn’t just dropped something massive into the middle of the room. “You’ll figure it out.”
Jake chuckled, pulling Bob’s keys from his jacket pocket and tossing them with a lazy underhand. “Godspeed, lover boy,” he said with a wink.
Bob caught them with a half-hearted glare, then turned to leave again, shoulders tight. The rain had started properly by the time he stepped back outside.
Not just a drizzle, but a full downpour, wind kicking up droplets sideways as he squinted against the water. He didn’t have a jacket, of course not, but he did spot a forgotten umbrella resting in the metal stand by the exit door, probably something Penny kept for guests who never remembered the forecast.
He grabbed it without hesitation.
As he started toward his car again, umbrella tilted forward to block the worst of the storm, he squinted toward the shoreline. The wind had shifted, making it harder to see, but something near the dunes caught his eye.
A figure, small and still with knees drawn in, head down, hunched against the rain.
His chest tightened instantly, because he knew exactly who it was.
You.
Bob’s breath caught as soon as he saw you.
You were there, just beyond the edge of the dunes, curled in on yourself, knees drawn up, the sand clinging to your boots and the hem of your jeans. Rain poured down over you like the sky itself was mourning something, but you weren’t moving. You just sat there like you had nowhere else to go.
For a second, he didn’t know what to do.
He stood frozen, umbrella in one hand, heart in his throat, soaked already from the walk and not caring in the slightest. The wind tugged at his sleeves, the cold crawling under the collar of his shirt, but his eyes didn’t leave you.
Not when the waves crashed, and certainly not when thunder growled low in the clouds.
Then, before he could lose his nerve again, he moved.
Each step down the beach felt like something deliberate, something that might rewrite everything or wreck it entirely. By the time he reached you, your shoulders were shaking. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or the crying, and the thought of either made something tighten behind his ribs.
He tilted the umbrella gently over your head, angling it to cover as much of you as he could. The rain pinged off the canopy, water spilling down the sides and pooling into the sand. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to.
You turned slowly, blinking up at him with eyes red from tears, your face half-shielded by your hand.
When you spoke, it was soft, hoarse. “Bob?”
He swallowed hard. “What are you doing out here?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at him like you couldn’t believe he was real. Then, pushing up off the sand, you stood slowly. You were already soaked through, hair clinging to your cheeks, your clothes heavy with rain.
The umbrella barely covered you both, so Bob tilted it even further toward your side, letting the drops hit the back of his neck, soak his shoulders. It didn’t matter.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” you said, wiping your face roughly with the back of your hand. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I—” Bob scoffed, quiet but incredulous. “What are you doing here? It’s pouring. You’re out in the middle of the beach, alone. You—you’re crying.”
“And?”
The word hit him like a slap, not because of what you said, but how. Defensive. Deflecting. Just like you always were when something hurt and you didn’t want to admit it.
He stepped back just slightly, shifting his weight. “You shouldn’t be out here. You could get sick.”
“I can handle a little rain, Bob.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
The frustration in your voice made something snap in him. Not anger. Just the helpless ache of wanting to understand and getting nothing but walls.
“You’re out here like the world’s ending,” he said, not harsh, but loud enough to cut through the sound of the ocean. “And I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I walked in on earlier, but whatever it is, it clearly messed you up. So why won’t you just say it?”
Your jaw tightened. Bob’s eyes searched yours, and he hated how wet your lashes were, how you kept blinking like it might stop the tears from falling again.
“You left,” you said, barely louder than the waves. “You saw me and Bradley and you just left. You didn’t ask. You didn’t say anything. You just walked away.”
“Because I thought—” Bob started, then stopped, mouth opening again before the words would come. “Because I thought maybe I’d finally misread everything. That maybe I really was just the guy who stood beside you while you reached for someone else.”
You went still.
Bob felt the rain trickling down his collar, the weight of it sinking into his clothes, but none of it mattered. Not when he could see the tremble in your chin.
Not when his hands were gripping the handle of the umbrella too tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking open completely.
“I came out here to go home,” he said, voice raw now. “I wasn’t trying to chase you. I wasn’t trying to win anything. I just… saw you and knew I couldn’t leave like that. Not when you looked like—”
“Like what?” you snapped. “Like someone who’s miserable because the person she cares about doesn’t even see her?”
Bob stared.
The umbrella slipped in his hand slightly as his grip faltered. Your chest was rising and falling fast now, tears sliding down your cheeks again even as the rain tried to wash them away.
“You don’t get to be the only one hurt here,” you whispered, and Bob’s breath hitched at the sound.
Bob’s hands were trembling now, just barely, but he didn’t care if you noticed. The umbrella had shifted again, tilted awkwardly between you as the wind pushed it sideways, the handle slipping under his palm.
You stood there in front of him, soaked, furious, breaking right in front of him, and still so beautiful it physically hurt.
He reached out with his free hand, curling his fingers around your wrist gently, almost pleading. “Can we just—can we please go somewhere dry? Please? You’re shaking. I’m shaking. This is…”
“No.”
You didn’t yell it. You didn’t need to. You said it with steel in your voice, steady and clear, enough to stop him cold. His hand dropped back to his side, and the umbrella dipped lower, forgotten.
“You don’t get to do that,” you continued, eyes shining with something deeper than just tears. “You don’t get to show up and look at me like that and then leave. For two weeks, Bob. I bared my soul to you and then you disappeared. You looked at me like I meant something, like maybe I wasn’t alone in feeling this—and then you vanished.”
The words were falling faster now, unfiltered, raw. Your chest heaved as you stood your ground, unmoving, hair plastered to your face, water running down your neck.
“I spent the last two weeks thinking I imagined everything. That I was delusional. That maybe I was just another sad story in your life you didn’t want to deal with. I thought, hell, I thought maybe you were ashamed of me. That I’d embarrassed you somehow. Because how else do you explain silence like that, Bob? After everything—”
“I never—”
“No. Let me finish,” you snapped, voice cracking slightly. “You don’t get to shut me out and then show up and pretend like I’m the one who needs fixing. I was hurting, and you walked away. And I tried to pretend it didn’t break me but it did, Bob. It really did. And you know what’s worse? I would’ve forgiven you. I still—”
He dropped the umbrella.
It fell between you with a quiet thud, folding uselessly into the sand as the wind dragged it sideways. Then, in a single, swift step, he closed the distance between you, and his hands came up to your face, framing it with a tenderness that contradicted the desperate pull in his breath.
And then, he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was soaked and shaking and aching from two weeks of silence, from a year of almosts, from the weight of everything left unsaid.
His lips pressed to yours like he needed to be sure this was real, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he waited one second longer. You felt the way his chest rose against yours, the way his hands curled into your damp hair like he was anchoring himself.
He kissed you like someone drowning, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole damn life.
The moment their lips parted, Bob felt it like an ache. Not just in his chest, but in every part of him that had been holding back for too long. His breath came ragged, wet hair dripping into his eyes, and he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh as he looked at you.
There was a smile on his face now, gentle and quiet, like the storm had finally stilled, like maybe, just maybe, everything had been worth it.
Then, your hand hit his cheek with a sharp crack.
Bob reeled, not backward, just enough to blink the rain from his lashes and stare at you, stunned. His hand went instinctively to his cheek, now stinging from the slap, and he stood there completely still as you looked back at him with tears pouring down your face.
“What the hell was that?” you cried out, voice wobbling with more than just anger. “Why did you kiss me?! I—I had a whole speech, Bob! I practiced! I spent days trying to figure out how to say this to you and you—you just—”
“I—”
“I wasn’t done!” you snapped, both hands now clenched at your sides, your chest rising fast. “I had this whole damn thing ready and I was gonna look you in the eye and tell you that you make me feel like I’m not broken, that I feel safe with you and myself with you and God, Bob, you kissed me in the middle of it! What kind of timing, I mean, who does that?!”
He should’ve said something, but the lump in his throat was too thick, his heart too full. So instead, he stepped closer. One hand came up, trembling slightly as he touched your chin with the softest tip of his finger, lifting your face until your eyes met his again.
You looked furious, you looked wrecked, and you looked like you had waited for someone to choose you for far too long. And he did.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat.
His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, fingers brushing your cheekbone gently, the same one you had just slapped. His other hand found your lower back, firm and steady as he pulled you closer, pressing you carefully against him, like he was holding something fragile.
The rain was still pouring around you, but Bob didn’t feel it anymore. Not when you were this close.
His voice cracked on the first words.
“I didn’t mean to run,” he said, voice hoarse, barely audible over the storm. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I thought you were with Rooster. I saw you with him and it—it hurt so much I thought maybe I’d made the whole thing up in my head. That I was just… the background guy. Again. And I couldn’t stand it.”
You opened your mouth, but he shook his head quickly, eyes glassy. “Please, just… let me say this?”
You nodded.
“I love you.”
The words hit like a punch, and Bob had to blink fast as tears mixed with the rain on his face.
“I don’t know when it started,” he continued, stumbling slightly as the words finally spilled out, “but I think it was that first night at the bar when Penny introduced you to us. You were laughing at something Jake said, and I thought, God, I’m in trouble, because you looked at everyone like they were familiar, but when you looked at me, it felt like, like I mattered. And I never feel like that, not really.”
You were staring at him now, lips parted, rain dripping off your chin.
“And every time you talked to me, I couldn’t think straight. I’d remember later what I should have said, but in the moment, all I could do was hope you’d say something else just so I could keep hearing your voice. And then I saw you crushing on Rooster and I thought, Of course. Why wouldn’t you fall for the guy who’s everything I’m not?”
His thumb traced a gentle line under your eye, where a tear had carved a path.
“But then you looked at me that night on the beach. And I thought, maybe, Maybe I wasn’t just imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t being delusional.”
He took a breath, shaking.
“I love the way you talk when you’re too tired to filter yourself. I love how you take care of everyone, even when you’re falling apart. I love how stubborn you are. I love your damn porch swing, and the way you light up when you talk about stupid things like sandwich order preferences. I love every single part of you.”
His voice cracked again, eyes locked to yours.
“And I swear I would’ve said it sooner, if I wasn’t so afraid of losing the only thing in my life that felt good and real.”
You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t have to. Bob could see it, your eyes glassy, your lips parted, your chest trembling from holding back too much for too long. You were crying, full and silent, the kind that made his chest twist because it meant you were really feeling it now.
And maybe he was too, because he didn’t even bother wiping at the tears running down his own cheeks.
What was the point? The rain was doing a damn good job of hiding them, but the heat in his throat said they were there anyway.
You reached up slowly, fingers brushing along the side of his neck, uncertain at first. Bob leaned into the touch like it was gravity, like the choice had already been made for him.
Your hand slid higher, into the mess of his damp hair, curling gently like it was something sacred.
He closed his eyes at that, just for a second. He didn’t need to look to feel it. He already knew that you were choosing him.
So, he kissed you.
And this time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or chaotic or driven by panic. It was slow. It was soft.
It was the kind of kiss that unfolded instead of exploded, that whispered you’re safe here instead of screaming don’t leave me.
His hands stayed steady, one resting gently at the small of your back, the other brushing your jaw with the kind of care he always used when he handled delicate things.
Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, without hesitation. The rain kept falling, soaking through every layer of clothing, dripping down your joined hands, your cheeks, your chins. You were soaked, cold, and probably going to get sick after this.
And neither of you cared, because something in the world had finally shifted into place.
When you finally pulled apart, it was only by a breath. Just far enough for your foreheads to touch, noses brushing, tears still clinging to both of your faces.
“I love you too, Robert Floyd,” you whispered, voice cracking on his name like it was the only truth that ever mattered.
Bob laughed, quiet and hoarse, and leaned into you again, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face as he looked at you, really looked.
“Say it again,” he said, not because he didn’t believe it, but because he needed to hear it. Like a balm. Like a song.
You smiled, still crying. “I love you, Bob.”
And so, he kissed you again.
This time slower.
This time longer.
And this time like he’d never let you forget it.
