#fanboy

[writesick-lover]

Hiiii,,

Could you write something for bob? Anything. I really enjoyed ‘cry baby’ if that helps.

All the best

A/n: Hiii! I was waiting for the moment when I finally get the kick to write to Bob and this was it! I actually got a bunch of ideas, but in the end I settled for this! Hope it was worth the wait - I do plan to share other tropes for Bob as well... maybe in a Cry baby universe? ;) But for now, ENJOY!

That’s my wife

Robert 'Bob' Floyd x fem!reader

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

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It was crowded in Hard Deck, as it was every Friday night. Bob usually didn't mind, always staying close to his group by the pool, but today was different. All of a sudden, he felt annoyed by the pushing bodies, making it hard for him to see the entrance of the bar. Because today was not an ordinary night at the pub. Something special was happening for Robert Floyd, thanks to special someone about to make an appearance.

And just as he thought about her, he manifested her presence into the bar.

Bob would recognize his wife anywhere. Even in a totally packed Hard Deck, where he probably wouldn't be able to find his own mother. She made her way through those sweaty bodies, her  'excuse me's and 'thank you's flowing through his ears like a sweet melody.

Bob started to look for a place to put his beer to for the time, ready to meet the girl of his dreams at the bar just like they agreed to. When he finally found a small space under the window, he heard a loud whistle. His head snapped.

"And who is this pretty lady," Hangman's voice made the whole company turn as he gazed towards the bar. "Ha, Hangman," Rooster joined him at the staring contest, nudging his ribs. "You can bet, she wouldn't go for a guy like you," he grinned, seeing Jake's shocked face. "A guy like me?" He repeated. "Then what are you? A trashcan?" He retorted, wiping the smile from Rooster's lips in a second.

Bob gulped. He followed the direction in which the two were looking.

His body froze on the spot, trying to figure out what to do. They were eyeing her. She was beautiful, as always. It was these moments, when Bob couldn't comprehend his own luck. His right hand traveled to his left, subconsciously playing with the ring on his finger. Well, shit.

"You're just worried she wouldn't go for a trashcan like you," Hangman provoked and everyone could only watch with a small smile how quickly Bradshaw took the bait. "We'll see about that," and with that, he was on his way to the center of the room, Jake Seresin right at his heels.

Bob was too stunned to do anything. Something in him started to burn, eating him from the inside, pinching every corner of his heart. But he just kept on twisting the golden ring, not noticing the questioning look Phoenix gave him. Her face twisted in surprise at first, connecting the dots pretty quick despite the silence from her best friend. But then she was right beside Bob, nudging his shoulder a little.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "She's got the same ring on her finger," Bob only managed to nod. Natasha's face brightened. "Congrats," she gave him a smile and Bob shared the enthusiasm with a small lift of the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, finally picking up the courage to take a step forward. "I told her about you, although I wish this wasn't the way they meet for the first time," Natasha caught his arm in his motion.

"Hold on," she said, nodding towards the three at the bar. "I wanna see this,"

"Hey there," Rooster went all out. His huge frame surely made an entrance for him, but an additional smile and a confident greet couldn't hurt. And beside that, chicks are digging his deep voice.

Before you even got to turn around, another man was standing beside him, his smile brighter as ever. You eyed them both, with Hangman pushing Rooster to the side and stepping forward. "Is he annoying you? I can take care of him for you," Hangman cooed, not noticing your slight lean backwards, away from the two peacocks in front of you. It took you a while to recognize them, but after a few seconds, it was unmistakable who these two were. You knew them from a photo of the whole group Bob was showing you after he got back from his mission. You weren't sure if you were supposed to laugh or cry. Who would have thought you would meet like this?

☆ ☆ ☆

"That's Hangman" Bob pointed at a handsome pilot with a smile that shined with bright white teeth. "Avoid him at all cost," he looked at you, his eyes completely serious, which only made you burst into a fit of laughter. "I'm serious," he said, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I can see that," you breathed, your hands travelling to his back and rubbing it reassuringly. "But noted," your kiss tickled Bob's cheek, spreading a tint of pink across his face.

"And this is?" you pointed to a tall man with a stache, his big arm hugging your husband around the shoulders. "Oh, that's Rooster," Bob's eyes softened. "And this is Nat, right?" you exclaimed, pointing at the woman hugged by Rooster from the other side. "Yeah, that's her," you two shared a smile as you watched Bob slide his fingers across the photo. "I can't wait to meet them," you said softly into the warm morning and Bob couldn't help but smile sweetly. "They mean a lot to me," he whispered back, gulping. "I know," you turned his face towards you before pecking his lips, both of you falling into a calm silence of comfort with each other.

☆ ☆ ☆

You slightley stretched upwards, trying to look past the men's broad shoulders that bumped to each other, trying to push the other out of the way. Your husband was nowhere to be seen and although you were quite enthusiastic to meet his crew, enthusiasim was pretty far from what you were feeling now. You watched the two glaring at each other and you bit back a smile. If only they knew.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Rooster pushed forward, making Hangman stumble back. "Get in line, chicken," Hangman grabbed his shoulder, forcing himself next to you instead of Rooster. "Boys, I hate to say this-" you began, your fingers falling on the ring on your left hand.

"Come on, sweetheart, let me get you something," before you could finish, you were blinded by Jake's perfect set of teeth, the photo from Bob apparently doing it injustice. "Guys-" you tried to speak up, but to no avail. "Penny, one more on me," Jake called to the woman behind the bar, who only nodded, preoccuppied with other customers. You sighed.

"Don't listen to him," Rooster touched your right hand gently, making you look at him. Ah, missed. The two completely ignored the shiny stone on your ring finger glistening in the dimmed lights of Hard Deck. You decided to let them go in this one, forcing on a straight face as they bickered with each other.

"They are all over her. Maybe I should-" Bob watched the bar, an anxiety creeping into his voice. Phoenix looked closer, noticing the crease forming between his eyebrows and the way he narrowed his eyes. His hands, unbeknownst to him, closed into fists. He was ready to shoot.

"Bob?" she grabbed him by his shoulder, grounding him. He looked at her, his brown eyes a little lost. "I've got your back," she tightened her squeez and that was all Bob needed. It was time to get his wife.

"And why shouldn't she listen to me? She obviously likes what she sees," Jake retorted, nudging you with a flirty smile. "Cause you're a casanova, Bagman," Rooster fought back. "You wouldn't smell love even if it was right under your nose," you had to pause at those words, yanking your hand from Rooster. This was going too far. Bradley looked at you in surprise, to which Hangman bursted out laughing. "You too, so it seems," he got out through heavy breaths, leaning on the bar for support. "Nice one sweetheart,"

"Speaking of love, gentlemen," a woman's voice came from behind the two competing mountains of men. They both turned to the lieutenant who grined at them. If she didn't have ears, she would be smiling all around. "Nat," you sighed in relief, recognising her immediately. "In the flesh," she grinned at you. "It's so nice finally meeting you," she said, Jake and Bradley exchanging confused looks. "Bob told me so much about you," you ignored the two, clinging to a conversation with Natasha like a tick. "Bob?!" the loud yell of both aviators brought you back to the reality. "Are you Bob's sister or some-"

"Yeah, no, I didn't have you for the types to go after married women," Nat giggled, cutting off Hangman as the two completely paled. They slowly turned towards you, their eyes falling on your left hand resting on the counter. A silence fell on the Hard Deck.

"Whose-" Rooster was the first to recover. "Mine," a bright smile blossomed on your face as you saw Bob walk from behind Natasha. "Sorry, looks like I got here first," he grinned as well before stepping in front of you. "Penny?" he called out, but he didn't have to say anything else.

That night, Hard Deck was filled with the dreading sound of a bell and if Rooster and Hangman could become more pale than they already were, they probably did. "Guys," Bob turned sround, his hand automatically traveling to your lower back. "This," he looked at you, his eyes twingkling in the warm light.

"Oh no," Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand through his face.

"Oh shit" Rooster let out.

"This is my wife,"

Your face brightened hearing the words as cheers errupted from around you - everyone ecstatic they will get a free round. And there was a lot of them. "Nice one, Bobby," Coyote and the rest joined the group, not even trying to hide their smiles. They mirrored Bob's contagious smile, the warm atmosphere spreading to everyone around. Well, to almost everyone.

"How do you want to pay?" Penny stopped by amidst pouring shots, smirking at Hangman and Rooster, both still in shock, grilled in their own embarrassment. "We-" the two looked at each other pleadingly for help from the other. "Shit," both said at the same time. "Well, lads," Payback and Fanboy patted their shoulders. "It was nice to know you," they pushed them lightly towards the door leading to the empty beach.

"I'm gonna kill you, Bagman," Rooster glared at his friend, Jake only laughing slightly. "Can you believe it? Our little Bobby found himself a wife! And I went after her!" he laughed at himself. "Yeah, cause you're a fucking idiot!" Roosters last words disappeared into the night, drowned in the laughter and chatter of the people around.

"Well, that was something," you giggled, looking back at the two men, now having it out with each other, their feet sinking in the cold sand. "You're okay? I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Bob started to apologize but you knew how to shut him up.

"I'm okay. Better even, now that you're here," you pulled back. "And here I was, thinking that they wouldn't like me," you joked, making Bob snort as others joined you.

"Congrats, man," Fanboy hugged Bob around the shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. "You seem like a lot of fun," Coyote laughed, pointing at you. "I sure am. If only they listened," everyone followed your motion to the entrance, "they could have had some fun too,"

Everyone laughed as you looked at your ring one more time. "But honestly, Bob, where did you find her? She's hot! Do you have siblings?" Payback had to chime in, other boys only agreeing with his statement and awaiting your answer. You only shook your head, earning a few groans from the group. "No wonder she got those two out of their minds," Natasha smirked.

"Yeah," Robert's eyes fell to the floor, suddenly feeling overwhelmed from the compliments. A sheepish smile spread on his face.

That's my wife

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Let me know how you liked this story with a like, comment and repost!

Who should be next from the Dagger squad?

If you liked this story, you might like -> Cry-baby -> 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

[lemonelyyy]

Fight Club but Jax is a Fanboy / FanBunny (Final Part)

I'm free I'm free heeheehehee I'm done finally (I literally drew the last panel first and made EVERYTHING else to go with it, it has waited too long to see the light of day and now I'm FREE)

i love making a character a little crazy and desperate, it's a fav

[ky-landfill]

“Brave warrior.”

[lives-in-midgard]

Maverick: I keep a picture of all of us in my wallet. Whenever I face difficulties, I take it out and stare at the picture.

Dagger Squad: Awwww-

Maverick: And I tell myself "If I can deal with these idiots, then I can deal with anything."

Dagger Squad: Oh.

[pullmecloseman]

KEYS & KISSES

Summary: A warm summer night at the local city night market with the Dagger Squad. You and Bob are the only official couple in the group—quietly affectionate, teasing, and fully caught up in the glow of food, games, and late-night laughter. Flirty banter, close calls, and a stolen kiss in a photo booth make for a night neither of you will forget.

Bob Floyd x reader

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: I went to a night market recently so i thought this would be cute lol also don’t be afraid to comment or send asks! i love talking to you guys. update: 300 LIKES OH MY G

Warnings: Light public affection, mild teasing, implied sexual tension, some suggestive language.

masterlist part of boyfriend!bob

The night market bloomed around you like a glowing, living thing—strands of fairy lights zigzagged between vendor tents, casting everything in a golden haze that felt more like a memory than a moment. Music drifted through the warm summer air in patches: a salsa beat from one booth, soft R\&B from another, then K-pop from the boba stand two tents down. The smells alone were dizzying—sweet fried dough, sharp grilled garlic, spiced meats, syrupy fruit.

Bob’s hand was wrapped around yours, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as you walked slow, side by side. The chatter of families and couples blended with the occasional burst of laughter, but his quiet, steady presence grounded everything. He wasn’t the kind of guy to swing your arm or shout your name across a crowd—he didn’t need to. Just one touch and you knew where home was.

You glanced up at him, the soft tilt of his mouth giving away how much he was enjoying this already. “This is definitely better than base food,” you said, nudging his elbow.

Bob chuckled, low and warm. “You’re only saying that because you smelled dumplings four booths back.”

“And mochi waffles,” you corrected, already scanning for the pink sign you’d seen on the market’s Instagram story earlier. “And boba. And possibly the best deep-fried Oreo in the city.”

“Possibly?” he asked, raising a brow.

“I’m being humble.”

He laughed again, then leaned down just enough to murmur, “You’re cute when you’re on a mission.”

You smiled to yourself, cheeks warming, but before you could deliver a snappy comeback, you heard it

“There they are! The PDA dream team!” Hangman’s voice rang out like a siren, already full of mischief. “Took you two long enough.”

You turned just in time to see the rest of the Dagger Squad weaving through the crowd toward you. Phoenix was leading, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, grinning like she’d just caught you two mid-kiss. Rooster strolled beside her holding a paper tray of skewers, while Payback and Fanboy flanked Coyote, who was balancing two cups of slush in one hand like a circus act.

“Look at this,” Phoenix teased as they approached. “Did you guys stop to make out behind the food truck or something?”

“We were literally five minutes behind you,” Bob said, completely deadpan.

“Exactly,” Rooster smirked. “Long enough for at least three kisses and a suspicious hand placement.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned a little closer into Bob’s side anyway, just to prove a point. His hand slid around your lower back naturally, and you felt more than one dramatic groan ripple through the group.

“I swear to god,” Hangman muttered, already walking toward the nearest stall. “One of these days I’m gonna put you both in separate corners like misbehaving toddlers.”

“And I will misbehave again,” you called after him, catching the delighted laugh Phoenix let out.

Bob’s arm tightened around you for half a second before he leaned in to say, “I think you enjoy tormenting them.”

You grinned. “I know I do.”

With everyone finally gathered, the chaos really began. Phoenix dragged you and Bob to the dumpling stall she’d scoped out earlier while Rooster negotiated with a corn vendor over whether or not spicy mayo counted as “gilding the lily.” Payback and Fanboy went to war over toppings at a Korean corn dog truck, and Coyote somehow convinced all of you to split a massive tray of garlic skewers and grilled pineapple.

At some point, you found yourself holding a little paper cup of bubble tea while Bob tried to decide if he wanted the lychee one or the black sesame.

“You always get lychee,” you reminded him.

“That’s because it’s good,” he said, but still hesitated.

You reached up and popped the lid off yours. “Try mine,” you offered, straw pointed toward his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours—soft, focused, and just a little amused.

“You’re trying to distract me,” he said, but leaned down anyway.

You kept the cup steady as he wrapped his lips around the straw, and you absolutely did not let your brain short-circuit at how gentle he was about it. Or how long it took him to pull back.

“That’s really good,” he said, voice lower than usual.

You blinked once, twice. “Lychee it is, then.”

Behind you, someone let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’re gonna die of diabetes just watching you two,” Hangman complained. “I need something salty before I drown in your sugar.”

Bob didn’t say anything, but his fingers brushed along your wrist as he stepped closer to the drink stall. You followed, heart a little stupid in your chest, and let him buy you a second drink without even asking.

An hour passed in warm, flickering laughter. The squad weaved in and out of booths, trying samples, buying ridiculous snacks, competing over who could handle the spiciest sauce. Hangman made it three bites into a fire chicken skewer before tearing up dramatically and yelling at Rooster for “poisoning” him. You and Bob shared mochi waffles—he held the plate, you fed him bites. Phoenix pretended to vomit. Fanboy took a photo.

There was a claw machine near the middle of the market—a little corner set up with retro arcade games and a glowing pink “Couples Win Twice” banner over a row of plushie challenges. Coyote immediately declared war.

“This is my redemption,” he announced, already cracking his knuckles.

“You say that every time,” Payback said flatly.

“I mean it this time.”

The whole squad joined in—cheering, trash-talking, fake coaching each other through one-dollar attempts to win plushies shaped like sushi rolls and sea otters. You watched Bob feed a coin into the machine, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“You look very serious about this,” you whispered.

“I am,” he said.

“For what? The shrimp or the tiny bear?”

He pointed. “The sea otter.”

You grinned. “For me?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept guiding the claw forward until it dropped, clamped, wobbled, and miraculously held. The otter landed with a *thud* in the chute.

Bob reached down, plucked it out, and turned to hand it to you without fanfare.

“For you,” he said simply.

You took it, heart flipping in your chest. “You’re dangerously good at that.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’ve been training for this moment?”

“I like to be prepared.”

Somewhere behind you, Rooster groaned. “They’re making eye contact again.”

“Don’t look,” Hangman said dramatically. “It’ll blind you.”

You leaned your head against Bob’s shoulder and laughed, the otter plush tucked in the crook of your arm. His hand found your waist again, thumb rubbing absent circles at your side as if he didn’t even notice.

And then, you saw it—the photo booth tucked behind a cotton candy stand, its outside wrapped in string lights and glossy stickers. The sign above it blinked: “4 PICS, 1 STRIP, 30 SECONDS. CUTE AS HELL.”

“Oh, *absolutely*,” you said.

Phoenix followed your gaze. “We’re doing it.”

“All of us?” Rooster asked, brows raised.

Hangman laughed. “No way we’re fitting.”

“We’re making it work,” Phoenix said, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

There was some light chaos as everyone piled in. You squeezed between Bob and Phoenix while Rooster practically sat on Coyote’s knee. Fanboy and Payback argued over angles, and Hangman stuck his face directly into the camera for the first shot, grinning like a lunatic.

The four pictures came out ridiculous—someone blinking, someone sneezing, someone definitely giving bunny ears—but everyone was laughing too hard to care.

You tucked the photo strip into your bag and whispered to Bob, “Let’s come back later. Just us.”

He looked down at you, warm and steady. “Yeah. Let’s.”

The crowd had thinned a little, just enough to make walking easier, the voices and music now more of a gentle hum than a roar. You carried your sea otter plush under one arm and your latest prize—a mochi waffle with brown sugar drizzle—in the other. Bob still hadn’t let go of your hand.

The squad wandered ahead in pairs, all half-listening to each other’s conversations, full from too much food, still buzzing from the sugar and noise. Rooster and Coyote were locked in a heated debate about what counted as a “classic fair snack,” while Hangman was trying to bribe Fanboy into giving up the last bite of his Oreo. Phoenix, true to form, drifted between conversations with sharp comebacks and snarky commentary, but every so often you caught her eye and saw that same smirking approval—the look that said: *You’re good for him. He’s good for you.*

Your fingers brushed Bob’s as you walked, and he glanced down at you with a kind of softness that made your chest tighten. You leaned a little closer.

“Photo booth,” you reminded him in a whisper.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, already angling toward the corner where it waited—quiet now, unoccupied, lights still glowing like an invitation.

You paused just before the curtain, shooting a look back at the squad.

They were deep in some kind of fried-food-trading circle. Distracted.

“C’mon,” you murmured, tugging Bob’s hand as you stepped inside.

The curtain rustled shut behind you, and the sounds of the market muffled instantly. Inside, it was just the two of you in a narrow bench seat, lit softly by the camera’s faint glow. You could still hear the bass from one of the nearby food stands, but it was quieter now, like the world outside had gone temporarily still.

You dropped your plush in your lap and reached for the “start” button.

Bob’s arm slid along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “You want serious or silly?”

You smiled, already leaning in. “I want *us.*”

The first flash caught the two of you smiling at each other, eyes locked.

The second, your nose bumped his, laughter already in your throat.

The third, his hand cradled your jaw, and your mouth was brushing against his in that slow, familiar way that didn’t need permission anymore—it just happened.

The fourth—

You didn’t even register the flash.

Because by then, Bob was kissing you.

Slow, warm, a little hesitant at first, but then deeper—like the quiet fuse that had been burning all night had finally reached the end. His hand slipped to the side of your neck, fingers splayed. Yours curled into the front of his shirt as you kissed him back, mouth open, letting him taste sugar on your lips and press his body just a little closer than the tiny bench allowed.

You pulled back, breathless, and he was staring at you like you were the only thing that existed. Maybe you were.

“That counted as a serious one,” you said quietly.

Bob’s lips curved into a small, dangerous smile—the kind he usually reserved for when no one else was around.

“Let’s take another strip,” he said.

You reached for the button again.

Perfect. Let’s bring this home — one more round through the market’s magic glow, something small and sweet to remember the night, and the quiet, full kind of love you take with you even after the lights go out.

The second strip came out even better than the first.

The photos were a blur of closeness—his mouth on your cheek, your hand buried in his hair, both of you caught mid-laugh and mid-kiss, completely unaware of the camera’s timing. You looked at them in the soft glow of the booth light, your head resting on Bob’s shoulder as he gently ran his thumb down your arm.

“I like these better,” you whispered.

“Me too.”

You folded the strip and tucked it into your wallet like something sacred.

Outside, the market had softened. The loudest crowds were gone now, the music dimmed to a background murmur. The vendors were still glowing beneath the canopies, some packing up, others still flipping batter or handing out skewers to late-night stragglers.

The rest of the squad was easy to find—clustered near a little tent decorated with paper stars and a hanging sign that read **MATCHING KEYCHAINS — PICK YOUR PAIR.**

Phoenix spotted you first and grinned.

“Finally! The lovers return.”

“Did you guys *sneak off* to the booth again?” Rooster called out, fake-shocked.

“Disgusting,” Hangman added, tossing a skewer stick into a trash bin. “They probably took, like, fifteen pictures just making out.”

You shrugged, absolutely unbothered. “Six, actually.”

Bob, ever unflappable, said nothing—just kept his hand firmly at the small of your back, where it had been all night.

Fanboy was flipping through trays of tiny charms while Coyote held up two glow-in-the-dark rockets. “We’re getting matching ones,” Coyote said. “So you’ll all remember I’m the best pilot.”

“You *wish,*” Payback muttered, grabbing the other rocket and holding it up like a trophy.

Phoenix handed you a tray filled with tiny charms—mochi, dumplings, stars, planes, animals with cartoonishly big eyes. “Pick a couple set before they sell out,” she said, already knowing what you were going to choose.

You glanced at Bob, then back at the tray. Your hand hovered before landing on a small plushy dumpling with a sleepy smile.

You held it up to Bob. “You.”

He raised a brow. “And you?”

You lifted a tiny boba cup with blushing cheeks and sparkly eyes. “Obviously.”

A tiny smile curved on his lips. “Perfect.”

The keychain vendor attached each charm to its own silver clip. You hooked the dumpling onto Bob’s backpack, and he clipped the boba to your keys with quiet precision, as if it were something deeply serious.

The rest of the squad got their own too—matching chili peppers for Rooster and Phoenix (she picked it to annoy him), Hangman chose one half of a pink glitter heart while no one took the other (“Rude,” he muttered), and Coyote insisted on a set of matching eggplants just to make Payback regret standing next to him.

The vendor took a group photo before you left—everyone squinting in the soft light, plushies and keychains in hand, laughter caught in the middle of it all.

You didn’t want it to end. But the night eventually pulled you toward the edge of the market, where the sidewalk turned quiet and the air felt cooler.

Bob walked close, his fingers brushing against yours until you laced them together again.

You looked up at him, voice low. “I had fun tonight.”

He glanced down, eyes soft behind his glasses. “Me too.”

The sea otter plush was tucked under your arm again, the little boba keychain swinging off your bag.

You were both full from too much sugar, your lips still tingled faintly from the photo booth, and your heart felt like it had been gently, quietly filled with something golden all night long.

“Hey,” you said, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah?” “You’re still mine tomorrow, right?” He smiled, slow and sure. “Always.”

And you believed him.

Every word.

Every look.

Every touch.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things unless he meant them. And tonight? He hadn’t let go of you once.

taglist: @yagurlannastasia

[eclairemaire]

Meeting the Missus pt. 2

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Wife! Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: The Team finds out Bob is married and wants to meet the missus.

Warnings: Slight allusions to mature content(nothing explicit ever stated though), Reader is described very similarly to Rhea Ripley, Reader and Bob are very much in love, No mention of Y/N used, Southern Reader (she's like all southern ladies sweet like iced tea, but can knock you on your ass if she has too), Express mentions of reader and Bob's Child, Lemme know if I missed any.

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: This is the second part of 'Meeting the Missus'. I highly recommend reading the first part before reading this. Please enjoy!!! And I will continue to update as I'm able.

After the first meet-up with the dagger squad at the Hard Deck, it became almost routine that every other week or so, you would meet up with them for an evening at the bar. Bob wasn’t all that surprised that the team liked you so much; what wasn’t there to like? All that southern charm wrapped up in a woman who had all the means to be anything but. The team had pestered him so much about what you even did all the time and why they only got to see you every other week, but working from home and being a full-time parent had taken up most of your time.

“So Bobby, when are we going to get to meet this kid of yours that you keep hidden all the time?” Hangman asked as the squad made its way to the locker rooms from the hangar.

“Probably soon,” Bob said, wiping sweat from his brow. ”The missus is planning to have a cookout soon, and I get the feeling that all of you will get invited, seeing as neither of us has family here in San Diego.” 

“Oh? An invitation to your home and free food.” Rooster sighed, “Man, are you sure that’s a good idea? We might never leave.”

Putting his helmet on the bench and starting to remove his flight suit, Bob sighed as well, “I don’t have a choice in the matter. She tells me what she plans, and I do what I can.” He shivers at the reminder of what happened when he didn’t do something you asked of him when you were pregnant; he’ll forever be haunted by the memory.

“I can’t tell if that’s because you love her so much or if you’re scared of your wife?” Fanboy says as he starts putting on his civvies.

“Can’t you tell it’s both?” Coyote states as he shoves something into his locker, “That woman is capable of folding any of us like lawn chairs if she wanted to.”

Bob looked at the rest of them with a look that said, ‘I’m not answering that question.’ Grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, and shoving the truck keys into his front pocket starts to leave.

“I’ll see y’all tomorrow, and let you know when the cookout is,” he waved a hand over his shoulder and exited the locker room.

Pulling into the driveway, Bob sees the lights off in the house and hears music and laughter coming from the backyard. Unlocking the front door and putting his bag on the bench in the entryway, he’s greeted by one of the dogs. 

“Hey Nuggs,” he says quietly, squatting down to give the dog some pets. “I’m home!” He yells as he stands up and starts moving toward the back door.

“DADDY!” Little feet can be heard running toward him as the back door opens. Seeing his kiddo coming at him full speed, Bob braces himself for the incoming tornado that is his daughter. Picking her up and spinning her around, he smiles as he sees you approaching after shutting the back door. “Hi, Bug.” He tells Riley as he places her on his hip, turning to you, kissing you on your cheek. “My love.”

“Ewww..” Riley says, starting to squirm in his arms. “Daddy you’re gonna give Mama cooties.” He turns to her and starts peppering her face with kisses, and giggles erupt from Riley as soon as his attention his on her, making her squirm even more.

“Cooties? Mama can’t get cooties from me she’s got super powers” he giggles at her squeals, as you watch with a fond smile as you lean against the wall with your arms folded over your chest showing off the muscles that reside there. Riley turns to look at you from her dad's arms and smiles.

“Yeah, Mama’s got super strength and super love!” She exclaims, eyes bright with admiration for her mama. Bob sets Riley down with a warm smile.

“Bug, why don’t you go wash up before we eat dinner?” you ask her before she scampers off down the hall and up the stairs to get ready for dinner. Leaning off the wall and stepping into Bob’s bubble, you smile as you string your arms around his neck as his arms snake around your waist, hands resting on your lower back.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” It’s a quiet exchange before he leans down to kiss you on your lips, it’s soft, full of love, and longing after a long day apart. Pressing his forehead to yours, he asks, “How are you?”

“Good, it’s been a productive day, Riley had a good nap, and I got plenty of work done and dinner made on time with no major disasters. The only thing missing was my wonderful husband.” You say pecking his lips. “How was yours?”

“The usual, drills, reports, pushups. Told the squad about the cookout,” he said, noticing the furrowing of your brow, “Didn’t give them a date but a forewarning that it’d be happening at some point in the future.”

“Oh, ok, good, guess I’ll move up the date then.” You said, stepping back and turning toward your office through a pair of French doors down the hall, Bob follows silently. Going up to the big calendar on the wall, looking over the dates and what has good availability, for all the prep needed for what you were planning.

“It doesn’t have to be soon,” he says, observing you as you head toward your desktop to check your work calendar. 

“No, no, it’s all good. My current project should be done by next Wednesday at the latest. That’ll give me all of Thursday and Friday for prep and Saturday morning for last-minute arrangements if necessary.” Stepping away from your computer and heading to the exit of your office, you motion for him to scoot out of the way so you could close the office doors. Just as you head for the kitchen, you hear a thump from upstairs and then the sound of muffled cries from what could only be your daughter. Sharing a brief look at each other, you both rush up the steps to see Riley in the hall with what appears to be carpet burn forming on her forehead as she looks up at both of you with tears in her eyes. Her lip wobbles for half a second before she wails at the top of her lungs.

“Ma-Mama,” She sobbed as she reached out for you. Bending down and picking her up swiftly, she tucks her head under your chin and wraps her arms around your neck, as Bob starts to head to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

“Meet you in the kitchen,” you say as you turn down the stairs and go to the kitchen. Setting Riley on the island countertop, you grab a wash cloth and wet it with cool water to dab against her forehead. “What happened, Bug?” You ask, your tone soft. Bob is next to you, first aid kit set open on the counter, grabbing Neosporin and several band-aids for her to choose from.

“I tripped an-an-and fell on’ta floor,” she said, hiccups coming in strong as she tried to calm down. Bob had started to rub circles on her back as her hiccups continued and her tears started to slow. Wiping her tear tracks with the wash cloth and stepping away so Bob could apply Neosporin to her forehead.

“Oh, Bug,” Bob said as he finished applying the cream and wiped his fingers clean with the damp wash cloth. “How would you like to pick out a band-aid, then eat dinner and watch a movie after with me and your mama, does that sound good?” he asked, holding out the band-aids for her to choose from. She nodded her head as she reached for an orange one with dinosaurs on it, her eyes glossy as she looked up at both of you.

“Ok,” you say as you take the band-aid to put it on her forehead. Afterward, Bob picks her up and takes her to the dinner table, and you get everyone a bowl of food, and you all eat as soft conversation flows.

After all the dishes are put in the dishwasher, you all pile on the couch, Riley in between you and Bob, as the opening scenes for ‘Quest for Camelot’ play on the screen. By the end of the movie, Riley is having a hard time keeping her eyes open. Bob picks her up as you both go upstairs to tuck her into bed. Placing a kiss on both of her cheeks, you say, “Good night, Riley, I love you.” She snuggles up to her stuffed animal as Bob does the same.

“Night, muma, da’dy… love you,” She mumbles as she squishes into her blankets. You and Bob slowly back out of the room and close the door. Heading into y’all’s bedroom just down the hall.

Once inside, Bob shuts the door behind you, grabs your hand, and heads to sit at the end of the bed. Sitting down, he pulls you in between his legs, his arms wrapping around you, holding you there, and rests his head against your chest. Carding your fingers through his hair as you sway lightly. You both stay that way for a few minutes, just basking in each other's presence. You move to sit next to him on the bed, facing each other, you take off his glasses and set them aside. You lean your forehead against his and look into his eyes, they were a magnificent blue, as though they held all of the oceans within them, deep and filled with love. Tilting in to kiss him, deliberate, sensual, filled with all the love you carried for him, he returned the kiss with fervor, one hand on the side of your face, the other holding your hip as you leaned into him. Letting out a hum as you release him from the kiss.

Looking at his still closed eyes, “I’m going to wash up.” It was hushed, barely spoken above a whisper, moving to head towards the ensuite in an unhurried manner, he held onto your hand until you were out of reach. “You can always join me,” it was said in an unserious tone as you entered the bathroom. Bob just groaned from his spot on the bed.

The following morning, Bob woke up enveloped in your arms as your head rested on his shoulder. He was surrounded by your smell and your heat. Placing a kiss on your forehead, he started to unravel himself from you. As soon as he started to move, you started mumbling in your sleep, small, incoherent thoughts.

“Mhmm, ugh, sweetheart, is it time for you to go already?” You mumble as you try to pull him back into the bed. It was a good thing you didn’t have a good hold on him anymore ‘cause that would’ve been a losing battle for him.

“Yes, my love,” he leaned down to place a kiss on your head, before he started to get ready to head to base. Getting dressed in his khakis and heading downstairs, grabbing an apple and a protein bar to eat on the way to base, he started to dig through the fridge for some leftovers from dinner the night before to take as his lunch. Before leaving for the day, he went upstairs to hug and kiss you goodbye before going to Riley’s room to do the same and wish her a good day.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Split Second

Bob Floyd x fem!aviator!reader

call sign: Bolt

The squadroom buzzed with tired energy—helmets off, hair tousled from the Gs, and sweat slicking flight suits as bodies crashed into worn leather chairs.

Phoenix tossed her gloves on the table. “Hangman, if you’d flown any looser, you’d have circled the carrier.”

Hangman grinned, cocky as ever. “You’re just mad Bolt smoked you on that last vertical climb.”

“She smoked all of you,” Rooster said, voice dry. “Again.”

At the far end of the table, you sat with one leg crossed over the other, flight suit halfway unzipped, tank top soaked with sweat and salt and victory.

“Maybe if y’all spent less time talking and more time flying,” you said without looking up from your notepad,

“I wouldn’t keep embarrassing you in front of Maverick.”

Hangman pointed a finger at you. “Someday, Bolt, I’m gonna knock you out of the sky.”

You smiled—lazy, lethal.

“Then I’ll know I’m dreaming.”

Laughter rippled around the room.

Bob leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, smiling to himself. He hadn’t said a word since you landed. He never had to. The quiet way he watched you said more than anything else.

You didn’t see it—but he always saw you.

⸻

Maverick walked in, tossed his clipboard onto the table.

“Good work today. Debrief’s short—we’ll run again tomorrow at 0500.”

Everyone groaned.

“Unless Bolt gets bored and laps you again,” he added, without glancing up.

You saluted with two fingers and a wicked grin.

“I’ll try to keep it interesting.”

⸻

It happened in a blink.

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

Stopped smiling.

One beat. Two.

Your hand tightened around the phone. Then you stood up—abrupt, stiff—and turned away from the table.

Phoenix noticed first. “Bolt?”

You didn’t answer.

You were already out the door.

Bob pushed off the wall.

When it lights up again—Incoming call – Mom—you don’t hesitate.

“Hey,” you say, voice flat. “What’s going on?”

And then you just… listen.

The room fades. So do the voices and the banter and the scrape of Phoenix’s helmet hitting the bench beside you.

Your fingers curl tight around the phone. Your throat goes dry.

“How long?” you whisper.

Your mother’s voice cracks.

“They’re waiting for you.”

You close your eyes.

“I’ll be on the next flight.”

———

The airport is loud in the way all airports are—metal chairs scraping the floor, heels clicking past, toddlers crying in spurts of exhaustion.

But around you, it’s muffled. Hollow. Like you’re hearing everything from underwater.

You sit by the window. Shoulders stiff. Hands in your lap. Your flight to Vegas boards in thirteen minutes.

You haven’t blinked in twice that.

Your duffel is under the chair. You packed it in six minutes flat. Just enough to get through the night and the next day.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

You didn’t let Bob or Phoenix or anyone walk you out of the squadroom.

You just left.

Ordered an Uber. Didn’t speak to the driver. Watched the base fade behind you in the rearview mirror.

“We’re waiting for you,” your mom had said.

You can’t stop replaying it. The way her voice cracked around it. The way the silence afterward said what she couldn’t:

She’s not going to wake up.

⸻

You stare out at the tarmac. A jet lifts off somewhere across the field. You don’t follow it.

You’re not thinking about flying.

You’re thinking about the last text your sister ever sent.

Don’t die in a training accident before my wedding.

I still haven’t found another maid of honor.

You smile. Barely. It hurts.

She’ll never have a wedding now.

⸻

You rub your palms against your thighs. Hard. Like maybe if you move fast enough, think sharp enough, you can stay ahead of the grief crawling up your spine.

You’re the strong one.

The sharp one.

The bolt of lightning that everyone watches hit but no one dares to follow.

You’re not the one who breaks.

Not in public.

Not ever.

But your throat aches. Your chest is tight. And suddenly the thought of walking into that hospital room alone—seeing her face, hearing the machines—makes your stomach lurch.

“Just make it through the flight,” you whisper.

“Just make it to Vegas.”

You fold your arms. Press your chin to your knuckles. Close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

———

The lights in the hallway are too bright.

The nurse at the front desk knows your name when you give it. She doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just sad. Like she’s done this a hundred times.

“Room 614. Take the elevator on your left.”

“They’re all in there.”

Your feet move before your mind does.

The tile is cold. The elevator hums. And when the doors open, you have to make yourself step out.

It’s late, but the waiting room outside the ICU is still full. Your mom’s on the couch, her hands clenched in her lap. Her mascara’s been smudged down her cheeks for hours. You’ve never seen her cry before.

Your cousin looks up. Tries to smile. Doesn’t make it.

You stand there for one long moment, and no one says a word.

Because you’re here. And that means it’s time.

“They’ll let you have a few minutes,” someone says.

You nod. Walk past them.

Your mother reaches for your hand. You don’t stop walking.

⸻

ICU – Room 614

The first thing you notice is the sound.

Machines. Steady, rhythmic. One long exhale at a time.

Then her face.

Pale. Still. Too still.

Your sister lies in the bed like she’s asleep. But her chest doesn’t rise on its own.

A machine breathes for her.

Her fingers twitch slightly, but it’s not real. You know that.

You close the door behind you.

It clicks too loud.

Your knees almost give out.

You walk to the side of the bed and sit down. Her hand is small in yours. Cold from the IVs. From the stillness.

She used to be louder than you. Bigger than you, somehow, even though you shared everything—blood, bones, birthdays.

She used to say, “If I die before you, you better do something dramatic. Like start a war or name your kid after me or tattoo my face on your ass.”

You let out a sound—half laugh, half sob.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing hair off her forehead.

“You can hear me, right?”

She doesn’t move.

“It’s me. Obviously. Who else would drive like a maniac through McCarran just to get here in time?”

Your voice breaks.

“You weren’t supposed to go first.”

You bend forward, forehead to hers.

“We were supposed to be old and wrinkled and yelling at people in a retirement home together. Remember that?”

A tear slips down your nose onto the blanket.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’ve been here my whole life.”

You take a shaky breath.

“If you’re still in there… I need you to know I’m going to be okay.”

“I’ll fly. I’ll live. I’ll make you proud.”

You bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

“But it’s gonna hurt for a long time.”

You lean down and kiss her temple.

The machine sighs.

A nurse knocks gently. You only nod.

“We’re ready when you are,” she says.

You press your forehead to hers again. One last time.

“I love you.”

And then?

You let her go.

The air is dry and too warm.

You don’t remember taking the elevator back down. You don’t remember hugging your mom. You don’t remember walking out.

But you’re outside now.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight, your duffel slung over one shoulder. There’s a vending machine humming nearby. A car alarm going off in the distance. And that smell—the city’s strange mix of heat, oil, and stale cigarettes.

You blink, and for one horrible second, you think,

I need to text her and let her know I made it in time.

But there’s no one to text.

You grip your phone anyway, knuckles white.

“She’s really gone,” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

You sit down on the curb because your legs won’t hold you anymore.

And you just sit there. Not crying. Not speaking. Just breathing through the throb in your chest and the silence she left behind.

People walk past. Cars roll by. Nobody stops.

The world keeps moving.

And you’re standing still.

⸻

Five Days Later – North Island Naval Base – Hangar 2

You walk back into base like nothing happened.

Aviators on. Hair pinned. Flight suit zipped to your collarbone. Clipboard in hand.

You nod at a few people in passing. Dodge Phoenix’s eyes. Pretend not to hear Hangman say “Glad you’re back.”

You don’t stop walking.

You head straight to the locker room. Your locker’s exactly how you left it. Helmet perched up top. Notes tucked into the door.

You sit down slowly. Flex your fingers once. Open your flight log.

And breathe.

Just like always.

⸻

The squad briefing room – 1345 hours

The room smells like sweat and old coffee. Everyone’s still in flight suits, sunburned and buzzing from adrenaline.

You sit at the far end of the long table, one leg crossed, hands folded neatly in your lap.

You haven’t taken off your gloves.

“Bolt was clean on that vertical loop,” Phoenix says, flipping through her notes. “Fastest response time I’ve seen in three weeks.”

“I told you,” Hangman mutters. “She flies like she’s got something to prove.”

You don’t react.

Rooster glances at you. His brows lift slightly. Not teasing—curious.

You keep your face still.

Your body moves automatically. You nod at the right beats. Tap your pen. Mark your page. You’re here. You’re sharp. You’re Bolt.

Just like always.

⸻

Maverick leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Clean drills. No gaps. Team cohesion is tight.”

He looks around the room.

Then his eyes land on you.

“Lieutenant Bolt,” he says, calm. Measured. “How are you holding up?”

You blink.

The room goes still.

You open your mouth.

“I’m good.”

A pause.

He doesn’t move.

“That wasn’t the question.”

It’s so quiet you can hear the AC kick on.

You shift in your chair. Glance at the notepad in front of you. Your hands suddenly feel too small. Your gloves too tight.

Everyone’s watching.

Phoenix. Rooster. Hangman.

And Bob—Bob is watching closer than anyone.

Your throat starts to close. Your chest tightens.

“I’m—”

“I’m—”

But the words die in your mouth.

And then—

Your hand flies up to cover it.

Your shoulders jerk.

And the first sob rips out of you without permission.

Not graceful. Not quiet.

You break. Hard.

Your head bows down into your arms as everything crashes out of you—sobs so deep they shake your whole body, so loud they echo in the stunned silence.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, voice wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to—I can’t—”

A chair scrapes back.

You feel motion beside you.

Bob.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels beside your chair, both hands steady on your arms, and says your name once—soft, like something holy.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone.”

You turn into him without thinking.

Clutch his shoulders like you’re drowning. Let yourself cry into his neck. Shake and sob and break while the entire squad watches in stunned silence.

“She’s gone,” you sob.

“My twin. She’s gone. And I don’t know how to be here without her.”

Bob doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

He wraps his arms around you and holds on like he’ll never let go.

“Then don’t be here alone,” he whispers.

“Let me help carry it.”

And for the first time since Vegas…

You do.

———

North Island – Bob Floyd’s Apartment – 6:42 PM

You don’t remember agreeing to go home with him.

You just remember the feel of his hand on the small of your back—steady, warm, there—and the way he kept pace with your silence.

No one spoke as you walked off base. Not Phoenix. Not Rooster.

Not you.

You don’t remember how the car smelled. Or what song was playing. Or how long it took.

But now you’re sitting on his couch.

Still in your flight suit. Helmet on the floor. Back pressed into the corner of the cushion like you’re trying to disappear.

Bob’s in the kitchen.

You can hear him moving—quietly. A pan sizzling. The soft clink of silverware. A drawer closing.

He brings you a plate of food.

Sets it on the table without a word.

You don’t touch it.

You stare at the steam curling off the rice. The color of the sauce. The fork he’s already placed in your hand.

“You don’t have to eat,” he says, gently.

You set the fork down.

Then—

“It’s like… she took part of me with her,” you whisper.

Bob doesn’t answer right away.

He just lowers himself into the chair across from you. Elbows on his knees. Hands folded like he’s praying.

“Of course she did,” he says softly.

You look at him.

He meets your eyes.

“You were built together,” he says.

“You shared space before you even had names.”

Your chest tightens.

“How do you know that?” you rasp.

“I read,” he says with a small smile.

“And I watch people.”

He leans forward a little.

“And I’ve watched you long enough to know that losing her feels like losing gravity.”

You press your knuckles to your mouth.

Tears spring again. Not as sharp this time. Not as loud.

Just soft. Slow.

“I’m so tired, Bob.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You don’t have to be.”

⸻

Later – 9:26 PM

You’re lying on your side in one of Bob’s T-shirts. He gave it to you without asking. Just handed it over and turned around while you changed in the bathroom.

You’re curled on his couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin.

He’s on the floor beside you—back resting against the cushions, long legs stretched out, one arm resting along the back of the couch where your shoulder touches.

You’re not speaking. You don’t have to.

Your fingers drift toward him slowly.

He doesn’t move.

Just lets you find him.

You end up tangled.

Your cheek pressed against his chest.

His hand in your hair.

And he doesn’t say a thing when your breathing gets shallow. Or when you whisper “Don’t go.”

He just nods.

“I won’t.”

———

Bob Floyd’s Apartment – 6:47 AM

You wake slowly.

The light through the blinds is soft—gold cutting across the sheets in warm stripes. The kind of light that makes the world feel distant. Weightless.

But you don’t feel weightless.

Your chest still hurts. That tight, aching sort of grief that lingers in your bones.

You shift.

You’re in a T-shirt that isn’t yours.

Your duffel is still zipped in the corner.

And this… this is Bob’s bed.

But Bob isn’t beside you.

You sit up slowly.

And that’s when you see it—

He’s on the floor.

Pillow tucked behind his head. Blanket kicked off. One arm flung across his chest. Still in yesterday’s clothes.

You stare.

Your heart twists.

He gave you the bed.

And never left the room.

⸻

You slide off the mattress, careful not to wake him, but the second your feet hit the ground—

“Mornin’.”

His voice is gravel and warmth and something too gentle to name.

You freeze.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He sits up slowly. Blinks at you. His hair’s a mess. His spine probably hates him.

But he smiles.

“Didn’t sleep too deep.”

You nod.

“Me neither.”

A beat.

He pushes himself to his feet.

“You want coffee?”

You should say no. You should say you need to go.

But—

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

———

The coffee’s gone cold in your mug.

You’ve barely touched it.

You’re just watching him.

The sunlight hits the side of his face, and for one second—one long, aching second—you want to tell him everything.

So you do.

“I have feelings for you.”

Bob stills.

His head turns slowly toward you.

“You’re exhausted,” he says gently. “You’ve been through hell.”

You don’t blink.

“That doesn’t make it untrue.”

He sets his cup down. Carefully.

“Y/N—”

“I’ve felt this way for a while,” you interrupt, voice cracking. “Before Vegas. Before the hospital. Before the flight drills. Before all of it.”

He goes still.

His throat moves, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought…”

“I thought someone like you could never love someone like me.”

That makes him flinch.

“What does that mean?”

You let out a breath, sharp and shaking.

“It means I’m loud. I’m fast. I don’t know how to slow down unless someone makes me. I don’t do quiet. I don’t do soft.”

“And you—you’re gentle. You’re… the safe thing. The thing I’ve never been allowed to want.”

Your eyes sting. You look down at the table.

“But I did. I do. I want you.”

A long silence.

Then—

“Y/N,” he says quietly. “You’re grieving. You just lost the most important person in your world. You don’t—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

He presses his lips together.

Doesn’t speak.

So you do.

“I know what grief is,” you say. “I know how it twists things and makes you reach for the closest lifeline.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

You meet his eyes.

“I don’t need you to fix me, Bob.”

“I just want you to believe me.”

⸻

He looks wrecked.

More wrecked than you’ve ever seen him.

“I want to believe you,” he says. “God, I do.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because you’re everything I never let myself want. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stare at him.

And suddenly—there’s no anger. No panic. Just something heavy and aching in your chest.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

You push your chair back. Stand slowly.

“I’m gonna go.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s okay,” you say gently, even though it isn’t. “I just needed to say it out loud.”

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t cry until you’re already outside.

And you don’t look back.

———

The door doesn’t slam.

You just… leave.

And for a long time after, Bob doesn’t move.

He sits at the table, coffee cold in front of him, his hands gripping the edges like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your chair is still warm.

Your mug is still half-full.

And he’s still trying to breathe.

⸻

I’ve felt this way for a while.

The words echo in his head.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

Hard.

I want you.

He wants to believe it.

He wants to believe it so badly it physically hurts.

But all he can hear underneath it is that low, cruel voice he’s carried for years:

She’s lightning.

You’re not meant to catch lightning.

She’ll realize it was just the grief talking. Just the moment.

⸻

He stands up too fast. His chair scrapes the floor.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He walks into the bedroom.

Stops.

Stares.

Your duffel bag is gone.

But your flight patch—the spare one from your jacket—is still sitting on his nightstand.

Folded. Deliberate. Like you left it for him.

He walks over slowly.

Picks it up.

Just holds it in his hands.

The stitching is worn. The call sign BOLT stitched in faded silver thread.

He runs a thumb over it, and suddenly he can hear your laugh from a few weeks ago—sharp and bright and reckless as hell after a good landing.

“You’re too good for me, Bobby.”

He thought you were joking when you said it.

But maybe you meant it.

Maybe you’ve always meant it.

⸻

He sinks onto the edge of the bed.

Drops his head into his hands.

And whispers—

“Goddammit.”

Because the truth is?

You’re not just grief.

You’re not just lightning.

You’re the only thing that’s ever made him want more than quiet.

More than safety.

More than staying invisible.

And he let you walk away.

 ———

North Island – Five Days Later – 1440 Hours

You haven’t spoken to Bob since that morning in his kitchen.

You haven’t spoken to anyone, really.

You show up to drills early. You finish debrief late. You don’t joke. You don’t answer Phoenix’s texts. You don’t even glance at Hangman’s stupid grin.

You’re locked in.

Dead silent.

Untouchable.

Just the way they expect you to be.

Bolt, the unbreakable.

And that’s exactly what you give them.

⸻

In the air, you’re terrifying.

Faster than ever.

Sharp turns. No hesitation.

You take corners like you’re trying to rip yourself out of your own skin.

It earns you silence over the comms.

And then a single word from Maverick at the end of the flight:

“Dangerous.”

You don’t argue.

You land. Strip your helmet. Walk away.

⸻

Hangar 2 – 5:17 PM

You’re the last one inside.

Everyone else is gone.

You sit on the wing of your jet, wiping down the surface with a cloth you don’t need. Just an excuse to not go home.

You’re still in your flight suit. Your hair’s still tucked up tight. You haven’t eaten today.

You’re not sure you care.

The ache in your chest is quieter now.

Not gone. Just… dull. Numb.

Like scar tissue forming around something that used to be soft.

⸻

And then you hear the door open.

Footsteps.

You know who it is without turning.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say.

“Neither should you.”

You freeze.

Bob’s voice is low. Careful. Like he’s approaching something wounded.

You don’t move.

“Don’t worry,” you say flatly. “I’m not about to fall apart in front of you again.”

A pause.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

You turn around slowly.

Bob’s standing near the back of the hangar. Still in uniform. Still looking at you like he’s not sure you’ll let him close.

You stare.

Your voice is quiet when you speak.

“You made your choice.”

“No,” he says. “I made a mistake.”

⸻

Your hands curl tight around the rag in your fist.

“Don’t do that.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t come here and try to take it back because you feel guilty.”

“It’s not guilt,” he says, stepping forward. “It’s clarity.”

You shake your head.

“I don’t need clarity. I needed honesty.”

“Then here it is.”

He’s in front of you now. Not touching. But close.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he says quietly. “You’re everything I’ve ever told myself I couldn’t have.”

“And I didn’t believe you when you said you wanted me, because I’ve spent my whole life thinking someone like you would never choose someone like me.”

You look up at him.

Eyes sharp. Shoulders stiff.

“And now?”

He swallows hard.

“Now I don’t care how scared I am.”

“Because letting you walk away was worse.”

⸻

He reaches into his jacket.

Pulls something out.

Your patch.

“You left this.”

You stare at it. Frozen.

He holds it out.

“I’ve been carrying it every day.”

You don’t speak.

You take it from his hand slowly. Let your fingers graze his.

And finally—

Your voice cracks.

“You hurt me.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“And I’ll never stop being sorry for that.”

“You made me feel small.”

“You were never small,” he says. “You were never anything but lightning.”

“Then why couldn’t you believe I meant it?”

“Because I wanted it too much.”

⸻

Silence.

Then:

“Do you still want me?” you ask, barely audible.

His breath hitches.

“Every goddamn second.”

⸻

You fall into his arms like gravity wins.

And this time?

He doesn’t let go.

Your hands fist into the front of his flight suit and drag him forward like you’ve run out of time, like you’ve run out of air, like the only thing left that makes sense is his mouth on yours.

⸻

The kiss is hard.

Messy.

Hungry.

Your lips crash against his like a threat—like don’t ever leave me again, like you should’ve said this sooner, like you’re mine if you mean it.

And he answers every word of it.

His hands slide up your back. Slow at first. But once he feels you shake—once he hears the sound you make when he kisses you deeper—

He breaks.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes between kisses.

“I didn’t even have you, and I missed you.”

You shudder.

Your fingers slide up into his hair. Tug tight. You pull him closer.

“Tell me again,” you whisper against his mouth.

“What?”

“That you want me.”

He kisses you once. Then again.

Then says it between every single one—

“I want you.”

kiss

“I want you.”

kiss

“I want you, I want you, I want you.”

Like he’s trying to make up for every second you thought he didn’t.

⸻

Your back hits the side of the jet.

Your helmet falls from the wing and clatters on the floor.

You barely notice.

You’re breathless now. Both of you. Heat and sweat and grief and want tangled in every rough slide of lips and teeth and tongue.

But it’s not sex.

Not yet.

This is something deeper. Rawer.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“Never.”

⸻

You slow down. Eventually. But your hands stay on his chest, and his forehead stays pressed to yours.

You’re not done. You’re just catching your breath.

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

He wants you.

He always did.