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Taken-ish 2

— Bob Floyd

Part 2 of Part 1

See part 3

✿ Summary:

Step 1: Bring a boyfriend.

Step 2: Signal you're taken.

Step 3: Sad excuse of a boyfriend gives up before the night even starts.

Step 4: The dangerously attractive replacement steps in, steals the show, and ruins you so deliciously you're not sure what just happened.

✿ Warnings: The dagger squad as your neighbours (yes it's a warning), you're a cop, very sad excuse of a love life, obsession, heartbreak hours, very depictive description of a relationship with an avoidant attachment person (experienced fml), Bob Floyd will fuck the sad outta you and he's been waiting for it for two years, overall it's fluffy enough.

A/n: first of all I'm sorry for not putting a read more break on the first part(I honestly did not how to do it), also it's so long and it crashes when I try to edit it, so I can't put any links over there as well, so if any one of will be kind enough to reblog it with the links

‎He hears you before he sees you.

‎The low snarl of your bike slices through the soft piano hum of the restaurant like a blade through silk. Conversations stop. Forks hover mid-air. Every head turns.

‎And there you are.

‎Helmet tucked under your arm, hair tousled from the ride, leather jacket half-zipped, eyes lit with that lethal calm he always thought he could tame. The woman he thought would stay quiet-- burn in private--is standing in the warm glow of the terrace lights, and suddenly every man at his table forgets what breathing is.

‎"Wow," you say, voice steady but edged, loud enough for the whole terrace. "You look comfortable. Shame it's at my fucking expense."

‎Silence. Someone at his table shifts awkwardly. One of his colleagues leans in, murmuring, "Is... everything alright?"

‎He forces a laugh that dies halfway. "Yeah, I'll handle this."

‎You arch an eyebrow. "Handle this?" Your boots hit the grass as you take another step closer. "That's cute. You couldn't even handle a text, let alone a woman."

‎A few people at nearby tables stifle their shock-- or their delight.

‎You glance at his colleagues, smiling like a threat wrapped in lipstick. "Sorry to interrupt your little dinner party. I just needed to remind your golden boy here that ignoring people does not count as emotional maturity."

‎He hisses your name, low, desperate, but you don't flinch.

‎"Relax," you murmur, eyes locked on him. "I'm not here to cause a scene." Your tone drips with irony. "Just need a minute of your precious time."

‎"You can't be serious right now," he whispers.

‎"Oh, I'm past serious, babe." You step close enough for the smell of smoke and engine oil to crawl under his expensive cologne. "You can either get on the bike, or I start asking louder questions."

‎His boss clears his throat. "Maybe you should... take care of this, Heim."

‎You smile, sweet and venomous. "You heard him, Heim. Let's take care of it."

‎He can't look anyone in the eye as he stands, muttering excuses. You're already walking off, every step pulling the air with you.

‎When the engine roars again, it drowns out the whispers-- pity, curiosity, awe.

‎He barely gets his leg over the seat before you twist the throttle. The tires scream.

‎And just like that, you take him-- and the last shred of his dignity-- with you.

‎---

‎A few rapid taps on your shoulder.

‎The bike jerks to a stop a few minutes from the Hard Deck. The engine coughs, and before you can say anything, he's already off it, hands braced on his knees, trying not to throw up on the asphalt.

‎"Jesus Christ," he gasps. "You know I hate these damn things. I told you--"

‎You pull off your helmet, hair sticking to your neck. "Yeah, you told me a lot of things. Didn't realize I had to sell parts of myself every time you got uncomfortable."

‎He turns, still catching his breath. "You could've called instead of showing up and humiliating me in front of everyone I work with!"

‎"Oh, sorry," you say, voice lilting. "Were you busy? Because when I asked you to come with me tomorrow, you said no--- too much to do. Must be fucking exhausting, all that chewing, huh?"

‎"It was a goddamn corporate dinner," he shoots back. "That's my job-- real life doesn't pause because you need attention!"

‎Your laugh is hollow. "Attention? I waited six years for you to look up from your schedule long enough to notice you had someone who gave a damn. You think I wanted to show up there tonight? I waited all day. I called. I texted. I thought maybe something happened to you. But nope-- just dinner.

‎Just another convenient reason to pretend I don't exist."

‎He scrubs his face with his hands. "You don't get it. I can't keep living on your timeline--"

‎"And I can't keep living on silence," you cut in. "I begged you to just show up. Not fix me. Not promise forever. Just-- be there when I ask for you. But you always have some bigger, shinier priority. I'm not your emergency. I'm not even your backup plan, am I?”

‎He looks at you, raw and cornered. "You think I don't care? I'm doing my best."

‎"Your best is invisible!" you yell, jabbing the helmet at his chest. It hits, dull and heavy. "I need you. You're just gonna leave me to explain to people why my own boyfriend can't stand next to me for two fucking hours."

‎He throws up his hands, face flushed, eyes wild. "That fucking event. I already told you--you know what? Even if I did change my mind, I wouldn't go with you now. Because what the hell was that?" He gestures back toward the road, voice pitching higher with each word "How am supposed to show my face tomorrow? They're all gonna be talking about me-- God, (y/n), what did you do?"

‎"Relax, they'll survive the scandal of you having a girlfriend with a backbone." you hiss at him, eyes blown wide with barely contained anger, finally throwing the helmet at his chest.

‎He catches the helmet, eyes glassy.

‎"You think you're the only one tired? I'm exhausted from never being enough for you."

‎You take a step back, voice cracking. "I didn't want enough, I wanted you. But you make even that fuckin' impossible."

‎The street hums quiet around you, distant neon flickering off the chrome of the bike. Neither of you moves.

‎He stares at you, jaw tight, like he can't decide whether to laugh or scream. Then he bursts out, half-yelling, half-laughing--a sound that feels more like panic than amusement.

‎"Who teaches you this crap? Seriously--where do you even get this attitude from? You weren't like this before. You used to be calm. Decent. The woman I fell in love with didn't need to prove a point every time she opened her mouth."

‎You blink, once. Slowly. "Yeah," you say, dry as sandpaper. "The woman you fell in love with also hadn't spent six years being ignored like spam mail."

‎His expression snaps. "Oh, here we go." He gestures wildly, sarcasm dripping. "Now it's the tragic monologue. You've been 'so patient,' right? You 'put up with everything.' You and your little therapy-sounding lines. You sound exactly like them."

‎"Them?"

‎He scoffs. "Those fucking neighbors. Your so-called friends. Those pilots or whatever they are. The way they look at me every time I show up-- like I'm the bad guy in your fairytale. You think I don't notice that?"

‎You almost laugh, but it comes out as a sharp exhale. "Oh, you notice, huh? That's rich. You can't notice me falling apart for months, but you notice the way someone looks at you for five seconds across a fence."

‎He steps closer, voice tightening. "They've been in your ear since day one. They hated me, and now you hate me too. Mission accomplished."

‎You stare at him, stunned for a moment, then let out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. "Right. The only decent people in my life, and of course you can't stand them. Because god forbid I have anyone who sees through your act."

‎"My act?" His tone spikes, incredulous.

‎"You think I'm the one performing here? I've been bending backwards trying to keep you grounded, and all they do is feed your ego.

‎They love this. They love that you're loud now, that you argue, that you're--"

‎"Alive?" you interrupt softly, eyes glinting.

‎That shuts him up for a moment.

‎You tilt your head, voice quieter now, almost pitying. "You don't hate them because they're bad for me. You hate them because they reminded me what it feels like to have people who actually show up."

‎His jaw tightens again. "You think they're saints? They don't know you. They don't see what you're really like when the mask slips."

‎You smirk faintly. "And you do?"

‎He flinches at that, just barely.

‎The silence after stretches long and mean.

‎Somewhere down the road, a car passes, headlights brushing over both of you, and he looks like a man suddenly realizing he's lost the argument before it even started.

‎You take a step back, voice soft but slicing clean through the dark.

‎"They don't hate you because of me. They hate you because they can tell you never deserved me."

‎He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "You think they care about you? You're a project to them. Something to fix when they're bored.

‎Don't confuse attention for love, (y/n). You never could tell the difference."

‎Your chest goes cold. Not angry-- cold. The kind of quiet that comes after months of begging someone to see you.

‎You nod once. "Right."

‎Then, softly: "Fuck you"

‎The keys bite into your palm as you pull them out. You're shaking, but it's not from fear-- it's that edge between heartbreak and freedom.

‎You jam the key into the ignition. The bike snarls to life, the noise splitting through the night.

‎He flinches at the sound. "Come on, (y/n)--"

‎"Don't," you cut him off, eyes burning. "Just don't. Go climb your corporate ladder. Shake hands. Smile for the people who don't even know you hate yourself. Whatever it is that keeps you busy pretending you're fine."

‎You swing your leg over the bike, then stop.

‎You can't. Not yet. You rip your helmet off again, shove it at him like it's a weapon. "You don't get to call this effort. You ghosted me. You humiliated me. And now you want to act like I embarrassed you? Grow up."

‎You don't wait for a reply. You turn, start walking toward the Hard Deck-- the neon glow ahead like a pulse in the dark.

‎Behind you, his voice Jacks, roughmand desperate. "Don't come back! You hear me? Don't come back!"

‎You don't even turn around. "No danger of that!"

‎"Good!"

‎"Perfect!"

‎"Fantastic!" you shout, tossing your hand up in a mock wave before pushing through the Hard Deck's doors.

‎The music swallows you whole. Laughter, light, voices-- the world keeps moving.

‎Behind you, he's still standing in the road, under the streetlight, looking like someone who finally realized she wasn't bluffing this time.

‎---

‎Bob's been staring at the same cue ball for fifteen minutes. The game's technically still going, but none of them are really playing anymore. The Hard Deck hums around them-- clinking glasses, half-shouted laughter, the low pulse of a jukebox somewhere near the back-- but all he can hear is the scrape of his thumb against the cue chalk.

‎Phoenix leans over the table, smirking. "You're gonna burn a hole through that ball, Floyd."

‎He blinks, looks down. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

‎Fanboy snorts from the other end. "Sorry? Dude, you've apologized to that ball more times than you've spoken tonight."

‎Coyote chuckles, knocking his beer bottle against Bob's. "Man's tense. You'd think he was the one in a fight, not her."

‎Bob doesn't look up. "She's not... she's not in a fight."

‎They all trade looks over his head, the kind people only exchange when they know someone's lying to themselves.

‎Phoenix leans against the table, arms crossed. "She'll be fine, Bob. She's mean when she needs to be."

‎He huffs a laugh that doesn't sound like him. "That's what worries me."

‎Hangman, lounging nearby with a pool cue resting on his shouder, grins lazily.

‎"Don't look so excited, Floyd. She might be breaking up, but that doesn't mean you get to swoop in tonight."

‎Phoenix elbows him, muttering, "You're an idiot."

‎"Just saying," Hangman shrugs, "man looks like he's waiting for Santa Claus and Judgment Day at the same time. Try tomorrow though." He winks.

‎Bob's lips twitch-- half a smile, half a grimace. "You done?"

‎Hangman just tips his beer. "Not even close."

‎There's a brief silence then-- the kind that stretches and curls through the noise of the bar. Every few seconds, someone's gaze flickers toward the Hard Deck door, pretending they're not looking. Phoenix tries to line up her next shot, but her eyes dart to the entrance before she even hits the cue. Coyote's been staring at his watch like it's going to give him live updates on your location.

‎Then, as if the universe knows they're reaching their limit, Maverick saunters over from the bar, two beers in hand and a third bottle balanced in the crook of his arm. Penny's laughing at something behind him. He sets the bottles on their table and gives them a small, easy smile-- the kind that says he's seen a thousand nights like this.

‎"From your friendly neighborhood bartender," he says.

‎Phoenix raises her beer slightly. "Thanks, Mav."

‎Bob starts to nod, mumbling his own thank you, but Maverick just waves him off before he can get the words out. "Save it." Maverick eyes them one by one. "I don't like my kids looking like they're waiting for doomsday."

‎Phoenix offers a weak smile. "We're fine, Mav."

‎He raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? Tell that to Floyd's leg before it shakes a hole through my girlfriend's floor."

‎Bob freezes. "Sorry, sir."

‎"Don't be sorry," Maverick says, cracking open a beer for himself. "Just try not to set the place on fire with all that nervous energy."

‎Then he turns back to Penny, walking back to the counter like it's no big deal.

‎But to Bob, it is.

‎Because now, with the beer sweating in his palm and the laughter around him turning into background noise, all he can think about is how the last time he saw you, you looked angry enough to burn asphalt-- and somehow still managed to look heartbreakingly beautiful doing it.

‎He sets the bottle down, stares at the door again.

‎If you walked in right now, he'd swear he didn't see you-- just to hide the way he'd been waiting, probably laugh, just to stop himself from doing something stupid like running to you..

‎But he knows he will.

‎He's already halfway gone. Halfway? Who's he kidding? He's ruined.

---

‎The door creaked open, and for a split second the night air followed you in-- cool, sharp, too clean for this bar.

‎You didn't need to lookup to know seven pairs of eyes had already found you. You felt-- like a spotlight, like judgment, like home.

‎A portion of the Hard Deck went still, the noise thinning as if the jukebox itself was holding its breath.

‎Of course they'd seen you. Of course they knew.

‎The Hard Deck was too loud for how quiet you felt.

‎Boots heavy, throat dry, eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards because if you looked up-- if you even glanced at that corner table-- you knew you'd unravel.

‎You made straight for the counter, pulse matching the lazy thud of some classic rock track you didn't care to recognize. Maverick spotted you first, of course he did. The man had a radar for his so-called "kids."

‎"Well, if it isn't trouble in a leather jacket," he said, grin easy, voice carrying that fond kind of mockery only he could get away with. "You miss us, or are you just here to run up Penny's tab again?"

‎You pulled out a stool, didn't bother with the smile, but your voice came out steady.

‎"Miss you? Not a chance. Miss impounding your bike after you decided red lights were a suggestion? Every damn day."

‎You tilted your head toward Penny, who was already giving you that what happened now? look.

‎"Make it strong," you said, sliding onto the stool. "Like-- ruin me strong."

‎Penny hesitated, brows knitting, a faint crease of worry before she sighed. "You sure you want to be ruined tonight, sweetheart?"

‎You exhaled through your nose, more of a half-laugh. "Just this once. Promise."

‎She nodded slowly, reaching for a bottle. Behind you, the familiar murmur of your squad barely hid the shuffle of bodies--chairs scraping, cue sticks paused mid-aim. They were watching, trying not to.

‎You didn't turn. You couldn't. You just leaned your cheek into your palm and listened to Maverick telling Penny some story about bad landings and worse coffee, pretending his voice was the only thing keeping the silence from swallowing you whole.

‎The squad didn't speak. They didn't have to. A glance from Phoenix to Coyote to Hangman was enough. The collective thought passed like static-- how do we handle this? Carefully or not at all?

‎Bob didn't wait for consensus. He moved first. Slow, deliberate, like standing too fast might spook the air around him. The glass hit the table with a soft clink, half a ring of condensation left behind. His heart was somewhere in his throat-- not that he'd ever admit that to anyone alive.

‎And then--

‎The door swung open hard enough to make it jingle twice, loud and sharp over the music. Heads turned.

‎He walked in.

‎Your ex.

‎Every muscle in his face looked wired wrong-- a mess of fury and something dangerously close to panic. The man wasn't just angry; he was unraveling.

‎Even Hangman stopped mid-joke. Coyote's brows shot up. Rooster muttered under his breath, "What the hell..."

‎Phoenix's eyes darted to Bob, already tense.

‎"Floyd," she warned, low but useless--because Bob was already halfway across the floor.

‎He'd never seen that expression on the guy before. Not the smirk, not the bravado, not even the quiet 'guilt' you used to excuse. This was something new. Something cornered.

‎And Bob's pulse picked up one hard, heavy beat.

‎Don't you dare bring that here.

‎The door slammed against the wall, rattling the frame.

‎"So this is it?" he barked, voice already too loud. "You were just gonna leave? That's how it's gonna be now?"

‎Every conversation in the bar hiccuped to silence. Maverick, still leaned against the counter, straightened with a frown. His tone when he spoke was steady, low-- the kind that made even drunk lieutenants Shut up.

"‎Watch your volume, son."

‎But he wasn't listening. He never did when he thought he was owed an audience.

‎You didn't even turn around. Just muttered, "God, not this again."

‎He kept going, hands slicing the air. "Six years. Six damn years, and this is what I get? You walking out over one stupid event?

‎That's all the love you had for me?"

‎A laugh clawed its way out of you-- sharp and humorless. "You're embarrassing yourself. No one else."

‎"Oh, am I?" he barked, the sound cracking sharp through the air. "Because we both know someone's been whispering in your ear, haven't they?" His gaze snapped to the far corner. "Yeah, you. The quiet one. The golden boy who's been dying for her to screw up so he could swoop in."

‎Bob froze mid-breath.

‎The squad didn't. Phoenix muttered a warning. Coyote's hand twitched near his drink. Rooster actually stood up, hangman following.

‎He ignored it. Marched right up until the space between you was a breath, reaching for your arm like he still had any right to touch you--

‎And then a hand landed on his wrist.

‎Not yours.

‎"Let go," Bob said. Quiet, but the kind of quiet that carried.

‎Every head turned. You could feel the shift--all that tension snapping toward him like a magnet.

‎Your ex's mouth twisted. "Oh, right. Ofcourse." He gave a laugh that didn't sound like laughter. "Makes sense. You're the reason she's been acting different. Not so quite now, are we?"

‎You shot up from your stool so fast it scraped the floor. "Don't you dare," you snapped, every word a blade. "You don't get to stand here and question my loyalty. You don't get to rewrite the story because you're losing control again."

‎He took a step closer, jaw set, muttering, "You don't even see what you're doing--"

‎And you cut him off, voice trembling but steady. "I see perfectly. For once, I actually see."

‎The bar stayed silent-- Phoenix's pool cue halfway in motion, Coyote frozen mid-sip.

‎Even the jukebox seemed to stop for breath.

‎But he didn't, "You think I don't see it? You think I'm blind? He's been hovering, smiling, pretending to be your friend, and now look where we are-- my relationship in ruins because you couldn't keep your boundaries straight!"

‎The words hit like gravel to the face. Bob's jaw flexed, but he didn't move.

‎You stepped forward, voice sharp enough to draw blood. "You ruin everything yourself and blame anyone standing too close. Don't you dare dump that on him."

‎"Oh, please," he laughed bitterly. "You really think he's innocent? He's been waiting for me to screw up. You all have."

‎"Waiting?" You smiled-- that hollow kind that wasn't even a smile anymore. "No. We've been watching. Watching you push and pull until there's nothing left but excuses. You hate the mirror, not the reflection."

‎For a second, he didn't have words. Just that wide-eyed, cornered.

‎Your ex's tone shifted on a dime. That old trick. The one you used to fall for.

‎He lifted a hand, fingers brushing the air like he could calm the storm he'd built himself.

‎"Come on, babe," he said, softer now. "Don't do this. I love you, alright? We love each other. Just... fuck everything else, yeah? We'll talk it out, like we always do."

‎Then the poison slipped in. "You're just--Christ-- you're being dramatic again. Like always."

‎Your jaw tightened. That was all it took.

‎You slapped his hand away so hard it echoed, your voice low and steady. "Don't touch me."

‎Bob was already there, arm out, moving you behind him without a second thought. He didn't shove, didn't posture-- he just stood, and somehow that was worse for the other man.

‎Maverick's voice cut through the static, cool and precise. "You've said enough. Door's right there."

‎But your ex just stared, chest rising, face blotched with frustration. "We're just talking," he snapped, eyes flicking between you and Bob, "is that not allowed now?"

‎Bob didn't move, didn't blink. "No. Not tonight."

‎Maverick didn't repeat himself, just tilted his chin toward the exit. Every set of eyes in the Hard Deck was on the man who couldn't take a hint.

‎And the silence that followed--thick, waiting-- said exactly how this would end if he didn't.

‎His eyes locked onto Bob, head tilting up slightly as he matched his gaze, not his height. He taps Bob's chest with the tip of a finger-- patronizing, territorial.

‎"You don't interfere with a man's life like that and walk away clean."

‎Bob's jaw ticks, but he doesn't step back. His voice comes out level-- quieter than the ex's, which somehow makes it worse.

‎"Didn't look much like a life from where I was standing."

‎His face comes inches from Bob's; he breathes out a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "She's been mine for six years. Don't fool yourself into thinking you're the exception. You're not protecting her. You're trespassing."

‎Bob's lips curled in a cruel smirk, so unnatural on his happy go lucky face that your ex had to blink twice.

‎"Use that phrasing again and I'll make sure no one mistakes ownership for respect."

‎The room had gone unnaturally still. The kind of still that felt heavy, charged-- like a storm paused just to see how stupid the next man would be.

‎Your ex finally noticed. Every single person in the Hard Deck was turned toward him. The Daggers leaned against the pool table, half-smirks gone, postures iron straight.

‎The locals had fallen quiet, watching with that mix of curiosity and warning. And behind the counter, Maverick stood like the human embodiment of a raised brow--arms crossed, jaw set, no trace of the usual teasing warmth.

‎It wasn't an audience. It was a perimeter.

‎And your ex looked around and realized--this wasn't his territory. He wasn't the biggest voice in the room anymore. Not even close.

‎He scoffed, a dry sound, trying to salvage his dignity. "Let's take it outside, huh?"

‎Bob shifted, beer glass forgotten, shoulders squaring as if that sentence was a trigger. But before he could move, you lifted a hand to stop him.

‎The motion was small but absolute.

‎You reached for the drink Penny slid towards you, downed it in one long, exasperated pull, and set it back down with a soft clink that somehow sounded louder than his whole tantrum.

‎Then you stepped forward, brushing past Bob's arm. Your hand touched his chest briefly-- two quick pats, quiet, reassuring, the way you'd calm a dog that just did something brave but unnecessary.

‎"I got it," you muttered, voice low. Not for him. For you.

‎And then you stood in front of the man who used to be your entire world, looking at him like he was a noise you were finally done tuning out.

‎You stood in front of him, so close you could smell the ghosts of every fight you swore would be your last. The lights of the Hard Deck painted him in gold and shadow, and for a moment, it was like every version of him you'd loved flickered through-- laughing on the hood of his car, crying in your kitchen, promising to be better. All of them dying in the same breath.

‎Your voice came out hoarse but steady. "Do you know what's worse than being unloved?" You tilted your head, just slightly. "It's being loved halfway. It's spending years trying to translate your silence like it's a language I should already know. Waiting for a text, a look, something that says I still matter."

‎He looked startled, like you'd hit him with a truth he hadn't prepared to dodge. But you didn't stop.

‎"I used to feel sorry for you," you said, quieter now. "Because I thought you just didn't know how to love. I thought if I stayed long enough, I could teach you." You laughed once, humorless. "Turns out I was just apologizing to myself for how little I got."

‎He exhaled hard, running a hand over his face. The sound came out more like a sigh than anger this time. He stepped closer, hands reaching-- softly, almost tender. His fingers brushed your arm, and your body reacted before your mind did.

‎You flinched-- not from fear, but from memory. Because you couldn't remember the last time that touch meant something.

‎"Come on, babe," he murmured, voice cracking at the edges. "We can fix this. We always do. You just... you let them get in your head. Those friends of yours. They hate me. They always have. They want you against me. If you'd just--if you'd just cut them out--"

‎You stared at him like you were watching someone drown in a puddle.

‎He was still talking, voice rising and cracking, but it was all the same script. The same circular blame. His lips moved, but you couldn't even hear the words anymore. Just the sound of years collapsing in on themselves.

‎All that love, wasted on someone who thought loyalty meant isolation.

‎You furrow your brows. "Cut them off? Sure, and while I'm at it, I'll cut off the oxygen too. Because they're the only reason I can still breathe."

‎He scoffed, sharp and ugly. "Listen to yourself. You sound insane." His hands cut the air, as if her words were smoke he could swat away. "They're just people, random idiots you drink with. People you don't even know, suddenly they're your whole world? You're throwing away six years of love for some barroom friendships?"

‎You stared at him, something in your chest snapping like an overused string. "You think they're just people?" The laugh that came out was small and wrecked. "God, you really don't get it."

‎He started to speak again, but you were already stepping closer, words spilling before you could stop them.

‎"You talk like love is some scoreboard. Like the only love that matters is the one that makes you miserable together. But those 'random people'-- they're mine. They're the reason I remember who I am when you make me forget. They're the ones who sit on the curb with me after a twelve-hour shift, who check if I ate, who make the world feel survivable for five damn minutes."

‎You swallowed hard, voice trembling but alive. "The way people act like friendship isn't a big enough reason to go absolutely insane for someone... it baffles me. Have you never loved your friends so much you wanted to crawl inside their ribcage and just exist there? Never looked at someone and thought, 'bury me in the same grave as them'? Have you never-- God, how do you people even live like this?"

‎He blinked at you, confused, defensive, like he was missing the entire language you were speaking.

‎"I don't need anyone to own me," you said, quieter now. "I just need the ones who see me. And maybe that's why I'm still standing here, and you're still pretending love is a cage."

‎It hung between you, heavier than the six years you'd just buried.

‎It hit them like a gut punch wrapped in warmth.

‎You said it-- that messy, beautiful declaration-- and it was like the whole Hard Deck exhaled at once. The words weren't polished; they weren't sweet. But they were you. And for a bunch of people who'd seen you at your most guarded, hearing you speak like that was something close to holy.

‎Phoenix blinked first. She looked sideways at you, her mouth twisting into that tight smile she only gets when she's trying not to tear up in public. She didn't move-- just brushed her shoulder against Payback's, like we heard you, we got you. Coyote whistled low under his breath, not mocking this time-- more reverent. "Damn," he muttered, eyes soft. "Didn't know you had poetry in you, girl."

‎Hangman, who usually couldn't keep quiet for three seconds straight, just stared down at the floor with this crooked grin that didn't reach his eyes. "You tryna make a bunch of naval officers cry in public?," he said, too low for anyone but Rooster to hear, and Rooster elbowed him, murmuring, "Shut up, man. I'm barely hanging on."

‎Fanboy tried to play it off with a teasing, "Well, I'm crying in the club right now," but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him. Payback gave him a rough pat on the shoulder, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "me too."

‎And Bob-- Bob was still right beside you. He didn't touch you, didn't say anything. Just watched, eyes glinting like he'd been holding that moment close for a while now, waiting for you to see what he already knew.

‎When you finally turned your head the tiniest bit, his voice came quiet, steady:

‎"Guess we matter more than we thought, huh?"

‎It wasn't teasing. It wasn't even a question. Just awe. Pure, grateful awe.

‎The bar had gone so quiet you could hear the ceiling fan tick. Your ex's voice carried too clearly, too earnestly-- like a man rehearsing forgiveness instead of feeling it.

‎He stepped closer, expression soft, tone dripping with what might've sounded like love if it weren't for the rot underneath.

‎"Baby, my sweet, we don't have to make a scene. Look at me, you know I'd cross every ocean for you. Every single one. Just... maybe meet me halfway this time, yeah? Show me it's not all for nothing. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. And I swear, I can forgive you, we can start over. But you have to prove you mean it this time. Convince me."

‎A long, awful silence.

‎Rooster muttered, "Convince him? What is this, a job interview?"

‎Fanboy choked on his beer. Coyote winced like he was watching a car crash.

‎"I love you more than my own damn pride. So don't let me regret saying that out loud." he grabs your face, thumb carrasing your cheekbone affectionately. "Tell me there's still something left. I'll believe you, no matter how small it is."

‎You didn't answer. Didn't even blink. Just turned around after leaning into his touch for agonizing 10 seconds, back to the counter. Penny's brow furrowed when you dug into your pocket, pulled out your card, and slid it across the wood.

‎"Sorry about this," you said quietly, so calm it almost hurt. "Next round's on me."

‎Bob was the only one close enough to hear it. The words hit him like a shiver through the ribs.

‎Then you turned. One smooth motion.

‎Walked straight back to your ex, reached up, and took his face in your hands like he was fragile, the touch of a lover, so doomed. The whole squad froze, a single breath between hope and horror.

‎Fanboy whispered, "Oh come on-- no way."

‎Phoenix muttered, "She's not actually--"

‎Don't. Please don't. Just stay here. One more second. One more breath beside me.

‎Bob looked down, jaw tight. He couldn't watch. Couldn't stand the idea that after all that, that was what moved you.

‎People in love, he thought, are the stupidest creatures on Earth. Which sucks, 'cause I'm one of them.

‎You take one step closer, slow, deliberate. His breath hitches. The room practically leans in with him.

‎You look up at your ex-- Ryan Heim-- and give him the smallest, softest smile you've got left. He smiles back, relief washing over his face, already convinced the world's bent in his favor again.

‎You part your lips. "Ryan," you whisper, voice like sugar melting. He leans in, eyes bright.

‎And then--

‎Your tone sharpens. "Ryan Heim, you're under arrest for obstruction and harassment."

‎WHAM. Your knee connects with his stomach so fast the jukebox skips. He wheezes like a broken harmonica, folds in half, and before he can blink, you've spun him, yanked his arms behind his back, and clicked the cuffs like punctuation.

‎The room explodes. Maverick howls a laugh. Coyote's choking on his drink. Hangman yells, "I TOLD YOU SHE'D DO IT!"

‎"You have the right to remain silent," you murmur against his ear, all professionalism now, though your grin says you're enjoying this far too much. "I'd recommend using it."

‎Behind you, Fanboy groans, "Bro, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen," and Rooster yells, "Don't say that out loud!"

‎Maverick just sighs and takes a sip of his drink. "Told you kids not to date cops," he mutters, nostalgic.

‎Bob's the only one not laughing-- just standing there, eyes wide, like he's seeing sunlight for the first time.

‎Bob blinks once. Twice. That's it, he thinks. I'm marrying her. Or getting a restraining order. Depends how the next five minutes go.

‎You're chaos in boots and a badge. He's seen missiles fly cleaner than that knee. He should stop staring, maybe breathe, but God-- he's never loved anything so catastrophically in his life.

---

‎The walk home is chaos in motion. Beautiful, drunken chaos.

‎The street’s quiet except for your group echoing through it like a parade that lost its music. The moon’s out, the pavement smells faintly of rain, and half the squad is fighting gravity with mixed results.

‎Hangman’s got a streetlight arm in one hand and a mostly-empty beer bottle in the other. “This-- this light right here,” he announces solemnly, “is my best friend. Never left me on read. "Never kneed me in the stomach either."

‎Payback snorts so hard he nearly trips. “That’s because it’s metal, dumbass.”

‎Coyote’s limping but grinning, his arm hooked around Rooster’s shoulders. “You owe me fifty bucks, man. I told you she’d do something wild tonight.”

‎Rooster, sunglasses still somehow on his head at midnight, gestures vaguely with a bottle. “Didn’t think she’d go full law enforcement wild, though. My girl said, ‘You have the right to remain silent’ and meant it.”

‎Phoenix is laughing too hard to walk straight. Every few steps she stops to lean on a parked car, saying things like, “Oh my god, she Miranda’d his ass,” and then laughing even harder like she’s hearing it for the first time.

‎You’re quiet in the middle of it all. Your boots scrape the asphalt; your hand finds the edge of Bob’s sleeve every time you sway. You don’t say much-- just hum softly when the others start slurring the Top Gun anthem for no reason.

‎Bob’s the only one walking in a straight line. He’s got his arm steady around your back, his hand ghosting near your waist to keep you upright without making it a thing. He can smell your shampoo beneath the alcohol, and it’s driving him a little crazy how soft you look in the yellow streetlight.

‎You sway slightly, hair catching the streetlight, voice soft but oddly lyrical.

‎“Bob… you were… like a… like a storm in a teacup tonight. But… a good storm. The kind you’d want to... get caught in.”

‎He blinks, trying not to melt. “A storm in a teacup?”

‎You nod solemnly, grinning. “Yeah… terrifying… but… really cool.”

‎Hangman turns around just to yell, “That’s so weirdly poetic, I hate it!” and immediately trips over the curb.

‎Phoenix doubles over laughing. “He’s gonna have bruises shaped like friendship.”

‎“Bruises build character,” Bob mutters, still steadying you.

‎By the time you reach your row of houses, everyone’s scattered into smaller groups. Rooster and Coyote are arguing about whether to order pizza, Payback’s trying to unlock the wrong door, and Hangman’s laying in the grass talking to the stars about how proud he is of you.

‎You’re half-asleep standing up. Bob presses his palm lightly to your back. “C’mon,” he says softly. “Almost home.”

‎You smile, slow and crooked. “You always say that like it means more than it does.”

‎He looks at you for a second too long, then smiles back. “Maybe it does.”

‎The others are still laughing down the street, but the sound fades behind you. You walk the last few steps together, your hand brushing his knuckles once-- accidentally on purpose.

‎The street is alive with the squad’s drunken laughter, shouting, stumbling over one another. Boots scrape against the asphalt. Empty bottles clink. They’re loud, glorious, untamed-- but you’re quiet, a still point in the middle of the chaos, your gaze fixed somewhere past the streetlights, as if staring out can pull your chest back together.

‎Fanboy’s voice breaks through, a little too chipper, “Y'know though, there are other fish in the sea, y’know-- plenty of--”

‎You stop. Mid-step. Boots planted, rigid. Every pair of eyes slowly shifts toward you. You squint at him, voice low, tired, shaking just enough, “Did I ask for another fish?”

‎They all freeze. A misstep, a hiccup, a laugh caught in a throat.

‎You jab a finger in Fanboy’s chest, sharp but not violent. Your voice rises, trembling with anger and heartbreak:

‎“Did I ask for another fucking fish? I wanted MY fish. I… I wanted my goddamn fish to want me.”

‎And then it breaks. Your shoulders shake just a little. Tears spill free-- small, unstoppable, glinting in the streetlights, and they don’t need to sparkle like diamonds to hit hard.

‎Bob freezes beside you. His chest tightens, throat clenched. She’s crying. Not just a flicker of sadness. Not just drunk tears. Real, sharp, aching tears. Two years he’s known her, and he’s never seen her like this-- not so raw, so exposed, so heartbreakingly human.

‎The squad falters. They try to speak, fumble words, laughter stumbles into awkward silence. No one can touch this moment.

‎You wave them off with a hand, voice rough and low. Stumbling slightly, fumbling your keys, and then the door swings open. Click. Slam.

‎ The sound echoes down the street like a punctuation mark to the night.

‎The squad exchanges glances, all eyes eventually landing on Bob. Silence. Expectation. Almost a command: take the chance.

‎Bob swallows hard, watching you disappear inside, your silhouette framed in the doorway, boots and hair and broken grace. He can feel the weight of the moment, the hush of the world asking him to step forward, to finally be everything you might still let him be.

‎---

‎Love is ridiculous. Brutal. Messy. It makes you laugh, makes you cry, makes you feel every goddamn thing at once. Love’s a trap. It makes you stupid, lonely, and somehow still desperate for more.

‎It hurts. It ruins you. It shows you everything you’ll never get back.

‎Love’s a joke-- and you’re always the punchline.

‎It makes you weak, it makes you blind, and it makes you want someone who’ll never want you back.

‎Terrible, beautiful, useless. That’s love.

‎And tonight… tonight it’s just quiet.

‎You sink into the couch, lights off, the orange cat purring softly in your lap. The hum of the night outside fills the cracks between your thoughts. For once, there’s nothing else. No arguing, no shouting, no pretending. Just… empty. And for some reason, that emptiness feels like a gift.

‎You had to do it. The arrest. The stunt. The chaos. You had to make him hate you enough to stop the endless cycle of waiting and hoping and hurting. You had to make it real. And somehow… you don’t regret it. Not a flicker.

But your mind drifts. Back to him. That first time. The way his eyes held you-- warm, full of light, like you were the only person in the room. A little fairytale, a little impossible. You remember how it made you feel: alive, untouchable, small in all the right ways.

‎You had been helping an old lady with her groceries when, out of the corner of your eye, you had seen him-- a boy clinging to a tiny cat on a fire escape. From where you had stood, it had looked like he was breaking in.

‎“What the--sir! What are you doing?” you had called, hurrying over, heart racing.

‎He had frozen, eyes wide, the cat clutching onto his chest. “I’m… saving her! I’m… uh… doing good!”

‎And then-- of course-- his foot had slipped. Instinctively, you had caught him, bridal style, heart hammering, arms wrapped around him. He had been warm, slightly panicked, and somehow… perfect.

‎“Wow,” he had breathed, cheeks pink, voice soft. “You’re… really strong.”

‎You had glanced down at him, and for a second, time had felt ridiculous-- because those flecks of gold in his eyes, the tiny crease when he had smiled, the nervous curl of his lips… it had been completely disarming.

‎“You’re under arrest,” you had said, trying to sound serious.

‎He had tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “For… hugging you?”

‎“For reckless cat-rescuing,” you had replied, deadpan.

‎He had chuckled, warm and light, and in that moment, it had been like he had forgotten the fall, the embarrassment, the whole world. “Fine, officer… but maybe I deserve a coffee after this? To… discuss my sentence?”

‎You had rolled your eyes, hiding a grin that had threatened to betray you. “We’ll see, disaster-boy. Don’t get used to leniency.”

‎And later, yes, you had met for coffee-- and he had somehow managed to make you laugh while still looking completely ridiculous.

‎Those same eyes-- once flecked with gold, bright with mischief and warmth-- in your lastest memory were dull now. Cold. Empty. The kind of cold that sinks into your chest and leaves a hollow ache, the opposite of the way he looked at you the first time he made you giggle like a schoolgirl until your cheeks hurt.

‎The first time he broke your heart, it was subtle, almost polite in its cruelty. “This isn’t working,” he said, voice careful, as though rehearsing a line he had no right to deliver. You remember how your stomach twisted, how you tried to argue, to beg, to hold on… but he just looked at you, expression distant, letting you fall apart.

‎It happened again. And again. Three times, each break sharper, more unkind, leaving you to wonder why you kept stitching yourself back together for him. Each time, the same pattern: no context, no explanation, just his cold words and the love you carried alone.

‎And now… now it was different. This time, you ended it. Not out of weakness, not because he let you slip, but because you couldn’t survive that cycle anymore. The same heart that once swelled for him now refused to bend to his silence, to his absence.

‎You stepped away, finally free of the old pull, but still carrying the weight of every time he had let you fall. And for the first time in six years, you realized that love could hurt endlessly-- and still leave you alive, still leave you whole, still leave you able to walk away.

‎

‎Your gaze drifts to the front door, but your attention isn’t really there. Right next door, the dagger squad’s house should be alive with laughter and chaos, but tonight, nothing. Either they’re passed out, gloriously drunk, or maybe they’re just letting you have this quiet. You’ve been staring at the shadow of feet pacing outside your door for the last half hour-- hesitant steps, a hand lifting, lowering, retreating.

‎You can't stop dissociating while watching the person on the other side of the door. His eyes when he saw you when he was being escorted to the police car… not love, not regret, not even confusion. Just betrayal. Sharp edges cutting through something you thought was unbreakable.

‎But here, on your couch, in this quiet darkness, it doesn’t hurt so much. You’re just… still. Drunk enough to be untouchable, lonely enough to be serene. The cat shifts, kneading your lap, purring like it understands more than anyone else. You’re empty, but free.

‎And you realize: you don’t need him to see this. You don’t need anyone. For the first time in years, you can just… be. Quiet. Watching shadows. Listening to the hum of the night. Feeling your heart… whole, even if it’s bruised.

‎The power had been out for an hour, maybe more. You’d stopped checking the time after the third flicker of your phone screen felt too harsh against the dark. The apartment was silent except for the soft, steady purr in your lap. Your fingers moved automatically, stroking down warm fur, tracing the same path again and again until it stopped feeling like touch and started feeling like habit.

‎Your cat blinked up at you with those absurdly wide eyes, pupils blown to saucers by the dark. You met her gaze like you could explain heartbreak with a look. Six years. God...

‎Outside your door, the hallway light cast a thin strip under the door, slicing through the dark like it was trying to reach you. You hadn’t realized someone was moving there until the shadow broke the line-- once, twice-- footsteps shifting, pausing, pacing.

‎Bob. You didn’t even need to guess. The man had all the subtlety of a guilty conscience.

‎He was probably muttering to himself out there, trying to decide if knocking at midnight qualified as caring or as a misdemeanor. You could picture him, shoulders hunched, hair damp from the cold, jaw tight with that look that said he wanted to help but didn’t know how to be help.

‎You stayed still for a long time, just staring at the little glowing edge of the door. The world felt tilted, like you’d stepped out of it for a second and weren’t sure if you wanted back in.

‎Then your cat gave a single chirp-- soft, commanding, judgmental.

‎“I know, I know,” you whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. “He’s freezing his stupid self-esteem off.”

‎You scooped her up, her small body warm against your chest, and stood. The boards creaked under your feet as you crossed to the door. When you opened it, the hall light spilled in, too bright, too real.

‎Bob froze mid-step, one hand half-lifted, caught between knock and retreat.r His eyes widened a little, like you’d appeared out of a dream he wasn’t supposed to be having.

‎“Oh,” he managed, dropping his hand. “Uh. Hey.”

‎You adjusted the cat in your arms, who blinked at him with the unimpressed air of a queen addressing a subject.

‎“She says you can come in before you turn into an icicle,” you murmured, barely smiling.

‎Bob’s mouth twitched. “Good to know I’ve got her approval.”

‎“You’d better. She’s pickier than me.”

‎The words hung there, almost too light for what they meant, but Bob nodded, like he heard all the things you didn’t say. He stepped inside, quiet, careful. The door clicked shut behind him, and the strip of light disappeared.

‎The apartment sank back into its darkness, but it felt a little less empty this time.

‎Bob stood in the dark like he’d just walked into someone’s dream and wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be there. The air was thick with quiet-- not peaceful, just… still, like the room had been holding its breath for hours. His eyes adjusted enough to catch the shape of you, slumped on the couch with your cat tucked against your thigh, one hand absently stroking fur in slow, lost circles.

‎He didn’t say anything yet. He just looked. The place looked like it had tried to cry with you-- the pretty black dress you’d planned to wear tomorrow was half hanging, half crumpled over a chair, one strap torn clean through. Your phone sat near the wall, spiderwebbed with cracks, pieces of the case scattered like confetti for a party that went wrong.

‎You noticed him looking. Of course you did. You gave him that tiny, tired smile-- the kind you give someone who cares too much, so they won’t ask why.

‎His throat tightened. He shifted, scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting between you and the floor.

“...You okay?” he asked, barely louder than the hum of the fridge that wasn’t even running.

‎You didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. That small smile stayed on your face, like you were trying to convince both of you that everything was fine. Five seconds. Maybe six. And then it happened-- your bottom lip wobbled, eyes went glassy, and your whole expression folded in on itself, breaking open all quiet and sudden.

‎You let out the smallest sound-- half laugh, half sob-- and then you were crying, really crying, the kind that makes your shoulders shake even though you’re not making a sound. Your hands came up too late to hide your face, like you were embarrassed to be human in front of him.

‎Bob moved before he could think. He dropped onto the couch beside you, the old springs creaking in protest, and pulled you into him, one arm around your shoulders, the other hovering like he wasn’t sure where to put it until instinct decided for him.

‎Your face pressed into his shirt, and he could feel every uneven breath against his chest. He didn’t say anything-- just held you tighter, the way you hold something fragile you’re scared to fix wrong.

‎“Hey,” he whispered, after a long moment. “Hey. You’re okay. You did the hard part, alright?”

‎You hiccuped into his shoulder, still trembling, still holding on like the world might slip out from under you if you let go. The cat, unimpressed but loyal, climbed onto your lap again, curling against both of you like a living seal.

‎Bob smiled, small and soft, eyes closing for a beat, preventing the sting of tears that threatened to fall.

God he's empathetic. “Even your cat’s tougher than me,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles against your back.

‎You gave a shaky laugh through the tears, muffled and tired and somehow the sweetest sound he’d heard all night.

‎The lights flickered once-- a stutter of gold through the dark-- then went out again. Neither of you moved. The world could wait.

‎You didn’t mean to start talking. It just slipped out between the hiccups, the kind of crying that makes your voice come out in broken, useless pieces.

‎Bob didn’t move, didn’t rush you. He just sat there, his hand steady in your hair, thumb brushing behind your ear every few seconds like he was reminding you to breathe. His shirt was already wet at the shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice.

‎“I’ve tried being gentle about it,” you whispered, the words trembling against his chest. “And I’ve tried being violent about it. I’ve tried being patient about it, and angry, and quiet, and loud--” you swallowed, shaking your head, voice breaking like glass. “I’ve written about it, I’ve cried about it, I’ve screamed about it--”

‎Your hand tightened in his shirt, fingers fisting so hard the fabric creased. “And it never f-- it never fucking goes away, Bob. It never stops hurting. Every time we broke up, every time I swore it was done, it just--” you sucked in a breath that didn’t want to stay down-- “it just came back like it was waiting for me to mess up again.”

‎Bob’s chest rose and fell slowly. He didn’t say it’s okay, or you’ll be fine, because he knew that’s not what you needed. He just kept his palm against the back of your head, warm and steady, pressing you closer into his shoulder when your voice cracked.

‎Your words came smaller now, trembling. “Six years, Bob. I gave him six years. And I still feel like I’ve got pieces of him stuck under my skin, and I don’t know how to pull them out without bleeding.”

‎He exhaled through his nose, a shaky sound that wasn’t pity-- just heartbreak, quiet and secondhand. His thumb moved to trace a slow line down your arm, grounding you, gentle.

‎“I know,” he said softly, after a long pause. His voice was deep, tired in the way that comes from watching someone you care about drown and knowing all you can do is hold them. “I know you tried. God, you tried harder than anyone should have to.”

‎You let out a small sound-- something between a sob and a breath that wanted to be a laugh. The kind of noise that hurts but feels real.

‎“I don’t even hate him,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part. I want to, but I don’t.”

‎Bob’s hand paused for half a second, then started moving again, slow and tender. “You don’t have to hate him to be done,” he murmured. “You just have to stop letting him take pieces of you that you need to live.”

‎Your grip on his shirt loosened, then tightened again, desperate. “It hurts so much.”

‎“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “It’s supposed to. It’s what happens when something mattered...”

‎You finally looked up, just a little, and he caught a glimpse of your face-- tear-streaked, red-eyed, still beautiful in a way that made his heart twist. He didn’t say that either. He just brushed his thumb under your eye and nodded like he was agreeing with every ache you couldn’t say out loud.

‎Her tears hit my shirt and I felt religion for the first time.

‎Your breathing had steadied, but your voice still trembled when you finally pulled back a little, eyes swollen and glassy. Bob didn’t let go completely-- just kept one hand on the side of your arm, thumb brushing absentmindedly like he was afraid you’d disappear if he stopped touching you.

‎“It’s okay,” he said quietly, searching your face. “It happens when you love someone.”

‎You laughed then-- soft, cracked, ugly in the most human way. You shook your head, tears catching in the corners of your lashes. “No,” you said, the word small but sharp. “No, Bob. I didn’t love him.”

‎He frowned a little, tilting his head.

‎“I obsessed over him,” you whispered, voice suddenly calm. Too calm. “Completely. And thank heavens I was obsessed.”

‎Your eyes unfocused for a moment, gaze landing somewhere over his shoulder, as if you were watching old memories play out on a blank wall.

‎“Obsession,” you went on, “infatuation-- they’re short-lived things. A sweet fever dream that leaves you gasping when it burns out. Love is perpetual. Love’s… an entire world compared to that other form of mania people mistake for it. If love is seeing someone’s reality and choosing it, obsession is worshipping a fantasy that never existed.”

‎You looked back at him, tired but steady. “So no. I didn’t love him. Never. But I was utterly obsessed.”

‎Bob sat there for a moment, expression unreadable-- like he was trying to line up all the thoughts you’d just scattered. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that soft, crooked smile that always felt a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to smile in moments like this.

‎“There’s a thin line between love and obsession,” he said quietly. “Sometimes.... it’s so thin you don’t know which side you’re on until it’s too late.”

‎You huffed out a laugh through your nose, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Yeah. I didn’t just cross the line, Bob. I built a house on the wrong fucking side.”

‎That made him smile wider, something gentle flickering in his eyes. “Then maybe now,” he said, leaning just slightly closer, “you pack up and move.”

‎You blinked at him-- part of you wanted to cry again, part of you wanted to laugh-- and then you sighed, leaning your head back onto his shoulder like it was the most natural place in the world.

‎The cat had crawled back onto the couch, curled against your thigh again, purring so loudly it almost drowned out the quiet of the night.

‎“Yeah,” you murmured finally, voice small but sure. “Maybe I will.”

‎And Bob just nodded, resting his chin lightly against your hair, the two of you sitting there-- not fixed, not healed, but real, finally breathing in the same silence that didn’t feel empty anymore..

‎You were quiet for a while after that-- long enough that Bob thought maybe the words had finally run out of you. But then you spoke again, voice lower, shaky in a way that made him look at you properly his time.

‎“He was the first person I ever felt so unsure of,” you said softly, almost to yourself, “and still so overwhelmingly sure of at the same time.” You laughed a little, but there was no humor in it. “That was the scariest part. I had no idea what I was doing, I was… just making it up as I went. But I knew I wanted it to be him. God, I knew.”

‎Bob’s brow furrowed, the crease deepening as he listened. You kept going, like you couldn’t stop.

‎“And it sucks,” you whispered. “When you realise you were the one who drained them. You were the one who was mentally unstable, dragging your problems into the relationship. You were the one who took away their energy, their happiness. He had to deal with my mess while he was trying to survive his own, and it’s--” your voice broke on the word, “it feels like it's kinda my fault.”

‎Bob sat up straight, eyes narrowing. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “Don’t do that.”

‎You blinked at him, startled by the edge in his tone.

‎He leaned forward a little, the light from the hallway catching the side of his face. “Don’t you dare turn six years of pain into a story about how you ruined everything. That’s not fair to you. You didn’t make him shut you out. You didn’t make him stop showing up. You tried, and you kept trying, even when it hurt like hell.”

‎You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “Bob--”

‎“No.” His voice softened, but the word stayed solid. “You loved him in the only way you knew how. That’s not something to apologize for.”

‎Your breath came out sharp and uneven, like it was scraping your ribs on the way out. “I hate this,” you said suddenly, the words shaking. “I hate myself for being like this. For not knowing how to shut it off. For crying about it again like some pathetic--”

‎“Hey,” Bob interrupted, his tone low but commanding enough to make you stop mid-sentence.

‎You glared at the floor, fists clenched in your lap. “I just want to-- I just want to shake myself, or scream, or do something so I stop feeling this, Bob.” You let out a frustrated sound, smacking your palm against your knee. “I’m so tired of being the problem.”

‎He stared at you for a moment, then reached over and took your hand-- gently, but enough to make you look at him. His thumb brushed against your knuckles.

‎“You’re not the problem,” he said quietly. “You’re just hurt. And you keep trying to fight the hurt like it’s a person you can punch. But it’s not. It’s just… time. It’s the process. It’s you trying to heal, even when it feels like breaking.”

‎You looked down at his hand on yours, your lip trembling despite yourself.

‎He squeezed once, careful but sure. “You didn’t break him,” he said softly. “You broke for him. That’s a completely different thing.”

‎And that-- that was what finally undid you again. You didn’t sob this time. You just crumbled a little, pressing your face into your palms as Bob rubbed your back, slow and patient, letting you be angry and exhausted and real all at once.

You were still hiccupping through the tears when you mumbled, “I really do just want to have a go at myself, you know? Like… yell at me. Kick myself. I deserve it.”

‎Bob sat there, quiet, looking at you with that steady, soft gaze that could make even heartbreak blink first. Then-- without a word-- he stood up.

You sniffled. “Where are you going?”

‎No answer. Just the faint sound of your walk-in closet door sliding open. Then shuffling. And more shuffling. Hangers clinking. A thud. A muffled curse.

‎“Bob?” you croaked, half crying, half suspicious. “I swear to God if you're stress-cleaning again--”

‎Silence.

‎A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway.

Your mouth fell open.

‎He was wearing your crop top-- barely clinging to him-- paired with a long, floaty skirt that made him look like an escaped Renaissance princess. A pink fur scarf draped around his shoulders like he’d raided a 2012 fashion blog. Your aviator sunglasses perched crookedly on his nose. And, because tragedy is never complete without comedy, your police officer cap sat on his head at an impossible angle.

‎“Oh my God,” you whispered, already breaking into a snort.

‎He stumbled forward, wobbling dangerously in your two-inch heels that looked ready to give up on life. “Alright,” he said, pitching his voice high and dramatic. “Let’s have a go at me. I’m emotionally unavailable, my skincare routine is inconsistent, and apparently I think closure is a myth--”

You gasped between giggles. “Bob, you look like Coachella threw up on you.”

‎He pressed a hand to his chest, still teetering in the shoes. “Excuse me? I’m you, minus the eyeliner and plus crippling Midwestern politeness.”

‎That broke you. You slid right off the couch, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. The kitten hissed from the armrest like Bob had personally offended her ancestors.

‎Bob looked down at the little ball of fur, frowning through the sunglasses. “It's me, your loving, emotionally unstable mother," he said solemnly. "Recognize greatness, you tiny ingrate."

‎It wasn’t therapy. But it was close.

You wiped your eyes, sniffling. “Okay. You’re me. I’m mad at you. Ready?”

‎Bob straightens the tiny crop top that’s threatening to give up on his shoulders. “As I’ll ever be. Go easy, I’m fragile.”

‎“You’re not fragile, you’re dramatic,” you shoot back, pacing in front of him.

‎He gasps. “How dare you.”

‎“You cry over spilled milk.”

‎“I cry over emotional damage, thank you very much.”

‎“You overthink everything.”

‎He tilts his head. “Wow. You say that like self-reflection is a crime. Sorry for having depth, ma’am.”

You try not to smile, but your lips betray you. “You ruin everything good because you can’t stop doubting yourself.”

‎He freezes for half a second, eyes softening despite the ridiculous outfit. Then he forces a sassy shrug. “Or maybe I just expect too little from people who don’t deserve me.”

‎That makes you laugh, watery and sudden. “You’re impossible.”

‎“Correction: I’m fabulous.” He flicks the fur scarf off his shoulder. “And my therapist agrees.”

You groan, pressing your palms to your face. “I’m trying to be serious.”

‎“Yeah, well, you’re trying to yell at yourself and I’m trying not to fall in love, so we’re both struggling here.”

Your hands drop. “What?”

‎He panics. “IN-- in character! As you! You love me! Well-- yourself! Ugh-- forget it.” He points at you weakly. “You see? You’re confusing as hell.”

You burst into full laughter then, shoulders shaking, tears turning into something else entirely.

‎Bob grins, victory blooming across his face. “There she is.”

‎“God, you’re so cute,” you say between giggles.

‎“Historically accurate,” he says, bowing with mock grace. “But effective.”

‎The cat hops into his lap like it agrees, pawing at the hem of the skirt.

‎He smooths its fur absently, glancing up at you again. “Next time you wanna yell at yourself, just… let me stand in instead. I can take it.”

You exhale, smiling helplessly. “You’re seriously wearing my crop top.”

‎He smirks. “Yeah. You should probably take it back before I make it look better than you do.”

Cue hearts melting.

‎You were halfway sunk into the couch, still grinning from laughing too much, when Bob tilted his head, watching you like he’d just solved an equation.

‎“So… uh,” he said carefully, voice too casual to be casual, “what are you gonna wear tomorrow?”

‎You blinked up at him. “Tomorrow?”

‎“Yeah, the-- uh-- the charity thing. The one your boss invited you to?”

‎“Oh, that.” You exhaled, throwing your arm over your eyes like a silent movie actress. “Yeah, no. Fuck that, I’m not going.”

‎Bob froze. “You’re-- wait-- what do you mean not going?”

‎You peeked out from under your arm. “Exactly what it sounds like. I’m done. Too much pressure. Two weeks of stress. I’ve suffered enough.”

‎He stared, wide-eyed. “You’ve been-- (y/n), you’ve been talking about it every day. You had color-coded lists.”

‎“Which I set on fire in spirit,” you said cheerfully. “Bad omens everywhere. Got bottled on the head, car flipped, lost a boyfriend-slash-ball-and-chain off my shoulder-- good sign, actually. So yeah, God’s basically saying: stay put, bitch.”

‎He blinked slowly, like his brain needed to buffer. “You’re not going just because you broke up with your... Ugh---him?”

‎“Correct.”

‎Bob rubbed his face, groaning quietly. “But-- it’s a big deal. You said it’d be insulting not to show up.”

‎You hummed. “Yeah, well, if I don’t go, then my boss can’t pair me up with his son. That’s a win. The kid already has a girlfriend, so I’d rather skip the whole awkward matchmaking bit.”

‎He frowned. “So your plan is to… not show up at all?”

‎“Exactly.” You smiled proudly.

‎He just stared for a long second. Then, out of nowhere, he muttered, “…Take me instead.”

‎You blinked. “What?”

‎He instantly flinched like the words had escaped on their own. “I mean-- I just-- uh-- since the point was, you know, to look taken, right? So if I… went with you…” He trailed off, voice going small. “Then technically it’d still, uh, send the signal.”

‎You sat up slowly, eyes wide. “Bob.”

‎He looked like he was ready to jump out the window. “Forget it. It was a dumb idea.”

‎“Bob.” You pointed at him, half-smiling. “Did you just-- did you just offer to be my fake boyfriend?”

‎He groaned into his palms. “Oh my God. It sounds so cring--”

‎You burst out laughing. “This is like a Tumblr Bob Floyd fanfiction. You’re actually living it.”

‎He peeked out between his fingers, deadpan. “Can’t believe you think anyone would read that.”

‎“Oh, they would,” you teased, leaning closer. “Shy, heroic Navy guy pretends to be his best friend’s boyfriend to save her from social disaster? That’s a 300k slow burn minimum.”

‎He cracked a shy grin. “You’re insufferable.”

‎“And you’re committed now,” you said, poking his shoulder.

‎Wait-- she’s thinking about it. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Don’t ruin this with words. She’s biting her lip. Oh, great, now I’m just... existing weirdly. My hands don’t know what to do. Why do hands even exist?

‎“Okay, Bobby. You offered. Can’t unsay it.”

‎He sighed, cheeks pink. “Guess not.”

‎“Good,” you said, slumping against him with a smug grin. “Because now I get to make you wear a suit tomorrow.”

‎Bob blinked. “A suit?”

‎“Look,” you said, tapping his chest with a finger, “fake boyfriend, no skinny pants.”

‎He glanced down, cheeks faintly pink. “You’re… making demands?”

‎“Rules of engagement,” you said, snickering.

‎He rubbed the back of his neck, hiding a grin. “Fine. But I warn you… I’m very convincing in a suit.”

‎You snuggled against him, barely holding back a smile. “I’m counting on it.”

‎He looked down at you, heart thumping. “Good. Because I’m… more than willing.”

God, let me fold her into a burrito and carry her through life, gently, carefully, no corners cut.

‎‎----

‎The buzzing of your phone drags you out of a haze that’s equal parts hangover and emotional exhaustion. It’s relentless, vibrating against the couch cushions and your still-sore thumb, and somewhere through the fog, sunlight teases its way through the blinds, slitting across your face like it knows exactly how fragile you feel this morning.

‎Groaning, you squint at the phone, barely able to focus through the pounding in your skull. Somehow, miraculously, it’s still alive despite last night’s… creative destruction. You swipe clumsily, nails scraping the cracked screen, and answer with a hoarse, barely-there, “Uh… hello?”

‎Silence stretches. And then:

‎“Sleeping in late, are we?”

‎Your eyes snap open. Instantly upright. That booming, unmistakable voice-- the Chief of the Police Department-- hits you like a sucker punch. Heart hammering, throat constricting, you clear it nervously. “No! Uh… good morning, sir. I… I had a fun night, thank you, sir.”

‎He chuckles, warm and rolling, making your stomach twist. “Good. Are you ready for the event tonight?”

‎And just like that, the floodgates open. Memories of last night crash in: the torn dress, the breakup, the tears, the couch, the quiet comfort of someone holding you while you unraveled. Your words tumble out in a shaky, halting whisper: “I… um… I might… I might not… be able to…”

‎Voices multiply on the other end, overlapping in cheerful chaos:

‎“Oh, is that (y/n)? How lovely! I can’t wait to see you again, dear!” --the Chief’s wife, impossibly sunny.

‎“Don’t keep them waiting!” --someone else, laughing somewhere off-line.

‎“Yes, yes…no! Dont butter it--” --your boss, chatting with someone else, laughter spilling over like sunlight into your headache.

‎And then -- click.

‎The line goes dead. You stare at the phone for a moment, blinking through the haze. He accidentally hung up. Of course. You let out a long, weary sigh, slumping back into the couch. The warm comforter envelops you, the pillow cradling your neck. For the first time since waking, it feels like a small island of safety in the middle of your pounding headache and the chaos of voices.

‎Your cat stretches beside you, flicking a paw lazily against your arm, and you bury your face against the soft blanket. “You’re the only one allowed to judge me right now,” you mutter to her, letting the warmth settle in, letting yourself just… exist for a moment, hungover, messy, and inexplicably comforted by what you can’t even remember fully yet.

‎The sunlight continues to tease you through the blinds, the buzzing of the phone lying forgotten for now. You let out another shaky sigh, closing your eyes, knowing deep down that surviving last night-- somehow, against all odds-- is already a minor victory.

‎You stretch like the world has ended, long, dramatic yawns ripping through your ribcage, and shuffle across your room, half-asleep and mostly hungover. The space is cleaner than you expected-- thank goodness, because last night’s chaos had threatened to make it look like a small tornado tore through. The poor black dress lies crumpled on the chair, torn open like a cat had attacked it in a panic. You crouch, brushing your fingers softly over the fabric, muttering a tiny, guilty, “Sorry… sorry.”

‎The wall by the corner still bears the faint evidence of your drunken fury-- a cracked spot where the phone hit it-- but otherwise… everything’s relatively intact. You pause for a beat, leaning against the doorframe, and blink. Last night’s memories are blurry. Someone leaning their shoulder into yours… holding you. That part’s hazy. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe not. Either way, the warmth lingers in the back of your mind, teasing you.

‎Sighing, you scoop up your kitty, feeling her soft purr vibrate through your arms, and let her nuzzle your chin as you head for the door. Your bare feet shuffle across the floor, toes curling against the cool wood. Your oversized pajamas-- probably not even yours, a casualty of the constant laundry mix-ups with your lovely neighbors-- swish against your legs as you move.

‎Finally, you step outside, the morning air greeting you with a crisp, fresh bite. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, letting the haze of your hangover settle into something manageable, letting the light brush over your skin. For a fleeting moment, the world feels soft, quiet, and yours again.

‎Your gaze drifts to the door next to yours, the dagger's house you know so well, and you hesitate, kitty in your arms, the gentle purr a little drumbeat against your chest. The morning is just waking up, and for now, it’s calm.

‎The door creaked open like it was judging you for existing this early. You stepped inside the Daggers’ house-- barefoot, hoodie oversized enough to count as a hiding place, hair a mess of bad decisions. The air smelled faintly of toast and yesterday’s cologne.

‎“Home sweet chaos,” you muttered, voice scratchy from too little sleep and too much emotional damage.

‎Technically, three of them were supposed to be on duty today. The other half were supposed to be here-- making breakfast, arguing over who finished the cereal, doing something.

Instead, the house was dead quiet.

‎Well. Not completely dead.

‎A blur of golden fur came tumbling down the hallway, skidding on the floorboards. Socks barked once, tail spinning like a helicopter. He looked too happy for someone who’d probably witnessed several crimes of tequila last night.

‎“Hey, you,” you yawned, crouching a little as the puppy pounced. “Where’s everybody? You all holding an intervention I wasn’t invited to?”

‎The answer came in the form of a tiny hiss. The orange kitten-- the stray you had adopted two weeks ago-- jumped down from your arms, like vengeance in miniature. The moment Socks saw her, it was on. The puppy wagged his tail so hard he nearly fell over, and the kitten responded with the kind of slaps that belonged in soap operas.

‎You flopped onto the couch, groaning. “You two are the most stable relationship in this house.”

‎Your eyes wandered around the room. It wasn’t a total disaster, which was suspicious. Someone had cleaned up-- emptied bottles lined up like little soldiers, floor not sticky for once. Bob, obviously. The only one who treated hangovers like moral weakness.

‎The memory hit you: last night, him standing between you and your ex, calm and steady while everything else blurred. You hadn’t said anything then, just watched his shoulders move when he told the guy to leave.

‎Now you were here, wearing your heartbreak like a blanket, half hoping he’d show up so you could say something stupid and make yourself laugh about it.

‎You sighed and called out, “You guys seriously hiding from me? Is this a group effort to avoid comforting me? Because I respect that, but at least make me pancakes while you’re at it!”

‎Silence. Just Socks barking as the kitten launched herself off the coffee table, smacking him mid-air.

‎You reached for your phone before remembering it was still next door. Broken. Of course. You turned on the TV instead, settling on some obnoxious morning show full of people pretending to enjoy life.

‎Socks jumped onto the couch beside you, promptly sitting on your hoodie string. The kitten followed, climbing up the back of the couch to bat at his ears.

‎“Perfect,” you mumbled, curling your legs under you. “I get a love triangle between a golden idiot and a furry demon, and everyone else gets brunch.”

‎Still, as the sunlight crept through the curtains and the room filled with soft sounds-- TV chatter, puppy snores, kitten paws tapping across cushions-- it didn’t feel so bad.

‎Messy, maybe. Quiet, definitely. But it still felt like home.

---

‎The sun was low, bleeding gold across the street as two vehicles rolled into the driveway-- Hangman’s obnoxiously shiny car first, followed by Bob’s dignified, slightly dented navy-blue truck. The doors opened in a chorus of groans and laughter.

‎“Never again,” Payback declared, stretching like he’d just survived a war. “I’ve seen less suffering in boot camp.”

‎Fanboy tossed a shopping bag at him. “You didn’t even help, man! You sat in the food court for an hour pretending to ‘guard the bags.’”

‎“I was emotionally supporting you,” Payback said, deadpan. “From a distance.”

‎Rooster slammed his car door shut and ruffled his hair in the reflection of Hangman’s window. “Pretty sure I lost brain cells watching Bob debate between navy blue and slightly darker navy blue.”

‎Phoenix rolled her eyes, juggling two more bags. “Don’t even start. The man made us go to four different stores.”

‎“I like to make informed decisions,” Bob said from behind them, cheerful and completely unbothered, holding a crisp shopping bag like it was the Holy Grail.

‎Hangman snorted, locking his car. “Informed decisions? You nearly cried over lapels, Bobby. LAPELS.”

‎“They were uneven,” Bob said seriously.

‎Phoenix groaned. “He’s like shopping with a bride.”

‎“I heard that,” Bob replied, still smiling, cheeks already red from the teasing. “And I’ll have you know this bride looks great in a tux.”

‎Rooster let out a long whistle. “You better. It cost us five hours of our lives, man. Five. I’m aging.”

‎Fanboy grinned. “You’d age faster if you stopped flirting with the cashier, by the way.”

‎Rooster gasped. “That was charm, not flirting.”

‎Phoenix made a choking sound. “She gave you a pity coupon.”

‎The group broke down laughing as they started up the walkway, Hangman shoving Rooster lightly, Payback and Coyote still bickering over who was supposed to carry the garment bag.

‎Bob just trailed behind them, holding the tux bag like treasure, a little skip in his step.

‎He couldn’t help it. His chest still felt light.

‎Every time he thought of tonight-- of you, standing beside him, smiling again-- he felt like maybe his heart was finally catching up to his courage.

You were single. Finally free. And even if tonight was just pretend, even if it meant being your “plus one” for a few hours, it was something. His something.

‎As they neared the front porch, his eyes flicked instinctively toward your house next door. The curtains were drawn, soft light spilling through. He smiled before he could stop himself.

‎“Bob’s thinking about her again,” Coyote sang under his breath.

‎“I am not,” Bob said quickly. His ears turned pink.

‎Hangman grinned over his shoulder. “Buddy, you’re practically glowing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were about to propose instead of attend a work event.”

‎Phoenix laughed. “Leave him alone. It’s adorable. Let the man have his rom-com moment.”

‎Bob rolled his eyes, but the blush didn’t fade. He just tightened his grip on the bag and followed them to the door, the grin creeping back before he could help it.

‎Rooster pushed the door open mid-laugh-- something about Hangman’s parking-- and the group piled in, voices still overlapping.

‎“Next time, Bob’s buying all the coffees.”

‎“Next time we’re not going.”

‎“Next time I’m bringing earplugs--”

‎Then the noise stopped.

‎Because right there, in the middle of the living room, cocooned in a blanket and surrounded by empty chip bags, was you.

‎Head tilted. Eyes narrowing. Mid-chew.

‎The Daggers froze.

‎By the time the door swung open, the living room lights were dim, the TV glow was soft and blue, and you were halfway through a bag of chips that definitely didn’t belong to you.

‎Actually, it was their secret stash-- hidden behind the cereal boxes, the one everyone swore didn’t exist. You’d found it because apparently heartbreak gives you superhuman senses for snacks.

‎You were a full blanket burrito, slumped into the couch cushions like you were trying to merge with them, hair a nest of suffering, hoodie hooded. The kitten was asleep on your stomach. Socks was drooling on your foot.

‎A long, cinematic pause.

‎“Where the fuck have you all been,” you said, voice muffled by salt and betrayal.

‎No one moved. Hangman blinked first, like he’d stumbled into a wildlife documentary. Phoenix made a tiny choking sound.

‎Coyote tilted his head. “Is that-- are those our chips?”

‎You glared, unrepentant, grabbing another handful and shoving them in your mouth. “Don’t change the subject,” you said through a mouthful. “It’s six p.m. and I’ve been alone with daytime television--where the hell were you people?”

‎They looked at each other like they’d been caught in some elaborate lie. Fanboy scratched the back of his neck. Rooster cleared his throat.

‎Finally, Payback lifted one of the plastic bags, looking like he wanted to disappear. “Uh... we were... getting Bob a tux?”

‎You blinked. “A what?”

‎Hangman gestured vaguely with his bag. “A tux. You know, formal wear, suit with a bow tie, that kind of thing. It’s... it’s pretty self-explanatory, sweetheart.”

‎You narrowed your eyes. “For what? His secret wedding? His debutante ball?”

‎Rooster snorted and quickly looked away. Phoenix pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Everyone’s eyes slowly, slowly turned to Bob.

‎Poor, sweet Bob.

‎He froze like a deer in headlights, color rising in his face. “Uh. The... event?” he managed, glancing helplessly around as if someone might rescue him. “I’m... supposed to be going as your plus one?”

‎You stared.

‎He blinked.

‎Phoenix muttered under her breath, “Oh, this is about to get good.”

‎Bob swallowed. “We... talked about it last night? You said you didn’t want to go alone because of... Uh, y'know, and your boss and... I, um, offered to fill in?”

‎The memory hit like a slow-moving train.

‎Last night. Crying on your couch, half-drunk and rambling about how pathetic it was to show up to your boss’s charity event newly single. Bob sitting across from you, quietly listening. Then making you laugh-- pulling one of your crop tops over his head, doing his best impression of you, all soft voice and exaggerated sighs until you’d started crying from laughter instead of heartbreak.

‎You’d completely forgotten.

‎Your face flushed, and you sank deeper into the couch, hiding behind your chips. “Right,” you said weakly. “That thing. The tux thing.”

‎You blinked. “Of course I remember. What do you take me for?” you said, a little too quickly, brushing chip crumbs off your hoodie.

‎Hangman muttered, “Someone with short-term memory loss.”

‎You ignored him. “I said obviously I remember,” you added, standing up way too fast. “Totally. A tux. Yeah.”

‎Phoenix raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Then why aren’t you dressed yet? The event’s at nine, isn’t it?”

‎Your mouth opened. Closed. You choked on air. “Right. Nine. I was-- uh-- mentally preparing.”

‎Hangman grinned. “You mean napping in chip dust?”

‎You threw a chip at him. “Shut up, Bagman.”

‎You spring off the couch, painfully trying to be nonchalant. The Daggers pause mid-laugh, eyebrows up. You’re already halfway across the room, brushing crumbs off your shirt, muttering nonsense like you’re on a secret mission.

‎“Wait, I just-- hang on--” you say again, reaching for Bob’s arm.

‎Bob freezes, eyes wide behind his glasses, the plastic bag with his suit crinkling nervously in his hand. His brain is running diagnostics at lightning speed: she looks panicked-- why does she look panicked-- did I do something-- oh god, she remembers-- she was drunk when she said yes-- she’s about to take it back, isn’t she--

‎He barely manages a meek “Uh--” before you tug him toward the door. “One second. Just--come with me. Please.”

‎He stumbles after you, all floppy limbs and confused puppy energy, while the squad watches with varying degrees of alarm and amusement. The door swings open, and the two of you disappear into the next apartment like you’re escaping a crime scene.

‎The silence that follows is thick enough to chew.

‎Hangman breaks it first. “...She totally forgot, didn’t she?”

‎Phoenix doesn’t even look up. “Yep. She absolutely did.”

‎Payback groans, rubbing his face. “And poor Bob was so happy this morning.”

‎Phoenix leaned against the counter, arms crossed, brow raised in mild pity. “You think she’ll still take him?”

‎Coyote didn’t even look up from the chips he was stealing. “If she doesn’t, I’m calling animal control. That boy’s gonna wander off lookin’ lost.”

‎Payback let out a wheezy laugh, pointing toward the door Bob had just been dragged through. “Tragic. Man bought cologne for this.”

‎Phoenix snorted, pressing her lips together to stop a grin. Coyote shook his head solemnly, like they were discussing a national tragedy. Payback just muttered, “Should’ve gotten the travel-size bottle.”

‎---

‎You slam the door behind you, the soft click barely audible over your own panicked breathing. Bare feet shuffle across the floor as you pace in tiny, uneven steps, hoodie bunched around your fingers. You keep muttering under your breath, words spilling too fast and jumbled:

‎“I… I’m so sorry… last night… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… you shouldn’t have had to-- ugh, damn it, I just--”

‎Bob stays frozen, but only barely. His hands clutch his own arm-- where you’d just grabbed him, dragged him over here like a human lifeline-- like he’s holding on to the memory of your warmth, your chaos. His eyes are wide, soft, full of that desperate puppy expression, like you could leave and he’d follow anywhere, tail wagging if he had one.

‎You stop mid-step, suddenly aware of him just standing there, holding himself, still flushed from the hallway and your panicked grip. Your chest tightens. You can barely look at him.

‎“I… I didn’t mean to… inconvenience you… I was… I was so drunk…” you say, voice small, trailing off into a frustrated breath. Words are too much, too little, all at once.

‎Bob’s lips twitch in a grin that’s half nervous, half adoring. “Hey… it’s okay,” he says softly, almost a whisper, his voice trembling just a little. He squeezes his own arm again, mimicking the warmth he just felt from you, like anchoring himself to you without needing to say it.

‎Your pacing slows, but you still mutter, cheeks heating. “I… I just… ugh, I feel awful… dragging you out here… you didn’t--”

‎Bob shakes his head, puppy eyes impossibly wide. “No, no. I… I liked it,” he blurts, almost embarrassed. “I… I liked being with you. Last night... You know I'm always happy to help, please don't embarrass me by apologizing. You… you’re okay. And… and I… I don’t care about the dragging part either.”

‎You stop completely now, staring at him, heart hammering in your chest, words failing. He’s still there, still glowing in that ridiculously soft, hopeless way that makes your chest ache.

‎You take a shaky breath. “You’re too good to me,” you mutter quietly.

‎Bob swallows, almost like he’s afraid to speak, afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Then, with a tiny, almost shy smile, he says, “Nah… I’m just lucky you let me.”

‎And somehow, even in your panic, the corner of your mouth twitches into a laugh you don’t even notice. He’s still clutching his arm like a little kicked puppy, and somehow that makes your chest melt harder.

‎You collapse onto the couch, burying your face in the hoodie, cheeks burning hot. “It’s okay,” you mutter quickly, voice still shaky. “You don’t have to… go with me to that stupid event. I… I was drunk last night, I-- ugh, I didn’t mean to--”

‎Bob’s chest tightens at your words. He swallows, looking like you just threatened to vanish into thin air. His hands clutch together nervously, and then, before you can blink, he’s kneeling in front of you.

‎Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “Wait-- what are you--”

‎He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at you. Really looks at you. Heart in his eyes, his hands trembling slightly as he reaches for yours, taking them gently in his own. His thumbs brush over your knuckles, almost like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

‎“Please…” His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, wavering with something that makes your chest tighten so hard you can hardly breathe. “…just… give me a chance.”

‎Your brain freezes. The couch feels suddenly too big, too small, the room spinning a little. Did he just kneel… in front of you? His eyes, those perfect, earnest eyes, looking up at you with that pleading softness, the way he’d been all morning but… more. Intensely more. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Scary. Heart-melting.

‎You can’t tell if he’s asking for a chance at the stupid event or… this.

At you.

⁠✿

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Refer to my masterlist if the links don't work

Sorry for the third part I wanted to add another link cz I 'collabed' with another fic of mine, but I can't anymore cz it crashes when I try to edit it 😔 so if you're interested, after finishing the third part, find that fic in my masterlist and give it a read!

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