summary; Jake is completely bewitched by the calmest four-year-old and her single mother in a four hour flight from New York to Texas.
word count; 3.3k
warnings; FLUFF FEST
a/n; this one came to me in my sleep, i love girl dad jake in any way i can get it honestly, let me know what you think! read part two here
masterlist
Jake Seresin really should’ve booked the later flight.
He’s still a little hungover, the kind that hums behind his eyes and makes his stomach tilt every time the plane jerks with another passenger shoving a bag into the overhead bins. His back aches from the too-soft hotel mattress, and the starched collar of his shirt itches against his neck.
He runs a hand down his face as he steps into the narrow aisle, the low hum of pre-flight chaos buzzing around him. The air smells like coffee, recycled air, and too many people in too small a space.
He’d spent the weekend in New York for a buddy’s wedding — a good time, sure, but too much whiskey, too many late nights, and way too much small talk. He’s ready to go home. Ready for quiet.
“Eighteen C,” he mutters under his breath, glancing at the numbers overhead as he lugs his carry-on down the aisle.
He’s one of the last to board, so everyone’s already settled in — headphones on, blankets pulled up, the lucky ones already half asleep. His luck? Historically bad.
He spots his row halfway down the cabin and feels that familiar pinch of dread in his gut.
Window seat’s taken.
Middle seat too — by a tiny girl in pigtails, her legs swinging as she hums softly to herself.
Jake exhales through his nose, amusement and exasperation battling somewhere behind his tired eyes. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath.
A four-year-old. For a three-and-a-half-hour flight. Fantastic.
She’s got a white tracksuit on, the hood shaped like little bunny ears. Her pink backpack is open on her lap, stuffed with crayons and snacks, and she’s so focused on her coloring book she doesn’t notice him right away.
He shifts his bag on his shoulder, preparing himself for the inevitable chorus of “I’m bored” and “Are we there yet?”
Then the girl looks up.
Her eyes are big and bright, her expression open — the sort of kid who’s been raised to look people in the eye. “Hi, sir! Are you sitting here?”
Jake blinks, momentarily thrown. “Uh… yeah. Looks like it.”
She nods solemnly, like this is an official transaction. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself. “Glad to hear it, sweetheart.”
The girl beams, turning a little to point toward the woman in the window seat. “Mommy, he’s here.”
Jake follows her gesture — and for the first time, really sees you.
You’re half-turned toward the aisle, hair loosely pulled back, one hand resting protectively on your daughter’s knee. There’s a softness to you that stops him for a second — not flashy, not showy, just… gentle. A quiet kind of pretty that sneaks up on him.
“Sorry,” you murmur, offering him an apologetic smile. “We were trying to keep her things out of the way.”
Jake shakes his head, suddenly more awake than he’s felt all morning. “You’re good. No trouble at all.”
He slides into his seat, careful not to bump either of you, his arm brushing the side of the little girl’s chair for just a moment. The contact is barely there — but he feels it.
And the kid’s not shy, that’s for sure.
As soon as Jake clicks his seatbelt, she turns toward him again, tiny legs still swinging. “Are you going home or going somewhere new?” she asks, bright and curious, like they’ve known each other for years.
He blinks, startled by the directness, then chuckles. “Uh… home, I guess. What about you?”
“I live in Texas,” she announces proudly, “but we went to New York for Mommy’s work. I got to see tall buildings and ride in a taxi and eat a pretzel as big as my face.”
Jake grins despite himself. “That so? Sounds like a good trip.”
“It was!” she says, emphatically. “Except the taxi smelled like feet.”
“Ivy,” you murmur softly, a quiet warning.
She glances up at you, guiltless and sweet. “It did, Mommy.”
Jake’s shoulders shake with a suppressed laugh. You catch it, and your eyes flick toward him — that shy little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. He feels the back of his neck warm.
You lean slightly forward, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry, sir. She can get a little talkative.”
He waves it off easily, shaking his head. “She’s fine. Really. I’ve had worse seatmates.” He smiles down at Ivy. “You’re not bothering me, sweetheart.”
That earns him a delighted grin and a small, “Thank you, sir.”
You mouth another quiet sorry as the flight attendants start their pre-takeoff checks. Jake only smiles back, settling into his seat as Ivy obediently faces forward.
The hum of the engines deepens. The usual rustle of belts and bags, the clipped voices over the intercom — all of it routine. He glances sideways, expecting at least a little squirming or noise from the kid, but Ivy’s sitting calmly, hands folded in her lap, expression serious.
You lean over her, gentle and practiced, slipping tiny pink earplugs into her ears. “There,” you murmur. “All set, baby.”
Jake watches the whole thing — the ease of it, the quiet assurance in the way you move. Ivy doesn’t fuss, doesn’t whine. Just blinks, takes your hand, and squeezes once. Like she’s done this a thousand times.
He’s… kind of impressed.
Most adults he knows get twitchy the second a plane door closes. But this four-year-old? Cool as can be.
When the plane starts to lift, Ivy presses back into her seat, clutching her little stuffed rabbit — a floppy-eared thing wearing a bow — and hums under her breath again. The sound’s soft, soothing somehow.
Jake finds himself smiling, eyes flicking to you when the seatbelt light finally dings off.
You exhale quietly, relaxing into the seat, and reach for the tote bag at your feet. “Good job, honey,” you tell Ivy, fishing something out. “You can play for a little while now.”
She perks right up, accepting the thin booklet with reverence. Jake catches a glimpse — it’s one of those sticker books, with pages like empty rooms and little sheets of people and furniture to decorate them.
“Which one’s that?” you ask her, smoothing the page open.
“The coffee shop,” Ivy says. “I’m gonna make it fancy.”
You hum approvingly. “Good choice.”
It’s then that you notice him watching, elbow resting on the armrest, that small, crooked smile on his face. You tilt your head, half-apologetic again. “She loves those. I think I’ve bought a dozen at this point.”
“Yeah?” Jake says softly. “She looks like she’s got it down to a science.”
You glance at Ivy, who’s busily arranging tiny sticker croissants in a display case, tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. “She could play for hours,” you admit. “It keeps her happy when we travel.”
Jake hums, still looking — but not at the sticker book. At you. The way you talk about your daughter, the warmth in your voice, that mix of exhaustion and affection. He feels that unfamiliar tug again — not lust, not quite — something gentler. Something that makes him want to keep watching.
They’ve been in the air maybe half an hour when Ivy suddenly looks up from her sticker-covered page, expression bright and decisive.
“Mommy,” she says, “can I have another book from the bag?”
You glance up from your Kindle, a faint smile already forming. “Another one? You’re not done with your coffee shop yet.”
“I want to make one with…” Ivy pauses, looking straight at Jake. “With him.”
Jake blinks. “Me?”
She nods, serious. “Yes. So we can have a competition.”
You glance between them, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Sweetheart, I don’t think the nice man wants to—”
But Jake’s already chuckling, leaning forward to grab the tote from under the seat. “You kidding? I never turn down a good competition.”
You freeze for a second, surprised, as he pulls out another sticker booklet and passes it to Ivy. His grin’s a little lopsided, charming in that lazy way he probably doesn’t even realize.
“What’s the game?” he asks, flipping open the first page.
Ivy’s thrilled. “We both make our coffee shops, and Mommy’s the judge. You can’t copy me, though. That’s cheating.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says solemnly.
You can’t help laughing, soft and breathy. “You really don’t have to—”
But he looks over at you then, eyes glinting, voice dipping lower. “Trust me, darlin’, I’ve survived Navy flight school. I can handle a four-year-old with stickers.”
Your face goes warm instantly. You look away, shaking your head, pretending to be exasperated — but you’re smiling.
So they start.
Ivy’s methodical — she narrates every choice: where the counter goes, what kind of muffins she’s “selling,” the people waiting in line. Jake, meanwhile, takes it as seriously as any mission he’s ever flown. He turns his page sideways for “better layout options” and mutters to himself about the placement of the espresso machine.
Every few minutes, Ivy leans over to inspect his work and announces, “That’s actually pretty good.”
Jake grins at that, his heart doing a strange little flip at her approval. “Thanks, partner. You’re a tough critic.”
You’re watching from beside them, one arm draped protectively over Ivy’s seat, your lips curved in a quiet smile you probably don’t even realize you’re wearing. There’s something in the way you look at them — at him — that hits him right in the chest.
He wasn’t expecting this flight to feel… like this.
Not when his head still throbs faintly from last night’s whiskey, and his back’s sore, and he’d been fully prepared to endure four hours of crying or chaos.
Instead, there’s this — the soft hum of the cabin, a kid’s laughter, your eyes meeting his over the aisle armrest.
He clears his throat when Ivy declares she’s finished and spins her page toward you. “Mommy, we’re ready!”
You play along beautifully, taking the role of judge with exaggerated seriousness. “Alright,” you say, folding your hands. “Let’s see what we have here.”
Ivy goes first, pointing out every detail. Jake listens like it’s the most important briefing of his life, nodding solemnly at mentions of pastries and tables.
Then it’s his turn. “Mine,” he says, flipping his book around, “is less about efficiency and more about atmosphere.”
Ivy gasps. “You put a piano!”
“Sure did. Live music every night.”
She narrows her eyes, impressed but determined. “Mommy, who wins?”
You take a long, thoughtful pause — partly for effect, partly because both are honestly adorable. “I think…” you say slowly, “…it’s a tie.”
Ivy lets out a triumphant laugh. “A tie!”
Jake puts his hand over his heart, mock-relieved. “Fair call, judge.”
When you glance at him, there’s a spark of something in your expression — warmth, amusement… maybe a hint of curiosity.
He gives you that soft, easy smile again. “Told you I could handle her.”
You smile back, cheeks pink. “You did more than handle her.”
For a second, neither of you looks away.
Then Ivy breaks the spell with a small yawn, curling sideways in her seat and resting her head on your arm.
Jake leans back, watching as you brush a few strands of hair from her forehead, your hand lingering there. The way you look at your daughter — soft, full of love — tugs at something deep in him.
He doesn’t even notice he’s still smiling.
When Ivy starts rubbing her eyes and fidgeting, you pull a pink iPad out of your tote bag and queue up Tangled. She’s practically giddy as you slip the comically large headphones over her head — they look like they belong to someone twice her size.
Jake grins at the sight. The headphones tilt slightly to one side, almost slipping off, but Ivy doesn’t seem to mind. Within minutes she’s completely engrossed, mouthing along to the songs like this is a regular ritual.
“She’s got taste,” Jake murmurs. “Tangled’s the best one.”
You glance at him, smiling. “We’ve seen it… I don’t know, a hundred times?”
“I can see why,” he says, settling back. “Pascal really carries the movie.”
You laugh softly, and he feels that sound bloom somewhere in his chest — like a small, unexpected spark of sunlight through the window.
He thinks that’ll be the end of it, that you’ll dive into a book or close your eyes for the rest of the flight. But you don’t. You’re quiet, your focus half on your daughter, half on the screen ahead — and Jake finds himself wanting to know more.
“So,” he starts, voice casual, “what do you do, when you’re not running coffee shop competitions at thirty thousand feet?”
You smile at that, the kind that’s half shy, half amused. “I’m an architect. I do mostly residential projects — smaller firms, family houses.”
He whistles low under his breath. “That’s impressive. You the creative type, then?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “I guess. I like the process. Turning something that’s just lines on a screen into someone’s home.”
“Home,” he repeats softly, like he’s tasting the word. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
Your gaze flickers to him, just briefly, and then you look back to Ivy, as if to ground yourself. “What about you?”
He smiles, a little lopsided. “Fighter pilot. USA Navy.”
You blink. “Oh. Wow. That sounds… intense.”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But not as intense as three hours next to a four-year-old with stickers.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “You handled that very well.”
“I’ve had tougher cases,” he says, deadpan, and that earns him another small laugh — the kind that makes him want to keep going, just to hear it again.
Then, after a moment, he nods toward Ivy. “She’s great, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid that age sit still for this long.”
You glance down at your daughter, her tiny legs tucked under her, the light from the tablet washing her face in soft color. “She’s… she’s my calm in the storm,” you admit. “I lucked out with her. My mom helps a lot too, so I get to breathe sometimes.”
Jake hums quietly. “You doin’ this on your own?”
You hesitate for just a second — barely noticeable, but he catches it. “Yeah,” you say finally, soft but certain. “It’s just us.”
He nods, not prying further. There’s something he admires in your tone — not defensiveness, not self-pity, just quiet strength.
He should leave it there, but the way the sunlight cuts through the small window, landing on your cheek, makes it hard to stop himself.
“You know,” he says, voice dropping just slightly lower, “you’ve got a really pretty smile.”
You turn to him, startled. “What?”
He grins, unbothered. “Just sayin’. I’ve been on a lot of flights, but this one’s got the best company I’ve had in a while.”
Your cheeks go pink instantly. You try to busy yourself with Ivy’s tablet, adjusting the volume even though she’s fine, mumbling something about how kind that is.
Jake bites back a chuckle. He’s always liked flustering people — but with you, it feels less like a game and more like gravity pulling him in.
He angles his seat a little closer, his knee just barely brushing Ivy’s kicking feet. “You blushing, sweetheart?”
You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “You’re flirting with me?”
“Maybe,” he says, grin widening. “But you’re smiling again.”
You are — and it’s soft and unguarded, the kind that makes him want to lean in, to keep you talking for the rest of the flight.
So he does.
You talk about nothing and everything: Ivy’s favorite movies, his favorite cities, how you hate small talk but somehow this doesn’t feel like that. Every time he says something teasing or calls you darlin’, your pulse stutters — and every time you look up at him through your lashes, Jake feels it too.
By the time the captain announces the descent into Dallas, he realizes he hasn’t thought about his hangover or his aching back in hours.
Just you. And the tiny, headphone-wearing four-year-old between you who, unknowingly, might’ve just introduced him to his favorite person on a plane.
The moment the wheels hit the runway, Ivy claps her little hands like they just landed on the moon. Jake can’t help but laugh — she’s so effortlessly joyful that even the people in the row ahead turn to smile at her.
You thank him again for helping with the overhead bag, but he waves it off, brushing a hand through his blond hair. “Please. I’ve faced worse challenges than a carry-on and a four-year-old.”
“I’m sure,” you tease lightly, hoisting your tote over your shoulder as people start filing out.
It takes a few minutes to deplane, and Ivy keeps glancing up at him like she’s thinking something very serious through. Then, right before they step into the jet bridge, she tugs on his sleeve.
She unzips her tiny backpack with great ceremony, digs through it, and pulls out a small sheet of stickers. “This one’s for you,” she says, peeling off a sparkly golden star and sticking it on his hand.
Jake stares at it for a second — the little glimmer of foil shining under the airport lights — and feels a ridiculous warmth spread in his chest. “A gold star, huh? That’s high praise.”
“You were a very good passenger,” she informs him with complete seriousness. “And you helped Mommy.”
You’re instantly flustered. “Ivy—”
But Jake’s already smiling. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I’ll wear it with pride.”
They reach the baggage claim, and he waits with you — partly because he’s a gentleman, but mostly because he doesn’t want to walk away just yet. You make small talk about Texas heat, and Ivy tries to stand on the luggage carousel (“absolutely not,” you say, gently yanking her back).
When your suitcase finally comes around, Jake grabs it before you can move, setting it upright beside you. Then he hesitates, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“So… listen,” he starts, a little awkward now that there’s no plane seat holding him there. “Would it be crazy if I said I wanted to see you two again?”
You blink, startled — and blushing, of course. “Oh. Um. I don’t—”
“I mean it,” he says, soft but steady. “You don’t have to decide right now, but… maybe coffee sometime? No stickers required.”
That makes you laugh, the sound easing the nerves from your shoulders. “Coffee sounds… nice.”
He hands you his phone, open to a new contact. You type your number quickly before you can overthink it.
Jake’s grin is slow and genuine. “Guess I’ll call you then.”
He takes a few steps back, blending into the stream of people heading for the exits, and you turn to lift Ivy onto your suitcase handle, her little legs swinging.
But then it hits you — you don’t even know his name.
“Wait!” you call, and your voice echoes lightly through the hall.
Jake turns, that same easy smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”
“I don’t even know your name!” you say, half-laughing, half-mortified.
He chuckles, taking a few steps backward but keeping his eyes on you. “It’s Jake,” he calls out. “But you can call me anything you’d like, sweetheart.”
Ivy giggles, perched on your suitcase, her small hand waving wildly as Jake lifts his in return.
You’re still smiling when he disappears into the crowd — the kind of smile that lingers even as you step out into the Texas sun, a golden star still stuck to his hand somewhere in the airport.
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
Aim, Set, Match: a Maxwell Masterclass in Finding You
seresin!reader x beau maxwell beau maxwell, star quarterback and golden boy concusses woman with football, sending her to the hospital. maybe his aim isn't so perfect after all. or maybe it's exactly what it needed to be.
warnings! heavy foreshadowing, references to God/religious language, hospital & medical imagery, inaccurate concussion protocols & non-medical language around treatment, mentions of blood, serious injuries, car accident, trauma recovery, emotional breakdowns, character frustration/snapping (non-abusive), chronic pain & rehabilitation, brief mentions of mobility loss/fear of paralysis, so much fucking angst with just the right sprinkle of fluff
off campus minilist & main masterlist!
Majoring in aerospace engineering should make it easier to contemplate the trajectory of a ball's arc, moving rapidly towards you, but clearly it takes more than being a genius to remember you actually have to move out of the way of an incoming projectile to avoid being hit. So you end up, much to your brother's distaste, knocked out cold with a hefty concussion. Maybe listing Jake as your emergency contact wasn't your smartest play.
Jake Seresin was happily relaxing tormenting Bradley at the annual Dagger Squad barbeque, sunglasses on (barely), beer in hand, sunburn forming, when his phone rang. The second he heard your name and "hospital" in the same sentence, the barbeque was abandoned, Maverick had called in a favour, and the Dagger Squad were airborne in under thirty.
Airborne in what you may ask. In a helicopter. Headed straight to Hastings, Massachusetts. Straight to you.
May God be on your side Beau Maxwell. Jake Seresin certainly isn't.
...
After several threats on Jake's behalf to fly faster, including the claim that his grandmother could fly faster than this (she was dead), they reached the hospital in record time. The helicopter touched down on the helipad with some truly questionable legality, but Maverick waved away every concern like he'd been waiting his whole life to break this particular rule (he probably had).
Inside, Beau Maxwell and Dean Di Laurentis were sitting rigidly by your bedside. Dean had a hand on Beau's back, cracking jokes in a desperate attempt to keep him from spiralling. It wasn't working. Beau, utterly wrecked, sat with his head in his hands like he was praying for some kind of miracle.
He didn't get it.
Because the doors burst open and the Dagger Squad marched in like a military tribunal. The formation was so tight it would've been funny if Bradley's Hawaiian shirt weren't the only thing preventing Jake Seresin from committing a felony.
Bradley had both arms around Jake's torso, digging his heels into the floor as Jake lunged forward, shouting, "Who hurt my baby sister?!"
Beau's head snapped up. God had finally come to take him out. Honestly, he probably deserved it for concussing a beautiful girl.
Dean whispered, "Oh, shit."
And somewhere down the hall, a nurse considered calling security, until she saw Maverick and decided she didn't get paid enough for this. Neither did he.
...
"You."
Jake immediately set his sights on the two men sitting at your bedside, pointing an accusatory finger at the blonde, instantly deciding he didn't like him. He seemed far too cocky for his own good, sitting there cracking jokes while Beau looked like he was about to pass out.
"Me?"
Dean stood up, suddenly taller than Jake, and somewhere behind them, Fanboy whispered, "Oh my God, they're the same person."
Jake's jaw tightened and Dean's eyebrows lifted, almost challenging the senior citizen to a fight. Then Beau lifted his head from his hands, voice cracking as he said, "It was me."
Jake turned so fast Bradley had to tighten his grip.
Dean exhaled in relief. "Thank God." Then winced. "Sorry, bro."
Jake zeroed in on Beau like a missile lock. Beau froze as Dean took one strategic step back. Bradley adjusted his hold. "Hangman, Jake, you're scaring the civilians."
"I am a civilian," Dean muttered.
Jake snapped, "Good."
And that's when you groaned.
A soft, miserable sound, but to Jake, it was the key to transformation. The once terrifying blonde whipped around, abandoning all thoughts of committing heinous crimes in favour of hovering over you like a panicked mother hen.
"Sweetheart? Hey, hey, you're okay, I'm here—"
You blinked up at him, squinting, instantly deciphering the situation. "Old man, stand down."
Bradley choked, Phoenix covered her mouth, and Maverick looked delighted.
Jake sputtered. "Old—? I'm thirty-two!"
You looked past him, frowning at the Dagger Squad and the two ununiformed men, specifically Dean who had not inactivated his hockey fighting stance. "Why are you about to fight these senior citizens?"
Fanboy whispered, "We're thirty."
"Senior citizens," you repeated, pointing vaguely at all of them.
Dean snickered. He's going to get along with you.
Jake looked personally victimised. But Beau... Beau was staring at you like you'd hung the moon. You turned your head, eyes finally landing on him. "You're the one who concussed me, right?"
He swallowed. Hard. "Yeah. Yes. I—yeah. I'm Beau, Beau Maxwell."
You tested the name, softer. "Beau." He actually swayed, and he didn't even know your name yet. Dean whispered, "Oh he's gone."
Jake's head snapped toward Beau, horrified. "Absolutely not." He pointed at the squad. "Out. All of you. Out."
Maverick started herding them like unruly cattle, it truly was a sight to see. Phoenix grabbing Fanboy by the collar, sending you a wink as she left. Dean grabbed Beau's sleeve, dragging him toward the door.
Beau dug his heels in just long enough to look back at you. "I— I'll come check on you. If that's okay."
You smiled, "I'd like that." Dean yanked him out of the room.
In the hallway, Beau whispered, dazed, "Dean... I think I'm in love." Dean patted his shoulder. "Yeah, man. We all saw."
Behind them, Jake yelled, "I SAID OUT!"
...
Beau shows up at the hospital the next morning with flowers.
Not just any flowers, nice flowers. Ones he spent twenty minutes agonising over because he didn't know if you liked roses or lilies or daisies, or if you were allergic to pollen, or if Jake would tackle him for bringing the wrong bouquet. Who is he kidding, of course he would. He eventually settled on an arrangement that reminds him of you.
He walks into your room.
Empty.
The bed's stripped, curtains open, and most importantly, there's no you.
He panics.
Dean, who's been chatting up a nurse and gathering some important intel, strolls in lazily behind him and sighs. "She's discharged, man. We'll find her." And Beau, bless him, nods like he's preparing for a naval operation.
Back on campus, he enlists the hockey boys, Allie, Hannah, Grace, anyone who has ever spoken to a girl. And Dean, disturbingly efficient and alarmingly skilled at social media stalking, finds your Instagram, your LinkedIn, your Briar directory listing, and your dorm building with scary accuracy. And with a few calls to girls he knows in that building, he pinpoints your floor and your room number.
"Dude," Logan says, staring at Dean's screen. "This is... impressive. And also illegal."
Dean shrugs. "Love makes you do crazy things." Then looks into the camera like he's on an episode of the office, "Don't try this at home kids. Or stalk people in general."
...
Beau knocks on your door with the flowers, this time alone, nervously shifting his weight as you open it, hair messy, comfy clothes, soft-eyed, and that damn smile. He forgets how to breathe.
You accept the flowers with a small smile. "You found me."
Beau blushes. "I… had help. A lot of help. Like, an embarrassing amount. Well, it was mainly Dean, but I had help."
You lean against the doorframe, amused. "And now you're here."
You talk in the hallway for twenty minutes, about the concussion, how you're recovering, about classes, and importantly, about how Dean is terrifyingly good at stalking. And Beau, he pays attention, filing away everything you said whilst memorising your face.
Eventually, he steps back. "I should… let you rest."
You grin. "Find me again."
He looks wrecked. "I will."
...
It takes Beau two days to find you again, and his only regret is that he hadn't found you sooner. Two days of him wandering campus like a golden retriever who's lost his favourite person. Two days of Dean telling him to "stop looking sad, it's freaking people out." By people, he meant him. Two days of Beau kicking himself for not getting your number the last time he saw you.
So when he finally spots you in the library, he could almost hit himself for not looking here, the most obvious place, sooner.
You're tucked into a corner table, surrounded by textbooks, diagrams, and a simulation running on your laptop. None of which Beau understands, but he approaches you anyway.
"Hi," he says softly.
You don't need to look up to know who it is, but you do so anyway. "You found me."
He beams, that soft, relieved smile that makes your stomach flip. He sits with you, awkward at first, then comfortable, silently pulling out his phone as you work, and you catch a glimpse of his Notes app:
Your heart does something inconvenient. Something you can't explain with aerospace engineering or propulsion or trajectories.
He takes the time to ask questions, real ones, listening with wide, earnest eyes as you break down flight dynamics and control. He's mesmerised. And even if half of it flies straight over his head, the effort alone has you melting.
You've never been a flashcard person, finding them tedious and colour-coded to death. You prefer short quizzes, quick recall checks. So explaining concepts to Beau ends up helping you more than he realises. As you relate trajectories to passing arcs or thrust-to-weight ratios while he breaks down football plays, you realise you understand the material better than ever.
Somewhere along the way, he starts bringing you coffee. Then snacks. Then dinner. He memorises your preferences with the same intensity he studies game tape, how you drink iced coffee year-round, except near Christmas, when you switch to hot chocolate with whipped cream and a gingerbread man or two, decapitating them first, naturally.
Soon you're showing him your test scores, essays, lab reports, giggling as he lifts you and spins you around. And he does the same after his games, the first person he runs to is always you. It becomes a ritual, a rhythm neither of you questions.
And when you debrief Jake, feet kicked up, smiling as you recount your week, he realises you're happy. Really happy. So maybe he only threatens Beau once. Maybe he sighs, accepts it, and admits, quietly, begrudgingly, that Beau's a good kid. And good for you.
...
It's a Thursday night, and your group study session runs far later than planned. You text Beau that you'll be home around one, expecting him to be asleep or at least already crashed after practice.
He shows up anyway.
He's sitting on the steps outside the building, hoodie pulled tight, hair messy, eyes tired by warm. When he hears your footsteps, his head lifts, he recognises you instantly, just by sound.
"You shouldn't walk alone," he says, like it's the simplest truth in the world.
You walk together. He carries your bag without asking, adjusting the strap on his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times. You stop twice to take pictures of the moon, grumbling about how she never photographs well, and he simply smiles at your frustration, the kind of soft smile he only ever gives you.
You ramble about your project, and he tells you about practice, about Dean, about how he's driving down to Wisconsin tomorrow to see his grandparents. He invites you, hopeful, but you shake your head, already planning to fly home to Texas the day after.
"That's okay," he says, nudging your shoulder gently. "I'll bring you something back." You roll your eyes, but you're smiling.
At your door, he hands you your bag, his fingers brushing yours, warm, calloused, and familiar. "Text me when you land," he says.
"I will."
He hesitates, just for a second. Then he leans in and kisses your forehead, soft and quick, like he's afraid to overstep.
"See you Sunday."
...
You don't. But God do you wish you had.
Dean's call comes just after midnight. His voice is raw like he's only just stopped crying. "It's Beau." You don't hear much after that, entering a state of shock as Dean tells you they skidded on a nasty patch of black ice, fishtailed, and slammed sideways into a tree. He was unconscious at the scene, neck stabilised by paramedics as they loaded him into the ambulance.
Then Dean says, "He might not walk again," and the admission snaps you out of your shock. You tell him it'll be alright, that Beau will walk again, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself. You ask which hospital, and Dean exhales, shaky with relief that he won't be alone, that you're on your way, guilty that Beau's parents are comforting him when he feels he should be comforting them. They keep telling him it's okay, that he's Beau's brother, that he's allowed to fall apart. But still...
You're already grabbing your keys.
...
The ER is chaos when you arrive, an urgency in the air as nurses move fast, voices sharp and low. A trauma code running somewhere behind the double doors, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms. The cold florescent lights and the smell of antiseptic hits you instantly as you run towards the blonde.
Dean's sitting in a plastic chair outside the trauma bay, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Tear tracks stain his face, dried and fresh, like he's run out of tears but his body hasn't caught up. Beau's parents sit beside him, his mother rubbing circles on Dean's back, his father staring straight ahead, shock hollowing him out.
When you walk in, Dean's head snaps up. And for a split second, hope flashes in his eyes, he thinks you're a doctor coming to update them. Then he sees you, and his face crumples.
"He's inside," Dean whispers. "They won't let us in."
Through the small window in the trauma bay door, you catch glimpses, flashes of movement, silhouettes of doctors leaning over a bed, the rapid rise and fall of hands adjusting equipment.
A nurse rushes past with a cervical collar in her hand. Another calls out, "CT's ready, we need to move him now."
Beau's mother squeezes your arm. "Sit down, sweetheart. You're going to wear a hole in that floor." You hadn't even realised you were pacing.
They wheel him out, bed rattling over the threshold. You flatten yourself against the wall as they rush past. Beau's strapped to a backboard, head immobilised in a rigid brace, his skin far too pale under the harsh lights.
Dean makes a sound, a broken, strangled thing, and Beau's father catches him before he collapses.
...
You sit beside Dean, knees touching, both of you staring at the double doors like you can will them open. Beau's mother is praying under her breath. His father is silent, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.
Every time footsteps approach, Dean's head jerks up. Every time, it's not a doctor.
You don't realise you're crying until your phone rings, Jake's name lighting up the screen. You should've been on your flight to Texas by now, the one you forgot to cancel. But there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
"Sweetheart?"
Your voice cracks. "Jake... it's Beau."
He doesn't hesitate. "I'm coming."
...
They take Beau to the operating theatre within minutes of the CT results. A cervical fracture with instability, not fully severed, but not fully stable either. The kind of injury that demands speed, precision, and a little luck.
A nurse explains gently, "Beau's airway is secure, and he's breathing on his own, but shallow. We're taking him to surgery to stabilise the fracture. It's serious, but he's strong and healthy, he's fighting."
Dean nods like he's hearing it through water, while Beau's mother squeezes your hand. "He'll want you here."
You don't even dream of leaving.
...
The surgical waiting room is too bright, too quiet, too cold. The chairs are stiff, the clock ticks too loudly, and every time a doctor walks past, Dean's head snaps up like he's bracing for impact.
You sit beside him, knees touching. At some point he leans into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, and you wrap an arm around him without thinking. You're both shaking, not crying, not talking, just holding each other in the agonising silence because it's the only thing keeping either of you upright.
Beau's father sits rigidly, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are white. You know he's blaming himself, wishing it was him, which Beau would absolutely disagree with, but you don't know the first thing you would say, so you sit in silence listening to Beau's mother murmur prayers under her breath.
You're holding Beau's hoodie, the one he wore when he walked you home, and you don't remember grabbing it, but it helps. You keep twisting the fabric in your hands, over and over, like if you stop, something terrible will happen.
Jake arrives twenty minutes later, breathless, hair wind-tossed, eyes already scanning for you. When he sees your face, he doesn't ask anything, he just sits beside you, knee touching yours, grounding you. He's never lost a wingman before, never come this close to losing someone he loves, and the fear in his eyes tells you he can't begin to imagine what you're going through.
Then he stands and goes straight to the nurses' station. "Lieutenant Seresin," he says, voice low but firm. "I need an update on Beau Maxwell. Anything you can tell me."
They can't tell him much, privacy, protocol, the usual walls, but he tries to charm his way out of it, clinging to any sliver of information he can get. Any sliver of hope he can bring back to you.
When he returns, he places a coffee in your hands. You don't remember him leaving to get it, or thanking him. You just hold it, warm against your palms, because you need something to anchor you.
Beau's mother brings sandwiches that you split with Dean, neither of you hungry to eat but you try anyway, for Beau. Later, Jake brings you water. They take turns, quietly, gently, making sure you don't fall apart, and giving themselves something to do besides sit and drown in worry.
Dean sits pressed against your side, fingers gripping your sleeve like he's afraid you'll disappear too.
You're numb. Everything feels muffled, distant, like the world's happening somewhere above you. And all you want is Beau, his arms around you, his voice telling you everything will be alright.
...
Two hours later, the surgeon steps into the waiting room.
Everyone stands. Attentive. Bracing for the worst.
He pulls down his mask. His face is tired, but not devastated.
"He made it through the surgery."
Beau's mother sobs as his father pulls her into his arms. Dean collapses into a chair, hands over his face.
The surgeon continues, "There was swelling around the spinal cord, but no complete transection. We stabilised the fracture. He's critical, but he's alive. He'll be moved to the ICU shortly."
You don't realise you're crying until Jake wipes a tear from your cheek with him thumb. "When can we see him?" he asks.
The surgeon's expression softens. "Shortly after we move him. And I should tell you... he said your name." He nods towards you, "Before sedation."
Dean looks at you, eyes red, voice cracking.
"Go."
...
The ICU is dim, humming with machines. Nurses move quietly, their footsteps barely audible on the polished floor. You're led to his room, and the sight of him steals your breath.
He's pale and bruised, neck encased in a rigid brace, IV lines running from both arms, monitors tracing every fragile beat of his heart. A ventilator sits nearby, unused but ready. His hair is messy, dried blood at his temple. He looks small in the bed, smaller than you've seen him.
But he's alive.
A nurse adjusts his oxygen cannula. "He's sedated, but he can hear you."
You step closer, fingers trembling as you touch his hand. His fingers twitch, faint, but unmistakable, and your breath catches. You swallow the sob clawing its way up your throat, leaning over him, brushing your thumb across the back of his hand.
"I'm here," you whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You bend down and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, the same way he kissed yours outside your dorm, soft and quick and full of everything neither of you had said yet.
HIs heart monitor blips higher for a moment before settling into its steady rhythm.
You rest your forehead against his for a moment, eyes closed, breathing him in, antiseptic, blood, hospital air, but still undeniably him.
Still Beau.
Still yours.
...
Beau wakes up slowly, not all at once, but in small, uneven flickers. The first time his eyes open, it's only for a second, unfocused and heavy, but it's enough to send a wave of relief through the room. His mother sobs into her hands while his father breaks down completely, shoulders shaking as he apologises over and over, blaming himself for the ice, for the drive, for everything. Beau, groggy and barely conscious, still manages to rasp out, "Dad... stop. It wasn't your fault." His father cries harder at that, not from guilt, but from the sheer relief of hearing his son speak.
Dean gets his own moment with him later. He sits at Beau's bedside, elbows on knees, eyes red, as Beau cracks a joke. It's terrible, and far too soon, the kind only Beau would dare make in an ICU, but it gets out a strangled laugh from his brother that turns into a sob. "You've got a good one," Dean later mutters, nodding toward the hallway where you're talking quietly with Beau's mother. His smile is small, crooked, but real. "I know," he whispers.
The days blur together after that. His condition improves, slowly, cautiously, and with every stable scan the talk shifts to whether he'll ever play football again. Jake pulls every string he has to get Beau the best physical therapists in the country, the kind who specialise in spinal trauma and athletes, determined to give his future brother-in-law every chance possible.
Recovery is slow and brutal, the doctors warned despite the optimism in the air. Some mornings Beau can't even sit up without wincing. Some days the pain is so sharp it steals his breath. And sometimes, when his legs refuse to cooperate, when his balance falters, when he feels like he's trapped in a body that betrayed him, he snaps. Not cruelly, never that. But sharply, out of fear and frustration. At you. At Dean. At his parents. At anyone close enough to love him. You let him, because it means he feels safe to fall apart in front of you. You understand the difficulty, the grief of relearning how to walk, the humiliation of needing help for things he used to so without thinking. And you stay, through all of it.
Slowly, painfully, things begin to shift. The stretches get easier. The tremors lessen. He starts making jokes again, still just as bad, the kind that make Dean laugh and cry at the same time. And the setting shifts, from hospital rooms with bright florescent lights to your living room, where you read research papers to him, legs draped over his lap, your voice filling the quiet. He listens the way he always has, chin propped on his hand, eyes half-focused on the words and fully focused on you.
You're mid-sentence, something about neural pathways and motor recovery, when he reaches out and gently takes your face in his hands. It's so soft you almost don't register it at first. His thumbs rest just beneath your cheekbones, warm and steady, guiding your gaze to his. You blink, confused, the words dying on your tongue.
He leans in and kisses you.
It's gentle, careful, almost reverent, and you melt into him, hands curling lightly around his wrists, forehead brushing his as he pulls back enough to breathe. You look at him, a little stunned, still processing. And Beau smiles, mall, crooked, the kind that reaches his eyes.
"Oh," you whisper, the realisation blooming warm in your chest.
He rests his forehead against yours, arms wrapping around you carefully, mindful of the last lingering aches in his body. You lean into him without thinking, fitting against him like you've been doing it for years. And you keep reading, voice soft, heart full, knowing he loves you and you love him, because you've always known since the moment he landed you in that hospital room.
dedicated to: @bodhiscurls because i love her to bits and she’s the best writing buddy and chaotic little cheerleader i could ever ask for♡
word count: 15,777 words
pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader
synopsis: you were just trying to blow off steam at the hard deck, maybe flirt your way out of a dry spell, but then quiet, polite bob floyd snapped, cornered you in the bathroom, and showed you exactly what eight months of pent-up want really looked like.
content warnings: smut, mdni, blowjob in a bar bathroom, desperate tension, grinding, throatfucking, glasses staying on, possessive!bob (which is ooc, i'm sorry!), overstimulation, mutual begging, heavy petting, light choking, swearing, and two idiots who haven’t even fucked yet but are already acting like it’s the end of the world. also my first time writing smut ever so please bear with me!!
author's note: you guys might want to know that i physically cannot write anything without overthinking every line which is probably why this turned into a whole spiral instead of something normal, like i swear i sat down with one idea and now i’m here wondering what just happened, so yeah, thank you for reading and letting me be feral in peace!
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“Chug! Chug! Chug!”
The whole Hard Deck roared as you tipped your head back, beer sloshing down your throat with not a single pause, not even a flinch. You didn’t even blink. You were standing on top of the bench now, one foot on the table and the other on Fanboy’s thigh for balance because you had somehow convinced him to sit still long enough for you to climb up like a drunken goat.
The squad was losing their minds. Rooster was banging his fist on the table like he was summoning a demon, Phoenix had her phone out recording everything, and someone, probably Hangman, let out the loudest “WOOOOO!” known to mankind the second you slammed the empty glass down on the counter.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning like an absolute menace, your shirt slightly damp from the splashback, your hair a little messy, but your energy completely unbothered. You were glowing with the kind of chaotic pride only achievable through beer, adrenaline, and the undeniable high of being the most unhinged person in the room.
“Another!” you shouted, already reaching for someone else’s untouched pint.
The second your empty glass hit the wood, the whole place erupted. Cheering, whistles, someone slapped the bell behind the bar like it was a damn boxing match. Even Penny raised her eyebrows from across the counter, clearly impressed but already calculating how much trouble you'd cause in the next ten minutes.
You threw your arms up like you'd just won a championship, yelling out something unintelligible that made Fanboy yell back, “SHE’S UNSTOPPABLE!” and honestly, yeah. You kind of were.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all week,” Jake said with a grin that could probably fry an egg on the nearest surface.
You turned, your head a little fuzzy, your lips still wet, and you locked eyes with him in that way the way that made people nervous, the way that made grown men second-guess all their choices. Jake was leaning back in his seat like he owned the damn place, legs spread, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes doing things that should honestly be illegal.
You stepped down from the bench with the casual grace of someone who had no business still being upright, walked right up to him like you were in a slow-motion movie, and dropped your hands onto the back of his chair as you leaned in close. Close enough that your noses nearly brushed, your mouth just inches from his, and your breath tasted like beer and adrenaline and every terrible idea you had ever had.
Jake's lips parted, barely, like he was ready to close that gap, eyes flicking down to your mouth with all the grace of a man losing a game he thought he was winning.
And then, you laughed. You pulled back, slapped his cheek with exactly the kind of affection that made him blink in surprise, and said, “Nice try, Seresin,” before grabbing Phoenix’s drink and strutting away like you hadn't just short-circuited half the bar.
You didn’t look back, but you could feel the heat of Jake’s stunned stare drilling into the back of your head, and honestly? You were living for it.
───────
Not far from the noise and half the squad’s terrible chanting, Bob sat quietly at a small round table near the corner, shoulders a little hunched and nursing a cold glass of cola he hadn’t taken more than three sips from in the last hour.
The condensation had pooled under it, forming a perfect little ring, and he was absently tracing it with the tip of his finger, eyes flicking occasionally toward the bar but never staying there long enough to get caught staring.
Rooster slid into the seat beside him with a lopsided grin and two drinks in hand; one for himself, one that he placed in front of Bob with a hopeful raise of his brow.
“No, thank you,” Bob said instantly, as politely as ever, the corners of his mouth twitching up into the softest smile as he pushed the offered glass back with a gentle nudge. “Still got mine.”
Rooster chuckled and leaned his elbows onto the table, swirling his whiskey around as he gave Bob a pointed look. “You know, for someone who gets stared at like that every time she looks your way, you sure are committed to keeping your head down.”
Bob’s ears turned pink instantly. “She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped, then cleared his throat. “She’s just… being friendly.”
“Oh yeah,” Rooster said with a nod, full of playful sarcasm, “definitely the kind of friendly where she nearly kissed Hangman just now and then left him looking like a kicked puppy.”
Bob blinked, a little stunned, then took a very careful sip of his cola, mostly to buy time and to hide how fast his brain had started spinning.
Right on cue, Jake dropped himself into the third chair with a dramatic groan, throwing his head back like he’d been emotionally wounded by a Shakespearean tragedy. He reached across the table without even looking and grabbed Bob’s drink, taking a long sip before Bob could stop him.
“Hey—” Bob started, eyes wide, brows lifted in that quiet little protest that was never loud enough to actually work.
“She almost kissed me,” Jake said, voice filled with betrayal and beer. “She looked at me with those eyes, leaned in like she was gonna do it, and then she laughed. Laughed! Like I’m some kind of a joke. I’ve been emotionally dismantled, man. I’m not okay!”
Rooster snorted and tried to cover it with his glass, but Bob still heard it. He looked between the two of them, visibly confused and mildly horrified, and said softly, “You drank my cola…”
Jake waved a hand dismissively, still mid-rant. “I’ve been blue balled, Floyd. Absolutely slaughtered! Torn apart by her tease tactics. Do you know how many women have actually turned me down before the kiss? None. Zero. Zilch. This is uncharted territory. This is the end of an era. My era!”
Bob just stared at him, mouth parted, eyes wide, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh or if this was somehow a moment that needed real sympathy.
Rooster let out a loud, careless laugh, the kind that made people at nearby tables glance over with raised eyebrows, and Jake immediately turned to him with a glare, sharp and squinting, like he couldn’t believe he was being laughed at during what was clearly a moment of personal crisis.
“What,” Jake snapped, dragging the word out like it was a threat, one hand flung toward Rooster in exasperation.
Rooster just leaned back into his chair like he had all the time in the world, nursing his drink with that usual smirk that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or being entirely serious. “You and Raven?” he said, voice casual, like he was just stating facts. “You two are too much alike. That’s your whole problem, dude.”
Jake furrowed his brows like he’d just been hit with a dictionary. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean you’re the same,” Rooster replied, gesturing lazily between him and the air, “like, exactly the same. You both walk into every room like it’s yours, you both flirt with anyone who gives you half a look, you both get bored unless something’s on fire, and honestly, you both kind of love causing chaos. You’re her with a bad haircut.”
Jake reeled like he’d been slapped with that one. “I am nothing like her,” he argued, his voice climbing a little, “she’s unpredictable, she’s loud, she does that thing where she flirts just to get people all hot and bothered and then walks away laughing like she didn’t just emotionally destroy someone—”
“Yeah,” Rooster said, looking directly at him now, “and who else does that, huh?”
Jake pointed at himself. “Not me.”
Rooster gave him a long, slow stare, clearly not convinced. “I know her type.”
Jake blinked and leaned forward now, like he was trying to get ahead of the thought before it landed. “I am her type.”
Rooster grinned. “Wrong, I know her type.”
Jake looked at him like he was waiting for the punchline, like maybe Rooster would laugh and say it was a joke, but he didn’t so Jake tilted his chin up, already defensive. “Who?”
Rooster didn’t say anything. He just turned his head slightly, just enough to glance past Jake’s shoulder.
And there, quietly wedged between them, like he had been the entire time, was Bob.
Still sitting perfectly still in his seat, both elbows on the table, his hands loosely holding the empty peanut box he had been reading for the past five minutes like it was the most riveting thing he’d ever seen.
His shoulders were drawn in just a little, his posture tight like he was trying not to take up space, and his lips were parted slightly like he was in the middle of mouthing a word printed on the back of the box.
The faintest blush still coloured his cheeks, and his glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he hadn’t noticed or maybe just hadn’t bothered to fix them.
Jake followed Rooster’s gaze slowly, frowning, and when he finally landed on Bob, his eyes narrowed.
Rooster didn’t look away. He just kept his eyes on Bob and took a slow sip of his drink.
Jake turned to him again. “No.”
Rooster just raised a brow.
Jake turned back to Bob.
Bob, who now seemed to feel the weight of two stares drilling into him from both sides, slowly lifted his head, blinking like he had been deep underwater and was just coming up for air.
His eyes flicked to Rooster, then to Jake, then back to Rooster, then down at the peanut box like maybe it had answers, then back up again, and he looked completely overwhelmed.
“...Did I do something?” he asked softly, eyes wide, voice low and uncertain, like he was genuinely worried he’d somehow gotten himself involved in a conversation he hadn’t signed up for.
Jake blinked once, then sat up straighter like someone had just accused him of something criminal. “Hell no,” he said, scoffing, shaking his head so hard his hair bounced. “Come on, me I understand, but him?!”
Bob turned his head slowly, eyes still wide, clearly trying to keep up. “What’s going on?” he asked carefully, voice small, fingers curling tighter around the now slightly crumpled peanut box in his hands.
Rooster took a long, lazy sip from his drink, not looking at either of them, then shrugged like this whole thing wasn’t about to spiral into some kind of war. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, setting the glass back down, “every time Raven’s around, I catch her eye-fucking Bob like it’s her job.”
Bob choked instantly, eyes going comically wide as he nearly dropped the box and knocked his knee against the table. “What?” he said, voice cracking, the blush on his cheeks blooming into full-on panic as he looked between them. “I—I don’t think—I mean—I have no idea what you’re talking about—”
“She what?” Jake exploded, half standing, eyes wild as he stared at Bob like Bob had betrayed him without even knowing it. “There is no way. You’re messing with me. She flirts with me, man. I’m her type. This—this makes no sense.”
Rooster shrugged again, leaning his chin into his hand like this was all incredibly boring to him. “Nah. She flirts with you because she knows it gets a rise. It’s fun. You’re easy.”
Jake made a noise like he was being physically attacked. “Easy?!”
Rooster just kept going like he hadn’t said anything remotely controversial. “But every time Bob walks into a room, she looks at him like he’s a snack. And not like a chips-and-salsa kind of snack, but like a full-course, ruin-my-life, let-me-be-a-problem kind of snack.”
Bob made another squeaky little sound in his throat and turned fully toward the table, clutching the peanut box like it was a holy text, his ears now red, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—I think you’re mistaken,” he stammered, looking anywhere but at either of them, “I really don’t think she—I mean—she’s just friendly, I’m sure it’s not—”
“Oh come on!” Jake shouted, flinging his hands in the air like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he had stepped into an alternate timeline where nothing made sense anymore. “This is actually insane. I flirt with her all the time, I wear nice cologne, I do the smirk thing, I lean against walls. What does he do? Sit there? Blink politely?! And that’s what gets her attention?!”
Bob looked absolutely horrified. He sat frozen for a moment, blinking rapidly, still clutching the peanut box like it was the last solid thing in his universe, and then, very quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the music and laughter around them, he snapped.
“What are you guys even talking about?” he asked, voice sharper than usual, not mean, just overwhelmed, confused, a little cracked at the edges like he’d been cornered in the middle of a game he didn’t know he was playing.
Jake pointed a dramatic finger at him, looking genuinely betrayed. “You stole my wife!”
Bob reeled back. “What?! No! I—I didn’t—what are you even saying?! I haven’t done anything! I haven’t said anything! She doesn’t even—she hasn’t—this is ridiculous, I’m not even—look, I’m just sitting here!”
His voice broke halfway through, hands flailing a little in panic, glasses slipping further down his nose, and Rooster actually had to lean forward and grab one of Bob’s wrists before he knocked over someone’s drink. Bob looked utterly flustered, already blushing so badly he could probably cook an egg on his cheeks, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps.
Jake and Rooster exchanged a look. Then, they both moved at once.
Jake grabbed Bob by the shoulders and turned him gently but firmly in his chair, while Rooster reached over and tilted Bob’s chin toward the centre of the room, both of them crowding in on either side like conspirators in some ridiculous, unspoken plan.
“Look at her,” Rooster said quietly, leaning in, voice low in Bob’s ear.
“Really look,” Jake added, his tone weirdly soft, like all the loud theatrics had suddenly drained from him.
Bob frowned, still confused, still flushed, but he blinked once and followed their direction, slowly turning his head, eyes scanning the bar, until they landed on you.
You, who were still standing by the jukebox surrounded by the others, all of them laughing at something you had just shouted across the room, your head thrown back with your hands up like you were telling a story, your cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the crowd, your grin completely unbothered, unstoppable, radiant.
Bob’s breath caught a little.
You hadn’t even noticed him staring, you weren’t even facing him directly, but he was looking now, really looking, like the shape of you had just rearranged something in him. The way your eyes danced when you laughed, the way your hands moved when you talked, the way you carried yourself like the entire bar existed just for your amusement, like you belonged everywhere all at once.
Bob couldn’t look away now. He took you in like he’d been starving for weeks and didn’t know it until now, like someone had hit the lights and the music all at once and all he could see was you.
And then, maybe because the universe had a sense of humour, or maybe because you could feel eyes on you even from across a crowded bar, you turned.
Your gaze swept lazily over the room, still laughing at whatever Fanboy was saying, still cradling someone’s beer in your hand like it was your own, but then your eyes landed on him.
You felt as though someone was staring at you, and you wanted to see who dared to look at him. You turned your head slightly, and your eyes met his, sharp and clear like a spotlight piercing through the background.
You remained silent. You didn't turn your head away. Bob felt his breath catch in his chest so painfully because you did nothing but look, really look, as if he were something worth examining, something you had already decided to destroy.
There was something in your eyes that knocked the thoughts clean out of his head. Not soft, not friendly, not even teasing. It was intense, it was focused, it was heat without warning, and Bob swore his heart skipped at least three beats and maybe restarted in a completely new rhythm.
His brain was trying to do something, maybe form a sentence, maybe just function, but everything short-circuited at once and all he could do was sit there and take it, jaw slack, eyes wide, face on fire.
Because you were looking at him. Like that. And he was pretty sure that if that stare lasted one more second, he was going to do something stupid and permanent.
He was going to—
“Oh come on!” Jake groaned, loud and long and absolutely miserable as he threw his whole body back into his chair like the world had personally wronged him. “Did you see that?! That was—that was straight-up eye-fucking, man, with capital letters and a neon sign!”
Rooster took a sip from his drink and leaned back, his voice calm and unbothered as he said, “Told you, man,” like he hadn’t just watched Jake’s pride collapse in real time.
But Bob didn’t move.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe properly, just sat there completely stunned, eyes still locked in your direction even though you’d already turned away again, already laughing at something Phoenix and Fanboy had said, already pulling someone into a side hug like you hadn’t just dismantled him from across the bar.
He was still sitting there, still staring at the spot where you had been, still dazed out of his mind, hands resting in his lap like he’d forgotten he had fingers, and somewhere down by his chair, the crushed peanut box had fallen and landed sideways on the floor without him noticing.
“Bro,” Rooster said suddenly, leaning in and snapping his fingers right in front of Bob’s face, “hey, Earth to Floyd, are you—wait, are you getting hard right now?”
Bob physically jerked like someone had slapped him, eyes wide as he whipped his head toward Rooster, mouth opening and closing without anything actually coming out for a full two seconds.
“I—I’m not—what?! No! I’m not—I wouldn’t—I didn’t even—” Bob stammered, his voice climbing an octave with every syllable, hands coming up like he could defend himself from the sheer accusation of it. His ears had gone so red they practically glowed under the bar lights, and he looked horrified in the most painfully sincere way.
“I can’t believe this,” Jake groaned beside him, slumping into the table like he was being punished by the universe itself, face pressed to the wood like he couldn’t physically carry the weight of his own disappointment anymore. “I flirted for months, I put in effort, I smiled with my eyes, and all it takes is one soft-spoken stare from a guy who reads peanut boxes like poetry and she’s ready to pounce?!”
Bob let out the most distressed sound anyone had ever heard from him, something between a gasp and a whimper, and looked like he was seriously debating crawling under the table and just staying there forever.
“I was not—I didn’t—Rooster!” he half-yelled, voice cracking again, both hands running through his hair now like he was seconds away from full shutdown, “You can’t just ask someone that! That’s—that’s not even—how would you even know?!”
Rooster shrugged, cool as ever. “I mean, you kinda spaced out for a full minute and then started breathing like someone pressed the turbo button.”
Jake let out another wounded groan, dragging his forehead across the table like he was physically trying to melt into it. “This is my villain origin story,” he mumbled, “this is how I go rogue.”
───────
You had really only meant to sneak a glance.
Just something quick, nothing serious, just a casual little look to see if he was still being flustered and adorable or if Jake had calmed down even a little or if Bradley was still wearing that smug older-brother-who-knows-something-you-don’t expression.
But the moment your eyes landed on Bob, blushing like mad, eyes wide, hands frozen mid-air like he was trying to figure out where they were supposed to go, and his shirt all slightly wrinkled from the way he had been messing with it nervously, your entire body tensed.
And the groan that left you wasn’t soft.
It was long and low and full of frustration, the kind that came from months of silently suffering in your own personal hell, and it slipped out before you could stop it.
Phoenix tilted her head, brows already raised. “You alright or are you gonna combust in public?”
Halo followed the direction of your stare, barely hiding her smirk. “I swear, if this is still about Lieutenant Eye Contact over there—”
You groaned again, dragging your hands down your face like maybe, just maybe, if you covered your eyes, your feelings would evaporate. “I swear on my last brain cell, I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna actually lose it and scream. He’s sitting there looking like he just learned what sex is and it’s my fault somehow.”
Halo leaned closer, her drink balanced casually in her hand, voice low and amused. “Are we talking about the man you’ve been eye-fucking since last Christmas?”
“That’s the one,” Phoenix said under her breath, tapping the edge of her glass against the bar like she was keeping score.
“I have tried,” you hissed, slumping sideways against the jukebox, “I have flirted, I have smiled, I have worn outfits that would put a saint in a chokehold, I almost kissed Hangman for the sole purpose of emotional terrorism and he” — you pointed in Bob’s direction like it hurt — “he still thinks I’m being friendly.”
Phoenix blinked slowly. “You’re telling me that look you just gave him wasn’t a threat and a promise all in one?”
“I want to bite him,” you snapped. “And not in a weird way. I mean in a feral, I-don’t-care-if-this-is-socially-acceptable kind of way. I want to pin him to the wall and say oops.”
Halo just nodded solemnly. “Respect.”
“He’s so soft,” you went on, practically vibrating now, “like actually soft, not just emotionally soft but like if I kissed his neck he’d probably short-circuit and make a noise I wouldn’t recover from, and you’re all acting like I’m the crazy one—”
“You are the crazy one,” Phoenix interrupted calmly, “but it’s fine, you wear it well.”
“I need to get laid,” you groaned, dragging the words out like they hurt, your head dropping back against the jukebox again with a dull thud that none of them even reacted to anymore. “Like seriously laid. Like knock-me-out-and-reset-my-central-nervous-system kind of laid. My fucking vibrator at home is this close to giving up on me, I swear I can hear it sigh when I pick it up.”
Halo snorted, sipping her drink without breaking eye contact. “Okay, but Seresin’s right there. You could literally just make eye contact and he’d throw himself at you like a cartoon character.”
You scrunched your nose so fast it looked like a reflex. “Don’t be disgusting.”
Phoenix let out a snort of laughter that turned into a cough, nearly spilling her drink. “Did you just gag at the thought of Jake Seresin?”
“I’m sorry,” you said, holding up a hand, “I respect him as a fellow menace but if I ever have to look at his smug face while he’s naked I think I might actually start crying. I’d rather stay abstinent.”
“Okay, but seriously,” Halo leaned in, squinting like she was studying you, “when was the last time you got laid?”
You stared at her.
She blinked.
Phoenix leaned forward.
You blinked.
“...Nine months ago?” you said finally, very slowly, like you were doing the math in real time and were also a little offended by the number.
There was a pause. A full-body, what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say pause.
Halo looked personally attacked. “How are you alive?!”
You just shrugged, taking a long sip of your drink like this was normal, like you weren’t actively dying inside. “I think it’s Bob. Like he’s been reversing the effects of my last hook-up through sheer wholesomeness or something. Like every time he looks at me and blushes I forget what sex even is. I think I’ve been... un-fucked. Spiritually.”
Phoenix covered her mouth with her hand, wheezing. “You’ve gone insane.”
“I know,” you said again, voice muffled through your fingers, “and I’m not even sorry. It’s his fault. He says please and thank you and I want to ruin him.”
Halo nodded slowly, like it all made sense now. “You’ve got it bad.”
“Do I?” you snapped. “Because I’ve spent the last eight months wanting to throw that man against a wall and every time I try to flirt with him, he tells me to have a nice day.”
Phoenix was already laughing, her head tilted back, one hand pressed to her chest like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. “Have a nice day,” she repeated, practically wheezing, “girl, he’s killing you.”
“He’s polite,” Halo added, eyes wide, voice dramatic like she was recounting a murder, “he calls people ma’am, he waits in lines, he probably says sorry when he bumps into furniture—”
“He does,” you cut in, voice sharp, pointing at her like that was the worst part. “He does say sorry when he runs into chairs. I’ve seen it. He bumped his knee on a coffee table in the rec room and he whispered sorry like it had feelings. It did something to me. I don’t want to be normal anymore.”
Halo covered her mouth and squeaked. “That’s adorable.”
“It’s lethal,” you said, arms crossed, foot tapping furiously against the floor. “I’m losing my mind. I’m walking around like I’m fine but inside it’s just Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob and then sometimes Bob in a towel because I saw that one time and it’s never left me.”
Phoenix spit her drink.
Halo grabbed your arm. “You saw Bob in a towel and you’ve been sitting on that information this whole time?!”
“It was months ago,” you hissed, glancing around like you were revealing top secret government intel, “I walked past the locker room and he had just come out of the showers and he had his little glasses on and a towel wrapped around his waist and wet hair and I genuinely almost fainted. Like black spots in my vision, I had to sit down.”
Phoenix looked devastated. “You sat on that. You kept that to yourself.”
“I tried to forget,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like it still haunted you. “But it plays in my brain like a damn music video.”
Halo let out a long, low whistle. “You’ve got it so bad. You need to do something. You’re gonna combust.”
“Like what?” you asked, flailing your hands, fully spiralling now. “He probably thinks I’m just being nice! I wore a crop top last week and dropped my pen on purpose and bent over to pick it up and he said, “That's a safety hazard, ma’am.””
Phoenix wheezed again. “That man has no idea.”
“That man,” you said, staring at your drink like it had wronged you, “is my Roman Empire.”
Phoenix gave you a look. The kind that said she was about five seconds away from grabbing your shoulders and shaking the desperation out of you. “Okay then, if Bob’s gonna keep playing the oblivious virgin card, maybe it’s time to get some actual dick and stop hallucinating every time he says thank you.”
You opened your mouth to protest but she cut you off.
“No, don’t even argue,” she said, waving her drink around like a wand, “we’re surrounded by military-grade testosterone, someone in here has to be emotionally unavailable and hot enough to distract you for at least one night.”
Halo hummed and leaned forward, scanning the crowd like a hawk. “Alright then, let’s find her a rebound,” she said like it was a mission, eyes sharp, smile deadly.
You were about to tell them to chill, that you didn’t need a full-blown one-night-stand intervention, but then Halo suddenly pointed with her drink, her voice dropping into something lower, smugger.
“Okay, but like that guy,” she said, tilting her head slightly.
You followed her gaze, and your stomach flipped.
Across the room, leaning casually against the bar, was a man who honestly looked like he had walked straight out of a fantasy novel. Tall, dressed in a dark button-up with sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, long fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass, head tilted slightly like he was thinking about something poetic. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, soft curls pushed back, and the kind of slow, easy smirk that said he had ruined people before and never lost sleep over it.
And his eyes? Locked directly on you.
You blinked.
He raised his glass.
You blinked again.
“Why does he look like he writes sad poems for a living?” you whispered.
Halo grinned. “He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes. And not like a guy who wants to talk, but like a guy who already has your Spotify password memorised.”
Phoenix sipped her drink. “He looks like if British regret was a person. That man reads Virginia Woolf in bed and then ruins lives with his hands.”
You gawked. “I mean he’s hot but what if he’s a serial killer?”
“I mean,” Halo said, eyes twinkling, “worth the risk, no?”
You groaned, slumping forward like this whole night was being personally orchestrated by the universe to destroy you. “I can’t. What if I sleep with him and then Bob finds out and I have to live with the shame of being dickmatized by a man who looks like he cries during jazz?”
Phoenix raised a brow. “Or... you could just march across the bar, grab Bob by the collar, and solve your little nine-month crisis tonight.”
You stared down into your drink like it was going to give you a divine answer, swirled the liquid slowly, lips pressed together, heartbeat a little too fast and brain way too loud.
Because on one hand, no. You weren’t about to throw yourself at some British man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a possible emotional support book of poetry in his back pocket.
You didn’t even know his name. What if he turned out to be weird? What if he asked you to call him “my muse” mid-way through? What if he wore socks during sex?
But also…
It had been nine months.
Nine. Whole. Fucking (not literally). Months.
You hadn't even realised how long it had been until you said it out loud earlier, and now the number was sitting in your chest like a dead weight, echoing louder than the music, making your brain short-circuit with every shift of Bob's glasses and every accidental flex of his forearms and every goddamn “ma’am” that slipped out of his mouth like he wasn’t slowly ruining your life with the power of respectful vocabulary.
You shifted on your feet and tried to act normal, but you were practically vibrating.
Am I really about to fold?
Am I that down bad?
Would having sex with a random man just to quiet the Bob voices in my head be considered spiritual cheating?
Is it even cheating if Bob has no idea I’ve mentally married him three times already?
You sighed. “I don’t know,” you muttered, finally answering your friends, still not looking up. “The idea of having sex with a stranger just makes me tired. Like emotionally, physically, mentally tired. The prep, the fake laughing, the pretending to be surprised when they say something dumb, the awkward moment when they ask if I came and I have to lie—”
Halo was already laughing. “Okay, that’s fair.”
Phoenix leaned in, smirking. “But...?”
You groaned and let your head fall forward until it bumped the jukebox again. “But I also feel like if I don’t get railed soon I’m gonna start seeing God in traffic lights.”
Halo choked on her drink. “Sweetheart, you are in hell.”
“I know,” you whined, “and he’s over there drinking soda like a virgin prince who doesn’t know he could absolutely destroy me with one firm sentence.”
“Hello…”
───────
Bob’s soul just fucking left his body the moment he saw that guy, tall and sharp and walking like he owned the place, like he belonged in the frame with you, like he was about to say something smooth and actually pull it off, and Bob didn’t even notice how Jake had started rambling again about something gross, probably his top three sex positions or some shit about eye contact and rhythm and Bradley, for some reason, was agreeing with him, even adding details, even leaning forward like this was an actual conversation people were meant to hear.
But none of it mattered because Bob wasn’t listening, couldn’t listen, not when he was too busy watching that guy talk to you, like really talk to you, not just throw lines but say something that actually made you laugh, something that made you shift a little and glance down like you were trying not to smile too much, and Bob just sat there, eyes locked and hands clenched and head starting to ring, because since when did you smile like that for anyone else?
Since when did you get flustered?!
Because he had watched you flirt with people for months, had seen you blow kisses at Hangman just to mess with him, had heard you call a superior officer “handsome” with a wink and not even blink after it, had seen you push Coyote’s buttons and knock back tequila and laugh like nothing could get to you.
But now, now you were playing with your drink, looking down at your shoes, tucking your hair behind your ear like you didn’t even realise you were doing it, and Bob was going to explode, he was going to lose it completely, and Phoenix wasn’t helping, she was right there giving you the most encouraging look he’d ever seen, and Halo was leaning in like she was ready to start chanting “take him home” in your ear, and Bob—
Bob was fucking stuck. Just stuck there in the middle of whatever hell this was, feeling his heart crawl up his throat as he watched the guy lean in closer to you, and you didn’t even pull away.
Bob kept watching though, he couldn’t not watch, and he couldn’t even pretend to glance away or look casual or participate in whatever the hell Jake was saying now about how shower sex was overrated if the water pressure sucked, because all he could do was stare across the room like he’d just been hit with something heavy, because you were still talking to that guy, nodding along and laughing at whatever he was saying.
And Bob could tell it was smooth, could tell the guy knew what he was doing, the way he was leaning with just enough space to be respectful but still make it feel like it meant something, the way his hand casually brushed the bar top right next to yours, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been staring at you all night like you were the goddamn sun.
And you were eating it up.
You were laughing, you were twirling your straw around your glass, you were shifting one foot like you were nervous or shy or maybe just excited, and Bob’s heart was climbing, actually climbing, like physically trying to escape through his throat and he didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore, didn’t know where to look or how to sit or how to breathe, because you tilted your head and leaned in closer and the guy said something that made you smile so wide Bob felt it in his chest.
He didn’t even know the guy, had no clue if he was Navy or civilian or just some random who strolled into the Hard Deck like it was fate, but he hated him already, hated the way he looked at you like he deserved your attention, hated the way you gave it to him, hated that you weren’t looking back at Bob like you usually did, hated that you weren’t tossing him a glance just to see if he was paying attention, hated that this time, maybe you didn’t care if he was.
And maybe he’d imagined it all
Maybe all those looks across the bar and all the half-smiles and lingering hands on his shoulder or his wrist or the way you called him sweetheart when you thought no one was listening, maybe it was just how you were, maybe you were like this with everyone, maybe he was stupid to think it ever meant anything more than your usual mess of charm and games and heat, because now, now you were leaning against the bar and actually blushing at something some stranger said, and Bob’s lungs felt too small for his chest.
And Bradley nudged him, said something about looking like he’d seen a ghost, and Bob tried to answer but it came out wrong, because what was he supposed to say, hey man I think I’m watching my entire life spiral out of my control because the girl I’ve been lowkey in love with for the last ten months might be about to give her number to a guy who looks like he journals with a quill pen and kisses with poetry, because even thinking that made Bob’s stomach flip.
And he was still staring, still holding on to the fading hope that maybe you’d look at him, even for just a second, like maybe you’d catch his eye and do that thing where you smirk like you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but you weren’t looking, you were still talking, and Bob could feel something in him starting to spiral.
And he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.
“Dude.”
Bob blinked once, just once, because he was still looking at you, still watching how your fingers curled around your glass and how your mouth moved when you laughed, and maybe he imagined it, maybe it wasn’t real, but he could’ve sworn your eyes flicked up like you were about to glance around the room, and he waited, he actually held his breath like a loser waiting for you to look his way, but it never happened.
And then came Bradley, because of course it was Bradley, leaning in close like he was about to deliver classified information, his voice low, his brows up, his tone doing that annoying thing where it sounded casual but also absolutely meant business, and Bob didn’t even look at him properly because Jake, Jake was suddenly there too, on the other side, like they’d planned this, like they’d coordinated their chaos just to crowd him, shoulder to shoulder, pressure from both sides like they were about to shake sense into him.
“Are you seriously just gonna sit here?” Bradley muttered, and it was that tone, the really? tone, the are-you-fucking-kidding-me tone, and Bob wanted to argue, really he did, except Jake spoke at the same time.
“She’s right there, man,” Jake hissed like they were in the middle of some covert operation, “and you’re just... sitting? What, you think she’s gonna walk over here and propose to you?”
Bob blinked again.
“She’s laughing,” Bradley said, like Bob couldn’t see it himself, like Bob hadn’t been watching it happen in real time, like he didn’t know every shift of your weight and every twitch of your smile and every little habit you had when someone managed to genuinely get your attention, “and she’s smiling at him like he’s charming and she doesn’t usually do that, man, you know that, you know that.”
And Bob tried, he really did, he opened his mouth to explain that he was frozen, that he wasn’t physically capable of standing up right now, that his hands were literally sweating and his legs felt like twigs and his brain was caught somewhere between heartbreak and cardiac arrest, but Jake cut him off again, too loud for his own good, because he was Hangman and subtlety was a concept he never quite absorbed.
“Even I’m rooting for you now, Baby on board,” he said, like this was some kind of painful underdog movie, “you’re the quiet guy, the respectful guy, the one with the slow stare and the soft little voice that probably ruins people behind closed doors—”
Bob choked.
“—don’t act like you don’t know it either,” Jake pushed on, like Bob hadn’t already been living in denial for the past year, “you’ve got that whole Clark Kent thing going on and she’s been eye-fucking you since Christmas, and now you’re just gonna let her walk off with the guy who probably starts sentences with ‘Actually, in the original French—’?”
And Bradley was nodding along like this was completely reasonable.
Bob made a noise, something halfway between a breath and a crisis, and tried to look anywhere but at you, but that made it worse, because when he looked at the bar again, you were still there, still smiling, still twirling your straw and tilting your head and doing that thing where your knee bounced slightly when you were into a conversation, and Bob could see Phoenix give you this look, this wide-eyed, giddy, you got this, babe look, and Halo practically beaming beside her like she was your personal hype squad, and suddenly it felt like the floor was shifting, like the air in the bar got too thin.
And then Bradley leaned in even closer, close enough that Bob actually flinched, and his voice dropped so low it was almost unfair.
“She likes you,” he said simply, not a tease, not a push, just a fact laid flat between them like Bob hadn’t already known it, like he hadn’t been clinging to the maybe of it for months, “you just never do anything about it, man, and she’s not gonna wait forever.”
Bob opened his mouth again, completely panicked, completely lost.
Jake smacked his shoulder hard enough to jolt him and muttered, “Do something, Floyd, for fuck’s sake, before she gives Tall British Tragedy her number and breaks your entire bloodline.”
And Bob, poor, frozen, flustered, too-in-love-to-function Bob, just stared back at you like this was all some kind of test he wasn’t ready for, like maybe he’d already failed and this was the part where he had to find out what it felt like to lose something that was never his.
Bob’s eyes twitched behind his glasses, just a little at first, like his body was trying to warn him before his brain caught up, but then it happened again, sharper this time, more obvious, and he knew it wasn’t just a tick, it was rage or panic or maybe both, bubbling in his skin as he watched Phoenix and Halo walk away from you with the smuggest looks on their faces, winking like traitors, like they hadn’t just abandoned you with a man who looked like he belonged in a goddamn fragrance ad.
And you, of course you, tried to shoot them a glare, really tried, but it was weak and late and you didn’t even commit to it, because the second the guy opened his mouth again, you were distracted all over again, smiling, laughing softly, turning back toward him like he’d said something worth hearing, and that was when Bob realised he was going to snap.
He didn’t know how much time passed after that, couldn’t remember how many seconds or minutes had bled into one another while he sat there, too stiff and too warm and way too close to spiralling, because you were clearly flirting now, not just smiling and nodding politely, not just entertaining the guy because you were too nice to walk away, but genuinely engaged, leaning in ever so slightly, talking low, brushing your fingers along the bar while he mirrored the motion on his side, and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t actually touching you, because it was close enough, because the tension was there and the space was shrinking and Bob could see it, could see both of you slowly undressing each other with your eyes like this was the beginning of something that wasn’t supposed to happen in front of him.
And then you stood up. You stood up, and he did too.
He didn’t even realise it, didn’t plan it, just suddenly found himself walking, legs moving without consent, heart in his throat, and then his voice followed, shaky but determined, louder than it should have been as he crossed the room with his chest tight and his jaw clenched and his hands curled too tightly at his sides.
“Raven.”
You turned immediately, eyes catching his, and you tilted your head the second you recognised him, something surprised and amused settling over your expression like you hadn’t expected him to be standing there looking like he was two seconds away from short-circuiting.
“Yes, Bob?” you asked, calm and curious, lips parted just enough to make his brain freeze for a second longer than it should’ve.
He opened his mouth, words half-formed in the back of his throat, but the man beside you was already turning toward him, already offering his hand like he was made of pure class and silk, smiling like this wasn’t the most stressful moment of Bob’s entire year.
“Tom,” he said, accent undeniably British, voice smooth and kind, too kind, like this was all incredibly polite and not at all threatening, like he wasn’t on the verge of taking you home, like he wasn’t already halfway through winning you over.
And you, oblivious or maybe just cruel, smiled and gestured between them both like this was all normal.
“Bob, this is Tom. Tom, Bob. He’s my teammate.”
And Bob just stood there, face warm, hands awkward at his sides, heart screaming, because he hadn’t even gotten to say what he came here to say, because now he was meeting the man who might walk out the door with you tonight, the man who was taller and prettier and had an accent, and Bob had no idea how to compete with that.
Bob’s hand was clammy. He felt it the moment Tom’s fingers wrapped around his, calm and confident, like he’d never known a hint of nervousness in his entire life, and Bob knew his own grip was off, too strong at first then awkwardly loose, and when he said hi, it came out quiet and weird and he immediately followed it up with a second “hello” like that would make it better, and then he cleared his throat like that would help too, like somehow he could reset this entire moment and start over as someone cooler.
He let go too fast. And then he turned to you.
“Could we—” he started, voice unsure again, too high, too soft, and he cleared his throat again because fuck, “could we talk for a second?”
And your face, God, your face looked like you genuinely weren’t expecting that at all, because your brows furrowed and your lips parted like you were trying to remember if you’d forgotten something important, and then you glanced at Tom, probably just instinct, probably just checking if this was weird, if you needed to be worried, but Tom didn’t even flinch.
He was just standing there beside you, all tall and calm and British and perfect, looking at you like he was listening but not interfering, like he didn’t mind being interrupted, like he was curious, and it made Bob’s skin itch.
“Talk?” you asked, slower this time, confused and cautious. “About what?”
Bob could feel his heart thumping in his throat again, loud and uneven, and Tom didn’t say a word, just kept watching you like none of this was strange, and Bob hated it, hated the way Tom was so composed and kind and patient, hated the way he kept looking at you like you were something soft.
“About work,” Bob said, way too fast, voice firmer than before but still not convincing enough, and you gave him a look, the kind that made it obvious you were two seconds away from making up some excuse and walking back into whatever moment Bob had just interrupted.
You let out a sigh. A big one. The kind that came from your chest.
And you gave him this soft, apologetic smile, like you were about to let him down easy, like you weren’t mad at all but you definitely didn’t want to follow him away from the very charming, very hot man currently standing by your side with that soft-eyed patience that was making Bob feel violently unwell.
But before you could say anything, before that smile could fully settle into its place, Bob leaned in just the tiniest bit and dropped his voice. “It’s serious,” he said, and it was gentler now, like all that panic and fire had drained into something quieter, something realer.
And your eyes flicked up to meet his, like you could feel it, like maybe you finally understood that this wasn’t about work at all. “Please?”
───────
Was he really doing this right now?
Like seriously, was Bob Floyd, sweet, gentle, painfully shy Bob who couldn’t even hold your gaze for longer than five seconds without looking like he’d combust, really asking to talk about work, right now, when you were finally, finally about to break your absolutely pathetic nine-month streak of not getting laid, which was, let’s be honest here, kind of his fault in the first place, because if he hadn’t been looking at you all the time like you hung stars and also like he was absolutely terrified of you, then maybe, maybe, you wouldn’t have been stuck in this strange limbo of flirting and tension and frustration and sleeping beside a vibrator that honestly deserved retirement benefits at this point.
So yeah. You blinked. You tried not to groan. You tried to remember your manners.
But then Tom, ever the gentleman, ever the calmly spoken and irritatingly attractive British man who looked like he recited poetry and smelled like wealth, had the audacity to offer with a polite smile, “Why don’t you two talk about it while I’m here?”
And he didn’t even get to finish.
Because Bob, Bob who had just a second ago looked like he was about to melt into the floor, suddenly snapped his attention toward Tom with this polite but firm tone and went, “I’d prefer it was private.”
And then, it happened. A goddamn pissing contest is what happened.
“Oh come on,” Tom said lightly, clearly amused and clearly not realising that he was about ten seconds from being tackled by a man who probably hadn’t said the word “fuck” out loud in years. “It’s a bar, mate. Not a debriefing room.”
“I still think it’d be better if we stepped away,” Bob answered, still nice, still polite, still impossibly soft-spoken, but you could hear it now, the sharpness beneath it, the quiet frustration, the fact that he’d finally reached a limit and was now, apparently, taking a stand right here next to the jukebox.
And you just stood there, caught in the middle of it, not even sure what the hell was happening anymore, because you were supposed to be the chaotic one, you were supposed to be the one who caused scenes, but now you were watching Bob bicker with a English man like the slowest, politest trainwreck of your life, and the worst part, the most disarming part, was that your eyes had drifted, totally without permission, back to Bob.
Because he looked serious. Serious and flushed and focused and every bit like someone who had made a decision and was finally following through with it, and god, that look, that look alone might’ve short-circuited whatever parts of your brain were still functioning.
So ,you did what any emotionally unstable, horny, overthinking, severely overstimulated woman would do.
You stepped in the middle.
Literally.
You put yourself between them, palms raised, body angled to stop them from leaning in any further, because this was ridiculous, this was too much, this was like stepping into a fanfiction you forgot you were starring in.
And then, Tom took your right hand, and Bob took your left.
At the same fucking time.
And for a moment, you genuinely forgot how to speak, because the both of them were still holding your hands like it meant something, still glaring at each other over your shoulders like you were a trophy and they were fighting to the death, and you just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, absolutely certain that you were being pranked by the universe, because what in the Wattpad hell was going on.
And then Tom tugged your hand.
It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t aggressive, just a gentle kind of pull like he was trying to guide you back to his side or maybe get your attention again, but your wrist twisted just a little weird and the second the pressure hit your thumb the wrong way, you let out a soft, annoyed, “Ouch—”
And that was it.
Bob stepped forward. Not with words, not with a warning, not with anything but a shift, a movement, a quiet decision to put himself right in front of you like some kind of flesh-and-bone wall, and suddenly you were looking at the back of his jacket and the slope of his neck and the way his shoulders looked too tense to be real, and then he was leaning in, just a few inches, just enough that the space between him and Tom felt like it was about to catch fire.
And Tom was taller, yeah, by maybe an inch or two, and he was still calm, still composed, still fucking unbearable with how gentle his expression was, but Bob didn’t even flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just stared up at him with that quiet fury that only existed in people who usually kept everything buried.
“I think you should back off,” Bob said, soft and polite but absolutely not playing anymore, and you could hear the shift in his voice, could feel the ripple in the air around him like a fuse had just been lit under the surface.
Tom blinked, eyebrows raised, still not moving, still not letting go of your hand. “Look, I think you’ve misunderstood—”
But Bob cut in, not loud, not rude, just firm. “I’m going to say this nicely, because I’m still trying to be respectful,” he said, and you watched the way his jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, watched the way his voice stayed perfectly measured like he’d rehearsed it in his head a hundred times.
“But this is a bar full of Navy officers,” Bob continued, tilting his chin just slightly, like he was reminding Tom of exactly where the hell he was standing, “and I promise you, it won’t end well for you if you give anyone a reason to think you’re not welcome here.”
Bob gave a smile. It wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t fake either, it was the kind of smile that made you blink and stop breathing for a second, the kind that made your stomach flip because it wasn’t Bob’s usual shy little corner-of-the-mouth smile, it was firm and controlled and slightly dangerous, and it made your pulse trip over itself.
Because holy shit, Bob Floyd was not playing.
And for a second, you genuinely thought you misheard him, like maybe you imagined it, maybe Bob didn’t just say what he very clearly said, but then you blinked and he was still looking at Tom like that, like that calm quiet stare could say everything he wasn’t shouting, and you actually felt your lungs stutter because what the fuck just happened, what do you even do when Bob Floyd says something like that so casually, like it’s already true, like he didn’t just light a match and throw it directly at your sex drive.
Tom didn’t say anything at first, just narrowed his eyes slightly, just shifted his jaw like he was still trying to decide whether this was a joke or a misunderstanding or something he could smooth over with enough English charm, and then he turned to you again, slower this time, voice measured and almost stiff like he was trying to keep it light, like he didn’t just get completely shut down in one sentence, and he goes, “I hope I get to see you again—”
But Bob spoke right over him.
Not loud, not mean, not rude, just... final.
“No, you won’t,” he said, and it didn’t even sound like a threat, it sounded like a certainty, like he knew for a fact that this night was going to end one way and one way only and it wasn’t going to involve Tom and his polite accent and his goddamn cheekbones.
And then, because apparently you hadn’t suffered enough, because apparently Bob wanted to absolutely end your life in the middle of the Hard Deck with a sentence, he added, “She’ll be with me.”
And your brain just stopped. Like fully, completely shut off.
You stared at him because you didn’t know what else to do, because your mouth had gone dry and your stomach had flipped and your knees genuinely, actually wobbled a little and you were so glad you were standing still because you were dangerously close to collapsing from sheer what the fuck was that.
Because Bob Floyd had never said anything like that to you before.
Because Bob Floyd was shy and sweet and respectful and he never looked at you too long unless he thought you weren’t paying attention, and now he was standing in front of you like he’d just decided this was done, that the tension between you wasn’t going to stretch out a day longer, that you were his, and that was it.
And the worst part, or maybe the best part, or maybe just the most terrifying part, was that you wanted it.
You wanted it so bad you couldn’t breathe.
Because it wasn’t even what he said, it was how he said it, that quiet steel in his voice, the soft but unshakable way he stood between you and Tom, the way he didn’t even look back at the guy anymore because he knew you were watching him, and god, god, you couldn’t stop watching him, you couldn’t look away, you couldn’t think of a single word to say because every part of you had short-circuited.
And yeah.
You were speechless.
And you were horny.
So catastrophically, unreasonably horny you nearly whimpered, because Bob Floyd just claimed you in the most Bob Floyd way possible and you might never recover from this moment.
You didn’t say another word. You just grabbed his hand, tight and determined and maybe even shaking a little because your brain had finally caught up to the rest of you and decided, yes, this was happening, this was actually happening, and Bob, and Bob didn’t even resist, just blinked in stunned silence as you pulled him along like some kind of feral force of nature who’d decided that tonight was it, tonight was the end of the waiting game, tonight was the fucking finale.
You didn’t check who was watching, didn’t glance at Jake or Bradley or even the girls because the second you looked back you might lose your nerve, might forget how to walk straight, might start overthinking everything and accidentally ruin it, so instead you just walked, fast and angry and certain, dragging Bob through the Hard Deck like a woman possessed, like your heartbeat was louder than the music, like your hands were about to start shaking from how badly you needed to feel something more than just the heat under your skin.
And the second you reached the bathroom that was blessedly empty, clean, the faint scent of lemony disinfectant still lingering from the cleaner who’d left maybe five minutes ago, and you yanked open the door, shoved him in with you, and locked it behind you without even giving him time to speak.
You were panting. You were flushed. You were a goddamn storm system ready to tear through everything in your path.
And Bob? Bob looked like he had no idea what just happened.
He was still trying to catch up, still standing there like he couldn’t decide if he should apologise or fall to his knees, and you didn’t say anything either, didn’t ask him if this was okay, didn’t ask if he wanted it, because you didn’t have to; his eyes already told you everything, wide and glassy and hungry, his chest rising fast beneath that stupid flight tee he still hadn’t taken off, his hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you now he might lose it completely.
And maybe that was what you wanted.
Maybe that was why your breath hitched and your knees almost buckled, because he was just standing there, looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know where to look first, like he didn’t know how to start, and it was killing you, it was absolutely killing you, the tension thick enough to choke on and your skin already buzzing, already hot, already wet, fuck, you were wet, and you could feel it now, every step you’d taken to get here, every heartbeat pounding between your legs like a countdown, like a warning, like something was about to break.
You could feel your panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin and it didn’t even embarrass you, it didn’t make you hesitate, because the only thing you could think about was how badly you needed him to touch you, how much it was already driving you insane that he wasn’t, how completely fucking unhinged it made you that Bob, sweet, soft, shy Bob, was the reason your thighs were clenching and your fingers were twitching and your back was already pressing to the cold tile wall just to keep yourself steady.
And he still hadn’t moved.
He was breathing like you were taking all the air in the room with you, like he didn’t know what the hell he’d just gotten himself into, and you could feel it now, the way your body was starting to shake with it, with all of it, the heat and the tension and the months of wanting, and the fact that you were both locked in a bathroom with less than three feet between you and only one possible outcome left—
And your voice broke out before you could stop it. “Do you know what you do to me?”
And you said it like a confession, like a sin, like something cracked open in the middle of your chest and bled out into the air between you, and your voice was hoarse and shallow and dazed and your back stayed right against the door because you weren’t sure your knees could handle even a step forward, weren’t sure if your legs would even work anymore because you were barely breathing and your palms were sweating and you were dizzy, not drunk dizzy, not flustered dizzy, just desperate, just overwhelmed, just fucking done with pretending you didn’t feel everything at once when it came to him, and when you finally looked up, when you really looked at Bob—
He wasn’t nervous.
He wasn’t stammering.
He wasn’t doing that soft little head tilt he always did when he was confused or shy or trying to figure out what the hell was going on in front of him, because this wasn’t confusion anymore, this wasn’t hesitation, this was heat, this was hunger, this was something unspoken and dangerous and so sharp it made your whole body lock up, because Bob Floyd was looking at you like he had been holding back for too long and maybe tonight he wasn’t going to anymore.
And then he stepped forward.
And your breath caught so hard it felt like something slammed into your lungs, and you didn’t mean to but you took a half-step back, only your back was already against the door, so it just made you straighten a little, made you tilt your chin up as his body closed in on yours, not touching yet, not even brushing, just crowding, just pressuring, just standing there like he could trap you with nothing more than proximity and silence and the way his eyes burned right through your fucking skin.
“Do you know what you do to me?”
He said it like it hurt, said it like a warning, like something he’d been trying so hard not to say and then failed, and the sound of it sent a whole-body shiver down your spine because it didn’t sound like Bob anymore, it didn’t sound like the shy, quiet, soft-spoken man you’d been lowkey in love with since forever, it sounded like something deeper, something hungrier, something wrecked and tired of waiting, and you felt your mouth go dry.
“You think I don’t notice,” he murmured, closer now, voice almost too calm, too quiet, like he was afraid if he let it rise at all he’d lose control of it, “but you look at me like you want me to lose it.”
And your stomach dropped.
Your legs shook.
Your hands itched to grab something, anything, because he wasn’t done, because he wasn’t backing away, because Bob was still coming closer even though there was nowhere else for you to go, and he tilted his head and let his eyes flick down to your mouth and then back up, and that was when you knew, that was when you really knew, because there was no coming back from this now.
“You don’t even realise,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, “what it’s like watching you walk around like that, talking to everyone, laughing like that, wearing that dress like you didn’t know I’d be losing my mind the second I saw you tonight.”
Your chest was rising way too fast.
You couldn’t stop staring at him.
You could feel the heat building and building and your breath was shallow and uneven and your thighs were pressed together and you could swear you felt your own heartbeat between your legs, because Bob Floyd, Bob fucking Floyd, had you caged in with nothing but words and distance and tension and suddenly you weren’t even sure who was in control anymore.
You didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stare at him because holy shit, holy actual fucking shit, you weren’t sure your body was yours anymore, weren’t sure your legs were holding you up or if it was just the door doing all the work, because Bob was still right in front of you, still not touching, still looking at you like he had months of frustration burning under his skin and he didn’t know where to put it anymore, and his voice, fuck, his voice was still low and tight and wrecked, and when he spoke again, it hit you straight in the spine.
“I’ve thought about what you’d look like,” he said, slowly, like every word was being dragged straight from his gut, “all fucked out and panting, still begging for more, still trying to say my name.”
Your breath caught so hard it hurt.
“I’ve thought about how wet you’d be,” he kept going, and your whole chest fluttered violently at that, “how you’d sound if I put my mouth on you, how long you’d last before you started begging me to let you come.”
And holy fucking hell, your knees buckled again, this time fully, but his hand shot out and caught your waist before you could even fall, and that was the first time he touched you, that was the first skin-on-skin contact you’d had all night and it was barely anything, just his fingers at your waist holding you steady, but your body reacted like he’d fucking thrown you onto the counter and split you open, because your lungs stuttered and your thighs squeezed tighter and your head was spinning and his hand just stayed there, firm and steady and grounding you like he knew he had to or else you were going to collapse completely.
“And I’ve touched myself to it,” he added, voice softer now but somehow more intense, like it was turning into something vulnerable, something real, “more times than I can count, but it’s never enough, it’s never enough, because it’s not you, and I can’t get you out of my head, and I swear to God, if you don’t kiss me soon I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
But he didn’t move. He stayed still, staring at you, breathing like he was barely holding himself together, waiting for you to close the distance, for you to make the first move, and your body was burning so hot it hurt, and the silence between you was so loud you thought it might break something in your chest, because holy fuck, this was happening, this was really happening, and all he’d done was speak.
“Bob,” you whispered, and your voice cracked a little, not from nerves, not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of how badly you needed him, how much it burned, how deep it sat in your chest, months and months of restraint clawing their way out of your throat in just one word, and you weren’t even sure if you could keep going but you had to, you had to, because if you didn’t say this now you were going to fucking explode. “Just kiss me, please.”
You barely had time to process the way your back hit the door, hard enough to make it rattle, before he was on you, really on you, his mouth hot and desperate and possessive against yours like he was trying to breathe you in and ruin you at the same time, like this had been killing him and he wasn’t going to wait another second, not even a heartbeat, and you kissed him back just as hard, your hands sliding into his hair, gripping like you needed to keep yourself grounded, like if you let go you might actually fall apart.
And Bob was groaning into your mouth now, low and helpless, the kind of sound that came straight from his chest and vibrated through yours, and it did something to you, something visceral, something that made your knees shake and your brain short-circuit and your fingers curl tighter in his hair just to feel him, just to know this was real, and he pressed his body closer, no hesitation, no question, just heat, just solid, overwhelming heat against every inch of you and you were melting into it, melting into him, gripping the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
And then he pulled back just barely, just far enough to breathe, just far enough for his eyes to crash into yours again, and his forehead dropped against yours and his hand was still on your jaw and the other still on your hip and his chest was heaving like he’d just run ten miles and he still wasn’t touching you enough, not even close.
“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered, voice all breath and wreckage, his lips brushing against yours even as he spoke, “I’ve imagined what you’d look like, pressed up against me, gasping, shaking, begging.”
You whimpered, actually whimpered, because you could feel your thighs pressing together now like they were trying to solve the problem on their own, and your head was swimming with it, dizzy and hot and aching, and Bob leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours, his hand sliding up your side until it was resting right beneath your ribs, holding you like you were breakable but his.
“Do you even know what you do to me?” he asked, and his voice was rougher now, low and shaken and dangerous, and it made your whole body clench, made your breath stutter out again as you stared up at him, completely gone.
You nodded, but it didn’t even matter, because he wasn’t done.
“How many times I’ve thought about this,” he said, and then he tilted his head, just slightly, just enough that his mouth brushed your jaw now instead of your lips, his breath hot against your skin, “how many times I’ve made myself come to the thought of you moaning my name, screaming for me, looking at me like you’re looking at me right now.”
You gasped, actually gasped, because you were looking at him like that, you were giving him every single unfiltered thought and ache and need in your body and he was eating it up like he’d been starving for it, like this was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me,” he whispered, mouth still dragging along your jaw, and your fingers were digging into his shoulders now, your whole body trembling, your thighs pressed together and your hips tilted forward like your body was already moving without permission, like it was chasing the friction, and Bob didn’t stop, didn’t even pause, because he was too far gone now, his voice going darker and hungrier with every word.
“Months,” he breathed, “I’ve been dying for this for months, watching you flirt with every guy who’s not me, watching you laugh and tease and act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, how you’d taste, how you’d fall apart under me.”
You almost cried. You almost cried right then and there because it was too much, it was everything, and you hadn’t even touched skin yet, hadn’t even unzipped anything, and your whole body was already humming with it, already aching, already so wet it hurt.
And then his hand slid from your waist to your thigh, slowly, like he was making sure you felt every inch, and his forehead still pressed against yours as his other hand slid into your hair, and you didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until he spoke again.
“Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me you want this.”
You let out a sound, not even a word, not even close, it was more like a broken moan caught halfway in your throat and your knees nearly gave out when his hand slid up and wrapped around the base of your neck, not squeezing, not choking, just holding, just owning, just enough pressure to ground you exactly where he wanted you, and you were already gasping before he even moved, already falling apart just from the weight of his palm and the way his thumb brushed your pulse, slow and knowing and devastating.
And then he rolled his hips, grounded into you, slow and deliberate and hard, and you swore the air was sucked out of the room because you could feel it, could feel the size of him through his jeans, thick and aching and right there, pressing up against where you needed him most and your whole body buckled forward into him like you couldn’t take it anymore, like it had already been too long and too much and too everything.
“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wrecked and almost gentle except it wasn’t, not really, because it was also dark and edged and dripping with heat, “I wanna hear you say it.”
And you could barely breathe now, could barely think, you could just feel, could feel the press of his thigh between yours and the way your hips had started moving without permission, grinding forward, chasing friction, chasing him, and your hands were on his chest and then his shoulders and then his neck and you were nodding and gasping and then finally it tumbled out, barely coherent.
“Yes,” you said, voice shaking and high and real, “Yes, yes, yes, I want this, I want you, I want you so bad, please—”
That was all it took.
He kissed you again like he was trying to consume you, like he was starved and you were the only thing in the world that could feed him, and this time it wasn’t slow, it wasn’t sweet, it was needy, it was all tongue and teeth and desperation, it was months of pent-up want coming out like a storm and you met him right there, kissed him back just as hard, grabbed the front of his shirt like you were about to tear it open just to get to more, because it wasn’t enough, you needed more.
And he was grinding into you again, harder now, rougher, like he couldn’t stop himself, like your body was pulling it out of him without even trying, and you could feel him now, full and heavy and aching through the denim, and you swore you were going to come from that alone, from the way his hips kept moving and the way your body kept chasing and the way you could already feel your panties sticking to you like second skin.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, voice barely there, all breath and grit and broken control, “You feel that? That’s what you do to me, that’s what months of you teasing me gets you.”
You whined against his lips and his hand was still on your throat and his thigh was still between yours and your hips were still rocking and you could feel him getting harder, could feel your own arousal making a mess of your underwear and he still hadn’t even touched you properly yet.
“You gonna let me ruin you in here, sweetheart?” he whispered, hot and heavy and almost sweet if it weren’t for the way his voice dropped on that last word, the way it felt more like a promise than a question, “Right here, against this fucking door?”
“Yes,” you breathed, and you didn’t even hesitate, not for a second, because it was already too much, you were already too far gone, “Yes, Bob, please, yes.”
And your hands moved before your brain could even keep up, fingers fumbling at his belt like you’d lose your mind if you didn’t get it open, like something in you would actually break if you didn’t get to feel him, right now, right here, against this fucking door like he promised, because your entire body was on fire and your panties were sticking to you and your head was spinning and the only thing anchoring you to this goddamn planet was him, was Bob, and the way he was looking at you like he’d been starving for months and only just now got his first real meal.
But then he stopped you.
His hand closed over yours, warm and firm and gentle and Bob, and it wasn’t rejection, not really, it was something else entirely, something that made your breath catch and your heart twist, because he looked at you like he meant it, like he meant you, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, steadier, more grounded but still thick with that wrecked edge, still hungry, still barely hanging on, “I mean it, are you… are you okay? You’re not drunk or—”
You groaned, actually groaned, head hitting the bathroom door with a soft thud because this was just so Bob, of course he was going to make sure you weren’t tipsy even though you were stone-cold sober and vibrating out of your skin, of course he was going to check in with you first, even though you were seconds away from clawing his shirt off.
“Bob,” you said, and it came out more like a plea than a protest, your chest rising, your hands curling against his shoulders now instead of his belt, “I swear to God, I need you to ruin me.”
And you didn’t even mean to sound so desperate but that’s just what it was, that’s just what he did to you, that’s just where you were now, with him staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he wanted to wrap his hands around every part of you and keep it.
“I’ve gone nine months without getting laid,” you whispered, panting now, voice cracking like you were halfway to tears from the sheer intensity of it, “Nine months, Bob, and it’s literally your fault because no one’s ever been you and I didn’t even realise it until I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and now you’ve got me pinned against a fucking door and I’m shaking and I can’t feel my knees and if you don’t fuck me right now I swear I’ll—”
He kissed you again before you could finish.
His fingers slipped lower and you gasped, not even because he was touching you but because how he was touching you, slow and almost tender at first, just enough to make you shake with it, just enough to make you whine into his mouth like you were begging for more even though you hadn’t said a word yet, and that must’ve done something to him because suddenly he was groaning, deep in his throat, low and wrecked like he couldn’t help it, and his hips pressed against yours like instinct.
And that’s when you felt it the thick, hard press of him through his jeans, flush against your thigh, and holy shit, he was huge, bigger than you expected, and you let out a strangled breath that might’ve been a whimper if he hadn’t kissed it right out of you.
His fingers slid between your folds like he’d done it a hundred times, like he knew exactly where to find you, and when he brushed over your clit, soft but deliberate, your whole body arched, legs trembling, and he smiled, smiled, like he was proud of himself, like he’d just confirmed something he already suspected.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse now, darker, hungrier, “You’re soaking for me, baby.”
You nodded, desperate, mouth open like you couldn’t catch your breath, and when he circled your clit again, firmer this time, more focused, you let out a moan that echoed off the walls and made him growl, actually growl, his glasses fogging worse now, his other hand gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks.
“Tell me,” he whispered, right against your ear, lips brushing your skin, fingers still working you slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t one second away from snapping, “Tell me who did this to you?”
“You—” you choked out, barely able to speak through the heat curling up your spine, “You, Bob, fuck—”
“That’s damn right,” he muttered, dragging his fingers lower again, pressing two of them into you with a smooth, practiced motion that had you screaming, forehead against his shoulder, hands clawing at his shirt, “Only me.”
You were gripping his arms now, shaking, gasping, hips grinding down like you needed more, needed all of him, and he gave it to you, curling his fingers just right, just deep enough to make your legs shake, just rough enough to remind you that shy little Bob Floyd was gone, that this man touching you now had teeth and hunger and absolutely no patience left.
“Been thinking about this for months,” he said, voice low and filthy and way too fucking controlled for someone knuckle-deep in your pussy, “Thinking about getting you just like this, begging for me, dripping all over my hand.”
“Bob—” you gasped, eyes rolling back when he started moving faster, harder, hitting that spot so perfectly it almost hurt, and he groaned again, this deep, desperate sound that made your walls clench around his fingers, and he felt it.
“Oh, you like that?” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, jaw tight with restraint, “You like when I fuck you with my fingers, sweetheart? You gonna cum for me like this?”
You didn’t even answer, couldn’t, because your brain had already stopped functioning and your legs were shaking so bad you could barely keep yourself upright, and thank God for the door behind you because without it you would’ve collapsed, folded right there under the weight of his fingers, under the sound of his voice, under the fact that Bob Floyd was saying things to you that should be illegal with the way they made your stomach twist and your pussy clench and your whole body feel like it was about to fall apart.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, low and thick and reverent, like he was watching something sacred happen right there in his hand, like you were something he’d worshipped from afar for too long and now he finally got to touch it, ruin it, claim it, “So wet for me, you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart, I can feel you, shit, you’re gonna cum just from my fingers, aren’t you?”
You nodded so fast your head spun, chest heaving, your back arching off the door as he started pumping into you faster, rougher, more focused now, and every curl of his fingers hit that spot so perfectly your thighs kept twitching, your mouth falling open in shock every time he found it again and again and again like he wanted to watch you unravel, like he wanted to see how much you could take before you broke completely.
And then he leaned in close, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck, his glasses barely hanging on at this point, his body fully pressed to yours now, hard cock grinding up against your hip like he needed the friction, like it hurt not to be inside you, and when he whispered in your ear again, you almost sobbed.
“I touch myself to the thought of you,” he said, quietly, honestly, like he was confessing it right to your soul, “I fucking jerk off to the way you laugh, the way you walk around in those tight little shorts like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
You moaned, no, cried something high and shameless, and your hand shot out, grabbing at his belt again because you needed him, needed him, because no one had ever made you feel like this, and you didn’t care how messy it was or where you were or how fucking loud you were getting, because he was still fucking you with his fingers like it was all he ever wanted to do.
“Every night,” he breathed, nipping your jaw, “Every fucking night I’d get off thinking about how you’d sound falling apart for me, how tight you’d be, how wet you’d be, how desperate—fuck—how desperate you’d get just to have me inside you.”
You were gone, completely gone, head thrown back, hands gripping his biceps like you’d die without something to hold on to, and your legs were trembling now, your orgasm building so fast it was almost overwhelming, and he felt it, he knew, because his voice dropped again, soft and serious this time, his hand curling under your chin to tilt your face to his.
“Cum for me, baby,” he said, breathless, commanding, devastating, “Cum on my fingers, let me feel you.”
And you did.
You didn’t even wait for him to catch his breath, didn’t even let him steady himself after making you fall apart on his fingers like you’d been doing it together for years, like he knew your body better than you did, because you were already reaching for his belt again, fumbling, feverish, undoing the buckle like your hands had a mind of their own, and he was just watching you now, chest rising and falling like he’d run a goddamn marathon, lips parted, face flushed and stunned and still so fucking wrecked from watching you cum for him, and the second you pushed him back and made him sit on the edge of that sink, he let out a breath like his soul just left his body.
You dropped to your knees without even thinking about it, hands already yanking his jeans down past his hips, underwear too, and Bob let out the loudest fucking groan the moment his cock sprang free, flushed and hard and thick and twitching, and it was almost too much, almost stupid how pretty he looked like this, glasses slightly fogged, hands gripping the edges of the sink, head tilted back like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to wake up.
“Fuck,” you breathed, voice gone already, mouth hanging open because you were soaked again just from the sight of him, because of course Bob Floyd had a cock that matched the rest of him, long and heavy and so fucking hard it actually made your mouth water, and you looked up at him once, eyes wide, dazed, overwhelmed, and you swear his face almost broke.
“You don’t have to—” he choked out, voice strained, already unraveling even though you hadn’t touched him yet, but you just looked up at him with this fucking look, like are you seriously trying to stop me right now, and then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, and wrapped one hand around the base of his cock.
His entire body shuddered.
“Oh my God,” he breathed, jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, one of his hands flying up to your hair like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment, trying not to lose his shit too fast, but then your mouth was on him wet and warm and so eager, lips stretching, tongue swirling, and Bob let out a broken sound that made your thighs clench all over again.
“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—shit, that’s—” he gritted out, hands twitching like he wanted to grab your head, wanted to fuck your throat, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, because even now he was still trying to hold back, still trying to be gentle, and it was killing him, you could feel it, you could see it all over his face, the way he was fighting not to lose control when he was so close.
You moaned around him, just to fuck with him, just to feel the way his hips jerked and how his fingers tangled tighter in your hair, and when you took him deeper, relaxed your throat and let him slide all the way in until your nose brushed his pelvis and your eyes were starting to water from it, that was when he snapped.
“Holy fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum, shit, fuck, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, low and desperate, hips twitching, his other hand slamming against the wall like he needed something to break, and when you pulled back just enough to suck harder, bobbing your head, hand still working the base, mouth slick and messy and full of him, he looked down at you.
And the look on his face, flushed and sweating and wide-eyed and completely fucked-out it almost made you cum again.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked now, barely holding it together, “On your knees for me, so fucking perfect, so fucking filthy, you’re gonna make me cum down your throat, sweetheart, you want that?”
He then came with a sound you’d never forget, raw and strained and so fucking desperate, fingers tangled in your hair like he’d completely lost track of the world, like all that mattered now was the way your mouth was wrapped around him, the way you swallowed every last drop like you’d been starving for it, like this was something you needed, like it was just for you.
And when you finally pulled off him, lips swollen and jaw aching and spit clinging to your chin, you were both gasping for air, your knees burning from the floor and your body shaking from everything, from the rush and the power and the absolute chaos of what the two of you had just done.
But before you could speak, before you could even get your breath back properly, Bob reached down and pulled you up, hands firm but shaking a little, and he kissed you like he meant to never stop, like he wanted to taste himself on your tongue, like he couldn’t believe you’d just done that, and God, the way he kissed you, all heat and teeth and soft little sounds at the back of his throat, it knocked the air right back out of you.
You whimpered into it, weak and overwhelmed and still so fucking turned on you could barely stand straight, and he kissed you again, slower this time, his palm cupping the side of your face like you were something fragile now, like he didn’t want to let go.
And when he finally pulled back, when he finally let you breathe again, he was still flushed and ruined-looking, but his voice was steady, low, thick, serious in a way that made your stomach drop.
“I’m not done with you,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and you swore your knees buckled, “Not here. Not in a bar bathroom. I’m gonna ruin you,” he said again, gentler now, firmer somehow, “But it’s gonna be in my bed.”
Then he kissed you again just once, slow and dizzying and so fucking full of promise and you knew, oh you fucking knew, you weren’t leaving his sheets in one piece.
Summary : Despite how much he irritates you, when Jake loses his father’s watch, you go to the moon and back to bring it back to him.
Pairing : Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Fem!Reader
Important info : Your call sign is Lightning ⚡️ :)
Disclaimer : English is not my first language so sorry for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading !💞
Word count : 5.5k
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“Lightning watch out !”
You barely had time to register that Javy was screaming your call sign before a ball came crushing down next to you, sending sand flying everywhere on your opened book and sticky, lathered in sunscreen, skin.
Beautiful colors of pink and violet were painting the sky, the sun beginning his descent towards the western aerosphere. It had shined brightly throughout the entirety of the squad’s monthly beach day, bathing your skin in warmth and golden light.
“For fuck’s sake, Javy ! You guys can shoot down a target from two hundred feet while flying at Mach one but you can’t aim a volleyball for shit !” You snapped, dusting the thousands of grains of sands from your book and towel.
Next to you Natasha was hiding a laugh behind her own book.
Pointing a finger at her, you warned, “don’t you dare laugh at me, Nat.” You got up to brush off more sand off your legs, “that’s why I hate going to the beach with them, there’s nothing less relaxing on this earth,” you mumbled out, a frown making the lines on your forehead prominent.
“My bad, Lightning !” Jake called out, his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound, though his tone was very much not apologetic, and the smirk stretching his lips only fueled the irritation simmering under your skin.
Glaring at him, you debated for a second on yelling back a piece of your mind, indulge into this game he seemed to initiate anytime he could. Riling you up, provoking you and then simply grinning like an idiot when you eventually ended up taking the bait.
But for once, you decided to be the bigger person. So you settled on raising your middle finger high enough that he could very much identify what lovely sign you were throwing his way.
“I love you too, darlin’ !” He yelled back.
You rolled your eyes so hard you feared for a moment that they’d get permanently stuck.
“Careful, you’re blushing,” Natasha snickered, still lying next to you.
Scoffing you flipped her off as well, “which side are you on ?”
“The side of love, darlin’.” She smiled in a perfect imitation of Jake’s Texan drawl.
You couldn’t have contained the laugh that broke out of you even if you tried, “shit, you actually sound just like him.”
“I know,” she cooed, obviously proud of her trick, “is it turning you on ?” She inquired, wiggling her eyebrows at you.
A shocked laugh escaped you, “Geez Nat—“
“OH MY GOD WHAT TIME IS IT ?” Javy’s sudden gasp made you both jump as he came running towards you, where all of the squad’s stuff was and he started abruptly digging through his bag.
“It’s seven.” Bob supplied after a quick look to his watch.
“I was supposed to meet my mom for dinner fifteen minutes ago,” he explained, panicked as he was hastily grabbing all his stuff and throwing it carelessly in his bag. “Jake, can you drive me ?”
Usually, you carpooled to avoid bringing everyone’s car and having to park too far away if the beach was busy that day.
“Let me think about it…” Jake walked over, deliberately slow, pretending to think it over.
Javy groaned, not in the mood to entertain his friend’s antics, “come on, man.”
Jake sped up a bit, raising his arms in mock defense, “alright, alright, don’t throw a fit mama’s boy. I’ll drive you.”
As he was gathering his own stuff, you suddenly saw him frown, and then frantically look around. Lifting his towel, emptying his bag only to pack it again, passing his hands in the sand in visible hope of stumbling upon something…
You were about to throw in a witty remark when you noticed something missing on his wrist.
His watch.
His father’s watch.
In its place was now a tanning line. A ribbon of whiter skin surrounded by his Californian and natural Texan tan.
It didn’t take a genius, nor being Jake’s best friend to know how precious that watch was to him, or to guess that it might have been one of the last few things left from his dad.
He wore it at all times. There weren’t much occasion you had seen him without it ever since you’d met him. It had stayed securely around his wrist all throughout Naval Academy, and then had stayed through every one of his deployment until he got permanently assigned in San Diego. During every flight, every mission, every exam even, every casual outing… You could always see the watch rest proudly on his cuff. Perhaps it was the only thing about him Jake didn’t feel the need to flex, a quiet legacy he carried around with him, feeling the weight of it in his every move, every decision.
The only times he ever took it off was during underwater training and at the beach if he went for a swim. Surely a watch like that was waterproof and even capable of descending a few feet deep, but the fact that Jake was unwilling to bring it with him in an environment it was specifically designed to survive in, was only another proof of its value to him.
He never talked about it. Never ever voiced the words ‘my dad’ out loud, but everyone knew. You knew.
Javy was ready to go, packed bag at his feet as he hastily threw in a t-shirt over his head, “Jake ? Are you good to go ?”
Jake froze for a moment. It was rare to see him display anything other than sheer haughtiness. And it weirdly tugged at your heartstrings to see him look so lost for an instant.
You were about to help him look for his watch — sure you hated him, but that didn’t mean you didn’t feel empathy for him losing something so precious to him, when—
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He said a bit absentmindedly, his eyes still frantically looking around as he stuffed, slightly violently, all his stuff in his backpack.
He quickly got up, threw the bag over his shoulder as Javy was waving everyone goodbye and starting to make a run for Jake’s truck.
You watched Jake with a shock you hoped wasn’t too visible. Yes, he was the emotionally constipated type, never one to speak about feelings or do so much as even mention or acknowledge them, but surely when he was about to lose, perhaps forever, the one thing that probably meant more to him than the whole world, he would say something, express himself, let it out.
And you knew that if he’d speak up right now, the whole squad would stop everything and help him look for it. Javy would run right back on the warm sand and rampage through the entire beach if he had to.
Surely, he had to know that the squad wouldn’t see him as weak over getting a little panicked upon losing the one item he held so dearly in his heart ?
But you watched, stunned, and for some reason with a weight pressing down on your chest, as Jake looked one last time at the beach, eyes boring into the sand as if the distance would give him some perspective and help him spot the watch in a nanosecond.
“See you on Monday,” he threw to everyone over his shoulder, soundly halfhearted as he turned around and began to walk towards his truck, joining Javy.
The image stuck with you for some reason. it was like seeing him willingly abandon a piece of himself behind, and for what ? Just so he could hold on to his ‘feelings make you weak’ Hangman persona ?
If you had been closer to him, and in any place at all to call him out on this, you would have screamed at him. Yanked him back by the collar and prohibited anyone to leave this beach until the watch wasn’t back on its rightful place, on Jake’s wrist.
“I think I’m gonna head out as well,” Reuben spoke up, “does anyone want me to drop them home ?”
“Me please,” cheered Mickey, dusting some sands off his chest.
“Yes, please. Thanks Reuben,” Bob smiled, gathering his things.
“I’ll ride with Y/N, we’re gonna head back as well, right ?” Natasha turned to you.
If you had been able to say anything other than insults and provocative remarks, you would have reassured him.
If you had been able to consider yourself his friend, you would have helped him look for it.
“Y/N ?”
But you were capable of none nor were you any of those things.
And still—
“Actually I’m gonna stay a bit longer,” you blurted out without really thinking about it.
“You sure ?” Natasha questioned, skeptical.
“Yeah, the sunset is beautiful, it’s still warm and my book is getting really good, I’ll stay for a bit.” You assured, as if trying to convince yourself more than Natasha.
“Alright,” she conceded, still eyeing you a bit suspiciously, “be careful, you text me when you get home and don’t forget that Penny’s right next door if you have any problem,” she pointed to the Hard Deck which was facing the beach.
“Yes mom,” you chuckled as she playfully rolled her eyes at you.
As Reuben’s car drove away, you stood there for a moment. Watching the waves crash on the beach, the soothing sound of it blending with the distant echo of music coming from the Hard Deck. This beach wasn’t an especially popular one, and you marveled for a second at being the only person standing there.
Why had you stayed ?
You kinda had blurted it out without any real thoughts of what you would actually do once left alone.
Because you hadn’t stayed for the sunset or your book, in fact, the book was getting a bit boring if you were honest.
Jake’s expression when being met with the realization he’d lost his watch suddenly flashed into your mind and it made your heart clench. And perhaps it was what prompted you to start digging in the sand where his towel had previously been lying.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this,” you muttered to yourself while rummaging through the sand, the watch couldn’t be far… right ?
You didn’t even notice when the warm light of the sunset got subsided by the sharp, white one of the moon.
The spot where the squad had previously established its camp was empty. You didn’t find anything apart from a few seashells and a colony of small crabs that you had probably woken up from their slumber.
You probably should have gone home. The watch obviously wasn’t there. But then your gaze drifted out towards the ocean… the guys usually played volleyball closer to the water, perhaps Jake had lost the watch around there ?
The cold breeze coming from the ocean had started to pick up as you searched the grounds of what was previously the volleyball court.
And when you didn’t find anything there, you moved on to other parts of the beach, trying to remember and retrace the entirety of Jake’s steps during the day. Your knees were aching from being constantly on them, hands pruned from the wet sand you’d been digging up, nails completely darkened by the grains. Your phone was slowly dying, using all its battery to shine inside the holes you were digging up, desperate to see a flash of silver. And it was cold, so, so cold. The wind was getting stronger, making you clutch your hoodie tighter around yourself.
The moon had well settled into the sky now, an indicator of just how much time you’d spent there.
You had wanted to give up, oh so many times. But everytime you had wanted to get up and leave, an image of Jake’s face would flash back into your mind. The way he had looked back at the beach, like he was saying goodbye to his dad a second time. And every time, without fail, your brain had conjured images of him getting home, and calling his mom back in Texas, telling her about how he had lost the watch and the image was just too painful for you, enough to bring unwanted and in your opinion, unjustified, tears to your eyes if you thought about it too much.
Anyone could have argued you were being overly dramatic over a guy who you proclaimed your hatred towards from the rooftops. And you would have agreed. But you wouldn’t leave this beach until the watch was secured in your hands.
You were on your hands and knees, near shore where the water was gently lapping up at the sand, bringing new things and taking away some when—
“Y/N ! Is that you ?”
Penny’s voice from the front of the beach made you jumped.
“Jesus Christ, Penny !” You exclaimed, a hand over your racing heart, “you scared the shit out of me !”
Jogging up lightly to meet her, you saw her frown when she took in the state of you, her worried face illuminated by the Hard Deck’s sign.
“What are you doing out there, sweetheart ?” She asked softly, and you could perceive the same tone in her voice she’d use with Amelia sometimes, no doubt that her maternal instinct were kicking in, seeing you all alone, covered in sand and digging up holes in the dark.
“Oh I was— I lost my bracelet earlier, you know we had our beach day with the squad ? Yeah, so the bracelet means a lot to me and I— I couldn’t leave without it.”
You pestered Jake for being emotionally constipated but you couldn’t even admit to Penny, of all people, sweetest woman alive who’d never judge you, that you were doing this solely for him.
“I see,” she said, an empathetic smile pulling at her lips, “I’ll help you.”
“No don’t worry Penny, it’s alright, promise. I’m all good.”
Was there a sick part of you that wanted to be the one to find Jake’s watch ? Maybe, you would deny all of it thought.
“At least I’ll wait for you, I just closed the bar.”
“Don’t worry,” you repeated with the sweetest smile you could mutter out at the moment, “I won’t stay much longer anyway.”
“You sure ?”
“I am, thank you though that’s really nice of you.”
“Could you at least activate your location please ? And also text me when you get home, okay ?”
Saluting her you let out a chuckle, “I will, Penny. Promise.”
“Alright.” She conceded, bregrundly.
She knew this beach was safe, otherwise she would have never left you alone. You parted with a warm hug and watched her drive away, similar to how you’d watched your friends leave a few hours ago now… God, had it been really that much time ?
You were beginning to lose hope, Jake’s watch seemed to have truly vanished, and you tried to ignore the heavy feeling sitting on your chest that came along with this conclusion. Telling yourself to check towards the west side of the beach before leaving, though you knew it was useless, you couldn’t really recall Jake going there, you still crouched, and began to dig, again…
Phone flash blasting in the dark, the light reflected on something then…. Silver !
“Oh my god !”
You rubbed your eyes to make sure the sight in front of you was real and not the fatigue making you hallucinate. But it was real, the small silver circle was still there.
“Oh my god !” You exclaimed again in a laugh, immediately digging in.
And sure enough, the watch was there. Covered in sand, but there. You carefully inspected it for damage, but other than the general dirt, it seemed fine.
Turning the watch over, your eyes caught something. The initials of who you could only guess was his father were delicately engraved in the metal, G.S. Before you could even think about it, your thumb passed, almost tenderly over the gravure.
A small, disbelieving laugh escaped you again, and it was incredibly chocked up. You didn’t even notice you’d been tearing up until you felt something wet roll down your cheeks.
Quickly you wiped the tears off, a feeling of embarrassment creeping up your neck even though you were the sole person standing on this beach, moonlight illuminating your figure.
Forcing your emotions to settle down, it was only a watch for Christ’s Sake, you practically ran all the way back to your car. It felt as if your whole body was buzzing, and you couldn’t explain this weird feeling of excitement and… was it fulfillment ?
A genuine giddiness was coursing through your veins as you drove home, you couldn’t wait for Jake to have his watch again. See him settle, knowing his father’s legacy was in him, like it’s always been and always would be, but the physical representation of it, back on his wrist. The comforting weight of it bringing meaning to every one of his moves.
The excitement kept you awake once you were home, so you took the time to carefully clean the watch. You physically couldn’t give it back to him like that. And soon enough, once you were sure that there was not even the tiniest grain of sand left in any notches, only then, did sleep finally caught up to you.
The sun wasn’t even up yet when you made your way to base the next morning. You had decided that you would just leave the watch in his locker, he didn’t need to know who found it, and maybe he wouldn’t be too happy to see you holding his father’s watch, considering you hated each other…. Right ? At least that’s what you told yourself.
Arriving in front of his locker, you opened his numbered lock, honestly who was stupid enough to put in their birthday as a password ?
But then, anyone could argue that it was weird you knew his birthday, as someone who hated him so much.
Refusing to give this any more thought, you neatly placed the watch in his locker, on a little rag. You made sure one last time that it was perfectly clean, made sure it was not askew, made the sure the rag wasn’t wrinkled…. And for a moment it felt as if you were stalling.
“My god, I need to get a grip,” you mumbled to yourself, finally closing the locker door, a bit more forcefully than you had intended.
“I’m telling you, my mom is obsessed with getting me in a relationship !” Javy complained to Jake on their way to the locker room, “last night she just kept showing me pictures of her friends’ daughters and being like ‘you two would make an adorable couple’ like, oh my god, can’t a man go at his own pace ?”
Jake only hummed, not exactly in the mood to discuss Javy’s mom self proclaimed matrimonial agency.
Each of his step was heavy. Heavy with the lack of sleep and the mass pressing down on his chest. The missing weight on his wrist made him feel strangely stripped bare, like a piece of himself was missing, left where he had abandoned it on the beach the night before.
When Jake had gotten home after dropping Javy off, he had cursed himself. He couldn’t believe he had actually walked away, without even taking the time to look for the watch, no he had just left.
He had to refrain back tears when his mom had called him that night, asking him about his day, and he hadn’t had the courage to tell her what had happened, consumed by sorrow and shame. He felt pathetic. He spent that entire night sulking, thinking about how ashamed his father would be if he saw him like that. It felt like letting him down.
“Like she doesn’t get that I don’t want to settle down, I mean not yet anyway—“
“Yeah, tell her you want to keep bringing girls home from the Hard Deck every weekend for a little while longer, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear it.” Jake finally answered Javy’s rant, trying to give his remark its usual wit.
“You fucking jerk, you’re supposed to be on my side !” Javy whined, opening up his locker.
Jake was abort to retort something but the words died on the tip of his tongue when he opened his own locker.
He froze.
He was met with his watch. Neatly placed on a small rag, looking as new as the day he had received it from his dad, just a few days before losing his battle against cancer.
His heart skipped a beat in his chest. How ?
Jake stayed there for what felt like an eternity to him, but was only a few mere seconds, just staring at the watch. He could faintly hear Javy next to him still talking, now rambling about how his mother compared him to his cousin or whatever, but the sound of his voice was drawn out, an echo in Jake’s ears.
With shaky hands, he gently grabbed the watch and immediately turned it over, eyes fixed on his father’s initials that he traced with a tender pass of his thumb, and his heart clenched, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of emotion.
He had no idea how the watch had gotten there, and perhaps it should have worried him a bit more — whoever this was had cracked the impossible code of his locker for Goodness’s sake ! — but he chose to pay it no mind.
Now Jake wasn’t superstitious or a believer of any kind, far from it, actually. But in this moment, he chose to believe that whatever, whoever had found his watch and brought it back to him, had somehow been missioned by his father, who had probably been very upset about his son being so careless with the precious time teller.
Jake knew it was stupid, truly. His father, from the beyond, somehow orchestrating a whole plan to find the watch left on the beach and leave it in his locker on base, was a stupid theory. But the thought of it made a warmth spread out in his chest and his eyes sting slightly. So he decided that for once, he would let himself believe in a little stupidity.
This weird mix of euphoria and serenity hadn’t left him the entire week. He felt good, more confident now that the watch was back on his wrist. And he would sometimes just stare at it for a few moments, in amazement and incredible gratefulness for having been given a second chance, that’s how he saw it. And he would honor his father in every action he took while securely wearing the watch.
He had found a new vigor, a new desire to win, one that made him better, he thought. Though the squad would probably argue it just made him more insufferable.
So that’s with a pumped up step that Jake walked into the Hard Deck that week end, closely followed by everyone.
“Alright, what do you guys want ?” He cheered, still in an exceptionally good mood.
The squad all gave him their orders before going to find some seats, you merely grumbled a ‘nothing that comes from you’ and somehow, Jake understood it meant a virgin mojito.
He made his way to the bar, patiently waiting for Penny to finish off her conversation with a customer.
“Hey, sailor !” She greeted with a smile when she saw him, “what can I get you and the squad ?”
After he told her, she started to prepare the drinks on front of him, making small talk, asking about training, how life was on base when—
“Oh by the way,” she seemed to remember, momentarily stopping the making of your virgin mojito to look at Jake, “do you know if Y/N found her bracelet ?”
Jake frowned, confused.
“Um, I don’t know. I didn’t know she had lost a bracelet,” he said, head turning slightly to look for you in the crowd and he suddenly frowned more, looking back at Penny, “in fact, I didn’t even know she wore bracelets, her wrists are usually bare.”
“Oh, because I saw her last week, after your guy’s beach day. I closed the bar a little earlier than usual because it was pretty quiet, and she was there, digging in the sand, looking for her bracelet. I proposed to help her but she said she was fine. It was quite late though, so it really must have mean a lot to her, that’s why I was wondering if she’d found it. But I’ll ask her myself later then, thanks Jake.”
Penny’s words had the effect of a sledgehammer hitting Jake right in the chest. The realisation dawned on him and he froze for a moment, not sure what to do with the newfound piece of information.
“You okay ?” Penny asked him, his shock seemingly visible on his features.
Her voice got him out of his trance.
“Yeah, yeah I’m good, thank you for the drinks Penny, talk to you later !”
He made a beeline for the spot the squad had settled in, their usual one, next to one the pool tables. He absentmindedly handed the drinks to everyone, keeping your virgin mojito in his hands and making his way over to you. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that it was borderline painful. It seemed as though his vision had zeroed in on you, only you. Images of you on the beach at night, cold, alone, tired but still looking for his watch flashed into his mind and he felt a knot get caught up in his throat.
He barely heard the ‘thank you’s’ the squad threw him.
Leaning over some of the high tables near the windows, you were watching Mickey, Reuben and Bob engage in a heated game of pool.
“No Mickey it’s still my turn,” you watched with a smile as Reuben interjected his friend, “you sinked the cue ball so I get to shoot twice, gosh you’d think that you’d know the rules after playing literally every week end !”
You snorted, amused by their banter. And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake walking towards you. Expression unreadable but his step visibly determined.
Arriving in front of you, he practically shoved the drink in your hand.
“I told you I didn’t want anything,” you said, monotonously, nonetheless still grabbing the glass.
Any excuse was good enough to start a fight with him.
You turned your gaze back to the pool game unfolding in front of you, but when the quick wit you were expecting from him never came, you turned back to him, frowning.
His jade green eyes were trained on you. Chest rising up quickly, like he’d ran a marathon before coming here. You didn’t think you had ever seen him so… moved.
“You good ?” You asked, letting your tone convey the tiniest bit of concern.
Jake took a shaky breath, “why didn’t you tell me ?”
The hand that was bringing the glass to your lips froze halfway through.
“Tell you what ?”
“My watch.” Was all he said, eyes still boring into yours, seemingly looking for answers you were absolutely not intent on giving.
Your eyes quickly flicked to the leather band sitting proudly on his wrist.
You had noticed it all week, how it was right back on shining on his cuff. How Jake had seemed to smile even more cockily than before, brighter. And you hadn’t been able to ignore the weird, warmth feeling spreading in your chest every-time you had caught him eyeing his wrist with a flash of pride and cherish.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, forcing yourself to keep an annoyed tone as your eyes flicked back up to meet his.
“There’s no use in lying, I know it was you.” He said, voice firm and steady despite the whirlwind of emotions threatening to choke him up, “why ?”
You weren’t known to give up that easily.
“Jesus Seresin, I literally told you I have no idea what you’re talking about, go win at darts or something, leave me alone.”
Swallowing uncomfortably under his prying gaze, you silenced the tiny voice in your head that was telling you just how much similar to Jake you were in terms of showing feelings.
Facing your stubborn resolve in not telling him the truth, Jake let out a small, humorless laugh, “Y/N I just want to thank you properly, so please, for once, just let up.”
Let up. Stop fighting me for a second, was really what he was saying. And looking at him be willing to be honest and open for once did something to you.
“I did it because you looked all pathetic, okay ? And really, I didn’t want you sulking all day on base and mess up every training.” you finally conceded, tone annoyed despite the loud thumping of your heart in your chest, “besides it was just underneath where you had put down your towel, so really you could’ve found it if you had put a bit more effort into it. But I guess that it’s just another thing I’m better at than you, huh ?”
It was a complete lie. And both of you knew it.
Just the fact that you had been the only one to notice he had lost his watch told him everything he needed to know. And he knew from Penny that you had stayed well past midnight looking for it. To see you in front of him, knowing the length you had been to for him — despite what you were saying — made his heart do something inexplicable.
And Jake moved before he could think any more about it. He slightly bent down to wrap his arms around you, slipping under your own and hugging your middle, bringing you into his chest, chin resting on your shoulder, head touching yours.
All your muscles stiffened on instinct. The contact took you by surprise and you stayed frozen like that for a second, letting him hold you without reciprocating the touch.
He was warm, very warm. His arms were tightly wrapped around you, one draped across your shoulder blades and the other one across your waist. His body was firm against yours and for a moment, you almost thought you could feel the thumping of his heart against your chest. Your head was resting just shy of the crook of his neck, on his shoulder, and despite yourself, you caught a whiff of his smell, residue of jet fuel, his expensive cologne, the warmth of his skin and something so undeniably him it almost made your head spin.
“Thank you,” he whispered shakily, a small crack in his Hangman armor.
Those words and his tone felt like a detonator, hearing him sounding so small almost broke your heart. It only took a second after that for your arms to wrap around his neck. And as soon as your arms made contact, you felt his whole body relax and melt into you.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you whispered back, rubbing his back comfortingly.
He seemed so small in this moment and it pulled at your heartstrings to know he was letting you be the one to seem him like that.
“You don’t know how much this means to me.” He murmured into your neck.
Oh, but you did. That was the whole reason you had done it.
It seemed as thought the entire bar had gone quiet, leaving only Jake and you, wrapped up in each other. You had no idea how long you stayed like that. But you certainly weren’t complaining, your arms tightening around him was met with the same intensity from Jake.
But the sudden sharp sound of a glass hitting the floor and shattering in pieces took you both out of the peaceful and comfort trance the embrace had took you both in. And you both found yourselves pulling away, reluctantly.
You noticed the slight pink hue dusting Jake’s cheeks, and his green eyes were bright, almost glassed over, shining with unshed tears.
God knew that if you had the courage you would take him into another embrace right here and then, and not let him go until the first rays of sunshine peaked through the windows, or realistically, probably until Penny kicked you out.
But unable to succumb to your deepest desire, no matter how much you wanted to, you instead fell back into your old ways.
“Try not to lose it again, cause I won’t get it for you next time.” You warned, though your tone was missing its usual bite.
You would.
You would do it all over a hundred times if needed.
Jake let out a laugh, a bit choked up, but a genuine one nonetheless.
“I promise.” He said in a smile as bright as a thousand suns.
And you had a scary realization then.
That in fact, there was not a lot you wouldn’t do to see him smile like that again.
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author's note : I have had this fic idea for literally forever and I’m so happy I finally got down to write it.
I really wanted to kinda ‘dig deep’ into Jake’s character here, I hope it worked and that I was able to do him justice. He’s my baby I love him so much.💞
Also quick question, are we sick of Jake and reader being rivals ? It’s like my favorite trope with Jake and the only one I really see fit with a character like him, and I have so many more ideas but they are all with rival reader and I don’t want it to feel redundant for you guys, so tell me what you think !
