Taken-ish 3
—Bob Floyd
Part 3 of Part 1
See part 2
✿ Summary:
Step 1: Bring a boyfriend. Step 2: Signal you're taken. Step 3: Sad excuse of a boyfriend gives up before the night even starts. Step 4: The dangerously attractive replacement steps in, steals the show, and ruins you so deliciously you're not sure what just happened. ✿ Warnings: The dagger squad as your neighbours (yes it's a warning), you're a cop, very sad excuse of a love life, obsession, heartbreak hours, very depictive description of a relationship with an avoidant attachment person (experienced fml), Bob Floyd will fuck the sad outta you and he's been waiting for it for two years, overall it's fluffy enough.
You can’t tell if he’s asking for a chance at the stupid event or… this.
At you.
For more than a night of laughter and bad TV. But his entire body, the way he clutches your hands, the way his lips tremble ever so slightly, the absolute wrecked perfection of him right there-- it’s like the universe just… stopped.
“… what the actual fuck is happening,” you think, a little panicked, a little breathless. “This man… this beautiful, ridiculously soft, perfect man that I have always-- always-- felt guilty for noticing, is begging me? For what? A night out? A date? Life?
Did I fucking die?
Did God finally decide to bless me after that dumpster fire of a love life he gave me before?”
His voice catches again. “I… I’ll be good. I’ll… be so good, you won't have a single complaint. Just… let me try. Please?”
Every instinct you have wants to laugh, to cry, to punch the air, to just… collapse into him. And yet, you’re frozen, overwhelmed.
Bob looks wrecked. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Wholeheartedly, entirely, painfully himself. And he’s begging you. You.
God.
God.
Your stomach flips, your heart hammers, and you realize--somehow, impossibly-- he’s not asking for a favor. He’s offering himself. And it’s devastating, and it’s perfect, and… it’s everything.
Your hand twitches in his, and you swallow, words caught somewhere between disbelief, embarrassment, and… awe.
The room feels like it’s holding its breath. You’re slouched on the couch, hoodie swallowed around you, cheeks flaming, while Bob kneels in front of you, hands gently wrapped around yours.
You blink at him, and for a second, your brain forgets words. You’ve seen his eyes a hundred times, but never like this, up close.
Dark navy rims fading into lighter blue, flecks of pale sunlight‑blue swirling near the center, like little sparks that make your chest stutter.
Your heart does a weird little flip. Your brain, traitorous as ever, whispers: I would literally auction my dignity for a single fleck of this blue in my family line. Too much. Too hot. Stop.
But if I could clone this gene, my future would be golden--
Oh God. Stop. He’s on his knees.
You blink again, panicked, muttering, “Stop… stop kidding…” But your voice comes out shaky and high‑pitched, and you immediately want to kick yourself.
He doesn’t let go. He just smiles softly, a little sheepish, and squeezes your hands like he’s memorizing the shape of them. “I’m not kidding,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… want to stay where you are. That’s all I’ve been trying to do."
Your cheeks heat further. Your brain is firing off alarm bells and fireworks all at once. It’s too close, too sweet, too overwhelming. And yet… you don’t want him to stop.
You watch him, flustered and dumbstruck, and a tiny smile slips out. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, voice barely steady.
He grins, shaking his head slightly, eyes twinkling with that soft, unguarded light. “Maybe,” he says, “but… I’ll be good. I’ll follow your rules. Just… let me...”
Just let me stay with you. let me sleep at the foot of your bed. I would kill for you. I would die for you. If you won't share a life with me, at least let me dedicate mine to you.
And there it is. Somehow, kneeling on your floor, holding your hands like the world could fall apart and he’d still anchor you, he looks utterly perfect. Soft, earnest, a little wrecked… and entirely his own kind of devastating.
Your stomach flips, your chest tightens, and somehow your brain decides to betray you again: I really like this guy. No denying it. Like, a lot. He’s kneeling and smiling at me. Why is this legal?
You can’t help it. You squeeze his hands back, faint and tentative, just enough to tell him you’re not running, not yet. And he beams, small, happy, ridiculously relieved, and it’s almost impossible not to melt right there on the couch with him.
---
Rooster was perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging like a bored cartoon character, shoving granola into his face while glaring at the TV like it personally offended him. Coyote was stretched across the couch, letting Socks chew on his hand with the kind of resigned patience usually reserved for dentists or masochists. Hangman had the cat on his head-- it's tail flicking like it owned the place-- and he was cooing,“Gentle, gentle-- those are follicles, sweetheart. Daddy needs at least three to pretend he’s coping.”
Payback was tucked into a corner of the couch, whispering softly into his phone to his wife like he was hiding state secrets, occasionally nodding seriously at something she said, because yes, the fate of the free world was apparently riding on this conversation.
Fanboy, of course, had his ass in the air over the kitchen table, muttering to himself, “My ancestors are telling me to fix this socket,” while pretending he wasn’t about to electrocute himself.
“Stop it!” Phoenix called from the fridge, holding a glass of water and looking like the adult in a horror movie where the monsters are all your friends. “Just take a break! You’re not going to summon electricity gods by yanking at it!”
Meanwhile, the whole house smelled faintly of leftover shopping snacks, sweat, and the vague aroma of chaos. Everyone was in their own weird little bubble, none of them paying attention to the others, and somehow it all worked. Somehow.
The door opens softly, just enough to let Bob slip inside, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to pause. Expression blank, eyes distant, and the Daggers collectively pause mid-laugh, mid-gesture, and just… melt.
Their sweet, old Bobby. Their gentle, eternally unlucky-in-love Bobby. The one who had carried heartbreak after heartbreak like it was a badge he didn’t want but somehow kept. And now? Again. Heart on his sleeve, eyes slightly glassy, face that soft, tired look he always gets when love hasn’t gone his way.
And the object of it all-- the cop next door, the wonderful, chaotic, devastatingly lovely woman-- she’s far too freshly wounded herself for anyone to even think about blame. They can’t. Not for a second. She just broke up last night; of course he’d be…
The room softens. “Hey,” Phoenix murmurs gently, stepping forward first. “It’s okay, Bobby. Don’t take it too personally.”
Bob blinks. Confused. Not just by the words, but by the softness, the care. The way they all hover around him like he’s fragile glass.
“What?” one of the others, Payback maybe, asks, brow furrowed.
Bob exhales, finally speaking, voice low but steady: “I’m gonna have to ditch the glasses for the event… but I can’t wear contacts myself... Its so scary.”
The squad freezes… and then erupts. Half in relief, half in pure, chaotic joy. Laughter bubbles up, teasing and warm all at once. Phoenix claps him lightly on the shoulder. “She said yes!?”
Bob blinks again, slower this time, realization catching him. And yes. She agreed. Somehow, she said yes.
The room becomes a happy mess. Coyote is grinning, a little too wide, Payback’s whooping, Hangman is shaking his head fondly like he can’t believe it, and Phoenix just sighs, eyes soft: their Bobby. Their forever-adorable, heartbreak-prone Bobby. Smiling again.
And somehow, in that moment, all the heartbreaks before feel just a little lighter.
---
You’re still sitting on the living room floor, back against the couch, staring at the wall like it might explain what the hell just happened. Bob. On his knees. Begging. His voice, shaky and soft, still echoing in your chest like a heartbeat you can’t turn off.
You’re replaying it for the hundredth time when the door bursts open so violently the hinges flinch.
Phoenix, Hangman, and Payback stand there like a chaotic trinity. You swear there’s a faint heroic theme playing in the background-- or maybe that’s just your impending breakdown.
Phoenix crosses her arms. “You look like a car crash.”
Hangman tilts his head, eyes sweeping over your blanket, your ratty hoodie, your sock that’s halfway off. “Nah. Car crash implies movement. She looks more like roadkill.”
You blink up at them. “Can I die in peace, or do you all have a mission to ruin that too?”
Phoenix doesn’t answer. She’s already marching in, opening drawers and throwing clothes over her shoulder like a woman possessed. “Shower. Now. You have exactly one hour and forty minutes.”
“For what? My execution?”
Hangman catches a pillow you toss at him and smirks. “For your redemption arc, sweetheart.”
Payback strolls in last, arms full of a nail kit and his phone. On the screen, his wife waves lazily. “I told him to be gentle,” she says, not looking up from her phone.
“You're lying,” you say immediately.
“Absolutely,” she agrees without missing a scroll.
You’re shoved into the shower before you can protest properly. When you stumble back out ten minutes later, they’ve turned your bedroom into a war zone: makeup, curling iron, clothes scattered like body parts after a small explosion.
Phoenix is laying out jewelry on your dresser with surgical precision. Hangman’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, inspecting a curling iron like he’s disarming a bomb. Payback is humming softly while filing your nails, his wife still watching from the phone camera like a disinterested reality show judge.
You hiss when Payback accidentally goes too hard on your pinky. “Jesus, I’m bleeding.” then to his wife, “I hope your husband fails his next flight check.”
His wife looks up, deadpan. “Girl, me too.”
You laugh. He scowls.
Phoenix is blending foundation with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. “Stop talking.”
“I can’t breathe through my nose.”
“Then don’t.”
Meanwhile, Hangman’s brushing out your hair with alarming confidence. “You know, if you let me do this more often, your ends wouldn’t look like that.”
You glare at him through the mirror. “If you touched my hair again, you wouldn’t look like that.”
He raises a brow, smirk lazy. “So violent. You sure you’re not into me?”
Phoenix throws him a hair clip like a throwing star. “Focus, Casanova.”
“I am focused,” he says, twisting a strand of your hair. “I’m focused on this tragic situation.”
Payback snorts. “You should see her nails. She’s gonna look like a debutante with a parking ticket.”
You roll your eyes. “I can’t believe you people. It’s like watching children play dress-up.”
Phoenix pauses, leans back, eyeing you through the mirror. “You act like this isn’t a date.”
That stops everything.
Hangman’s fingers freeze mid-curl. Payback lifts his head, blinking. The wife on FaceTime perks up like she’s been waiting for this part.
You scoff, weakly. “It’s not a--”
Three simultaneous smirks.
Phoenix hums. “Sure.”
Hangman grins, lips twitching. “She’s blushing. You see that? She’s red.”
“I’m overheated!” you say too quickly.
“Sure you are,” Payback says, painting another coat of polish.
Hangman leans closer, his voice annoyingly smooth. “Just admit it. You’re nervous. You’ve got a crush on our Bobby.”
You meet his smug little grin in the mirror. “You talk a lot for someone who once got rejected by a Starbucks barista.”
“Ouch,” Phoenix says, laughing.
Hangman clutches his chest dramatically. “She’s mean when she’s in love.”
You throw a scrunchie at his face.
They’re loud, ridiculous, infuriating-- and for the first time all day, you can’t stop smiling.
The air smells like hairspray and chaos. Your cheeks hurt from blushing. The moment is almost peaceful. Almost. You’re sitting there with half your hair curled, one earring in, lipstick halfway done, looking like the “before” shot of a makeover montage-- but you’re glowing.
You can feel it. There’s this stupid little thrill under your skin that has nothing to do with hairspray fumes and everything to do with a certain sweet-faced lieutenant who just knelt for you like a man in prayer.
And then--
CRASH.
Something metallic slams against the wall from next door, followed by the unmistakable sound of Rooster yelling, “He said tighter, not strangle him, Mickey!”
You flinch. “What the-- are they rebuilding Bob?!”
Hangman stops mid-curl. “Probably reinforcing him for emotional damage.”
Phoenix groans, sets down her brush, and pads toward the door like an exhausted mother heading into her kids’ room after too much silence. “I swear, if they’ve broken him--”
The second she opens the front door to the Daggers’ place, her voice rings out like the gates of hell just swung open.
“What in the gay se--” she gasps. “Get off him!”
There’s immediate scrambling, thuds, someone’s panicked “It’s not what it looks like!” and the sound of Coyote choking on his own laughter.
Hangman is cackling so hard he nearly drops the curling iron. “Oh my god. Please tell me Rooster was on top.”
Phoenix’s horrified “Don’t ask!” echoes all the way back through the wall.
You’re still sitting there, staring at your reflection in the mirror, cheeks pink, eyes bright. For someone who got dumped and hungover-cried twelve hours ago, you look like you just fell in love for the first time.
Hangman catches you smiling and smirks. “You look disgustingly happy.”
You shrug, trying-- and failing-- to look indifferent. “They’re idiots. It’s contagious.
From next door comes another thud and Coyote’s voice: “He moved! That’s progress!”
You roll your eyes but can’t stop grinning.
Honestly, maybe it’s not heartbreak you’re feeling anymore-- just a very inconvenient kind of joy.
---
You stand in front of the mirror, ten minutes before leaving, surrounded by wreckage. Hair straighteners cooling, makeup brushes bleeding color on tissues, and Phoenix half-asleep on your bed like a war veteran who’s seen too much. You’re the only thing in the room that looks remotely composed-- and it’s criminal how well you do.
The black dress you tore up last night during your heartbreak meltdown (may it rest in pieces) has been replaced by something otherworldly: a dark royal navy gown that falls like poured ink, the kind of fabric that shimmers when the light hits, not sparkly but alive. It cinches at your waist, the neckline modest but elegant, the skirt flowing and soft, every inch of it whispering Austen heroine but dangerous. The kind of dress that could start a duel.
You stare at yourself, and the flashback hits you square in the chest--
Bob had been on his knees, looking up at you with that ridiculously open face, and you were trying to focus on the words coming out of his mouth instead of the fact that he was kneeling.
“Bob,” you’d croaked, half laughing, half ready to sob again. “I don’t even have a dress. I can’t show up looking like heartbreak Barbie. There’s no time to get one, unless I rob Nordstrom.”
He’d flushed instantly, pink racing up his neck. “Uh. Actually…”
He’d turned, still sitting comfortably on the floor, and reached for the shopping bag he’d brought in. The same one you’d assumed was just his tux.
You’d frowned. “Don’t-- Bob. Don’t tell me--”
He’d unzipped the garment bag slowly, like a man disarming a bomb, and there it was. That dress. The one you’d lingered over last month in the mall, touching it once like it was something holy before shaking your head at the price tag and walking away.
You’d blinked at him, deadpan. “You did not.”
“Okay, hear me out--”
“You did not, Bob!” You’d thrown a pillow at him, voice breaking between outrage and disbelief. “I made you buy that stupidly expensive tux, why would you-- how could you-- why would you buy me this dress?”
He’d blushed harder, but smiled anyway, the kind that said he knew exactly how ridiculous he looked sitting there. “I’m a Navy WSO,” he’d said softly. “I make decent money. I can buy a dress.”
You’d just stared, chest tight. “That’s not the point.”
He’d tilted his head. “I was going to give it to you for your birthday anyway.”
You’d blinked. “Bob, my birthday was last month.”
He’d hesitated, smiled again, smaller this time. “…for your next one.”
And that had been it. You’d melted. Completely.
Now, back in your room, your reflection catches the light-- your reflection, not some fantasy version of you-- and it steals your breath anyway.
Phoenix squints from the bed. “Did I put too much blush on you?”
You blink out of your reverie. “No. Just… stop looking at me like you’re my moms.”
Hangman, sprawled across your armchair, gestures lazily with a nail file. “Then stop looking like a Hallmark movie ending.”
They’re all exhausted, proud, and sprawled out in your disaster zone of a room like soldiers after victory.
Payback raises his phone to show his wife on video, who hums in approval. “Told you we’d pull it off,” he says, smug.
Phoenix claps her hands weakly. “Twirl, girl.”
You sigh, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. You turn, the dress catching air, navy folds swirling like midnight water.
For a second, the whole room goes quiet. Then Hangman grins. “Jane Austen could never.”
And you think, yeah-- maybe heartbreak looks good on you after all.
---
You stand there, the November chill instantly finding every patch of bare skin the dress dares to reveal. Your hands are clasped so tightly you could crack your knuckles through sheer panic. It’s fine. Totally fine. It’s just Bob. Your best friend. Your safe place. The man who once tripped over your laundry basket and apologized to it. Nothing to be nervous about. Except for the whole “he was on his knees begging you to come with him an hour ago” thing.
Phoenix bangs on the neighboring door with the authority of someone who’s been through this level of idiocy before. “Boys! We’re leaving in five, and if you ruined his hair again, I swear--”
From the other side comes muffled chaos. Fanboy’s laugh, Coyote’s nervous “it’s fine, it’s fine,” and something that sounds suspiciously like a hairdryer dying mid-scream.
Then the door opens.
It creaks open and out comes chaos in pressed clothes.
Rooster’s first, of course. Hair too shiny, shirt too tight, walking like he just won an Oscar for “Most Dramatic Exit.” He flicks his wrist toward the door like a game-show host unveiling a prize. “Ladies and gentlemen-- well, ladies and degenerates--prepare yourselves.”
Coyote stumbles out next, holding a lint roller like it’s a weapon of pride. “We did the Lord’s work.”
Fanboy follows, all smug grin and exhausted posture, muttering, “If this doesn’t get him laid, nothing will.”
And then--
Bob steps out.
Everything stops. Like the street itself forgets to hum.
He’s standing under the yellow porch light, one hand adjusting his cuff, the other shoved awkwardly in his pocket like he’s trying not to combust.
The tux fits him like it was tailored by divine intervention, that dark navy fabric cutting clean lines down his shoulders. His hair-- dear god, his hair-- is slightly messed at the front, as if he’s run his hand through it one too many times while waiting. His glasses gleam, the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth betraying that shy little half-smile that should not, under any circumstance, make your knees feel like wet spaghetti.
You blink. Once. Twice. Nothing changes. He’s still there. Still Bob. But suddenly you understand why people drop trays in rom-coms.
Rooster mutters under his breath, “Don’t all faint at once,” and Phoenix, from beside you, elbows your ribs so hard you almost yelp.
You straighten, try for something casual, but your voice cracks like a teenager’s. “You-- uh. You clean up nice.”
He glances up, that boyish, nervous grin tugging at his mouth. “You... don’t look so bad yourself.”
“Don’t look so bad?” Phoenix repeats, scandalized. “He rehearsed three compliments for this and that’s what he went with?”
Fanboy snorts. “Hey, baby steps. We just taught him how to tie a bowtie without crying.”
Coyote folds his arms, solemn. “And moisturize.”
Bob glares at all of them, the tips of his ears pink. Then he looks back at you-- and that’s when it happens, the cinematic thing. The air feels heavier, the porch light flickers like it’s got feelings, and for one wild, dizzy second, you swear he’s about to say something that’ll wreck you.
Instead, he just clears his throat, offers his arm-- because he’s the kind of man who would and says softly, “Ready?”
You nod. Mostly because words don’t exist anymore.
Phoenix mutters behind you, “God help us, she’s glitching.”
And she’s right-- you are. Because Bob Floyd just walked out like he belongs in a slow-motion montage scored by Lana Del Rey, and you’re standing there like an unpaid intern in your own love story.
You both step out into the cool evening, walking stiffly down the driveway like two middle schoolers going to prom under adult supervision. You're clutching your clutch too tight; he’s pretending his bowtie isn’t choking him. Between them: the kind of silence that hums, the kind that makes your brain start narrating your own movie.
Behind them, the Daggers explode.
“Have fun tonight, Bob!” Fanboy hollers like he’s calling after a kid on a field trip.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Coyote yells, immediately followed by Rooster: “That leaves him with way too much, actually!”
Phoenix leans out the doorframe, waving both hands like a proud mom. “Text us when you get there! We need live updates!”
You whip around, scandalized. “Can you not sound like a sex-positive PTA meeting?”
Bob’s blushing so red it could be declared a natural disaster. “Guys. Please.”
They just grin wider, voices overlapping, the teasing now a chorus of “We love you, Bob!” and “Make us proud, Floyd!” until both of you turn and bark in unison, “Shut up!”
That just makes them howl louder.
Bob groans, half laughing, already halfway down the driveway when Rooster suddenly gasps like he just remembered he left the oven on. “Wait! Bob!”
Bob groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “What now?” He jogs back reluctantly, and you swear you can see the storm cloud of embarrassment hovering over his head.
Rooster waves him closer, pulls something from his pocket like a magician. It’s an expensive-looking handkerchief-- navy silk, folded within an inch of its life. He pins it neatly into Bob’s jacket pocket, straightening it with that older-brother precision that says you’re my little disaster and I will fix you.
And in that second-- just a second-- Bob’s eyes flick down the driveway, to you.
The porch light hits you just right, like it’s on your side tonight. Your hair loose at the front, that dress hugging and flowing in all the right ways. You're biting your lip, fidgeting with your hands, looking up at him every other second like you're scared you'll miss it if he vanishes. And something in him cracks open, like the ache of hope finally stretching too far.
What if I’m forcing this?
What if she’s just being kind?
What if I mess it up?
Do I even deserve this?
Phoenix must’ve seen it all happen in his eyes, because she appears next to him, presses a hand to his shoulder, and quietly slides off his glasses. He blinks at her, startled.
She holds his gaze. “Do you want it?”
He hesitates. Just long enough to make his throat dry. Then he nods, almost breathless. “I need it.”
That’s all she needs. She grins, smug and soft. “Then go get it, lover boy.”
The guys whoop and cheer, as he finally turns back around, running a hand through his hair, breath steadying. And there she is-- almost at his truck, hand reaching for the door handle.
Not on his watch.
He jogs down the drive, gravel crunching under his shoes, just as she’s about to open it. She startles, jerks her hand back, and he’s already there, opening it for her like some storybook gentleman.
You blink, flustered but trying to play it off. “Thought we were racing to see who sits first.”
He chuckles, that soft laugh that always wrecks you because it’s so him. “I'll let you have it this time.”
And everytime, for the rest of my life.
You slide in, heartbeat everywhere it shouldn’t be. In your head, you’re throwing confetti, screaming, sobbing into a pillow. Out loud, you manage a calm, “Thanks.”
He shuts the door for you.
And when he rounds the front of the truck, you can’t help thinking-- how the hell am I supposed to survive a night with this man when he just opened a car door like it’s foreplay?
---
The truck hums low beneath you, headlights slicing through the evening, the world outside fading into a blur of trees and streetlamps. Bob’s gripping the wheel a little too tight-- because apparently, the guy who can help fly a multimillion-dollar jet still gets nervous driving up to a rich person’s mansion. But then again, it’s not the mansion he’s thinking about. It’s you, sitting next to him, playing with the hem of your dress like it personally offended you.
Every few seconds, you sneak a look in the mirror, muttering something under your breath-- probably a running monologue of self-criticism, curses, and existential dread. He catches it, tries not to smile, fails.
So, without even thinking, he lets his hand drift over to yours. Just one finger-- his pinky-- tapping your knuckle like he’s defusing a bomb instead of making contact.
You glance at him, startled.
He doesn’t look your way, still focused on the road. His voice comes out low, quiet. “Say the word, and I’ll turn the car around. We’ll get dinner somewhere instead. You don’t have to do this if it’s… too much.”
And that’s it. The moment you’re sure the stars have packed up from the sky and moved directly into your chest.
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You really think I’m nervous?”
He gives you the smallest side glance, like, yes, obviously.
You sigh, still smiling. “It’s a tick. I’ll complain all the way there, complain while I’m there, and complain on the way back. It’s tradition.”
He chuckles, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening. “Guess I can work with that.”
You hum, leaning back against the seat, eyes still catching the faint reflection of him in the window-- his jawline tense but soft now, his hand still close to yours.
And you think, not for the first time, that maybe the problem isn’t the event. Maybe it’s that no amount of expensive champagne could possibly feel this good.
---
The moment you and Bob step through the carved mahogany doors, the world shifts into something out of an old Hollywood film-- the kind that starts with an orchestra swell and ends in heartbreak.
The mansion is ridiculous. Marble floors polished within an inch of their lives, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like liquid gold, and a string quartet tucked neatly beside a grand staircase that looks like it’s never known a mortal footstep. The kind of place where even the air feels like it’s been taxed.
The centerpiece of the hall is a polished parquet dance floor where couples twirl in slow, sweeping circles-- uniforms, gowns, medals catching the light with every turn. Everything smells faintly of champagne and expensive wood polish. A waiter drifts by offering caviar bites like it’s normal food, and somewhere in the distance, a woman laughs the kind of laugh you can only afford after three divorces.
Bob actually winces at the brightness, squinting as if he’s stepped into the sun. You elbow him lightly, murmuring, “What, never been to a police ball before?”
He mutters, “Didn’t think I’d need sunglasses for it.”
It’s a charity event, but “charity” clearly means “rich people patting themselves on the back while comparing watches.” The banners draped across the room read
SDPD Stars of Service Gala,
the font aggressive enough to remind everyone that the Chief of Police is the host.
Except-- he’s not here yet. The crowd’s buzzing with polite anticipation and gossip. Every so often, someone glances toward the grand staircase, waiting for the grand entrance that hasn’t happened yet.
There’s a display off to the side listing tonight’s schedule-- auction, dinner, speeches, and a small awards ceremony recognizing “exemplary community contributions.” You don’t even have to look at Bob to know he’s silently calculating how to survive three hours of this without breaking into a sweat.
You tug at his sleeve slightly, whispering, “Smile, Lieutenant. You look like you’re about to file a complaint.”
He straightens immediately, blinking down at you-- blue eyes soft, nervous, endearingly lost in all the glitter. “Sorry. Just... didn’t expect this.”
You grin, looping your arm through his. “Welcome to the circus, boyfriend.”
You walk arm in arm, perfectly poised, like two people who absolutely belong in a lifestyle magazine but also somehow like you’re about to trip over your own feet any second. Bob’s chest is drumming like a marching band. I mean, he’s literally dying inside, but he’s trying to look like he’s not, which, bonus points, makes him way hotter.
Some of the officers on duty salute. You give that casual wave that says, I do this every day, obviously, and Bob has to physically stop himself from thinking: She’s literally flawless. How am I even allowed near her? Because, apparently, this is what love does: turns a grown Navy man into a puddle of internal screaming.
There aren’t any young people here. Just older people gliding like they have lives way more important than yours. A few are your age, but they’re on duty. He’s trying to remember what he wanted to ask you and… oh, right, doesn’t matter. Because your hum-- soft, ridiculous, slightly off-key hum to whatever song the speakers decided was “ballroom appropriate”-- is like a tiny little knife to his chest. Kill me now, please. Before I embarrass myself.
He could just sit down right here and cry because you’re so… *you*. The thought almost makes him do it, but he pats himself on the chest like, congrats, you didn’t just collapse in front of everyone like a dramatic fool. Progress.
And then-- you look at him. Just like that. Small smile. Tiny tilt of the head. And he melts. Completely.
Oh god, I’m doomed. She’s smiling at me. She’s actually smiling at me. Someone get me a paper bag to hyperventilate into.
He clears his throat, voice trying to be casual, like a grown-up who has somehow survived infancy, and asks:
“So… what do you usually do at these events?”
Which, let’s be real, is the most normal thing he could have asked while internally screaming: I want to spend forever making you laugh. Also, I’m never letting go.
You roll your eyes-- big, dramatic, I’m-so-over-this eyes-- and Bob nearly chokes on the tiny heartbeat-stutter it gives him. He swears, every time you do that, the world tilts a little sideways, and he’s suddenly incapable of walking like a normal person.
“I just…” you wave vaguely around, letting your words tumble out like you can’t even be bothered to sound serious. “Chat up some sponsors-- rich old people mostly. Some are actually kinda cool. Tease the kids a little. Steal from the refreshment table, which, FYI, I am banned from.” You glance at a group of young officers stationed around the room, and your grin goes sharp. “And these poor kids? I rag them for fun. Full-on terror mode. Makes me feel alive.”
Bob laughs-- a short, raspy, breath-catch-of-a-lifetime kind of laugh, the one that makes you blink and maybe blush without even realizing it. He snatches two glasses of wine from a passing waiter, one for you, handing it over mid-explanation. The clink of crystal against crystal is perfect, intimate in a way that makes your words falter.
You glance down at the glass, then up at him, and the corners of your mouth twitch. “Such a gentleman."
He grins.
“About time, though,” you mutter, sipping your wine like a tiny adult in a sea of rich old people, letting it warm you up because honestly, who even trusts these chandeliers not to collapse? “I was starting to think I’d have to mug a waiter myself.”
You sweep your hand lazily, like you’re explaining the plot of a very boring but secretly dramatic movie. “That one over there? Silver hair, posture like a fricking statue. Owns three yachts he never uses. Probably also owns a small country somewhere, but who cares.” You nod at another lady in red who’s laughing way too loud. “And her? Absolutely terrible jokes, somehow hilarious anyway. Respect.”
Then your eyes narrow at a man fussing over his cufflinks. “Him? Rich. Boring. Might die mid-sentence if you ask him to explain why he likes it. Avoid unless you’re prepared for extreme boredom.”
You pause and spot a little girl twirling by the appetizers, flinging crumbs like a tiny tornado. “And her… oh god. Entitled. Annoying. Already planning a hostile takeover of the world at eleven. Avoid like plague.”
A waiter passes, tray teetering. You tilt your head conspiratorially. “And him? Cute. Definitely questioning life choices. Poor soul. Might cry if one of the old people sneezes on a canapé again.”
Bob leans in a little closer, voice hesitant, the kind of voice that makes you want to pinch his cheeks. “The Chief… is he here yet?”
You take another measured sip, savoring the little pause. “Oh he's always fashionably late. Classic dominance flex. Or he’s just lazy. Who knows? Probably both.”
He catches your smirk, the way your eyes roll, the little tilt of your head as if daring the universe to be boring. And somewhere deep inside, he thinks: I could listen to her do this forever. I might actually die if she starts on the desserts table next.
The room glitters with crystal chandeliers, the kind that make you wonder how anyone survives under them without constantly ducking. Couples glide across the polished floor, twirling and dipping with a kind of precision that looks effortless-- like they were born to do this, which of course, they were. You watch them sip champagne with the faintest pink blush in their cheeks, all elegance and poise.
Bob’s arm brushes against yours as you move together, and he swallows audibly. He’s buzzing-- heart hammering, thoughts spinning. Now’s the moment. I’m doing it. Don’t mess it up. Just… do it.
“So,” he starts, voice low and raspy, like he’s trying to be casual but failing spectacularly, “what do you… think of… this?” His eyes flick to the dancers, then back to you, like he’s measuring whether he has permission to say something bold. “The… dancing, I mean. Do… people actually enjoy this, or is it just… show?”
You glance at him, half-exasperated, half-amused, swirling the wine in your glass. “Honestly? I’ve only ever danced once.” You shrug like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Two years ago. With the Chief. It… was fine. Boring, actually. I mostly stood there, trying not to step on his feet. And he looked way too pleased with himself.”
Bob laughs-- quiet, rasping, breath-catch laugh that makes your chest ache a little. “Only once?” He shakes his head, leaning a little closer so your arms brush. “Hmm. I think we need to… amend that. Tonight, I mean.”
You blink, half incredulous, half oh god he’s serious, and the soft opening notes of a new song drift from the speakers-- Michael Bublé, all slow and swoony, filling the golden room with that easy, romantic energy.
You look down at his hand, then back at his face. His eyes squint lazily in that perfect way contacts shouldn’t allow, but somehow do, and for a second your brain goes how's he ridiculously hot and cute at the same time? God you really took your time with this one huh?
❛ When marimba rhythm start to play ❜
He glances at you, heart hammering. He swallows, trying to act like a grown-up Navy officer who definitely knows how to do this, and extends his hand toward you. “May I… have this dance?”
❛ Dance with me, make me sway ❜
“Hmm,” you murmur, finally letting a small smile tug at your lips. “You do realize I’m completely out of practice, right?”
And just like that, your hand slips into his, the music swells, and suddenly you’re both caught up in the ridiculous, perfect moment of ballroom panic and soft laughter.
He grins, that slow, confident grin that’s meant to reassure but mostly just makes your stomach flip. “I’ll guide you. Don’t worry… I’m good at… this, kinda.”
❛ Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore
Hold me close, sway me more ❜
“You’re actually… not bad at this,” he murmurs, leaning close so his shoulder brushes yours. His voice is low, raspy, teasing, and it makes your stomach flip.
The moment your feet hit the polished floor, something shifts. It’s not the chandeliers, not the champagne, not the carefully orchestrated elegance of the room-- it’s him. Bob’s hand slides into yours, confident, warm, a touch too strong to be casual. Somehow, the space around you seems to bend. People notice, and politely-- politely-- give you the room to move. As if the universe itself knows you two are in your own little orbit.
❛ Like a flower bending in the breeze
Bend with me, sway with ease ❜
“I’ve had practice avoiding disasters,” you reply, rolling your eyes, though your grin betrays how much fun you’re having.
He laughs, that quiet, jittery laugh that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle just enough to drive you a little insane. “Good. Because I’m… probably going to accidentally spin you into a chandelier.”
You snort, stepping closer. “Try it. I dare you.”
“Cheating?” he grins, voice teasing but with an undertone of pure mischief. “I call it… optimizing the dance.”
And then he does the absolute worst thing for your composure-- he guides you in a turn, hips brushing ever so slightly, hand clutching yours like he never wants to let go.
❛ When we dance, you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me ❜
His grip lingers, and you catch yourself shivering at the warmth. “Okay, okay, that’s cheating,” you whisper, eyes sparkling.
You’re giggling when he dips you back-- way too effortlessly-- and you throw your head back in a loud, startled laugh. His arms are solid around you, holding you close as your laughter spills into his shoulder. You’re flushed, bright red, utterly unguarded.
“You know,” you gasp between giggles, “I might sue if you keep showing off like this.”
He just grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and whispers, “I’d happily let you.”
You wobble slightly on the polished floor, and Bob’s hand shoots out, steadying you instantly. His squinted eyes crinkle as he grins down at you.
“You’re way too confident for someone who claims they can barely dance,” you mutter, rolling your eyes but smiling anyway.
“Confidence is my secret weapon,” he says, leaning a fraction closer so your shoulders brush. “Also… you make it easy to look good.”
You snort, stepping back just enough to twirl under his arm. “Smooth talker. Don’t trip while you’re at it.”
He laughs softly, that low, raspy laugh that makes your chest do the stupid flutter thing, and sweeps you back into his arms effortlessly. “Tripping? Never. Not when you’re in my arms.”
You giggle, burying your face briefly in his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, but the grin on your face says otherwise.
And for a few perfect moments, you forget the rest of the ballroom, the chandeliers, the rich old people sipping champagne-- there’s just him, you, and the dizzying thrill of spinning, laughing, and being impossibly close.
Bob’s chest feels like it might burst. Every time you laugh, tilt your head back, or let your eyes sparkle at him, his heart swells until it’s a small, helpless balloon threatening to lift him off the floor.
❛ Other dancers may be on the floor
The ballroom is alive-- couples swirling gracefully, the chandeliers catching the light-- but it all blurs around you. He sees the other dancers, sure, but they’re just shapes on the periphery. The glittering crowd might as well not exist. All that matters is you.
Dear, but my eyes will see only you ❜
❛ Only you have that magic technique
When we sway, I go weak ❜
He hates being the center of attention. He usually avoids it, recoils from the stares. But here, with you laughing in his arms, looking like the most perfect, untouchable version of yourself, he can’t even care. He only sees you.
Some people glance at you both, whispering, maybe stealing the occasional curious look, but he barely notices. Because in his mind, you’re right there, in the center of everything, and his chest aches at how breathtaking you are.
❛ I can hear the sounds of violins
Long before it begins ❜
And when you glance up at him, catching his gaze with that soft, teasing smile, the world collapses into a single, shimmering, overwhelming point of happiness: you.
Every little detail-- how your fingers rest against his hand, the subtle sway of your shoulders, the way your laugh makes his chest ache-- he memorizes like it’s the only thing worth remembering in the entire room.
❛ Make me thrill as only you know how
Sway me smooth, sway me now ❜
---
You stumble off the dance floor, laughing under your breath. You’re still clutching his sleeve like you might trip again, cheeks flushed pink. Bob’s smile is quiet, a little crooked, and so painfully full it looks like his chest can’t hold it.
Then-- soft clapping. Around you, a ripple of polite, approving applause. The kind of genteel, rich-people claps that sound like gentle rain instead of celebration.
You hide your face in your hands, half laughing, half mortified.
“Great,” you mutter. “We just turned into their halftime show.”
Bob, ever the modest disaster, scratches the back of his neck and gives a sheepish little wave to the audience. “Uh… thanks?”
And that’s when the eleven-year-old from earlier stomps over, all fire and shiny shoes, her tiny chin tilted high like she’s about to challenge him to a duel. She stops right in front of Bob, glares up at him, and holds out her hand.
He blinks.
She doesn’t speak.
She just waits.
You sigh, crossing your arms. “Lost your parents, lexi?”
Bob glances helplessly between the kid and you, like maybe there’s an instruction manual he’s missed.
“Uh… hi,” he tries, bending down a little. “You want to dance?”
The girl nods solemnly. “Next one’s mine.”
Her tone could’ve peeled paint off the wall. Bob chuckles softly, glancing at you again-- your brows up, smirk already fighting its way to your lips.
He kneels properly so he’s at the girl’s level, hands resting on his knees. “That’s very kind,” he says gently, “but I think I’ve used up all my moves for tonight. I’d probably step on your toes.”
The girl narrows her eyes. “You didn’t step on her toes.”
He laughs, the sound light and unguarded. “That’s because she kept saving me.”
You snort, pretending to look elsewhere so he doesn’t see the grin threatening your whole face. When the girl huffs and storms off, muttering something about “next time,” Bob stands and looks at you again-- confused, shy, still a little red from the dancing.
You smirk. “Smooth, Floyd. Real smooth.”
He shrugs, bashful. “Didn’t want to break her heart.”
Something weirdly warm blooms in your chest. You bite it down immediately. Get a grip, you scold yourself. You are not jealous of a preteen with glitter sneakers.
Your eyes wander, spotting them before they even reach the table-- an older, distinguished lady in a soft lavender dress, flanked by two giggling companions. A quick glance to Bob, and you whisper, “Ready yourself… the test starts now.” Your hand brushes his lightly, just enough to nudge him into character, a tiny smile playing on your lips. “Oh, and Lad will probably bring up her late son,” you murmur, just above a whisper. “Be casual. No need to… overdo it.”
Bob nods almost imperceptibly, his jaw setting, a slow grin spreading that’s equal parts mischief and pride. You turn back as the ladies approach, your own smile widening, warmth radiating as you step forward. “Mrs. O’Brian,” you say softly, letting your voice wrap around the greeting, “it’s so wonderful to see you.” You open your arms just a hair and she leans in for a gentle hug.
“I’ve heard so much about your dancing tonight,” the distinguished lady says, voice rich and approving. “You both look absolutely… radiant.”
Your fingers lightly brush Bob’s arm as you add, “Isn’t he just wonderful?” your tone playful but soft. “He’s my boyfriend.”
And just like that, Bob steps in. Confidence rolling off him in waves, a charming half-smile, perfectly pitched to put everyone at ease. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. O’Brian,” he says smoothly, eyes catching hers, voice low and steady. “Your reputation precedes you. And thankyou, your compliments mean more than you know.”
He gestures ever so slightly toward you, his hand lingering near yours but not quite touching. “And may I just say-- your company tonight makes dancing an absolute delight.”
The older lady’s eyes twinkle, a soft laugh escaping her. The other two ladies giggle again, their whispers barely audible as Bob continues, engaging, warm, effortlessly charming. Every word carefully measured, every glance filled with that just-right mix of attention and admiration.
You squeeze his arm lightly under the table, your own grin widening. Even pretend, it’s nice to hear him say it. Nice to see him swell with pride for being your someone. And for a fleeting moment, everything feels just a little softer, a little brighter, a little… perfect.
Mrs. O’Brian’s laughter softens, thinning into a sigh as her eyes drift somewhere distant. “You know,” she murmurs, “if my son were alive… he must’ve been about your age now.”
The air stills for a heartbeat. The other two ladies exchange tiny, knowing glances, their smiles fading into polite quiet. You feel Bob’s posture shift beside you-- just enough for you to notice, not enough for anyone else.
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s thinking hard, measuring his words like he always does.
He leans in slightly, voice dropping to something gentler, textured with warmth instead of pity. “He must’ve been someone very special, Mrs. O’Brian,” he says. “Because it takes a certain kind of person to raise someone as kind as you.”
The lady blinks, startled, then smiles in that fragile, heart-hurt way that only someone who’s lived through loss can. “You’re very sweet, Mr.…?”
“Floyd,” he replies, quiet but confident. “Robert Floyd. But you can call me Bob.”
“Bob,” she repeats, like she’s testing the sound. “Such a nice name.”
He chuckles softly. “I try to live up to it.”
You watch her smile fully now, the heaviness in her eyes lifting just enough to let the glow back in. The other two ladies murmur their approval, one whispering something about “charming young men being a rare breed.”
And through it all, you just watch him-- how easily he keeps her comfortable, how naturally he steers the moment away from sorrow without brushing it off. That easy grace of his, all kindness and calm and care, makes your chest ache in that way that’s both tender and terrifying.
When Mrs. O’Brian finally drifts away with her friends, you look up at him. “You handled that perfectly,” you whisper.
Bob just shrugs, trying to play it off, but his grin gives him away. “You said to be casual,” he says. “I figured kindness counts as casual, right?"
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning closer, voice low enough for only you to hear, “I pass the test.”
The chatter dips as the speakers crackle to life, a clean voice filling the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome tonight’s host-- the Chief of the Police Department, Chief Alexander 'Rory' Stevens.”
Every head in the hall turns toward the doors. The crowd parts as the man himself strides in-- a presence that doesn’t need to announce itself twice. Broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, posture as precise as a parade march. The kind of man whose handshake probably feels like a command.
His wife follows a half-step behind, all soft smiles and understated grace, the kind of woman who makes people feel seen just by greeting them. Together, they move through the aisle like royalty who know everyone’s name. Short nods, a few warm greetings, the occasional chuckle that carries easily over the quiet hum of admiration.
The room seems to tilt toward them.
You shift in your seat. It’s subtle, but Bob catches it-- the way your shoulders stiffen, the faint drag of your breath. He leans closer, voice barely above the music still lingering in the background. “You good?”
Your eyes track the Chief’s steady path up the front stairs to the stage. “They’re here,” you murmur, half under your breath. “But… I can’t see their son. Maybe he’s not here? Maybe he convinced them already.” A pause. “God, hopefully so.”
Bob blinks, mind ticking back to the half-story you’d told him earlier. Right-- the son. The one who’d texted you begging for help to dodge his father’s matchmaking crusade because he already loved someone else.
“Right,” Bob says quietly, processing. “The romantic rebel. Guess he skipped curfew tonight.” His tone is soft, meant to ease the worry threading through your words.
You huff a tiny laugh, but your gaze doesn’t leave the stage.
Chief Stevens reaches the microphone, his voice carrying a practiced warmth. “Good evening, everyone. It’s an honor to see so many familiar faces gathered for such a worthy cause.” His wife stands just off his shoulder, smile bright but composed.
Around you, the audience stills, glasses paused halfway to lips. Even Bob straightens up a little-- the man’s presence demands it.
“This year,” Stevens continues, “we celebrate not just service, but the spirit behind it-- the courage, the humanity, and the relentless dedication that defines our force.”
Polite applause ripples through the hall.
Chief Stevens’ voice rolls steady through the hall, the kind that makes a microphone sound unnecessary. The man doesn’t just speak-- he commands the air.
Bob leans slightly toward you, whispering under his breath, “He’s… kind of cool, huh?”
You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” you say quietly, gaze never leaving the stage. “He is.” There’s a softness in your tone, one that slips out before you can rein it in. “He’s been like this my whole life-- solid. Always knows what to say, what to do. People just… trust him.”
Bob watches your face more than the man himself, catching that small glint of admiration. It makes sense now-- the way your posture changed when the cheif walked in. This isn’t just respect; it’s something earned over years of watching him hold a room like gravity itself.
“He looks like he irons his soul in the morning,” Bob mutters, keeping his voice low so only you can hear. “Man’s probably got a backup tie for his backup tie.”
You bite back a grin, trying not to snort during the Chief’s very solemn speech about public service. “Stop,” you whisper, nudging him with your elbow.
But Bob’s hopeless. He’s enjoying this too much-- half listening to the speech, half mesmerized by the fact that you’re smiling again. He feels absurdly happy, like this whole night might’ve been pulled from someone else’s daydream and handed to him.
Then the Chief shifts tone. “Now,” Stevens says, holding up the next envelope, “before we begin the awards-- don’t worry, I’ll keep it short. My wife promised to confiscate the mic if I start quoting Churchill again.”
The room chuckles, tension breaking.
He pauses dramatically, glancing toward his wife. “She says I have a ‘problem’ with dad jokes. I say I’m developing community morale.”
Half the hall bursts into laughter, and his wife-- ever elegant-- rolls her eyes in fond surrender, mouthing something that looks suspiciously like ‘you’re impossible.’
Bob leans closer again, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Okay, fine,” he murmurs. “He’s not just cool. He’s-- what’s the word? Dangerously charismatic.”
You smirk. “Runs in the family.”
Bob blinks, caught mid-grin, and for just a second-- he forgets this is all pretend.
The Cheif adjusts the mic, the room hushed again. “Alright,” he says, voice rich with easy authority, “time to celebrate some of our finest.”
Applause rolls through the hall as he starts calling names. Uniforms shift, medals glint, handshakes are exchanged with the kind of pride that smells faintly of cologne and accomplishment.
Bob claps, polite, but his brows pull together. He leans toward you and whispers, “Where are all these people even coming from?”
You glance at him, puzzled.
“I’m serious,” he mutters. “When we walked in, it was all retirees and toddlers. Now it’s suddenly a youth convention. Did they keep them in storage until the speeches started?”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing, eyes darting to the stage so no one sees. “They’re officers, Bob.”
“Yeah, but they’re our age. What are they-- undercover toddlers?”
You shake your head, hiding your grin behind your hand. And God, the way he looks at you-- half amused, half awestruck-- it’s almost too much.
He watches you like the rest of the room’s gone out of focus. The lights hit your hair, the corner of your smile, the way you tilt your head when you’re trying not to laugh. He doesn’t even notice he’s still clapping for someone whose name he didn’t hear.
Then, softly, he leans close again. “You gonna get one too?”
You snort, quietly enough not to draw eyes. “Nope. They tell the winners ahead of time so they can write a speech about courage and teamwork and whatever else puts everyone to sleep.”
Bob smirks. “So you’re not--”
“--getting one, no. Trust me, I’d know if--”
“--and the final recognition of the night,” Chief says, cutting through your words, “goes to someone whose work and integrity have left an impression on everyone lucky enough to know her. Please join me in congratulating--”
He looks down at the card.
“--Lieutenant Y/N.”
The applause hits like a small explosion.
You freeze. For a full second, you don’t even process your name-- it just hovers in the air, echoing back at you. Then your eyes snap to Bob’s.
His jaw drops. His grin follows a heartbeat later-- stunned, stupidly bright.
“Go,” he whispers, already clapping hard enough to draw stares. “Go, go, go.”
You shake your head, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “I--I didn’t--”
He reaches for your hand, squeezes it. The warmth steadies you just enough to stand.
“You got this,” he murmurs.
Your heart hammers as you rise, the room blurring around you-- faces, applause, flashes of color. Bob’s still clapping like a man possessed, pride all over his face. You glance back once, see him beaming like you’ve just saved the world instead of… whatever this is.
And then you start walking toward the stage. Slowly. Carefully. Every step a little more real than the last.
The lights catch her as she stands. The whole ballroom dips into shadow except for the stage, where her dark navy dress flickers like water under glass. Every ripple of fabric, every step up the stairs-- Bob feels it in his chest like someone tightening a string.
He’s clapping still, but his throat’s dry. God, she looks beautiful. Beautiful in that unfair, holy kind of way that makes your lungs forget their job. For a split second, he wants to yell it-- that’s my-- and then he catches himself. Friend? Sure. Also the woman he’s absolutely, irreversibly, pathetically in love with.
She reaches the stage, and the Chief greets her with that rare warmth that melts his usual commander's steel. His wife opens her arms too, hugging her like a daughter who’s come home. The crowd coos a little at the sight; even the servers in the back pause to watch.
Bob’s palms sting from clapping, but he doesn’t stop. He’s too proud, too dazed, too gone.
Then she steps up to the mic. A brief pause, the tiny clearing of her throat. Bob feels his stomach drop-- she’s nervous. Of course she is. Who wouldn’t be? He could never stand there himself.
But then--
“Uh,” she starts, voice small but steady. “First of all… I didn’t know this was happening, so if I trip, cry, or faint, please pretend it’s a bit.”
The room laughs. Bob blinks. Oh, she’s fine.
She goes on, gathering momentum. “Usually they tell the poor soul getting an award so they can write one of those heartwarming speeches about teamwork and honor. But apparently, someone in the department wanted to test if I can improvise under pressure.”
Laughter swells again.
She grins now, the confidence blooming on her face, soft but radiant. “Honestly, I thought the biggest shock of the night was seeing actual young people here. I was starting to think this department runs on early-bird specials and bedtime at nine.”
The officers who already got their awards-- mostly out of Bob’s view-- hoot from below the stage. Someone shouts her name; another whistles.
She points down toward them, mock scolding, “Hey! No backtalk! You all had your five minutes. Let me pretend I’m beloved for a second.”
The laughter crescendos.
Bob’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. God, she’s magnetic. He can’t stop watching-- her hands moving, her voice threading perfectly between humor and heart, the lights haloing her hair. He’s never seen anyone so alive, so sure, so hers.
And when she glances out at the crowd, just once-- he swears she finds him.
He claps again, louder this time, just to feel the sound of it echo in his bones.
Her laughter fades into a smile, and she glances down at the mic as if deciding whether to keep the joke going or tell the truth instead. The shift is small but it changes the air in the room-- like everyone suddenly knows something real is coming.
She exhales softly. “Jokes aside… I’m lucky,” she says, her tone quieter now, threaded with warmth. “Lucky to do what I do, lucky to work with people who make the hardest days bearable. And lucky to still want to show up, even when it’s easier not to.”
The room stills. No coughs, no clinking glasses. Just the hum of attention.
“I think everyone in this room knows that you don’t survive this job alone,” she goes on, eyes moving gently across the audience. “It’s not medals or rank or how many hours you’ve logged. It’s the people who stand next to you--.who hand you coffee when you’re running on fumes, who text to check if you made it home.”
Her voice wavers slightly. “It’s the ones who remind you you’re human, when you’ve been pretending you’re made of steel.”
A soft murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. Even the Chief looks faintly misty-eyed, his hand resting proudly on his wife’s shoulder.
“And tonight…” she smiles again, lighter now, “…I feel like the luckiest person in the room. Even if I’m still convinced someone mixed up the names.”
Laughter breaks through again, gentle and fond.
She finishes simply: “Thank you. For the work, for the friendship, and for proving that this uniform means more than duty-- it means family.”
The applause hits like thunder, spilling through the ballroom.
Bob’s on his feet before anyone else. It’s not even conscious. His hands sting, his throat tightens, his chest feels too small for what’s happening inside it. She looks over just briefly, eyes scanning, and when they land on him, her smile softens-- almost private, like she’s thanking him too.
He grins back, helplessly proud. That’s my girl, his heart mutters before his brain can scold it.
And as she steps down from the stage, still glowing under the lights, he realizes he’s never seen her shine like that-- and he never wants to see anything else.
The Chief steps back to the mic, watching her descend the steps with that familiar fatherly half-smile. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, voice booming again, “is why we don’t tell her about these things beforehand-- because apparently, she’s funnier when she’s ambushed.”
The room erupts in laughter. Even the band chuckles, a saxophonist letting out a wheezy note that somehow fits. The Chief adds, “Some of us might want to hire her to give our speeches next year.”
She waves a hand back toward him, laughing as she makes her way through the crowd. Her award gleams under the chandeliers, catching bits of gold light as she passes the tables. The applause fades back into the low hum of the ballroom-- clinking glasses, the shuffle of shoes, the start of soft music again.
Bob’s still standing when she reaches him. He looks like he hasn’t blinked in a full minute. “You were--” he starts, then stops, shaking his head. “You were unreal up there.”
Her cheeks flush, a pink that’s visible even in the dim light. “Don’t,” she mumbles, half hiding behind the award. “I was shaking the whole time.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice so it barely rises above the music. “You didn’t look it. You looked like you owned the place.”
She laughs, small and embarrassed. “My voice cracked twice.”
“Didn’t notice,” he says, still grinning. “Too busy being proud of you.”
That gets her. The blush deepens, her lips part in a quiet breath. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, but she’s smiling so hard it doesn’t sound like a complaint.
“Maybe,” he murmurs back, “but I’m ridiculously proud.”
She shakes her head, laughing again, the sound soft and real this time. Around them, the music swells-- a smooth, classic waltz-- and people drift back onto the dance floor. The lights glimmer on crystal glasses, dresses swish, and the world feels momentarily perfect.
Bob can’t stop watching her, the award balanced against her arm, her smile caught between shy and glowing.
And for the first time all night, he thinks maybe pretending isn’t the hardest part anymore.
The chandeliers hum back to life with a slow rise of golden light, washing the ballroom in that champagne glow again. People clap politely as the band kicks into another song, something smooth and lazy. (Y/n) leans into Bob with a grin that spells mischief.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Operation: raid the refreshment table. We move when the first couple starts dancing. You take the left flank—”
“—and you take the desserts,” Bob finishes, grinning. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she whispers back, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
Before they can make a move, a familiar voice calls her name. “You thought I wouldn’t find you, huh?”
She freezes. Bob straightens a little too fast. The Chief strides over with his wife in tow, his steps steady and his expression caught somewhere between proud and amused. “There’s my favorite headache,” he says, opening his arms.
She laughs, hugging him tight. “Hi, Chief.”
“Chief?” his wife teases. “You’re off duty, love.”
“Right, right,” he chuckles, then holds her by the shoulders, eyes softening. “You did good, kid. Made me look like I actually know what I’m doing.”
She ducks her head, suddenly shy. “Just trying not to trip over my own shoes, sir.”
His wife swats his arm. “Stop embarrassing her. You always get sentimental at these things.”
Then the Chief’s gaze shifts-- past her shoulder, to Bob. He sizes him up in the way only father figures and commanding officers know how. “And who’s this?”
She opens her mouth, but Bob, cool as ever, beats her to it. “Bob Floyd, sir. Pleasure to meet you.” He sticks out a hand, firm and polite.
"My boyfriend." You emphasize, gauging I the chief's reaction.
“Bob,” the Chief repeats, shaking it. “You Navy?”
“Yes, sir. WSOs with the NAVAIR program.”
That gets a nod of approval. “Well, thank you for your service, son.”
Bob gives a half-smile. “Thank you for raising the most terrifyingly competent woman I’ve ever met.”
The Chief’s wife laughs softly. “He’s not wrong.”
The Chief squints, mock suspicion written all over his face. “So… Bob. Boyfriend, huh? How long’s this been going on?”
Before she can sputter out a half-baked lie, Bob slides an arm around her waist, pulling her in with that calm confidence that makes her knees go weak. “Two years,” he says smoothly.
Her jaw drops a little. The Chief’s brows lift. “Two years, huh? You kept that quiet.”
“Had to,” Bob replies with a grin that could charm a border collie out of a steak. “Didn’t want the whole department stealing her from me once they realized how brilliant she is.”
The Chief chuckles, shaking his head. “Smart man. She’s one of a kind.”
“She is,” Bob says, his voice softer now. “You've seen her up there. I don’t think anyone in the room could’ve kept their eyes off her.”
The Chief’s wife melts instantly. “Oh, isn’t he just wonderful?”
“Don’t encourage him,” the Chief mutters, though he’s smiling too. “Alright, Floyd, I’ll let you off the hook for now. But if I find out you broke her heart--”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Bob answers, sincere for once. “I’m just trying to keep up with her.”
The Chief studies him for a long second, then grins, clapping his shoulder. “Fair answer.”
As they wander off, his wife still gushing about the “cute young couple,” the reader elbows Bob in the ribs. “Two years?” she hisses.
He grins down at her. “You’d prefer I said three?”
She groans into her hand, but she’s laughing, cheeks glowing.
And under the ballroom lights, Bob can’t help thinking that for a lie, it sure feels right.
She let out a long, theatrical exhale once the Chief and his wife disappeared into the crowd. “Okay. That went relatively well. No one’s been arrested, disowned, or forced into a family dinner. I’d call that a win.”
Bob huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I actually had fun. Wasn’t as terrifying as I thought. Considering, you know-- your track record.”
“My track record?” she gasped. “Excuse me, what track record?”
He smirked. “The one where you sprint out of every formal event before dessert.”
She shrugged, pretending to examine her award. “Dessert’s overrated.”
“You hate these things.”
“Hate?” she blinked up at him, feigning offense. “Did I ever say I hate them?”
Bob squinted. “You... kind of radiate that energy.”
“Well, that’s slander.” She tipped her chin up. “I love these events.”
“You-- what?”
“Of course. The expensive wine is free. The food’s great. The old people tell better stories than my Netflix queue.” She paused, then grinned, reaching for his hand. “And most of all--come on.”
“What?” He looked down at her hand wrapped around his. “Where are we going?”
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then tugged him out of the main hall and into one of the side corridors-- quiet, dim, lined with ornate portraits that probably cost more than Bob’s car.
They moved fast, her heels clicking lightly against the marble, his confusion only growing. “You’re kidnapping me now?” he whispered.
“Technically, I’m liberating you.”
“Uh-huh. That sounds exactly like something kidnappers say.”
She stopped at a narrow wooden door, gave him a sly smile, and pushed it open.
The bass hit first.
Lights pulsed. Music thumped. And suddenly Bob felt like he’d stepped through a portal into another reality-- because the genteel, chandelier-lit ballroom had given way to what looked like a secret disco, tucked right under the same roof. Young officers, off-duty pilots, and a couple of civilians were already in there, laughing and dancing, neon flickering across their faces.
Bob blinked. “What the hell--”
“Welcome to the real afterparty,” she said, already unpinning the delicate clip from her hair.
He stared, half laughing, half in awe. “You’re telling me we were upstairs drinking lukewarm champagne while this was happening?”
“Exactly.” She grabbed two glasses off a passing tray and handed him one. “Now stop looking shocked and start pretending you knew.”
He raised his glass, grin spreading. “So this is where all the young people were.”
She winked. “Told you I loved these things.”
And for a moment, under flashing lights and muffled bass, Bob wasn’t sure if he was dizzy from the music or from her-- bare shoulders catching neon, smile bright enough to rival the strobes.
She spins onto the dance floor like she’s the star of a wild west musical, scanning the crowd before she locks eyes on Bob. Without warning, she throws her arms wide like a cowboy lassoing a runaway steer.
“Come on, cowboy!” she shouts, grinning, and Bob freezes, caught between laughter and disbelief.
“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath.
She takes a step forward, then another, spinning again, and Bob instinctively plays along. He spreads his arms, stiff and comically exaggerated, like he’s caught in some invisible rope, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as she “hauls” him in.
“Woah! Woah! Easy there, cowgirl!” he calls over the music, pretending to struggle, hands “tied” as he’s pulled closer. His grin stretches wide, a mixture of mock panic and pure delight.
She yanks him closer again, spinning him toward the center of the floor, and he bounces theatrically, leaning into the rhythm of the music, even though none of it makes sense to him. “I’m trapped!” he shouts, laughing, “Somebody call the sheriff!”
She leans back slightly, arms still out like she’s riding a horse, laughing as she tugs him along. “No sheriffs here, partner! You’re mine now!”
Bob throws his head back, laughing so hard his chest hurts, letting himself be completely carried by the energy of her-- hands “restrained,” bouncing along to the beat, over and over, until it feels less like pretending and more like pure chaos.
The crowd around them barely notices, lost in their own dancing, while they make a ridiculous spectacle of cowboy-and-lasso antics. She spins, he bounces, they both shout and laugh, and the music pulses beneath their feet like it’s cheering them on.
At one point, she spins toward the DJ over the loud music, pointing at him. “This guy’s on probation! Been arrested five times before we even hired him-- keep an eye on him or he’s remixing the place into chaos!”
Bob, laughs so hard he nearly falls backward. “I--can’t--breathe!”
She tugs him upright, grinning like a wild child, and they continue their ridiculous, bouncing.
The music pulses in rhythms he doesn’t recognize-- something exotic, almost hypnotic, with beats that roll like waves. He’s not a club guy. Never a club guy. And yet, here he is, hands in hers, grinning like a fool, moving to the beat without really knowing how, just… with her.
They spin, stumble, laugh, and spin again, bodies loosely matching the music, more instinct than skill. Bob feels his chest tighten with something that’s part thrill, part disbelief. He’s having too much fun.
She leans close over the loud speakers to the DJ, shouting something over the pulse of the music: “Jeff! If I have to bail you out of another sound meltdown tonight, I’m charging you rent for the mixer!”
The DJ throws a mock salute, laughing, while she winks at Bob and gestures toward the crowd. “See that crew over there? That’s my batch.” She points out a group waving at her; she catches their gaze and waves back, lips curving in a small sigh of satisfaction.
She leans closer, over the pounding bass, and asks Bob: “Wanna go socialize?”
Bob freezes for a beat, caught in a haze of flashing lights and her proximity. In his head, there’s only her-- spinning, laughing, alive-- and he thinks, Do I care about anyone else in this room? Not a chance. But then he catches that small pleading look in her eyes, and he knows she’s silently asking him to stay with her.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m with you.”
Her grin turns mischievous, and she tugs him along, letting him trail slightly behind as they weave through the crowd. She leans over, whispering gossip about someone at work, giggling at each small scandalous detail, and Bob listens, laughing softly, nodding, feeling like he’s in some alternate dimension where nothing matters except her.
They circle around the floor, moving with the music, brushing past friends, colleagues, strangers, all of it swirling together in a blur of lights and laughter. Every glance she gives, every small jab of humor, sends Bob spinning in a way the music never could on its own.
And for once, in the flashing neon chaos, he doesn’t want anything to change. He’s exactly where he wants to be-- with her, in the middle of the madness, laughing like a kid and feeling like the luckiest man alive.
---
The hall door swung shut behind you, muffling the bass and chatter and the sound of someone very earnestly explaining a silent auction. You and Bob stumbled into the cooler dark of the terrace, laughter still catching in your throats like hiccups.
He was grinning, wild-eyed, holding his tux jacket awkwardly closed over his chest like a man hiding a mortal wound. You knew the wound was bread. The evidence of your crime. Warm, bakery-fresh bread.
Bob straightened his jacket with exaggerated care, frowning at the front of it. “I think I’ve got crumbs in my conscience.”
You turned toward him, eyebrows up. “You mean guilt?”
“No, I mean literal crumbs,” he said, deadpan. “You made me hide a loaf in my jacket.”
You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “You’re the one who volunteered!”
“I didn’t think you meant the entire loaf!”
“Crime’s a commitment,” you said between giggles, and he was smiling again, that quiet, helpless kind. “How dare they ban me from the club bar too.”
The night air was sharp, tasting like sea salt and money. You leaned your elbows on the white railing, feeling the cool glass beside it hum faintly under the music inside. He came to stand next to you, jacket still suspiciously bulky, and for a minute you both just breathed, laughing quieter now.
Your faces were flushed, the kind of pink that comes from champagne and too many whispered dares. Bob exhaled and tilted his head toward you, smiling small and helpless.
“You think they’ll notice?” he murmured.
You looked at the lump in his jacket, then at his face, and started laughing again. “Only if it starts rising.”
That did it-- he snorted, really snorted, then tried to cover it up, which made you wheeze harder. The two of you leaned there, half-drunk, half-giddy, and for a moment the night felt like it was holding its breath just for you two idiots and your stolen loaf of bread.
The night had gone soft around the edges. The kind of soft that only comes after too much champagne and not enough sense. The city spilled out below-- San Diego glowing lazy and smug, the ocean beyond it catching bits of moonlight like a thief.
You leaned forward against the white railing, cheek pressed to the cool metal, watching your breath fog faintly. Bob stood beside you, hands in his pockets, his tux hanging open like he’d survived something harrowing, which, technically, he had: you.
The bread sat on the ledge between you like a third guest.
“God,” you whispered. “It’s so stupidly pretty out here.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. You could feel him looking sideways at you, not the city. “It really is.”
You turned, caught his eyes, immediately looked away again because-- yeah, no. Too much sincerity for one oxygen cycle. “Stop that,” you muttered.
“Stop what?”
“Being… emotionally available in moonlight. I'm not used to that.”
He laughed, that little disbelieving kind. “You started it.”
You smiled, small. “Yeah. I do that.”
The wind lifted your hair a bit, and you felt weirdly steady, even drunk. Like all the noise from the ballroom was behind glass and this bit of balcony existed somewhere slightly outside the timeline of your life.
“Hey,” you said after a moment, fiddling with your bracelet. “Thanks for making me come tonight.”
He blinked. “You really didn’t wanted to?”
“I did not. I’ve never brought anyone before. I was kind of proud of that. Independent, mysterious woman at gala, tragic and unattached, you know? But now…” You laughed softly, eyes still on the lights below. “Now I know if I ever go alone again, I’ll just die of boredom. You’ve ruined it. You’ve made solitude… unmarketable.”
He laughed under his breath. “You think I ruined solitude?”
“Yeah, you-- Bob Floyd, destroyer of peace and quiet. Look at you.”
He shook his head, grinning. “I’m the least cool person here.”
“That’s what’s so irritating,” you said, half-laughing. “You’re the most quietly competent man in the room, and you still act like a deer at a birthday party.”
He chuckled, eyes dropping. “I just… I don’t know. I like letting other people talk.”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I noticed. It’s kind of your thing. Makes people like me feel safe enough to be-- what’s the word-- stupid.”
He went pink immediately. “You think I make you feel safe?”
“Don’t make it a thing,” you said too fast, biting back a grin.
“I wasn’t--”
“You were.”
He laughed again, helpless now, and you found yourself grinning into your hand, cheeks aching. The two of you stood there, shoulders brushing, the ocean murmuring something secret.
And for once, you didn’t feel like running away from the nice thing that was happening.
The terrace air felt clean enough to drink. You leaned back on the railing, dress swishing faintly against the white metal, while Bob stood right beside you, fussing with his tux like he was trying to remember how buttons worked.
The loaf of bread sat on the ledge between you both, perfectly ridiculous in its solemn little napkin wrap.
“You ever notice how you talk more when it’s just us?” you said, watching him from the corner of your eye.
He glanced up, startled. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s like the words know they’re safe.”
That made him blink, the way people do when they’re not sure if they’re being teased or complimented. Then he smiled-- small, crooked, real. You looked away immediately, pretending to find something fascinating in the city lights.
The two of you laughed under your breaths for no reason at all, the kind of laughter that bubbles out just because the night feels lighter than it should.
He leaned next to you against the railing, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The moonlight slid down his cheek, softening him. The silence between laughs stretched out in a way that felt… kind.
After a moment, you tilted your head, still grinning. “You know what’s tragic?”
He glanced down, wary. “What?”
“I’ll never be able to unassociate the smell of expensive perfume with bread theft.”
That got him. He laughed so hard he had to brace a hand against the railing, head ducked, cheeks going pink.
"Don't laugh! I spent a fortune on this scent and now I can’t decide if I smell like seduction or sourdough starter.”
You laughed with him, both of you bent double, the sound spilling into the night until it dissolved into the hum of the ocean below. His eyes tracing your face, traitorous and so obsessed, just wanting to memorize the way your mouth moves.
When it finally quieted, he exhaled, still smiling. “You’re trouble.”
“You say that like it’s new,” you murmured, and he looked at you-- really looked-- and grinned wider.
The stars are jealous of you, woman. And I... I am so lucky.
The music behind the glass doors kept playing for other people’s nights, but out here, yours felt suspended somewhere between laughter and something you weren’t brave enough to name yet.
You tilt your head slightly, letting it rest against the railing, hair falling over your face. Bob mirrors you a beat later, chin resting on his hands, eyes half-lidded in the soft haze of alcohol and moonlight.
For a moment, you just stare. No words. Just quiet grins, little lazy exhalations, and the subtle warmth radiating from being this close. Your laughter has died down, but the edges of your mouths are still curved, smirking in unison.
You’ve got that look again.
…Yeah. The one where I’m completely in love and can’t hide it.
Uh-oh.
Uh-oh indeed. I’m doomed.
You catch each other’s gaze, eyes lazy, half-lidded, and the world outside seems irrelevant. Neither of you speaks, but you can feel every thought pinging silently between you: admiration, affection, the absolute chaos of wanting each other without needing to say a word.
“You know,” you started, voice quiet, “I… I really love your smile.”
Bob froze, just a little, caught mid-breath. Then it happened: a stuttered, breathy laugh spilled out of him, short and awkward, and he ducked his head just slightly, embarrassed. His ears flushed pink and he cleared his throat, gulping down air like he was trying to convince himself to be brave.
Okay. Just say it. Just fucking say it, his brain roared. She thinks I’m cool, she’s laughing at me, she’s right there. Say it now, Bob. NOW.
He opened his mouth, words trembling: “I-- I… I’ve been-- God... I've been wanting to--”
And then-- HONK! HONK! HONK!
The honk blasted through the quiet terrace, dragging both of you out of your little bubble. Your heads snapped down toward the street like someone yanked on strings.
And there it was.
A single, impossibly sleek black car sat in the driveway, shiny enough to catch the streetlights. Leaning against it, cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, was him-- your ex. Only yesterday, you’d ripped that relationship to pieces, and now here he was, looking impossibly calm, all casual body language and nonchalant posture… except the glare in his eyes betrayed everything. Furious. Possessive. Fuming.
One hand rested lightly on the car horn as if he’d been ready to honk it at the perfect moment all along.
Bob’s jaw locked, slow and deliberate. His shoulders squared. His entire stance shifted-- like he’d suddenly realized he was not just defending territory, but declaring it. You couldn’t help but notice the way his jawline cut sharper in the moonlight, the subtle flare of his nostrils, the faint hitch in his breathing. Hot, and infuriatingly protective. The exact kind of hot that made your chest tighten.
He didn’t move yet-- didn’t even blink-- but the heat rolling off him was enough. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on your ex as if daring him to make a wrong move.
You could feel your own body tense beside him, still leaning against the railing, heart thudding. The air between you two thickened, not just with the adrenaline of the confrontation, but with that strange, electric tension-- the one that only exists when someone you thought you care about might be in danger and the guy you actually care about is too hot to look away from.
Your ex raised a brow, cigarette smoke curling around his head, and smirked faintly, but the look in his eyes was raw. He was pissed. And Bob… Bob didn’t flinch. Not a muscle. Not a blink. Just that jaw, that chest, that entire aura of You’re standing in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time energy.
Bob’s brows furrowed like a man who was simultaneously furious and worried he might vomit from adrenaline. Of course he had to show up now. After you’d spent an entire week practically stalking him with polite texts and sighs that could’ve sunk a battleship. After you eventually said fuck it and broke up with him. And now here he is, standing beneath the terrace like a smug, overpriced statue of himself.
Bob’s jaw tightens. He’s mad, but not just at the ex. He’s mad because he knows you. You. -- the human embodiment of soft. The girl who once cried for three hours because she clipped her kitten’s nail a little too short. The girl who somehow survived six years of someone treating her like a doormat. And the sheer possibility that you might--- might-- give in again? Yeah. That was unacceptable.
He blinks, bracing for the scene: the tears, the glassy eyes, the tragic soft gaze that somehow makes you look like a vulnerable Disney princess about to forgive a villain.
But then-- oh sweet blessed heaven-- you do not do that.
Your eyes are glued to the sad excuse of a man from the up at the terrace, and your expression is… flat. Absolute, brutal flatness. Nothing cute. Nothing sad. Just pure, concentrated disdain.
“...Ick.”
Bob swears his brain nearly short-circuits.
Ick.
That’s it. That’s all. That tiny, perfect little word. And somehow, in the middle of his seething, protective rage, it’s hilarious. And hot. And he wants to punch your ex and also kiss you at the same time.
He feels that swell in his chest-- the kind that says, Yes. This. This is my girl. She’s disgusted. She’s disgusted at him. And she’s mine. Tonight. Please god.
He stares down at the street, jaw tight but lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh. The guy below-- her ex, Mr. Cigarette-and-Consequences-- leans against his car like a moody perfume ad, one hand on the horn as if subtlety was ever his strong suit.
Bob doesn’t even bother to hide the amusement curling in his mouth now. He looks at you, then back at the man below, and mutters under his breath, “...He ever bother you after last night?”
You hum, casual, eyes still on the street. “Wouldn’t know. Broke my phone, remember?”
He huffs a laugh-- quiet, sharp-- and for a second it feels like you two are royalty, bored on a balcony, watching a particularly stupid court jester fumble for attention. The ex tilts his head, trying for menacing, but it just makes him look lost.
You rest your chin on your hand. “People are so weird,” you say, light and lazy, the kind of tone that kills without trying. “They only care about things once they’ve lost them. Like, where was all this energy before?”
Bob nods slowly, still smiling, eyes flicking between you and the idiot below. “Some men only realize they’re empty once the thing that filled them walks away,” he says softly. “And then they stand in the street with a cigarette, pretending they’re tragic.”
You laugh-- a short, sharp, genuine sound-- and he glances at you like he’s just been handed the best view in the world.
Down below, the ex shifts, uncomfortable under the combined weight of your laughter and Bob’s quiet, almost kind smirk.
“Tragic,” Bob repeats, just to twist the knife, voice low enough for only you to hear. “But not poetic.”
Your grin spreads. “Yeah,” you say. “Just pathetic.”
And that’s the moment-- the split second where Bob knows he’s completely gone for you. Because you’re not trembling or explaining or apologizing. You’re laughing, and he’s laughing with you, and for once, the world is exactly as it should be: him beside you, some idiot below, and the two of you too busy grinning to care.
The ex’s voice cuts through the air-- sharp, angry, useless. Whatever he’s shouting doesn’t even make it past the terrace. The music from the ballroom swells behind you, swallowing the sound whole. He’s just a furious mime in an expensive car now, all cigarette smoke and impotence.
You watch him for a moment, brows furrowed in disgust, then let out a tiny laugh-- half pity, half secondhand embarrassment. “God,” you murmur, shaking your head, “I’m getting the ick so bad I might need a priest.” You turn to Bob, still smiling. “I’ll go tell him off, quick. Two minutes.”
But Bob doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His jaw tightens once, and that’s the only sign of the storm inside. You take a step, and that’s when his hand finds yours-- firm, warm, trembling slightly.
“Don’t,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret.
You freeze, eyes wide.
He swallows, looking down, thumb brushing your knuckles like he’s steadying himself before he jumps. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
It’s barely a whisper, like he’s terrified of what he’s just said.
You don’t breathe for a second. The world quiets around you-- no music, no shouting, no night air, just that sentence still hovering between you. He finally looks up, eyes soft but scared, and keeps going, quieter still.
“Let me handle it. Please. You don’t have to prove you can survive everything. I already know you can. Just… let me help now.”
You can’t even speak. Your throat goes tight, your stomach flips. He’s not looking at you like he’s making a promise; he’s looking at you like he’s already keeping one.
"Everything below you is chaos. You don’t need to step into it. Let me... Please.”
The lights from the city flicker against his face, and you see it-- how much it costs him to say it, how badly he means it. The air between you shifts, heavy and tender and stupidly alive.
And you? You melt. Completely. The sound that leaves you isn’t even a laugh-- it’s something soft and broken in the best way.
You whisper, almost dizzy, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
He smiles-- small, shy, wrecked. “…I’ve been losing sleep over how badly I wanted you to know.”
The city glimmers below, moonlight bouncing off the white railings, but it’s meaningless now. Everything else-- the party, the bread, even your ex-- has vanished from your brain entirely. Only Bob Floyd exists. Only this moment.
You grin, voice teasing and a little breathless. “Are you… confessing?” you murmur, fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket. “…That you like me?”
Bob freezes, chest tightening, eyes darkening with the weight of everything he’s been holding back. His lips part, breath shallow. “‘Like’… is a very weak word,” he says, voice almost trembling.
You smirk, heart hammering, and close the distance. Your hands cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing along his jaw. His breath hitches, loud, uneven, betraying him completely.
“I’ll be in your care, then,” you whisper, your words brushing his lips a heartbeat before your mouth does.
And then-- HONK! HONK! HONK!
The ex below is losing his mind, honking furiously, probably wondering how the girl he supposedly had just yesterday is now completely wrapped up in the arms of the so-called just a neighbor he hates. Bob’s jaw tightens in fury and amusement.
Without breaking the kiss, he grabs your waist, pulls you flush against him, spins you just slightly, dipping you back against the railing in the most theatrical “look at this, idiot” move imaginable. You gasp, laughing through the kiss, hopelessly in love, completely flustered.
Your arms snake around his neck as he deepens the kiss, the teasing dip and press against the railing making the ex’s honks sound like desperate punctuation marks to your private chaos.
You giggle into him, breath hot against his lips, heart hammering. “You’re ridiculous,” you manage between gasps and kisses.Bob grins against your lips, teeth catching yours in a teasing brush, voice low and husky. “Not as ridiculous as him down there,” he murmurs, nipping your bottom lip gently, “or me planning our fence colours again for while kissing you.”
You laugh louder, completely undone, and press into him like the world has melted away entirely-- except the ex, who is now apparently losing his mind beneath the terrace, and the music from the party still pulsing softly behind you.
Then-- knock knock knock.
A junior officer’s voice cuts through the haze. “Evenin-- oh my! Uh… Officer (Y/N)? The Chief is looking for you back in the hall.”
You break the kiss reluctantly, forehead resting against Bob’s, cheeks flushed, breath coming in pants.
Bob presses one more quick, messy kiss to your temple, whispering, “…We’ll finish this later.”
You can’t help but laugh, loud and giddy, and squeeze him around the neck. “…Later, huh? You better mean that.”
He smirks, chest still pressed to yours, eyes glinting with mischief and affection. “Oh, I definitely mean that.”
And with that, you step back, still laughing, letting the world creep back in-- but only just enough for now.
--
You can’t stop grinning, and it’s a problem. Every time you catch yourself in a reflective surface-- door frame, glass panel, shiny silver tray-- you’re caught imagining that kiss all over again. Bob’s lips. Perfect. Soft. Firm in all the right ways. Oh my God. That was… amazing. And he kissed like he meant it, like he had been holding it in forever, like-- like he had been waiting just for me.
Your stomach flips, your chest warms, and you giggle softly to yourself, completely lost in thought. You’re walking through the crowded hallway, bumping gently into a few guests, but you barely notice. The music, the chatter, the laughter-- it’s all just a blur behind the little universe you’ve made in your head where it’s just you and him, tangled up in each other’s arms, breathless, laughing, kissing.
Do I smell like him? Do I smell like his lips? Because that would be amazing… and terrifying.
Staying single after that sad excuse of a relationship? Fuck that. Absolutely not. I’m done pretending misery is “character-building.” No more crying over idiots who can’t even remember my cat’s name.
I’m marrying Bob Floyd. Like, not today, not technically-- but in spirit, in every way that counts.
Oh, of course I got hurt before. Of course I did. But he-- he’s different. He’s not a lesson or a test or a heartbreak waiting to happen. He’s… he’s Bob. And for the first time, I can actually imagine letting myself love someone. Truly, entirely.
Somewhere ahead, the crowd thins, and your eyes land on the Chief and his wife. They’re standing together, chatting with a cluster of officers and guests, smiling and nodding, completely unaware of the tiny hurricane of emotions swirling inside you. And then-- once they spot you-- they shift, their attention flicking your way, curious, amused, welcoming.
You pause a beat, heart still racing, cheeks hot, and for a second consider walking right over-- but decide to linger at the edge of the crowd instead, letting yourself catch your breath… and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a polished table leg. Still flushed. Still grinning. Still thinking about him.
---
You strode over, trying to keep your usual confident air, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. The chief and his wife were lounging like they knew exactly what you'd been up to all night, and you immediately felt like a guilty kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“Well, well,” his wife said, arching an eyebrow, “Running ragged for your handsome gentleman…Should we be jealous or impressed?”
“Oh, I’m running ragged? He’s completely angelic-- barely even makes me break a sweat.” you laugh loudly before catching yourself.
Too frank.
Your mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I-- uh… not like that, really. I mean… he’s just--” You froze, realizing you were going red. “He’s…well, perfect.”
“Oh, we’ve noticed,” the wife said, her eyes sparkling with delight. She reached over to squeeze your hand. “Absolutely perfect.”
The chief, standing a little stiffly, folded his arms and gave you a look that could’ve stopped a charging bull. “But… are you really happy? And how serious is this?”
You blinked. That question hit differently. He was the chief of police, her boss, and somehow-- somehow--still terrifyingly fatherly. “I… I think,” you said, voice a little breathless, “I think I’m... in trouble, honestly. The good kind.”
His wife let out a soft, approving hum, a little nod accompanying it. “That’s lovely, dear.”
“The good kind? I’m not sure I trust that kind of trouble.” the cheif made a face, crossing his arms.
You pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re acting like you’re cross-examining me, sir!”
The chief raised his eyes in mock surrender,“Cross-examining? No, no… I’m just… making sure my goddaughter survives her own decisions.”
The chief exhaled, half-exasperated, half-sad, like he’d just realized something he couldn’t quite hold onto. “You know… whatever you choose, you’ll always have a place here. With me.” His eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners. “Don’t worry, we always keep an emergency son in reserve. Just in case."
“Now, now… let’s not turn our children into backup plans, dear.” his wife pinches his arm, to which he just laughs loud.
You blinked at him, trying to process the mixture of warning, kindness, and unspoken hope in his words. Your lips twitched into a nervous grin. “Thank you… really. You’re… you’re both… so ridiculously nice.” You laughed softly, brushing at the corners of your eyes. “I-- I’m sorry if I… messed with your… plans. That sounds awful, but--”
“Nonsense,” his wife interrupted, giving him a gentle nudge with a chuckle. “All we care about is that you are happy. Nothing else matters.”
The chief just exhaled, a tiny sigh escaping him. You caught that faint flicker of disappointment-- his own quietly buried dream--- but it softened into acceptance, and maybe even pride.
You felt yourself wobble slightly, a mix of relief and something warmer flooding your chest. “Well… then I think… this is going to be okay,” you murmured, letting yourself imagine a life where you didn’t have to hide anymore, where your pretend boyfriend had somehow turned into something real, something… perfect.
The chief opened his mouth, but his words hung in the air, unfinished. His eyes flickered behind you, sharp and bright, and you felt the tiniest shiver of anticipation.
“You haven’t met our son yet, have you?” he asked, voice calm but carrying an edge of mischief. Then, with a subtle flick of his finger, he beckoned.
A voice, smooth as silk, cut through the quiet:
“Ms. [Y/N], it’s truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”
You turned. Slowly, practiced smile to greet the person who you had been planning this coup for the past week just on texts, finally ready to meet in person.
And then-- you froze. Your eyes went impossibly wide, and jaw fell as if gravity itself had pulled it down.
---
Bob's fingers trail your arm as you walked away, back into the mansion. He sighs dreamily, his skin buzzing and face bloomed like an afterglow.
He turned around, leaning against the railing, eyes locking with your ex, who is glaring, cigarette long since thrown to the asphalt, smoke curling uselessly into the night. He’s half-huffing, half-steaming, chest rising and falling in furious panting, silently daring Bob to step outside. He’ll fuck him up without a second thought.
Bob pauses, just a heartbeat, letting the tension stretch. Then he smirks-- slow, deliberate, just that right kind of hot smug that makes your stomach flip-- and tips the champagne glass slightly, letting a drop spill down the side. He pulls out his phone, taps a quick text, and sends it without breaking eye contact.
Your ex’s eyes narrow, red-rimmed with rage, muscles taut and ready to bolt across the street, wreck this charity event, anything to get his hands on Bob Floyd.
Just as he steps forward, jaw tight, anger practically vibrating off him, a firm tap lands on his shoulder. He spins and freezes the moment they step in front of him. Who the hell are these guys? He squints, trying to place them. He vaguely remembers-- her friends?-- from some terrible point-of-her-life photo she’d shown him once. The one where she’d smiled, holding up a stupid drink, and she’d introduced them casually: “This is Jake and Bradley. Don’t hurt them.”
Well, now he wants to hurt them, but they’re huge, impossibly broad, and smiling in that irritatingly sweet-but-dangerous way that screams you’re about to learn a lesson. One’s taller than him, the other… maybe taller too, mustache even more intimidating, and their arms alone look like they could pick him up and spin him into next week.
Oh God, he thinks, realizing he’s completely outmatched, like a toddler trying to argue with a lion. And they’re looking at him like he’s a particularly entertaining misbehaving child.
The ex freezes, clearly realizing too late that words were never going to save him. He’s taller than he thought he was in his own head, but these two are even taller-- and far less forgiving. In a few careful, efficient moves, they guide him away from the street, dragging him toward whatever corner of the city will let him vent without ruining the mansion or the party.
Bob leans lightly against the railing again, watching the ex get escorted, expression casual but eyes glinting with amusement. Hangman catches his eye, raises a brow, and silently asks, everything okay up there?
Bob lifts his hand in a small, perfect wave. Perfect.
Bob tilted the glass back, the alcohol burning like it had a personal vendetta against his throat, as he slipped off the terrace and back into the mansion. The ballroom hit him all at once-- the glittering lights, the music, the polite chaos-- and his lips tugged into a grin that was entirely contagious if you asked him, which you didn’t. Just the thought of you made it impossible not to smile.
He scanned the room like a man on a mission: there. You. Talking to someone a little ways off. His pace quickened, weaving between waiters balancing precarious trays, sidestepping people fawning over him for that ridiculous ballroom dance at the start of the night. Old ladies practically wagged their fingers at him like, “Boy, we saw that spin. Impressive!” He ignored them. Focus: you.
And then he saw the man you were talking to. Tall. Lean but a muscular back. Hair slicked back so perfectly it looked criminal. The stranger should have stopped him. Should have made him hesitate. But it wasn’t the stranger that made him pause.
It was you.
The way you looked at him-- fascination? Awe? Admiration? Something slightly terrifying he couldn’t put his finger on. It made his chest tighten, a little, okay maybe more than a little. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want you looking at anyone like that but him. His jaw locked without warning, teeth clenching just slightly as he moved closer.
And what the hell was this stranger saying to make you look at him like your brain had temporarily checked out? Your eyes barely blinked, barely swayed from the stranger’s face, like you were memorizing him or taking a mental census.
Bob didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every step toward you was deliberate, precise, tense-- like a predator, if predators carried whiskey in one hand and entirely too much affection in the other.
Because seriously, the moment you were looking at anyone else like that… that was a problem. And he was very, very bad at letting problems exist without personally fixing them.
---
Bob slowed as he got close, just enough to hear your voice, and oh god, yes, he definitely heard that.
“I thought you were in a relationship,” you said, words tumbling out like tiny confessions, “this is… more complicated, mister. What’s it called? Situationship? Hate-uationship? Fuck-- like--”
The stranger laughed. God, of course he laughed. That easy, confident laugh that makes you feel like maybe the world could be perfect if you just existed in it forever. “I’m working on it. She’s a piece of work. One I’d love to work with.”
Bob’s teeth clenched before he even realized it. Piece of work? That’s you. My piece of work. He slid his arm around your waist like it had been there forever, the kind of smooth, possessive motion that wasn’t really smooth at all, more like a reflex, a warning.
And you? Your attention flicked straight to him, bright and wide-eyed, like nothing else mattered. Wide grin. Excited. God, that grin. He felt it in his chest.
“God, I see it,” the stranger said.
“I know, right?! It’s uncanny!” you replied, laughing, completely oblivious to the way Bob’s jaw had locked.
“I’m sorry… what?” Bob said, voice low, because apparently he had to keep some shred of patience intact.
Before you could answer, the stranger laughed again, swirling his champagne like he was in a Bond movie or some nonsense. “Miss (Y/N) was telling me how much I looked like her boyfriend. And… while I’d normally not be thrilled at the thought of being compared to anyone, you’re a handsome fella. I don’t mind at all.”
You laughed again, slipping your arm around Bob’s, which he didn’t even notice, because he was currently sizing this guy up with all the precision of someone plotting world domination.
The stranger was-- fine, okay height, maybe 6'1-- 6'2-ish, not taller than Bob though, fit build, again, not taller than him, probably same weight. But the aura. Ugh. The aura. That effortless confidence that just radiated off him like he’d swallowed a charm school. Bob’s teeth ground together. Not thrilled. Not fine. Definitely not fine. Bob was better. Way better.
Bob’s jaw tightened, just slightly, as if his teeth could clamp down on the air itself. He hated that effortless, dripping confidence radiating from this stranger. Hated it. The way the stranger's shoulders shifted, easy and unbothered. The tilt of his head when he smiled. The warmth of his handshake before Bob even reached. It made Bob want to growl, professionally, personally, universally. He forced a smile, low-key disgust curling at the edges, and extended his hand. “Robert Floyd."
“Oh, where are my manners?” the stranger said, stretching out his hand. Warm, firm, calloused in exactly the right way. Killer smile. The kind that women in the room would swoon at. Obviously.
“Todd Stevens.”