between book pages and baked pies (r.r.)
summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.
Then you found out he’s the Sentry —
and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.
pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader
content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au
You glance up, and there he is.
You’ve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy — like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesn’t expect to be noticed in it.
He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please don’t ask me anything, but I’m also not in a hurry to leave.
Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.
You smile. “Back again. That’s three Thursdays in a row.”
He blinks, like he’s surprised you’ve been keeping count.
“…I like it here,” he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.
“Most people say that when they’re avoiding something,” you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “Bad day?”
He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare — you really do — but it’s hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like they’re familiar terrain.
After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks — both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.
You ring them up, sneaking a glance. “You like the ones where the world almost ends?”
He gives a faint smile. “Sometimes I like when it doesn’t.”
You pause, curious. “You a writer?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just… a fan.”
“I get it,” you say, handing him the bag. “Books are a safer way to live dangerously.”
He smiles at that. A little more real.
Then, on impulse, you ask, “So, what do you do?”
He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.
“…Sometimes I help save the world,” he says, deadpan.
You blink. And then you laugh, because there’s something about the way he says it — so dry and sincere — that it’s obviously a joke. Or at least… you think it is.
“Wow,” you grin. “That’s bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that.”
You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. We’ve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.”
He nods, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He’s almost gone when he pauses and looks back.
“What’s your name?” he asks you, and you tell him.
The bell chimes again — sharper this time. Final.
You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.
Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.
Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.
You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.
Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.
“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom’s voice practically sings as you answer. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone.”
You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. “Hi, Mom. You called me yesterday.”
“I know, I just missed you. So sue me.”
There’s a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enough—
“So, listen,” she continues, far too casually. “Next Saturday we’re doing dinner at our place. Just the usual — your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.”
“Mmhmm.” You sip your drink, waiting.
“We were thinking 6 o’clock. And of course we’ll do something vegetarian for you—oh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?”
“Anyway,” she adds, far too lightly, “I just thought I’d ask — are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?”
You snort. “Bringing where? Into the lion’s den of a family dinner?”
“Oh come on,” she laughs. “We’re not that bad.”
You give her a look she can’t see. “Last time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighbor’s chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if I’d frozen my eggs.”
“She meant well. He didn’t, but—still.”
You roll your eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not bringing anyone.”
“You’re not?” Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. “Not even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.”
You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds — including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.
You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said “Sometimes I help save the world” like it wasn’t even strange.
“Anyway,” your mom chirps on. “No pressure. Just… you know. You’re not getting any less amazing with time.”
“That’s not how time works, Mom.”
“Semantics. Just let me know, okay? We’ll keep a seat open. Just in case.”
You sigh and mutter, “Okay.”
She’s already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighbor’s shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.
You definitely don’t have a date.
You definitely don’t need one.
…But your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when he’s not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.
The bell over the door rings, and — like clockwork — you glance up.
Same as always, but also… not. His jacket’s still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didn’t get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.
“Tuesday this time?” you call out from behind the counter, tone light. “Switching it up?”
Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. “Had some time.”
You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance — new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesn’t stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.
“You sure it’s not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?” you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.
He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. “Maybe I like consistency.”
“Bold choice in this economy.”
That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.
He picks up The Lantern War — you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. You’ve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like he’s searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.
You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.
“You know,” you begin, tone half-teasing, “you don’t talk much, but you’ve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.”
Bob looks up — startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.
“People pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,” you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.
You wince. “Sorry. That was weird. I’ve just… been talking to my mom too much lately. She’s on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think I’m starting to project ‘potential boyfriend material’ onto every semi-normal customer.”
Bob doesn’t laugh, exactly — but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, gently placing the book under his arm.
You nod. “It was meant to be one.”
The air shifts then. Not awkward — not yet — but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.
You watch him for a second longer than you should.
He always lingers when he’s here. Not like he’s killing time. Like he’s… catching his breath.
You don’t say it — not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.
As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.
He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Would he?
He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.
“See you Thursday?” you ask, voice light, playful.
He pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe.”
You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.
And you’re still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.
You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically — scanning books, making small talk — but your brain’s somewhere else.
“Hi, honey!” she sings the second you answer. “Don’t panic — this is not a ‘guilt you into bringing a boyfriend’ call.”
You snort. “You literally said the word ‘boyfriend’ in the first sentence.”
“Okay, technically,” she says, unfazed, “but I’m just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.”
You sigh and lean against the counter. “I know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Diane—”
“Oh, speaking of Aunt Diane,” she says sweetly, which should’ve been your warning, “she knows this great guy from her pickleball league—works in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.
You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.
“Well, honey,” she says, trying for innocent, “you haven’t said you’re bringing anyone. And if you’re still single—”
Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.
“I mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. It’s been, like, a month.”
“You are?” she says slowly.
You wince. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didn’t want to scare him off. He’s… kind of shy.”
Your mom gasps like you just told her she’s finally getting a grandchild.
“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What’s he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?”
“Mom, calm down,” you say quickly, pacing now. “He’s just… quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.”
You mentally kick yourself.
“Well, now you have to bring him,” she insists. “If he’s already survived a month with you, he’s clearly got staying power.”
You laugh sharply. “Gee, thanks.”
She chuckles. “I’m just saying — you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.”
You force a smile into your voice. “Let me talk to him first, okay? I’ll see if he’s up for it.”
You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.
Mouth open. Brain screaming.
You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.
Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for a month.
You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.
And for some godforsaken reason…
…you think he might actually say yes.
A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.
“Two days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more time—” you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. “Who even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?”
You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.
“I swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, I’m moving to the mountains. I’ll sell rocks. I’ll become a rock girl.”
The bell above the door chimes.
You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. “Welcome in,” you call absently, trying to sound composed — but you already know.
Still, you do — and there he is.
Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didn’t even try to stop him.
There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.
“Back to your usual Thursday shift?” you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.
He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It felt wrong not to.”
There’s something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired — like his body’s been holding something heavy for too long — but his gaze doesn’t flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.
You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.
“Let me guess,” you say as he veers toward the back. “Fantasy section?”
You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book that’s been reshelved in the wrong genre. There’s no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.
He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasn’t cracked yet.
You rest your elbow against a shelf. “That one’s going to wreck you emotionally,” you warn, teasing. “But, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.”
Bob glances over. “Good to know.”
You hesitate — just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: “Hey… can I ask you something kind of weird?”
His eyes shift to yours — cautious, but open.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. “So… hypothetically,” you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, “if someone were being — let’s say — aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinner—like, a big one—”
“Okay,” he says slowly, still holding the book.
“And they may or may not have panicked and told said family they’d already been dating someone for a month… someone who does not, technically, exist—”
Bob’s brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Would it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe… pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. There’s pie.”
Bob doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t recoil.
And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.
“I know it’s weird. And probably creepy. And I swear I’m not dangerous. You don’t even really know me. But you’re the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think I’m secretly dating a war criminal.”
His expression shifts — thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.
“And if it helps,” you add quickly, “I already told them you’re shy. So you wouldn’t even have to say much. Just… look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend I’m charming.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”
“Just for a night,” you say. “No pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.”
“…Because your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.”
You blink. “Wait. How do you—?”
“You talk while you shelve books,” he says simply, mouth quirking. “I pick things up.”
You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.
And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it — bright and ridiculous and yours.
It’s small. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing. But it’s there.
“So?” you say, biting your lip. “Would you consider it? I can’t offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.”
You blink. “Wait — really?”
He nods, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why not.”
“You didn’t even ask what kind of pie.”
You squint at him. “You’re either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.”
Bob shrugs. “Can’t it be both?”
Something in your chest tightens — in a good way.
“Dinner’s Saturday,” you say softly. “At my parents’. Here's... the address?” you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.
You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.
He nods. “Should I wear something nice?”
“Honestly,” you say, “if you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street — a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.
You stand behind the counter, staring after him.
Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.
From relief. And something else.
Because somehow, against all logic and odds —
“Not too much sugar,” your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesn’t trust you with a spoon.
You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. “Mom, you’ve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, it’s on you.”
She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. “Don’t tempt me.”
You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way — cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. You’re elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.
You’ve told everyone you’ve been dating someone for a month.
That he’s meeting your family.
That he’s sweet and shy and real.
And in about fifteen minutes, Bob — your fake boyfriend — will be at the door.
You’re 85% sure he’ll show up. Maybe 90.
“Do you need help with the crust?” your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like she’s trying not to pry.
You glance at her. She’s avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.
“Nope,” you say, pressing the dough into the pan. “Unless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.”
She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.
“So,” she says, “you never told me how you met him.”
You hesitate. “The guy I’m—bringing tonight?”
You stall by rinsing your hands.
“It’s kind of a quiet story,” you say carefully. “We kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just… kind of happened.”
“Hm.” She tosses apple slices into the bowl. “And you like him?”
You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Thanks for inviting me.”
Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.
“Well,” she says gently, “I can’t wait to meet him.”
You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.
Your mom turns toward the sound.
You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, “moment of truth.”
You did not expect him to look like this.
Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hair—usually floppy and rain-wrecked—is now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.
He smiles—bashful, but sure of himself. “Hi.”
Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. It’s warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.
“I hope I’m not too early,” he murmurs.
“No—uh—no, perfect. You’re perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.”
You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.
As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers — fresh and faintly minty.
“My mom’s in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”
You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.
Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like she’s just been cast on a reality show. “There he is! You must be Bob!”
Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.
He recovers quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And polite!” she says, delighted, patting his arm like she’s already ordering him to call her ‘Mom’ by dessert.
Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncle’s tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet “Yes, ma’am” that makes her beam.
At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.
“You look really familiar,” Milo says, tilting his head.
You freeze mid-chew. Bob’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
“I get that a lot,” Bob says calmly.
Milo frowns. “Like, weirdly familiar. Like—superhero familiar.”
“Milo,” your mom cuts in, “eat your green beans.”
Milo shrugs but keeps sneaking glances.
You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.
And about halfway through dessert, something happens.
The TV is on behind your mom’s head, low volume. Just the news playing — no one’s really watching. Your dad’s closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.
You’re listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchor’s voice shifts tone.
“—dramatic footage of the Thunderbolts’ mission this past Wednesday—”
Your brain barely registers it.
You glance at the screen.
Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.
A familiar flash of red and black—John Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.
Golden light. Blinding, unmistakable.
A blurred shot becomes a close-up.
He’s floating mid-air. Hair wild, cape tattered, jaw clenched in focus. Glowing.
It’s not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.
You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.
You snap your gaze toward him.
He doesn’t move, but his fork slowly lowers.
Your eyes dart to your dad. He’s starting to turn toward the screen.
Before he can react—click.
Your dad frowns. “Did the TV break again?”
Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No one’s the wiser.
And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.
You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.
Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.
“Hey,” you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. “Can you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.”
He rises without protest.
You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.
Then you turn, look up at him, and whisper—
You shut the door behind you.
Bob leans casually against the wall — too casually — like he isn’t literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.
You cross your arms. “Okay. Start talking.”
He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s waiting for a storm he knows is coming.
“I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.
You stare. “Bob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parents’ TV. With your mind.”
“I said I help people,” he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. “Sometimes I help save the world.”
You gape. “I thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I don’t know, a really good therapist!”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry. That probably would’ve been easier.”
“You’re—” You lower your voice, leaning in. “You’re The Sentry. You’re an actual Avenger. Or—Thunderbolt. Or—whatever the hell team you’re on.”
“Technically, I’m sort of on loan.”
You give him a look. “That's not the point.”
He’s quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just… waiting. Letting you process.
All the little things you overlooked:
The quiet strength in how he moved.
The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.
You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.
“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he says. “I liked the bookstore. I liked that you didn’t know. You talked to me like I was just… Bob.”
You blink. “Is that your real name?”
“And you really read fantasy novels?”
He actually smiles. “Especially the sad ones.”
You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.
“You came to dinner,” you murmur. “You sat through my uncle’s knee replacement story. You complimented my grandma’s brooch.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t hard. I meant it.”
The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.
The man who shyly kissed your cheek.
The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.
You rub a hand over your face. “I dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks I’m undateable.”
His voice is gentle. “You didn’t drag me. I said yes.”
You glance up at him. “Why?”
His gaze softens. “Because you asked.”
He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. “If you want to call this off now, I’ll understand. I’ll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.”
You laugh — a short, startled sound — but it breaks some of the tension.
You look up at him. “You’d really do that?”
“I’m a very convincing fake ex.”
You’re quiet for a moment. He’s still standing there — not defensive, not cocky — just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.
The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.
You find yourself saying, “Let’s just get through dessert.”
His brows raise slightly. “You sure?”
You nod. “We can panic later.”
He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.
“Okay,” he says. “Back to the pie.”
You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together — fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.
You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow… everything continues like nothing happened.
The pie’s been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.
Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, “Yes, ma’am,” with a small smile.
You stare at him for a second longer than you should.
He’s calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.
Milo won’t stop glancing over, like he’s replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.
You press your knee against Bob’s under the table.
When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. She’s humming. Actually humming.
You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.
After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bob’s arm like he’s already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, “You handled the chaos pretty well, son. That’s promising.”
You’re still not sure whether that’s a compliment or a threat.
Finally, it’s just the two of you at the door.
You walk Bob out onto the porch. The sky’s dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you don’t know what to do with them anymore.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, leaning against the railing. “I dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that or—”
Bob steps forward and kisses you.
It happens in the span of a heartbeat — his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.
When he pulls back, he whispers, “Sorry.”
He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.
Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain — watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.
Bob chuckles. “She’s committed. I respect it.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “That was mean.”
“That was method acting,” he teases.
You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to,” he says. “I meant what I said — I liked being asked.”
The air between you shifts — warmer now, quiet but honest.
You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.
He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.
You close the door gently, heart fluttering like it’s trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:
It starts like any other day.
You stop at your usual corner café, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.
For a moment, the world feels normal.
You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isn’t until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels… off.
Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.
Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.
“WHO IS THE SENTRY’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?” (Shocking New Romance Revealed — Civilian Involved?)
You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.
Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.
You nearly drop your coffee right there.
Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore — just a normal Tuesday morning — you don’t see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.
No — not a crowd. A swarm.
Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at… nothing, because the store isn’t even open yet.
Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.
And then, mercifully — your brain does the one logical thing.
You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.
“Hey—hey! That’s her!” someone yells behind you.
You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.
Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.
A figure drops from the fire escape like it’s nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.
Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.
She smiles. “So. You’re the girlfriend?”
You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. “I—I’m—who are you?!”
“Yelena,” she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. “Bob’s teammate. Sometimes assassin. Don’t worry, I’m nice-ish.”
You don’t take her hand. You just stare.
“I was sent to retrieve you,” she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. “Big mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.”
“I—I’m fine,” you lie, inching toward the wall.
Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. “You’re not fine.”
You exhale shakily. “How is this real?”
She grins. “You kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now you’re in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.”
You press your palms to your face.
Behind you, the voices are getting louder.
Yelena tilts her head toward the street. “Wanna escape this circus?”
“Come on.” She tosses you a hoodie from her bag — black, oversized. “Put this on. You’re going to Thunderbolts HQ.”
“Bob’s waiting,” she adds casually, “and he looks very stressed. It’s adorable.”
Your heart thumps harder.
You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner — quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.
As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.
She tosses a protein bar in your lap.
“You’re going to need energy,” she says. “They’re gonna love you.”
The shouting fades behind you.
And your life? Well. It’s never going to be quiet again.
The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe you’re hallucinating. That’s possible too.
Yelena’s sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.
Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.
Yelena hops out and waves you after her. “Don’t look nervous.”
“Then pretend you’re not. That’s what we all do.”
You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.
You? You’re in someone else’s hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brain’s still processing “Bob is the Sentry.”
Yelena leads you through a corridor like she’s returning a library book. “Try not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the team’s diversity initiative.”
Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. You’re still in someone else’s hoodie, your coffee’s long gone, and you haven’t quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.
She swings open a door, and inside it’s surprisingly normal — couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.
Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.
John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.
Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.
“Well, damn,” Walker says, leaning against the counter. “I thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.”
“I’m just saying, we’re happy for you, man. It’s cute. Weird, but cute.”
Ghost sips her tea. “He’s been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.”
Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh — and fail. A little.
Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.
She smiles, perfectly calm. “Glad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.”
Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesn’t look up. “So here’s the deal. We can’t exactly walk this story back without making it worse. You’re already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked… well, shockingly competent.”
Val finally meets your eyes. “So. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.”
You glance at Bob. “Would I… be staying with him?”
Val shrugs. “You’d have your own space. This isn’t The Bachelor. We’re not trying to force anything.”
You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.
“…Okay,” you say. “But I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.”
“Done,” Val says, already walking away. “Yelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.”
Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again — sort of. You’re standing near the couches, and he’s holding a mug like it’s a prop he forgot how to use.
“You, uh… handled that well.”
“I was sweating the entire time.”
You smile. “Didn’t show.”
There’s a pause. The good kind.
“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit, then quickly add, “I mean—not the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.”
He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didn’t know he needed.
He fidgets. “For the record, I didn’t just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.
Then, again, he softly says: “Do you think… once this blows over… maybe we could try the real thing?”
You consider it, heart full but calm.
A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy
