summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend
notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please! let me know if i’ve missed anything!
word count: 10937
“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.”
Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?”
You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation.
You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things.
It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since.
“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.”
“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.”
“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.”
“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-”
“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them.
Fuck.
There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?”
You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.”
Another awkward stretch of silence.
“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says.
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.”
“See you Friday, then.”
“See you Friday.”
You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud.
What the fuck did you just do?
-
Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them.
You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you.
Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?”
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply.
Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?”
You nod. “Whatever you’re having.”
He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder.
Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.”
She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?”
You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.”
Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty.
You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer.
“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?”
You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.”
Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.”
Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?”
You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.”
“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips.
“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends.
“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.”
Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?”
You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.”
You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly.
“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.”
He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return.
“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.”
Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.”
You raise a brow. “That easy?”
He lifts a finger. “On one condition.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?”
He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.”
Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.”
Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.”
You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.”
He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation.
-
You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put.
You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously.
You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him.
Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it.
A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to.
“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.”
Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment.
Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?”
“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?”
“Spencer is always civilized.”
You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.”
You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.”
Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.”
Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?”
“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.”
The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping.
He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom.
Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch.
“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”
You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused.
“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?”
Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.”
You choke on air. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.”
You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.”
Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.”
When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.”
Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture.
You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.”
Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?”
You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.”
Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.”
You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness.
He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.”
You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge.
Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.”
Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop.
You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.”
“Hey, how are you?”
Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?”
Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.”
“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.”
You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.”
Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.”
His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.”
You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.”
Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?”
You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.”
“I highly fucking doubt it.”
Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.”
With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.”
His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.”
“I know.”
You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.”
“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place.
The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.”
Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.”
The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?”
He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.”
You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare.
And it almost wrecks you.
Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves.
But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything?
“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?”
You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.”
Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.”
You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-”
“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.”
Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.”
You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.”
Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.”
You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had.
“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.”
You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life.
That’s the plan, anyway.
But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it.
Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking?
Yeah. This might be harder than you thought.
The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute.
Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.”
You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt.
You feel it everywhere.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.”
Your breath stutters. This is just pretend.
Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest.
“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob.
The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock.
“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?”
You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down.
Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership.
He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats.
But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life.
“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?”
Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.”
You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted.
Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.”
Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.”
Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.”
Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.”
You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs.
Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.”
“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one.
Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.”
Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?”
Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.”
You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along.
“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.”
Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.”
“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much.
“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.”
You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first.
“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.”
Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer.
“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.”
Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face.
You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard.
“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.”
Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment.
You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.”
He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.”
You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.”
His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?”
Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.”
He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?”
Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting.
“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-”
The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears.
Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he’s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne.
You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it.
You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair.
You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him.
Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you.
This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all.
-
Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.”
You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you.
The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.”
Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke.
Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...”
He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there.
“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle.
You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.”
Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?”
You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader.
“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe.
Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?”
You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash.
It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you.
He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible.
You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones.
Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf.
Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh?
The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you.
You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.”
He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.”
You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.”
You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted?
You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream.
You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat.
“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?”
He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.”
His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-”
“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea.
You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.”
“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.”
His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle.
“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.”
Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight.
You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes.
“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop.
His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?”
Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?”
“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge.
You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him.
What the fuck are you doing?
Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way?
He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package?
The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag.
You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly.
You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever.
You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining.
You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake.
He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips.
“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.”
You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter.
“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”
“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?”
You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be.
“I didn’t ask you to come in.”
“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.”
The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone.
“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases.
“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast.
“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink.
You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles.
“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching.
He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare.
You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then:
BZZZZZZZZZZZT.
The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath.
“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved.
He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.”
You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.”
He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?”
You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet.
Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell.
“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.”
You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake.
“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body.
You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-”
“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.”
Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed.
You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years.
Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.”
His dreams?
Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one.
Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless.
Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching.
You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system.
You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room.
He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.
You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand.
Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?”
You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.”
Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?”
You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days.
“Jake…”
His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that.
Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.”
You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest.
“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.”
Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything.
Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then—
“Fuck it.”
He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself.
You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once.
Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to.
You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes.
You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.”
-
You wake up warm. Too warm.
Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale.
You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he.
And then... you remember everything.
The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for.
Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you.
“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.”
“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.”
You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions.
By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.”
You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?”
“Not when I’m this right.”
You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser.
“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.”
Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?”
“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.”
You arch a brow. “Define right.”
He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.”
You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard.
But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand.
Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-”
You smirk. “Jealous?”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery.
To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend.
“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.”
Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?”
A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.”
He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.”
He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped.
If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them.
“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?”
You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life?
You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin.
It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second.
You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something.
The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts.
Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door.
“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out.
“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear.
You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern.
“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently.
When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator.
But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.”
You shake your head. “I’m not broken.”
“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present.
You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut.
“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking.
He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him.
“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.”
The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.”
Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?”
Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning.
Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.
You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in.
“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.”
He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync.
“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.”
Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train.
“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.”
“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said.
Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.”
And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall.
Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window.
But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional.
“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.”
Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out.
Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?”
Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock.
You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment.
There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs.
Could you write something for bob? Anything. I really enjoyed ‘cry baby’ if that helps.
All the best
A/n: Hiii! I was waiting for the moment when I finally get the kick to write to Bob and this was it! I actually got a bunch of ideas, but in the end I settled for this! Hope it was worth the wait - I do plan to share other tropes for Bob as well... maybe in a Cry baby universe? ;) But for now, ENJOY!
That’s my wife
Robert 'Bob' Floyd x fem!reader
⤞ My masterlist ⤝
═══════☆♡☆═══════
It was crowded in Hard Deck, as it was every Friday night. Bob usually didn't mind, always staying close to his group by the pool, but today was different. All of a sudden, he felt annoyed by the pushing bodies, making it hard for him to see the entrance of the bar. Because today was not an ordinary night at the pub. Something special was happening for Robert Floyd, thanks to special someone about to make an appearance.
And just as he thought about her, he manifested her presence into the bar.
Bob would recognize his wife anywhere. Even in a totally packed Hard Deck, where he probably wouldn't be able to find his own mother. She made her way through those sweaty bodies, her 'excuse me's and 'thank you's flowing through his ears like a sweet melody.
Bob started to look for a place to put his beer to for the time, ready to meet the girl of his dreams at the bar just like they agreed to. When he finally found a small space under the window, he heard a loud whistle. His head snapped.
"And who is this pretty lady," Hangman's voice made the whole company turn as he gazed towards the bar. "Ha, Hangman," Rooster joined him at the staring contest, nudging his ribs. "You can bet, she wouldn't go for a guy like you," he grinned, seeing Jake's shocked face. "A guy like me?" He repeated. "Then what are you? A trashcan?" He retorted, wiping the smile from Rooster's lips in a second.
Bob gulped. He followed the direction in which the two were looking.
His body froze on the spot, trying to figure out what to do. They were eyeing her. She was beautiful, as always. It was these moments, when Bob couldn't comprehend his own luck. His right hand traveled to his left, subconsciously playing with the ring on his finger. Well, shit.
"You're just worried she wouldn't go for a trashcan like you," Hangman provoked and everyone could only watch with a small smile how quickly Bradshaw took the bait. "We'll see about that," and with that, he was on his way to the center of the room, Jake Seresin right at his heels.
Bob was too stunned to do anything. Something in him started to burn, eating him from the inside, pinching every corner of his heart. But he just kept on twisting the golden ring, not noticing the questioning look Phoenix gave him. Her face twisted in surprise at first, connecting the dots pretty quick despite the silence from her best friend. But then she was right beside Bob, nudging his shoulder a little.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "She's got the same ring on her finger," Bob only managed to nod. Natasha's face brightened. "Congrats," she gave him a smile and Bob shared the enthusiasm with a small lift of the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, finally picking up the courage to take a step forward. "I told her about you, although I wish this wasn't the way they meet for the first time," Natasha caught his arm in his motion.
"Hold on," she said, nodding towards the three at the bar. "I wanna see this,"
"Hey there," Rooster went all out. His huge frame surely made an entrance for him, but an additional smile and a confident greet couldn't hurt. And beside that, chicks are digging his deep voice.
Before you even got to turn around, another man was standing beside him, his smile brighter as ever. You eyed them both, with Hangman pushing Rooster to the side and stepping forward. "Is he annoying you? I can take care of him for you," Hangman cooed, not noticing your slight lean backwards, away from the two peacocks in front of you. It took you a while to recognize them, but after a few seconds, it was unmistakable who these two were. You knew them from a photo of the whole group Bob was showing you after he got back from his mission. You weren't sure if you were supposed to laugh or cry. Who would have thought you would meet like this?
☆ ☆ ☆
"That's Hangman" Bob pointed at a handsome pilot with a smile that shined with bright white teeth. "Avoid him at all cost," he looked at you, his eyes completely serious, which only made you burst into a fit of laughter. "I'm serious," he said, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I can see that," you breathed, your hands travelling to his back and rubbing it reassuringly. "But noted," your kiss tickled Bob's cheek, spreading a tint of pink across his face.
"And this is?" you pointed to a tall man with a stache, his big arm hugging your husband around the shoulders. "Oh, that's Rooster," Bob's eyes softened. "And this is Nat, right?" you exclaimed, pointing at the woman hugged by Rooster from the other side. "Yeah, that's her," you two shared a smile as you watched Bob slide his fingers across the photo. "I can't wait to meet them," you said softly into the warm morning and Bob couldn't help but smile sweetly. "They mean a lot to me," he whispered back, gulping. "I know," you turned his face towards you before pecking his lips, both of you falling into a calm silence of comfort with each other.
☆ ☆ ☆
You slightley stretched upwards, trying to look past the men's broad shoulders that bumped to each other, trying to push the other out of the way. Your husband was nowhere to be seen and although you were quite enthusiastic to meet his crew, enthusiasim was pretty far from what you were feeling now. You watched the two glaring at each other and you bit back a smile. If only they knew.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Rooster pushed forward, making Hangman stumble back. "Get in line, chicken," Hangman grabbed his shoulder, forcing himself next to you instead of Rooster. "Boys, I hate to say this-" you began, your fingers falling on the ring on your left hand.
"Come on, sweetheart, let me get you something," before you could finish, you were blinded by Jake's perfect set of teeth, the photo from Bob apparently doing it injustice. "Guys-" you tried to speak up, but to no avail. "Penny, one more on me," Jake called to the woman behind the bar, who only nodded, preoccuppied with other customers. You sighed.
"Don't listen to him," Rooster touched your right hand gently, making you look at him. Ah, missed. The two completely ignored the shiny stone on your ring finger glistening in the dimmed lights of Hard Deck. You decided to let them go in this one, forcing on a straight face as they bickered with each other.
"They are all over her. Maybe I should-" Bob watched the bar, an anxiety creeping into his voice. Phoenix looked closer, noticing the crease forming between his eyebrows and the way he narrowed his eyes. His hands, unbeknownst to him, closed into fists. He was ready to shoot.
"Bob?" she grabbed him by his shoulder, grounding him. He looked at her, his brown eyes a little lost. "I've got your back," she tightened her squeez and that was all Bob needed. It was time to get his wife.
"And why shouldn't she listen to me? She obviously likes what she sees," Jake retorted, nudging you with a flirty smile. "Cause you're a casanova, Bagman," Rooster fought back. "You wouldn't smell love even if it was right under your nose," you had to pause at those words, yanking your hand from Rooster. This was going too far. Bradley looked at you in surprise, to which Hangman bursted out laughing. "You too, so it seems," he got out through heavy breaths, leaning on the bar for support. "Nice one sweetheart,"
"Speaking of love, gentlemen," a woman's voice came from behind the two competing mountains of men. They both turned to the lieutenant who grined at them. If she didn't have ears, she would be smiling all around. "Nat," you sighed in relief, recognising her immediately. "In the flesh," she grinned at you. "It's so nice finally meeting you," she said, Jake and Bradley exchanging confused looks. "Bob told me so much about you," you ignored the two, clinging to a conversation with Natasha like a tick. "Bob?!" the loud yell of both aviators brought you back to the reality. "Are you Bob's sister or some-"
"Yeah, no, I didn't have you for the types to go after married women," Nat giggled, cutting off Hangman as the two completely paled. They slowly turned towards you, their eyes falling on your left hand resting on the counter. A silence fell on the Hard Deck.
"Whose-" Rooster was the first to recover. "Mine," a bright smile blossomed on your face as you saw Bob walk from behind Natasha. "Sorry, looks like I got here first," he grinned as well before stepping in front of you. "Penny?" he called out, but he didn't have to say anything else.
That night, Hard Deck was filled with the dreading sound of a bell and if Rooster and Hangman could become more pale than they already were, they probably did. "Guys," Bob turned sround, his hand automatically traveling to your lower back. "This," he looked at you, his eyes twingkling in the warm light.
"Oh no," Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand through his face.
"Oh shit" Rooster let out.
"This is my wife,"
Your face brightened hearing the words as cheers errupted from around you - everyone ecstatic they will get a free round. And there was a lot of them. "Nice one, Bobby," Coyote and the rest joined the group, not even trying to hide their smiles. They mirrored Bob's contagious smile, the warm atmosphere spreading to everyone around. Well, to almost everyone.
"How do you want to pay?" Penny stopped by amidst pouring shots, smirking at Hangman and Rooster, both still in shock, grilled in their own embarrassment. "We-" the two looked at each other pleadingly for help from the other. "Shit," both said at the same time. "Well, lads," Payback and Fanboy patted their shoulders. "It was nice to know you," they pushed them lightly towards the door leading to the empty beach.
"I'm gonna kill you, Bagman," Rooster glared at his friend, Jake only laughing slightly. "Can you believe it? Our little Bobby found himself a wife! And I went after her!" he laughed at himself. "Yeah, cause you're a fucking idiot!" Roosters last words disappeared into the night, drowned in the laughter and chatter of the people around.
"Well, that was something," you giggled, looking back at the two men, now having it out with each other, their feet sinking in the cold sand. "You're okay? I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Bob started to apologize but you knew how to shut him up.
"I'm okay. Better even, now that you're here," you pulled back. "And here I was, thinking that they wouldn't like me," you joked, making Bob snort as others joined you.
"Congrats, man," Fanboy hugged Bob around the shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. "You seem like a lot of fun," Coyote laughed, pointing at you. "I sure am. If only they listened," everyone followed your motion to the entrance, "they could have had some fun too,"
Everyone laughed as you looked at your ring one more time. "But honestly, Bob, where did you find her? She's hot! Do you have siblings?" Payback had to chime in, other boys only agreeing with his statement and awaiting your answer. You only shook your head, earning a few groans from the group. "No wonder she got those two out of their minds," Natasha smirked.
"Yeah," Robert's eyes fell to the floor, suddenly feeling overwhelmed from the compliments. A sheepish smile spread on his face.
That's my wife
═══════☆♡☆═══════
Let me know how you liked this story with a like, comment and repost!
Who should be next from the Dagger squad?
If you liked this story, you might like -> Cry-baby -> 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 -> Explosion
Summary: After Bob lies about his feelings to avoid squad gossip, you overhear him and begin dating Eddie to cope with the heartbreak. However, when Eddie turns out to be controlling and toxic, Bob realizes his mistake and must decide whether to step in and confess his love to protect you.
Word Count: 6.2k
Warnings/Tags: mutual pining, angst, miscommunication, friends to lovers, platonic to lovers, hurt/comfort, rebound relationship, coercive/unhealthy relationship (non-squad partner, so not with bob), subtle physical aggression/arm grabbing, fluff, no use of y/n, mentioned boyfriend named eddie, no smut (sorry, not sorry!)
A/N: this took like forever to write and there's a little bit of miscommunication, but anyways, hope you enjoy !!
Call Sign: Angel
The briefing room at North Island was usually loud, but when the Daggers were crammed into it, the ambient noise level rivaled a jet engine idling on the tarmac.
You sat in the back row, your legs stretched out under the narrow desk, idly twirling a black sharpie between your fingers. To anyone else, you looked completely focused on the flight manuals spread out in front of you. But if anyone looked a little closer—if Natasha looked a little closer—it was obvious your attention was anchored squarely on the man sitting three rows ahead.
Bob Floyd.
He was leaning slightly over his notebook, blue eyes tracking whatever Maverick was sketching on the whiteboard. His wire-rimmed glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose just a fraction, and without even thinking, he used the knuckle of his index finger to push them back up. It was a habit of his. A habit you had spent the last eight months obsessively cataloging, alongside the way his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck when he was overdue for a haircut, or how his unusually attractive hands—broad, steady, and precise—looked when he was working a MFD screen in the back of an F/A-18.
God, you were so hopelessly, pathetically in love with him.
It was an absolute disaster. You were a top-tier Navy aviator, capable of pulling 9 Gs through a canyon without breaking a sweat, yet the mere sound of Robert "Bob" Floyd saying your callsign made your stomach do a series of undignified backflips.
"If you stare at the back of his head any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through his flight helmet," a voice murmured beside you.
You didn't even flinch, keeping your gaze trained on your manual as Natasha slid into the empty seat to your left.
"I'm not staring," you lied smoothly, capping your sharpie with an audible snap. "I'm reviewing low-level terrain protocols."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England," Nat dryly replied, unscrewing the cap of her water bottle. She took a slow sip, her eyes flicking toward Bob before settling back on you. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look at him like he hung the moon, but the second he turns around, you act like you're inspecting the paint quality on the drywall." Nat shook her head, a mix of affection and pity in her eyes. "Angel, you've been pining for this man since the day we got assigned to the Dagger detachment. When are you actually going to do something about it?"
"Never," you whispered, leaning in closer so the surrounding chatter of Hangman and Coyote arguing about radar locks would drown you out. "We're friends, Nat. Really good friends. If I say something and he doesn't feel the same way, everything changes. The squad dynamic gets weird, flying together gets awkward, and I lose my best friend."
"He doesn't look at you like just a friend," Nat pointed out, arching a dark brow. "Did you see him at the Hard Deck last Friday? The guy practically tackled a guy who tried to buy you a drink."
"He was being protective! That guy was obnoxious and already had three DUIs worth of tequila in his system," you countered, though your heart traitorously fluttered at the memory. "Bob's just a gentleman. He's polite, he's sweet, and he respects women. It doesn't mean he wants to jump my bones."
Natasha let out a long, suffering sigh, dropping her head back against her chair. "You two are going to drive me to early retirement. I swear to God. I'm surrounded by elite fighter pilots who lose all intellectual capacity the moment feelings are involved."
"You're the only one who knows, Phoenix," you reminded her sharply, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. "And it stays that way. Swear it."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm a vault, you know that," she muttered, though she gave your knee an empathetic squeeze under the desk. "Just... don't wait forever, Angel. Guys like Bob don't stay oblivious forever. Eventually, someone else is going to notice how great he is."
The thought hit your chest like a physical blow—sour, heavy, and cold. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. "I'll cross that bridge if I ever get to it."
An hour later, the briefing wrapped up, and Maverick dismissed the unit for a short break before ground school drills.
The room cleared out in a wave of green flight suits, loud laughter, and heavy boots scraping against linoleum. You stayed behind for a few minutes to organize your notes, stuffing your binder into your duffel bag. Natasha had headed out ahead of you to grab a fresh cup of coffee, leaving you alone in the quiet classroom.
Zipping up your bag, you slung it over your shoulder and walked out into the long, fluorescent-lit hallway of the squadron building. The corridor was mostly empty, save for the hum of the vending machines near the far end.
You were heading toward the breakroom when you heard familiar voices drifting from around the corner—near the equipment storage lockers.
"Oh, come on, Bobby. You're killing me here," Hangman's distinct, southern drawl echoed off the cinderblock walls.
You paused mid-step, your boots making no sound on the rubber runner.
"I'm not having this conversation with you, Jake," Bob's voice replied. It was calm, even, but carried that slight edge of annoyance he reserved exclusively for Hangman's relentless teasing.
You leaned your shoulder against the wall just out of sight, curiosity getting the better of you.
"Why not?" Hangman pressed, the smirk practically audible in his voice. "We all have eyes, Floyd. The way you hover around her? The way you look like you're about to faint every time she laughs at your stupid dad jokes? It's pathetic, man. Just ask her out already. Settle the bet."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Her?
Were they talking about you? They had to be. You were the one who laughed at his terrible jokes. You were the one he spent half his off-duty hours with. Your breath caught in your throat, hope—bright, terrifying, and overwhelming—blooming in your chest. Was Hangman actually pushing Bob to make a move? Was it really that obvious to everyone else?
You held your breath, waiting for Bob's response. Your hands tightened into fists at your sides, every nerve ending in your body straining to hear his answer.
"There is no bet, Hangman," Bob said, his tone turning colder, flatter.
"Whatever," Jake scoffed. "Point is, she's single, she's hot, and she clearly doesn't hate your guts. What are you waiting for? A written invitation from the Secretary of the Navy?"
There was a long beat of silence. You could hear the distant hum of the air conditioning. The anticipation was suffocating. You squeezed your eyes shut, praying to whatever higher power was listening. Please, Bob. Say it. Just say it.
Then, Bob spoke.
His voice didn't waver. It didn't hesitate. It was deadpan, completely devoid of emotion.
"Drop it, Jake. She's not my type. We're strictly platonic."
The world seemed to stop spinning.
The air was instantly sucked straight out of your lungs. It felt as though someone had reached inside your chest, wrapped a fist around your heart, and squeezed until it burst.
"Not your type?" Hangman repeated, sounding genuinely surprised for once. "Seriously? Man, I thought for sure you were head over heels."
"You thought wrong," Bob replied smoothly, his boots shifting on the tile floor as he adjusted his gear bag. "Angel is a great pilot and a good teammate, but that's where it ends. We're friends. Just friends. So stop pushing it, because it's getting old."
"Alright, alright! Sheesh, touchy," Hangman chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just trying to help you get lucky, Bob. My mistake."
You didn't hear the rest of their conversation. You couldn't.
Your ears were ringing with a deafening, high-pitched static. The hallway felt suddenly too narrow, the air too thick to breathe. Every single word Bob had just said repeated in your head on a brutal, agonizing loop.
She's not my type. We're strictly platonic. Just friends.
What you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly know as you stood frozen in the hallway, fighting back a wave of nausea—was the look on Bob's face as Hangman walked away.
Bob stood by his locker, his jaw clenched tight, his knuckles white where he gripped his bag strap. He closed his eyes and let out a harsh, frustrated breath through his nose.
He had lied. He had lied right to Hangman's smug, punchable face.
The truth was, Bob was so wildly, desperately in love with you that it scared him to death. But he knew how the Daggers worked. He knew Hangman. If Jake so much as smelled a hint of genuine romantic interest, he would turn it into a relentless circus. He'd relentless tease Bob, make crude jokes, interfere, drag the rest of the squad into it, and make things hopelessly complicated.
Bob didn't want a circus. He didn't want the squad to turn his feelings for you into a locker-room spectator sport. He wanted to court you properly. Privately. He wanted to take you out to a quiet dinner, without Hangman shouting from across the bar, without Rooster and Coyote placing bets on when they'd catch you kissing, without the pressure of the entire unit staring at you both. He needed to protect whatever delicate, beautiful thing was growing between you two before Hangman burned it to the ground.
So he had put up his armor. He had said the one thing that would shut Hangman down instantly and permanently: She's not my type.
It was a tactical deflection. A lie meant to buy him space and time.
Bob let out another breath, adjusting his glasses, completely unaware of the destruction his tactical lie had just caused.
Behind the wall, you forced your legs to move. You took a step back, then another, before turning around and practically running down the corridor.
You ducked into the single-occupancy restroom near the back exit, slamming the door shut and locking it behind you. You threw your duffel bag on the floor and gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror.
Your eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, your breathing ragged.
Not my type.
The words sliced through you over and over again. All those nights spent laughing together at the diner... all those quiet moments in the hangar... all those times he had held your gaze just a fraction of a second too long... it had all been in your head. You had projected your own desperate feelings onto a man who looked at you and saw nothing more than a wingman. A bro. A buddy.
A tear finally escaped, hot and bitter, tracking down your cheek. You wiped it away furiously with the back of your hand, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror.
You felt utterly foolish. Humiliated. Heartbroken.
You had given your heart to Robert Floyd, and without even knowing it, he had crushed it into dust under the heel of his boot.
Fine, you thought, a cold, numb hardness slowly settling over the raw wound in your chest as you straightened up and turned on the cold water tap to wash your face. If strictly platonic is what you want, Lieutenant... that's exactly what you're going to get.
The change didn't happen in a explosion; it happened in a deep freeze.
You gave yourself one night to cry into your pillow, letting the humiliation burn itself out, and by the time the sun broke over Coronado the next morning, you had built a wall around your heart made of solid ice. If Lieutenant Robert Floyd wanted "strictly platonic" and professional distance, you were going to give him an masterclass in it.
It started at the morning briefing.
Bob walked into the room early, carrying two paper cups from the local coffee shop—a dark roast for himself and the sweet vanilla iced coffee he knew you favored. He walked over to your usual spot in the back row, a warm, relaxed smile tugging at his lips as he set the cup down on your desk.
"Morning, Angel," he said, his voice soft, almost intimate in the morning quiet. "Grabbed this for you on the way in."
You didn't look up from your notebook. Your hands didn't pause as you flipped through your pre-flight checklist.
"I'm fine, Lieutenant. Thank you," you said. Your tone wasn't screaming mad; it was worse. It was dead, level, and politely detached.
Bob blinked, his smile faltering slightly. He lingered by your desk, shifting his weight. "Lieutenant? You... usually call me Bob."
"We're on duty," you replied, keeping your eyes locked onto the paper. You picked up the coffee cup, walked over to the trash can near the door, and dropped it inside with a soft thud. You walked right back to your seat without looking at him once. "It's better to keep things strictly professional, don't you think?"
Bob stood frozen in the aisle, his hand still hovering over the back of your chair. He looked like he had just been slapped across the face. His brows furrowed behind his glasses, a look of deep confusion and sudden anxiety flashing across his features.
Over the next two weeks, the wall only grew higher.
You stopped sitting next to him during briefs. If he sat down at a table in the mess hall, you finished your meal in three minutes flat and excused yourself. When he tried to linger in the hangar after flights to banter with you about radar locks, you handed him your kneeboard, gave him a brief, crisp debrief summary, and walked away before he could even offer a response.
The rest of the Daggers noticed immediately.
"Did you two have a fight or something?" Natasha asked one afternoon in the locker room, watching as you furiously pulled off your flight boots. "Because Bob looks like a kicked puppy every time you walk out of a room."
"No fight," you said flatly, keeping your back to her. "Just adjusting my boundaries. He cleared up where we stand, and I'm honoring it."
"Angel, the man is miserable," Nat pressed. "He spent twenty minutes yesterday staring at an empty chair because you didn't join us for lunch."
"He'll live," you snapped softly, slamming your locker door shut.
But inside, you were drowning. Every sharp word you gave him, every time you saw his face fall when you brushed past him, it hurt you just as much as it hurt him. But the alternative—caring about someone who viewed you as nothing more than an inconvenient platonic buddy—was unbearable.
You needed a way out. You needed an anchor to pull you out of the quicksand of your feelings for Bob.
Enter Eddie.
You met him at a casual bar off base on a Friday night. He was a contractor for defense logistics—civilian, polite, and handsome. But the moment he walked up to you and offered to buy you a drink, your heart didn't leap. It did something far stranger, far more psychological.
When Eddie smiled, his jawline had a sharp angle. He wore button-down shirts rolled up at the elbows. He had soft brown hair parted to the side, and when he laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
If you squinted—if you let the noise of the bar blur out, if you tilted your head just right and didn't look too closely—Eddie looked almost identical to Bob Floyd.
He was a proxy. A copy. A distraction tailored specifically to fill the crater Bob had left in your chest.
"You look like you're miles away," Eddie said smoothly, leaning against the bar and flashing that familiar, crooked smile.
"Just thinking," you lied, forcing a sweet, bright smile onto your face as you took a sip of your drink. "Tell me more about your work, Eddie."
Within three days, you made sure the relationship was public. You let Eddie walk you to the gate. You let him hold your hand in front of the squadron hangar. You wore his oversized jacket when it got chilly in the evenings.
You used Eddie like a shield.
And from across the flight line, standing in the shadows of an F/A-18 hangar, Bob Floyd watched it all happen—his jaw set tight, his hands buried deep in his pockets, completely unaware that the man kissing your cheek was nothing more than a ghost of himself.
It didn't take long for Eddie to become a permanent fixture around the edges of your daily routine.
Every morning at 0700 sharp, a sleek black sedan would pull up to the squadron gate, dropping you off right at the perimeter walkway. Every evening at 1800, like clockwork, the same car would be waiting by the curb near the hangar bay doors.
To the rest of the Daggers, it looked like you had moved on seamlessly. Hangman cracked jokes about you finding a "civilian prince," Rooster gave you encouraging nods, and Natasha stayed quietly observant, her dark eyes darting between you, your new boyfriend, and the agonizingly quiet weapon systems officer who seemed to be losing his mind in slow motion.
Bob was drowning in his own hell.
Every time he saw Eddie—every time he saw another man’s hand resting on the small of your back, or watched you lean up to press a quick kiss to Eddie’s cheek before heading toward the briefing room—it felt like a physical blow to his ribs. The agony was compounded tenfold by the sick, twisting realization that he had done this to himself. His stupid, reckless lie to Hangman to "protect his chances" had utterly decimated them instead. He had tried to play it safe, and in doing so, he had pushed you straight into the arms of a guy who looked, from a distance, suspiciously like him.
Bob spent hours leaning against the railing of the second-story hangar balcony, ostensibly reviewing flight paths on his kneeboard, but really just watching. Watching the way Eddie stood too close to you. Watching the way Eddie held your wrist.
And the more Bob watched, the more his heartache turned into a cold, sickening coil of alarm.
At first, it was subtle. Small things that a casual observer might miss, but Bob—a back-seater whose entire job relied on hyper-vigilance, pattern recognition, and spotting minute details at Mach 2—couldn't ignore.
He noticed it on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
You were standing near the passenger side of Eddie's car. You were laughing, saying something about heading back inside because you forgot your flight log. Eddie didn't laugh back. Bob watched through the glass windows of the hangar as Eddie’s jaw tightened. Eddie didn't just touch your arm to stop you; he gripped your upper forearm, his fingers digging in with enough pressure that even through your olive-drab flight suit, you visibly winced and pulled back.
Eddie didn't let go immediately. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, speaking in a rapid, low tone that caused your bright smile to instantly vanish. Your shoulders slumped, your body language pulling inward, small and defensive. You nodded once, surrendered, and got into the car instead of going back for your log.
Bob’s hands clamped onto the metal balcony railing so hard his knuckles turned white as bone. A dark, terrifying heat flared in his chest.
That wasn't right.
Two days later, it happened again.
The squad was getting ready to head over to the Hard Deck for a casual Friday night drink. You were standing by your locker, pulling a simple leather jacket over your clothes, when your phone buzzed on the bench. You picked it up, read the text, and let out a small, tired sigh.
"Not coming?" Natasha asked, lacing up her boots nearby.
"Eddie's outside," you said, forcing a faint, polite smile that didn't reach your eyes. "He... he prefers if we stick to one-on-one dinners on the weekends. He says the bar gets too loud and he doesn't like the squad dynamic."
Natasha frowned, her brows drawing together. "Angel, you've missed the last three squad nights. You're allowed to hang out with your friends, you know."
"It's fine, Nat. Really. He just gets defensive," you murmured, slipping your phone into your pocket. "It's easier this way."
From three lockers down, hidden behind his open metal door, Bob heard every single word. His teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. He leaned his head back against the cold steel of his locker, closing his eyes as a wave of pure rage and helpless terror washed over him.
It wasn't just jealousy anymore. It was no longer about the fact that Eddie was kissing the woman Bob was hopelessly in love with.
This was about control. Eddie was isolating you. He was cutting you off from your friends, asserting physical dominance, and dictating where you could go and who you could talk to. And Bob could see the drain it was taking on you—the way the bright, firecracker energy that made you Angel was slowly being dimmed, replaced by a quiet, walking-on-eggshells hyper-vigilance.
Bob slammed his locker door shut with a heavy CLANG that made half the room jump.
"Woah, easy there, Sunshine," Hangman called out, raising an eyebrow. "What did that locker ever do to you?"
Bob didn't answer. He didn't even look at Jake. He brushed past the group, his navy eyes fixed on the glass doors leading out to the parking lot.
Through the glass, he saw Eddie’s car idling near the curb. He saw you walking toward it, your head down, your hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets.
Bob stood in the dim hallway, his chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides. He couldn't say anything to you—you had built a impenetrable wall of professional ice between you two, shutting him out completely. You wouldn't listen to him. You'd think he was just being a jealous, petty ex-friend trying to sabotage your new relationship.
He was trapped. And watching the woman he loved slowly slip into the hands of a controlling asshole was driving Robert Floyd completely out of his mind.
The atmosphere in the North Island parking lot was thick with heat, the late afternoon sun beating down on the asphalt. You stepped out of the hangar doors, your bag slung over one shoulder, feeling exhaustion deep in your bones after a brutal six-hour flight simulator block.
At the curb, Eddie’s black sedan was idling.
You took a breath, putting on a faint smile as you walked up to the passenger side. But before you could even touch the handle, the door slammed open and Eddie stepped out into the sunlight. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, anger radiating off him in waves.
"Where were you?" Eddie demanded, his voice dangerously low as he cut off your path to the car. "I’ve been standing out here for fifteen minutes. You said you’d be down at 5:30."
"My debrief ran late, Eddie," you said softly, looking around nervously. A few ground crew members were milling around near the transport bays. "I tried to text you, but my phone died in the sim room."
"I don't care about your excuse," Eddie snapped, stepping directly into your personal space. He reached out and grabbed your upper arm—his thumb digging hard into the soft flesh above your elbow, clamping down with a violent, possessive grip that squeezed right through your jacket. "When I say 5:30, I mean 5:30. I have places to be, and I’m not sitting around like your damn chauffeur."
"Eddie, stop—you're hurting me," you hissed through gritted teeth, trying to wrench your arm back, but his fingers tightened until white-hot pain shot up to your shoulder.
"You don't get to tell me what to do—"
Before Eddie could finish the sentence, a shadow fell over the pavement.
A pair of hands—broad, callous, and bursting with absolute, unbridled rage—grabbed Eddie by the back of his collar and the front of his jacket, yanked him backward with terrifying force, and slammed him flat against the side of his own sedan.
The heavy metallic CRUNCH echoed across the tarmac.
"Get your fucking hands off her," Bob snarled.
You gasped, stumbling back. You had never heard Bob Floyd raise his voice like that. His glasses were slightly crooked on his nose, his eyes narrowed into deadly, icy slits, his breathing heavy and ragged as he pinned Eddie against the driver's door by his throat.
"Who the hell are you?!" Eddie yelled, his eyes wide with shock and panic as he tried to pry Bob’s forearm off his windpipe. "Back off, man! This isn't your business!"
"I said," Bob spat, leaning in until he was inches from Eddie's face, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, primal danger, "don't ever touch her again."
Eddie tried to swing a frantic right hook at Bob’s face. Bob didn't even flinch—he caught Eddie’s wrist mid-air, twisted it back with a sharp, brutal torque, and shoved Eddie sideways into the front fender. Eddie hit the hood with a heavy groan, clutching his bent wrist, his ego bruised far worse than his body.
"Fuck this!" Eddie spat, scrambling up, his face white with rage as he pointed a trembling finger between you and Bob. "You're fucking crazy! Both of you! We are done! I'm done with your military bullshit and your fucking psycho friends!"
Eddie didn't wait for a response. He threw himself into the driver's seat, slammed the door, spun his tires with a deafening screech of rubber, and sped out of the station gate, leaving a cloud of exhaust behind.
You stood on the asphalt, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Your arm was throbbing where Eddie had pinched it, your heart hammering against your ribs. You stared at the empty road, then slowly turned your head to look at Bob.
Bob was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his green flight suit. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, his knuckles red, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line.
He didn't offer an apology. He didn't ask if you were okay.
Without saying a single word, Bob took two heavy strides toward you. Before you could process what he was doing, he leaned down, threw his shoulder right into your midsection, and hoisted you clean off the ground.
"Bob! Hey!" you shrieked, your vision suddenly flipping upside down as your boots left the pavement. "Put me down! What are you doing?!"
He ignored you completely. Slinging his arm securely around the backs of your thighs to lock you in place, he picked up your fallen gear bag with his free hand and began marching straight toward his dark blue Chevy Silverado parked fifty yards away.
"Bob! Stop it! Everyone is looking at us!" you yelled, your face flushing bright red as you beat your fists uselessly against his broad, solid back. It was like punching a brick wall. "Let me go!"
He didn't say a word. He reached his truck, unlocked the passenger door with his key fob, opened it, and lifted you off his shoulder, setting you firmly down into the passenger seat. Before you could make a move to slide out, he leaned over, pulled the seatbelt across your chest, clicked it into the buckle, and glared straight into your eyes from six inches away.
"Stay," he said. The single word was a dark, low command.
He slammed the passenger door shut. You watched through the glass, stunned into silence, as he walked around the hood, opened the driver's door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut behind him.
He thrust the key into the ignition, the V8 engine roaring to life with a deep rumble. He threw the truck into gear and tore out of the parking lot, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were stark white.
For the first two miles, the silence inside the cab was suffocating. The only sound was the deep hum of the tires on the asphalt and the forced, heavy rhythm of Bob's breathing.
"What is wrong with you?!" you suddenly exploded, turning in your seat to glare at him, your voice cracking with sheer, overwhelming emotion. "Who gave you the right to do that?! To jump him, to break us up, to carry me around like a piece of luggage?!"
Bob stared straight ahead at the highway, his profile etched in stone. He didn't answer.
"Answer me!" you shouted, tears of frustration and anger burning at the backs of your eyes. "Why do you care, Bob?! Why do you suddenly care what I do, or who I'm with, or who I let touch me?! You made it perfectly clear where we stand!"
"Shut up," he gritted out quietly, his eyes never leaving the road.
"No! I won't shut up!" you yelled, your voice breaking as the tears finally spilled over your cheeks. "You don't get to act like my protector! You don't get to play hero when it suits you! You don't care about me like that! You said it yourself—we're just friends! So why do you care so damn much who I date?!"
A heavy, thick, agonizing silence fell over the truck again. The atmosphere was pressurized, volatile, ready to ignite at a single spark.
Bob didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes locked onto the pavement ahead, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together.
Finally, his voice cut through the quiet—low, rasping, and dripping with bitter, venomous truth.
"He isn't even your type."
The words hit the interior of the cab like a lightning strike.
You stared at him, your lips parting in utter shock, before a surge of hurt and rage rushed through your veins.
"You don't know anything about my type!" you fired back, wiping a hot tear from your cheek with the heel of your hand. "You don't get to decide that for me!"
Before the words had even fully left your lips, Bob slammed his foot down on the brake.
The truck's tires squealed as he yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, pulling the truck sharply off the main road and onto a dark, gravel shoulder. He cut the wheel, cutting the engine, and slammed the gear shift into park. The headlights flickered off, plunging the cab into dim shadow—save for the warm, amber glow of a single streetlamp directly above the windshield.
The sudden silence inside the truck was deafening.
Bob unbuckled his seatbelt with a harsh clack and turned his entire body in the bucket seat to face you. His hair was messy, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew, and his blue eyes were burning with a terrifying, raw intensity you had never seen in him before.
"I do know your type," Bob rasped, his voice rough and laced with emotion. "And it wasn't him. You picked a guy who looked just enough like me so you could pretend you were moving on, but treated you like garbage because you thought I didn't want you!"
Your breath hitched in your throat. You gripped the edge of your seat, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.
"Don't turn this on me!" you yelled back, tears slipping down your cheeks under the amber streetlamp light. "You don't get to twist this! I heard you, Bob! I was standing right around the corner near the equipment lockers! I heard what you said to Hangman!"
Bob froze, a look of sudden, total panic washing over his features.
"I heard every damn word," you choked out, throwing his own harsh phrasing right back in his face. "'She's not my type. We're strictly platonic. Just friends.' You said it like I was nothing! Like the last eight months didn't mean a damn thing to you!"
Bob closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath as if he had just taken a punch straight to the gut. He leaned his forehead against his hand on the steering wheel, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the revelation.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Angel... no. No, baby, listen to me..."
"Don't call me that!"
"Listen to me!" Bob snapped, his voice breaking as he reached across the space between the seats. He didn't grab your arm like Eddie had; instead, his large, warm hands hovered near your face, gentle and trembling, waiting for you to let him touch you. When you didn't pull away, his fingers gently cradled your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the hot tears on your skin.
"I lied," Bob confessed, staring right into your eyes, his gaze completely stripped of all defense. "I lied straight to Hangman's face, and it was the stupidest, most reckless fucking thing I've ever done."
You blinked, stunned by the sheer grief and desperation in his voice. "Why? Why would you say that if it wasn't true?"
"Because it's Hangman!" Bob blurted out, a self-deprecating, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You know how this squadron is, Angel! If Jake Seresin gets even a whiff of the fact that I am completely, utterly, helplessly in love with you, he would turn it into a total circus! He'd tease you, he'd make crude jokes, he'd make every debrief and every squad night a nightmare for both of us!"
His hands tightened slightly against your cheeks, his thumbs continuing their soft, soothing strokes.
"I didn't want the guys interfering," Bob whispered, his voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that made your chest ache. "I didn't want us to be a joke in the hangar. I wanted to court you properly. Privately. I wanted to take you out, buy you dinner, and tell you how I feel without five other pilots placing bets on us. I was terrified they would ruin my chances with you before I even had the courage to ask you out. So I put up a wall. I said the one thing I knew would shut Jake up instantly."
He leaned in closer, his dark blue eyes searching yours in the dim amber light of the truck cab.
"I lied to protect my chances with you," he admitted softly, a bitter smile touching his lips. "And instead, I ruined everything and almost let that asshole hurt you. I am so, so sorry, Angel. I'm an idiot."
The silence returned, but the suffocating tension had vanished, replaced by a wave of staggering, overwhelming clarity.
All the cold shoulder, the silent meals, the agonizing months of distance, the fake dates with Eddie... it had all been built on a tragic, stupid misunderstanding. He didn't view you as just a buddy. He never had.
"You... you love me?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner.
Bob’s eyes softened, a faint, tender warmth returning to his features.
"I've been in love with you since the second week of the detachment," he said simply, without a single shred of hesitation. "You're the only person I think about. You're the only reason I look forward to getting up in the morning. You're my type, Angel. You've always been my type."
A watery sob escaped your lips, but this time, it was followed by a breathy, breathless laugh.
Before you could say another word, Bob closed the distance between you.
His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he pulled you toward him. His lips found yours in an intense, desperate kiss that instantly shattered every remaining boundary between you.
It wasn't gentle or hesitant—it was months of suppressed longing, jealousy, and unspoken devotion exploding all at once. You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his flight suit, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until you were practically pulling him across the center console.
Bob groaned softly against your lips, his other hand coming around your waist to anchor you tight against his chest. His mouth moved against yours with a fierce, possessive sweetness, kissing away the taste of your tears, claiming you completely. The wire of his glasses brushed against your temple, but neither of you cared.
When he finally pulled back a fraction of an inch to let you breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his heavy breathing matching the rapid beat of your heart.
"No more lies," Bob murmured against your lips, his thumb gently tracing your bottom lip. "No more platonic bullshit. You're mine now, Angel. I'm taking you on a real date tomorrow night, and I don't give a damn if Hangman says anything."
You smiled, resting your cheek against his broad chest, listening to the fast, steady rhythm of his heart beating right beneath your hand.
"Deal," you whispered softly. "Just don't make me ride on your shoulder again."
Bob let out a deep, rumble of laughter, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the top of your head as the warm streetlight glowed around the cab of the truck.
TW/CW: heavy make-out, intense intimacy, explicit dirty talk (consenting adults), risky semi-public vibe (friends in the other room), creampie implications, praise/begging, post-scene teasing by friends.
The thing about hosting game night is it turns your place into a crowded heartbeat. Cards slap the table. Popcorn rains like confetti when someone laughs too hard. The living room swells with the Daggers’ competitive static—Fanboy doing play-by-play like you’re on cable, Payback pretending he doesn’t care while tracking every score, Phoenix calling fouls with the weariness of a mom of four, and Hangman and Rooster performing a two-man Broadway revival of Doing Too Much.
And Bob—your Bob—sits tucked into you on the floor in front of the couch, knees touching yours beneath the coffee table. He’s quiet in the noise, that steady, big-hearted presence that makes any room feel like a softer place. He smells faintly like cedar soap and clean cotton. It would be wholesome if not for the way his pinky keeps brushing the inside of your knee and then staying there, a little brand of heat.
“New round,” Rooster declares, dealing cards with pizzazz no one asked for. “Winner picks the movie. Losers—plural—do dishes.”
“Bold to assume you can count,” Phoenix says dryly.
Hangman leans back, smirking. “It’s fine, I’m exempt from dish duty. Star power.”
“You are exempt from common sense,” Payback mutters.
The room ripples with laughter. Bob doesn’t quite laugh; he exhales, distracted. His thigh shifts against yours, the tiny friction a spark that catches, runs up your spine, and settles low. You glance at him, catching that focused, faraway look—like he’s trying to keep up with the game but the channel in his head is tuned to you.
“You good?” you murmur, only for him.
He nods too fast. “Mhm.”
You tilt your head. “Mhm?”
He swallows, eyes dipping to your mouth and back. “You look—” He stops, cheeks flushing. “I’m distracted.”
The confession lands like a fingertip sliding down the inside of your wrist. Heat, delicate and dangerous. You shift and your knee kisses his. Under the table, your hand drifts—innocent, not innocent—resting just above his thigh, a light press through denim. His breath stutters.
Hangman slaps a card down. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what dominance looks like.”
Phoenix peeks at your joined knees, lifts a brow, and deliberately keeps her gaze on her cards. “Sure, Jake.”
Rooster whistles like a middle-school PE teacher. “Focus up! This is championship level—Hey, Hostess, we out of seltzer?”
“On it,” you say too quickly, standing as if the word seltzer is code for rescue.
You make it two steps before Bob’s hand curls around yours. “I’ll help,” he says, voice a notch lower than the room deserves.
Fanboy salutes you with a gummy bear. “Team Hydration!”
You and Bob slip into the kitchen, the noise of the living room folding behind you like a curtain. The fridge hums. The counter holds the still-steaming bowl you forgot to refill with pretzels. You open the refrigerator; cool air spills across your skin. The light paints Bob’s face gold—his jaw working like he’s arguing with himself and losing.
The door soft-closes. The house shrinks to a heartbeat again. Yours.
He moves first—awkward in that careful, earnest way that knocks the wind right out of you. His hands find your hips, then pause like a question; you answer by walking him back into the cabinet and standing between his knees. His shoulders relax, then tense, as if the tension is the only way to keep from shaking apart.
“Distracted, huh?” you whisper.
His mouth curves, wrecked and sweet. “Bad.”
“How bad?”
“Can’t think.” His forehead dips to yours. “All I can hear is you.”
You open, just like that. He kisses you like he’s been starved since he sat down on the floor—no showy sparks, just steady heat that grows and grows until you’re leaning into him to survive it. His breath catches when your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck. He chases your mouth when you try to smile.
“We have guests,” you murmur, lips brushing his. It’s not a no, and he hears it.
“I know.” He swallows. “I—please.”
You don’t make him ask twice. A shared look, a soft laugh, and then you’re padding down the short hall, palms grazing, not quite running. The bedroom door clicks shut—a sound that feels huge and private at the same time.
Dim light spills across the quilt. Your pulse lives in your fingertips. Bob’s shyness doesn’t disappear so much as it burns hot from the inside, melting into need. He backs up, and you go with him, and he’s kissing you on a stuttering inhale, like oxygen, like confession.
Clothes don’t so much come off as dissolve in the heat between you. He’s careful and greedy, both, big hands skimming, pausing, relearning the topography he already knows by heart. The first drag of skin on skin makes your knees give; he catches you, murmuring a helpless sound that vibrates against your mouth.
“God,” he says, voice frayed. “You’re… you’re—” He can’t find it. You kiss the word from him.
You fall into the bed together, a tangle that becomes a rhythm. He presses you down, braced and shaking, the world shrinking to the weight of him, the way he fits along every inch of you like he was made in your exact shape. When he sinks deeper into the moment, your breath breaks on his name.
“Bob,” you gasp, head tipping back when his mouth finds your throat. “You’re so big.”
He shudders. “Don’t—” A cracked laugh. “Sweetheart, don’t say that unless—”
“Unless what?” you tease, and then you can’t tease anymore because the next slow drive of him has you clutching the sheets and him in equal measure. “Oh my gosh— you fill me up so good.”
He’s gone after that, pupils blown, reverence fighting hunger and losing in the best way. His palm slides under your knee, gentling you open. The bed creaks, the streetlight writes soft silver across his shoulder, and the sounds you make aren’t polite anymore—quiet but helpless, pretty and broken at the edges.
“Please,” you whisper, the word catching. “Please, baby, make me—Please.”
“Hey.” He kisses you through it, breathless. “I’ve got you.” His voice dips lower, heat braided with command. “You’re so tight.” His thumb traces a line that makes you jump, cling. “Squeezing me so well.” He groans into your shoulder. “I never want to leave.”
Your laugh is a gasp. “Then don’t.”
His forehead touches yours, eyes open, seeing you, his entire chest in his gaze. “I need to—” He swallows, barely holding on. “I need you to come first. Please—please, I need you to come first.”
You oblige like it’s a favor and a dare and the completion of some old, private vow. The coil climbs, bright and insistent. His voice is soft and rough in your ear, praise meeting persuasion—good girl, that’s it, you’re perfect—until the room tips and the heat breaks and the world dissolves into the weight of him holding you through it. He follows, wrecked, mouth open against your shoulder, breath torn, body finally, finally releasing the way he’d been trying not to since Rooster asked about seltzer.
After, the room is quiet enough to hear the street breathe. He rolls to his side but doesn’t leave your body; he won’t until you pull him there. You don’t. You wrap your leg over his hip and watch him try to remember how to inhale.
“Hi,” you whisper, giddy, drunk on oxygen and him.
He huffs a laugh into your cheek. “Hi.”
You smooth a palm over his shoulder, up the solid line of his neck, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. His lashes are ridiculously long at this distance. He looks like someone who was shy about asking for dessert and then ate the entire cake.
“Movie night,” you remind him eventually, lips brushed against his temple.
He groans. “Right. Our guests.”
You clean up—the domestic hum of tissue and water and a hastily smoothed quilt—and your pulse steadies while your smile doesn’t. At the door, he pauses like he might apologize to the universe for stealing you away. You put your hand on his chest, feel the thud through bone and breath, and tip your chin. “We’re fine.”
He nods, brave because you are. You crack the door and listen. The living room sounds like itself: Phoenix scolding Hangman, Fanboy rifling through the candy like a raccoon with a 401(k), Payback negotiating remote control custody. Safe.
You step into the light.
Two wolves lift their heads in unison.
“There they are,” Rooster beams, lounging with his socks on your coffee table like a man who has never respected a table. “The Seltzer Patrol. Heroic.”
“Saved us from dehydration,” Hangman sighs, back-of-hand to his forehead. “And… other droughts.”
Phoenix throws a throw pillow at his face. “Don’t be weird.”
“What? I’m celebrating electrolytes.” Hangman lowers the pillow slowly, grin turning predatory. “Did you find what you were looking for in there?”
“Grapefruit and lime,” you say, impossibly cheerful, tossing cans to Payback and Fanboy. “Crisp. Refreshing.”
Rooster leans forward, elbows to knees, eyes glittering. He clears his throat and drops his voice into a gravelly approximation of Bob’s, performing like the ham he is. “Ahem—‘You’re so tight’—” he rumbles, then, with obscene sincerity, adds, “‘Squeezing me so well.’”
Bob stops existing. You feel it. He becomes a blush in a plaid shirt.
Hangman clasps his hands to his chest and, with a falsetto that sounds nothing like you but unfortunately is you, coos, “Bob, you’re so big—oh my gosh, you fill me up so good—please, baby, make me—”
Phoenix sits forward and smacks his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”
Fanboy is wheezing. Payback has his head tilted back like he’s praying for strength and not finding it.
Rooster keeps going, committed to the bit like he’s getting paid. “I never want to leave,” he gravel-purrs, then points a dramatic finger at his heart. “I need you to come first. Please.”
Hangman collapses against the cushions, one hand over his mouth in fake shock. “The poetry. The romance. Shakespeare is deceased.”
You should be mortified. You are, a little. But mostly you’re warm and floaty and mean. You tilt your head, look right at Hangman, and drop it like a bowling ball.
“Oh, Hangman, sweetie,” you say, syrupy and kind. “You only wish you could make me feel a fraction of what big dick Bob makes me feel.”
Silence detonates, then explodes into chaos. Fanboy screams. Payback coughs a kernel into his sleeve. Phoenix’s eyebrows climb so high they need flight clearance. Rooster falls off the couch and then pops up like a meerkat. “BIG what?”
Hangman’s mouth opens and closes, stage-wounded and delighted. “A fraction? A fraction?”
You lean back into Bob’s side and smile up at him, smug and adoring. He is the color of a ripe tomato, eyes huge, hand hovering like he doesn’t know whether to cover your mouth or lift you onto the nearest available surface and ruin game night for good.
Rooster points at him like he’s unveiling a statue. “You hear that, Bobby?”
Phoenix shakes her head, a smile sneaking despite herself. “Congratulations… Big Bob.”
“Big Dick Bob,” Fanboy corrects reverently, already committed to the full government.
“BDB,” Payback says, as if he’s workshopping a patch design. “Clean. Powerful. Memorable.”
“Okay,” Bob manages, hands up, voice climbing an octave. “We don’t have to—uh—no one needs—”
“Pick the movie, Big Bob,” you say, patting his chest. “Winner’s privilege.”
Bob clears his throat and reaches for dignity like it’s on a high shelf. “Apollo 13?”
“Classy,” Payback says, nodding like a sommelier.
The room dims. The menu screen hums. You tuck yourself under Bob’s arm, and he folds you in, still blazing. Hangman leans over the back of the couch to stage-whisper, “For the record, I’m fine with Sergeant Big Bob or Captain BDB—”
“Workshop it in silence,” Phoenix says, stealing the remote.
Rooster throws an arm around Hangman’s shoulders, voice dropping again into that absurd baritone. “Hey, man, let the legend breathe.” He mimes zipping his lips, then unzips them because of course he does. “But also, for the record—‘you’re so tight’—wow, what a line—”
“Bradley,” you warn, laughing despite yourself.
He beams. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
“Then flatter the dishwasher after the credits,” Phoenix says. “Start the movie.”
The rockets roar. The room settles into that comfortable hush of people who like each other. You feel Bob’s heartbeat slow under your cheek, his breath smoothing out. Every time Rooster snickers, Bob squeezes your shoulder like he might collapse and you might catch him. You do.
Halfway through, you slide your fingers under the blanket and find his hand. His thumb traces your knuckles—the quiet, private version of everything you said out loud. He leans, mouth at your ear, voice tiny in the dark.
“You trying to kill me?” he whispers, smiling against your skin.
“Never,” you murmur back. “Just letting them know what I already know.”
“What’s that?” he asks, shy and brave at once.
“That you’re the best thing I’ve ever hosted.”
He exhales, a laugh that’s also relief. Across the couch, Hangman and Rooster are still vibrating with the need to make jokes. They will for months. Years. At the next cookout. At the next wedding. On the carrier deck when they think no one important is listening. Big Dick Bob is immortal now.
But for this hour, with the movie throwing silver light across the coffee table and your friends pressed close by gravity and noise and affection, it feels like the nickname belongs to the two of you first. A private crown. A secret you shouted in a living room that understood what you meant: not bragging. Just truth. Just yours.
Later, after credits and goodbyes and Rooster’s last gravel-voiced “never want to leave” at the door and Hangman’s two-finger salute at your midsection like a menace, Bob locks up the house and leans his forehead to the wood for a second like he needs to reset his soul.
“Hey,” you say, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. “You okay?”
He turns, eyes soft, mouth parted. “I’m—yeah. I am.” A beat. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I can.” You rise on your toes, kiss him slow, a promise tucked inside it. “Round two, Big Dick Bob?”
He laughs helplessly, already lost, hands settling on your hips like an answer. “Please.”
And you’re gone again—no audience now, no grapefruit seltzer excuses—just the two of you and a room that knows the shape of your names when you say them like prayers.
“What do you get out of this ? I mean… does that even feel good for you ?” You question Natasha as she secures the harness on her hips.
Looking down at you, her lips quirk up in a smile, one hand coming to rub your thigh affectionately.
“I get to see you cry on my cock, and that alone feels fucking great for me, sweetheart.”
The way she was referring to the plastic dildo in between her legs as hers had your stomach, and something way lower, flutter desperately.
“Also, the front of the harness is rubbing on my clit, but that’s just an added bonus,” she winks at you.
She nudges the tip of her strap at your entrance. Natasha had spent one long hour thoroughly preparing you to take her and the need was burning hotter than ever. Your hips buck lightly, trying to take more of her.
“Be patient, baby,” she soothes, a hand rubbing your hip tenderly, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you said, growing even more restless with the way Natasha was rubbing the tip of her strap on your puffy clit, “please just put it in.”
She flashes a cocky smirk at you before slowly pushing inside of you. You frown a bit at the stretch but the strain quickly turns into pleasure when Natasha buries herself to the hilt, her hips flush against yours. She stays still for a minute, allowing you to get accustomed to the size.
“How does it feel ?” She asks, her voice all breathy from the sight of you full of her.
Your walls flutter around the strap, “good, really good…” you exhale shakily, “it’s a good length, I’m glad we chose that one.”
Natasha’s hips begin to slowly grind against yours, not even thrusting yet, just a languid roll that has you moaning out in pure delight, your hips bucking up to meet hers.
“Nat, more,” you pout, the desire, the need, for her to fuck into you is getting stronger and more desperate every second she refuses to give into you.
She leans in, licking over your bottom lip, “yeah ? You need me to pound into you, baby ? Need me to fuck you hard and deep ?”
All you can do is nod desperately as she finally gives you what you want. Natasha is almost completely lying on top of you as her hips hit yours with a force you didn’t know she was capable of, her breasts move in tandem with yours, your nipples rubbing against each other with every thrust.
“Oh fuck, you feel so good, fucking me so good !” You cry out as the tip of her dildo hit that spot deep inside of you that makes you see stars.
She is almost putting you in a mating press with the way she is positioned above you, she feels so fucking deep inside of you, and you feel so so full of her, the sensation is setting your insides on fire.
Her head is in the crook of your neck, plastering open mouthed and wet kisses on the thin skin.
“You like that, baby ? Like how deep I am inside of you ?” One of her hand leaves your hips to snake its way on your lower stomach and she presses slightly, making you moan out, “I’m right here, you feel me sweet thing ?”
“Yes, yes yes yes,” you chant, half delirious on pleasure.
She leaves the confines of your neck, straightening back up, taking one of your hands with her. Her eyes are boring into yours as she takes your middle and ring fingers in her mouth, her tongue circling them and coating them in her spit.
“Touch yourself for me, pretty girl. Make that clit feel good while I fuck you.”
Your pussy clenches hard at her words and the obscene show she is putting on for you as your body obeys her on its own. Your slick fingers leave her mouth and trace down her body, squeezing one of her nipples on the way down before arriving at your messy cunt. Your neglected clit twitches hard when your hand finally makes contact, rubbing quick circles on it, your moans only become louder and louder.
“Fuck, Nat, ‘m so close, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard…”
Your pussy flutters desperately around Natasha as she smirks above you, keeping the delicious pace that’s slowly bringing you to your high.
“Do you feel good ?” You asked in between whimpers, “does that feel good for you ? Please Nat…”
“Awww, my sweet angel,” she coos squeezing your breasts affectionately, “yes it does, it feels so good watching you take my cock like a good girl.”
Her words spur you on, the fingers on your clit picking up the pace.
“That’s it, baby, cum for me, rub that pretty clit.” Her words are punctuated with those heavenly hard thrusts that fill you to the brim every time.
And before you know it, your pussy clenches down hard on the strap, practically locking Natasha in place as you ride out your high. Your back arches, tits pushing out into her hands as violent tremors shake your body. An obscene amount of slick is being pushed out of you, forming a white ring at the base of Natasha’s strap.
When you come back down, Natasha is still in you, rubbing your thighs appreciatively.
“You did so good, sweetheart, took me so well, I’m proud of you.”
Your stomach flips at the praise.
“Was it… good for you ? Did you cum, I mean ?” You question, out of breath and feeling a bit sheepish under her prying gaze.
A grin pulls at her pretty pink lips, “I did, it felt so good to fuck you like that, baby.”
Her words have you clench helplessly around the strap.
“Well… you must be pretty messy under that then, no ?” You point to the harness sitting on her hips.
Her eyes flick to you with a predatory glint.
“What do you say about me cleaning you up ?” You ask, your hands coming up to move the strap out of you and slowly take the harness off her, revealing her slick folds and puffy clit from rubbing against the material.
She smirks as she watches you trail kisses down her body, all the way to the place she needs you the most.
“I’d say you you better get to work, baby.”
Author's note : Currently struggling to finish my Jake fic so please accept this Natasha Drabble as an apology.
I have so many more Drabble ideas for her and they are all smut😭 need her so bad😔
As always, sorry if the smut is bad, I never had sex with a woman.
