#payback

[geminiwritten]

hangman's guide to getting the girl (one) ; robert 'bob' floyd

summary: everyone knows you and bob have a thing for each other—but neither of you will make the first move. so, with the whole squad in hawai‘i for maverick’s ceremonial honour, hangman decides it’s time to intervene.

notes: finally, i present to you... bob's version of the plan (but also kind of entirely different, lol). i honestly have so much to say about this fic, but i can't write an essay here so... firstly, i'm sorry for the word count, omg. secondly, i'm sorry of the smut is mid, it was so hard to write after thousands and thousands of words of yearning. and lastly... please, please let me know what you think! this fic took everything out of me and i need to know all of your thoughts and opinions! (i'm actually a little nervous about it, haha)

warnings: lots of yearning (and lots of internal pining), jealousy, tension, italics, horny thoughts, slight miscommunication, bob is adorably clueless, possibly incorrect hawai'i details and potentially incorrect pearl harbour details (this is based on a lot of googling and talking to a family-friend who visited pearl harbour while they were in the australian navy), swearing, alcohol, a little angst, and SMUT (making out, grinding, a bit of boob worship bob, unprotected p in v, and going panty-less in public) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 16500 (32476)

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

your callsign is blink

“No, because listen—” Mickey says, holding his phone up in front of Natasha’s face, “if we’d taken that one connecting flight in San Jose instead of direct? I’d be nine thousand points closer to elite status. Nine thousand, Nix. That’s almost… that’s like… half a lounge pass.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “And for the nine thousandth time—I don’t care.”

“Yeah, man, if I hear you say lounge pass one more time, I’m gonna stuff you into an overhead locker,” Reuben mutters.

Mickey huffs, shoving his phone into his back pocket. “Fine—whatever. You people have no sense of justice. I should’ve hit platinum this year but—”

“Mick,” Reuben cuts in, sharp.

Mickey holds his stare, defiant for half a second, then sighs hard and shuts his mouth. Natasha smiles to herself, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder as they shuffle toward the short line at the plane door.

Bob spots you right near the front—your head tilted toward Bradley as you talk. The two of you booked separately so your seats ended up further back, not with the rest of the group. And he’s not jealous. Not really. He doesn’t care that Bradley gets to sit next to you for six long hours in those narrow little plane seats. His arm pressed against yours. Maybe you’ll even fall asleep on his shoulder.

He doesn’t care. Not at all.

“Keep staring like that and Rooster's gonna catch fire.”

Bob whips around to find Jake watching him with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m not staring,” Bob mutters.

Natasha glances over her shoulder. “You haven’t stopped staring all morning, Floyd.”

“Why don't you just ask Rooster to switch seats?” Reuben asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t—I’m not—why would I—”

“Your boarding pass, please, sir,” the flight attendant cuts in.

Bob hands his ticket over with a tight-lipped smile, trying not to combust as the rest of his squad smother their giggles behind him. The flight attendant points him down the aisle, saying something about on the right, and he steps through after Natasha—the others trailing close behind.

And he can’t help it. The second he steps into the aisle, his eyes search for you—but they find Bradley first, his head sticking up above the rows of seats. He glances up and spots the group, a bright smile breaking across his face as he nudges the person beside him. You, obviously.

Then your head pops up over the seats and your smile knocks the air right out of Bob’s lungs. You wave frantically, eyes sparkling even under the bleak airplane lighting. He almost trips over his own feet as he shuffles down the aisle—and behind him, Jake doesn’t miss a beat.

“Watch your step, Floyd,” he says, voice smug. “I knew you were falling for her, but I didn’t think literally.”

Bob shoots him a flat look over his shoulder, biting back what he really wants to say when he spots a little kid within earshot. “Cut it out.”

Jake raises both hands in surrender—but the look on his face says he’s going to do anything but cut it out.

After an awkward shuffle past a family trying to wrestle their toddler into a seatbelt, Natasha announces that she’s found everyone’s seats. She quickly tosses her backpack into the overhead locker and claims the window seat. Mickey and Reuben stash their bags and slide into two of the four middle seats, Javy following suit. Then Bob drops into the seat beside Natasha—which means, to his dismay, Jake is directly across the aisle.

By the time everyone is settled—belts clipped and phones on airplane mode—the plane is almost full. There are people chatting excitedly, parents yelling at kids to sit still, and flight attendants walking the aisles in preparation for takeoff. Natasha already has her neck pillow wrapped around her shoulders, her head tilted against the window, eyes shut and looking perfectly content. Until—

Mickey leans forward, raising his voice above the chatter. “Did you guys know the last eruption of—”

“No,” Natasha snaps, eyes flying open.

Mickey hesitates, but continues anyway. “—Mauna Loa was in—”

“No!” she says again, leaning across Bob now. “I swear to all the Gods, Garcia. If you don’t shut the hell up for the next six hours, I’m going to find an active volcano to throw you in the second we land. Got it?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dare laugh—not when Natasha’s in a mood like this.

“Okay, damn.” Mickey raises both hands. “Sue me for trying to get in the vacation spirit.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and flops back in her seat. “It’s not a vacation.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah—right. So why do I have my vacation sandals on, then?”

Bob’s almost positive Natasha would have leapt across the aisle and strangled Mickey if it weren’t for the captain’s announcement crackling through the overhead speakers. Her jaw ticks, dark eyes narrowed across the aisle at where Mickey is now sinking back in his seat. The others are giggling like idiots, holding their hands over their mouths as the captain talks about takeoff and then instructs the cabin crew to start the life jacket demonstration.

Bob tries to pay attention. He really does. But he can hear your quiet laughter, and he can hear your muttered voice telling Bradley to cut it out. Whatever it is. You’re only five rows back—yeah, he counted—and he knows the sound of your voice better than he knows his own.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he knows just a little too much about you and not nearly enough about himself. Not enough to understand why he feels like this. Not enough to convince himself you could possibly feel the same way. Not enough to ask you out instead of pining over youlike some pathetic loser.

Yeah. He’s doomed.

When Bob finally blinks and returns to his own body, takeoff is over. The plane is cutting through the clouds, still ascending, and Natasha is back to leaning against the window with her eyes closed.

And it’s at this very moment that Bob regrets not packing his headphones.

“So.” Jake leans toward the aisle, grinning. “You and Blink, huh?”

Bob rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, Hangman. Just drop it.”

“If it’s nothing, then why would I have to drop it?”

Bob gives him a look. “I said drop it.”

“And I’m just asking what it is I’m being told to drop,” Jake presses.

Bob sighs, tipping his head back against the headrest. “Why do you even care?”

Jake’s grin sharpens. “Care about what?”

“Oh my God,” Bob mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

Jake chuckles, shifting as much as he can in the narrow seat to face Bob. “Look, I swear I’m not just trying to be a dick. I see the way you look at her—we all do. And if you weren’t so stuck in your head about it, you’d see that she’s just as into you.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not about to admit anything, and he sure as hell isn’t about to let Jake’s ridiculous idea get any traction.

Because you’re not into him. He knows that for a fact.

Jake rolls his eyes. “And since you refuse to believe me, and since you’re too chickenshit to ask her out, I figured this vacation might be a good chance to prove it.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mumbles, eyes still shut.

Bob ignores her. “Prove what?”

“That she’s into you,” Jake says, exasperated.

Bob frowns. “Prove it how?”

Jake settles back in his seat, smirking. “Oh, you know… a little proximity, a little orchestration, a few strategic interventions.”

“Strategic interventions?” Bob echoes.

Jake just grins.

“Like—” Bob’s brows pull tighter. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

Before Bob can get another word out, Jake is on his feet. Bob’s eyes snap up to the little seatbelt sign overhead—no longer lit, which means passengers are free to move around the cabin. He fumbles with his own belt and pushes halfway out of his chair, craning his neck over the back of the seat to see where Jake’s headed.

Bob’s stomach drops when Jake stops beside you and Bradley—but when he shifts a little higher, he sees you’ve got your headphones on and your eyes shut.

Jake leans over you, muttering something to Bradley.

Bradley frowns, his face twisting into something between disbelief and irritation. He shakes his head.

Jake’s eyes widen, and he murmurs something else, pointing a finger toward Bob.

Bradley glances at Bob—still frowning, but now with a hint of confusion.

“Bobby,” Jake calls, waving him over.

Bob sinks back into his seat, exhaling hard. What the fuck has he done to deserve this?

With a deep breath, he pushes the belt clip off his lap and stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward where Jake is standing with a very convincing look of concern on his face.

“Come on, Rooster,” Jake says. “Do you really want to be the reason Bob goes into anaphylactic shock?”

Bob’s looks at Jake, eyes wide. “The reason I what?”

“I told you he’s not allergic to peaches,” Bradley says.

Bob frowns. “I’m not allergic to—”

“Oh, hey guys.” You slip your headphones off, blinking up at Jake and Bob. “What are you doing back here?”

“Bob’s severely allergic to peaches,” Jake says quickly, “and the guy in front of him just opened a peach cup.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Do you need to swap—”

“But the thing is,” Jake cuts in, leaning closer to you, “he gets super sick if he’s sitting in an aisle seat—which is why I was asking Rooster, here, to be a gentleman and swap seats.”

Silence.

Your brows pull together. Jake looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at Bob. Bob can’t stop looking at you.

Then Bradley looks at you and—it clicks.

“Okay, fine,” he says, unclipping his belt. “Only because Bob dying would be a really shit start to the holiday.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as Bradley slides out of his seat and into the aisle—and Jake looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Bob can feel his pulse thrumming under his skin as everyone makes the awkward shuffle to give him space to squeeze in beside you.

His heart stutters when you look up at him with that soft little smile. The one you give him every morning from behind your coffee mug. The one you wear with a nod on the tarmac right before you climb into your jet. The one that’s been showing up in his dreams more than he cares to admit.

With a steadying breath—laced with your intoxicating perfume—he drops into Bradley’s seat. His arm brushes yours, his knee bumps your thigh, and when he glances over and finds you right there… God. He’s lightheaded.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” Jake says with a grin. “Mommy and Daddy are just up ahead if you need anything. Don’t be too loud, and keep your hands to yourself.” He pauses, smile sharpening. “I’m looking at you, Bobby.”

Bob can feel his whole face burning as he stares back at Jake, lips pressed into a thin line. He can’t start cursing him out in the middle of the plane. And he definitely can’t say what he really wants to say with you sitting right between them, rolling your eyes and laughing.

Laughing like you don’t notice the way his heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else.

Like you don’t see the smirk Bradley gives him now, finally in on Jake’s stupid scheme.

Like you don’t catch the little wink Jake shoots over his shoulder before he walks back to his seat with Bradley in tow—both already arguing about which one of them is mommy and which is daddy.

Bob shifts carefully in his seat, trying not to jostle you too much as he finds his belt and clips it—but your thigh stays pressed to his anyway. And when he finally settles, you turn toward him with that same warm smile, cheeks faintly pink.

“I didn’t know you were allergic to peaches,” you say, voice soft enough that it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the plane.

Bob feels his pulse trip over itself. “I’m—I, uh… only found out recently. Really recently.”

Your lips twitch like you’re trying not to laugh. “That’s rough. Peaches are delicious.”

“They’re dangerous,” he murmurs before he can stop himself, eyes flicking to the peachy colour of your lip balm.

You nudge him with your elbow—not hard, just enough to send a spark up his arm. “Good thing you’re sitting with me then.”

Bob can’t breathe for a second.

Then something shifts—so subtle he almost misses it. You adjust in your seat, turning your knees a little more toward him, your shoulder brushing his. You’re close enough now that he can smell your shampoo, warm and sweet, and it takes everything in him not to lean into it.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods—too fast. “Yep. Great. Perfectly fine.”

Your smile softens, brows pulling together just slightly. “Jake didn’t bully you into this, did he?”

Bob almost laughs. Almost. “A little. But I figured sitting with you was better than Fanboy and his Hawai’i facts.”

“And the peaches,” you add, eyes sparkling.

Bob chuckles. “And the peaches.”

The next hour slips by in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silence. At some point, the plane dips slightly through a pocket of turbulence, and your shoulder knocks gently into his. You mumble a quiet apology, but you don’t pull away.

If anything—you gravitate closer.

Bob swears he stops breathing when your head softly rests against his shoulder, your hair brushing his jaw when you shift to get comfortable. You let out a soft sigh, warm through the cotton of his shirt, and Bob has never been more aware of another human being in his life.

He tries to focus on the in-flight map glowing on the screen in front of him. He tries to remember how to sit normally, breathe normally, exist normally. But then his eyes drop to where your fingers rest, just barely brushing his armrest, and he wonders if you even notice how close you are. How close he is.

Then a shadow passes over him. Slowly. And his gaze flicks up to find Bradley.

He’s grinning like an idiot, pausing just long enough to catch Bob’s eye and wink—slow, smug, deeply unhelpful. Bob glares, as much as a man with a sleeping passenger on his shoulder can glare, but Bradley just suppresses a laugh and keeps walking toward the bathrooms.

Eventually—even with his racing heart—Bob starts to relax. The warmth of you curled against him, the quiet hum of the engines, the dimmed cabin lights... it all blurs together. His chin dips, his breathing evens, and without meaning to, he drifts off too.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps like that—your cheek tucked against his shoulder, his head resting lightly against yours—but it’s the soft chime of the speakers that yanks him back to consciousness.

“Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for descent.”

Bob blinks awake, disoriented, momentarily unsure where he is. And then you shift against him, lifting your head with a groggy little noise that hits him square in the chest.

“Oh—sorry,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Bob sits up straighter, heat flooding his cheeks. “No, no—you’re fine. Totally fine.”

You smile, still sleepy, still warm. “You’re comfortable.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just smiles—face burning, heart racing—and glances down at his lap, wondering if you could possibly hear the pounding of his heart over the hum of the plane engines.

By the time the plane lands, Bob is almost sure he’s sweat through his shirt. He keeps his arms pinned to his sides as he shuffles out behind you, eyes fixed on the back of your head and definitely not on the way your butt looks in the soft, slinky lounge pants you’d worn for the flight.

After the chaos of disembarking and baggage claim—which ended in tears after Mickey accidentally knocked a little boy over while yanking his suitcase off the conveyor belt—the whole team heads out to the taxi rank. Bradley and Reuben are already complaining about how hungry they are, Jake is unbuttoning his shirt because he’s too hot, and Natasha is about five seconds away from getting her own Netflix special about how she went from naval aviator to homicidal murderer.

The team splits into two cabs, and for the first time all day, everything actually goes quiet. For the first time there are thirty minutes of blissful, air-conditioned silence—no trivia, no yelling, no crying children—just the low rumble of traffic and the faint rush of waves as the coast gets closer.

And when the resort finally comes into view, even Mickey stops trying to make small talk with the driver.

It’s huge and bright and tropical, with balconies stacked around every level and palm trees swaying over the massive pool that stretches right along the beachfront. There are clusters of lounge chairs tucked beneath striped umbrellas and shade sails, and two bars anchored at each end of the sprawling pool deck.

It’s paradise.

“Goddamn,” Javy mutters. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says as she marches toward the lobby doors, “and it’s going to be a whole lot nicer when I’m lying on a lounge chair with a drink in my hand at least twenty feet away from you idiots.”

The sliding doors whoosh open, and the rush of cool air feels like a blessing. The lobby is enormous—open ceilings, carved wooden beams, tropical flowers arranged in towering vases, and the steady trickle of a waterfall somewhere off to the right. There are people everywhere. Families wrangling kids and suitcases, couples in matching outfits, honeymooners draped over each other like they’re allergic to personal space.

And somehow the Dagger Squad still manages to be the loudest thing in the room.

Jake stops dead in the doorway, sunglasses still perched low on his nose. “Now this,” he says, beaming, “is what I call a vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mutters—for what must be the tenth time today.

“Does this place have a lounge?” Mickey asks, stepping in front of Jake. “Like, a member’s lounge or VIP lounge? I feel like this place should have a lounge. Someone ask about a lounge.”

Reuben elbows him. “Mick, enough about the lounge or I’m shoving your head in that fountain.”

Bob hangs back a step, letting you move ahead of him in the line for the check-in desk. Your bag bumps against your hip when you shift, and Bob has to pretend he’s studying a carved tiki statue so he doesn’t keep staring at you like some sex-starved lunatic.

But then Jake leans around him and whispers, “Is this your plan? Just stand really close and stare at her all vacation?”

Bob’s entire spine locks up.

“Seresin,” he warns under his breath.

Jake smirks. “Just saying, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

Before Bob can snap back, the front desk clerk waves everyone forward with a too-wide smile—her eyes flicking up and down the group like she can’t decide which one she wants to eat first.

“Welcome! Are we all checking in this afternoon?”

Natasha steps forward with the confirmation email pulled up. “Yep. Five rooms under Mitchell, but one checked in yesterday.”

The clerk taps a few keys and scans her computer screen. “That’s right. Captain Mitchell arrived yesterday evening. Is this the rest of the party?”

Natasha nods.

“You’re all Navy, right?” the clerk asks, brows lifting. “Like... pilots?”

Mickey groans. “Here we go.”

Jake steps forward, flashing his most charming smile. “Yes ma’am. And as the most decorated pilot in the group—”

Natasha actually barks out a laugh.

You snort behind your hand.

Bob rolls his eyes.

But the clerk doesn’t notice the chaos—she’s too busy tapping away on her computer. “Alright, I’ve got your room assignments right here…”

Bob’s pulse jumps.

Jake leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes sparkling.

Natasha crosses her arms like she’s preparing for war.

Mickey mutters something about hoping for ocean views.

And you glance back at Bob with a soft little smile—completely unaware that he’s seconds away from cardiac arrest.

“Alright.” The clerk lays four sets of keycards on the counter. “You’ve got three twin rooms and one king.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

Bob’s stomach drops.

“Room 301, Seresin and Machado. Room 302, Bradshaw and Fitch.”

Jake looks at Bob, then at you, then back at the clerk.

“Room 303, Garcia and...”

The clerk squints at her screen. Bob’s heart skips. Jake looks like he’s about to explode.

“...and Floyd,” she says finally.

Bob lets out a soft exhale—part relief, part disappointment—and he can almost swear he sees your shoulders sag, just a little.

“What?” Jake snaps. “That’s ridiculous! We’re wasting a king bed on the two girls?”

The clerk’s eyes widen as she slowly pushes the keycards across the counter.

Natasha turns to Jake, lips curling into a smirk. “Who says it’s wasted?”

Jake sputters. “That’s—no. Hold on. You can’t just—what does that mean?”

Natasha grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she shoots you a cheeky wink and snatches two of the keycards off the counter.

The clerk clears her throat, gesturing toward the elevators. “Your rooms are all on the third floor. Elevators just to the left.”

The rest of the group grab their keycards as Natasha starts tugging you toward the elevators. Jake trudges close behind, muttering something about injustice, and Bradley, Javy, and Reuben crowd in last. Bob lingers for a second, tucking his keycard into his pocket and watching the elevator doors ease shut.

Mickey nudges him. “You good, buddy?”

Bob flinches slightly. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Cool,” Mickey says, stepping forward to aggressively mash the elevator button. “Because I’m showering first. And if this ocean view isn’t pristine, I’m writing an email.”

Bob huffs half a laugh through his nose. “Sure.”

The second elevator dings and they both file in. Mickey keeps rambling—something about how he expects to see dolphins every morning and can’t wait to drink out of a coconut—but Bob’s not listening.

He’s thinking about you. Again. As usual.

But for some reason, right now, right here, he can’t make himself stop. Normally he can shove it down, tell himself it’s an unrealistic fantasy, remind himself you’re just his friend, his squadmate. Someone he cares about, sure, but not someone he gets to have.

Except… every time he tries to tell himself that, he sees your smile. Soft, pink-cheeked, eyes sparkling like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right there beside him.

And God. It hits him in the chest. Every damn time.

Could Jake be right? Could you really feel the same way about him?

Surely not. Right? You’ve never asked him out. And sure, you flirt sometimes, but the whole squad does. It’s practically part of the job description at this point. And maybe you try to sit next to him whenever you’re at The Hard Deck, but that’s only because you get along so well. Right?

Jake’s not right. He can’t be.

The ding of the elevator yanks Bob out of his thoughts, and the doors slide open onto the third floor. The hallway is warm and bright, lined with framed watercolour paintings of hibiscus flowers, plush little sofas tucked between every second door, and the faint smell of sunscreen drifting from someone’s open door.

“Look, Mick,” Reuben calls, already one foot in his room, “here’s your lounge.”

He points at one of the small sofas, and Bradley snorts before they both disappear inside. Mickey just rolls his eyes and continues down the hall until he stops at room 303.

He swipes the key and shoves the door open with a grin. “Home sweet home.”

Across the hall, behind room 304’s door, Bob hears your voice. Your laughter—light, familiar, stupidly gorgeous.

And with a soft exhale that feels more dramatic than it should, he turns and steps into his room.

Not your room.

Not this time.

But the ache in his chest says he’s already imagining the next time Jake meddles.

And—God help him—he might just be on board with it.

After settling in, showering, spending twenty minutes doom-scrolling and another ten on the balcony looking for dolphins, Bob and Mickey finally make their way down to the hotel restaurant. It’s almost seven p.m., and Mav has organised for the whole group to meet for dinner to go over work-related requirements before the Dagger Squad are unleashed on Oʻahu.

Almost everyone is already there by the time they walk in—everyone but you and Natasha.

“Ooh, shrimp,” Mickey says immediately, rushing up to the table with zero hesitation and snatching the biggest prawn off the platter sitting in the centre.

Maverick stands, brows raised. “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Mav,” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of shrimp.

Bob gives a short nod. “Captain.”

“Bob,” Maverick says, amused, before taking his seat again.

Mickey pulls out the chair beside Reuben, and Bob grabs the next one along—leaving two empty seats between him and Bradley. Jake catches Bob’s eye from across the table with a knowing smirk, wiggling his eyebrows like he orchestrated this exact seating plan. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll sit when you get here.

And as if the universe is working off Jake’s script, Maverick stands again.

“Ladies. Nice of you to finally join us.”

Bob twists in his seat to look—and that’s when he forgets how to breathe entirely.

He didn't expect you to change—and even if he had, he would’ve pictured shorts or something soft and easy like your flight pants—but you… you’re wearing a sundress. Light, floaty, soft in a way that belongs to somewhere warm and ocean-bright like Oʻahu. Not that you don’t look gorgeous in your service khakis or your flight suit—you do, painfully so—but this is different. There’s something about the way the fabric moves when you walk, catching the light each time you step closer, that knocks every coherent thought straight out of Bob’s head.

He tries to school his expression into something normal, something friendly and casual, but his pulse is thundering and his palms are suddenly warm. All he can think about is the press of your head against his shoulder on the plane and how he can still feel it, like a phantom touch.

Natasha takes the seat beside Bradley without hesitation, and you slide into the last empty chair beside Bob. So close he can smell your sunscreen. So close that the air shifts when you sit—warm and sweet and dizzying in a way he’s not prepared for.

Bob swallows, mouth dry.

He is so, so screwed.

“Yum, shrimp,” Natasha says, leaning across the table to stab one with her fork while Mickey glares.

You glance at Bob as you pull your chair in, sliding your napkin onto your lap with a small smile that makes his heart knock dangerously against his ribs. He’s just about to open his mouth to ask how your room is when a waiter appears beside him, carrying another elaborate food platter.

“The fruit platter,” he announces, angling it toward the table.

You gasp. “Oh! No, I’m so sorry—could you actually put that down the other end? He’s allergic to peaches.”

The waiter freezes, eyes wide. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as every pair of eyes at the table snap toward him. “No worries,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

The waiter circles around and sets the platter down in front of Jake and Bradley, who are trying—very unsuccessfully—to hold back their laughter, hands clamped over their mouths, faces turning red, shoulders shaking.

As soon as he leaves, Maverick turns to Bob. “You’re not—”

“It’s new,” Bob blurts. “I—uh—just found out.”

Maverick frowns. Jake wheezes. Mickey eats another prawn.

“Right,” Mav says slowly. “Well—you should really update your medical records.”

Bob nods, once, tight. “Yeah. Will do.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet while Jake and Bradley finally manage to choke down their laughter—then Maverick clears his throat and launches into logistics. He talks through the week ahead—tomorrow free, Pearl Harbor the day after, two more free days, then the gala on Friday night after an early-morning rehearsal. Simple enough. Easy to follow.

But Bob hears almost none of it.

He nods when everyone else nods, laughs when the table laughs, eats when food is served without really tasting a thing. Because you’re beside him—close enough that your knee brushes his under the table every now and then, close enough that he can smell the floral hotel soap still clinging to your skin, close enough that he keeps catching your hand almost resting over his on the table. Like gravity itself is pulling you toward him.

Mickey keeps reaching for shrimp. Natasha keeps stealing them. Jake keeps watching Bob like a man waiting for fireworks. And every time you lean in to speak to Javy or Maverick across from you, the sleeve of your sundress slides a little down your shoulder and Bob forgets what language is.

By the time dessert comes out, he’s ruined.

Fully, hopelessly gone.

And when Mav finally calls it a night, the sky outside is dark, the pool lights glow turquoise, and the night air feels thick and lazy, like everyone is finally ready to crash.

Chairs scrape, napkins drop, and everyone slowly stands and starts filing out of the restaurant. Maverick peels off first, heading for the block of lifts at the far end of the building that go all the way up to the top floor—to his fancy executive suite.

The rest of the squad drifts toward the main elevators—laughing, yawning, nudging shoulders. And you end up next to Bob, because of course you do. Close enough that your arm brushes his when the hallway narrows, close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He tries to focus on Mickey’s running monologue about whether the pool bar has frozen margaritas or only blended ones, but all he can think about is the faint smell of coconut shampoo every time you turn your head.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and everyone squeezes in. You step in beside him, shoulder pressed to his as the doors slide closed. Jake catches Bob’s eye over your head and winks, like an absolute menace.

Bob pointedly looks at the ceiling.

Three floors pass in seconds—but it feels like hours, with the back of your hand brushing his, his fingers itching to lace with yours, every inch of air between you charged and too warm for such a small space.

When the doors finally open on the third floor, everyone spills out, still chatting lazily as they wander down the hallway toward their rooms—301, 302, 303, 304 all in one neat cluster.

You stop at your door with Natasha, turning to Bob with that gentle smile again.

“Night, Bob.”

He swallows. “Night.”

Mickey claps him on the back. “Come on, roomie. I’m exhausted.”

Bob follows him into room 303, but not before glancing once more at you disappearing behind your door across the hall—heart pounding like he’s eighteen and in love for the first damn time.

He exhales, long and helpless.

Maybe he should do something about it.

About you.

Maybe he should talk to Jake.

-

Jake is already sprawled across a sun lounge when Bob finally walks out onto the pool deck late morning. Clustered around him are five more lounges, each reserved with a single item on them as if that’s legally binding. One has a pair of sunglasses—even though Jake already has aviators perched low on his nose—the next has a hat, then a shirt, and the last two each have a single flip-flop.

“Morning, Bobby,” Jake grins, all lazy confidence and oiled skin.

Bob sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

He drops onto the lounge with the hat, picks it up, and tosses it at Jake. Then he scrubs both hands over his face, elbows on his knees, and stares at the ground—jaw tight, chest aching.

“Okay,” he finally says, lifting his head. “I’m in.”

Jake arches a brow. “In?”

Bob swallows. “Help me. With… her.”

Jake’s grin spreads slow and wolfish—like the sun rising just to witness chaos.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He sits up, pushing his sunglasses into his hair and swinging his legs off the side of the lounge to face Bob properly.

“Alright, Phase One: Plane Buddy. Complete success. Shoulder contact achieved. Mutual napping? Unplanned bonus.”

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Please don’t call it phases—”

“Phase Two,” Jake continues, ignoring him completely. “Proximity. Sun, water, bare shoulders. Classic vacation bonding. She sits there—” he points to the empty lounge on Bob’s other side, “—you offer sunscreen for her back, she does yours, feelings ignite, boom.”

“This isn’t a mission brief, this is—”

“Everything is a mission brief if you do it right.”

Bob just stares at him—horrified, defeated, wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake.

Then footsteps thump against the deck boards behind them, and Bradley appears wearing swim trunks and a hideous Hawaiian shirt hanging wide open like he owns the entire island.

“What mission brief?” he asks, dropping his towel onto one of the flip-flop lounges.

“Operation Hawaiian Heat,” Jake says.

Bob almost chokes. “We are not calling it that.”

Jake turns back to him. “Okay. Fine. The other option is Operation Unblue Bob’s Balls.”

Bradley snorts. “I like that one better.”

Jake gestures at him triumphantly. “See? Rooster gets it.”

Bob lays back onto his lounge and throws an arm dramatically over his face. “What have I done?”

“You’ve come to the right man, that’s what,” Jake says, far too proud.

Bradley drops onto his sun lounge, kicks his slides off, and sprawls out with a contented sigh.

“Now.” Jake leans in. “Phase Two—”

Bradley turns his head. “There are phases?”

“Obviously,” Jake says, like Bradley just asked whether water was wet. “Bob’s going to make a move today.”

Bradley sits up, suddenly invested. “Finally. I was this close to drafting you a script.”

Bob’s ears burn. “I’m not making a move. I just—I asked for help.”

“Which implies intent,” Bradley says.

“And opportunity,” Jake adds.

Bob sinks lower in his lounge, face in his hands. This was a mistake. A huge, life-altering mistake.

Jake claps his hands once, decisive. “Now we just need Blink down here. We keep her close. Swim together, flirty eye contact, sunscreen situation if we can engineer it—”

Bradley nods. “Water proximity works. Pools lower personal-space boundaries by at least forty percent.”

“That’s not real data,” Bob mutters.

“It is now,” Bradley replies.

Jake gasps suddenly, like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “Oh! And when Phoenix eventually emerges from the underworld, we—”

“Morning!”

Bob freezes at the sound of your voice.

“Hey, Blink,” Bradley greets, too quick and too casual to be anything but suspicious. “How’s Nix?”

You drop your towel onto the lounge beside Bob, and Jake’s grin sharpens.

“Miserable, but alive,” you reply. “Housekeeping dropped off, like, a litre of Pedialyte, but she won’t drink it until she’s sure she can at least keep water down.”

Bradley winces. “Damn. Is she alright on her own?”

“Insisted on it, actually,” you say. “Said she doesn’t want anyone to see her this weak.”

Then you rest a hand on Bob’s shoulder, and his entire body goes rigid.

“How’s Fanboy?”

Bob clears his throat. “He’s good—I mean, not good—alive. He’s alive. But still really sick.”

His cheeks burn—and Bradley snorts. Loudly. But before anyone can question it, he pushes off the lounge, takes four long strides across the deck, and dives straight into the pool.

You blink after him. “That was weird.”

“When has Rooster ever been normal?” Jake says quickly. “Anyway—what were you saying about Phoenix?”

You eye him suspiciously. “Nothing. Bob was saying Mick is still really unwell.”

Jake raises both brows. “And Natasha?”

You frown. “Like I said two minutes ago—still sick.”

Jake hums, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk. “Do you think it was something they ate?”

“Nat reckons the shrimp,” you reply. “They were the only ones who ate it.”

Bob sits up straighter, as if suddenly unsure how to hold himself with you around. “So, it shouldn’t last too long—they'll be better by tomorrow, right?” he asks.

You shrug—and then you do something that has Jake biting his knuckles and Bob ready to explode. Figuratively. Literally. All of the above.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your shorts and tug them off in one smooth motion, then pull your shirt over your head and drop it on the lounge beside you. Sunlight catches on your swimsuit—soft and pale blue—and whatever words Bob had left in his brain evaporate instantly.

His breath stops. Full system shutdown.

He tries to look away, he really does, but his eyes drag back helplessly, like gravity has been recalibrated to you. His pulse kicks up hard enough he’s convinced Bradley can hear it underwater. And Jake definitely notices—he chokes on a laugh, clamps a hand over his mouth, and shoots Bob the smuggest look a human has ever produced.

Bob’s fingers curl around the edge of his sun lounge, knuckles white. Every rational thought he’s ever had abandons ship. The only thing left is the shape of your smile, the sun on your skin, the faint scent of sunscreen drifting with the breeze as you shake out your hair.

You don’t seem to notice the devastation you’ve just caused. You just drop your flip flops on top of your towel and push your sunglasses up your nose—casual, effortless, lethal.

Bob’s mouth is dry. His heartbeat is loud. And if he wasn’t already in over his head, he is now—irrevocably.

“Anyway,” you say, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m gonna go for a swim.” Then you tilt your head toward Bob, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “You should come, Floyd. You look hot.”

You don’t wait for an answer. You just flash him a smile—warm, easy, devastating—and walk toward the pool, the sun catching on the sheen of sunscreen coating your skin until it makes him dizzy. You slip into the water with a clean, graceful dive that sends a ripple across the surface and a full emotional crisis through Bob’s nervous system.

“Go!” Jake hisses, slapping Bob’s leg.

Bob startles. “What—now?”

Jake’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “She literally just asked you. Invited you. By name. While wearing that swimsuit. And I’m sitting right here—do you hear the words coming out of my mouth? Go!”

Bob hesitates, palms flattening uselessly against his thighs. “I—uh, I don’t know. I should probably—”

Jake grabs the sides of Bob’s lounge and shakes it once. “Robert. Floyd. Get. In. The Pool.”

Bob exhales in a rush, defeated. “Fine.”

He sits up—reluctantly, slowly, like a man walking to his own execution.

“Take your shirt off!” Jake hisses.

Bob frowns. “No. Absolutely not. I’m pale. I’ll burn in, like, five minutes.”

Jake’s eyes widen. “Do you want to be sun-safe or get laid, Bob?!”

“That’s not—those aren’t the only options—”

“Right now they are!”

Bob glares at him, then at the pool, then at you—floating on your back, sun in your hair, laughing as Bradley splashes you.

Jake gives him one last shove. “Shirt. Off. Go.”

And Bob, red-faced and mortified and completely hopeless, reaches for the hem of his shirt.

He inhales once—deep, resigned—then tugs it over his head in one quick, graceless movement before he can chicken out. His glasses get a little crooked in the process, his hair sticks up, and his entire torso goes pink the second sunlight hits it.

“Dear God, he’s adorable,” Jake mutters, like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

Bob pointedly ignores him. He folds his shirt—mostly to have something to do with his hands—and sets it on the lounge beside him. His ears are burning. His chest is burning. His soul is burning. He’s already regretting every life choice that has led him to this exact moment.

And then—he feels it.

A flicker of attention. The weight of someone’s stare. Like heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He glances toward the pool, and—

You’re watching him.

Not accidentally. Not confused. Not casually.

You’re watching him—with your elbows resting on the edge of the pool, water beading on your shoulders, chin tilted just slightly as your eyes track down his chest and back up again.

Your lips part—not much, just enough—and Bob’s heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

The second your gaze snaps up to meet his, you blink fast and pretend you weren’t staring, pushing off the wall and turning onto your back like you’re suddenly very invested in the wispy white clouds floating through the sky.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. “She was eating you alive.”

“Shut up,” Bob hisses—but his voice comes out thin, breathless, like all the air has left his lungs.

He swallows hard, palms slick, pulse pounding, eyes drifting back to where you’re pretending not to look at him—except you absolutely are. Out of the corner of your eye, subtle and warm and curious. Your lips even quirk a little when his gaze catches yours, and then you turn away with pink cheeks like nothing even happened.

Jake nudges Bob hard with his foot. “Get. In. The. Pool.”

Bob exhales like a man marching toward certain doom and pushes himself to his feet. The sun feels too hot, the water too bright, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to sit back down—but he forces himself forward anyway.

He steps in slowly, careful, lowering himself until the water settles warm around his chest. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s amazed it doesn’t disturb the surface.

You turn at the sound of movement, brushing wet hair from your cheek.

And then you smile at him.

Not the casual, breezy smile you give everyone. Not the professional squadmate smile. Something softer. Something that hits him sharp behind the ribs, like you’re seeing a part of him he doesn’t know how to hide.

“Hey,” you say, drifting closer.

Bob clears his throat. “Hi.”

Your eyes slide from his face down to his chest, not even trying to be subtle this time. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this—”

“Wet?” he offers—quick, nervous.

You snort softly. “I was going to say undressed.”

Then you turn your head, suddenly very interested in something across the deck—but Bob catches the colour rising in your cheeks, and he knows the sun has nothing to do with it.

A quiet beat stretches between you. Nothing but the gentle lap of water against tile, the distant crash of waves, the low murmur of O’ahu slowly waking up around you.

“Sleep well?” he asks suddenly—because he has no idea what else to say, only that he has to say something.

You turn back to him. “Not really. Nat was up most of the night. You?”

He shrugs. “Same. Fanboy wouldn’t stop groaning.”

You laugh—soft, breathless—and Bob feels the sound settle somewhere beneath his skin, warm and dangerous. “Maybe we should swap—”

A dramatic splash cuts you off, both of you flinching as water sprays everywhere.

When Bob opens his eyes again, he can’t see—his glasses are spattered with droplets, the world reduced to blur and colour—but he can feel you. Warm. Close. Too close. You laugh softly, and he feels the exhale of your breath brush his lips.

“Oh no,” you say. “You’re blind.”

Before he can even think to move, he feels the ghost of your fingertips at his temples, gently as you slide his glasses off. His whole body goes still, every muscle locking as it registers just how close you are. And when he blinks, uselessly trying to coax focus from his lousy vision, all he can really see is—

You.

Everything beyond you dissolves into colour and light—the blue of the pool, the pale stretch of sky, movement without detail—but you stay sharp. Close. So close he can see every tiny detail he’s never let himself linger on—the dark line of your lashes, the curve of your lip. You’re right there, within reach, water slicking over your shoulders as you float nearer without even meaning to.

Bob’s breath stutters.

Without his glasses, there’s nothing to hide behind. No distance. No buffer. Just you and the water nudging him forward, your bodies close enough that he can feel the heat of you through the pool, the faint brush of your knee against his thigh sending a spark straight through him.

You tilt your head, studying him, lips parted like you’re about to say something—and the way your eyes trace over his face, down his chest, back up again makes something low and dangerous coil in his gut. The water laps between you, slow and lazy, but Bob feels wound tight, every nerve lit up, every thought stripped down to how close you are and how impossible it is to pretend he isn’t thinking about it.

About you.

Your skin. How it would feel against his. How your lips would taste if he just leaned in.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And then—

Jake surfaces. “Whew! That’s refreshing!”

Bob startles and steps back.

You shoot Jake an unimpressed look. “Really, Seresin?”

“Oh.” His brows lift, lips curling into a smirk. “Did I interrupt something?”

You don’t answer—you just shake your head and start wading toward the edge of the pool, Bob's glasses still in your hand.

Jake watches you go for exactly half a second before turning back to Bob. “Easy there, Casanova. This is a family resort.”

Bob squints at him, mostly just trying to see him clearly. “What do you mean? Wasn’t getting close the—”

“Close, yes,” Jake cuts in under his breath. “But you don’t give it away. You keep the tension high. You let it build.” He pauses, his smirk sharpening, and drops his voice lower. “You have to make her want it. Make her beg for it.”

And God—that absolutely does it.

Because Bob’s brain, traitorous and unhelpful, fills in the blank immediately. You—closer than you should be. Looking at him like you were a second ago. But this time? You’re lower. Even closer. That softness in your eyes sharpening into something else entirely. And his body reacts before he can shut the thought down—fast, unmistakable, and deeply inconvenient.

Bob sucks in a sharp breath.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He needs space. Distance. A wall. A lifeguard whistle—something—because if he stays here another second, Jake’s going to notice, and that will be a whole new level of humiliation.

Without another word, he turns and wades toward the shallow end, heart hammering, every nerve lit up for reasons that have nothing to do with swimming.

“Are you guys hungry?” you call from the deck.

Bob glances over his shoulder and squints to see you using your shirt to clean his glasses—and he has no idea why, but somehow that makes his situation even worse.

“Yes!” Bradley replies, way too eager. “I’m starving.”

“Can you get a fruit platter?” Jake asks, voice smug.

Bob refuses to turn around.

“But no peaches!” Bradley calls.

“Of course—no peaches,” you say.

Bradley and Jake both do a terrible job of suppressing their laughter, but Bob still doesn’t turn around. He just takes a deep breath and keeps wading through the water, willing his body to cooperate, until—

“Bobby!” you shout. “C’mere!”

And just like a moth to a flame, he turns and starts toward the edge of the pool.

He puts his hands out to keep from running straight into the wall, palms finding the warm tile as he leans in. For a second, it’s all blurred shapes and colour—and then you’re there, crouched beside the pool, skin still glistening with tiny droplets of water, that damn swimsuit wet now and clinging sinfully to your body.

“Here,” you says softly, holding his glasses out.

He takes them and slides them on, blinking a few times as the world sharpens again.

“You hungry?” you ask, smiling now.

He clears his throat. “A little.”

“Good.” You straighten, and Bob’s thoughts immediately pivot back into deeply unhelpful territory as he looks up at you from this angle. “I’m going to order some breakfast.”

He nods. “I’ll—uh, I’ll be out in a minute.”

You tilt your head, still smiling but curious now, brows furrowing just slightly—but you don’t press. After a beat, you simply nod and turn away, heading toward the bar where one of the resort’s waitstaff greets you enthusiastically.

Bob continues wading toward the shallow end of the pool, deliberately keeping his distance from Jake and Bradley while trying to think of anything—anything at all—that isn’t you. He watches a gecko scale the trunk of a palm tree, tipping his head back until it disappears into the fronds above. Then he shifts his gaze skyward and starts counting birds as they fly over the surfboard hut on the beach.

By the time he hears you call out that the food has arrived, his situation is finally under control and he can climb out of the pool with most of his dignity intact.

Reuben and Javy have joined the group now, everyone clustered around the lounge chairs with two huge platters of food set out on the low tables between them. Bradley and Reuben have dragged a couple of loungers closer to make a loose circle, and in the middle of it all, there’s you—smiling and waving Bob over as he pads across the deck.

“I made sure there are no peaches,” you say as he steps closer.

Jake drops his chin to his chest and snorts, like he just can’t get enough of this ridiculous joke.

Bob nods, pressing his lips into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

There’re a few minutes of blissful quiet while everyone stuffs their faces with fruit and pastries. Bradley and Reuben fight over the last pain au chocolat, Jake whinges about the lack of protein, and Bob does everything he can not to watch you like the total creep he’s become since landing in Hawai’i.

The moment stretches—comfortable, lazy—until Javy finally breaks it.

“So,” he says, glancing around the group, “we’re going out tonight, right?”

Reuben looks up, chocolate smeared across his top lip. “What about Phoenix and Fanboy?”

Jake scoffs. “Just because they decided to eat bad prawns and get sick doesn’t mean they get to ruin my vacation.”

“I feel obliged to say it since Nat isn’t here,” you mutter, “it’s technically not a vacation.”

“Yeah, we’ve got that visit to Pearl Harbor tomorrow,” Bob adds. “Mav won’t be happy if we’re all hungover.”

Jake smirks. “So we invite Mav. He can’t be mad if he’s hungover too.”

Reuben snorts. “Mav is a highly decorated captain who’s about to receive a very serious, very formal Navy commendation. He’s not going to—” He stops, tilting his head. “Actually, no. You’re right. He’ll definitely come out.”

Bradley chuckles. “Yeah, he will.”

“So—what?” you ask. We just ditch Mickey and Nat?”

Jake’s smirk sharpens. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh, God,” Javy mutters. “He’s been thinking.”

Bradley snorts, but Jake ignores him completely.

“We’re only assuming it was the prawns, right?” he says, voice light and full of faux innocence. “But it could be a virus. Or something contagious.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Bob’s pulse kicks harder.

“So,” Jake says slowly, his eyes sliding toward Bob, “I think it’d make sense to quarantine the sick.”

Bob’s stomach twists.

You frown, still oblivious. “How?”

“I don’t think—” Bob starts.

But Bradley cuts in. “I agree. We don’t want anyone else getting sick.”

“I don’t know if the resort will have any free rooms,” Javy adds, equally oblivious.

Jake rolls his eyes. “We don’t need another room.”

There’s a beat of silence.

All Bob can hear is his pulse pounding in his ears.

And then—you laugh.

“Oh my God,” you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth. “There is no way you’re getting Nat to share a bed with Fanboy. She barely tolerates being in the same state as him.”

Jake grins. “I never said anything about Phoenix and Fanboy sharing a bed.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Then who—”

Your eyes land on Bob, and the question dies on your tongue.

There’s a split second of nothing—nothing but static. Bob’s heart slams so hard he’s pretty sure everyone can hear it. His spine locks, breath catching in his chest as heat rushes up his neck so fast it makes his ears burn.

You go still beside him. Not panicked. Not nervous. Just quiet. Processing.

Jake’s eyes dart between the two of you. “Get it now?”

Bradley makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Reuben abruptly becomes very interested in the breakfast platter, and Javy presses his lips together so hard his cheeks puff out.

Bob stares straight ahead, brain completely blank except for the deafening thud of his pulse. Share a bed. With you. Overnight. Multiple nights—maybe. The thought hits him low and heavy and immediate, and he has to brace his hands against his knees just to stay upright.

“That’s—” you start, then stop, glancing at Bob. “I mean… yeah. I guess it makes sense?”

Bob doesn’t dare meet your eyes. If he does, he might combust—or worse—so instead he watches Reuben pick a handful of grapes off the fruit platter like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, softly.

Bob’s breath catches.

“Great.” Jake claps his hands together. “Look at that. Problem solved.”

Bob opens his mouth. Then closes it. His brows knit as he tries to remember how words work. His heart is still racing, his face is definitely on fire, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how close you’re sitting—close enough that if he shifted even an inch, your knees would touch.

You lean forward just slightly, like you’re trying to catch his attention.

He doesn’t look. Not directly, at least.

“Unless you’re not okay with it?” you ask.

Bob shakes his head way too fast. “No. I—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He is absolutely not fine.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Bob makes a valiant attempt to remember how breathing works as he tries to relax on his sun lounge beneath the shade sail—but every time you catch his eye, his lungs promptly forget their job. He feels hot. Too hot. In a way that has nothing to do with the balmy weather and everything to do with the way sunlight glints off your skin when you climb out of the pool, water tracing slow paths down your arms and back.

And so, relaxing proves impossible.

After lunch, Jake announces that it’s time to check on the casualties—and break the news of the new room allocations—dragging both Bradley and Javy inside with him. They’re gone for almost an hour. Long enough for Reuben to glance nervously toward the hotel lobby and seriously suggest alerting security.

But eventually, they reappear. All three of them looking a little… shaken.

Apparently, Natasha had put up a fight—an impressive one—before eventually, finally, surrendering. But not before making one thing abundantly clear. This arrangement is for you. Only you. Not the boys. Not Jake’s logic. Just you.

And when Javy relays that information with a glint of fear in his eyes, you laugh—bright and sweet and completely unaware of the effect it has—and Bob’s head spins so hard he has to shut his eyes.

He’s not sure he’s going to survive the night—let alone the rest of the trip.

After a few more hours of lying in the shade, pretending not to watch you, and doing everything in his power to ignore Jake’s running commentary, Bob finally decides to head back up to his room to get ready for the night. For whatever circus he’s signed up for by giving Jake even the smallest amount of control over his love life.

Bradley calls after him to be back in the lobby no later than six, and Jake adds something smug about making sure the room situation is handled—as if Bob has ever once been in charge of what Natasha Trace does.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his skin is still warm from the sun—burnt, probably, thanks to Jake—and his head is so full of your laughter he feels like he might faint. He drags his keycard through the reader for room 303, pushes the door open—

And freezes.

Natasha’s suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, and both twin beds are occupied.

Mickey is curled up on his side, scrolling through his phone with a washcloth pressed to his forehead, and Natasha is sitting on the other bed, hugging the—hopefully—empty wastebin to her chest.

“Hey,” Bob says, taking a hesitant step inside. “How are you feeling?”

Natasha glares at him. “Great.”

Mickey doesn’t reply—he just groans and curls up tighter.

Bob winces. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” Natasha mutters. “You can get out before I throw up again.”

“We got housekeeping to move your stuff already,” Mickey mumbles.

“Oh.” Bob glances at the small entryway table, at the keycard for room 304 waiting there. For him. “Thanks.”

He picks it up and sets his card for room 303 in its place.

“And for the record,” Natasha says, eyes still narrowed. “I know what this is about. Bagman isn’t subtle. But I’m too sick to argue, and like I said—I’m doing this for her.” She lifts a hand and points a finger at him. “So don’t screw it up.”

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Screw what up?

“Okay,” he says quickly—obediently, because Natasha Trace is terrifying at the best of times.

She nods once, slowly, before her eyes slip shut and her chin dips to her chest. Bob watches for a few seconds as she breathes through another wave of nausea, feeling totally useless and hating it. But he knows Nat. And he knows better than anyone that all she wants right now is to be left alone.

“Hey, Bobby,” Mickey says, his voice theatrically weak. “If I don’t make it, don’t let Rooster hit on the girl at the coffee shop back home, okay? I know he thinks she’s cute, but I called dibs and that counts even if I’m dead.”

Natasha sighs into the wastebin. “The only way you’re dying on this trip is when I kill you for being so fucking annoying.”

Mickey frowns. “Hey. You didn’t hear me complaining when you were hogging the toilet. You don’t think that was annoying?”

“I was throwing up!” Natasha snaps.

Mickey’s eyes widen. “So was I!”

“Well,” Bob cuts in, already retreating a step toward the door. “I’m gonna just—you know. I have to get ready, so… I’m gonna go.” He opens the door. “Let me know if you need anything, and—uh—don’t kill each other.”

Then he slips out and lets the door click shut behind him before either of them can protest.

His pulse pounds in his ears as he turns slowly and walks across the hall to room 304. He tries to act normal. Tries to stop his hands from shaking as he swipes the keycard through the reader. Tries not to let his knees buckle as he takes that first step over the threshold.

But it’s hard. Harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.

The smell hits him immediately—sunscreen, fresh linen, and you. That warm, sweet scent that haunts his dreams and makes him dizzy every time you pass by too close.

With unsteady steps, he moves further inside and lets the door fall shut behind him. His suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, the bed is perfectly made, and fresh soaps sit on a little tray beside the bathroom sink.

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat as his gaze snaps between the bathroom and the bed.

Oh, God.

There’s no door.

No door separating the bathroom from the rest of the suite.

Just two frosted glass partitions—one in front of the toilet, the other shielding the showerhead. But at the right angle? God. At the right angle, you could see everything.

Bob drags in a slow, shaky breath, willing his nervous system to stand down. He’s not in the middle of a dogfight—he’s in a hotel room. In Hawaiʻi. On what could be considered a vacation. This is not the time for fight-or-flight to kick in.

With trembling hands, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels it farther into the room. Your suitcase is laying open on the floor beside the bed, clothes half-spilled like you’d only just started unpacking, so he steers himself to the opposite side before dropping his own case down flat.

He has to shower before you get here. He has to.

Because the thought of you walking into this room while he’s naked—with no real barrier, no real privacy—doesn’t make Bob nervous.

It makes him unreasonably horny. Dangerously so.

And he has absolutely no desire to find out just how hard—literally—it would be for him to control himself.

He rummages through his case until he finds an acceptable shirt and pair of shorts, then jumps up, grabs a towel from the heated rack beside the bathtub, and tosses it over the shower partition.

The water heats in no time, and Bob’s hands are still trembling as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his swim trunks. He takes his glasses off last, setting them carefully on the edge of the sink before stepping under the spray and trying—with every ounce of focus he has—to think of anything but you.

He scrubs himself quickly, movements brisk and efficient, ignoring the almost painful state of his arousal as the imaginary clock in his head counts down to your arrival.

But his imagination, unhelpful as ever, drifts anyway.

What if you walked in right now?

What if you saw him—saw everything?

What if, instead of shock or embarrassment, you just laughed softly and stripped out of that damn blue swimsuit and—

Bob’s eyes snap open at the sound of the door.

His heart slams, and he looks down—at his hand curled tight around the base of his cock.

Jesus Christ.

“It’s just me!” you call out quickly. “I’m not looking, I swear! I just went to check on Fanboy and saw Nat had already swapped rooms.”

Bob squeezes his eyes shut again, every muscle in his body locking as he stands frozen beneath the spray. He wants to answer—he really does—but he’s not sure anything there’s anything he could say right now that would come out sounding even remotely normal.

“I’m just going to watch some TV,” you add, your footsteps echoing softly through the room. “Take your time.”

And Bob has no choice—because it takes an embarrassingly long time for his situation to go down when he can still hear your soft laughter from the bedroom.

Eventually, though, his blood reroutes and his muscles finally relax. He turns the water off, half-dries himself behind the partition, and wraps the fluffy white towel around his hips—heart thumping wickedly as he steps out of the bathroom.

He clears his throat. “I’m—uh. I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”

Your head snaps toward him—and your eyes go wide.

You swallow hard, making no effort to hide it as your gaze drifts down—over his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and lower still—until it catches on the towel sitting low on his hips and stays there.

Bob flushes instantly, his whole body going hot under your gaze. But he doesn’t get it. You saw him in the pool earlier—more of him, technically. He’s exactly as naked now as he was then, maybe even less so. The towel is at least a little longer than his swim trunks are.

And yet—

Here you are. Silent and staring at him like you can’t decide how to feel.

He clears his throat again.

You blink, eyes jumping back up to his face. “Sorry,” you murmur, cheeks pink. “I just—uh. You know. I’ve never really…” Your words trail off, and as if you can’t help yourself, your eyes dip again—quick, guilty, unmistakable.

Then you shake your head and scramble off the bed.

“Sorry. I’m gonna—um—yeah. Shower.”

You brush past him in a rush, close enough that he can feel the heat of you on his skin. Close enough that he can feel the way you shiver when your arm brushes his.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there—listening to your soft footsteps against the tiled floor, the rustle of clothes, the sound of the shower turning on. Out of the very corner of his eye, he can see your silhouette behind the frosted glass. If he turned his head, he could probably see more. Your shoulder, your arm, your hip—right at the edge of the partition.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t look.

Instead, he drops his gaze to where he left his clothes on the bed and curls his shaking fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

As soon as Bob is dressed, he banishes himself to the balcony—and stays there. He grips the railing and stares out at the ocean like it might save him. He counts every bird that lands on the same palm frond blocking half his view, tracks a couple walking barefoot along the shoreline, listens to the hum of traffic somewhere beyond the resort. He tells himself to breathe. To stand normally. To not look back.

And he doesn’t turn around until he hears a soft knock, followed by the slide of the glass door.

“Okay, Captain Chivalry—it’s safe now.”

When he finally sees you, standing just inside the door, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re wearing another flowy sundress, but this one has a structured bodice—almost like a corset. It hugs you perfectly, all clean lines and soft fabric, and somehow still looks like absolute sin despite the ivory colour and lace detailing that should suggest the exact opposite.

“You look—” he chokes, his voice already hoarse. “I mean, you—you…”

Nothing. Absolutely no thoughts. Just a catastrophic loop of wildly inappropriate ones.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “I’m going to assume you’re trying for a compliment, so—thanks, Floyd.” Your cheeks go a little redder beneath your blush. “Now come on. It’s almost six.”

Bob nearly trips over his own feet as he follows you inside, his eyes shamelessly glued to where the hem of your dress brushes the backs of your thighs. He watches you slip on your shoes, grab your purse, fix a stray lock of hair in the mirror—and it’s only when you turn to him with a small, curious frown that he tears his gaze away and starts searching for his shoes.

The walk to the elevator is completely silent, aside from the thunder of Bob’s pulse in his own ears. Only when the doors slide shut do you finally turn to him again.

“Is it too weird?” you ask, so quickly he almost misses it.

He blinks, turning slowly toward you. “Is what weird?”

“Sharing a room,” you reply. “Specifically that room.”

Yes. But only because he can’t seem to keep his own thoughts under control.

“No,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “I—I mean, I don’t think so. It’s a little… intimate—” he tries not to cringe at the word “—but I don’t think it’s weird.”

Your expression relaxes, your gaze softening.

“Okay, good.” You turn back to face the elevator doors. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bob shrugs. “It could be worse.”

Your head whips back toward him, eyes wide—indignant.

“Oh my God,” he rushes. “No, not you. I meant—Phoenix and Fanboy. I meant—”

Your brows rise slowly as you wait for him to find the right words—but his brain is fuzzy, his face is hot, and standing this close to you is doing him no favours, giving him an unfair vantage of your cleavage.

Then a soft ding cuts through the silence and the doors slide open.

You huff a short, quiet laugh through your nose, shake your head, and step out without another word.

Bob hesitates. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go out tonight. Maybe he, his foot, and his mouth—which it keeps getting stuck in—should just go back up to the room and hide in shame while the rest of the squad goes out. Maybe he could pass this embarrassment off as concern for his sick friends and avoid the night entirely.

Maybe—

“Floyd!” Reuben calls. “You waiting for an invitation?”

Bob blinks, waiting only one more undecided second before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the elevator.

The next half hour passes in a blur of streetlights and excited chatter. Thanks to the dwindling squad numbers, it only takes one maxi cab to get everyone from the resort to the first location of the night—scouted by Bradley, of course. It’s a bar on the beach, literally called The Beach Bar, with alfresco seating and a list of signature cocktails long enough to rival Jake’s dating history.

According to Bradley, Maverick and Penny have already arrived. Penny flew in this morning with Amelia after making the devastating decision to close The Hard Deck for the week—something the Dagger Squad would undoubtedly be complaining about if they weren’t in Waikiki with the bar owner herself.

“There they are!” Penny calls, a bright smile on her face as she pushes out of her seat.

Everyone crowds around to give her a hug while Maverick stays firmly seated, beer lifted to his lips.

Jake is the first to find a seat at the table—right beside Maverick—and before Bob can beeline for the opposite end, Jake grabs his arm and pulls him into the chair next to his.

“It’s part of the plan,” he hisses as Bradley takes the seat on Bob’s other side.

Bradley shoots Bob a knowing smile before picking up the drinks menu and flipping it open.

“How are Fanboy and Phoenix?” Maverick asks once everyone’s seated.

Bob glances across the table—at where you’re sitting, between Penny and Javy. The furthest spot from him.

“Not great,” Reuben replies. “Nix was green the last time I saw her.”

Penny sighs. “Poor thing.”

Maverick’s brows pull together, concerned. “Do you think they’ll make tomorrow’s visit to base?”

“Doubt it,” Bradley mutters.

The conversation blurs into background noise—voices overlapping, topics changing—but Bob barely hears it. He hums and nods when he has to, but he’s not listening. Not really. Not at all. He’s too busy watching you.

As always.

He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t realise Jake has ordered him a drink until a tall glass of something brown, with a wedge of lemon, is set on the table in front of him.

“On the hard stuff tonight, hey, Floyd?” Javy says with a smirk, nodding toward the drink.

Bob blinks, then glances down. “I—uh—yeah, I guess.”

He doesn’t drink often—and very rarely drinks to get drunk—but he’s pretty sure Jake ordered him a Long Island Iced Tea.

Great.

Maverick chuckles. “Didn’t think you’d be the one I’d have to warn about being hungover tomorrow, Bob.”

Bob’s lips press into a forced, fake smile while the rest of the table shares a laugh. Even you. But he doesn’t get to enjoy your smile right now—he’s too busy shooting daggers at the smug man sitting beside him.

“Alright,” Jake says, lifting his own drink. “A toast—to our fearless leader, our formidable captain, and the generosity of the U.S. Navy for this all-expenses-paid vacation to Hawai’i.”

“Hear, hear!” Reuben cheers, raising his beer.

Maverick rolls his eyes as the whole table stands and lifts their drinks, laughing. And even Bob can’t help but crack a small smile when the rim of your glass clinks against his.

The night wears on in surprisingly calm fashion. Everyone drinks. Everyone eats. Everyone laughs. There’s easy conversation and a warm atmosphere that settles in around the table. Bob makes it through two terrible drinks before he beats Jake to ordering and finally gets a glass of something non-alcoholic that doesn’t make his throat burn.

But even then—even with a glass of orange juice in front of him—something about the way your eyes darken whenever they meet his makes him feel just a little drunk.

A little reckless, maybe.

By nine p.m., Maverick is on his third embarrassing story about baby Bradley, Penny is crying with laughter, and Reuben is recording it because he knows Mickey would be devastated to miss out.

“And that is why Rooster is banned from every Chuck E. Cheese in the state of California,” Maverick snorts, lifting his drink.

Javy leans halfway across the table, grinning. “Every Chuck E. Cheese in California? Still?”

Maverick nods. “Still.”

“I was eleven!” Bradley exclaims. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, buddy,” you giggle. “That definitely doesn’t sound like an accident. You were an evil little kid.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts his beer to his lips and drains it.

After a few more minutes of laughter—and Bradley sulking—Jake claps his hands together and sits up straighter.

“Alright, team,” he says. “I think it’s time we move on.”

Maverick’s brows lift. “Move on?”

Jake nods. “I found this great little bar with live music—it’s only about a block away.”

“What about tomorrow?” Penny asks, arching a brow.

Bradley shrugs. “What about tomorrow?”

“I don’t want six hungover pilots showing up to Pearl Harbor,” Maverick says, his brows drawing together.

Reuben scoffs. “Come on, Mav. At best you’ll get five—Bob never gets drunk!”

Maverick drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Payback. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Penny stifles a laugh behind a sip of her drink.

“Well,” Jake says, smirking, “if you come with us, you can make sure we don’t drink too much.”

At that, Penny snorts, nearly spraying a mouthful of beer across the table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, still smiling. “I just—sorry, but did you really just ask Maverick to come out with you and be the responsible one?”

“Hey.” Maverick shoots her an indignant look. “I can be responsible. I’m their captain.”

Penny doesn’t respond—she just keeps giggling like this is the best joke she’s heard in years.

“You know what,” Maverick says, pushing out of his chair. “I’ll rise to the challenge. I’ll be the babysitter. Let’s do this.”

There’s a chorus of cheers and laughter as chairs scrape back and everyone stands. Penny is still laughing as people pay their bills and wander out to the front of the bar—and that’s where she bids Maverick goodnight, says her farewells to the rest, and climbs into a cab to get back to Amelia at the hotel.

Jake then tells Bradley the name of the next bar and motions for him to lead the way—with a wink he’s not even trying to hide. Bradley nods, grinning like the unsubtle fool he is, and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the front of the group and striking up a conversation about something Bob can’t quite make out.

“Okay,” Jake whispers, falling into step beside Bob. “Phase Three.”

Bob sighs. “Great.”

“This is where it gets a little counterintuitive,” Jake says. “But stay with me. You’ve done great so far—well. Mostly. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”

Bob grimaces.

“But now,” Jake continues, “you need to pull back.”

Bob looks at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” Jake adds quickly. “Enough that she notices. Up until now, you’ve been attentive. Safe. Available.” He glances ahead, toward you. “Now you introduce a little… mystery.”

He emphasises the last word with a flourish of his hand, like he’s unveiling a magic trick.

“What have I done?” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jake ignores him. “You’ve got to become temporarily unavailable.”

Bob’s eyes go wide.

“Not emotionally—don’t freak out,” Jake adds. “Just... visually.”

“Visually?” Bob echoes.

“Nothing dramatic. Five minutes. Smile. Eye contact. A compliment.” Jake shrugs. “You don’t even have to mean it.”

Bob frowns. “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Flirt, Bob. I’m telling you to flirt with another woman.”

“What?” Bob’s eyes go wide again. “No way. I—I can’t. I mean, I just—”

“I know, I know—this makes you uncomfortable.” Jake claps a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “But that’s where the growth happens.”

Bob shrugs him off.

“How is flirting with someone else supposed to help?”

“It’s scarcity, Floyd. Very basic economics.” Jake lowers his voice. “Right now she thinks she’s got you figured out. We just need to… shake the snow globe. You know?”

Bob stares at him. “No. Actually, I have no idea what you’re—”

“We’re here!” Bradley calls from the front of the group. “Get your IDs out, sexy people. You especially, Floyd—those glasses do nothing for your baby face.”

Bob lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“Buck up, Bobby!” Jake grins. “Your night is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”

Everyone funnels into the bar without too much fuss—the security guard checking IDs even though he can clearly tell no one is underage. The place is already humming, with live music booming above the chatter and a heavy air thick with salt and sweat and something citrusy from the bar. It’s darker than the last place, lit mostly by strings of lights and the low glow of neon along the back wall.

Bob hangs back out of instinct, letting everyone else surge ahead, but Jake’s hand at his elbow steers him forward before he can fully commit to disappearing.

The bar stretches along the back wall, polished wood crowded with elbows and condensation rings. People shout their orders over the music—beer, cocktails, something pink with fruit floating in it—and Bob finds himself wedged between Bradley and Jake, staring at the chalkboard menu like it might offer him spiritual guidance.

He doesn’t look at you first—even though he wants to.

He can feel where you are, though. Somewhere just to his right. Close enough that when he finally turns his head, he catches the tail end of your glance. Your eyes flick away immediately—nothing dramatic, nothing obvious—but it still sends a small, unsteady jolt through him. Like being caught mid-thought.

But before he can linger on it for too long, Jake nudges his side. Hard.

“Six o’clock. Blonde. She’s looking this way,” he says, eyes trained across the bar. “Not sure if she wants me or you—” he smirks. “I know which I’d put my money on—but I’ll give you this one.”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Gee, thanks.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Bob stumbles through the crowd, half-dragged by Jake, until he finds himself at the other end of the bar, right beside the blonde—he’s assuming—Jake had been referring to. And then Jake is gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. But Bob can still feel his gaze from wherever he’s hiding.

Bob clears his throat, turning stiffly toward the blonde.

“Uh—hey,” he says, immediately hating how unsure it sounds.

She turns to face him, smile widening. “Hi.”

Now he’s supposed to say something else. Something smooth. Something intentional. Something Jake would say that’d have any woman scribbling her number on a napkin.

He clears his throat. Again. “I—I’m Bob.”

“Marci,” she says, holding out her hand.

Bob shakes it. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

Okay. Now what?

Bob knows he shouldn’t—he knows it’s too soon, that it could very well blow up Jake’s stupid plan—but he does it anyway. He looks for you.

And you’re still there.

Standing between Bradley and Reuben. Your eyes catch his, just for a second, before drifting away—as if they never really meant to land on him at all. Your posture is relaxed, your expression unreadable, but there’s something uneasy in the set of your mouth. Something he can’t quite figure out.

“So,” Marci says, patient, expectant.

Bob’s eyes snap back to her, and he tries to focus.

What would Hangman do?

God. He never thought he’d be seriously asking himself that question.

“I like your—uh—shoes,” he offers, and immediately regrets it. They’re just shoes. Normal shoes. Why would he compliment her shoes?

She laughs anyway. “Thanks.”

He nods, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. “Yeah. They—um. They suit you.”

This is going so much worse than he thought. And he already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

But the worst part—the worst part—is that he can feel himself pulling away from you to do this. Turning his body, angling his shoulders, pretending to be temporarily unavailable like Jake told him to. It feels wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate.

He risks another glance across the bar.

You’re looking now.

Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just… looking. Your brows faintly knit, head tilted, like you’re watching something you didn’t expect and aren’t sure how to categorise.

Something in Bob’s chest gives a small, panicked lurch.

He laughs, turning back to the blonde. “Sorry. I’m not—this isn’t usually my thing.”

Marci hums, amused. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob glances across the bar, searching for something—anything, any excuse—when a frantic hand gesture catches his eye. Jake. Of course. His eyes are wide, expression stern, a sharp finger pointed straight at Bob as he mouths something Bob absolutely cannot make out.

But he can gauge the general vibe.

Try harder.

So, with a deep breath, Bob forces his shoulders to relax and asks Marci if she’s here on vacation—which works. Her face lights up, and she launches into the story of why she’s here. Why she and her friends decided they needed a girls’ trip because one of them found out her boyfriend had not one, but two other girlfriends.

Then it’s something about work. Something about her boss, who only has it out for her because she has naturally thick hair and he’s going bald. Then it’s her family. Her cat. A friend who moved to Canada who, like, totally regrets it because it’s so cold up there.

Bob nods in all the right places, hums when it feels expected, and lets the sound of her voice wash over him without really catching on to anything specific.

He’s not trying to be rude. It’s just easier this way.

He takes a slow sip of his drink—barely tasting it—and tries to settle into the role Jake’s assigned him. Tries to look relaxed. Tries to angle his body the way he’s supposed to, shoulders turned just enough to sell the illusion.

Temporarily unavailable.

The phrase echoes through his head, absurd and heavy all at once.

And every few minutes, he lets his gaze drift. Not fully—just enough to check. To confirm.

You’re still at the bar, but you’re not where you were before. You’ve shifted closer to Reuben now, your bodies angled together as he leans in to hear you over the music. Your head dips when you laugh at something he says, hair falling forward, obscuring your face for a second.

Bob’s chest tightens.

This is working, right? This is the point. This is what’s supposed to happen.

He tells himself that. Repeats it. Loops it in his mind like a mantra—the only thing keeping him grounded—and tries not to catalogue every tiny move you make, every glance you don’t send his way. But it’s hard. Because he wants to be the one you’re laughing with. Leaning into. Looking at with that concentrated little frown between your brows.

Marci laughs at something—and he realises suddenly, belatedly, that it must have been a joke. He smiles back, a reflex more than a choice.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically. “It’s loud in here.”

She doesn’t seem bothered. He’s not even sure she heard him, because she just keeps talking—easy, unoffended—like this is exactly the kind of interaction she expected when she walked into a bar like this.

Bob wonders—briefly, unfairly—if this is how it always goes for people like Jake. If it really can be this easy. Just standing here, nodding along, letting someone talk while the rest takes care of itself. No second-guessing every word, no constant awareness of where everyone else in the room is standing.

Because Marci doesn’t seem to need anything from him beyond that. She’s talking, filling the space easily, smiling when it suits her, perfectly content with half his attention—or less, really. It’s easy. Effortless. And the unsettling part is how little of him it actually requires.

For a moment, Bob feels strangely hollow. Lost in his thoughts, stuck on the idea that maybe this is what flirting is supposed to feel like, and he’s just been doing it all wrong.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder—solid and familiar—and Jake appears, a charming smile already stretched across his face.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need my friend for a minute. Do you mind?”

Marci’s cheeks flush. “Oh. No, not at all. Take your time.”

Okay. Maybe it’s just Jake. Maybe it really is this easy for him.

With a wink and a nod—a very cowboy nod—Jake turns away and steers Bob a few steps from Marci. Further from the band, where he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

“I think it worked a little too well,” he says.

Bob frowns. “What?”

Jake tips his head toward the bar. Toward you.

“She asked Payback to take her home. She’s gone.”

Bob’s stomach drops. “She... she what?”

Jake doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

Bob can feel his heart pounding, too fast, too loud, like it’s climbed up into his throat. There’s a tight, bitter ache behind his ribs—unfamiliar and immediate—and he swallows hard, like that might make it go away.

“Like, take her home?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even. “Or take her home?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Relax. She didn’t ask him to take her home like that. She’s probably just tired.” He pauses, then grins. “And jealous.”

Is that supposed to make Bob feel better? Because it doesn’t.

“I should—” Bob tries to step past Jake, but he blocks his path.

“Should what?”

“I should explain. I don’t want her to—”

“Explain what?” Jake asks, rhetorical. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were talking to a pretty girl in a bar and she couldn’t stand to watch. This was kind of the whole plan.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “Well, I don’t like the plan.”

Jake lets out a sharp sigh. “Come on, Floyd. Don’t chicken out now. I know Phase Three’s hard but I promise you’re gonna like Phase Four.”

Right now, Bob couldn’t care less about phase three or four or Jake’s entire stupid plan. All he cares about is you—where you are, what you’re thinking, who you’re with. He doesn’t care about jealousy or mystery or being temporarily unavailable.

Just you.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, eyes bouncing between Jake’s face and the door. “I won’t explain myself—but I’m going back to the hotel. I’m done tonight.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You promise you’re not going to blurt out some lame excuse and ruin everything?”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Yes. I promise. I’m just—I'm tired, okay?”

Jake doesn’t move at first. He just looks at Bob, studies him, as if he could stare hard enough to read his mind. Then, after what feels like a weirdly long time to be holding such intense eye contact, he steps out of Bob’s path.

“Fine. Be boring, go home.” His eyes move from Bob’s face to the bar behind him. “Mind if I comfort your friend?”

“Knock yourself out,” Bob mutters, brushing past Jake as he heads for the door.

Jake calls something behind him, but Bob doesn’t hear it—and he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to get back to the hotel and see you, before his imagination starts showing him things he won’t be able to shake.

It isn’t until he’s climbing out of the Uber, fishing for his room card in his back pocket, that he realises he should’ve texted you—let you know he’s on his way back. He doesn’t want to frighten you. Or worse. You could be showering again, or changing, or walking around in your underwear—

God. He needs to stop before his brain goes somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t—before he pops a boner waiting for the damn elevator.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text:

Forgot to let you know I left the bar. Just got back to the resort.

But before he hits send, he hesitates. Is he trying too hard?

So he retypes as he steps into the lift:

I’ll be at the room in five.

He hesitates again. Should he elaborate?

He types again:

Decided to call it an early night and I’m just about back at the room. Hope that’s okay.

Hope that’s okay? Why wouldn’t it be? He doesn’t need your permission. It’s his room too.

He takes a deep breath as he steps out of the elevator, then deletes the text and tries again:

Just letting you know I’ll be back at the room in—

He glances up from his phone. Shit. He’s already here. Texting now would just be weird.

It’s fine—he’ll just knock. That’s a fair enough warning. Right?

He lifts his hand and raps on the door three times.

A beat passes. Then another. Nothing.

His brows draw together, his heart beating far too fast for this to mean nothing.

He knocks again. Waits.

Still nothing.

His stomach knots nervously, nausea crawling bitterly up the back of his throat.

Maybe you’re out on the balcony?

He exhales slowly, then slips his keycard from his back pocket and swipes it through the reader. The lock flashes green, then beeps and clicks. He turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “I forgot to text when I left the bar, but—”

The room is dark. Not a single light left on. Bob’s brows knit tighter as he lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. He treads lightly, quietly, squinting through the dark toward the bed in the middle of the room.

But it’s empty. Everything’s empty.

The bed, the bathroom, the balcony—the whole damn room is completely empty.

Fuck.

Bob squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a slow, steady breath, like that might be enough to force his thoughts back into order. Like he can shove it all back down if he just doesn’t think too hard.

But it doesn’t work.

The images come anyway—half-formed and unwelcome. Not clear enough to be real, but sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t want to picture it. Doesn’t want to give the thought any shape or weight. But his brain keeps circling the same awful question, over and over, until it feels burned into the backs of his eyelids.

What if Jake’s stupid phase three didn’t make you jealous—what if it just made you move on?

What if you saw him laughing with someone else and decided not to wait around for clarification. What if you didn’t owe him that. What if you assumed the worst because, frankly, he’d given you every reason to.

Bob shoves his glasses into his hair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He did this. He followed the plan. He pulled back. He looked away. And now the room is empty, and you’re not here, and the silence feels loud enough to accuse him of something.

Maybe you didn’t even mean it to happen like this. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe you just wanted to go home and sleep.

But the thought doesn’t settle. It won’t.

Because another part of him—the louder, more anxious part—keeps whispering that he waited too long. That he hesitated when it mattered. That he let someone else step into the space he should’ve been standing in all along. That Jake’s plan was never going to work because Bob was already too late.

And now he’s alone in a dark hotel room, trying not to imagine what he’s already decided he’s lost.

After a few minutes of standing in the dark, listening to his pulse pound in his ears, Bob fumbles for a light switch, flicking on the first one he can find. The overhead lights flicker to life instantly, bathing the empty room in a warm yellow glow that feels almost mocking in its normalcy.

He avoids his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe as he steps around the bed and flips open his suitcase. He picks out a pair of sleep shorts and one of his threadbare sleep shirts, throws them on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers.

Every sound is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. He can hear the soft whistle of the breeze outside, the distant echo of voices from other rooms. Even the rustle of fabric is too sharp in his ears as he shrugs his shirt off.

Then his hands drop to his waistband, about to unbutton his shorts when he hears the door click—and freezes.

It barely takes you two steps to come into view, looking a little startled and a little confused.

“Oh.” You frown. “Sorry, I—uh—I didn’t expect you to be here.”

The tension drains out of him all at once, like someone pulled a plug. Bob can feel it in his shoulders, his jaw, the way his lungs finally remember how to exhale. You’re still wearing that sinful little sundress—hair still perfect, makeup unsmudged. Almost as if everything he’d imagined hadn’t happened at all.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “I’m sorry, I—I should have texted you, but I didn’t think. Just wanted to get out of that stuffy bar.”

You huff a quiet, humourless laugh through your nose. “Yeah. Looked like you were having a terrible time.”

Bob frowns. He might not be as good at reading women as Jake is, but he knows you—and he knows that was dripping with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

You shrug, but it’s stiff—too deliberate. “Nothing. Just… surprised you didn’t go home with your new friend.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “New friend?”

“The blonde,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “At the bar. Gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh—uh.” Bob hesitates. “She was just—we were just talking.”

“Just talking?” you repeat, brows lifting.

He nods automatically, then pauses. There’s something different in your expression now—darker, sharper. Focused on him in a way that makes his skin prickle.

“I could see you, Bob,” you say, folding your arms. “I could see her. She was into you.”

He blinks. “She was?”

Your mouth twists. “God. Really? Isn’t that the whole reason you went over there? So you could get laid?”

The words hit harder than he expects.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—no. That’s not—” He cuts himself off, heat creeping up his neck as he thinks of Jake—don’t explain, don’t chase. “I didn’t think she was interested… like that.”

You stare at him for a beat, then let out a short scoff. “Wow. Okay.”

You step closer without meaning to—or maybe he steps back. He’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re very aware of the fact that he’s shirtless now, your gaze dipping and catching before you drag it away again.

Something tight and confusing coils low in his stomach.

“You know, I used to think it was just me,” you say lightly—too lightly. “But at least now I know you’re clueless about all women.”

Then you turn on your heel, march toward the other side of the bed, snatch something out of your suitcase, and stomp into the bathroom.

Bob just stands there, stunned. His brain is still catching up—confusion tangling with relief, with something warmer and sharper that has no business showing up right now. His heart is still pounding, but not like before. Not panic. Something else.

“I’m changing,” you mutter.

Bob fumbles for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he turns toward the balcony. He doesn’t look back—no matter how much he wants to—he just slides the door open and steps out into the warm night.

He takes a deep breath, staring out at the quietly crashing waves, and for the first time since Jake started talking about plans and phases and being temporarily unavailable, a thought sneaks in—unwanted and reluctant, but impossible to ignore.

Oh.

Maybe it’s… working.

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[writesick-lover]

Hiiii,,

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

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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

[prettyinpeaches]

Welcome home, Mrs. America pt. 2

Soldier Boy (Ben) x PR wife!Reader | The Boys

part -> one | two | three | finale

NOTES: here she is!! Part 2!!! I’m astounded by how this took off and I’m sorry this took so long <3 Enjoy it my loves 🤍

TW: pr relationship/marriage, she’s a lil awkward around him in some spots, drug usage, “traditional” husband ben, possessive language, breeding kink/comments, oral (f receiving), description of sexual acts, lots of use of husband/wife, he’s kind of doting lowkey, one comment about her needing to eat more. Let me know if I need to add any!

MASTERLIST

… 2 days later …

The house smelled like bacon and weed.

You hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, blinking into the morning light like maybe you’d stumbled onto the set of something you weren’t supposed to see. It was just past nine, and the kitchen already sounded alive—something sizzling, something low playing from an old speaker, and a man’s voice humming along a beat behind, off-key and unapologetic.

You figured Ben would be gone again—another early meeting, another PR stunt, another day where your husband existed more on headlines than in hallways. He hadn't even come back until almost 10:00 PM the night before.

Ben stood at the stove, barefoot and bare-chested, hair wild, a pair of low-slung pajama pants riding dangerously low on his hips. He had one hand around a spatula and the other wrapped around a mug, which you’d bet wasn’t filled with anything a normal person would drink at 9 am on a Wednesday. A lit joint dangled from his mouth. There was some kind of white powder already dusted across the marble counter.

So… definitely not gone.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard your footsteps and gave you a look that felt like it dragged teeth down your spine—slow and biting.

“Well, well,” he muttered, voice still scratchy with sleep. “Thanks for finally gracing me with your presence, Mrs. America.”

You blinked, still groggy. “Good morning to you too.”

He turned back to the pan like he hadn’t just delivered a line meant to sting. “Made you breakfast.”

You stared.

He said it like that was normal.

“I—thanks,” you offered cautiously, stepping further into the kitchen. You were still in your robe, hair half-damp and skin clean and soft and smelling like the expensive soap from the marble tub upstairs. The idea of a bath, and prolonging the journey out into the apartment, had been too tempting. You could feel his eyes drag over you. 

He slid a plate across the counter toward you—eggs, bacon, toast blackened on one side—and didn’t even look at you when he said if. “Eat. You’re too goddamn skinny. No more skippin' meals, not on my watch.”

You choked on a laugh. “I eat.”

“Not enough.” He brought the joint to his lips again, taking a long drag before dropping his hand again. “I like a little meat on my girls.”

“Your girls?” you echoed, lifting an eyebrow as you moved to sit.

“Yeah,” he said plainly. “Ass, tits, thighs—I like somethin’ I can grab on.”

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. He just poured you a cup of coffee—the real kind, thick and black and strong smelling— and slid it across to you like it was a peace offering.

“Just sayin’,” he added after a beat, “I wouldn’t mind seein’ a little softness on those hips. Can't have you eatin' like a little bird once you're knocked up either.”

Your cheeks burned hot. 

“Ben,” you warned, but there was no bite to it. You were smiling.

He leaned against the counter, watching you like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. When you picked up the fork—slowly, a little self-conscious now—he let out a pleased hum.

“There she is,” he said. “That’s my girl. Good appetite, bare feet in my kitchen… fuck, sweetheart. You’re a vision.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping it would tamp down the blush still going strong on your cheeks–it didn’t. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m romantic,” he countered, deadpan. “Old-school.”

“You’re high.”

He laughed then—low and rich and golden, head tipping back slightly. “Also true.”

You smiled. Couldn’t help it. It was all absurd. Surreal. But somehow… oddly sweet.

Ben finished his joint, stubbed it out on a chipped ashtray, then stretched like a cat—arms over his head, abs flexing, pants riding low enough to show the start of that sharp V of muscle.

You looked away too fast and took a sip of coffee.

He caught it. Of course he did.

“Well,” he said casually, his voice a low drawl, “I’m gonna go shower.”

You looked up, a small polite smile already present. “Okay.”

And then, slow and deliberate: 

“Feel free to join me.”

Your eyes widened just slightly. He smiled. Lazy and pleased.

“Or just come sit and keep me company,” he said, voice dipping low. “I don’t mind an audience. You can even keep the robe on if you want. Or don’t. Dealer’s choice.”

You laughed—quiet, startled, but real.

Ben winked, “see? I’m gettin’ there. You’re startin’ to smile when I flirt with you.”

“I’m not—” you started to protest, but you were still smiling.

He grinned, turning toward the hallway with a stretch and a low groan. “I’ll leave the door cracked. Just in case.”

You watched him disappear down the hall, and the heat in your face didn’t fade for a long, long time.

You didn’t follow him. Not then. 

But the warmth stayed in your chest all day. The sound of his voice. The lazy charm of his grin.

You stared at the empty doorway for a full minute, heat crawling up your chest. You picked at your toast.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling.

…Later that night…

The hallway was quiet. That rich, echoing kind of quiet that made everything feel heavier. It was dark, late, which made it feel even more forbidden despite the fact you lived here. You were grown. Married. 

The soft pad of your bare feet against the hardwood barely registered over the rush of your own pulse. You felt warm beneath the silk of your nightgown, skin buzzing like it knew what was waiting behind that door. Your fingers brushed the hem of it once, twice—nervous, uncertain, a little aching.

You weren’t even sure what you were doing.

Just… saying goodnight.

That’s what you told yourself. You were doing what any good wife would do, right? 

You paused in the doorway. He’d left it cracked, just like he said he would. Like he’d apparently done every night since you’d gotten here.

Ben was already in bed—shirtless and golden in the low amber light, his body half-shadowed and impossibly still. The glow caught on the ridges of his chest, the broad spread of his shoulders, the rough slope of his jaw. He looked carved—something ancient, massive, unapologetically male—and the sight of him hit you all at once. The reality of him. The way his stomach rose slowly beneath the sheet, the way his arms were folded behind his head like he’d been there a while. Waiting.

It made something hot bloom in your chest, sharp and soft all at once. You weren’t sure if it was desire or nerves or something else entirely—but it was overwhelming. He had his arms property behind his head like he had nowhere better to be—like he’d been waiting there forever, perfectly relaxed, legs stretched wide beneath the thin sheet. He looked half-drunk, maybe a little high, but very, very awake.

Your breath caught.

And when he saw you, something in his face changed. His eyes dragged down your legs, up the hem of that little nightgown—and he smiled. Low. Lazy. Like you’d just proven a point he hadn’t said out loud.

“Well,” he said, voice thick as molasses. “Look who finally came to bed.”

You flushed instantly. “I—I wasn’t—I just came to say goodnight.”

“If this is how you say goodnight,” he said thickly, “I might not survive a real good morning.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to make a joke—but none came to mind. Your throat felt tight. The warmth of him, the way he looked at you, it all caught you off guard.

You hesitated, then said softly, eyes on the floor, “I… just didn’t want to go another night without saying it to your face.” Your voice cracked a little at the end, like you surprised yourself with the words.

Ben stilled, just for a beat. Like something in him softened. His whole expression shifted—heat giving way to something quieter. He looked at you like you’d just offered him a lifeline.

His hand dragged down his chest, scratching along the v of muscle that disappeared beneath the sheets. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ll be honest, I’ve been sittin’ in this bed, thinkin’ about you. Palming my cock and tellin’ myself to be patient for three fuckin’ days.”

You blinked.

“Then you come in here all glowin’, smellin’ like flowers, legs out, tits bouncin’ when you walk,” he said, letting his gaze sweep across you like a caress. “like I’m not hard as fuck just from lookin’ at you.”

He sat up, slow and smooth, letting the sheet slide down to his hips. There was nothing hurried in the way he moved—just this heavy, coiled confidence. The kind that said he knew what came next.

And then his voice dropped. “C’mere, baby.”

Something about the way he said it—c’mere—so soft, so sure. Like he wasn’t asking. Like he knew. He looked at you like you were something fragile. Something he’d starve without.

“You been sleepin’ in that guest room like I don’t fuckin’ notice you,” he murmured as you got closer. “Like I ain’t hearin’ your little footsteps when you get up at all hours a’the night. Gave you your space. I let you have it. Wanted y’to, baby.”

You nodded, fidgeting.

His hand reached out—slow, gentle—and hooked around your wrist. He rubbed a thumb against your pulse point, eyes on yours. “But I’ve had just about enough of bein’ polite.”

Your heart thudded.

He stood—all heat and mass and intent—and loomed over you without ever making you feel trapped. Just wanted. Just… his.

Ben leaned in, mouth at your ear, voice so low and warm it made your spine arch.

“I need you in my bed, sweetheart. Need you under me. Need to hear those pretty little sounds I’ve been dreamin’ about since the minute I put that ring on your finger.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You don’t gotta do a goddamn thing,” he whispered, cupping the back of your neck. “Just come lie down and let your husband take care’a you”

You whimpered—barely—and he grinned.

“There she is.”

He kissed your cheek. Just once. Just enough to make your knees soften.

Then he nudged his nose down along your jaw, murmuring, “If you don’t let me take this little nightgown off and see what I’ve been missin’, I might lose my goddamn mind.”

His other hand slid down, fingers grazing the curve of your hip—warm and possessive.

“Come to bed, baby,” he coaxed, guiding you backwards. “Let me get my hands on my wife.”

You swallowed. Nodded. Let him guide you back toward the mattress.

And Ben—he let out a breath like it hurt to wait even another second.

“‘Bout goddamn time,” he murmured, pulling you close. “It’s bedtime, sweetheart. And I’m not lettin’ you outta this bed until I make you mine.”

He laid you back on the mattress like you were made of glass. Like you were something he’d prayed for and never expected to touch.

Ben stood above you for a second, just looking—all muscle and menace and awe, like he couldn’t believe his luck. His jaw twitched like he was holding something back. Words, maybe, or just the need to devour you whole. His eyes dragged over you with a slow, searing hunger, cataloging every inch like he meant to memorize it. Not just lust—possession. Reverence. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this exact moment and couldn’t stop staring just to make sure it was real. heavy-lidded and golden in the lamplight, chest rising slow and hungry like he was trying to take you in with every breath. His hand dragged through his hair, tousling it even more, and he let out a thick, low groan.

And then, slowly, reverently, he climbed onto the bed. His knees bracketed your hips. His arms came down beside your shoulders. His weight sank into the mattress like inevitability.

“I got a wife,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “I got a fuckin’ wife. And she looks like this.”

You flushed. Your hands slid up his arms, unthinking. His skin was hot and tight over muscle, flexing under your fingers.

“I didn’t know if you’d want—” you started, voice small, but he cut you off with a sound just shy of angry.

“Sweetheart,” he growled, lowering to your neck, “if you think I’d let you, my brand spankin’ new wife, come in here, all soft and shy in that fuckin’ slip, legs out, smellin’ like lavender, and not lay you out like dessert? You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

He kissed your collarbone. Your shoulder. His hands skimmed up your thighs, big palms rough and reverent. He pushed your nightgown up slow—so slow—baring inch after inch like he was peeling open something sacred.

“Oh, baby,” he crooned, voice thick. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be sweet all over.”

You gasped as his thumbs brushed the crease where thigh met hip, and he smiled—starving and satisfied.

“You shy now, sweetheart?” he murmured. “Gettin’ quiet on me? That’s alright. I can talk enough for both of us.”

His fingers slid higher, catching the waistband of your panties. He let out a laugh—soft and filthy.

“Fuck. You’re soaked, honey. And I haven’t even touched you proper yet.”

You whimpered, hips shifting—and that was all it took.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, sliding down your body, kissing your stomach on the way. “You’re gonna let me have a taste, yeah?”

He settled between your legs like he was made for it.

“I gotta know what my wife tastes like,” he muttered, lips dragging over the inside of your thigh. “Gotta feel you fall apart on my tongue. Gonna ruin you for anybody else even thinkin’ about tryin’.”

Your hands flew to his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he pulled your panties down and tossed them aside. “Please, Ben-”

“I’ll be so good to you, baby,” he promised, kissing the seam of your cunt. “Swear to God. I’ll take my fuckin’ time. Gonna make you cum like it’s my fuckin’ job—‘cause it is, isn’t it?”

He looked up, pupils blown, lips parted. 

“I’m your husband. This is what I do.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, deep. His tongue pushed inside you slow and deliberate before he dragged it up and latched onto your clit, sucking like he meant to pull the sound right out of your throat.

“Ben—” you gasped, hips jerking.

He groaned like it hurt to go slow. Like your voice was enough to wreck him completely.

You whimpered again, overwhelmed, and he licked you harder—tongue flattening, swirling, filthy and adoring.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured against you. “You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

You were panting now, fingers still buried in his hair, hips starting to roll—grinding up into his mouth like you couldn’t help it. Your thighs trembled around his head. The silk of your nightgown clung to your skin, damp with sweat and bunched around your ribs.

Ben moaned like it pained him. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, broad palms rough and steady, anchoring you in place like he felt you slipping. But one hand broke away, dragging up—slow and sure—fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh, then sliding under your nightgown, pressing flat to your belly.

He groaned when he found it—warm and soft beneath his palm.

You gasped—sharp, breathless—and his mouth went sloppier after that. More frantic. More needy. His tongue licked deep, slow strokes up through your folds, groaning like he was trying to get drunk off your taste.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold on, baby. Let me have it.”

Your whole body arched. His mouth moved with you, relentless. His tongue circled your clit, then sucked it between his lips—firm, focused, obscene. You choked out his name.

“Ben—!”

He groaned—hard—his voice breaking against you like gravel. His fingers flexed against your thighs, keeping you spread.

“That’s right,” he growled. “Say it again. Wanna hear my name comin’ outta your mouth while I’ve got my tongue buried in your fuckin’ cunt.”

You whined, overwhelmed. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Your body was stretched tight, trembling on the edge. “Ben, I—I can’t—”

He lifted his head just enough to speak, voice rough and utterly gone.

“You can,” he rasped. “You will. Gonna cum for me, baby. Right on my fuckin’ face. You hear me?”

His hand returned to your belly, firm and grounding. Holding you down like he could keep you tethered to the earth.

“I’m gonna do this every fuckin’ night if you let me,” he said, voice like a vow. “Put you to bed with my mouth on you. Remind you what it means to be mine.”

You sobbed—helpless. You were already there, seconds away. Already unraveling.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “All shaky, tears in your eyes, drippin’ down my chin. You’re gonna soak me, aren’t you? Gonna cum like the sweet little housewife they promised me.”

Your hips bucked. You nodded—wild and frantic. “Please—”

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, licking his lips like he was high on your taste. “Don’t beg. You don’t have’ta beg me for nothin’.”

Then his mouth was back on you, unrelenting. Tongue swirling, lips wrapped around your clit, groaning every time you cried out. The pressure built sharp and hot, your legs trembling so hard it felt like your bones would break—

And then you were cumming.

Hard.

Your cry broke the air, sharp and wet. Your hips jerked once, twice—then you were shaking, thighs locked around his shoulders, gasping for air as he licked you through every quake. Your fingers slipped from his hair, grabbing at the sheets, his arms, anything.

Ben didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your body went limp, melting into the mattress in a boneless sprawl.

Only then did he finally pull back.

And fuck, he looked wrecked.

His face was glistening with you. His beard was soaked. His lips were red, his jaw tense, his chest rising hard like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice ragged and full of reverence. “You’ve got a perfect fuckin’ pussy for eatin’, honey.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

Your thighs were trembling. You couldn’t move—you didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, boneless and wide open, and let him look at you like that forever.

Ben crawled up over you, huge and burning, and settled between your legs like he meant to live there. His cock pressed against your inner thigh, thick and straining under the soft fabric of his pajama pants. You whimpered when you felt it.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Don’t do that. Don’t make that sound. You do that again, I’m not gonna be a fuckin’ gentleman.”

He lowered his body, crowding you in, bracing himself on his elbows so his weight kissed every inch of your skin. The heat of him was everywhere. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your kiss-bruised lips.

“You let me have that pretty little pussy like I earned it,” he whispered, filthy and fond. “Like you wanted it. You did, didn’t you?”

You nodded, breathless.

His eyes flashed. He grinned—lazy, dangerous.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured. “God, you were so fuckin’ soft on my tongue. I could’ve stayed there all night. Could’ve made you cum again and again until you were cryin’ and shakin’ all over for me.”

You whimpered again. Your hips shifted up, helpless, trying to chase friction.

Ben moaned—a deep, gravelly sound that rattled in his chest—and pushed down against you in return, grinding his cock against the soaked heat of your core, only his pants separating him from sliding in.

“You feel that?” he hissed. “That’s what you do to me. I’m leakin’ for you, baby. My fuckin’ balls hurt. You got me so worked up I’m seein’ stars.”

Your hand reached for him—shaky, needy—and found the hard line of him through the fabric. You gave one small squeeze.

He growled—an animal sound—and caught your wrist fast, pinning it to the mattress above your head.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not tonight. You touch me again, and I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll pin you down and fuck you like we’re tryin’ to break the bed.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. His voice shook.

“You don’t get it, baby. I’ve been imaginin’ this. Every night. Lyin’ in that bed, jerkin’ off like a fuckin’ teenager, thinkin’ about what it’d be like the first time I fuck you.” 

He swallowed hard, like he hated himself for putting a stop to it. “And it’s not this. It’s not rushed. It’s not messy. And it sure as hell isn’t me losin’ it the second I get between your thighs.

“Ben,” you breathed, dazed and trembling.

He kissed your neck—open-mouthed and hot, dragging his tongue up to your jaw.

“I wanna fuck you so bad it’s makin’ me stupid,” he murmured, mouth brushing the corner of your lips, “but when i do, I’m gonna take my time. Need to do it right.” 

He leaned back just enough to look at you—really look at you, all flushed and wrecked, mouth swollen, chest heaving.

“I’m not just gonna slide in and call it done. No, sweetheart. I’m gonna show you what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Night after night. Fistin’ my cock to the thought of you.”

His hand curled over your waist—firm and slow—and dragged down, tracing the shape of your body like he owned it.

“First thing I’m gonna do?” His breath hit your ear, hot enough to burn. “Get you on your knees. Right in front of me. Let you see what you do to me up close. Let you wrap those pretty little hands around it. Let you kiss it. Lick it. Get it wet.”

You whimpered, and his hips rolled against yours—slow and unhurried—but you could feel the thick press of his cock through his pants, heavy and hot and twitching with need.

“Let me see your mouth stretch around it,” he rasped. “Let me feel that tongue, soft and wet, gettin’ it ready. Wanna watch you choke on it a little, baby. Just a little. Hear you gag when it hits the back of your throat.”

His voice dropped even lower, like it cost him something to keep it gentle.

“Not ‘cause I need it. Just ‘cause I wanna see what it looks like. You, on your knees, makin’ a mess for me.”

His mouth brushed yours again, light and almost reverent.

“And then,” he said, pulling back enough to look you in the eyes, “I’m gonna lay you down. Just like this. On your back. In our bed.”

He cupped the side of your face, thumbing your cheek like you were fragile.

“I’m not gonna rush it. Not gonna throw you over and fuck you ‘til you cry—not the first time.”

He was hovering above you, mouth brushing your cheek, his weight braced in his arms so you could feel the heat of him without being crushed. His hips pressed down, slow and heavy, grinding just enough to remind you how hard he still was—how close.

“I’m not just gonna tear into you like I haven’t been dreamin’ about it for weeks. No. You’re gonna be right here, drippin’ onto the sheets, legs spread, all soft and open for me.”

His hand trailed down your side, reverent. Possessive. Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

“I’m gonna kiss you while I do it,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “real slow. Gonna hold your hips still while I slide in, inch by fuckin’ inch, watch your face the whole time, just to see how it hits you.”

He let his palm drag across your belly again, low and firm, the heat of it seeping into your skin like a brand.

“I’m gonna fill you so slow, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Stretch this pussy out around me ‘til you’re takin’ all of it. And when I bottom out, when I’m buried so deep you feel me in your throat? I’m stayin’ there.”

You gasped, helpless.

He pressed his hips forward again—just enough for you to feel the weight of his cock against your soaked core, thick and ready and restrained.

“And when I cum?” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m not finishin’ on your tits or your ass or your tongue. I’m not makin’ a mess.”

His hand slid lower. Flattened over your belly, just above your mound. He moaned, deep in his chest. “Right here,” he murmured. “Gonna make you soft, baby. Knock you up so good they’ll see it in your fuckin’ eyes.”

You whimpered. Your legs shifted, opening a little wider without even meaning to. The way he said it, soft and sure, like a promise, made your whole body ache. You wanted it. God, you wanted it.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching you like he was watching the sun rise. “You’re gonna let me. Gonna take it. Gonna wrap those pretty legs around my waist and hold me there while I fuck it in.”

His other hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips.

“I wanna see your face when it happens,” he murmured. “When I knock you up. Wanna watch you fall apart under me while I make you mine for real. Gonna love on you through every fuckin’ second while I fill this pretty little pussy up ‘til there’s nothin’ left to give. Gonna watch it take.”

You moaned, half-choked, already shaking.

“You’re gonna beg me to stay inside, aren’t you?”

He pressed his hips forward again, just enough to make you gasp.

“Gonna cry when I pull out, even though you’re already stuffed so full it’s runnin’ down your thighs.”

You made a desperate, needy sound in your throat, and Ben kissed it away—dragging his mouth over your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

“I’m gonna tell you how perfect you are the whole time, too,” he whispered. “Gonna fuck you slow, deep, let you feel every drop I give you. Let you moan into my mouth while I give you a fuckin’ family.”

He kissed your belly then—open-mouthed and wet. Reverent.

“This is where our baby’s gonna grow,” he whispered, lips pressed low against your skin. “Right here. Gonna keep you full all the fuckin’ time. Let everybody see who you belong to.”

Then he looked up at you, eyes dark and full of fire.

“They made you my wife,” he said, voice like thunder under silk. “But I’m gonna make you a mother.”

He kissed your lips again, deep and slow, then pulled the covers over you both without leaving your body. He gathered you close, your thigh over his, your chest against his chest, your breath tangled up in his.

“No more sleepin’ in that guest room,” he said roughly. “You sleep here. With me. In our bed. Every night.”

He nuzzled your temple, voice lower now—almost tender.

“I ain’t spendin’ another night reachin’ for you and findin’ cold fuckin’ sheets.”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, overwhelmed. His arms tightened around you.

“Fuckin’ knew it the second I saw you,” he whispered against your temple. “You were meant to be mine.”

And then softer, right against your ear—so low it was barely a breath: “And the next time you get in our bed, sweetheart? The nightgown hits the floor first.”

He kissed you deep after that—tongue sweeping, filthy and reverent, like he was sealing a vow—and you knew, with every fiber of your being, that he meant every single word.

A/N I’d love to hear some ideas or things you’d want to see! I truly had so much anxiety while writing this and getting ready to post since pt. 1 garnered such a following so hope I lived up to that! And if I don’t just dooooon’t tell me. It went through so many evolutions to get here and I’d love to here your thoughts or things you might like to see with this series

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity THIS SERIES @smoke-and-tunes @muhahaha303 @agustdpeach @chaoticbasicallyuselessbisexual @exzidss @spoiledcarmen @mimiimmii @theblackcherries @mindfulmesses

let me know if you’d like to be added/moved/removed 🤍

[hopelessbrain]

omg you did soooo good on the soldierboy x sup!f!reader, it was like ten times better than i could ever imagine, thank you!!!!! i wonder if you would please write kinda a prequel to that? like, how did reader and ben get together.

reader and soldier boy both being in Payback. at first reader thinks that ben is an asshole (which he is), soldier boy only wants to sleep with reader. but since his usual flirting tactics don't work on reader he starts to act more nicely and 'gentleman-like' towards her. that gets her to like him, and he also realises he isn't in it just for the sex. when they get together, they try to keep it a secret, but he acts like a dick towards everybody except for her, so that kinda gives it away.

so i guess it's kinda angst/fluff? (you can add spice). idk if that's too specific for a request, i just always have these whole scenarios in my head, but I can never put pen to paper with them. also, it might be a little bit ooc!soldierboy but i just feel like he would be super gentle and affectionate to the person he loves.

so glad u liked it!!! i tried my best and to be honest i kinda love this couple so if u want more of them just lmk!! 🙂‍↕️

(prequel) TRIED TO

wordcount: 2864 summary: How the romance from TRIED TO came to a start… warnings: soldier boy x fem!reader, ben implied to be bigger than reader, cursing, mentions of violence but nothing too crazy– that’s all for now !!!

The first time Soldier Boy tried hitting on you, he had blood on his gloves and someone else’s cigarette hanging from his mouth.“You new?”

You looked up from the gun you were checking, immediately met with the full force of America’s golden boy leaning in your doorway like he owned the building. Which– technically, with Vought? He kind of did. “You got eyes, don’t you?” You answered flatly, more than used to sleazebags and people underestimating the ‘new girl’ even if she was a supe.

A grin spread across his face at the attitude. “Oh, she’s got a bite”

Behind him, Gunpowder nearly looked nervous watching the interaction unfold. Like he expected you to get either beat up or fired for not immediately dropping to your knees the second Soldier Boy acknowledged your existence.

Instead, you walked past them, shoulder bumping his hard enough to make a point– even if you couldn’t make a dent on him if you wanted to. “Move”

For the first time in years, Ben actually looked surprised by a woman. Then amused, his interest was definitely picked. “Oh, m’gon like you”

“You are gonna leave me alone” You corrected, barely glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Turns out? There wasn’t much. Because over the next few weeks, Soldier Boy became the single biggest irritation in your life. He flirted constantly– leaning against walls waiting for you after training, sitting too close during briefings, throwing those stupid cocky smirks at you whenever you spoke. Every interaction came with some smug one-liner attached to it.

“C’mon sweetheart, one drink”

“No”

“One dance”

“No”

“One night”

“Absolutely not”

Ben watched you walk away again and muttered under his breath. “Christ, you’re killin’ me”

Most women folded eventually– maybe because he was Soldier Boy, maybe because he was handsome in that rugged, dangerous sort of way or maybe because he carried confidence like it was stitched directly into his skin. But you? You thought he was an asshole. An entertaining asshole sometimes (unfortunately) but still an asshole nonetheless.

“She hates you” Countess informed him one afternoon while fixing her makeup in the mirror backstage, barely sparing him a second glance.

Ben scoffed from the couch, manspreading while smoking. “Nah” He waves her off.

“She does”

“She wants me bad”

Crimson laughed so hard she almost smeared mascara across her face. “God, you’re one delusional asshole”

Ben frowned, letting out yet another scoff, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette while replying a confident: “Women love me”

“Women tolerate you because Vought either signs their checks or threatens them”

That earned her a glare. Still, the comment stuck with him more than he liked. Because no matter what he did, you genuinely did not seem impressed by him. Not Soldier Boy the war hero– not the celebrity, not the fame, not the flirting, not the charm… It drove him fucking insane.

Then one night after a mission in Detroit, things shifted.

Payback had stopped at some shitty roadside bar while repairs were being done on the vehicles. The place smelled like stale beer and cigarettes, old country music crackling through blown-out speakers while drunken men stumbled around near the pool tables. You sat alone at the counter nursing a drink when a man slid onto the stool beside you. At first you ignored him. That ended the moment his hand landed on your thigh. “You hear me, honey?”

“I heard ya” You replied coldly, removing his hand. “Try it again and lose the arm”

Apparently he somehow took that very much honest warning as flirting. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that–” A heavy hand suddenly grabbed the guy by the back of his shirt. The man barely got out a confused “What the fu–” Before Soldier Boy hauled him clean off the stool.

“You deaf, pal?” Ben asked casually.

The guy paled, instantly recognizing him. Even without his suit, Soldier Boy’s face was fully glued into every person in America’s mind. “Hey man, I didn’t know she was with you–”

Ben’s expression darkened slightly. “She ain’t with nobody” His grip tightened. “But she said no” Then he threw the guy hard enough he crashed into a table– the bar erupted immediately after that. Shouting, chairs scraping, someone trying to swing at Ben and immediately regretting it.

“Ben” Your voice cuts clean through the rumble. For once you actually said his name– he looked over at you instantly. And there it was, that switch. That terrifying, violent man everyone else walked on eggshells around softened the second your voice hit him. You blinked a little at how immediate it was. “C’mon” You sighed, grabbing your jacket. “Before you kill somebody”

Ben looked genuinely disappointed– he was more than ready to beat the lights out of this random man and have Vought’s PR deal with the mess later.  You snorted despite yourself, and for one brief second, Ben just… stared at you. Not at your body, not at your legs, not at your chest– you. Like hearing you laugh had punched straight through his carefully built macho-man facade. Something unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his stomach.

Oh.

Oh, that was bad. Because suddenly this wasn’t some fun cat and mouse chase anymore.

The realization hit him properly a couple weeks later during a mission briefing. You’d been injured– not badly, but enough to feel weird. Usually, with the V1 flowing through your veins, it took quite a lot to even make you bleed– so when you did get injured, it felt weird. You sat on one of the medical tables while a Vought medic tried cleaning the blood off your face. “Told you ‘m fine” You muttered, simply wanting to head back to your room.

“You need stitches”

“Need a couple minutes” You retort without a care in the world.

The medic sighed tiredly. Then Soldier Boy walked in. The poor medic practically jumped away from you the second Ben approached. And Ben– usually loud, arrogant, impossible to ignore– crouched in front of you quietly. “Lemme see”

You frowned slightly but tilted your chin anyway. (His voice didn’t leave much room for argument) His rough hand rested carefully against your jaw while he examined the cut on the side of your head. The touch should’ve felt strange coming from him.Instead it felt… gentle? Painfully gentle for a man like him. “Should’ve gotten the Hell outta the way” He muttered, voice low and gruff

You rolled your eyes. “Little late now, don’t ya think?”

A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. “Still got your attitude, means you ain’t dyin’ ” For the first time since meeting him, Soldier Boy stopped feeling like a caricature Vought created and started feeling like a real person underneath all the swagger. And maybe Ben noticed the way your expression softened, because his thumb brushed once beneath your eye before he pulled away. Small, careful– almost absentminded. But it lingered.

After that, things got worse. Or better? Depends who you ask. Because Soldier Boy started acting even more different around you. Subtle at first– opening doors, making sure there was always an empty seat just in case you wanted it, keeping people from bothering you at events, saving you the last beer without saying a word… And the most disturbing part? He listened to you. (Sometimes)

“Did you just threaten that director?”

“He was lookin’ at your ass”

“Ben” You’d gotten weirdly used to calling him out by his name– something almost fond to it by now despite how hard you tried to stay annoyed with him.

“What? M’ observant, guy s’a sleaze– trust me, doll” You don’t even correct him with the nickname anymore.

“You can’t threaten people every time they annoy you”

“Sure I can”

“Right, well you shouldn’t”

He grinned lazily. “Watch me”

You hated how much you were starting to enjoy him– which was a problem, a huge problem. Because Ben was still Ben. Arrogant, reckless, infuriating Ben. But then there were moments nobody else got to see. Like him half-asleep beside you during flights, large hand lazily hooked around your wrist like he needed physical proof you were still there. Or the way he automatically positioned himself between you and crowds. Or how his voice always dropped softer around you, rough edges smoothing instinctively cause he knew you hated people yelling around you. And the worst part? You realized one night he wasn’t trying to sleep with you anymore. Not really– sure, he still flirted. (Constantly) But now he lingered even when sex was off the table. Now he sought you out just to sit beside you– just to hear you talk, just to look at you. That terrified you more than the flirting ever had.

It finally happened after a mission in Boston.

The hotel had overbooked rooms. Which meant Vought, in all their infinite wisdom, stuck you with Soldier Boy.

“Absolutely not”

Ben looked far too pleased hearing that. “Oh no…” He drawled with enough amusement that it almost made you wonder if he had anything to do with this little arrangement. “Whatever shall we do?”

You pointed a finger at him. “You stay on your side of the room”

“Sweetheart, there’s one bed”

“Try anything and I will kill you”

“Doll, if I got to touch ya even for a second– it’d been worth it” He replies with that boyish, lazy grin. (He was definitely proud of that line)

“Ben”

He laughed, actually laughed. God, you were doomed.

Hours later, rain hammered against the hotel windows while the TV static buzzed softly in the background. You sat cross-legged near the headboard reading while Ben sprawled beside you smoking despite the very obvious no smoking sign. Of course, ‘no fucking sign was gonna tell him what to do’ –his words, not yours.

“Y’know” He said suddenly, voice quieter than usual. “Thought you hated me”

You looked up from your book. “I did”

“Ouch” He scoffs, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“You were unbearable”

“Was?” He hums teasingly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.  You rolled your eyes, trying your best not to smile at his stupidity. Ben watched you for a second before speaking again. “…Everyone else acts weird ‘round me”

The comment caught you off guard– if there was one thing you never expected from him, it was vulnerability. God honest feelings. “What?”

“They either want somethin’ or they scared shitless” He shrugged one shoulder. “You ain’t”

You stared at him quietly. Because beneath all the arrogance, all the bravado, there was something unexpectedly honest sitting in his expression. And for once, Soldier Boy looked small– not America’s hero– just Ben. “You make it hard sometimes” You admitted.

That pulled a small grin from him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah”

Silence settled after that. Not awkward, but heavy. Then Ben reached over slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him, and brushed his knuckles against your cheek. “Still think ‘m an asshole?”

You looked at him for a long moment, carefully weighing the option and just how much you wanted to admit to him. “…Yeah”

He let out a soft, genuine chuckle, something gentle and warm about it that made you smile to yourself. Then, he kissed you before you could say anything else. And fuck it– you kissed him back immediately. After that night, the relationship stayed secret for approximately three days. Mostly because Ben was physically incapable of acting normal around you.

Payback noticed instantly. “Holy shit” The TNT Twins whispered after watching Ben hand you his jacket without being asked. Gunpowder looked personally devastated. And Crimson Countess nearly choked during a press interview when Soldier Boy instinctively tucked you against his side after someone almost shoved past you. The final nail in the coffin came during a mission briefing when Mindstorm insulted you under his breath.

Ben slammed him against the wall so fast the entire room froze. “What’d you just say?”

“Ben” You warned immediately– voice soft and calm as you’d probably done a million times before. But everyone already saw it. The way he listened to you, the way he backed off the second your hand touched his arm, the way his anger vanished when you looked at him.

The room stayed tense for half a second too long. Mindstorm looked more shocked than hurt, pinned hard against the wall while Soldier Boy held him there by the front of his suit.

“Ben” You said it again, even gentler this time. That was the part that really unsettled everyone, not the violence, they were used to that. It was the fact Soldier Boy listened to something that wasn’t himself or a major threat. Ben’s jaw tightened once before he finally let Mindstorm go with a rough shove. The other supe stumbled immediately away from him, clearly deciding whatever insult he’d muttered was no longer worth dying over.

“Watch your mouth” Ben muttered in a last warning. It sounded almost casual– which somehow made it worse. Across the room, the TNT Twins exchanged a look that practically screamed holy shit. Gunpowder stared at you like you’d just performed mind control, even Noir tilted his head slightly. Because nobody talked Soldier Boy down once he got angry– nobody. It was either getting beaten up or chest-blasted into oblivion.

Except apparently you.

You sighed softly, smoothing a hand over Ben’s chest once he stepped back toward you. “You cannot threaten every person that pisses you off, remember?” It almost sounded like a mom scolding a stubborn toddler instead of a woman raising a killing machine.

“Sure can”

“Ben”

“Alright, alright” He grumbled. “Christ on a cross” Rubbing a hand over his rough, stubbled jaw in a futile attempt to forget his earlier fury.

Mindstorm rubbed his throat from across the room, still feeling the phantom grip of Soldier Boy’s hand on his neck. “This is insane”

“Shut the fuck up” Ben replied instantly, pointing a stern finger at him as a warning. Though it lacked its usual threat– now? It was almost endearing seeing the big bad Soldier Boy reduced to a pliant wall of muscle for a woman half his size, patiently calling his name.

A couple days later, you head up to the penthouse where Ben always spent his nights. The room was dimly lit, the window that led to the balcony wide open and Soldier Boy’s broad frame blocking the night view as he smoked. He was huge, don’t get it wrong– but something about these moments made him look smaller, more human. “S’ creepy to sneak up n’people, y’know?” He hums, a hint of amusement in his voice despite the overall calmness of his tone.

“Reminder that I sleep here too” You remind him with a soft chuckle, stepping out to join him on the balcony, one hand gently resting between his shoulder blades. For a minute, neither of you spoke.

Then his voice became even softer than before. “…Y’mean it back then?”

You frowned slightly. “Mean what?”

“That I make it hard”

Your eyes turned to him, gazing up at his side profile. And suddenly Soldier Boy didn’t look cocky anymore, just uncertain. It was strange on him, almost unfair. You exhaled softly through your nose. “You are an asshole”

“Yeah, heard that one” He scoffs, still looking ahead at the city below while exhaling the smoke from his lungs.

“You’re arrogant”

“Mhm”

“You threaten people like it’s a hobby”

“Technically is” He huffs under his breath– a poor attempt at humor to cover up his previous vulnerability. Despite yourself, you laughed softly. Ben’s expression softened immediately at the sound. God. That look was becoming dangerous.

“But…” You hesitated slightly. “You’re different with me”

He stared at you for a moment before taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, I am” He admits, quiet and simple. Because to him? It really was that simple. The honesty in his voice hit harder than you expected. No teasing, no cocky grin– just truth. You looked away first, which definitely made him smirk a little. “There she is” He chuckles softly, turning his body to face you.

“Don’t start”

“You’re blushin’, sweetheart”

“You’re testing your luck, Benjamin”

“Nah” He stepped closer, crowding you into his presence. “I grew on ya by now” You opened your mouth to argue– it didn’t work. Because he was right, you’d learned to love his presence in your life. The smug bastard smiled softly to himself before reaching up and brushing his knuckles along your jaw. Gentle again– always strangely gentle with you. “Y’know” He murmured. “Been trying real hard t’be good for you”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, barely holding the corners of your mouth down from forcing into a traitorous smile. “You threatened three people today”

“Personal growth takes time” He replies simply, shamelessly shrugging one shoulder before dragging you closer to him by the small of your back. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Ben looked unbearably pleased with himself– he’d do anything to keep being the reason for that sound.

“I guess it does…” You murmur softly, a fond smile on your face before pulling him down into a kiss.

[pullmecloseman]

KEYS & KISSES

Summary: A warm summer night at the local city night market with the Dagger Squad. You and Bob are the only official couple in the group—quietly affectionate, teasing, and fully caught up in the glow of food, games, and late-night laughter. Flirty banter, close calls, and a stolen kiss in a photo booth make for a night neither of you will forget.

Bob Floyd x reader

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: I went to a night market recently so i thought this would be cute lol also don’t be afraid to comment or send asks! i love talking to you guys. update: 300 LIKES OH MY G

Warnings: Light public affection, mild teasing, implied sexual tension, some suggestive language.

masterlist part of boyfriend!bob

The night market bloomed around you like a glowing, living thing—strands of fairy lights zigzagged between vendor tents, casting everything in a golden haze that felt more like a memory than a moment. Music drifted through the warm summer air in patches: a salsa beat from one booth, soft R\&B from another, then K-pop from the boba stand two tents down. The smells alone were dizzying—sweet fried dough, sharp grilled garlic, spiced meats, syrupy fruit.

Bob’s hand was wrapped around yours, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as you walked slow, side by side. The chatter of families and couples blended with the occasional burst of laughter, but his quiet, steady presence grounded everything. He wasn’t the kind of guy to swing your arm or shout your name across a crowd—he didn’t need to. Just one touch and you knew where home was.

You glanced up at him, the soft tilt of his mouth giving away how much he was enjoying this already. “This is definitely better than base food,” you said, nudging his elbow.

Bob chuckled, low and warm. “You’re only saying that because you smelled dumplings four booths back.”

“And mochi waffles,” you corrected, already scanning for the pink sign you’d seen on the market’s Instagram story earlier. “And boba. And possibly the best deep-fried Oreo in the city.”

“Possibly?” he asked, raising a brow.

“I’m being humble.”

He laughed again, then leaned down just enough to murmur, “You’re cute when you’re on a mission.”

You smiled to yourself, cheeks warming, but before you could deliver a snappy comeback, you heard it

“There they are! The PDA dream team!” Hangman’s voice rang out like a siren, already full of mischief. “Took you two long enough.”

You turned just in time to see the rest of the Dagger Squad weaving through the crowd toward you. Phoenix was leading, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, grinning like she’d just caught you two mid-kiss. Rooster strolled beside her holding a paper tray of skewers, while Payback and Fanboy flanked Coyote, who was balancing two cups of slush in one hand like a circus act.

“Look at this,” Phoenix teased as they approached. “Did you guys stop to make out behind the food truck or something?”

“We were literally five minutes behind you,” Bob said, completely deadpan.

“Exactly,” Rooster smirked. “Long enough for at least three kisses and a suspicious hand placement.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned a little closer into Bob’s side anyway, just to prove a point. His hand slid around your lower back naturally, and you felt more than one dramatic groan ripple through the group.

“I swear to god,” Hangman muttered, already walking toward the nearest stall. “One of these days I’m gonna put you both in separate corners like misbehaving toddlers.”

“And I will misbehave again,” you called after him, catching the delighted laugh Phoenix let out.

Bob’s arm tightened around you for half a second before he leaned in to say, “I think you enjoy tormenting them.”

You grinned. “I know I do.”

With everyone finally gathered, the chaos really began. Phoenix dragged you and Bob to the dumpling stall she’d scoped out earlier while Rooster negotiated with a corn vendor over whether or not spicy mayo counted as “gilding the lily.” Payback and Fanboy went to war over toppings at a Korean corn dog truck, and Coyote somehow convinced all of you to split a massive tray of garlic skewers and grilled pineapple.

At some point, you found yourself holding a little paper cup of bubble tea while Bob tried to decide if he wanted the lychee one or the black sesame.

“You always get lychee,” you reminded him.

“That’s because it’s good,” he said, but still hesitated.

You reached up and popped the lid off yours. “Try mine,” you offered, straw pointed toward his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours—soft, focused, and just a little amused.

“You’re trying to distract me,” he said, but leaned down anyway.

You kept the cup steady as he wrapped his lips around the straw, and you absolutely did not let your brain short-circuit at how gentle he was about it. Or how long it took him to pull back.

“That’s really good,” he said, voice lower than usual.

You blinked once, twice. “Lychee it is, then.”

Behind you, someone let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’re gonna die of diabetes just watching you two,” Hangman complained. “I need something salty before I drown in your sugar.”

Bob didn’t say anything, but his fingers brushed along your wrist as he stepped closer to the drink stall. You followed, heart a little stupid in your chest, and let him buy you a second drink without even asking.

An hour passed in warm, flickering laughter. The squad weaved in and out of booths, trying samples, buying ridiculous snacks, competing over who could handle the spiciest sauce. Hangman made it three bites into a fire chicken skewer before tearing up dramatically and yelling at Rooster for “poisoning” him. You and Bob shared mochi waffles—he held the plate, you fed him bites. Phoenix pretended to vomit. Fanboy took a photo.

There was a claw machine near the middle of the market—a little corner set up with retro arcade games and a glowing pink “Couples Win Twice” banner over a row of plushie challenges. Coyote immediately declared war.

“This is my redemption,” he announced, already cracking his knuckles.

“You say that every time,” Payback said flatly.

“I mean it this time.”

The whole squad joined in—cheering, trash-talking, fake coaching each other through one-dollar attempts to win plushies shaped like sushi rolls and sea otters. You watched Bob feed a coin into the machine, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“You look very serious about this,” you whispered.

“I am,” he said.

“For what? The shrimp or the tiny bear?”

He pointed. “The sea otter.”

You grinned. “For me?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept guiding the claw forward until it dropped, clamped, wobbled, and miraculously held. The otter landed with a *thud* in the chute.

Bob reached down, plucked it out, and turned to hand it to you without fanfare.

“For you,” he said simply.

You took it, heart flipping in your chest. “You’re dangerously good at that.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’ve been training for this moment?”

“I like to be prepared.”

Somewhere behind you, Rooster groaned. “They’re making eye contact again.”

“Don’t look,” Hangman said dramatically. “It’ll blind you.”

You leaned your head against Bob’s shoulder and laughed, the otter plush tucked in the crook of your arm. His hand found your waist again, thumb rubbing absent circles at your side as if he didn’t even notice.

And then, you saw it—the photo booth tucked behind a cotton candy stand, its outside wrapped in string lights and glossy stickers. The sign above it blinked: “4 PICS, 1 STRIP, 30 SECONDS. CUTE AS HELL.”

“Oh, *absolutely*,” you said.

Phoenix followed your gaze. “We’re doing it.”

“All of us?” Rooster asked, brows raised.

Hangman laughed. “No way we’re fitting.”

“We’re making it work,” Phoenix said, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

There was some light chaos as everyone piled in. You squeezed between Bob and Phoenix while Rooster practically sat on Coyote’s knee. Fanboy and Payback argued over angles, and Hangman stuck his face directly into the camera for the first shot, grinning like a lunatic.

The four pictures came out ridiculous—someone blinking, someone sneezing, someone definitely giving bunny ears—but everyone was laughing too hard to care.

You tucked the photo strip into your bag and whispered to Bob, “Let’s come back later. Just us.”

He looked down at you, warm and steady. “Yeah. Let’s.”

The crowd had thinned a little, just enough to make walking easier, the voices and music now more of a gentle hum than a roar. You carried your sea otter plush under one arm and your latest prize—a mochi waffle with brown sugar drizzle—in the other. Bob still hadn’t let go of your hand.

The squad wandered ahead in pairs, all half-listening to each other’s conversations, full from too much food, still buzzing from the sugar and noise. Rooster and Coyote were locked in a heated debate about what counted as a “classic fair snack,” while Hangman was trying to bribe Fanboy into giving up the last bite of his Oreo. Phoenix, true to form, drifted between conversations with sharp comebacks and snarky commentary, but every so often you caught her eye and saw that same smirking approval—the look that said: *You’re good for him. He’s good for you.*

Your fingers brushed Bob’s as you walked, and he glanced down at you with a kind of softness that made your chest tighten. You leaned a little closer.

“Photo booth,” you reminded him in a whisper.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, already angling toward the corner where it waited—quiet now, unoccupied, lights still glowing like an invitation.

You paused just before the curtain, shooting a look back at the squad.

They were deep in some kind of fried-food-trading circle. Distracted.

“C’mon,” you murmured, tugging Bob’s hand as you stepped inside.

The curtain rustled shut behind you, and the sounds of the market muffled instantly. Inside, it was just the two of you in a narrow bench seat, lit softly by the camera’s faint glow. You could still hear the bass from one of the nearby food stands, but it was quieter now, like the world outside had gone temporarily still.

You dropped your plush in your lap and reached for the “start” button.

Bob’s arm slid along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “You want serious or silly?”

You smiled, already leaning in. “I want *us.*”

The first flash caught the two of you smiling at each other, eyes locked.

The second, your nose bumped his, laughter already in your throat.

The third, his hand cradled your jaw, and your mouth was brushing against his in that slow, familiar way that didn’t need permission anymore—it just happened.

The fourth—

You didn’t even register the flash.

Because by then, Bob was kissing you.

Slow, warm, a little hesitant at first, but then deeper—like the quiet fuse that had been burning all night had finally reached the end. His hand slipped to the side of your neck, fingers splayed. Yours curled into the front of his shirt as you kissed him back, mouth open, letting him taste sugar on your lips and press his body just a little closer than the tiny bench allowed.

You pulled back, breathless, and he was staring at you like you were the only thing that existed. Maybe you were.

“That counted as a serious one,” you said quietly.

Bob’s lips curved into a small, dangerous smile—the kind he usually reserved for when no one else was around.

“Let’s take another strip,” he said.

You reached for the button again.

Perfect. Let’s bring this home — one more round through the market’s magic glow, something small and sweet to remember the night, and the quiet, full kind of love you take with you even after the lights go out.

The second strip came out even better than the first.

The photos were a blur of closeness—his mouth on your cheek, your hand buried in his hair, both of you caught mid-laugh and mid-kiss, completely unaware of the camera’s timing. You looked at them in the soft glow of the booth light, your head resting on Bob’s shoulder as he gently ran his thumb down your arm.

“I like these better,” you whispered.

“Me too.”

You folded the strip and tucked it into your wallet like something sacred.

Outside, the market had softened. The loudest crowds were gone now, the music dimmed to a background murmur. The vendors were still glowing beneath the canopies, some packing up, others still flipping batter or handing out skewers to late-night stragglers.

The rest of the squad was easy to find—clustered near a little tent decorated with paper stars and a hanging sign that read **MATCHING KEYCHAINS — PICK YOUR PAIR.**

Phoenix spotted you first and grinned.

“Finally! The lovers return.”

“Did you guys *sneak off* to the booth again?” Rooster called out, fake-shocked.

“Disgusting,” Hangman added, tossing a skewer stick into a trash bin. “They probably took, like, fifteen pictures just making out.”

You shrugged, absolutely unbothered. “Six, actually.”

Bob, ever unflappable, said nothing—just kept his hand firmly at the small of your back, where it had been all night.

Fanboy was flipping through trays of tiny charms while Coyote held up two glow-in-the-dark rockets. “We’re getting matching ones,” Coyote said. “So you’ll all remember I’m the best pilot.”

“You *wish,*” Payback muttered, grabbing the other rocket and holding it up like a trophy.

Phoenix handed you a tray filled with tiny charms—mochi, dumplings, stars, planes, animals with cartoonishly big eyes. “Pick a couple set before they sell out,” she said, already knowing what you were going to choose.

You glanced at Bob, then back at the tray. Your hand hovered before landing on a small plushy dumpling with a sleepy smile.

You held it up to Bob. “You.”

He raised a brow. “And you?”

You lifted a tiny boba cup with blushing cheeks and sparkly eyes. “Obviously.”

A tiny smile curved on his lips. “Perfect.”

The keychain vendor attached each charm to its own silver clip. You hooked the dumpling onto Bob’s backpack, and he clipped the boba to your keys with quiet precision, as if it were something deeply serious.

The rest of the squad got their own too—matching chili peppers for Rooster and Phoenix (she picked it to annoy him), Hangman chose one half of a pink glitter heart while no one took the other (“Rude,” he muttered), and Coyote insisted on a set of matching eggplants just to make Payback regret standing next to him.

The vendor took a group photo before you left—everyone squinting in the soft light, plushies and keychains in hand, laughter caught in the middle of it all.

You didn’t want it to end. But the night eventually pulled you toward the edge of the market, where the sidewalk turned quiet and the air felt cooler.

Bob walked close, his fingers brushing against yours until you laced them together again.

You looked up at him, voice low. “I had fun tonight.”

He glanced down, eyes soft behind his glasses. “Me too.”

The sea otter plush was tucked under your arm again, the little boba keychain swinging off your bag.

You were both full from too much sugar, your lips still tingled faintly from the photo booth, and your heart felt like it had been gently, quietly filled with something golden all night long.

“Hey,” you said, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah?” “You’re still mine tomorrow, right?” He smiled, slow and sure. “Always.”

And you believed him.

Every word.

Every look.

Every touch.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things unless he meant them. And tonight? He hadn’t let go of you once.

taglist: @yagurlannastasia

[eclairemaire]

Meeting the Missus pt. 2

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Wife! Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: The Team finds out Bob is married and wants to meet the missus.

Warnings: Slight allusions to mature content(nothing explicit ever stated though), Reader is described very similarly to Rhea Ripley, Reader and Bob are very much in love, No mention of Y/N used, Southern Reader (she's like all southern ladies sweet like iced tea, but can knock you on your ass if she has too), Express mentions of reader and Bob's Child, Lemme know if I missed any.

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: This is the second part of 'Meeting the Missus'. I highly recommend reading the first part before reading this. Please enjoy!!! And I will continue to update as I'm able.

After the first meet-up with the dagger squad at the Hard Deck, it became almost routine that every other week or so, you would meet up with them for an evening at the bar. Bob wasn’t all that surprised that the team liked you so much; what wasn’t there to like? All that southern charm wrapped up in a woman who had all the means to be anything but. The team had pestered him so much about what you even did all the time and why they only got to see you every other week, but working from home and being a full-time parent had taken up most of your time.

“So Bobby, when are we going to get to meet this kid of yours that you keep hidden all the time?” Hangman asked as the squad made its way to the locker rooms from the hangar.

“Probably soon,” Bob said, wiping sweat from his brow. ”The missus is planning to have a cookout soon, and I get the feeling that all of you will get invited, seeing as neither of us has family here in San Diego.” 

“Oh? An invitation to your home and free food.” Rooster sighed, “Man, are you sure that’s a good idea? We might never leave.”

Putting his helmet on the bench and starting to remove his flight suit, Bob sighed as well, “I don’t have a choice in the matter. She tells me what she plans, and I do what I can.” He shivers at the reminder of what happened when he didn’t do something you asked of him when you were pregnant; he’ll forever be haunted by the memory.

“I can’t tell if that’s because you love her so much or if you’re scared of your wife?” Fanboy says as he starts putting on his civvies.

“Can’t you tell it’s both?” Coyote states as he shoves something into his locker, “That woman is capable of folding any of us like lawn chairs if she wanted to.”

Bob looked at the rest of them with a look that said, ‘I’m not answering that question.’ Grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, and shoving the truck keys into his front pocket starts to leave.

“I’ll see y’all tomorrow, and let you know when the cookout is,” he waved a hand over his shoulder and exited the locker room.

Pulling into the driveway, Bob sees the lights off in the house and hears music and laughter coming from the backyard. Unlocking the front door and putting his bag on the bench in the entryway, he’s greeted by one of the dogs. 

“Hey Nuggs,” he says quietly, squatting down to give the dog some pets. “I’m home!” He yells as he stands up and starts moving toward the back door.

“DADDY!” Little feet can be heard running toward him as the back door opens. Seeing his kiddo coming at him full speed, Bob braces himself for the incoming tornado that is his daughter. Picking her up and spinning her around, he smiles as he sees you approaching after shutting the back door. “Hi, Bug.” He tells Riley as he places her on his hip, turning to you, kissing you on your cheek. “My love.”

“Ewww..” Riley says, starting to squirm in his arms. “Daddy you’re gonna give Mama cooties.” He turns to her and starts peppering her face with kisses, and giggles erupt from Riley as soon as his attention his on her, making her squirm even more.

“Cooties? Mama can’t get cooties from me she’s got super powers” he giggles at her squeals, as you watch with a fond smile as you lean against the wall with your arms folded over your chest showing off the muscles that reside there. Riley turns to look at you from her dad's arms and smiles.

“Yeah, Mama’s got super strength and super love!” She exclaims, eyes bright with admiration for her mama. Bob sets Riley down with a warm smile.

“Bug, why don’t you go wash up before we eat dinner?” you ask her before she scampers off down the hall and up the stairs to get ready for dinner. Leaning off the wall and stepping into Bob’s bubble, you smile as you string your arms around his neck as his arms snake around your waist, hands resting on your lower back.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” It’s a quiet exchange before he leans down to kiss you on your lips, it’s soft, full of love, and longing after a long day apart. Pressing his forehead to yours, he asks, “How are you?”

“Good, it’s been a productive day, Riley had a good nap, and I got plenty of work done and dinner made on time with no major disasters. The only thing missing was my wonderful husband.” You say pecking his lips. “How was yours?”

“The usual, drills, reports, pushups. Told the squad about the cookout,” he said, noticing the furrowing of your brow, “Didn’t give them a date but a forewarning that it’d be happening at some point in the future.”

“Oh, ok, good, guess I’ll move up the date then.” You said, stepping back and turning toward your office through a pair of French doors down the hall, Bob follows silently. Going up to the big calendar on the wall, looking over the dates and what has good availability, for all the prep needed for what you were planning.

“It doesn’t have to be soon,” he says, observing you as you head toward your desktop to check your work calendar. 

“No, no, it’s all good. My current project should be done by next Wednesday at the latest. That’ll give me all of Thursday and Friday for prep and Saturday morning for last-minute arrangements if necessary.” Stepping away from your computer and heading to the exit of your office, you motion for him to scoot out of the way so you could close the office doors. Just as you head for the kitchen, you hear a thump from upstairs and then the sound of muffled cries from what could only be your daughter. Sharing a brief look at each other, you both rush up the steps to see Riley in the hall with what appears to be carpet burn forming on her forehead as she looks up at both of you with tears in her eyes. Her lip wobbles for half a second before she wails at the top of her lungs.

“Ma-Mama,” She sobbed as she reached out for you. Bending down and picking her up swiftly, she tucks her head under your chin and wraps her arms around your neck, as Bob starts to head to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

“Meet you in the kitchen,” you say as you turn down the stairs and go to the kitchen. Setting Riley on the island countertop, you grab a wash cloth and wet it with cool water to dab against her forehead. “What happened, Bug?” You ask, your tone soft. Bob is next to you, first aid kit set open on the counter, grabbing Neosporin and several band-aids for her to choose from.

“I tripped an-an-and fell on’ta floor,” she said, hiccups coming in strong as she tried to calm down. Bob had started to rub circles on her back as her hiccups continued and her tears started to slow. Wiping her tear tracks with the wash cloth and stepping away so Bob could apply Neosporin to her forehead.

“Oh, Bug,” Bob said as he finished applying the cream and wiped his fingers clean with the damp wash cloth. “How would you like to pick out a band-aid, then eat dinner and watch a movie after with me and your mama, does that sound good?” he asked, holding out the band-aids for her to choose from. She nodded her head as she reached for an orange one with dinosaurs on it, her eyes glossy as she looked up at both of you.

“Ok,” you say as you take the band-aid to put it on her forehead. Afterward, Bob picks her up and takes her to the dinner table, and you get everyone a bowl of food, and you all eat as soft conversation flows.

After all the dishes are put in the dishwasher, you all pile on the couch, Riley in between you and Bob, as the opening scenes for ‘Quest for Camelot’ play on the screen. By the end of the movie, Riley is having a hard time keeping her eyes open. Bob picks her up as you both go upstairs to tuck her into bed. Placing a kiss on both of her cheeks, you say, “Good night, Riley, I love you.” She snuggles up to her stuffed animal as Bob does the same.

“Night, muma, da’dy… love you,” She mumbles as she squishes into her blankets. You and Bob slowly back out of the room and close the door. Heading into y’all’s bedroom just down the hall.

Once inside, Bob shuts the door behind you, grabs your hand, and heads to sit at the end of the bed. Sitting down, he pulls you in between his legs, his arms wrapping around you, holding you there, and rests his head against your chest. Carding your fingers through his hair as you sway lightly. You both stay that way for a few minutes, just basking in each other's presence. You move to sit next to him on the bed, facing each other, you take off his glasses and set them aside. You lean your forehead against his and look into his eyes, they were a magnificent blue, as though they held all of the oceans within them, deep and filled with love. Tilting in to kiss him, deliberate, sensual, filled with all the love you carried for him, he returned the kiss with fervor, one hand on the side of your face, the other holding your hip as you leaned into him. Letting out a hum as you release him from the kiss.

Looking at his still closed eyes, “I’m going to wash up.” It was hushed, barely spoken above a whisper, moving to head towards the ensuite in an unhurried manner, he held onto your hand until you were out of reach. “You can always join me,” it was said in an unserious tone as you entered the bathroom. Bob just groaned from his spot on the bed.

The following morning, Bob woke up enveloped in your arms as your head rested on his shoulder. He was surrounded by your smell and your heat. Placing a kiss on your forehead, he started to unravel himself from you. As soon as he started to move, you started mumbling in your sleep, small, incoherent thoughts.

“Mhmm, ugh, sweetheart, is it time for you to go already?” You mumble as you try to pull him back into the bed. It was a good thing you didn’t have a good hold on him anymore ‘cause that would’ve been a losing battle for him.

“Yes, my love,” he leaned down to place a kiss on your head, before he started to get ready to head to base. Getting dressed in his khakis and heading downstairs, grabbing an apple and a protein bar to eat on the way to base, he started to dig through the fridge for some leftovers from dinner the night before to take as his lunch. Before leaving for the day, he went upstairs to hug and kiss you goodbye before going to Riley’s room to do the same and wish her a good day.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

[realeyesblur]

bob floyd having a huge dick and thinking it’s no big deal.

now this is a guy who wore a t-shirt at the beach, he doesn’t need to flaunt his strength or even his looks. he wears the same style of glasses he has for years, only now are they in the ‘slutty fashion’ category.

Bob liked to be tidy, he always wore slacks and a crisp button up to any outing requiring nice wear. he was a respectful guy though so when Hangman requested everybody come to his apartment in pajamas to celebrate his birthday, Bob had relented.

he usually slept in loose jersey shorts and nothing else, too hot for a t-shirt most times of the year. especially that horrible summer when he’d had to buy three fans because his ac broke.

he rocked up in these grey sweatpants that seemed to hang off him enough to fly under the radar for a good few hours. but then they’d all lay down to watch a movie and he’d turned onto his side, forgetting that his bottoms were less supportive of his member in his also fairly loose boxers.

it had been Fanboy who noticed first, he’d then smacked Payback who’d laughed a little too hard and Hangman was clapping his hands after a moment, “Dang, Bobby, you really do have a Baby On Board with that kind of weapon.” his snickering jab led to the rest of the room noticing.

a bulge was hanging over the very top of Bob’s boxers and he was a shower not a grower so he was quite easily showing all eight-point-something inches of him.

Bob had wanted to die. especially when Phoenix smirked. Natasha just fucking smirked, like she knew and she was impressed.

he’d rushed off to the bathroom so he could use his hand to politely reposition himself and maybe rescue his reputation but the damage had been done. everyone knew he had a massive dick now.

every time after that they visited the bar as a group, Bob would smile at a girl and somebody, anybody, would bring up that she could have the ride of her life if she wanted. everybody always scampered away until you. not you. you’d immediately glanced down to Bob’s crotch with zero shame and just shrugged, “I like a challenge.”

he’d never been happier to have such a big dick than when you struggled to ride him that night.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Split Second

Bob Floyd x fem!aviator!reader

call sign: Bolt

The squadroom buzzed with tired energy—helmets off, hair tousled from the Gs, and sweat slicking flight suits as bodies crashed into worn leather chairs.

Phoenix tossed her gloves on the table. “Hangman, if you’d flown any looser, you’d have circled the carrier.”

Hangman grinned, cocky as ever. “You’re just mad Bolt smoked you on that last vertical climb.”

“She smoked all of you,” Rooster said, voice dry. “Again.”

At the far end of the table, you sat with one leg crossed over the other, flight suit halfway unzipped, tank top soaked with sweat and salt and victory.

“Maybe if y’all spent less time talking and more time flying,” you said without looking up from your notepad,

“I wouldn’t keep embarrassing you in front of Maverick.”

Hangman pointed a finger at you. “Someday, Bolt, I’m gonna knock you out of the sky.”

You smiled—lazy, lethal.

“Then I’ll know I’m dreaming.”

Laughter rippled around the room.

Bob leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, smiling to himself. He hadn’t said a word since you landed. He never had to. The quiet way he watched you said more than anything else.

You didn’t see it—but he always saw you.

⸻

Maverick walked in, tossed his clipboard onto the table.

“Good work today. Debrief’s short—we’ll run again tomorrow at 0500.”

Everyone groaned.

“Unless Bolt gets bored and laps you again,” he added, without glancing up.

You saluted with two fingers and a wicked grin.

“I’ll try to keep it interesting.”

⸻

It happened in a blink.

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

Stopped smiling.

One beat. Two.

Your hand tightened around the phone. Then you stood up—abrupt, stiff—and turned away from the table.

Phoenix noticed first. “Bolt?”

You didn’t answer.

You were already out the door.

Bob pushed off the wall.

When it lights up again—Incoming call – Mom—you don’t hesitate.

“Hey,” you say, voice flat. “What’s going on?”

And then you just… listen.

The room fades. So do the voices and the banter and the scrape of Phoenix’s helmet hitting the bench beside you.

Your fingers curl tight around the phone. Your throat goes dry.

“How long?” you whisper.

Your mother’s voice cracks.

“They’re waiting for you.”

You close your eyes.

“I’ll be on the next flight.”

———

The airport is loud in the way all airports are—metal chairs scraping the floor, heels clicking past, toddlers crying in spurts of exhaustion.

But around you, it’s muffled. Hollow. Like you’re hearing everything from underwater.

You sit by the window. Shoulders stiff. Hands in your lap. Your flight to Vegas boards in thirteen minutes.

You haven’t blinked in twice that.

Your duffel is under the chair. You packed it in six minutes flat. Just enough to get through the night and the next day.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

You didn’t let Bob or Phoenix or anyone walk you out of the squadroom.

You just left.

Ordered an Uber. Didn’t speak to the driver. Watched the base fade behind you in the rearview mirror.

“We’re waiting for you,” your mom had said.

You can’t stop replaying it. The way her voice cracked around it. The way the silence afterward said what she couldn’t:

She’s not going to wake up.

⸻

You stare out at the tarmac. A jet lifts off somewhere across the field. You don’t follow it.

You’re not thinking about flying.

You’re thinking about the last text your sister ever sent.

Don’t die in a training accident before my wedding.

I still haven’t found another maid of honor.

You smile. Barely. It hurts.

She’ll never have a wedding now.

⸻

You rub your palms against your thighs. Hard. Like maybe if you move fast enough, think sharp enough, you can stay ahead of the grief crawling up your spine.

You’re the strong one.

The sharp one.

The bolt of lightning that everyone watches hit but no one dares to follow.

You’re not the one who breaks.

Not in public.

Not ever.

But your throat aches. Your chest is tight. And suddenly the thought of walking into that hospital room alone—seeing her face, hearing the machines—makes your stomach lurch.

“Just make it through the flight,” you whisper.

“Just make it to Vegas.”

You fold your arms. Press your chin to your knuckles. Close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

———

The lights in the hallway are too bright.

The nurse at the front desk knows your name when you give it. She doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just sad. Like she’s done this a hundred times.

“Room 614. Take the elevator on your left.”

“They’re all in there.”

Your feet move before your mind does.

The tile is cold. The elevator hums. And when the doors open, you have to make yourself step out.

It’s late, but the waiting room outside the ICU is still full. Your mom’s on the couch, her hands clenched in her lap. Her mascara’s been smudged down her cheeks for hours. You’ve never seen her cry before.

Your cousin looks up. Tries to smile. Doesn’t make it.

You stand there for one long moment, and no one says a word.

Because you’re here. And that means it’s time.

“They’ll let you have a few minutes,” someone says.

You nod. Walk past them.

Your mother reaches for your hand. You don’t stop walking.

⸻

ICU – Room 614

The first thing you notice is the sound.

Machines. Steady, rhythmic. One long exhale at a time.

Then her face.

Pale. Still. Too still.

Your sister lies in the bed like she’s asleep. But her chest doesn’t rise on its own.

A machine breathes for her.

Her fingers twitch slightly, but it’s not real. You know that.

You close the door behind you.

It clicks too loud.

Your knees almost give out.

You walk to the side of the bed and sit down. Her hand is small in yours. Cold from the IVs. From the stillness.

She used to be louder than you. Bigger than you, somehow, even though you shared everything—blood, bones, birthdays.

She used to say, “If I die before you, you better do something dramatic. Like start a war or name your kid after me or tattoo my face on your ass.”

You let out a sound—half laugh, half sob.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing hair off her forehead.

“You can hear me, right?”

She doesn’t move.

“It’s me. Obviously. Who else would drive like a maniac through McCarran just to get here in time?”

Your voice breaks.

“You weren’t supposed to go first.”

You bend forward, forehead to hers.

“We were supposed to be old and wrinkled and yelling at people in a retirement home together. Remember that?”

A tear slips down your nose onto the blanket.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’ve been here my whole life.”

You take a shaky breath.

“If you’re still in there… I need you to know I’m going to be okay.”

“I’ll fly. I’ll live. I’ll make you proud.”

You bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

“But it’s gonna hurt for a long time.”

You lean down and kiss her temple.

The machine sighs.

A nurse knocks gently. You only nod.

“We’re ready when you are,” she says.

You press your forehead to hers again. One last time.

“I love you.”

And then?

You let her go.

The air is dry and too warm.

You don’t remember taking the elevator back down. You don’t remember hugging your mom. You don’t remember walking out.

But you’re outside now.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight, your duffel slung over one shoulder. There’s a vending machine humming nearby. A car alarm going off in the distance. And that smell—the city’s strange mix of heat, oil, and stale cigarettes.

You blink, and for one horrible second, you think,

I need to text her and let her know I made it in time.

But there’s no one to text.

You grip your phone anyway, knuckles white.

“She’s really gone,” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

You sit down on the curb because your legs won’t hold you anymore.

And you just sit there. Not crying. Not speaking. Just breathing through the throb in your chest and the silence she left behind.

People walk past. Cars roll by. Nobody stops.

The world keeps moving.

And you’re standing still.

⸻

Five Days Later – North Island Naval Base – Hangar 2

You walk back into base like nothing happened.

Aviators on. Hair pinned. Flight suit zipped to your collarbone. Clipboard in hand.

You nod at a few people in passing. Dodge Phoenix’s eyes. Pretend not to hear Hangman say “Glad you’re back.”

You don’t stop walking.

You head straight to the locker room. Your locker’s exactly how you left it. Helmet perched up top. Notes tucked into the door.

You sit down slowly. Flex your fingers once. Open your flight log.

And breathe.

Just like always.

⸻

The squad briefing room – 1345 hours

The room smells like sweat and old coffee. Everyone’s still in flight suits, sunburned and buzzing from adrenaline.

You sit at the far end of the long table, one leg crossed, hands folded neatly in your lap.

You haven’t taken off your gloves.

“Bolt was clean on that vertical loop,” Phoenix says, flipping through her notes. “Fastest response time I’ve seen in three weeks.”

“I told you,” Hangman mutters. “She flies like she’s got something to prove.”

You don’t react.

Rooster glances at you. His brows lift slightly. Not teasing—curious.

You keep your face still.

Your body moves automatically. You nod at the right beats. Tap your pen. Mark your page. You’re here. You’re sharp. You’re Bolt.

Just like always.

⸻

Maverick leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Clean drills. No gaps. Team cohesion is tight.”

He looks around the room.

Then his eyes land on you.

“Lieutenant Bolt,” he says, calm. Measured. “How are you holding up?”

You blink.

The room goes still.

You open your mouth.

“I’m good.”

A pause.

He doesn’t move.

“That wasn’t the question.”

It’s so quiet you can hear the AC kick on.

You shift in your chair. Glance at the notepad in front of you. Your hands suddenly feel too small. Your gloves too tight.

Everyone’s watching.

Phoenix. Rooster. Hangman.

And Bob—Bob is watching closer than anyone.

Your throat starts to close. Your chest tightens.

“I’m—”

“I’m—”

But the words die in your mouth.

And then—

Your hand flies up to cover it.

Your shoulders jerk.

And the first sob rips out of you without permission.

Not graceful. Not quiet.

You break. Hard.

Your head bows down into your arms as everything crashes out of you—sobs so deep they shake your whole body, so loud they echo in the stunned silence.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, voice wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to—I can’t—”

A chair scrapes back.

You feel motion beside you.

Bob.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels beside your chair, both hands steady on your arms, and says your name once—soft, like something holy.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone.”

You turn into him without thinking.

Clutch his shoulders like you’re drowning. Let yourself cry into his neck. Shake and sob and break while the entire squad watches in stunned silence.

“She’s gone,” you sob.

“My twin. She’s gone. And I don’t know how to be here without her.”

Bob doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

He wraps his arms around you and holds on like he’ll never let go.

“Then don’t be here alone,” he whispers.

“Let me help carry it.”

And for the first time since Vegas…

You do.

———

North Island – Bob Floyd’s Apartment – 6:42 PM

You don’t remember agreeing to go home with him.

You just remember the feel of his hand on the small of your back—steady, warm, there—and the way he kept pace with your silence.

No one spoke as you walked off base. Not Phoenix. Not Rooster.

Not you.

You don’t remember how the car smelled. Or what song was playing. Or how long it took.

But now you’re sitting on his couch.

Still in your flight suit. Helmet on the floor. Back pressed into the corner of the cushion like you’re trying to disappear.

Bob’s in the kitchen.

You can hear him moving—quietly. A pan sizzling. The soft clink of silverware. A drawer closing.

He brings you a plate of food.

Sets it on the table without a word.

You don’t touch it.

You stare at the steam curling off the rice. The color of the sauce. The fork he’s already placed in your hand.

“You don’t have to eat,” he says, gently.

You set the fork down.

Then—

“It’s like… she took part of me with her,” you whisper.

Bob doesn’t answer right away.

He just lowers himself into the chair across from you. Elbows on his knees. Hands folded like he’s praying.

“Of course she did,” he says softly.

You look at him.

He meets your eyes.

“You were built together,” he says.

“You shared space before you even had names.”

Your chest tightens.

“How do you know that?” you rasp.

“I read,” he says with a small smile.

“And I watch people.”

He leans forward a little.

“And I’ve watched you long enough to know that losing her feels like losing gravity.”

You press your knuckles to your mouth.

Tears spring again. Not as sharp this time. Not as loud.

Just soft. Slow.

“I’m so tired, Bob.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You don’t have to be.”

⸻

Later – 9:26 PM

You’re lying on your side in one of Bob’s T-shirts. He gave it to you without asking. Just handed it over and turned around while you changed in the bathroom.

You’re curled on his couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin.

He’s on the floor beside you—back resting against the cushions, long legs stretched out, one arm resting along the back of the couch where your shoulder touches.

You’re not speaking. You don’t have to.

Your fingers drift toward him slowly.

He doesn’t move.

Just lets you find him.

You end up tangled.

Your cheek pressed against his chest.

His hand in your hair.

And he doesn’t say a thing when your breathing gets shallow. Or when you whisper “Don’t go.”

He just nods.

“I won’t.”

———

Bob Floyd’s Apartment – 6:47 AM

You wake slowly.

The light through the blinds is soft—gold cutting across the sheets in warm stripes. The kind of light that makes the world feel distant. Weightless.

But you don’t feel weightless.

Your chest still hurts. That tight, aching sort of grief that lingers in your bones.

You shift.

You’re in a T-shirt that isn’t yours.

Your duffel is still zipped in the corner.

And this… this is Bob’s bed.

But Bob isn’t beside you.

You sit up slowly.

And that’s when you see it—

He’s on the floor.

Pillow tucked behind his head. Blanket kicked off. One arm flung across his chest. Still in yesterday’s clothes.

You stare.

Your heart twists.

He gave you the bed.

And never left the room.

⸻

You slide off the mattress, careful not to wake him, but the second your feet hit the ground—

“Mornin’.”

His voice is gravel and warmth and something too gentle to name.

You freeze.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He sits up slowly. Blinks at you. His hair’s a mess. His spine probably hates him.

But he smiles.

“Didn’t sleep too deep.”

You nod.

“Me neither.”

A beat.

He pushes himself to his feet.

“You want coffee?”

You should say no. You should say you need to go.

But—

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

———

The coffee’s gone cold in your mug.

You’ve barely touched it.

You’re just watching him.

The sunlight hits the side of his face, and for one second—one long, aching second—you want to tell him everything.

So you do.

“I have feelings for you.”

Bob stills.

His head turns slowly toward you.

“You’re exhausted,” he says gently. “You’ve been through hell.”

You don’t blink.

“That doesn’t make it untrue.”

He sets his cup down. Carefully.

“Y/N—”

“I’ve felt this way for a while,” you interrupt, voice cracking. “Before Vegas. Before the hospital. Before the flight drills. Before all of it.”

He goes still.

His throat moves, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought…”

“I thought someone like you could never love someone like me.”

That makes him flinch.

“What does that mean?”

You let out a breath, sharp and shaking.

“It means I’m loud. I’m fast. I don’t know how to slow down unless someone makes me. I don’t do quiet. I don’t do soft.”

“And you—you’re gentle. You’re… the safe thing. The thing I’ve never been allowed to want.”

Your eyes sting. You look down at the table.

“But I did. I do. I want you.”

A long silence.

Then—

“Y/N,” he says quietly. “You’re grieving. You just lost the most important person in your world. You don’t—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

He presses his lips together.

Doesn’t speak.

So you do.

“I know what grief is,” you say. “I know how it twists things and makes you reach for the closest lifeline.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

You meet his eyes.

“I don’t need you to fix me, Bob.”

“I just want you to believe me.”

⸻

He looks wrecked.

More wrecked than you’ve ever seen him.

“I want to believe you,” he says. “God, I do.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because you’re everything I never let myself want. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stare at him.

And suddenly—there’s no anger. No panic. Just something heavy and aching in your chest.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

You push your chair back. Stand slowly.

“I’m gonna go.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s okay,” you say gently, even though it isn’t. “I just needed to say it out loud.”

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t cry until you’re already outside.

And you don’t look back.

———

The door doesn’t slam.

You just… leave.

And for a long time after, Bob doesn’t move.

He sits at the table, coffee cold in front of him, his hands gripping the edges like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your chair is still warm.

Your mug is still half-full.

And he’s still trying to breathe.

⸻

I’ve felt this way for a while.

The words echo in his head.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

Hard.

I want you.

He wants to believe it.

He wants to believe it so badly it physically hurts.

But all he can hear underneath it is that low, cruel voice he’s carried for years:

She’s lightning.

You’re not meant to catch lightning.

She’ll realize it was just the grief talking. Just the moment.

⸻

He stands up too fast. His chair scrapes the floor.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He walks into the bedroom.

Stops.

Stares.

Your duffel bag is gone.

But your flight patch—the spare one from your jacket—is still sitting on his nightstand.

Folded. Deliberate. Like you left it for him.

He walks over slowly.

Picks it up.

Just holds it in his hands.

The stitching is worn. The call sign BOLT stitched in faded silver thread.

He runs a thumb over it, and suddenly he can hear your laugh from a few weeks ago—sharp and bright and reckless as hell after a good landing.

“You’re too good for me, Bobby.”

He thought you were joking when you said it.

But maybe you meant it.

Maybe you’ve always meant it.

⸻

He sinks onto the edge of the bed.

Drops his head into his hands.

And whispers—

“Goddammit.”

Because the truth is?

You’re not just grief.

You’re not just lightning.

You’re the only thing that’s ever made him want more than quiet.

More than safety.

More than staying invisible.

And he let you walk away.

 ———

North Island – Five Days Later – 1440 Hours

You haven’t spoken to Bob since that morning in his kitchen.

You haven’t spoken to anyone, really.

You show up to drills early. You finish debrief late. You don’t joke. You don’t answer Phoenix’s texts. You don’t even glance at Hangman’s stupid grin.

You’re locked in.

Dead silent.

Untouchable.

Just the way they expect you to be.

Bolt, the unbreakable.

And that’s exactly what you give them.

⸻

In the air, you’re terrifying.

Faster than ever.

Sharp turns. No hesitation.

You take corners like you’re trying to rip yourself out of your own skin.

It earns you silence over the comms.

And then a single word from Maverick at the end of the flight:

“Dangerous.”

You don’t argue.

You land. Strip your helmet. Walk away.

⸻

Hangar 2 – 5:17 PM

You’re the last one inside.

Everyone else is gone.

You sit on the wing of your jet, wiping down the surface with a cloth you don’t need. Just an excuse to not go home.

You’re still in your flight suit. Your hair’s still tucked up tight. You haven’t eaten today.

You’re not sure you care.

The ache in your chest is quieter now.

Not gone. Just… dull. Numb.

Like scar tissue forming around something that used to be soft.

⸻

And then you hear the door open.

Footsteps.

You know who it is without turning.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say.

“Neither should you.”

You freeze.

Bob’s voice is low. Careful. Like he’s approaching something wounded.

You don’t move.

“Don’t worry,” you say flatly. “I’m not about to fall apart in front of you again.”

A pause.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

You turn around slowly.

Bob’s standing near the back of the hangar. Still in uniform. Still looking at you like he’s not sure you’ll let him close.

You stare.

Your voice is quiet when you speak.

“You made your choice.”

“No,” he says. “I made a mistake.”

⸻

Your hands curl tight around the rag in your fist.

“Don’t do that.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t come here and try to take it back because you feel guilty.”

“It’s not guilt,” he says, stepping forward. “It’s clarity.”

You shake your head.

“I don’t need clarity. I needed honesty.”

“Then here it is.”

He’s in front of you now. Not touching. But close.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he says quietly. “You’re everything I’ve ever told myself I couldn’t have.”

“And I didn’t believe you when you said you wanted me, because I’ve spent my whole life thinking someone like you would never choose someone like me.”

You look up at him.

Eyes sharp. Shoulders stiff.

“And now?”

He swallows hard.

“Now I don’t care how scared I am.”

“Because letting you walk away was worse.”

⸻

He reaches into his jacket.

Pulls something out.

Your patch.

“You left this.”

You stare at it. Frozen.

He holds it out.

“I’ve been carrying it every day.”

You don’t speak.

You take it from his hand slowly. Let your fingers graze his.

And finally—

Your voice cracks.

“You hurt me.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“And I’ll never stop being sorry for that.”

“You made me feel small.”

“You were never small,” he says. “You were never anything but lightning.”

“Then why couldn’t you believe I meant it?”

“Because I wanted it too much.”

⸻

Silence.

Then:

“Do you still want me?” you ask, barely audible.

His breath hitches.

“Every goddamn second.”

⸻

You fall into his arms like gravity wins.

And this time?

He doesn’t let go.

Your hands fist into the front of his flight suit and drag him forward like you’ve run out of time, like you’ve run out of air, like the only thing left that makes sense is his mouth on yours.

⸻

The kiss is hard.

Messy.

Hungry.

Your lips crash against his like a threat—like don’t ever leave me again, like you should’ve said this sooner, like you’re mine if you mean it.

And he answers every word of it.

His hands slide up your back. Slow at first. But once he feels you shake—once he hears the sound you make when he kisses you deeper—

He breaks.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes between kisses.

“I didn’t even have you, and I missed you.”

You shudder.

Your fingers slide up into his hair. Tug tight. You pull him closer.

“Tell me again,” you whisper against his mouth.

“What?”

“That you want me.”

He kisses you once. Then again.

Then says it between every single one—

“I want you.”

kiss

“I want you.”

kiss

“I want you, I want you, I want you.”

Like he’s trying to make up for every second you thought he didn’t.

⸻

Your back hits the side of the jet.

Your helmet falls from the wing and clatters on the floor.

You barely notice.

You’re breathless now. Both of you. Heat and sweat and grief and want tangled in every rough slide of lips and teeth and tongue.

But it’s not sex.

Not yet.

This is something deeper. Rawer.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“Never.”

⸻

You slow down. Eventually. But your hands stay on his chest, and his forehead stays pressed to yours.

You’re not done. You’re just catching your breath.

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

He wants you.

He always did.