Sleepless in Manhattan
Pairing: Spy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader
Word count: 10.3k
Synopsis: Through sickness and in health, for better or for worse, you fall in love with your 'husband'.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Spy AU, Mr. And Mrs. Smith AU, John Smith! Hobie, Jane Smith! Reader, CW food mentions, CW blood and gore, CW death and violence, CW injury, CW suggestive. Part 2 of the first one (a must read to understand this,) Fluff.
Navigation
Part 1 >>> Part 2 >>> Part 3
Hobie closes the door behind you after you climb inside. The air is still and stale, seats freezing cold against the silk fabric of your evening dress. There’s nothing but silence inside as you stare at a reflection of yourself in the rearview mirror.
Your fingers snap the rubber band against your wrist relentlessly.
A pinch and a snap.
Snap.
Snap. Until you feel blood dot around your flesh. It barely hurts, a mere annoying buzz around your wrist that makes you pull at it more.
Hobie circles around the car, entering the driver’s side, closing the door behind him and buckling up. His hand stills around the steering wheel for a moment, bow tie askew, and the sheen of your lipstick coating his lips. He smells like you, your perfume rubbed off on him, whilst it’s the other way around for you, his flowery cologne a lightning to your senses.
His mismatched eyes flick down to your wrist, wincing at the forming gash around your precious skin.
“Love—”
The quiet stillness of the car is interrupted by the sound of your fist meeting the car’s dashboard.
“Right.” Hobie lets you get your anger out on the luxurious car’s dashboard as pieces of it are dismantled by your closed fist.
“Fuck!” You keep punching and slamming, knuckles aching, blood seeping out as you yell inside the car.
The CD left inside suddenly gets spat out by the car’s radio, and you pause for a moment, staring angrily at the CD cover.
“Motherfucker!” Your gaze alone could snap it and set it on fire if you will it be.
Hobie knows what will happen next. “I hated that album anyway—”
Continuing your tirade, you snatch the innocent CD, snapping it into pieces as you scream in your seat. “I’m going to fucking kill him!”
“He’s already dead, love. We killed him, he’s in our trunk.” From the crazed look of your eyes, Hobie immediately regrets his words. With his quick thinking, he starts the car and races out of the auction house’s parking lot just as the red and blue sirens arrive up front. “What do you want to do with him?”
Your chest heaves up and down like an angry bull seeing red. Without saying a word, fist bleeding into the emerald green gown, you open the window briefly to chuck the rest of the CD out into the street.
Tension hangs in the air, and you can still taste Hobie on your tongue.
“I’ll get you some ice when we get home.” He says softly, eyes glancing down at your injured hand briefly as he races down the road.
“I’m going to chop him up into a million pieces and put him in the incinerator so his body and soul could feel how hot hell could be.”
“Okay.” Hobie blinks, nodding along. “Good plan.”
“Do we have a bone saw?” Your searing gaze bores into the side of his skull.
“I’ll check the garage, love.”
“Good.” Inhaling deeply, you stretch your hands, only now noticing the ache around your knuckles. Your hand down to your wrist looks like it has been through a paper shredder. “We failed.”
“It’s our first failure.” His face is illuminated by the street lamps that whizz past the speeding car. “We still have two left before…before whatever the company does to agents that fail three times.”
You shake your head, jaw set as you stare at a dead bug stuck on the windshield. “We can’t fail another one. Especially to some nasty asshole who made us fucking kiss and bark in front of him on all fours. Like what the fuck was that?! I know people have some weird fucking kinks and that’s fine, still, what the actual fuck?!”
“We need a hot shower after that.”
You turn your head towards him suspiciously.
“Not together— I mean, it’s not that the snoggin’ was bad or– or disgustin’, it was the opposite. I jus’ meant that—” He splutters, sighing in defeat. “You’re fuckin’ with me. Again.”
“I am, it’s not even fun anymore when you keep falling for it.”
A silent moment passes by as the car gets closer and closer to the neighborhood where your home base resides.
“You used…” you suck in your teeth, index hovering along your lower lip. “You know.”
“You just killed a man and you can’t even say tongue?” His eyes snap to you, hazel glinting as he sports a lopsided smile before it fades and shakes his head, eyes turning steely. “’m sorry, I was tryin’ to not get us killed, I should’ve asked—”
“We, Hobie, we just killed a man because you don’t communicate!” You yell as the car picks up speed. Exhaling, you gaze at him with brief softness. “And it’s okay, it convinced him and it helped— but we still fucked up!”
“You didn’t say that you had the injection with the serum too! You just counted to three, love!” He pauses, inhaling. “Good, I wouldn’t do anythin’ you don’t want to.”
“Stop calling me that!” You angrily poke his bicep, only for the pad of your finger to be met with a wall of muscle. “I literally told you that I had it before we fucking went in! And I know! Thank you for apologizing!”
Rolling his eyes, the two of you recognize how much of a rollercoaster the conversation is. You would've laughed at the ridiculousness of it all if not for the fact that you technically failed the mission.
The car finally arrives in front of the shared home, Hobie puts the car on idle for a moment to continue arguing with you when he notices that you still have some steam left in you. He truly doesn’t want to argue, or get the last word out, but he needs to say his piece, to defend himself when it was miscommunication that’s to blame. Maybe it’s partly his fault, or yours, but that doesn't matter now when he just wants to tend to your hand before it becomes unbearable for you.
Hobie puffs out his cheeks in frustration from the additional words that you’re about to let out before he could even get his own out. “I also told you that I had it too jus’ in case one of us gets closer to the bloody target first.”
“Thanks to my brilliant plan we got him alone—” He scoffs loudly, making you scoff back, louder than he did. “And we got the confession we needed from the truth serum. He even yelled it out to the whole crowd!”
“Thanks to your brilliant plan, we found out that shady rich wankers are into some weird shit!” He claps his hands as a taunt, chuckling that’s akin to a scoff. “As if it was a fuckin’ surprise anyway!” His palms slam against the steering wheel in frustration. Inhaling, he lets out a breath a second later. “He was a fuckin’ wanker, you guilty? Don’t be, ‘cause he doesn’t deserve it.”
“I’m not,” you stare into his eyes, your bloodied hand laying weakly on top of the arm of his suit. “I’m mad because we failed the mission.” Your jaw clenches tightly, and your nails dig into your palms. “Hihi said to keep him alive, he’s an asshole, yes, and the world is better off without him, but we still failed. He should’ve been in jail by now, not in our trunk.”
Hobie glances at your hand before placing his own atop it, staining his palm with your crimson without a care or a second thought. “We won’t fail again, I promise.”
You nod tiredly, running out of steam and adrenaline as you crash on the seat, forehead thumping on his shoulder for a half second before moving away. “Let’s get him to the tub.”
“You get his head and I carry his legs?” His tone is softer, smiling briefly.
“And I get to look at his ugly face? No, you carry that side, and I get the legs.” Even in your fatigued state, you don’t back down.
“You never surrender do you?” Hobie utters it with affection, hand squeezing you once.
“Yeah, that’s what we tell people why you married me.”
Chuckling, Hobie lays his forehead atop your bare shoulder for a second before pulling away. “Fine, but I get to ice your hand, yeah?”
“You might as well have told me to take off my clothes.” Snorting, you press the garage door button, it opens with a whir as Hobie drives the car inside.
“Christ, you’ve got issues.” And yet he says it with a smile, hand never leaving yours.
“I know about that too.”
—
You wake up to the same beige ceiling and the familiar rasps of Jeff pecking at your window. Twisting on the bed, a palm splayed over the covers, you find that the other side is still warm. You guess he stayed the night with you, a growing habit of his that has you a bit concerned.
Annoyed by the pecking, you take out your gun that’s hidden underneath the bed side table, aiming the barrel directly at the pigeon.
Jeff tilts his head, beak stilling from his obnoxious pecking. His iridescent feathers glimmer in the morning light, and your trigger finger itches to press down.
And yet you don’t. Not because you risk upsetting Hobie, but the gunshot would get your cover blown, and you can’t risk another failure, especially one that is punishable by…whatever hihi deems appropriate for bird killing.
With an exhale, you lay back down on the bed, eyes wandering towards the bandages on your hand. You can still feel John’s— Hobie’s warm calloused palm gently tending to you. It’s the same sweetened warmth that you felt when his lips met yours with trepidation. The way his lips twitched before tasting you, the way his eyes closed whilst your own remained open— its mind achingly saccharine. For some reason, you feel bad at how the night went.
You two spent the whole night cutting up the target in your bathtub, and whatever came to you that night, you spilled your guts to him while splicing up the man with a saw. Perhaps you find your partner comforting only because of his close proximity to you, or it’s because of a growing affection you have for people who have a soul similar to yours. Either way, it’s not good for you. You know how dangerous it is to be attached to someone you work with, the fading line around your ring finger is a clear testament to that.
Hobie has seen it, you know that he noticed it when he first put on the ring on your finger. If he didn’t, he’s not good at his job, and you know that he’s bloody good at it. He’s just too kind to even mention it to you. It’s either that or he’s just embarrassed to ask about it. Either way, you’ll never speak to him about it.
As you get ready for the day, you hear him rummaging through the house. His footfalls climb up the steps to the roof to feed Jeff and to do his morning yoga. After an hour of languishing in bed, you then hear the sound of rushing water as he showers and hums to the stereo. A few months ago you would’ve been annoyed at the amount of noise he’s making, a noise that a spy should’ve been incapable of making from sheer instincts alone. But now as you stand in the kitchen, heating up a kettle for your coffee and for his tea, it’s almost soothing, reminding you of the past when your ring finger used to be occupied by a silver ring and not a company mandated wedding ring.
“Mornin’, sledgehammer.”
You turn to face him, steaming cup in hand. “‘Sledgehammer?’”
Hobie shrugs, skin still damp from the shower as he glistens under the kitchen lights. “You asked me not to call you ‘love’ anymore so ’m bein’ creative. And it’s ‘cause you wrecked the car radio.” He walks closer, chest to chest, and for a moment, your breath hitches. Until he raises a brow, leaning around you to grab his cup. “Thanks for boilin’ the water.”
“No problem.” You inhale, pulling away from his warmth, now standing next to the kitchen island. “I’m going to the deli for a bagel, you want anything?”
His spoon clinks against the ceramic as he stirs his tea and milk. “Why are you bein’ nice? We should fail more often if you’re goin’ to be this nice to me.”
“Fine, fuck you. Do you want a breakfast bagel?”
“Fuck you too, Bateman. Yes, I’ll have mine with all meat and all veg.”
“Bateman?”
“Yeah, ’cause you went all Patrick Bateman last night on the bloke.” He nonchalantly says above the rim of his cup.
You just roll your eyes and gather your keys and wallet. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, some crisps would be nice. Jus’ plain salted.”
“Whatever, go check on the incinerator.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Hook.” With a faux salute, he smiles, chuckling as you shut the front door loudly.
—
The deli was too busy for your taste with a line that has you clicking your tongue. You would’ve settled for some cornflakes at home, or to another deli. And yet, you waited in line like some regular schmuck. You deal with danger everyday for fucks sake. But you still smiled politely at the deli man, gave him your orders and handed him the payment without making a fuss.
Now that you’re climbing up the steps to the porch, you already feel exhausted from the social interaction.
“Hey, neighbour!” An unfamiliar voice greets you from behind.
You turn around, hand reaching for the knife you’ve hidden in your trouser pocket. “Hey, morning.”
“I kept missing you around here,” he chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I didn’t have a chance to say hi.”
“Well, now you have.” Your hand eases off the pocket, and instead reaching for the doorknob to escape the conversation.
“I’m Harry, I live next door.”
“Jane, and I live here.” You answer monotonously.
“I can see that.” Chortling, Harry gestures towards your keys. “I was just wondering how you even— and I’m saying this in the nicest way possible, how did you even buy the place?”
Tilting your head, your brows involuntarily knit together. “With money? I don’t know what you’re asking, Harry.”
He scratches his head, clearing his throat. “Sorry, I’m actually in real estate, and I’ve been eyeing this place for a long time. I just can’t put a finger on how you bought it when I estimated that the place costs at least fifty mill.” Shrugging, he keeps his customer service smile on.
“Ah, that.” You try to play it off, putting on your mask that you’ve honed through experience. “My husband and I are in software development.”
“Oh, you’re married!”
“Yeah,” you show your ring finger like you’re flipping him the bird. You just want to eat your bagel. “For a while now actually. This is our dream home.”
“Wow!” He casually puts his hands in his pockets. You can’t help but notice that he’s dressed like a nineteen fifty’s husband who’s probably cheating on his wife with his twenty year old secretary. He’s got the looks for it you suppose. “Congratulations, maybe I should’ve been in software!”
You give him a fake chuckle that you’ve seen suburban women do in sitcoms. “Maybe!”
“Well, I won’t hold you for long!” He gestures, “it’s great to finally meet you, Jane.”
“Yeah, you too—”
Before you could open the door, he calls you back again. “Oh, I almost forgot. Are you guys making barbecue or something up there? Like some slow roasted lamb? Because that smoke has been going on since last night.” Pointing at the roof, you look up, and sure enough, the grey smoke still billows out from the incinerator.
“Something like that.” You say with a smile.
“Sounds delicious! Just a heads up though, our HOA is a bit uptight so if someone complains…”
“Ah, thanks, it’s almost done roasting anyway. I’ll tell my husband to extinguish it.” You’re already through the door before he could say something else again.
Once inside and the door shut closed, you groan loudly, head pressed on the oak as the plastic in your hand crinkles from the tight grip.
With some deep breathing exercise that probably saved Harry the neighbour’s life from your bullet, you go up the stairs to the rooftop garden.
The smokey air greets you as soon as you open the creaky door. You find Hobie shutting the furnace closed with a cough, fanning the smoke away from his face. As always, Jeff waits for him at the table, pecking at murdered strawberries that stains the wooden table.
“Smells good up here.” You say, hand inside the plastic bag to give him his breakfast.
“‘m not even fazed by that, cannibal.” He nods a thanks, palm brushing along yours when you handed him the wrapped bagel. “This has gone cold. And where’s my crisps?”
“Yeah, there was a line, and an annoying neighbour chatted me up.” You say casually, then you toss him the bag of potato chips before heading to the table to enjoy your breakfast with Jeff.
His opened mouth pauses mid bite. “Who chatted you up?”
Looking over your shoulder, you can’t help but smile at his expression. “A neighbour, Harry something, keep up, Jaws.”
Hobie would’ve laughed at the attempt, if not for the mention of some bloke. “He was chattin’ you up? Does he know that you’re married?” With a tug at the leg of the chair, he pulls it out smoothly to sit down adjacent to you.
“Relax,” you scoff, unwrapping the bagel before taking a bite. “He backed off when I showed him the ring. He was shit at it anyway.”
Sliding a napkin towards you, he taps his foot to yours playfully as he opens his crinkling bag of chips. “Admit it, after you got a taste of me, no one will ever top it, huh?”
“May I remind you that we’re not actually married? And I can get him no problem, I don’t need to get over you when there’s nothing to get over with.”
Scrunching his face with a pout, Hobie glances at the pigeon, who just flaps its wings before continuing to devour the strawberries. You then take a handful of his chips, snatching it from within the bag and popping them inside your mouth, annoying him with your purposeful loud chewing.
“I want a divorce.” Hobie says with a flat face, as he notices your gaze on the greasy bacon peeking in between the two bagels.
Chuckling, shaking your head, you gaze at him through your lashes whilst he yanks the bacon away and places it inside your sandwich. “Can’t, or I’ll take half of everything, including Jeff. And you know I’ll roast the guy the second I get the chance.”
Hobie leans back on his seat, squaring his shoulders as he looks at you like you’re his breakfast bagel. “Can’t, or don’t want to?”
Leaning forward, elbows on the table, you drop your food on the table before grabbing at his collar and looking right into those mismatched eyes. “Can’t, what would hihi say?”
He doesn’t back down, leaning closer until his lips ghosts above your own. “It’s always the kid that gets caught in the crossfire, hm, love?”
“I thought you quit that.” Your fist curls tighter around the fabric, cinching his throat.
Despite the dull ache, he grins at you, eyes sparkling with mirth as his hand trails down your back and stays right on your hips. He smells like salty chips and bacon, and you seem to have taken a liking to both.
“Nah, can’t exactly quit you when you’re in my mind twenty four seven.”
You loom above him, seemingly intimidating to anyone but him. He doesn’t falter, even looking like he’s enjoying the fact that you’re almost choking him. “Now I know why the company matched us.”
“Is it because of our love for bagels?”
With a roll of your eyes, and the buzzing in your pocket, you release him.
Hobie falls back on his chair, the goofy smile staying on his lips as he gazes at you softly. You don’t know if it’s a taunt or if it’s genuine. Either way, it has your stomach in knots, and not like in a way that you just shot a man a hundred miles away and you see his brain splattered all over an expensive painting. It’s a different feeling that has you pulling at the rubber band around your uninjured wrist and letting it go with a smack.
Taking your phone out, you see that the company has something new for you and Hobie.
>>> Hihi
>>> Ready for a round of poker?
“Finish your bagel and extinguish the incinerator.” Standing up, you grab your things, leaving Hobie and Jeff alone on the roof.
“She’s a bit bossy, innit?” He addresses the pigeon, who just coos at him. “What a wife, hm?” He finishes the bagel in two big bites, following you downstairs.
—
“Why don’t you like tomatoes?” Hobie’s voice cackles to life in the comms while you unravel the duffel bag filled with your trusted sniper and a box of rounds enough to put a stop to an army.
“How do you know that?” You ask, hearing the faint elevator music on his end whilst you screw the parts together with precision that you can do in your sleep.
“You didn’t eat the tomatoes in your bagel this mornin’.”
“Okay, stalker.”
Scoffing, the doors ding open. “‘m not, you jus’ left your garbage on the counter again. Who bloody raised you? A cow?”
“That’s a rude nickname for your mother-in-law, John.” Smiling, you try not to show emotions as you talk to him through the comms. With a quick check on your weapon, you lie down on your spot, sniper aimed at the ready towards the side of the building where Hobie’s currently in. You can tell that he’s about to ask about her. “And don’t start, I’m not here to talk about how my parents left me at a gas station after I lost a tennis match.”
“Christ,” he can feel your sights aimed at him as he walks along the extravagant hallway of a luxurious flat building. “I wouldn’t want to talk ‘bout that either. But that’s a shitty thing to do to you, love, ‘m sorry they did that.”
“Please,” you scoff, following him in your sights. The gun is loaded, if you so sneezed it’ll go off, bringing a bullet right at your company assigned husband. “As if I was telling the truth.”
“I think I know you well enough when you’re lyin’ or not.”
“Wrong way, babe, you just passed it.” With a chuckle, you watch him turn back around smoothly. “And I highly doubt that.”
“Test me, babe.” Hobie stops in the middle of the hallway, hands inside his pressed trousers as he looks at the large windows, towards in your direction as if he could see you right on the roof top opposite of his position.
“You’ll miss our fucking mark.” Your trigger finger itches.
“They jus’ started playin’ poker. Humour me, c’mon.” Spreading his arms to the side, he grins right at you, giving you a wink that you saw through your scope as clear as day.
“Fine, what’s my favourite colour?”
“Red, but you avoid wearin’ it because it attracts too much attention. Especially from me.” Shrugging, Hobie still has his mega-watt smile. “Am I right or am I right?”
“Whatever.” Rolling your eyes, you turn on the thermal scope to look through the walls, finding the five targets sitting around a table inside the room where he’s standing in front of. His smug laughter echoes in your earpiece. “Just go and knock.”
“Ask me another one.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Tell you what, after this you can quiz me too.”
“No.”
“Jeff isn’t the first Jeff, he’s the third pigeon I’ve befriended.”
“What the fuck—?” Before you could question him further, he turns away from the windows and knocks on the door casually. “Cheeky shit.”
“Lads!” His enthusiastic voice sounds out as he raises his arms excitedly.
“Who the fuck are you?” A red and orange blob asks, his figure warbling through the thermal scope.
“Anton couldn’t make it so he sent me.” You have to hand it to him, he’s a good actor. Makes you think if he’s always acting around you too. “Didn’t he tell you that?”
“No—”
A new voice pipes up from inside the flat. “Oi, let him in, I just got a message from Anton, said that a friend would play with us.”
“See?” You can practically hear Hobie’s smile as Anton’s bloodied phone buzzes in your pocket. “I’ve got more cash to burn than that wanker.”
“Should’ve said that earlier! Welcome, mate.” The first orange blob says, more happily this time around.
“Say thank you Anton for being too stupid to put a lockscreen on his phone.” Joking, you swear you heard Hobie hide a chuckle with a well timed cough.
“What’s your name, Anton’s friend?”
“John Smith, I know, my parents had twelve children and when they got to me, they ran out of creative juice.”
“Seems like they didn’t run out of baby making juice!” Someone jokes, and you had to briefly lift the earpiece away to deafen the laughter lest you blow out your eardrums.
The poker group then introduces themselves, you mentally checked out during it, not even caring for a second what their names are when they’re about to get a bullet in their heads.
“Right, what’s the limit?” Hobie sits on a chair as you keep a close eye on each man around him.
“No limit as long as you’ve got the cash.” The one on his right says.
“They’re all carrying, careful.” Your tone is more serious this time, adjusting the scope to get a closer look at what’s inside their pockets. It’s either they’ve got a gun shaped phone case, or they’re packing. “All handguns, a few knives, and…” a sword shaped thing on the wall catches your eye. “Is that a samurai sword?”
“Is that a bloody katana, bruv?” Hobie asks the same question for you.
A rambunctious guffaw echoes in your ear. “Yeah! Authentic too! Got it on a trip to Kyoto, I had to go to an actual palace to get it. They said it belonged to some legendary samurai back in the day. Fun fact, he almost married an actual pirate, can you believe that? And I can’t even remember the guy’s name, just that one fact.”
“You nicked history?” Your ‘husband’ asks as poker chips clink on the table and cards are shuffled around. You hope that he actually knows how to play when you forgot to ask him beforehand.
“Nah, bought it, all legit papers too.”
“Amazin’, I think my wife would be chuffed to see it.”
You can’t stop the small smile tugging on your lips.
“You’ve got a wife?” A large man asks on his left. “You’re good looking, my first impression of you is that you’d be bouncing from chick to chick.”
“At first I was, but you know, when you find the right someone, you gotta settle before they realize that you’re not all that.”
“Truer words have never been said.” One says, taking a drink.
There’s warmth in your chest. And you wonder if they suddenly forgot about poker just to hear Hobie’s story. Judging from the shuffling of cards, they’re paying more attention to him than the game.
“I’ve got a clear shot.” You say, inhaling, visualising the pattern to who’s who you’d shoot first in quick succession.
Hobie scoffs, a small sign to not shoot.
“Hobie, you’re not there to make friends. We need the safe combination to get the file, and you clearly can’t do that when you’ve got four other men still breathing.”
“How ‘bout you lot, got someone waitin’ for you back home?” Stubborn as he is, Hobie ignores you.
“None of us have been lucky, brother.”
“Yeah? You all look like decent blokes, why is that?”
“A long fucking list of reasons why.” Someone says with a bitter chuckle. “Tell us about your wife, is she one of those wives that wait for you to get home with a pot roast in the oven? Or the kind who waits for you in bed with Victoria’s secret on?”
The men’s obnoxious chuckles makes you groan and roll your eyes. You could just shoot four of them real quick, but you risk the last one getting an upper hand over Hobie, and you might end up with a dead partner. You want to get over this mission quickly, but you’re not reckless either. You can’t be in that situation again.
“She’s neither.” He says with a breathy sigh. A longing one laced with tenderness.
“Why’d you marry her then?” The one sitting adjacent to him asks, confusion in his tone.
“Love,” for a second you thought that he’s calling for you. “Nothin’ beats that reason. She might not want to pounce on me every night, or cook gourmet food… but she’s everythin’. When you date sometimes you forget that it could end up in marriage. With her, the moment I saw her, it never left my mind. I knew it would end with us wearin’ matchin’ rings, livin’ in a home we built together, and sittin’ on the porch on our rockin’ chairs. It was always on my mind with her.”
There’s a stray tear rolling down your cheek, and the faint line on your ring finger aches.
“Wow… that’s a shitty reason.” Another says with a loud guffaw, followed by the rest of the room.
“That’s fuckin’ rude, mate. I can see why you lot don’t have someone.”
“What’d you say?” The tension heats up, and you ready your aim.
“Your lady is probably ugly, bruv, that’s why you said that.” Another adds with a snicker.
“Don’t say that about my wife.” Hobie’s tone sours, jaw set, hand inching to his gun.
“Please, tell me, does she suck—” you don’t let the man finish, your bullet hitting him right where his mouth is within a half second.
Without a missed breath or target, bullets fly into the building consecutively. The barrel of your gun runs scaldingly warm, smoke dancing above it as you clean house. Within three seconds, the poker game ends.
Knuckles meeting flesh echoes in your earpiece.
“Wanker! Say that shit about her again, I dare you!” Hobie angrily exclaims, and his orange form glows above another silhouette through your scope.
Taking a deep breath, you calmly address him. “Hobie, ask him about the combination.”
He seems to have gone deaf in the ears, you would’ve thought that it’s because of the loud shots, but you used a silencer. It sounded like small firecrackers at the most, and a sharp fart at the least.
“Hobie— Hobie! He can’t answer if he’s dead!” And yet the punching persists. Clicking your tongue, you leave the sniper, standing up and grabbing a rope gun, and a laser knife from the supplies. “I have to do everything myself.”
Aiming at the building, you take a deep inhale and fire. A high pitched screech echoes in the night air as ropes spring out of the gun, attaching itself on the side of the apartment building. You then walk backwards to tie it to a pole on the roof. Giving it a hard tug, you test it. Not even a gust of wind could make it move.
“Hobie, don’t kill the man or I’ll kill you.” You say through the comms as you hold onto the zip line attachment at your end, running full speed off the roof top until the wind is in your face and the street below you.
“What—?” With nonchalance, Hobie asks, knuckles probably as shredded as yours.
The cars look like mere toy cars from where you whizz past. Gripping tightly, every second counts, and you cannot afford to lose your grip lest you want an early grave. Feet at the ready, you see your reflection on the glass as you brace yourself. The impact doesn’t rattle you, but your arms are starting to ache. So with quick precision, you take out the laser gun and cut a hole big enough for you to get through without breaking the glass.
Within a minute, you’re inside the same hallway where your bullets pierced through the walls of the flat.
You don’t knock as you enter casually, boots immediately hitting bullet casings with a clink as your eyes are greeted with crimson painting the poker table and the walls. The place smells like a frat house, liquor, blood, cigarettes, and a hint of gunpowder lingering in the air.
“Hey, love.” Hobie grins widely as he pauses mid punch. The man under him is trapped in between the poker table and a very capable spy, who doesn’t seem to have a single bruise or injury on him. “Fancy seeing you ’ere.” His fist meets the stranger’s face before reeling away.
“T–that your wife?” Even with one functioning eye, and a face that looks like it has been stung by a hundred killer bees, he still has a mouth on him.
“You want another hit, bruv?”
You kick the door close with your foot, eyes glancing around the gaudy decorated room to find the only thing that was interesting. Your lips tug into a small smile once you find it, stepping onto a leopard printed couch, you grab the samurai sword from the wall with gentle hands.
Hobie has a menacing smile on him that makes the target shiver, whimpering under him. And not in a good way.
“What— what are you gonna do with that?!” He screams, legs wiggling as he tries to get out of your partner’s grip. “Come on, man! It was just a joke!”
You don’t let up, unsheathing the sword with a flair as you stalk your target. Hobie’s eyes sparkle under the red stained chandelier that’s dangling from the ceiling. Someone’s enjoying themselves, and so are you as you point the end of the blade right at the man’s throat.
“What’s the combination to the safe?”
Hobie’s gaze doesn’t leave the side of your face, smiling subtly whilst holding onto the man’s collar tightly.
“Please, I’ve— I’ve got money!”
“Do we look like we need it?” The tip of the blade pierces at his skin, blood seeping out of the pinprick wound.
“They’ll kill me if I give the papers to you!” There’s genuine tears in his eyes, lips wobbling into a frown. “I’ll give you anything!” He’s fully sobbing now.
“What do you say, hun? Fancy a trip to Switzerland? Oh! Or a Lamborghini?” You taunt, and Hobie plays along.
“Nah, I don’t want or need anythin’ else when I’ve got you.”
“Aw,” cooing, you nudge him with your hip as he winks back. “Tell you what,” your head turns to address the target. “Give us the safe code, and we’ll give you a five second head start before we run to capture you.”
The man’s eyes swirl with conflict, face sweaty and bloody as he trembles in place. Then his lips form the numbers whilst you and Hobie stare at him from above.
“Good on you for making the right decision.” With just a simple look towards Hobie, he releases him, and out the man goes through the door. “Take care of the safe for me.” You say over your shoulder, grabbing a lit cigarette from the ash tray on your way out before walking away to stalk your prey.
“Not even a ‘please,’ honey?” Hobie can’t deny how fit you look right now to him with a sword casually perched over your shoulder, and a cigarette in between your lips.
And you can’t help but think how hot he is with all that blood sprayed all over him, and his lopsided smile thrown right at your smug one. Blowing a ring of smoke towards his direction, you give him a smile that could kill. But for him, it makes his heart leap.
“Please?” Giggling, chest feeling light, you run after the target as your boots silently stomp across the hallway.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Shaking his head, he goes to the bedroom to crack open the safe, before he could find it, he swears that he heard a quiet squelch of flesh and blood from the hallway outside.
—
“So, you’re not going to tell me about your…preference for pigeons?” You ask without looking at Hobie as you inspect an orange from a fruit stall.
“I jus’ like ’em. They don’t talk much, and I like their feathers.”
He shrugs, looking casual in a loose punk tank top, a pair of ripped jeans that’s held around his hips with a spiky belt, and his signature cherry red boots. It’s not the kind of clothing you’d expect in a farmer’s market on a sunny day, especially when you’re dressed in a pastel yellow sun dress that hugs you in all the right places. You don’t look like someone who has blood on your hands, and sometimes, you like to feel that way. Your look is topped off with a very cute tote bag that’s perfect for the unusual ingredients you need for a specific type of poison that isn’t traceable or won’t kill unless in high doses. According to hihi, the next mission will absolutely need it. The good thing is that all of it can be found in one place that’s near you. It just so happens that it’s in a chic farmer’s market that sells smoothies with protein powders in them, and over priced fruit jam.
“Thought we’d only be here for the stuff you need?” He sighs, weighing a lemon in his palm.
“Can’t a girl shop?”
“You can, not in this weather though. ’m bloody sweatin’ ’ere, bo peep.” His eyes cautiously glance at you, lips curling into a smile at the new nickname he has bestowed upon you.
“Bo peep wishes she looks this good.” You scoff out, paying for a bundle of oranges and the one lemon Hobie seemed to want.
Chuckling, Hobie grabs the fruits for you and places them inside your tote bag, making sure that it doesn’t touch the seemingly harmless ingredients you first seeked out. He then takes the bag from your shoulder, helping you carry it without a second thought. It might ruin his whole punk rocker outfit that he has going on, but he doesn’t care just so your shoulders won’t ache later.
Cheeks warm, and breath stuck in your throat, you have to look away from him before he notices the look on your face. You pull and release the rubber band around your wrist before leaving the stall, brows scrunched as you try to reel your feelings in. Once out of earshot from the shop keeper, Hobie sidles next to you, whispering in your ear.
“Baaa.” He belts like a sheep, and you can’t help but laugh wholeheartedly, nudging him away with your hip.
“You really don’t have an off button, do you?” You say with a subtle yet soft smile.
“Nah, I jus’ like seein’ that look on you. Yellow suits you by the way—”
“Hobie?” A woman’s voice calls right behind the two of you. You’re immediately on high alert, hand inching towards the butterfly knife in your dress pocket.
“MJ?” Hobie blinks at the red head, eyes flicking between you and her. “Aren’t you supposed to be in London?”
She jogs to close the distance, a bright smile etched on her pretty face as she adjusts her hold on her own tote bag that’s bigger than yours. “Aren’t you supposed to be there too?”
“Yeah, I…” He glances at you, finding that you’re already looking at him with anticipation and a knowing look. “There’s nothin’ there for me anymore.”
“You sure? Because last I heard—”
“I got married.” Blurting it out, he suddenly grabs your hand, pulling you closer to his side. “Yeah, this is my wife—”
“Jane. Jane Smith— Well, Brown now actually.” You beat him to it, telling her your company given name instead of your real one. That’s supposed to be only between him and you, not some random woman. What if she’s not who she seems? You’d hate to shoot at his ex when she looks like she’s nice enough. “Nice to meet you, MJ.”
“Oh wow! And here I thought you don’t believe in marriage!” She chuckles, albeit nervously and unsure what to make of it. Perhaps she thinks that Hobie’s been replaced by a marriage seeking lizard. “That’s great! Congratulations!” Shaking your stretched hand, her smile reaches her eyes. “I have some news too. Can you believe that it’s been so long since we saw each other that major events happened in our lives?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Part of growin’ up, I guess.” His hand never leaves yours as it turns slightly clammy. With a clear of his throat, he gently smiles back. “It’s been what, six, seven years?”
“Ten actually.”
“You’ve been friends that long? Wow.” Hobie can practically smell the sarcasm rolling off of you.
“Yeah, we used to be neighbours actually.” Chuckling, her laughter sounds like a chiming bell from a bike. “As for the news,” she whips out her phone, stalling to increase anticipation. “I’ve got a kid now.”
Your eyes are immediately on Hobie’s face, lips clamped shut to prevent either laughing or letting out the best acting an outraged fake wife could ever let out in front of the whole farmer’s market. Glancing down at his bobbing throat, sweat dribbling over his temple, eyes widening briefly, he fails to act nonchalant.
“That’s…bloody amazin’, MJ, how old is the kid?”
The red headed rolls her eyes with a knowing smile, turning the screen around to show a picture of a very blond kid with the bluest of eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch, Hobie. And he just turned two.”
Hobie lets out the most relieved sigh you’ve ever heard, as if he just dodged a cannon ball that’s painted bright red. He chuckles, the hand holding yours going further up on your arm to loop it around his.
“Cute lad.” He just says, nodding with a wobbly smile.
“Yeah, he’ll be a heartbreaker for sure.” You embrace his arm for added effect, hugging him so tightly that you saw him bite his lip in the corner of your eyes.
“Oh, he’s already being a thorn in my side.” Smiling, MJ checks the time. “I gotta go, I need to pick him up from daycare.”
“It’s nice to meet you, MJ. It’s not everyday that we run into an old friend of his.” Reaching for her hand, she shakes it amicably.
“You haven’t visited Camden yet? You should, it’s got all of his friends there.” Clicking her tongue, she points accusingly at Hobie. “Shame on you, Hobs. You should bring her around, Ned and the others will love her.”
“Sure, MJ. Already plannin’ on it.”
“It’s really good to see you alive and living life again, Hobs.” MJ clasps his shoulder with a soft smile. “I’ll see you two around.”
“See you, MJ.” The both of you say simultaneously. Even the way you two turned your heads towards each other was in sync.
His old friend walks away, and you have the most wicked smile on your face.
“Don’t—”
“Wow, you were fucking sweating!” You tease, poking his chest as you pull away from his boa constrictor like grip.
“I wasn’t.” Scoffing, Hobie scrunches his face, acting like the bag around his shoulder needed fixing. “So you took my last name?” That earned a few seconds of thinking from you, but you recover quickly.
“You really thought that you were an instant father, huh?” Arms crossed, you don’t let up, even giving him a cheeky head tilt complete with a smug smile. “A friend from your past, I would never have thought that you even have a friend.”
“I have friends,” you raise a brow. “I do! She’s proof of it.” He gestures in the direction she went.
“Really now? Why did you even start sweating when she’s heavily pregnant, Hobie.” His mismatched eyes blink rapidly, trying to recollect if she was in fact with child. “Holy shit, you didn’t even notice that she was! That says a lot about you.”
“No, I know she wasn’t.” It’s his turn to point accusingly at you, the pad of his finger poking right at your clavicle. “You’re messin’ with my head again. Y’know there’s a term for that now.”
Clicking your tongue with a shake of your head, you give him a disappointed look. “You’re sweating again. Go have a smoothie or something to replenish your fluids, Hobs.” Turning away, you leave him in place.
“It’s fuckin’ swelterin’, love!” He calls for you, sprinting to sidle beside you. “She’s not pregnant, I would’ve noticed.”
“Sure, you’ve got some radar or something under that thin tank top of yours?”
“It’s hot— wait, why aren’t you sweating?” He keeps up with your quick strides, eyes honed in on the side of your face.
“I had my sweat glands removed.”
“Bullshit—”
You abruptly stop mid-step, hands cupping his bicep. “I wasn’t joking about you getting something to drink, sweaty, you look like you ran a marathon. There’s a smoothie stand over there.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously at you. “You’re tryin’ to get rid of me.”
“Yeah, it’s because I’m cheating on you with Harry the neighbour and I’m going out for five minutes just to see him.” He raises a pierced brow, hands on his hips, making ‘really?’ expression. Chortling, you relent. “Fine, I saw some bird food somewhere and I wanted to get some for Jeff because we’re running out of strawberries for our overnight oats.”
“You could’ve jus’ said that you love the little man.”
Groaning, you let his clammy arms go. “Get me a lemonade.”
“Say please?”
“Go fuck yourself.” You pause, shoulders sagging when he’s still standing in front of you. “Please.”
“‘Please get me a lemonade, Hobie.’” He failingly copies your voice, batting his lashes and even brushing his hand against your own like a school girl in love.
“I’m not five—” you stomp your foot down, realizing it immediately before surrendering. “—please get me a lemonade, Hobie.”
“That’s my girl.” His boot nudges the side of your ballerina flats. “What size?”
“As big as your dick, small.” You couldn’t help it when the opportunity landed at your feet. You don’t even give him time to react, already walking away from him to get to the aviary stall.
“Oi!” Hobie stands in the middle of the market in his punk couture with a tote bag that seems to be the odd one out with all his punk-ness. “It’s not small.” Pouting, he turns away, kicking a pebble out of the way.
If only he looked back and saw you looking over your shoulder with a soft smile etched on your lips whilst you watched him sulk towards the smoothie stall.
—
“A large lemonade and a medium mango smoothie for John Smith?” The vendor exclaims above the crowd around the stall.
Hobie’s attention is honed in on a vintage leather vest beside the smoothie place. His hands run along the cloth and around the silver studs, lips tugging into a smile when an image of you wearing it pops in his mind. That was enough of a reason to buy it.
“This ain’t yours, this is a lemonade and a mango, not banana and chocolate shake, bro.” The arguing nearby finally gets his attention as he pays for the vest.
“You said it was for John Smith?” Another voice asks, frustration rolling off of him.
Hobie shoves the clothing inside your tote bag, and immediately takes out his company credit card the second he gets near to prevent a farmer’s market boxing match over some drinks.
“It’s for me, mate, sorry.” He juggles the tote bag and the drinks, sliding the card towards the vendor, which the mustachioed man takes wordlessly without sparing the other John a glance.
“Your name’s John Smith too?” The stranger with the goatee and similar name asks. He’s sporting athleisure from head to toe, a tight dry fit shirt, and trousers that shouldn’t be allowed on the street with how tight it is. Good thing it’s not grey.
“Yeah, small world, huh?” Hobie doesn’t give him another second glance as he takes back his card that the vendor slid on the counter for him.
John’s dark eyes flick towards Hobie’s hand. “It’s fate, I think, considering that we also have the same card.” With a twist of his wrist, he shows exactly that, down to the name and the company etched on it, it’s practically the same.
Hobie has felt fear before in his life, and every time it happens, he gets a lightning sensation slithering down his arms, like goosebumps, only this brings an increased heart rate and it’s not the heated cheeks kind. It’s not one of those times, this man spikes his instincts into a full blown fight, not fear, and yet this person doesn’t scream ‘I’m going to assassinate you in broad daylight.’ He’s confused at first, then curiosity takes him. Curious as to why another John Smith is in his city, in his bloody post and practically announcing to the whole market that they work for the same intelligence agency. And befuddled as to why he would even wear those trousers outside in the sun where people could see it and every angle of his bits.
And when there’s a John Smith around, there’s a Jane Smith.
He wonders if you ran into her too, if so, then that’s something to be concerned about. Hihi might be a mystery, even to him, but there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Especially with the company.
“You’re?” His eyes are enough to convey the rest of the question to the man.
“Yep, ten whole years now.”
“Shit, I knew that there’s a lot of us, but I never thought that I’d run into one, especially ’ere.”
“Really? I’ve met so many out in the wild actually.” Chuckling, he finally gets his smoothie that looks like chunky baby food. He sips his drink, sighing in content. “That hits the spot, man, this heat is killing me.” His hand meets with Hobie’s shoulder with a gentle bump. “Are you with your Jane?”
“Yeah, she’s out ’ere somewhere.” His thoughts tell him that he should get out of the conversation and find you immediately, he knows you can handle yourself, but you never know when you encounter someone who’s in the same caliber as you.
“Oh, trouble in paradise?”
That made the younger spy chuckle. “Nah, she jus’ likes her alone time.”
“Good for you, my Jane won’t fucking leave me alone after we got together.”
“You two…?” Gesturing around the guy, Hobie raises a brow.
“Oh yeah absolutely, every paired up Smith ends up together. I’ve never met a couple that hasn’t fucked or even kissed yet. It’s this job, you know, and the close proximity to each other.” The other John pauses, blinking. Hobie can practically hear the gears turning inside his head. “Wait, you and your Jane haven’t…?”
“No, we have a deal—”
His loud guffaw interrupts him, even a few bystanders look up to find the source. Reaching out for him, he guides Hobie away from gossiping eyes with a hand on his shoulder. “Oh buddy, we did that too, and every single Smith said that and yet we all ended up in the same sheets one way or another.”
“Well, that’s not our type of shit, John.”
“Let me guess, you two want to make enough money and then fuck off and never see each other again?” Hobie nods at his words. “I’ve got news for you.”
“You said the same thing—”
“We said the same fucking thing.” Clicking his tongue, he takes another sip of his baby food looking smoothie. “Don’t worry though, the company doesn’t exactly forbid it. It’ll be like fighting a wildfire with a watering can for them, so they just let us be. I mean they’re the ones that paired us up with basically our soulmates.”
“So you know a lot about the company?” Hobie’s hazel eyes swirl with thoughts, things that had to take a backseat when he met you.
“Not much, but after a decade of working for them, I know more than you.” Smiling as he drinks, his eyes shine. “My Jane and I are in high risk.” His chest puffs out with pride. Now that has Hobie’s interests piqued. “The shit they give us,” he whistles lowly. “It’s not for the faint of heart, John.”
“I guess they’d give you the most dangerous ones. They’re still easin’ us in.”
“Oh man, I remember those days, back then I was still with my first Jane.” Sighing out, his eyes glance around briefly before returning his attention back to him. Hobie knows it well, the persisting vigilance for danger. “The stories I could tell you, but I gotta run back to the wife before she wakes up from her beauty nap.”
He might regret this, and you might actually throw a punch right at him that could break his teeth. But this could be the only time he can learn something about the company that doesn’t involve guns blazing and more espionage that could give James Bond a heart attack.
“How ‘bout I invite you and Jane to supper then? Jus’ us four, exchangin’ stories?” Nudging the other John’s bicep, Hobie fakes a smile. “What do you say? My Jane makes a really good pesto from scratch.” You don’t, but the guy doesn’t know that.
“I do love me some pesto.” Sucking in his teeth, his thinking expression is replaced with a growing smile. “Fuck it, let’s do it. It’ll be good to socialise with people that aren’t targets for once.”
“Great, bruv, your number?” Getting punched by you is a risk he would gladly take if it means that he could save both of your lives, and get his revenge.
—
The black and white movie plays on the white screen with the projector whirring softly in the background. You’re cozying up on a couch all alone and cuddling a throw pillow. The bowl of popcorn on the table is now stale as your eyes gloss over whilst the lovers on screen argue about something nonsensical. Something so mundane that you could only encounter it in your dreams, or in your past.
Your hands are scrubbed clean, palms dry and cracking from the harsh soap you used just to get rid of the acrid smell of the poison. Even then, even with the bleach wafting over your nose, and the stale buttered popcorn, you can still smell the bile from your recent target.
Not even your wrists have been spared, both now bearing the marks of the rubber band snapping against it a hundred times. It shouldn’t have ended that way, granted the mission was a success, and it went off without a hitch, but the way the target squirmed and choked because you miscalculated the dose— it got to your head.
“Movie night and you didn’t invite me?”
Hobie’s voice is tender above the sounds of the movie.
“You didn’t have a ticket.” You mumble, a weak retort considering you’ve given better ones before. His gaze bores into the side of your face, and despite your better judgement, you scooch over and make space for him.
With tentative steps, Hobie’s quiet footfalls closes the distance, sitting down beside you with a groan. He doesn’t ask if you’re alright, or if your hands hurt, and that was better for the both of you. An understanding.
“You like old movies?” He asks, cheek pressed on his palm as he yawns.
“No.”
“Why are you watchin’ this then?”
“It was either this or Cars 2.”
Hobie manages a small smile. “Yeah, I don’t fancy that one as much as the first one.”
A silent beat passes as you languish in his warmth while he keeps you company, making sure that you don’t succumb to the dark of the room.
“Who’s Ned?”
“I invited people over for dinner.”
The both of you simultaneously say, making the other question their own hearing.
Hobie snickers, leaning back on the couch with a wince from the pulled shoulder he’s enduring. “He’s my best mate back home.”
“Please don’t tell me that he’s the one you invited over.” Straightening up in your seat, brows furrowed, and tight lipped, the movie has been long forgotten.
“Nah,” although he wishes that he did, he’s better company than the other Smiths will ever be. “I met another John Smith, and I invited him and Jane over.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?” You resist the urge to hit him over the head with the pillow.
“Why do you have that rubber band around your wrist?”
The tension suddenly runs thick as the couple on screen starts to throw plates and cutlery at each other that’s played off as comedic.
Shaking your head, you stare at the fallen popcorn on the table. “I can’t cook for shit.”
“I know, that’s why I got us a cookbook.”
“What’s the new leather vest for then? For the broth?” Glancing at the side of his face, projector light kissing his cheek, the mole under his ear is just begging to be poked again.
Hobie chuckles lightly. “It was supposed to be for you, thought you’d like that type of shit.”
“Hobie, you know we can’t.” He knows exactly what you meant.
This line of work is already dangerous as it is, getting close, too close with your partner is a risk, a danger for the two of you. Most of all, a weakness. And you can’t show weakness, that gets agents killed. Or worse, fall in love.
“I know,” his hazel eyes meet with yours as the light grazes your skin. “I can still wear it if you don’t want it.”
“I kind of want it.” Whispering, your cheek rests on the ledge of the couch. “It does look cool.”
The way you look at him, it makes a man dig himself into a bigger hole, for all he knows it could be his grave. But if you’ll be above him, looking down at him just like that, it’ll be worth it. “Do you really want me to stop callin’ you love?”
Lips pursed, swallowing thickly whilst your hands turn clammy, for the first time in a long time, you tremble, a hesitation. You never hesitate, because if you do, their bullet could hit you first.
“No, not really.” You move closer, knee to knee, skin to skin.
He nods, “alright.”
“You did really well this time around.” Your small voice has goosebumps rising on his arms.
“Yeah, saved us this time, hm?”
“This is bad timing but I really want to kiss you right now.”
“Because of the vest and me saving you?”
“No,” chuckling, your shaky hand hovers above his own. “Even before the vest, and you didn’t save me by the way.” That has him snorting as you pause, a slight trepidation on your tongue, what could be a mistake, a train wreck waiting to happen. But you don’t stop, you could only blame yourself. “I wanted to, before the fuck up, and even before we kissed at the auction house.”
“Even with the barkin’ and all the weird shit you saw me do?” You nod, tender eyes glancing down at his lips.
Meeting you halfway, he takes your hand in his, fingers weaved around the other. Not acting out a fake affection for the other. And especially not because of what his counterpart said, he does it because he wants to. He wants to hold your hand, watch some boring movie together, and maybe just maybe, actually go on a date that doesn’t involve poisons and guns.
He really wants to kiss you too. “Can I?” It only took a nod and a smile from you.
So he does, gently cupping your cheek, he moves in for the kiss, which you lean closer within a half second. Eyes shut closed, senses on overdrive.
At first it was soft and gentle with leftover apprehension. Until you grasp at his nape, nails digging in that has Hobie bracing himself, shivering with a gasp.
You hold him closer, pushing him against you as you now lay on the couch under him. You open your lips, and he devours you just like what he said after the first mission together.
Your breaths mix in together, a cacophony of lips smacking above the forgotten sounds of the movie playing.
When it was time to reluctantly pull away for air, you see the most glorious vision above you. His mismatched eyes are blown out, lips agape with your sheen left over, as he pants, swallowing thickly whilst his hands cradle your face, arms caging you in place. He truly believes that the company matched him with his soulmate.
You would think the same, if not for the fact that you already met yours years ago. And yet, you don’t feel horrible about the kiss, for the first time, you don’t feel guilty for being alive.
“What? Are you okay?” Your thumb brushes along his bottom lip, which he captures with a gentle peck that single-handedly eases you of your worries.
“You used…” Hobie starts breathlessly, knee pushing your thigh away from the other, making space for him right in the middle. And yet he can’t even say the word.
You poke out your tongue in between your lips, nodding with a grin. “Yeah, I did. Do you want me to do it again?”
“Yeah.” He leans down, capturing your lips for another kiss.
