solgasm

[solgasm]

Hey ! Hear me out !

Okay so imagine after the whole final battle and shit, Clark/Superman is having an interview with Reader (that doesn’t know that Clark is Superman btw) when suddenly Reader asks if the whole secret harem thing was real.

Clark/Superman explains (flustered as hell) that he does not have a secret Harem nor does he want one

And then he says lower (almost like a whisper) something like « Plus you are the only one I want » and Reader obviously catches that and ask him to repeat it.

And yeah I don’t know how to end it 😩

I just know your perfect mind will slay ! 💅🏾✨

-💅🏾 anon out !

Hero in the Streets, Not in the Sheets

Clark Kent x Reader

The conference room still smells faintly of fresh paint and scorched wiring. Half the city had been patched together in the last seventy-two hours, and even the Daily Planet newsroom wore its bruises, plaster dust in the air vents, the hum of temporary generators somewhere under the floor.

You’ve been told to keep this interview “measured.” Which, coming from Perry White, means: get the story no one else can without making the front page read like a love letter.

Superman is already seated when you walk in. Still in the suit, though the cape has a ragged edge from the battle with Ultraman and the Engineer. The sunlight from the wide window catches in his hair, and for a second you’re almost convinced he belongs here, like a very large, very polite coworker who just happens to be able to bench-press freight trains.

“Op-Ed,” he greets softly, the nickname he came up with months ago, half-teasing after learning you wrote opinion pieces, and then never stopped using. No one else calls you that, which makes the way it sits in his voice feel a little too personal, like he’s claiming something. His tone now is the same as it always is when he says it: familiar, fond, and just a shade warmer than it ought to be.

You click on the recorder, set it between you.

“How’s the city treating you?” you ask, casual, the warm-up question.

He smiles faintly. “Better than it was three days ago.”

The first half of the interview stays safely on rails. Civilian casualties prevented, the aid stations he’s been flying to, the diplomatic fallout now that the world knows Lex Luthor lit the match. He answers in careful, measured lines, the way someone does when they know every word might end up as a pull-quote.

You nod, jotting down notes you’ll probably never need, because really, this is the moment you’ve been circling since Perry assigned you.

You lean back in your chair, letting a beat of silence stretch long enough for him to look at you fully.

“So…” you begin, deceptively light, “about that message.”

His brow furrows. “Message?”

“The one Luthor leaked,” you say, and you don’t blink when his jaw tightens. “From your birth parents. Very sentimental stuff about survival and legacy… and the part about a—” you glance down at your notes as though you need reminding, “—‘secret harem’?”

The word hangs between you like you’ve just dropped it from a great height.

Superman blinks once. Then again. You swear, for a moment, you see actual color rise high in his cheekbones.

“That…” His voice catches; he clears it. “That is not… I do not have a…” He stops, exhales sharply through his nose, and starts again, more deliberate. “That isn’t real. My birth parents wouldn’t… not in the way it was written.”

The word birth lands with a quiet weight, deliberate in a way you can’t quite miss. It’s not dismissal exactly, but there’s a distance in it. The same kind you’ve heard in survivors who have learned that the family who raised them, loved them, shaped them, mattered more than the ghosts of a life they never lived.

“Kryptonian doesn’t translate neatly into English,” he continues, the defensiveness in his voice softening into something almost weary. “That phrase, what Luthor twisted, it’s closer to saying ‘find companionship, ensure survival.’ It wasn’t… romantic. And it certainly wasn’t..” his hand lifts vaguely, like he can’t quite bring himself to finish the thought, “…that.”

You arch a brow, pen poised over your notepad. “So no multiple wives? No hidden villa of space brides? Or a plethora of earth women?”

His shoulders lift in a visible exhale, some combination of relief and mortification crossing his face. “No. Absolutely not.” And then, softer, almost swallowed by the hum of the generator, he murmurs, “Besides… you’re the only one I want.”

Your pen stills over the page. Slowly, you look up at him. “What did you just say?”

For a moment something unguarded lingers in his expression. Then, almost like he flips a switch, it’s replaced with a steadier, more composed charm. His mouth curves, just enough to feel deliberate, and he leans forward slightly.

“If I had a wife or girlfriend,” he says, voice smooth but threaded with warmth, “you’d be the first to know, Op-Ed.”

The nickname lands like a brushstroke, personal and deliberate. His tone wraps around it in that warm, unhurried way he always says it, like he’s tasting the syllables, letting them sit between you. The faint scent of smoke and clean linen clings to him, carried on the air when he leans forward just slightly.

You can hear the faint rustle of his cape as he shifts in his chair, the creak of the leather under his weight. The low, steady rhythm of his breathing is the only other sound in the space besides the blinking recorder.

You know he’s deflected, turned the moment into something safer, but the echo of his first words still rings louder than anything else in your head.

And from the way he’s watching you now, steady, unblinking, like you’re the only person in the room worth his attention, you’re not sure he’s trying that hard to hide it.

You glance back at your notes, but the words blur into meaningless lines. Your pen hovers uselessly over the paper. Somewhere in the background, the generator hums in steady, low vibration, and you can feel it in the soles of your shoes, in the metal frame of the chair beneath you.

The cadence of it won’t leave your head, the faint hitch in if I had, the almost-smile on you’d be the first to know. You’ve been interviewing people for years; you know when someone is answering the question they want to answer, not the one you asked. You also know when someone is speaking to you and not to the recorder sitting on the table between you.

You jot down something just to break the moment, a useless scribble that doesn’t even form a word, and flip to your next prepared question.

“Right,” you say, and your voice comes out lighter than you mean it to. “On the subject of public perception.”

His gaze doesn’t move. Not even when you look away, pretending to scan your notes. You can feel him watching you. Not the detached, polite attention he gives during press conferences, but something more exacting. Intent. Like he’s cataloguing every shift in your expression, every little pause.

You clear your throat. “Some critics still think you overstepped in Boravia. How do you respond to that?”

His answer is steady enough, calm, methodical, well-measured. He talks about preventing escalation, about the proof that Luthor orchestrated it all, about minimizing harm where he could. You hear the words, you even write some down, but they skim the surface of your attention, failing to dislodge the one thing you actually want to know: Why did he say it like that?

You nod at the right moments, but you’re half in another place entirely, running over the way his voice dipped on “Op-Ed,” how the syllables seemed to stretch just for you. The faint scent of smoke and clean linen still lingers in the air, threaded with something colder, like the metallic tang left after lightning. You tell yourself it’s the open window and the wind shifting, but you’re not sure you believe it.

You lob your next question more out of instinct than strategy, something about rebuilding efforts, and he answers without missing a beat. Still, you catch it: the flicker of his gaze from your eyes to your mouth before coming back up. It’s brief. It could mean nothing.

But your chest feels a little too tight.

You tap your pen against the edge of your notebook, eyes dropping to the page like it might hide the sudden heat in your face. “And what’s next for you?” you ask.

His answer comes slower this time. “That depends,” he says, his voice low enough that you wonder if the recorder will even catch it. “Some things you plan for. Some things… you just wait and see.”

It’s noncommittal, harmless. It’s also the kind of answer that leaves your thoughts racing down dangerous, unprofessional roads.

You circle a question on your page but don’t ask it yet, your mind still picking apart the edges of that earlier confession, if it even was one. If it was a slip, he’s too composed now to repeat it. If it was deliberate, you’re not sure you want to know.

The recorder’s red light blinks again, catching the curve of his jaw in each pulse. You know every second of this will live in your archives, the measured statements, the careful pauses, but this moment? This will never be printed.

You flip the page in your notebook slowly, the paper rasping under your fingertips, and the sound seems to fill the room. “That depends, huh?” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it a challenge.

His gaze ticks to your mouth before coming back up. “That’s right.”

You lean in over the table, elbows braced, the scent of him cutting through the faint tang of fresh paint, smoke clinging at the edges, clean linen, and something sharper, like your yard before a storm. “Funny thing,” you say, tapping the pen against the page in a slow, steady rhythm, “people usually only give answers like that when they’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he says, calm on the surface, but you hear the faint change in his breathing.

You let your eyes sweep over him, the faint graze of stubble catching the light from where he hasn’t had time to shave while trying to help with damages following the battle, the way his cape shifts against the back of the chair, the tight line of his forearms where his hands rest on the table. He looks relaxed, but the stillness in him is too controlled, like a man who’s holding back more than words.

“You sure about that?” Your voice drops, forcing him to lean closer to hear you.

“I’m sure.” His mouth quirks just enough to be dangerous. “But maybe you’re looking for something I’m not ready to hand over.”

You match his gaze without blinking. “So when you said ‘you’re the only one I want’,” the words are deliberate, unhurried, “what exactly did you mean?”

His jaw tightens for the barest second before he masks it. The hum of the generator under the floor deepens in your awareness, vibrating faintly through the table. He doesn’t look away. “That’s not an official statement,” he says finally, the warmth in his voice making it sound almost like a tease.

“I’m not asking for an official statement,” you counter, and your pen stops tapping, your hand going still.

The quiet stretches. You feel it in your ribs, in the shallow pull of your breath. He leans in then, the leather of the chair creaking, the faint brush of his cape whispering against the table’s edge. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low enough that it feels like it sinks into your skin.

“I meant exactly what it sounded like.”

The heat in the room shifts then. You can feel it, not imagined, not subtle, just there, in the way the air thickens, in the way his gaze holds yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to a reporter,” you murmur, but you don’t back away.

His smile is slow, sure. “Then maybe I’m not talking to the reporter right now.”

Your pulse stutters. You tell yourself it’s the hum of the generator, the faint draft from the open window, the charged quiet in the air. But deep down, you know it’s him.

You let his last words hang there, the air between you tight enough to feel. The generator hums under the floor, steady as a heartbeat, but yours is starting to outpace it.

“So,” you say, pen rolling idly between your fingers, “if you’re not talking to the reporter right now… who exactly are you talking to?”

That gets you a real reaction. The smallest lift of his brows, a flicker of something warm and startled in his eyes before he hides it under a wry curve of his mouth.

“Someone who asks a lot of questions,” he says, leaning back just enough to pretend he’s comfortable, even though the set of his shoulders says otherwise.

You tip your head, letting a hint of a smile tug at your mouth. “That’s my job.”

“And you’re good at it,” he admits, a little softer, like it’s meant to land closer than it should. Then his gaze drops briefly to your hands, to the curve of your wrist, before snapping back up.

You see it then, the mix of him: the confident man who can talk circles around a room full of politicians, and the one who can’t quite stop himself from flushing when you call him on something.

“So if I kept asking,” you say slowly, “if I kept pushing… would you actually tell me what you meant?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that sounds like he’s buying time. “You’d probably get it out of me,” he says, voice warm but edged with that faint, bashful note that betrays him. “You always do.”

There’s an honesty in it that catches you off guard, like he’s just handed you more than he meant to.

You rest your chin lightly in your hand, studying him like he’s just become the most interesting puzzle you’ve ever been handed. “Maybe I’m not looking for an answer,” you say. “Maybe I’m looking to see how far you’ll let me push.”

He glances away for the first time in minutes, not to avoid you, but like he’s giving himself a second before he comes back, his smile smaller now, more genuine. “Careful, Op-Ed,” he murmurs. “You might not like how far that goes.”

But the glint in his eyes says you’d like it just fine.

You lean back slightly, pretending to be unaffected, but the chair’s leather creaks just enough to betray the shift. “I think I’d manage,” you say, voice deliberately even.

He watches you for a moment longer, then slowly he leans forward across the table. The faint rustle of his cape trails the movement, brushing against the floor. His forearms rest on the wood, the line of muscle visible even beneath the fabric, and you can feel the subtle warmth radiating across the narrow space between you.

“You’d manage,” he repeats, like he’s testing the weight of the words. One corner of his mouth lifts, and the look in his eyes makes it feel like the room just tilted closer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the pen, the plastic suddenly too warm in your hand. “You’re not answering the question,” you remind him, but your voice is softer now, almost caught.

He tilts his head, gaze steady on yours, and the movement is just enough to catch the sunlight at the edge of his jaw, highlighting the faint graze of stubble. “Maybe I’m showing you instead.”

You huff out a quiet laugh and set your pen down between you, its tip tapping against the table once before you let go. “And what exactly are you showing me?”

He doesn’t move back. His knee shifts under the table, brushing lightly against yours, so light you almost wonder if it was an accident, until it stays there, a warm point of contact that anchors you both in the moment.

“That when I said you’re the only one I want,” he says, still in that low, sure voice, “I wasn’t thinking about headlines.”

The words sit there, heavy and deliberate. You feel the generator’s hum under your feet, the faint pull of his knee against yours, the air between you charged like it’s holding its own breath.

You’re not sure if it’s him who leans in a fraction more or you.

One second, there’s space between you; the next, it’s collapsing in slow motion, every inch bringing him closer until you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, the darker ring around the irises, the faint tension in his jaw.

The hum of the generator seems louder now, vibrating faintly through the floor, syncing with the pulse in your throat. His knee is still pressed to yours under the table, warm and deliberate, the anchor that holds you both in this unspoken middle ground.

“Not thinking about headlines,” you murmur, voice pitched low.

His gaze flickers to your mouth, then your eyes, then to your mouth again. That single pass makes your stomach dip. He smells like clean linen and smoke, undercut by that sharp, windswept tang you’ve started to associate with him alone, like the air just before a summer storm.

You shift forward another inch. The table edge digs into your ribs, but you don’t care. His shadow slides across your notes.

“Op-Ed…” he says it almost like a warning, but softer, with the kind of gravity that pulls at you.

“Yeah?”

Instead of answering, he closes the gap, slow enough that you can feel the change in the air between you, the faintest brush of warmth from his breath, and then his mouth is on yours. The kiss is unhurried but deliberate, the kind that doesn’t rush for depth or demand, just lingers, letting the pressure of it say more than either of you have.

You catch the faint rasp of stubble against your skin, the steady, grounding heat of him. He tastes faintly of mint, and something warmer underneath, like black tea left steeping a fraction too long. Your fingers curl against the edge of the table to keep yourself from leaning even further into him.

When he finally draws back, it’s barely far enough to see your face. His eyes are darker now, the line of his mouth softer, looser than before.

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just enough before you break it with a smile that’s far too knowing. “So,” you say, keeping your voice quiet but undeniably teasing, “do you kiss all the reporters like this?”

For a heartbeat, he’s still. Then his grin shifts wider and warmer, like he’s already decided what he wants to do next. His eyes flick to your mouth and linger there.

“Less giving me guff, Op-Ed,” he says, his voice low but laced with that easy charm, “more kissing.”

The laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. It’s soft, startled, and warmer than you meant it to be. You’re still smiling when he leans in again, this time without hesitation.

The kiss lands surer than the first, still unhurried, but deeper, the kind that knows exactly what it’s doing. His knee presses lightly into yours under the table, his hand bracing against the wood like he’s anchoring himself there. You taste the faint mint on his breath, feel the heat radiating off him, the soft scrape of stubble when he tilts just enough to change the angle.

When he finally draws back, it’s only far enough to breathe the same air, his smile still brushing against your lips like it’s not ready to leave.

When he finally eases back into his chair, you try and fail to keep the corners of your mouth from turning up. The pen lies abandoned on your notebook, and the blinking red light of the recorder suddenly feels like an eavesdropper you might have to bribe.

You clear your throat, pretending to consult your notes. “Right, where were we… oh, that’s right.” You glance up at him with a grin that’s all teeth and tease. “Your secret harem.”

He groans under his breath, tipping his head back just slightly, but the flush creeping up his neck gives him away. “Not a thing,” he says, voice steady but carrying that faint, helpless laugh he gets when he knows you’re baiting him.

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your pen against the table. “Mm. You sure? Because if you were recruiting… I could be persuaded to audition after that.”

That gets a real reaction. The laugh breaks free, soft and startled, and he shakes his head like he’s trying to keep himself from looking too pleased. The blush stays, though, spreading high in his cheekbones.

“There is no harem,” he insists, leaning forward enough to make the denial feel more personal than public. “Never has been, never will be.” His eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary, his smile curling at the edges. “I’m a one-reporter kind of guy.”

Your brows lift. “One reporter?”

“One very silly,” he amends, the grin widening, “very determined reporter.”

It’s the kind of line that sounds easy coming from him, light and harmless, but you can feel the truth threading underneath it. You let the moment sit before you flip your notebook shut.

“That’ll make a great closer,” you say, even though you both know it’s not the part you’ll remember most.

The recorder clicks off. The hum of the generator swells back into focus, filling the silence between you, and still neither of you moves. He’s watching you, not the way public figures watch reporters, waiting for the next question, but the way someone watches when they’ve already decided on something.

You push your chair back, the leather creaking, and stand. He rises with you, that ingrained politeness making him move in sync. When you reach the door, his hand gets there first, holding it open, the faint brush of his arm against yours sending another ripple through the air.

You step past him, close enough to catch that mix of clean linen, smoke, and something faintly electric. “Thanks for the interview,” you say, glancing up at him with a half-smile. “I’ll try not to misquote your harem denial.”

That earns you a quiet laugh, the kind that shakes his shoulders. “I appreciate it,” he says, and then, as if it’s an afterthought, though his tone gives him away, “What are you doing tonight?”

You blink. “Why?”

His smile is smaller now, but more certain. “Because if I’m only a one-reporter kind of guy…” He pauses, tilting his head just enough to meet your eyes straight on. “I should probably take her to dinner.”

It’s a clean, easy line, but the way he says it, voice low and warm, as if it’s meant to land somewhere private, makes your chest tighten.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to make him wait, then nod. “I’ll pencil you in.”

The door swings open to the hallway, and you step out together, the buzz from the interview still crackling between you, untouched by the noise of the newsroom beyond.

A/N: this request was so cute!! working my way through asks! I’m wayyyy behind because of work; but after Sunday it’ll slow back down!

[solgasm]

confessions ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: bob gets drunk and confesses some things that make your thoughts spiral—then after a night of bad dreams, you overreact to natasha and bob's jet malfunctioning during a hop, which results in some heated words and a very heated locker room confrontation

notes: this was really difficult to write, so i really hope it doesn't suck? sorry if it's a little flat, or if it feels off in places, i definitely had to force myself through it at some points... but i'm still really proud that i got it finished! and as always, please let me know what you think! (p.s. sorry if there are any weird formatting breaks, word was being annoying and i don't think it copied over... but it's possible?)

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, drunk bob, angst, miscommunication, jealousy, negative / spiralling thoughts, moderate overreacting (reader is a lil dramatic), italics, kind of heated arguments with both natasha and bob, probably some serious violation of naval law, and SMUT (m oral receiving, semi-public sex (on base), shower sex, unprotected p in v) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 16830

your callsign is dove

Bob Floyd doesn’t drink.

Usually.

You don’t even realise that he’s drunk until the fifth round of Never Have I Ever, when he blinks slowly at his beer like it betrayed him. And this is after a particularly harsh round of Where’s The Water that Mickey somehow convinced Bob to play.

Three tequila shots and a lot of targeted questions later, Bob is flushed and slumped against the arm of Jake’s couch, nursing his second bottle of beer. Granted, five standard drinks might not get a regular fighter pilot this drunk—but Bob Floyd is a lightweight, that much you’re sure of.

“Bob,” Mickey says, grinning across the coffee table. “I heard you the other day, man—drink up!”

Bob frowns. “Heard me what?”

Reuben chuckles. “Singing in the shower.”

Bob just blinks at him—slowly—head tilting slightly like he’s buffering.

“Oh my God,” Natasha smirks, “Floyd is drunk.”

You bite your cheek to keep from smiling too wide, watching Bob from across the couch where you’ve been sensibly sipping soda all night. It’s almost adorable. You can tell he’s fighting hard not to let it show, but the colour in his cheeks—and on the tip of his nose—and the way his eyes have gone all glassy are too much of a giveaway.

Bob Floyd is indeed drunk.

“Come on, Bobby, keep up,” Jake says with a shit-eating grin. “Javy said never has he ever sung in the shower—which, I don’t believe, by the way—” He gives Javy a pointed look. “But the rest of us have had a drink, and you...?”

Bob’s frown deepens as he lifts the beer to his lips, his nose scrunching up like the taste offends him.

“Maybe we should stop playing drinking games,” you offer—at which the whole room actually boos.

“Just because you’re sitting up there all high and mighty with your soda,” Mickey says, “doesn’t mean you have to mother all of us.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not mothering you, Garcia. I’m looking out for future-you, the one who can't afford a forty-eight-hour hangover.”

Mickey’s eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Looking out for me, or for Bob?”

There’s a round of oohs then, and a couple of poorly disguised giggles from your half-drunk friends—but you ignore it.

“I’m looking out for all of you.”

Mickey opens his mouth to retort, but Bob speaks first.

“I don’t feel s’ good,” he mutters.

Every head turns toward him, eyes wide. He’s gone pale, except for the red flush on the tip of his nose, and his breathing is laboured. His hand rises slowly to his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Bathroom!” you shout, scrambling off the couch. “Come on, Bobby. Bathroom—now.”

There’s a chorus of laughter and teasing as you grab Bob by the arm and yank him off the couch. Mickey and Bradley—who are sitting on the floor—shuffle quickly out of your way, and you drag Bob through the apartment toward the bathroom.

He only just makes it to the toilet bowl.

He drops to his knees, hands gripping the sides, and throws up everything he’s eaten tonight—while you just stand there.

You’re not sure what to do. If it were Natasha, you’d hold her hair. If it were Jake, you’d laugh. If it were Mickey, you’d rub his back while biting back an I told you so. But Bob? You’ve never even seen Bob drunk, let alone on his knees in Jake’s bathroom, heaving into the toilet.

It also doesn’t help that you have a ridiculous, all-consuming crush on the man. A crush so deep, so completely devouring, that not even this is giving you the ick. Which it absolutely should. You should not be looking at him right now thinking about wrapping him in your arms and kissing his sweaty forehead until he feels better.

Like, no. That’s weird.

When he finally stops heaving, he hovers for a moment—face still over the bowl, breathing hard. His knuckles are white on the porcelain and his glasses are sitting slightly crooked on his nose. You want to offer to take them off for him, but you’re not really sure how to act. You’re never sure how to act around him—but right now, the wires in your head feel completely fried.

“You—you good?” you ask quietly.

He sinks back on his heels, chin dropping to his chest. “Feel dizzy.”

You crouch beside him and place a hand on his back, ignoring the way his warmth burns your palm. “Do you want some water?”

He nods slowly. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. Stay put.”

You jump to your feet and head for the kitchen, ignoring all the teasing and giggling in the living room.

“Is he still conscious?” Natasha calls, her voice edged with mild concern.

You nod. “Yeah. Lost all his dinner, though.”

“Maybe we should call him an Uber,” Bradley suggests.

Jake grins. “Or Dove can drive him home.”

Your face heats, but you don’t answer—you just spend a few extra seconds pretending to look for a bottle of water in the fridge, even though it’s sitting right there in front of you.

You wait until you hear them move on—new game, new round, new victim—before grabbing the water, shutting the fridge, and slipping back to the bathroom.

Bob hasn’t moved much. He’s sitting on the floor now, back resting against the bathtub, glasses pushed up into his hair, eyes shut.

“Hey,” you say softly, crouching in front of him. “Got some water.”

His eyes crack open—and he blinks at you a few times, like he’s not sure if you’re real, then gives you the tiniest, tired smile. “You’re nice,” he mumbles.

You hand him the bottle. “You’re drunk.”

He uncaps it carefully and sips slowly, sighing as he swallows. Then he lets his head fall back and his eyes slip shut again. “Don’t feel good.”

“I know,” you murmur. “Think you can stand?”

He opens one eye. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you home.”

He pauses. “You—you don’t have to.”

“I know,” you say. “Come on, Bobby.”

You stand, holding out a hand—and he stares at it like you’ve just offered him a miracle. Then he slips his fingers into yours and lets you help him up. He sways a little, steadying himself with a hand on your shoulder, and you slide an arm around his waist before you can think too hard about it.

He leans into you without hesitation—heavy in the way that only a six-foot-something man who’s forgotten how to carry his own body weight can be. Your arm tenses instinctively to hold him up, and for a second, that’s all you can focus on—the solid weight of him, the quiet pressure where your bodies meet.

Then everything else hits you—hard.

He’s so warm. And solid. His arm drapes clumsily across your shoulders, his hip bumping yours as you guide him out of the bathroom, and your heart decides now is a great time to try to beat its way out of your chest.

This is so much worse than you expected.

He smells like clean laundry and cedarwood and maybe just a hint of tequila—and somehow that combination makes your knees weak. His breath ghosts across your cheek as he stumbles and leans more heavily into you, and holy shit, he’s basically wrapped around you now.

You try to focus on walking. One foot in front of the other. Normal things. Simple things. Not the feel of his fingers curling loosely into the fabric of your shirt, or the quiet shift of his body leaning heavier into yours with every step. Not the little huff of air he lets out every time he exhales, like just existing right now takes effort.

You are not thinking about how close his mouth is to your temple.

You are not thinking about how easy it would be to turn your head and kiss his jaw.

You are—absolutely, definitely—not thinking about how badly you want to take care of him forever.

You clear your throat. “You still with me?”

He hums, barely audible, and your grip on him tightens just a little.

You guide him back through the apartment, trying to ignore the amused glances from your friends as you shuffle past the lounge like some awkward, tangled two-person creature. Whatever game they’ve moved on to is still going, and Mickey is in the middle of a dramatic retelling of something that definitely didn’t happen—judging by the look on Reuben’s face.

“Hey,” Natasha calls, pushing off the couch. “You guys leaving?”

“Yeah,” you say, adjusting your grip on Bob. “Try to get him home before he forgets how to walk.”

“Need help getting him to the car?”

You shake your head. “We’ve got it. Right, Floyd?”

Bob blinks slowly, eyes unfocused as he glances down at you—then he turns to Natasha and mumbles, almost dreamily, “S’ pretty…”

Your chest tightens—just a fraction, but enough to notice.

Natasha snorts. “Thanks, Bob.”

He turns back to you and frowns—slow, confused—like he doesn’t understand why she’s laughing.

You keep your expression neutral, ignoring the green-eyed monster trying to claw its way out of your chest. “Alright, Casanova. Let’s get you out of here before you really embarrass yourself.”

Natasha moves ahead to open the front door, and you guide Bob carefully through it, calling a quick goodbye over your shoulder as the others shout after you.

“Bye!”

“Drive safe!”

“Use protection!” Jake—of course.

There’s a chorus of drunken laughter before the door clicks shut behind you—and just like that, it’s quiet.

You exhale slowly, trying to focus on your steps, on keeping Bob upright. But your brain is still stuck in that moment—caught on two little words he probably won’t even remember saying.

So pretty.

He didn’t say a name, but he didn’t have to. He was looking at Natasha. And you know you shouldn’t care. He’s drunk. Out of his mind. He’d probably say the same thing about Jake if he had a chance to stare too long into those pretty green eyes.

But still. It hits. Harder than you want to admit.

Because he’s the one you’ve been quietly crushing on for months—carrying the weight of it in silence, like some secret you’re too scared to say out loud. And maybe you knew he didn’t feel the same. Maybe you were always bracing for this. But hearing it—watching him slur soft compliments to someone else while clinging to you like you’re nothing more than the designated driver—that hurts more than you expected.

Not that you can blame him. Natasha is gorgeous. She’s cool and charming and easy to like. You don’t fault him for noticing. You just wish he hadn’t said it out loud. Not like that. Not with his arm slung around your shoulders, not while you were trying so hard not to fall even deeper for him.

You know it shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

And right now, it feels like it matters more than anything else.

“Come on, Bob,” you sigh as the elevator stops on the ground level. “Let’s get you home.”

You steer him through the lobby and out into the cool night air, guiding him down the short walkway to where your car is parked beneath a flickering streetlight. He’s quieter now, but no less heavy, one arm still slung around your shoulders like it belongs there.

But it doesn’t. And you need to remember that.

You open the passenger door and ease him down into the seat. He folds his legs in slowly, letting his head fall back against the headrest, eyes half-lidded but still tracking your movements as you reach across to buckle him in. His cheeks are pink from the alcohol—or maybe the night air—and there’s a dazed little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, trying not to look directly at him.

He hums, but doesn’t deny it.

With a deep breath, you close his door and circle around the car, forcing your hands to steady as you slide into the driver’s seat.

“You look sad,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” you lie, jamming the key into the ignition. “Just tired.”

The car rumbles to life. You adjust the heat, dial down the radio before your music can start blaring, then flick on your indicator and ease away from the curb.

Bob watches you silently, eyes a little clearer now. There’s a small frown between his brows when you glance at him, but it softens as you turn your focus back to the road.

“Let me know if you feel sick,” you say. “I’ll pull over.”

He nods once, eyes drifting closed again as his head lolls against the seat. “I don’t like being drunk.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Then why’d you let Fanboy talk you into it?”

“I dunno.” His voice is softer now. “’M too boring. I wanna be fun.”

Your brows pull together. “You’re not boring. Who told you that?”

He doesn’t answer—just squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in deep through his nose. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, half-expecting him to be sick, but he exhales slowly—and then lets his head turn toward you again, those tired blue eyes finding your face.

“You don’t know, do you?” he murmurs.

You blink, checking your mirror before flicking on your indicator. “Know what?”

“How pretty she is.”

Your stomach twists, heart stuttering in your chest.

“I wanted to tell her,” he adds, words a little slurred. “Tried to.”

You swallow. “You did tell her, Bob.”

He shakes his head. “She didn’t hear me.”

You almost roll your eyes—but don’t. “Yes, she did.”

He turns back toward the windshield with a frustrated sigh, like a kid trying to explain something you just won’t get. And maybe that’s what makes it worse. Because even now—even with him slurring compliments about Natasha and leaning heavy against your passenger seat—he still looks so unfairly sweet. Pink cheeks, soft mouth, hair mussed from running his hands through it while he threw up his dinner.

If he wasn’t so goddamn him, you might’ve left him passed out on Jake’s bathroom floor. But no—you just have to be half in love with the man. And now here you are, driving him home while he whispers about how beautiful someone else is.

The drive doesn’t take long—barely ten minutes of quiet roads and warm white streetlights. Bob keeps his head tipped back against the seat, but his eyes stay open, watching you like he’s trying to memorise something. Or maybe he’s just trying not to be sick.

You pull into the lot beside his apartment building and park in one of the visitor spots. The engine cuts off with a shudder, and for a moment, neither of you move.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” you sigh, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Home stretch.”

He mumbles something you don’t catch, but lets you help him out of the car. He’s steadier now—barely—but still leans on you as you guide him across the lot and through the front doors of his building.

The elevator ride is mercifully short—just the third floor. You keep him upright with an arm around his waist, fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket, trying not to notice how easily he fits against you. Like he belongs there.

The hallway blurs past as you walk him to his door. He fumbles with his keys, brows drawn in determined concentration, until the lock finally clicks open. You push the door in and steer him gently inside.

It’s warm, dimly lit, and perfectly tidy—but still cozy in a way that surprises you. Like he’s not home much, but still tries. There’s a jacket draped over the back of a dining chair, a pair of boots by the door, and an array of model planes lined up neatly on a shelf above the TV.

You help him toward the couch and ease him down into the cushions. He lets out a heavy sigh, head tipping back again. You hover for a beat, your eyes flicking toward the door.

“You need anything?” you ask.

He shakes his head, lids heavy. “Just… sit with me. For a bit.”

You hesitate, but then you nod—because it’s easier than saying no. Because you don’t really want to leave. Even if he does keep talking about Natasha.

You toe off your shoes and lower yourself onto the far end of the couch, keeping your distance.

“I tried to tell her,” he says after a moment, voice thick and quiet.

You resist the urge to sigh or roll your eyes or bolt for the door.

“Bob, you did tell her,” you say, keeping your voice steady.

He rolls his head from side to side. “I didn’t say it right.”

Your throat goes dry and your eyes drop to your lap.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. “Should’ve said it sooner. Before tonight. Before… tequila.”

You force a small smile. “Yeah, well. Tequila tends to make everything worse.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t respond. Just stares at nothing, blue eyes bleary and brows drawn like he’s trying to work something out.

“She’s not just pretty,” he murmurs, eventually. “She’s… all the time. You know? Even when she’s mad. Or quiet. Or trying not to laugh.”

Your heart gives a slow, aching lurch.

You nod—once—because you can’t bring yourself to say anything.

He goes quiet after that, eyes half-lidded, like the weight of his own words is catching up to him. You glance over, half-expecting him to nod off—but he shifts slightly, slouching deeper into the cushions and sliding one arm along the back of the couch. Not quite around you, but closer.

You pretend not to notice.

A minute passes. Then another. You sit still, hands folded in your lap, gaze fixed on a spot somewhere between the rug and the coffee table, trying not to fidget—trying to figure out how you can leave this sweet but incredibly drunk man without feeling guilty.

“Y’know…” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and honey, “you’re real warm.”

Your head turns—slowly—and you find him blinking at you with that same soft, open expression he always wears when he’s not paying attention to how much he’s giving away.

You raise an eyebrow. “Warm?”

He nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Like, you got that—like—sunshine heat. Not hot. Just…” He pauses, frowning like the words are slipping through his fingers. “Comfortable.”

You stare at him, caught off guard—and then, despite yourself, you laugh. A quiet, helpless sound, full of affection you wish you were better at hiding.

“Jesus, Floyd,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You’re really drunk.”

He grins—lazy, lopsided, impossibly endearing—and lets his head roll to the side. “Yeah. But m’not wrong.”

You look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. The compliment shouldn’t mean anything—especially not when it’s coming from the same lips that called someone else pretty just ten minutes ago. But it does mean something. Because it’s him. Because it’s soft and unfiltered and just for you.

You don’t say anything—you can’t—you just stare down at your knees and hope the dim light hides the heat rising in your cheeks.

A moment later, the cushions shift again—just barely—and you feel the soft brush of his fingers at your wrist. He’s not holding your hand. Not quite. Just resting there.

You glance down, heart fluttering.

“Thanks for takin’ care of me,” he mumbles, already halfway to sleep. “You’re real good. Like… best I know.”

Your throat tightens.

He doesn’t mean it the way you want him to. He probably won’t even remember saying it. But you still let yourself lean in just a little—close enough to breathe him in, to feel the warmth of him radiating through the narrow space between you.

Just for a moment.

Just until he falls asleep.

And when he finally does, you wait just a little longer—watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing. His lashes rest delicately against flushed cheeks, and his mouth is parted just slightly—pink and relaxed, no trace of the words that made your chest ache a few minutes ago.

He’s beautiful. Even now. Especially now.

Then you shift—slow and careful as you ease off the couch, holding your breath until you’re certain you haven’t disturbed him. He doesn’t stir. Just sinks deeper into the cushions with a sleepy sigh, one hand slipping off his chest to rest beside him.

You find a blanket in a basket beside the couch and drape it gently over him. Then you grab a glass from the kitchen, fill it with water, and set it down on the coffee table with a couple of painkillers you found in the cabinet above the fridge.

You hesitate one last time before you go, glancing back at him from the doorway.

Still asleep.

Still beautiful.

Still not yours.

You close the door behind you with a soft click, and force your feet to move away from the man you’re almost certainly falling in love with.

- Bob - 

Bob has never woken up so sore in his life. 

Not after hell week at the Academy. Not even after the emergency ejection he and Natasha had to pull a few months back. Nothing compares to this—the pounding headache, the dry throat, the dull throb at the base of his skull from sleeping upright on a couch not made for someone his size. His mouth tastes like regret, his eyes are burning, and his heart feels like it’s trying to beat out of rhythm just to spite him. 

God. Why does anyone drink? 

He groans softly as he shifts all the way upright, his body creaking like an old ship. His back cracks, his neck pulls, and his stomach gives a slow, threatening roll as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Don’t die. 

In front of him, on the coffee table, sits a full glass of water and two painkillers neatly placed on a napkin. He frowns, confused—his brain crawling through the fog to figure out when exactly he’d gotten up to— 

And then it hits him. 

You. 

You were the one sitting across from him with that sugary little half-smile when Mickey started heckling him into playing drinking games. 

You were the one who laughed that sweet laugh when he took his first shot of tequila like a rookie and winced so hard his glasses slipped down his nose. 

You were the one who sipped your soda, calm and smug, when Javy threw out a never have I ever had sex in public—and he’d looked away so fast, cheeks burning, pants suddenly too tight. He can’t even remember who else drank. Just you. Just the way your lips curved around your straw like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire architecture of his brain. 

And after that—God, after all that—you were the one who helped him to the bathroom. Who rubbed his back. Who got him water. Who helped him into the car, buckled him in, walked him up to his apartment and didn’t even flinch when he all but collapsed into your side like some drunken deadweight. 

You were the one who sat next to him on the couch and listened to him ramble. 

About how warm you are. 

How soft you are. 

How pretty. 

Oh, my God. 

He scrubs both hands down his face, like he can erase the memory if he just tries hard enough. 

He’s managed to keep it together for months. He hasn’t told anyone. Not even Natasha. And now, one night, one bad decision, one slurred drink too many, and he’s spilling it all over you like an idiot. 

Telling you you’re warm like sunshine? 

That you’re good? 

He’s lucky you didn’t just dump him on the couch and leave. But you didn’t. You stayed. You made sure he had water. Painkillers. A blanket. 

You took care of him. 

And now he’s sitting here, mortified beyond belief, stomach churning for reasons that have nothing to do with tequila—and everything to do with the way he probably just ruined the one chance he had at something good. 

After a good ten minutes of trying—and failing—to remember more of last night, Bob sighs and pushes to his feet. The room tilts, his head pounds, and his stomach threatens to evict the few sips of water he managed with the painkillers. 

“Never drinking again,” he mutters to himself, voice rough. 

Then—slowly—he makes his way to the bathroom, flinching as he flicks on the light. His reflection is a horror show—paler than usual, bloodshot eyes, deep shadows beneath them. His lips are cracked and white, his hair looks like he’s been electrocuted, and he smells like something recently exhumed. 

He draws a deep breath and reaches past the shower curtain to turn on the shower. Then he strips off yesterday’s clothes, drops them in a pile on the floor, ditches his glasses, and steps into the tub. 

The water is too hot, scalding almost, but he doesn’t adjust it. He just stands there with his eyes closed, letting it beat against his shoulders until his skin turns pink and his fingertips start to wrinkle. As if he can sweat out the memories clinging to him. As if he can burn the words off his tongue, the ones he knows he said but wishes he hadn’t. He wants to come out clean—clear-headed and no longer haunted by your voice saying you’re really drunk. 

But it doesn’t work. 

You’re still there. Behind his eyes, in his chest, beneath his ribs. He can still feel the ghost of your arm around his waist, your hand on his back, the steady way you helped him out of the car like he was something worth holding on to. 

He brushes his teeth—twice—but it doesn’t help. He can still taste tequila. Still taste regret. 

Eventually, he pulls on a pair of old sweatpants and a faded Navy Athletics hoodie, and makes his way to the kitchen, blinking hard against the headache still pressing at his temples. He manages to put a slice of bread in the toaster, butter it, and eat half before his stomach turns and he abandons the rest of it. 

He drags himself over to the couch, slumps onto it, and pulls the blanket over his lap, fishing his phone out from between the cushions. He hasn’t checked it all morning—hadn’t even looked when he got home last night—but there’s nothing urgent. A few spam notifications. A weather alert. Nothing from you. 

Just two texts from Mickey. One from earlier in the morning: 

FANBOY: u alive or should we start carving your name into the memorial wall? 

And another, more recent: 

FANBOY: I’m coming over. Prepare for judgment. 

Bob groans and lets the phone fall to his chest. He considers replying, telling him not to bother, but he knows it won’t matter—Mickey’s probably already halfway here. 

And sure enough, right on cue— 

Knock, knock, knock. 

With a long sigh—and unsteady steps—Bob makes his way to the door and pulls it open. 

“You look awful,” Mickey says by way of greeting, holding up a paper bag. “I brought Pedialyte, ibuprofen, and a sausage roll. Which one do you want first?” 

Bob squints at the bag like it might kill him. “None of the above.” He steps aside to let Mickey in, letting the door swing shut behind him. 

“Suit yourself,” Mickey says cheerfully, dropping the bag on the coffee table and collapsing onto the couch. “Dude. Seriously. You look bad. Like… medieval plague bad.” 

“I’m aware,” Bob mutters, dragging a hand down his face as he sinks onto the cushions beside his friend. 

“If I’d known you were this close to death’s door, I would’ve brought flowers and a priest.” 

“Keep talking and I’ll throw up in your lap,” Bob warns. 

Mickey grins. “There he is. There’s my boy.” 

Bob rolls his eyes and sinks further down, letting his eyes flutter shut as his head falls back. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Mickey asks. 

“Talk about what?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. The tequila shots. The beer. The part where you threw up in Hangman’s bathroom.” 

Bob cracks one eye open. “Hm. Not really.” 

“You kissed Payback on the cheek when he brought you a drink,” Mickey goes on, unperturbed. “And told Coyote he could be the next Captain America. Then you lost four rounds of Never Have I Ever, and I’m pretty sure you said yes to something about a sex swing in Croatia—which, by the way, I will be following up on—” 

“I did not—” Bob starts, sitting up straighter. “Wait. Did I?” 

Mickey just laughs. 

Bob exhales heavily. “I didn’t do anything too embarrassing, right?” 

“Well, you told Hangman he had ‘beautiful eyes’. That’s probably going to haunt you for a while.” Mickey pauses. “But nah. You were mostly just… sweet. A little dazed. Giggled a lot.” 

Bob leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. He breathes deeply, trying to ignore the nausea still curling in his gut—made worse by whatever godawful body spray Mickey’s wearing. 

Then, quietly, he mutters, “I told her I think she’s pretty.” 

Mickey frowns. “You told Dove?” 

Bob nods slowly. “Like… repeatedly.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh no. Please tell me you didn’t confess your undying love half-faced on Don Julio.” 

Bob grimaces. “Not… exactly.” 

“That’s not a no.” 

“I think I called her sunshine,” Bob mumbles. 

Mickey throws his head back, laughing. “You didn’t.” 

“I did.” 

“Holy shit,” Mickey leans in, eyes gleaming. “You really like her, don’t you?” 

Bob groans. “I’m never drinking again.” 

“I don’t see the problem,” Mickey says, still grinning. “If she took you home and tucked you in, she clearly didn’t hate it.” 

“She hasn’t texted me.” 

“Yet,” Mickey says firmly. “It’s barely eleven. She probably thinks you’re still asleep—or hugging the toilet bowl. And come on, man. You were a lot last night. She’s probably still processing.” 

“Great,” Bob mutters. “Just what every girl wants—too much Robert Floyd.” 

Mickey grabs a throw pillow and chucks it at him. “Shut up. You’re adorable.” 

Bob doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue either. He just sighs and lets the pillow rest in his lap. 

Mickey watches him for a beat, then asks, “You want some Pedialyte now, or do you need to flirt with death a little longer?” 

Bob hesitates. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

- You - 

You fall onto your couch at exactly eleven o’clock. You’ve already done all the things that usually make a Sunday feel like a Sunday—sheets changed, dishwasher emptied, a slow grocery run while still half asleep. You even stopped for a coffee on the way back, hoping maybe the caffeine would help clear your head, shake something loose. 

It didn’t. 

Your phone’s been on Do Not Disturb for most of the morning, flipped screen-down on the kitchen counter while you folded laundry or stared into the fridge like something inside might offer you answers. But you’ve still tapped the screen more times than you care to admit. Just to check. Just in case. 

Even now, half-reclined on the couch with one leg dangling off the side, you tug it out of your pocket and hold it up like it might have changed in the last five seconds. 

The screen lights up. 

Still nothing. 

He still hasn’t texted. 

Which isn’t surprising, really. He was slurring when you helped him out of the car—barely keeping his eyes open when you sat him down and stayed just long enough to be sure he wouldn’t get sick or wander off somewhere to sleep on the floor. He probably doesn’t even remember you were there. 

Or maybe he does. Maybe he remembers everything—and wishes he didn’t. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he’s embarrassed about what he hadn't meant to say out loud—that thing about Natasha. 

Not that you expect a message. Not really. You don’t expect some long, gushing paragraph about how grateful he is or how sweet you were or how sorry he is for getting so drunk he couldn’t make it up the stairs on his own. You don’t expect a text saying he remembers what he said and that it isn’t true. That he doesn’t look at Natasha like that. That it was the tequila talking. Not Bob. 

You don’t expect anything like that. 

You’re just... hoping. 

The group chat has been mildly active this morning—Javy posted a blurry selfie with an ice pack on his forehead, Natasha sent a string of skull emojis, and Jake contributed several photos of the wreckage left behind in his apartment, including what appears to be a half-eaten burrito wedged into the couch cushions. 

But nothing from Bob. Not last night. Not this morning. 

You haven’t texted him either. 

Part of you wants to. Just to check in. Just to make sure he’s alive and—well, not concussed. But you just can’t. You can’t bring yourself to open that thread, to type those little letters and hit send. 

Because if he wants to talk to you—if he wants to talk about last night—he’ll text you. 

And if he doesn’t? 

Well... that’s your answer. Simple. 

You sigh and sit upright, lobbing your phone to the other end of the couch like it personally offended you. 

There’s no point spiralling about it. He’s probably just sleeping. Or nursing a brutal hangover. Or too embarrassed to face anyone, not just you. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

And you’re not going to sit here and twist yourself into knots over a few drunk comments and a silence that might not even be about you. 

You're fine. 

It’s fine. 

Everything is fine. 

After a quiet afternoon spent half-watching reruns of an old CW show—phone face-down on the couch beside you—you finally decide to run a bath. Something about the warm water might help, you figure. Or at least give your brain a break. 

You even go to the small effort of digging out some bath salts someone gave to you last Christmas and lighting a couple of candles—mostly for the ritual of it. Then you flip off the lights, strip out of your clothes, and sink into the tub with a sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

But half a second later— 

Ping! 

Your phone—no longer on Do Not Disturb—lights up on the vanity just an arm’s length away. 

You hesitate, but only for a second, before drying one hand on the towel, leaning over, and picking it up. 

Bob. 

It’s in the group chat, but you still feel that little rush of relief. That he’s alive. That he’s awake. That he decided to say something. 

He’s sent a selfie—sprawled on a couch with a damp towel folded over his forehead, cheeks flushed, his glasses off. His expression is somewhere between dramatic and pitiful, lips turned in an exaggerated pout, big blue eyes aimed squarely at the camera. And you can’t help the small, involuntary smile that creeps across your face. 

God. How does he always manage to look like that? Like someone’s kicked a puppy and he’s taking it personally. Like all he needs is a warm blanket and a forehead kiss and maybe someone to promise him the world won’t end just yet. 

A message pops up beneath it: 

I’m never drinking again. Ever. 

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound echoing off the tile. And then—because you’re completely, hopelessly, inescapably soft—you stare at the photo for a beat longer than you should. Pulse humming. Chest aching. Head filling with images that aren't at all helpful. Him in your doorway. That lazy smile. The slow, sleepy way he’d looked at you last night. 

You sink a little lower in the water, trying to chase the thoughts out. 

It was just the alcohol. Just the moment. Just a passing, drunken compliment he probably doesn't even remember. It wasn’t real. Not in the way you want it to be. 

He said a lot more about Natasha than he did about you. 

Sure, he called you sunshine—but that doesn’t mean anything. 

You’re not going to overthink it. There’s no point. And you’re definitely not going to start rehashing everything else he said. 

You just need to stop thinking. 

Relax. 

Enjoy your bath. 

Don’t think about Bob. Or his eyes. Or his soft smile. Or the fact that you’ll have to see him tomorrow and confront every stupid emotion that you’ve been trying to ignore for the past twenty-four hours. 

- 

You barely sleep. 

You spend most of the night tossing and turning, waking every hour from a different version of the same nightmare—each one starring Bob Floyd. Each one worse than the last. 

The first is expected. Nothing too strange. You’re back at Jake’s apartment, but it’s quiet. Just you and Bob. He’s drunk, but not sloppy—smiling at you like he’s been waiting all night to be alone with you. His words are slurred, soft around the edges, but his gaze doesn’t waver. 

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, eyes warm, fingertips brushing your jaw. 

And then— 

“Natasha…” 

Your eyes snap open to the dark ceiling above. Your chest is tight, your pulse won’t settle, and it's suddenly too warm. You shift and roll to the other side, pushing the covers halfway down your body—trying to convince yourself it was just the wires of your subconscious getting crossed. Nothing more. 

And eventually, you drift off again. 

The second dream is stranger. You’re standing on the tarmac, watching jets land one by one. Callsigns crackle over the radio—Phoenix, Payback, Coyote, Fanboy. But never Bob. 

You keep scanning the horizon—the perfectly clear sky—but the tower says nothing. Natasha is there, helmet in hand, nodding like everything’s normal. But her WSO isn’t there. Bob isn’t there. And no one seems to notice. 

When you ask where he is, they blink at you. 

“Who?” 

You wake with a jolt, air dragging rough through your throat. You throw the covers all the way off this time, fingers pressing into the mattress like you need to anchor yourself. It was just a dream. Nothing real. But your chest still aches like you’ve lost something—something vital you can’t name. 

You fall asleep again eventually, but not for long. 

The third dream is quiet. Almost eerily so. You’re home, sitting on the edge of the couch in the dark—phone in your lap, the screen black. You don’t know what time it is, you just know you’re waiting. 

When the screen finally lights up, you flinch. It’s Maverick. 

“Hello?” 

“There was an accident,” he says, voice calm. “Bob… didn’t make it.” 

No detail. No apology. Just a flat statement of fact. 

And then silence. 

You wake up gasping, lungs pulling too much air too fast. You’re still alone in your room, knuckles white against your bedsheet, nausea twisting deep in your stomach. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. 

But God, it felt like the truth. 

It takes ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and counting your own breaths before you manage to fall asleep again. But you wish you hadn’t. 

Because the last dream is the worst. 

You’re in the air. Mid-hop. Everyone is flying too close, their jets brushing into formation like magnets. Their faces are hidden behind masks. Their voices crackle with static and urgency. You can’t understand what they’re saying—but they sound afraid. 

You glance down. 

And see blood. 

Your gloves are red. So is your chest. Thick, dark blood stains your suit—fresh and everywhere. Sticky between your fingers. Spattered up your sleeves. 

You don’t know where it came from. You don’t know whose it is. 

You try to call for Bob. Try to find his voice in the chaos. But the screaming starts before you can get a word out. And it’s not over the comms. 

It’s inside your helmet. 

You wake with a rasping cry, bolting upright, chest heaving. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is thundering. Your whole body is drenched in sweat. 

You sit there for a long time—just breathing. Just reminding yourself what’s real. Telling yourself that Bob is fine. That you’re fine. 

But it doesn’t help. Not really. 

Because how is that fair? 

Four bad dreams in one night. Four twisted omens in a row. Four reminders—loud and clear—that no matter what you do, you’re going to lose him. That it’s already written. 

That it’s only a matter of time. 

You don’t fall back asleep. You can’t. 

It’s barely four a.m., but there’s no way you’re risking another dream—not after all that. So you throw your legs over the side of the mattress, plant your feet on the carpet, and force yourself out of bed. 

You take a long, hot shower and make a full breakfast—eggs, toast, even some blistered tomatoes. You eat about half of it before your stomach twists too tight to finish, so you scrape the rest into a container for later, pretending that makes it less of a waste. 

Then you sit in front of the TV, but you’re not watching. Not really. The volume is low, the coffee in your hand has already gone lukewarm, and your mind won’t stop looping. Every image, every sound, every dream. Over and over and over. 

You’ve never had dreams like that before. Not all at once. Not so vivid, so loud. It’s like your subconscious was trying to shake you awake. Trying to tell you something. 

Maybe it’s a warning. 

Maybe it’s a sign. 

You want to believe you’re smarter than that. More rational. But how do you ignore something that felt so real? That many dreams, that brutal, that clear? 

Panic rises hard in your chest—fast and sharp and hot. Your heart flutters. Your stomach lurches. You dig your fingernails into the cushion beneath you, trying to tether yourself, but your hands won’t stop shaking. 

An hour passes. Maybe more. You just sit there—spiralling. 

Then your mouth floods with saliva—that sick, unmistakable warning—and you jump to your feet, already halfway to the bathroom when your phone chimes. Loud. Sharp. 

It’s your alarm—your backup alarm. The one you set for the absolute latest you can leave without being late for work. The oh-shit alarm. 

Which means you don’t have time to be sick. Or to panic. Or to think. 

You grab your bag—keys, wallet, ID card—shove your feet into your boots, and run out the door. 

The drive to base is a blur. You don’t remember the lights, the traffic, the turns—only the moment your car is in the lot and you’re jogging across the tarmac toward the squadron building. The second you push the doors open, you can hear voices echoing down the hall, which means Maverick hasn’t called the room to attention yet. 

You slow your pace as you make your way down the corridor, pulling in steady breaths so you don’t look like you sprinted the whole way here. Then you turn into the briefing room. 

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Jake drawls from the back row. “I was about to send out a search party.” 

You don’t reply—just shoot him a flat look. 

“Hey,” Natasha says from her seat, a small crease between her brows. “You alright?” 

You nod once and drop into the chair closest to the door, furthest from everyone else. Natasha is only two seats down, and beside her—Bob. Clean shave. Hair perfect. That crisp flight suit making his shoulders look broader than usual. He’s smiling faintly at something Natasha said, and it twists in your gut before you can stop it. 

You drop your gaze to your lap, focusing on a loose thread on your sleeve until Maverick breezes in and calls the room to attention. 

He starts running through the plan for the day, even though you went over all of it Friday afternoon. It’s a flight day, which normally wouldn't be so bad—if you weren’t paired with Natasha and Bob. Which means not only are they both going to be in your ear during the hop, but you’ll have to spend most of the day in the ready room with them—watching them talk, watching him smile—waiting for your slot at the very end of the schedule. 

Eventually, Maverick dismisses Jake, Reuben, and Mickey to the hangar and the rest of you to the ready room. You’re the first out the door, quick down the hall, and into the room before anyone else. You head straight for the back and drop into a chair, pulling out your phone like you’ve just remembered something vitally important—anything to keep your eyes down and your thoughts to yourself. 

The others file in and Bradley makes a beeline for the ancient coffee machine, smacking it to life. Bob and Javy sink into the couch near the radio, heads bent over some quiet conversation you can’t quite hear—and Natasha walks straight up to you. 

“You seem off today,” she says—no preamble. 

“I’m fine,” you mutter, eyes locked on your phone. “Just tired.” 

She studies you for a beat—eyes sharp, searching—before leaning back against the desk behind her. 

“So… how was the rest of your weekend?” 

“Fine.” 

“How was the drive home with Bob on Saturday night?” 

Your pulse kicks, but your voice stays level. “Fine.” 

She tilts her head. “How are you feeling about today’s hop?” 

“Fine.” 

“Seriously?” 

You glance up, brows raised. “Yes. Seriously. Everything is fine.” 

You don't mean to be snappy, but it slips out anyway. You’re tired, on edge, and jealous—and the woman at the centre of it all is standing right in front of you. Normally you’d swallow it down—bury it—but after a night of barely any sleep, your fuse is short. 

“Damn,” Bradley says, appearing with his mug in hand, “someone’s feisty today.” 

Natasha is still watching you. She doesn’t look hurt or upset—just curious, like she’s trying to work out why you’re acting like this. Because she knows this isn’t you. She knows something is wrong. 

“I barely slept,” you say, softer now. “I’m sorry. I’m just… not in the mood.” 

She lifts a brow. “Not in the mood to talk to your friends?” 

“Not in the mood to talk—period.” The words come out sharper than intended, but you can’t take them back—the green-eyed monster living in your chest won’t let you. 

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll leave you alone.” She pushes off the desk and steps away, then glances over her shoulder. “But don’t let whatever this is affect your flying.” 

Guilt stirs low in your gut as you lower your eyes back to your phone. Bradley’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, giving a quick, reassuring squeeze before he moves away to join the others by the radio. 

After a beat, you glance up through your lashes—and catch Bob looking right at you. His eyes go wide, cheeks flushing pink, and then—nothing. No smile. No nod. He turns back to the others like you don't even exist. 

And he keeps it that way. All day. No acknowledgement. 

Not when your names are called over the speakers. 

Not on the cart ride to the hangar. 

Not during pre-flight, inspections, or the final briefing. 

The first time he speaks to you all day is over comms, thirty thousand feet up, running a check. 

“Maverick to all stations, comms check. Over.” 

“Dove, comms clear,” you respond, voice steady despite the lump in your throat. 

Then Natasha’s voice cuts through the static, clear and confident. “Phoenix, loud and clear.” 

And finally, Bob’s voice—quieter than usual but unmistakably his. “Bob, reading you.” 

You swallow hard and exhale slowly, your eyes flicking toward Natasha’s jet just ahead, the faint silhouette of Bob visible behind her. 

You’re doing your best not to think about last night—about those nightmares—but up here, surrounded by nothing but sky and cold metal, the memories cling tight, vivid and unrelenting. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out Maverick’s steady instructions. 

You follow along, scanning the sky, then your instruments, then back again—your head spinning with the endless cross-checks. Your grip on the stick tightens until your knuckles turn white. You know, logically, that you’ve done this a thousand times before. You know there’s nothing to fear. 

But today feels different. And maybe it’s just your nerves, or your paranoia playing tricks—but you can’t shake the sense that something is wrong. 

After twenty minutes of easy flying and a lull in comms, you notice something. Natasha and Bob’s jet suddenly rocks, a subtle but unmistakable tremble that sets your pulse racing. You squint through your canopy, trying to pinpoint what’s wrong. It’s almost imperceptible—but it isn’t normal. 

You flick your comm switch, keeping your voice even despite the tightening in your chest. “Phoenix, your jet’s handling looks off. You sure everything’s okay over there?” 

Natasha’s reply is smooth, steady. “We’re fine, Dove. Just minor turbulence. Nothing to worry about.” 

Your eyes don’t leave their jet as it shudders again, your heart pounding hard enough you’re sure they can hear it through the radio. Your chest rises and falls too fast. 

“Maverick to Phoenix and Bob, status check. All systems nominal?” 

“Copy, Maverick,” Natasha answers, but then her tone shifts. “Fuel’s looking—wait, hold on. We’ve got an unusual fuel imbalance warning. Left wing tank is reading low, right wing high. Bob, you seeing the same?” 

“Affirmative,” Bob’s voice is clipped, calm but serious. “Left tank down by nearly three-hundred pounds. Right tank steady. Running cross-feed now to balance.” 

“Maintain heading,” Maverick instructs. “Monitor fuel flow and report any changes. How’s the transfer rate?” 

“Nominal transfer rate, but imbalance isn’t correcting. Left tank keeps dropping faster than it’s filling,” Natasha reports, unease creeping in. 

“Suggests possible leak or valve malfunction,” Bob adds. “Running diagnostics.” 

Your hands start to shake despite your best efforts, pulse pounding in your throat. You keep glancing toward their jet, watching them handle this with practiced calm while your stomach twists in panic. 

You try to steady yourself, but the silence over comms drags on, and your nerves fray. You need to hear something. Anything. You need to know they’re okay. You need to stop imagining flames, ejecting pilots, and worse. 

“Phoenix, what’s going on over there?” you break the silence, voice tight. “That imbalance is getting worse. You need to declare an emergency if there’s a leak.” 

Natasha’s voice returns, still calm and collected. “Dove, negative. We’re on top of it. No leak indications. Bob’s running valve checks now. Maverick, we’ll advise if status changes.” 

The knot in your stomach tightens, panic bubbling up like a tide you can’t hold back. A few months ago, you watched them eject after a bird strike—you feared for them then, but now? It’s different. They’re your friends. Your family. And Bob... he’s so much more. You can’t lose them. 

“No, listen—fuel imbalance can cause roll issues,” you say, voice trembling. “I’m getting a warning on my HUD too. Formation sensors say you might lose control if it worsens. Want me to take lead and help stabilise?” 

“Dove, stand down,” Bob interrupts, his tone hesitant but firm. “We have it handled. No need to complicate things. Maverick, isolating problem now.” 

“Handled?” you repeat, disbelief sharpening your words. “That doesn’t sound handled. I’m not telling you how to do your job, but if you don’t act fast, this’ll become a real problem.” 

“Dove, this is why we train,” Natasha snaps, frustration clear now. “Bob and I know our aircraft. Trust us. You focus on your own jet.” 

“I’m just trying to keep us all safe!” you fire back. 

“Enough,” Maverick cuts in, voice sharp and commanding. “Everyone, breathe. Dove, Bob and Phoenix are managing it. Bob, update me every minute. Dove, maintain position and stay ready to assist. No sudden moves.” 

“Understood, Mav,” Bob replies. “Running manual balance procedure now. Should level out soon.” 

You don’t say anything after that. Not because you’re calm—but because you’re not sure your voice won’t crack if you open your mouth again. 

The silence over the radio is heavier than engine noise, heavier than altitude, heavier than gravity. You keep formation, hands tense on the stick, eyes flitting back to the silhouette of Natasha and Bob’s jet just ahead—waiting for the next wobble, the next slip, the next warning light. 

But it never comes. 

“Fuel flow has stabilised,” Bob reports after two long minutes. “Manual balance is holding. No further discrepancies.” 

“Copy that,” Maverick says, voice calm but wary—like he’s waiting to see who’s going to blow next. “We’ll cut the hop early. Everyone maintain spacing and begin RTB. Keep comms clear unless it’s mission critical.” 

You acknowledge him with a short “Copy,” then fall back slightly, trying to breathe through the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins. 

The flight back is quiet. Too quiet. 

No one says a word—not Bob, not Natasha, not even Maverick. The silence should be comforting, but it isn’t. It leaves you too much time to replay the argument in your head—your voice sharp, your tone panicked, the way Bob cut you off without even hesitating. 

You taxi in last, eyes flicking toward their jet on the tarmac. The canopy lifts, and Bob climbs out, dropping from the ladder with practiced ease—without even glancing your way. Natasha follows, speaking to him as they start toward the hangar—and again, neither of them look at you. 

You kill your systems, climb out, and by the time your boots hit the ground, the only evidence of the afternoon’s drama is the tight ache in your chest and the adrenaline you haven’t quite managed to shake. 

You’re safe. They’re safe. 

But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a win. 

Especially not when Natasha storms toward you, her stride sharp and purposeful. She stops just short of you—close enough that you feel the heat of her glare, far enough to keep up appearances.  

“You want to tell me what the hell that was up there?” she says, voice low and taut with frustration. “Because from where I was sitting, it felt a lot like you didn’t trust us to do our jobs.” 

You finish unclipping your helmet and look at her, heart racing. “I was just trying to keep you safe.” 

She exhales sharply through her nose. “We didn’t need saving. We had it under control.” 

“Did you?” you ask, harsher than you mean to. “Because from where I was sitting, you were losing fuel and altitude and acting like it was nothing.” 

Her jaw tightens. “And from where I was sitting, you were losing your damn composure over something we train for all the time.” 

You glance around—the tarmac is buzzing with motion, but no one seems to be paying attention to the two of you. 

“You could’ve declared an emergency,” you say, voice dropping. “You should have.” 

Her brows shoot up. “So now you’re telling me how to fly?” 

“No,” you bite out. “I’m saying if something happened to you—if something happened to him—” 

“You don’t get to play the protective card when it comes at the expense of the team,” Natasha cuts in—her voice is still low, but the edge is razor sharp. “We had a job to do. We did it.” 

You open your mouth, but she’s already turning away. 

“Next time? Trust us,” she throws over her shoulder, walking back toward the hangar without waiting for a reply. 

And you’re left standing alone on the tarmac, helmet in hand, adrenaline still surging through your veins—and the sting of her words settling deep beneath your ribs. 

You walk through post-flight like you’re on autopilot, following each step by habit more than focus, and then debrief with the ground crew. You nod when you're supposed to, say all the right things—but you’re barely paying attention. Your eyes keep drifting to the group across the tarmac—Maverick, Natasha, Bob, and the crew chief, deep in conversation beside their jet. They’re obviously going over the fuel imbalance, and normally, you’d be right there with them—listening, learning. 

Not today. 

Bob is standing stiffly, arms folded tight, a small crease between his brows. He doesn’t look your way. Doesn’t say a word. Just listens, nods, offers the occasional clipped reply. The silence from him is deafening. And you know it has something to do with you. 

You glance down, pretending to double-check your own paperwork, but your mind is a million miles away. 

The problem is, you don’t know what you did. Not just now, in the air—but before that. Maybe even back on Saturday night. Something shifted. Something went wrong. And now you’ve only made it worse—running your mouth like that, second-guessing his and Natasha’s judgment. 

Maybe he’s still embarrassed about how drunk he got. Or what he said about Natasha. Maybe he’s worried you’ll tell her. Or maybe he just regrets the whole thing—and doesn’t want to deal with you anymore. 

You replay every moment, searching for the crack where things split open. And still, you come up empty. 

“Alright, team,” Maverick calls, cutting through your thoughts. “Good effort today. We cut the hop short for the right reasons, and we all got back on the ground safely.” 

You look up, and Natasha meets your eyes for a moment—her stare cool, unreadable. Bob doesn’t look at you at all. He just folds his arms tighter across his chest. 

Maverick continues, “Debrief in the ready room. Full honesty. No sugar-coating. We don’t get better by pretending everything went fine. Understood?” 

“Understood,” you say with the others, though your voice sticks in your throat. 

You all climb into the cart. No one says a word. The silence follows you all the way to the squadron building, and by the time you step into the ready room, it’s heavier than ever. The air feels too thin, the lighting too harsh. You take the seat closest to the door and Bob settles at the opposite end, eyes fixed on the table, fingers drumming quietly. Natasha sits beside him, posture easy—but you can tell her jaw is still set. 

Maverick starts the debrief, his tone even, but your focus is shot. You can’t stop your thoughts from spiralling. You sit there staring at the scuffs on the linoleum floor, wondering when exactly it all went wrong. Wondering if you’re just imagining everything—or worse, if you’re not. 

By the time Maverick wraps up with a few final notes, you’re barely breathing. And the second he dismisses you, you're on your feet. 

You don’t wait for the others. You grab your gear and walk fast—too fast—straight out into the hall and down toward the locker rooms, the echo of your boots the only sound. You need a second. A breath. Anything to shake the tight grip of panic clawing at your ribs. 

You just need to be alone. 

You burst into the women’s locker room and drop onto the bench between the rows of lockers. You brace your elbows on your knees, bury your face in your hands, and try to remember how to breathe. But the cool, sterile air does nothing to settle the heat in your chest. With a heavy sigh, you sit up, tug off your gloves and shove your flight suit down around your waist. 

You didn’t mean to lose it out there. In the air. On the tarmac. 

But you did. 

Bob couldn’t even look at you this morning—and now, after the way you acted, he probably hates you. Or at the very least, thinks less of you. 

He’s probably with Natasha right now, talking about you. Laughing about you. Calling you a jerk for snapping at them. And honestly? You wouldn’t blame them. You were a jerk. 

You replay every moment again and again in your head again, searching for a way to make it make sense. Trying to convince yourself this isn’t the end of something. That you haven’t just undone all the trust you spent so long building. 

You breathe in. Hold it. Let it out slow. Then do it again. 

And again. 

The room is silent except for the distant buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the base beyond the walls. You’re just starting to settle—your pulse finally dipping below emergency levels—when the door creaks open. 

And footsteps. 

Then the distinct, unmistakable click of the lock turning. 

Your head snaps up. 

“Bob?” 

He steps forward slowly, like you’re some wounded animal he’s afraid to spook. His eyes dart around the room—taking in everything except you. The tiled walls, the metal lockers, the fact that he’s probably never set foot in here before.  

“Hey,” he mutters, voice low—but it lands sharp in the quiet space. 

You blink at him, startled. “What are you doing in here?” 

He hesitates, still not looking directly at you. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I’m fine,” you mumble, sitting up straighter. 

He takes a deep breath, shoving his hands as deep into his pockets as they’ll go. “You don’t seem fine.” 

“Well, I am,” you say, firmer. 

There’s a beat of silence—and your heart is pounding so hard, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it. 

“I—I just want to know why,” he says eventually. 

You exhale sharply and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Why what?” 

“You know what.” 

You let out a bitter little laugh and shake your head, eyes fixed on the locker in front of you. “I was just being overcautious. It won’t happen again.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Well, that’s the only answer I’ve got right now,” you say, sharper this time. “So if you’re here to yell at me too, maybe just don’t.” 

“I’m not here to yell,” he says softly. “I’m here because I want to understand.” 

You sigh. “I don’t know, Bob. I just—I freaked out. I saw the numbers and panicked. I just didn’t want to lose—” You cut yourself off with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t matter.” 

He steps forward, eyes wide behind his glasses. “It matters to me.” 

You press your lips together and nod once, throat tight. “Well, it was stupid. And it’s done.” 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just keeps standing there like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s not going to let you hide behind flimsy excuses or brush him off. And the silence presses in again, heavier than before. 

“It’s not done,” he says—quiet, but steady. “I’m not done.” 

You stare at him—finally locking eyes—your jaw tight. “What do you want me to say, Bob?” 

“I want the truth.” 

You laugh again, dry and humourless. “Yeah? Which part?” 

His expression doesn’t change. “All of it.” 

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Your chest aches. There’s too much to say and no good way to say any of it. You can’t tell him you’re jealous. You can’t tell him you’re in love with him. So instead, you go for the sharpest edge.  

“Well, what’s your problem then, huh?” you snap. “You don’t message me all day yesterday. You don’t look at me this morning. You barely speak to me on the flight line. So if we’re handing out truths, maybe start with that.” 

He blinks like you’ve slapped him. “That’s—” 

“I don’t know what I did,” you go on, heat rising fast in your voice. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, Bob, I really have. How did so much change in twenty-four hours? If you’re pissed at me, just say it. Stop looking at me like I’m the one who—who broke something.” 

“You didn’t break anything,” he mutters through a breath. “And I’m not pissed at you.” 

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Then what is simple, Bob?” you ask, standing with your arms crossed. “Is the way you feel about Natasha simple? Was getting drunk and telling me how much you like her simple? Because it sure as hell didn’t seem very complicated on Saturday night when you were slurring about how pretty you think she is.” 

The words slip out before you can fully process them—and your face burns immediately. 

His eyes go wide. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

“Shit,” you mutter, covering your face with both hands. “Fuck. I—I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean—” 

“Natasha?” 

You peek between your fingers to find him standing right in front of you now—brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, eyes full of confused disbelief. 

“I—I wasn’t talking about Natasha,” he stammers, “I wasn’t—oh, God. You thought I meant—” 

You drop your hands. “Bob, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” 

He shakes his head quickly, stepping even closer. “No—wait, hold on. You thought I meant Natasha? That that’s who I—no. No, you’ve got it all wrong.” 

You rear back a little, frowning. “Well, forgive me for getting the wrong impression when you were six drinks deep and rambling about how beautiful she is.” 

“I—I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I swear. I wasn’t even—God, I wasn’t thinking about her. You’ve got this all backwards.” 

You fold your arms across your chest, retreating half a step toward the bench. Your heart is pounding again—loud in your ears, high in your throat. 

“Then what were you thinking, Bob? Because from where I was standing, it looked pretty damn obvious.” 

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “No, you don’t get it—what I said wasn’t about Natasha. It was never about her.” 

You scoff. “Sure.” 

“Please—listen.” He takes another step forward, then hesitates. His mouth opens. Closes. He frowns, eyes narrowing. “But if—if you thought I was talking about Natasha… is that why you were mad?” 

The words hit you square in the chest. 

You freeze. 

“I wasn’t mad,” you say quickly. “I was—” You stop, the words catching in your throat. 

“You were mad,” he insists. 

“I wasn’t mad!” 

He flinches slightly at your tone. 

You take a deep breath and drop your gaze. “I wasn’t mad,” you repeat, quieter this time, “I just—” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. You can feel it building—the real reason, the words you’ve buried so deep they’ve started to choke you. But you can’t let them out. Not yet. Not when it’s this messy. Not when your heart feels like it’s dangling off a ledge. 

“I just thought I knew where we stood,” you say instead, eyes burning. “And maybe I was wrong.” 

Bob doesn’t move. 

He’s staring at you now, really staring, like he’s trying to read between every word you’re not saying. 

“You thought you knew where we stood,” he repeats softly. “So… where did you think we stood?” 

You shake your head, but he doesn’t let up. 

“Because from where I’m standing,” he goes on, voice tight with something that might be desperation, “we flew a perfect hop three days ago, spent half the weekend practically glued at the hip. You drove my drunk ass home and looked after me when you didn’t have to—then today you’re… upset. Angry. You start a pointless fight with Phoenix and claim you were just being overcautious.” His eyes search yours, hard and fast. “I’m not stupid, Dove. You knew we’d be okay.” 

You look away. “Drop it, Bob.” 

“No,” he says, stepping closer. “I want to know. I need to know. Why did you do that?” 

You open your mouth—then close it. Your pulse is thudding in your ears again. Loudly. Your hands curl into fists at your sides. 

“I just—” You bite down, hard. “I panicked. I saw the numbers, and I panicked.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I—I’m tired, I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

He shakes his head. “The truth. Why?” 

You lock eyes with him again, breathless at the proximity of him. “I—I wasn’t— 

“Don’t lie,” he whispers—soft, desperate. 

“Because I couldn’t lose you,” you say before you can stop yourself, voice breaking at the edges. 

The words hit the air like a shockwave, echoing in the small space left between your bodies. 

Bob blinks, stunned. 

But now it’s out, and you can’t stop. 

“I couldn’t lose you,” you repeat, voice trembling. “I was in my jet, and I saw that you weren’t steady, and I didn’t think, I just—I reacted. And I know it was out of line—I know what I said was too far, but I just kept thinking that if something happened to you, I would never forgive myself. That if I let it go and you went down in flames, I—” Your breath catches hard in your throat, and you press your palms against your closed eyes. “Shit.” 

You’re crying. Hot, angry tears that blur everything. 

Your breath stutters. 

“I’m in love with you, okay?” you choke out. “That’s why. That’s why I freaked out. That’s why I’m all messed up. Why I was angry—and jealous. Because I’m in love with you and I can’t lose you and—and if you’re in love with her then fine, I’ll deal with it, I will, but I can’t pretend like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. You do.” 

Your voice finally crumbles at the edges, and you suck in a ragged breath, heart hammering, shoulders curled forward like they’re bracing for impact. 

Bob doesn’t speak. 

Not yet. 

He just stares, stunned—and you don’t dare look up to see what’s written on his face. 

For a long, aching moment, there’s nothing but silence. 

Then—he snorts. 

Actually snorts. A small, stunned breath of disbelief that turns into a short, shaky laugh. 

Your hands fall from your face, eyes snapping up to his. “Are you—” You blink hard, throat raw. “Are you laughing at me?” 

“No—God, no.” He shakes his head, still breathless, mouth curled into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “I’m not—I’m not laughing at you. I’m just…” 

He exhales hard, like he’s been punched in the chest. 

“Jesus, Dove. You think I’m in love with Natasha?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

His hand comes up—almost instinctively—then drops again before he touches you. 

“I wasn’t talking about her,” he says, more serious now. “On Saturday—I mean, yeah, I was drunk, and I probably said too much, but none of it was about Phoenix.” 

You stare at him, heart still hammering. 

“I was talking about you,” he says. “It’s always been you.” 

You blink once—then twice. “Me?” 

He nods. “You, dumbass.” 

Your breath catches. He takes a step closer. 

“I honestly thought you knew,” he says softly. “I thought I’d freaked you out. Screwed everything up. You were looking after me, and I was—God, I was so far gone I barely remember half of what I said. But I remember thinking that I’d ruined it.” 

You’re staring now, wide-eyed, frozen in place—and he’s only inches away. 

“And you being mad at me the next day. Avoiding me. I thought it was because I’d crossed a line.” 

“No,” you whisper. “I—I was avoiding you because I didn’t want you to see how upset I was.” 

He lets out another shaky breath. “God. We’re both dumbasses.” 

Heat rises in your chest, crawling up your neck, into your cheeks. The air between you feels heavier now, charged with something neither of you has the will to break. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it’s no longer searching for answers—he’s already found them. There’s warmth there now, deep and unguarded, and it makes your pulse stutter hard enough to hurt. 

Bob takes a step forward, close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath. His hand starts to lift, hesitates, then settles gently on your jaw like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away. 

You don’t. 

Your name slips from him in a low, almost disbelieving murmur. 

And before you can even think, his mouth is on yours—no warning, no time to brace. The kiss crashes into you, fierce in its need but softened by the way his lips linger, like he’s been holding this back for far too long. You melt into him instinctively, hands curling into the front of his suit, feeling the solid weight of him anchoring you. He draws you closer still, one arm winding around your waist, the other cupping your face like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. 

It’s dizzying, the rush of it—heat, relief, something that tastes dangerously like hope. You gasp against him and he kisses you deeper, like he’s trying to make up for every day he didn’t do this. 

When you finally part, it’s only by a breath, foreheads pressed together, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek in slow, almost reverent strokes. 

“You,” he says softly. “Always you.” 

Your lips curve into a smile before you even realise, a rush of warmth flooding your chest—and then you’re surging up to kiss him again. Harder this time. Needier. He makes a low sound in his throat as you push into him, and he stumbles back until his shoulders meet the lockers with a dull, rattling thud. 

You don’t stop. You press closer, chasing the heat of him, your fingers sliding into his hair and tugging until he groans. His mouth parts under yours and you take advantage, kissing him deeper, hotter, until the air between you is nothing but shared breath and the faint taste of him. 

He’s flustered now, breathless, his hands clutching at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. The kiss turns wet and frantic, your mouths dragging together in a mess of heat and want. When you nip at his lower lip, he exhales sharply against your cheek, the sound so rough it makes your knees buckle. 

His hips press forward without thought, and you feel the hard, insistent heat of him through the fabric of your flight suit. The low, helpless sound that escapes him only makes you kiss him harder. 

Bob breaks away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead pressed to yours. His pupils are blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, and he swallows like speaking takes effort. “We need to stop before I—” 

“Before you what?” you murmur, brushing your lips over his again, your smile curling slow and wicked. 

A faint groan catches in his throat. He’s still looking at you like you’re something half-dangerous, half-divine when you lace your fingers through his and start backing toward the showers. 

“Come on, Lieutenant,” you say, heat threading through every word. “We’ll both feel better after this.” 

You walk through the door to where the showers are and stop halfway down the row of stalls. Then you reach in, twist the tap, and listen to the pipes groan before water rushes out. It always takes a little too long to heat up, so you turn back to Bob, your hand still in his, and catch the way his eyes flick anxiously toward the door. 

“We shouldn’t,” he says, “someone could—” 

You shut him up with a kiss before he can finish, your mouth hot and insistent against his. His protest melts under the press of your lips, his breath catching as he stumbles back a step. 

Your fingers find the zipper of his flight suit, dragging it down in one slow, deliberate motion. His shoulders go tight, like the good part of him still wants to behave, but you push the fabric back, shoving it down until it hangs loose around his waist. 

“You’re thinking too much,” you murmur. 

Your palms smooth slowly down the front of his thin cotton shirt, feeling the quick stutter of his breath beneath your hands. You linger there, just long enough for the air between you to grow heavier—then you sink slowly to your knees. 

And his eyes go impossibly wide. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, still bunched low on his hips, and you start easing it down. Inch by inch, dragging it slowly over his thighs until it pools around his ankles. The white of his briefs is a sharp contrast against the dark of his suit, the outline beneath leaving very little to your imagination. 

When your palm slides over him, gentle at first, he inhales hard through his nose. His hands twitch at his sides like he’s not sure whether to stop you or pull you closer. 

“Dove…” His voice is hoarse, strained. 

You glance up to see his jaw tight, his pupils wide and dark, every inch of him pulled taut between doing the right thing and giving in completely. 

You rub him again, slower this time, and his knees flex like he’s fighting to stay upright. 

You lean in closer, warm breath ghosting over his hips as your lips trace the lines of muscle disappearing beneath his briefs. The subtle movement of your mouth, the gentle brush against fabric, is pure temptation—too much for him to resist. 

Bob’s head dips forward, eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second before snapping open, wide and glassy. His hands twitch again, hesitating at first, then finally reaching down, clutching your hair gently as if anchoring himself. 

“God,” he breathes out, voice rough and broken. “You’re going to kill me.” 

You part your lips against the fabric covering his hard length, teeth grazing just a touch, making him shiver. The tension between needing to stay composed and losing himself in the moment warps his expression—one foot in restraint, the other sliding toward surrender. 

His hips shift forward, pressing subtly into your mouth, and you take that as your invitation to deepen the motion, sliding your tongue slowly against him, tasting through the cloth. 

He groans low, hands tightening in your hair, pulling you closer like he’s trying to claim what you’re offering—like he can’t wait a second longer. 

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze—those dark eyes wide, pupils dilated, searching yours with a mix of desperation and longing. Then you curl your fingers into the waistband of his briefs and start dragging them down—slowly—savouring the shiver that ripples through him, the subtle hitch in his breath like a secret confession. 

His body stiffens, muscles tightening, but his eyes don’t waver. They stay locked on yours, silent and electric. You see the war in his expression—part restraint, part surrender—like he’s weighing the consequences of being caught here. Like this. With you. 

His hands grip your hair tighter, desperate and possessive, and it makes your pulse spike. The contrast between his tension and the softness in his eyes twists your chest with want. The room feels impossibly small, the only sound your shared breathing—heavy and uneven. 

You tug his briefs lower, inch by inch, the fabric sliding down his thighs. You can feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, taut muscles flexing under your touch. His dark eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes, pupils heavy with need and confusion. 

His breath hitches sharply when you free him completely—his cock springing free. Hard, hot, even bigger than you imagined. It bobs barely an inch from your face, making your mouth water and your core clench. 

“God,” he breathes, voice ragged, “you’re driving me crazy.” 

You lick your lips, eyes shamelessly locked on the impressive length in front of you. “Good.” 

You lean in slowly, bracing a hand on each of his thighs, your breath warm against the sensitive skin of his cock. Your tongue flicks out, just barely grazing the tip, tasting the salty heat lingering there—and he lets out a sharp, startled breath. 

The knot behind your hips tightens, your pulse thrumming in time with the wetness gathering between your legs. 

One hand slides up slowly, your fingers curling around the base of him, feeling the way he pulses beneath your touch. His hips twitch forward instinctively, chasing the friction your mouth teases. 

Your eyes lift to meet his, holding his gaze as you close your lips around the tip—and he gasps. 

Your tongue traces tiny, teasing circles around the head, savouring every tiny twitch that ripples through his body. You pull back just enough to release him, slow and deliberate, as if memorising every desperate sound that slips from him. 

His breathing is uneven now, stuttering sharply when you take him into your mouth again. Deeper this time, letting the weight of him slide against your tongue. You hum softly, tightening your grip, revelling in the way he chokes on his next breath. 

The taste of him is intoxicating—the warmth, the slickness—and you can feel the pool of your own saliva at the corners of your mouth. His eyes never leave your face, glued to the slow, steady slide of his cock between your lips. 

He looks almost completely unravelled—cheeks flushed, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left. His glasses are still sitting crooked, fogged slightly from his heavy breathing and the steam curling through the air. 

Your tongue slides along the underside of his cock, tracing the tender, swollen ridge where the head meets the shaft. Drool slips freely now—slick, warm—dripping down your chin, making every movement slippery and delicious. 

Bob’s breath hitches, his hands tightening again in your hair, holding him steady even as he starts to lose control. You feel the tremble in his thighs, the subtle jerk of his hips—desperate for more friction, more sensation. 

But you don’t rush. You pull back just enough, then take him deeper again. Soft moans escape his lips, barely held back. His pulse throbs visibly beneath your palm, his cock twitching under your touch, telling you exactly how close he’s getting. 

You hollow your cheeks and suck gently, pulling at him like you’re savouring a rare, delicious taste. Your hand strokes in rhythm, slow and steady, and his whole body shudders—a sharp breath catching in his throat. 

His eyes flutter closed, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, but then snap open again, glazed and wild with need. You pull back again, lips swollen, mouth slick with drool and precum. 

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice ragged, desperate, “‘m not gonna last if you keep teasing me like this.” 

You smile around him and increase the pressure of your tongue, moving your mouth faster now. His breath stutters, low groans slipping free as his hands tighten in your hair, holding you firm. His body trembles beneath your touch, muscles clenched. 

Then suddenly—his grip on your hair sharpens, almost painfully, and before you can deepen the rhythm, he pulls back with a harsh breath. 

“Seriously,” he mutters, “you’re going to kill me.” 

You glance up, lips parted and cheeks flushed, but before you can answer, his hands slide down to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sharp tug, he pulls you off your knees, making you stumble slightly as your legs lose balance. 

His mouth claims yours immediately—hard, urgent, desperate—silencing every word you might have spoken. The sudden closeness sends heat rushing through you, your bodies pressed tight as his hands slide lower, tracing the curves of your waist. 

When he pulls away, his breath is heavy, chest rising and falling fast. His dark eyes search yours, pupils blown wide with want. 

“We need to be quick,” he says softly, voice thick. “Before we get caught.” 

Without hesitation, you start pulling at the zipper of your flight suit, fingers trembling with anticipation. The fabric falls open, and you shrug out of it, pushing it down around your hips and kicking it off into a pile on the floor. 

Bob moves quickly too, kicking off his flight suit and briefs, and yanking his shirt over his head. 

You can’t take your eyes off him even as you continue undressing—pulling your shirt over your head, discarding your bra, stepping out of your embarrassingly damp panties. 

“God,” Bob exhales, voice low. “You’re beautiful.” 

His lips find your neck, hands wrapping around your ribs. The heat of his skin on yours makes your head spin, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. 

“Shower,” you murmur, voice breathless. 

His tongue laves at your collarbone, soothing the spot where his teeth had just been. 

“Bob,” you breathe. 

He glances up, his glasses almost completely fogged. 

You laugh softly, carefully slipping them off for him, folding them, and placing them on the pile of clothes. Then you turn toward the shower stall and step inside, never losing the heat of his body close behind yours. 

You step beneath the spray of hot water and turn to face Bob, your bodies pressing close, chest to chest, breath mingling with the mist. His lips ghost over your temple, then trail down the curve of your neck, each kiss feather-light but charged. 

Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging him just enough to draw his mouth back to yours. The kiss is softer now—a pause after the urgency—but no less full of want. 

Bob’s hands slide higher, tracing your ribs, skimming the sensitive skin beneath your breasts. You arch toward him, pulse thudding as his touch sets every nerve alight. 

If you had a moment to think, you’d probably nearly faint at the fact that you’re naked with Bob in the shower right now. But there’s no time. You’re on base, and if you get caught—the consequences would be too severe to imagine. 

“I need you,” you whisper, barely audible over the rush of water. 

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest before his lips find yours again—more urgent this time. Your hands grip his shoulders as his slide down your sides, fingertips tracing wet skin until they settle at your hips. 

He pulls back just enough to lock eyes with you, his expression suddenly serious. 

“Are you sure?” 

You press your body tighter to his, hips moving deliberately to grind his hard length against your slick skin—and he chokes on a moan. 

“Yes,” you murmur. “I’m sure.” 

That’s all it takes for one of his hands to slip between your legs, fingers sliding easily through your wet heat. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, eyes fluttering shut, voice thick. “You’re so wet.” 

Your cheeks flush as a tremor rips through your body, aching low and fierce. His fingers move slow, teasing, coaxing you open—each touch setting fire to your nerves. 

“F—Fuck,” you breathe out, breath hitching. “I’m not going to last long.” 

He chuckles low and presses a finger to your entrance. 

You gasp sharply, gripping his shoulders tighter, nails digging in. He pumps once—then twice—and then slides another finger in, curling just right, making your knees wobble. 

“‘M sorry, baby,” he murmurs, voice husky. “Gotta get you ready.” 

You nod, resting your forehead against his shoulder and trailing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along his chest as his fingers stretch you. When he adds the third, the delicious burn makes your muscles tremble and a broken moan spill free. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes. “We have to be quiet. Someone could hear.” 

The way he’s holding you steady while coaxing you open—so tender yet so commanding—makes your chest ache with something fierce. You’ve never seen this side of Bob before—obviously—but you always knew every part of him was perfect. Especially this part, raw and vulnerable, naked and intimate… and about to fuck you right here in the showers at North Island Naval Base. 

“Turn around for me,” he says softly. 

You whimper at the sudden loss of his fingers, and he chuckles low against your skin, pressing a kiss to your temple. His hands find your shoulders—turning you to face the wall—before sliding down and gently gripping your wrists, lifting them until your palms rest flat against the cool tile. 

His lips drop to your shoulder and trail up your neck, tongue flicking softly beneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “You ready?” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. 

“‘M ready,” you murmur, voice trembling. 

His hands glide down to your hips, fingers digging in as he pulls you flush against him. Your back arches instinctively, your ass pressing against the hard length of him, and he lets out a choked sound—half groan, half sigh. 

You glance over your shoulder, breath heavy, catching sight of his hand dipping down to trace through your slick again. “You’re so ready for me, sweetheart.” 

A low whimper leaves your lips and you push back, desperate for more. 

The hand still on your hip tightens while the other guides his cock to your entrance, the head nudging between your folds. His eyes flicker between your face and where he’s about to sink in, torn between watching you and watching the way you take him. 

Then, with breath held tight between you, he pushes forward. 

You gasp at the delicious stretch—the first inch testing you. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You can take me.” 

His grip on your hip tightens—almost painfully so—as if bruising your skin will ground him enough to hold back some of the need threatening to overwhelm him. The other hand slides up your ribs, palms your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasp sharply—and that’s when he pushes in another inch. 

“So good for me,” he mutters, voice rough and strained. 

You let out a breathy, garbled moan, hips wriggling slightly. The stretch is immense, filling you completely—intense but not painful, just enough to make you ache for more. 

Slowly, reverently, he sinks deeper. Your breaths come ragged, moans choked and urgent. You both know the danger—any noise could give you away, the clock ticking mercilessly down as the threat of being discovered looms. 

Bob’s hand stays on your breast, fingers teasing your nipple just enough to distract you from the growing pressure of him buried inside. And finally, he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes. “You’ve got all of me.” 

He pauses for a moment—still—but you feel the tightrope of his control beginning to fray. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You—you can move.” 

His hands find your hips again, this time gentle, grounding. 

“I’ll go slow—” 

“No,” you interrupt, glancing over your shoulder again, breath hitching. “I want you to fuck me, Bob. We don’t have much time, so just—please.” 

His hips jerk back and then thrust forward, the sudden movement nearly buckling your knees if he wasn’t holding you so steady. 

“Fuck,” you choke out, breathless. 

“You want me to fuck you?” His voice drops low, dangerous. 

You throw your head back, pressing your fingertips harder against the tile. “Yes. Please.” 

“Such pretty manners,” he murmurs, voice laced with heat. “Such a good girl.” 

He thrusts forward again—harder this time. And again. And again. There’s no stopping now. 

His movements are relentless and rough, but his touch holds a tenderness that makes you feel like something sacred—like you’re his alone to claim. He fucks into you with fierce need, and the noises climbing up your throat are raw and inhuman, impossible to fully stifle. 

Every thrust hits the perfect spot, sending your vision hazy and your skin aflame. You can hear his ragged breaths, the obscene, wet slap of skin against skin—but his rhythm never falters, steady and unyielding. 

“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and broken. “You’re so perfect.” 

He leans forward, hands sliding up your sides. One finds your breast again, fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, while the other dips between your legs. 

His fingers draw teasing, deliberate circles around your clit—coaxing, taunting—careful to avoid the bundle of nerves just enough to make you ache. He rolls your nipple with practiced ease, like he’s always known exactly how to make you come undone. Like it’s etched into his very bones. You and him. Perfect pleasure. Perfect harmony. 

“Bob,” you whine—really whine this time, desperate and breathless. “Please.” 

He grunts low into your ear, chest pressing against your back, claiming you utterly. 

“Please what?” 

“T—Touch me,” you choke out, the words riding the rhythm of his thrusts. 

His hand slips from your breast to grip your hip, steadying you both—and for the first time, his hips stutter. You know he’s close; neither of you are lasting much longer. 

“I am touching you, sweetheart,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick. 

You groan, frustrated, bratty, and desperate. 

He chuckles softly. “You want me to touch your clit, baby?” 

Before you can answer, his fingers find it—making you choke on a sharp breath. The pressure is perfect. The fullness of him inside you. The slick heat of his skin against yours. You’ve wanted this—wanted him—so badly that you’re trembling, on the edge, about to come apart embarrassingly fast. 

His thrusts grow harder, sharper, until each one drags a broken sound from your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but take it, his cock stretching you just right while his fingers work you into a fever. 

“Bob—” His name leaves your lips in a gasp, your knees threatening to give out as white heat coils low in your belly. 

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. His hips piston into you, chasing the end, the wet sounds between you filthy and relentless. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you.” 

It hits hard. Your orgasm rips through you with a sharp cry you barely manage to swallow, clenching tight around him, body shaking under the force of it. His fingers stay firm on your clit, drawing it out, making you gasp and whimper through every pulsing wave. 

“Jesus, sweetheart—” His voice breaks as his rhythm falters. One, two more deep drives and he’s gone, spilling into you with a guttural groan, hips pressed tight against yours. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged, heartbeat thundering against your back. 

Neither of you move for a moment. The air is thick with steam, heat, and the heavy sound of breathing. His hands stay on you—steadying, grounding—as if letting go might mean waking from a dream. 

It’s only when your heartbeat starts to slow that the world begins to filter back in—the tile under your palms, the rush of water, the faint sounds of life outside. And you remember that you’re still on base, in the showers, with the door locked and his cum inside you. 

Bob shifts behind you, gently pulling out and turning you in his arms. You go willingly, your legs a little unsteady, your gaze catching his. His hair is wet and plastered to his forehead, his eyes dark in a way you’ve never seen before—raw, open, and a little unsure. 

Without a word, he pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, strong and solid, the heat of him sinking into you, indistinguishable from the shower’s embrace. You press your face to his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of sweat beneath the steam. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but the beat of his heart against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The reality is there, a quiet hum beneath the comfort—what you just did, what it means, how much has changed—but neither of you say it. Not yet. 

You swallow hard, chest still heaving. “We should—” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “Before someone finds us.” 

When you pull back, he’s smiling softly—boyish, almost shy—and it makes your chest ache. How can this man do what he just did to you and then have the audacity to look so damn sweet about it? 

You can’t stop yourself from grinning as you push up onto your toes and press a quick kiss to his mouth, both of you smiling into it like idiots now. You pull away before it gets dangerous again and rinse off in a rush. The water shuts off with a squeak, and you crack the stall door just enough to snag the single towel hanging on the hook outside. 

There’s only one—since you weren’t exactly expecting company—but you make do, passing it between you in quick swipes, bumping elbows, stealing kisses, stifling laughter. 

Bob redresses and tugs his flight suit up just enough to hang loose around his hips, hair still wet, while you wrap yourself in the towel. Then you head back to the locker room together, about to round the corner toward your row of lockers when— 

“You know the lock didn’t latch properly, right?” 

Natasha is perched on the bench in the middle of the room, brows arched, lips pursed. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, stumbling back into Bob. 

“Oh my God,” he mutters, dropping his head into your shoulder as if he can hide there. 

“H—How long have you—” 

“Only a few minutes,” she says, and her smirk is lethal. “Which is about two minutes more than anyone should have to endure. You’re lucky I’m a professional.” She tilts her head. “I came in earlier to apologise to Dove and heard… noises. I recognised your voice—” she gives Bob a pointed look that turns his whole face crimson— “and immediately fled for my own survival. But then I ran into Mav, who was wandering this way, so I had to stall him with a full TED Talk on the history of carburettors versus fuel-injection. You’re welcome.” 

Your eyes go wide. “He didn’t… hear anything, did he?” 

She shakes her head. “Nope. I saved you from public humiliation and probable court-martial. And now…” She crosses her arms, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “I get to sit here and watch you two try to pretend you’re not freshly defiled in a government facility. This is my new favourite reality show.” 

You groan. “Nat—” 

“Relax,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Your secret’s safe with me. But you owe me a therapy session.” 

Your lips twitch. “Happy hour at The Hard Deck?” 

“That’s my girl.” She winks, already backing toward the door. “Now get dressed. I’m parched, and the others are dying to hear all the details that I’m definitely not keeping to myself.” 

Then she’s gone—the door clicking shut before you can even think of a comeback. 

You turn to Bob. “We’re never living this down, are we?” 

His cheeks are still flushed, but he shakes his head. “Never.” 

“And she’s going to tell everyone before we even get there?” 

He nods, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Definitely.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Then why are you smiling?” 

He shrugs, sliding his arms around your waist and tugging you close. “Because I just had sex with the woman I’m in love with—for the first time.” 

Heat rushes through you so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Yeah?” 

He rests his forehead against yours with a dramatic sigh, his shoulders sagging. “And now I get to be interrogated about it by my entire squad.” 

You giggle softly. “Or… we could skip the interrogation and go back to my place.” 

His groan melts into your mouth as he kisses you. 

“I’d love to,” he murmurs, “but you promised Phoenix cheap cocktails and free therapy. And frankly, I fear her more than the navy.” 

You sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and your arms loop around his neck. 

“How about,” you murmur against his mouth, “one drink, just enough explanation to make Mickey stop asking questions… then we go home and have Olympic-level sex until we pass out?” 

His grin is warm against your lips. “Deal. And then I’m never letting you go.”

© 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.

[solgasm]

okay wait POOKIEBEAR my absolute godfess i need you and your fantastical brain with me right now

remember that scene where luthor released the full translated message from clarks birthparents

he was shaking, he was breathing heavily he was having a panic attack, i know he was about to cry he was LOOKING AROUND all scared at the people and they literally yelled and insulted and assaulted him i know it broke his pure heart

in comes guy and goes “dude you have a secret harem?” and clark just explodes

now now imagine

IMAGINE you, his beloved girl come in, he doesn’t know what to do. he kinda just wants to run away but at the same time he wants to run into your arms, fall to his knees in front of you, bury his face in your abdomen and weep

but he sees your wary eyes, your hesitant steps, your wavering voice and when you ask “is that-true?” his heart breaks, he lets out a sob, or whimper before he can compose himself and even though his voice breaks he tries to tell you he is not the monster they wanted him to be

i need to know your thoughts queen, and if you’re still up to requests or anything of the sort i would die for you to write something along those lines <333

(ily i’ll be back in your inbox with more lol)

ugh omg yes. please enjoy! slight spoiler warning

-

The silence after the broadcast is deafening.

Not the kind of silence born from peace, but the heavy, guttural hush that follows something devastating. Something that can’t be taken back.

Clark stands in the middle of it.

Still in his suit, though the red cape hangs limp, the crest on his chest feeling like a brand now. His fists shake at his sides. He can’t seem to breathe past the tightness in his ribs. Every breath tastes like ash.

His parents’ voices had filled the screens. Cold. Calculating. Words translated by Luthor’s machine, twisted for effect.

There’d been gasps. Accusations. A bottle thrown. Guy’s voice cut through like a whip about a secret harem.

Clark almost exploded.

Instead, he turned his back and shut down. His shoulders curl inward. His vision tunnels. He hears everything. Every whispered insult, every shifting heartbeat, but it all becomes white noise. He doesn’t know where to go. Doesn’t know if he should run or scream or fly to the moon and never come back.

And then he hears your heartbeat. Slower. Hesitant. Near the doorway.

His eyes snap up.

There you are. Standing just inside the room, the doors swinging closed behind you. You’re still in your work clothes. Jacket wrinkled. Eyes wide. Not angry. Not yet. But not certain, either. There is no sign of fear, not yet, but hesitation. Concern.

Hope.

And that’s worse.

He doesn’t know what to do. His whole body jerks like it wants to bolt. He wants to run to you. To collapse into your arms, fall to his knees, bury his face in your stomach and sob until the pressure leaves his lungs.

But he sees the way you hesitate. You don’t run to him. You don’t throw your arms around him and tell him it’s okay. You just… take a step forward. Tentative. Careful.

“Clark,” you say, and his name on your lips almost undoes him. He flinches. Like it hurts. You swallow. Your voice trembles. “Is that…” you pause.

It shatters him. A broken breath slips from his lips. Not even a full sound, just a whimper, high and helpless. His hand clenches at his side, his mouth falls open like he wants to speak, to explain, but nothing comes out.

“I’m not,” he tries, and his voice breaks. A sob curls in the back of his throat, swallowing his next words. He lowers his head, ashamed. “I’m not what they said I am,” he finally whispers. “I swear. I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I didn’t even know what they said until today.”

Your eyes shimmer. You take a step forward. He sinks. Literally folds at the knees. He drops to the ground in front of you like his strength has given out, like the only thing keeping him upright was the hope that you’d believe in him. His forehead presses to your abdomen. His hands grasp at your hips like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“I’m not a monster,” he whispers, broken. “Please…don’t look at me like they do.”

Your hands tremble as they reach for him. He feels it. He feels you hesitate again and then he feels your fingers thread into his hair.

And he weeps.

He folds like he’s been shot. One breath he’s Superman, the next, he’s Clark, breaking open at your feet. His knees hit the tile with a thud that makes your chest seize, and then he’s curled into you, forehead pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s trying to hold the world still.

You freeze. Only for a second. His fingers tremble against your sides, clutching the fabric of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the planet. And then you hear it again. A sob. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just a sound, guttural and wet and terrified, torn from somewhere deep inside his chest. His shoulders jerk with it, and your own eyes sting in response.

Your hands move instinctively. One slides into his hair, his soft, sweat-damp curls, and the other cups the back of his neck. He’s warm. Too warm. Like his skin doesn’t know how to regulate his grief.

You hold him. Gently. Firmly. The way you would a child who’s just seen something they shouldn’t have. You bend low and whisper, “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t lift his head. Just shakes it, forehead still pressed into you like he can’t bear to look you in the eye. His grip tightens. “I didn’t know,” he chokes. “I didn’t know they said that. I never wanted…they think I’m something I’m not.”

Your voice is quiet but sure. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sucks in a broken breath. “You looked scared.”

“I was,” you admit, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “Not of you. Never of you. I was scared someone had twisted something beautiful and made you think you had to carry it alone.”

That gets him. He lifts his head just enough to look up at you. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, the blue of them stormy with shame and desperation. He looks like a man about to crumble again.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers.

“You won’t.”

“I’m not what they want me to be.”

“Good.”

He blinks. “What?”

You kneel down slowly, sink onto the floor in front of him, and cradle his jaw in your hands. You wipe the tears from his face with your thumbs, even as more spill over.

“Let them want a god. Let them demand a king. I only ever wanted you. Clark. Not their symbol. Not their weapon. You. The boy who apologizes to pigeons when he startles them. The man who listens to every voicemail I leave, even the ones I end with, ‘Don’t call me back, I just wanted to hear your voice.’”

His mouth wobbles.

“I know who you are,” you whisper. “You love hard. You try harder. You never stop believing the world can be good, even when it’s cruel to you.”

He closes his eyes and exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. His forehead presses to yours, hands cradling your waist now, like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“They said I was born to dominate,” he murmurs.

“And you were,” you say, “but not the way they think.”

He pulls back, just a little. Brows drawn.

“You were born to dominate hearts,” you continue, “with kindness. With that ridiculous, stubborn hope. With how much you care. That’s your power. Not just your strength.”

His lip trembles and then he kisses you. It’s messy. Wet from his tears. Breathless from his crying. But it’s him, vulnerable, aching, desperate to feel something real. Your hands fly to his face and hold him there as he kisses you like he’s sorry, like he’s grateful, like you’re saving him from drowning.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is almost gone.

“Will you stay?”

You nod, your hands never leaving him. “Always.”

And when he finally lets you pull him into your arms—his massive frame curling into yours like he’s trying to disappear, you hold him for as long as it takes.

Until the shaking stops.

Until the pain quiets.

Until he believes you.

[solgasm]

yall have no idea what this did to my ovaries

[solgasm]

Challengers but it’s Danny ramirez, Lewis pullman, and me

[solgasm]

Just saw Superman, it's great and now I'm immediate need of some David Corenswet!Clark Kent fics. Like look at this man, he's been fine.

[solgasm]

[solgasm]

a good sailor will always return to the sea

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I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM

[solgasm]

pb&jj on my mind 24/7

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pretty sure joel’s death is my biggest cinematic trauma. i can’t see anything about him without crying. that flashback absolutely destroyed me.

[solgasm]

I miss your gorgeous face, joel miller

[solgasm]

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I'm still on a high from seeing SINNERS 😮‍💨

The Storytelling.

The Music.

The Cinematography.

Give Ryan & Michael their flowers NOW!!!! 👏🏾👏🏾🙂‍↕️

The mention of a certain guitarist …. brought this shit home for me! 😩

annnnnd THAT scene gave me chills. They did that fr!

Can’t wait to see it at the IMAX.

[solgasm]

[solgasm]

I finally saw Sinners yesterday, and all I can say is this is exactly why diversity in creative fields is so important. That movie was so beautiful and I seriously recommend everyone to go and see it in theatres. It’s already the BEST movie of 2025.

[solgasm]

me genuinely going insane because my shayla died, but it's literally the second episode and i have to lock in for the rest of the season