#Miles!Reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 6 days ago

Text

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy.

You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life.

You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that?

But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked.

Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all.

You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did.

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command.

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel?

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more.

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard.

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead.

“Captain,” you reply, nodding.

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?”

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.”

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly.

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.”

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?”

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.”

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.”

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?”

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed.

“She quick?” he asks.

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.”

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.”

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.”

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?”

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.”

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.”

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.”

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters.

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.”

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.”

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.”

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.”

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news.

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!”

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob.

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him.

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips.

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.”

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?”

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.”

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?”

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.”

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.”

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?”

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.”

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter.

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?”

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.”

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?”

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.”

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.”

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.”

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?”

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.”

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?”

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.”

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.”

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—”

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?”

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend.

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.”

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.”

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans.

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar.

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.”

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.”

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused.

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?”

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?”

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.”

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.”

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little.

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful.

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?”

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?”

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.”

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours.

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.”

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?”

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough.

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter.

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?”

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.”

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile.

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it.

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years.

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?”

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?”

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.”

You roll your eyes.

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side.

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.”

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?”

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.”

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.”

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles.

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning.

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.”

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin.

“The usual?” she asks.

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.”

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead.

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.”

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity.

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?”

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.”

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash.

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred.

“Does it matter?”

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.”

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks.

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar.

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.”

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.”

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move.

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?”

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.”

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much.

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table.

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks.

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out.

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown.

You glance at him. “Do what?”

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.”

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.”

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.”

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?”

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.”

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought.

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?”

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—”

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.”

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?”

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.”

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?”

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.”

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.”

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?”

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game.

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?”

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.”

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.”

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley.

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.”

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you.

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.”

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep.

“Mind if I play next?”

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his.

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.”

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha.

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat.

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob.

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy.

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee.

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row.

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.”

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him.

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?”

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.”

Your mouth drops open.

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.”

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks.

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.”

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown.

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show.

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley.

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later.

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants.

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second.

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.”

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes.

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.”

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.”

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal.

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no.

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word.

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.”

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface.

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.”

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op.

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.”

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.”

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance.

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory.

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?”

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?”

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.”

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat.

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.”

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

All from a look.

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better.

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO.

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them.

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little.

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers.

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.”

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.”

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.”

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.”

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder.

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.”

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.”

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours.

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks.

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are.

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?”

“Pizza?”

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind.

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?”

You stop walking. “With who?”

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.”

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.”

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—”

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?”

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—”

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.”

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?”

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.”

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.”

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word.

Good.

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you.

Good?

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with.

Good.

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that.

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.”

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob.

BOB FLOYD

📎 [Image attachment]

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’

And there he fucking is.

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband.

Holy fuck.

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe.

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo.

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture.

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve.

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with?

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and—

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on.

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo.

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone.

A little notification pops up beneath your message.

Read. Immediately.

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?”

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute.

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help.

But first…

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids.

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers.

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all.

But you can’t stop thinking about it.

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time.

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again.

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak.

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week.

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?”

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus.

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat.

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch.

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?”

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.”

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing.

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.”

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.”

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.”

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset.

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.”

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.”

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.”

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.”

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim.

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.”

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly.

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply.

“Did I beat Hangman?”

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.”

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?”

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.”

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.”

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.”

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming.

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.”

“So… a baby sim?”

“Basically. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant.

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.”

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.”

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.”

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp.

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.”

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.”

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.”

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth.

“I’m coming in,” you mutter.

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.”

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he says, grinning now.

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out.

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?”

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.”

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?”

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.”

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?”

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.”

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?”

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.”

The sim bucks suddenly.

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale.

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.”

But it’s too late.

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude!

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…”

“You eject,” you say dryly.

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?”

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.”

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.”

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?”

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.”

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.”

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him.

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.”

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.”

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls.

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?”

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies.

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?”

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him.

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.”

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip.

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.”

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless.

“Now keep her steady.”

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.”

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.”

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?”

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.”

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway.

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.”

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.”

“You know, not what Fanboy did.”

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line.

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.”

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.”

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides.

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now.

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.”

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.”

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later.

You grin. “Nice shot.”

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?”

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.”

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back.

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused.

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing.

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone.

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.”

He does so without hesitation.

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing.

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.”

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.”

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster.

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered.

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.”

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing.

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.”

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.”

“You sure?”

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him.

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.”

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still.

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE.

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.”

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?”

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.”

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and—

He falls forward.

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down.

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide.

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours.

“Are you okay? Your head—”

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist.

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.”

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek.

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.”

Your laughter fades, breath catching.

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance.

And then—

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang.

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?”

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you.

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op.

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!”

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob?

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight.

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report.

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door.

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.”

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.”

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers.

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot.

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours.

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out.

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace.

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name.

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?”

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—”

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts.

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it.

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.”

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.”

“Shame. Still hot though, right?”

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable.

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat.

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.”

“What, you’re not into her?”

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything.

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—”

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat.

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.”

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs.

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you.

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—”

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore.

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home.

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out.

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage?

Fuck. That.

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing.

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something.

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t.

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it.

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie.

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship.

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it.

Because it was Bob.

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself.

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart.

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd.

Fuck that guy.

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice.

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat.

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend.

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him.

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room.

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.”

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares.

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once.

And you don’t look at him at all.

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room.

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until—

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat.

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.”

“That thing work?” he asks.

“What thing?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.”

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard.

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.”

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer.

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.”

“What’d you watch?”

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking.

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies?

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense.

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral.

“Do you need something?”

He frowns. “What do you—”

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.”

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?”

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.”

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.”

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?”

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod once. “Yep.”

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook.

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy.

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick:

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller.

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting.

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move.

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you.

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face.

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.”

“Copy,” Mickey replies.

“Copy,” Bob mutters.

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth.

“Hangman, you ready?”

“When you are, boss.”

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.”

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful.

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in.

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease.

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.”

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.”

“Copy that. Repositioning.”

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.”

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.”

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.”

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.”

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant.

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction.

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn.

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.”

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.”

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable.

“Pilot ready?” you ask.

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.”

You nod. “Run it.”

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence.

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long.

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost.

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean.

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter.

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—”

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher.

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen.

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre.

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow.

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it.

But he knows something’s wrong.

- Bob -

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off.

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend.

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group.

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.”

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?”

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.”

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.”

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk.

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path.

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!”

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number.

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.”

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts.

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.”

Bob glances up. “Hm?”

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Is this about Lucky?”

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill.

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?”

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?”

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.”

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters.

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.”

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.”

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.”

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide.

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing.

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid.

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible.

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you.

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone.

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him.

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn.

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.”

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.”

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots.

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices.

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat.

Bob frowns. “Where?”

“Hangman’s birthday.”

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene.

“I don’t know, it—”

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.”

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.”

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.”

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press.

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips.

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base.

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what.

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more.

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?”

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire.

Cute? You called him cute.

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?!

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you.

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones.

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach.

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game.

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses.

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’

‘She only uses Morse code.’

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband.

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely.

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it.

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing.

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap.

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party.

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat.

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading.

And then... there’s you.

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options.

So you did.

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin.

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long.

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him.

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment.

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos?

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk.

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions.

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve.

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years.

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him.

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts.

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction.

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it.

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe.

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer.

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight.

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate.

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop.

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And—

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache.

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering.

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more.

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch.

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline.

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh.

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants.

- You -

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t.

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes.

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it.

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours.

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you.

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure.

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out.

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage?

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really.

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter?

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?”

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying.

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later.

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.”

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should.

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her.

“All for you, baby.”

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?”

“Show me the way.”

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance.

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head.

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.”

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?”

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.”

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice.

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked.

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.”

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point.

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild.

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.”

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up.

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball.

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot.

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!”

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces.

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed.

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him.

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling.

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress?

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart.

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop.

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor.

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands.

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower?

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over.

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club.

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen.

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea.

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and—

Bob.

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring.

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in.

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench.

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you.

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide.

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out.

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him.

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!”

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin.

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—”

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.”

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.”

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way.

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin.

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea.

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob.

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake.

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral.

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob.

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots.

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music.

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!”

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night.

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school.

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive.

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all.

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand.

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around.

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why.

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.”

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?”

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you.

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.”

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady.

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.”

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.”

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham.

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt.

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless.

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.”

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes.

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm.

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego.

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob.

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down.

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all.

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor.

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline.

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly.

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong.

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him.

Bob.

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit.

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes?

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving.

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room.

And you feel it.

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in.

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all.

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you.

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved.

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away.

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares.

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you.

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer.

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting.

Then he’s there. Beside you.

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go.

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls.

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you.

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?”

“What’s your problem?” you bite back.

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?”

“Doing what?” you demand.

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—”

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?”

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut.

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know.

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care.

And that’s the most confusing part.

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging.

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.”

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—”

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.”

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—”

“Then why would you say it?”

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?”

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?”

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.”

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?”

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.”

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.”

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache.

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech.

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music.

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot.

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady.

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling.

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward.

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in.

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more.

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you.

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.”

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?”

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.”

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“You love me?”

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.”

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate.

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast.

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in.

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time.

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry.

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want.

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore.

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck.

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle.

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk.

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze.

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw.

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning.

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.”

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.”

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second.

Then he’s on you. Everywhere.

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself.

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple.

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue.

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—”

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine.

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?”

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them.

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you.

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.”

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting.

Then he grinds against you.

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct.

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked.

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.”

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you.

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural.

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control.

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers.

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together.

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.”

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity.

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one.

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm.

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.”

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.”

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again.

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.”

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward.

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him.

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone.

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast.

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper.

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.”

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly.

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky.

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years.

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go.

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time.

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering.

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.”

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob.

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years.

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you.

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes.

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin.

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls.

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known.

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you.

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone.

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache.

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast.

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else.

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.”

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.”

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again.

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then—

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches.

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask.

“Bob…”

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.”

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis.

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.”

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be.

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too.

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.”

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?”

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his.

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need.

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant.

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking.

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.”

You’re just about to kiss him again when—

Bang, bang, bang.

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?”

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.”

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock.

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?”

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?”

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.”

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.”

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor.

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing.

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?”

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.”

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist.

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.”

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?”

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass.

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?”

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?”

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.”

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red.

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted.

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away.

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!”

1K notes · View notes

geminiwritten · 3 months ago

Text

emergency contact ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: rooster exploits having you as his emergency contact to get you away from hangman

notes: okay, i am so sorry if this is rushed but i had to get it out before i start my new job (and maybe won't have so much time to write)... i really hope y'all enjoy it!!! please let me know, i really love all kinds of feedback! (p.s. this is also super lame and cheesy but that’s just my genre now)

warnings: swearing, very poor us navy knowledge (i literally just do some very brief googling), very minor and probably inaccurate medical descriptions, text chat screenshots, use of y/n (which is a warning now?), and a kind of rushed ending

word count: 9129

“Damn.” You stop just before stepping into the sun, tipping your head forward so you can see over the frame of your sunglasses. “I should come here more often.”

Fighter jets line the tarmac in two neat rows, and in the middle under the shade of one of the jets are your friends, the dagger squad. They’re all on the ground, half of them in a sit up position and the other half doing push ups. All looking absolutely fine.

Maverick is talking to someone a little off to your right, but you’re more than happy to wait for him while you ogle the pilots performing their punishments. Hondo is standing over the seven of them, counting repetitions loudly and correcting their forms.

“Hey,” Maverick calls, his voice echoing into the hangar.

You turn to see him tuck his helmet under one arm as he walks quickly toward you. “Hey Mav.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a day off, so I thought I’d finally get my pre-enrolment sorted out for my DBIDS card.” You hold up the ID badge hanging on a lanyard around your neck. “You’re my sponsor, by the way.”

He frowns. “Aren’t I supposed to be escorting you, then?”

You hike your thumb over your shoulder toward where you’d entered the hangar. “Warlock vouched for me and said he’d get you to take me back to the VCC and sign everything then.”

Maverick glances passed you, giving a short wave to the rear admiral who had stopped to talk to a couple of other officers. “Well then, I better wrap this lot up,” he says. “Are you alright to wait a bit?”

You nod, letting your lips curl into a smirk as your eyes slide back over to the squad. “I am more than happy to wait.”

His gaze follows yours and he chuckles. “They’ll start showing off if they know you’re here. Why don’t you come over and say hello?”

You push the bridge of your sunglasses further up your nose. “I would love to.”

Mav leads the way to the squad, into the sun and across the hot tarmac. It’s unusually warm today, and you can feel your skin start to perspire after only a few steps out from under the hangar’s shade. Or maybe you’re just starting to sweat because of the scene you’re approaching.

You’ve never seen the squad in their flight suits before. You’ve seen pictures and videos, but you’ve never seen them in person. On a hot day. Half unzipped and tied around their waists. As they drip with sweat.

Your eyes find Bradley’s head of tousled golden-brown locks immediately, and your heartrate ratchets up a few notches, your breath catching in your throat. He’s doing push ups, his dog tags touching the concrete on every dip and his back muscles rippling under the black material of his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

Your knees almost wobble when you stop beside Maverick, and Jake is the first to notice you as he comes up for his next sit up. “Hey gorgeous,” he calls out, that signature smirk plastered across his flushed face.

“Hey.” You let your eyes wander over the rest of the group before settling back on Bradley. Your sunglasses slide a little further down your nose and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard to try and distract yourself from the way Bradley’s biceps are bulging and straining.

When he glances up at you, your head spins. His face is flushed and his brows furrowed, but there’s still a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “Hey sweetheart.”

“Eyes down, Rooster,” Hondo barks.

Bradley’s head snaps back down, but the next push up he does seems a little firmer and a little lower. Your mouth waters as you trace the outline of his broad shoulders, letting your gaze slide down his back to his butt, lingering there as his muscular body moves up and down.

“Phoenix, you’re done,” Hondo announces, startling you out of your trance.

Natasha lets out a whoosh of air as she finishes her sit ups and falls back against the concrete. She shields her eyes with one hand, squinting toward you and waving her other hand in the air.

You wave back just as Hondo announces, “Hangman, Coyote, you’re done.”

Javy falls back the same way Natasha had, his hands holding his abdomen as he works on catching his breath, but Jake doesn’t stop. He maintains perfect form as he sinks back and sits up, winking at you before lowering himself back again.

Natasha scoffs. “Show off.”

Maverick catches your eye and smirks before taking half a step forward. “What’s your goal here, Hangman? Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

“No sir,” Jake replies, his expression full of steely focus. “Just trying to impress the lady and outlast these chumps.”

Mickey chuckles as he lowers himself into another push up. “Since when is Y/N a lady?”

“Hey!” you exclaim.

Laughter rolls through the squad, and even Hondo cracks a smile as he says, “Bob, you’re done.”

Bob finishes his sit ups with a sigh and wraps his arms around his knees, chuckling softly through his ragged breaths.

You look at Maverick, tipping your chin in Mickey’s direction. “Can I sit on him?”

Mav chuckles. “As much as I'd love to see that, not with Warlock standing twenty feet away.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, turning back to face the group.

“You can sit on me,” Jake says as he rises into another sit up. He lowers himself back with a shit-eating grin before sitting up again. “Later tonight.”

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben snicker as Natasha rolls her eyes, but Bradley stays silent. You can see little droplets of sweat soaking into the concrete below him, and your first thought is ‘what a waste’. Great, you’re officially creepy enough to want to drink his sweat.

“Alright,” Hondo says. “That’s enough, the lot of you.”

Mickey and Reuben groan as they sit back on their haunches and turn their heads up to the sky, breathing in the warm afternoon air, but Bradley keeps going.

“Rooster, Hangman, that’s enough,” Mav says, his voice stern despite the smirk on his lips.

“I can last as long as you can, Bradshaw,” Jake taunts.

Bradley lets out a harsh breath as he pushes himself up again. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Seresin.”

A chorus of ooh’s fills the air as the rest of the squad watch the two stubborn boys, eyes bouncing between them. You have to keep reminding yourself to look over at Jake, to not make it so obvious that half the reason you’re here is to drool over Bradley.

“Come on, boys,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough.”

Neither of them let up, and Hondo chuckles to himself as he strolls into the hangar.

Maverick clears his throat. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, Lieutenant Seresin, that is enough.”

They both stop and quickly get to their feet, their faces red and glistening with sweat. You can’t help but wonder if that’s what Bradley would look like after a good few hours of sex. You definitely plan on finding out one day, if you can ever find the courage to make a move.

“No debrief this afternoon,” Maverick announces. “So, unless anyone has anyone questions, you’re all dismissed.”

Bob quickly pipes up with a question about one of the exercises they performed earlier in the day, but you can barely hear the discussion between him and Maverick. Your eyes are all over Bradley, because seeing him in his flight suit is doing something to you, something more than usual. He’s standing wide, those big black boots planted further than shoulder-width apart, making his legs look even longer and more powerful than usual. His arms are crossed, his biceps straining against the black fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. It’s clinging to every inch of his muscled torso, tucked into the flight suit that is tied around his waist. The gold in his hair is shining beneath the hot sun, his tan skin is glowing with sweat, and his slutty sunglasses are perched a little too low on his nose. This man is walking sex, and it’s becoming a health hazard because you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

A voice suddenly breaks through your Bradley-induced trance. “Is that okay?”

You blink a couple of times, refocusing on Maverick who is now standing between you and the squad with his eyebrows raised in question. “Is what okay?”

He rolls his eyes, lips quirked into a small but knowing smirk. “I’m just going to have a quick shower before taking you back to the VCC. Is that okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” He claps a hand on your shoulder. “You go ahead and get back to that daydream. By the look on your face, it was getting good.”

You scowl at him as he chuckles and walks away, heading in the same direction that Reuben and Mickey are walking. The rest of the squad are still standing in front of you, chatting about something that you assume came up from Bob’s earlier query.

Jake breaks away from the group, stepping toward you with a wide grin. “What brings you out here, gorgeous?”

“Getting my pre-enrolment sorted out,” you reply.

“For a DBIDS card?”

You nod.

“Why do you need to be able to visit unchaperoned?” he asks, that usual cocky glint making his green eyes sparkle. “I’ll gladly be your chaperone whenever you want to visit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “As much as I would love to be personally escorted by you, Hangman, I thought it would be smart in case I ever need to enact my emergency contact duties.”

He frowns. “Who’s emergency contact are you?”

“That would be me,” Bradley says, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

You bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling so wide as you look up at him, but you know your bright red cheeks are already giving you away.

“I thought your emergency contact was Mav?” Jake asks.

“He was,” Bradley replies. “But then I thought that if I’m ever in an emergency situation, there’s probably a good chance that Mav is in that situation with me.”

Jake nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” A beat of silence passes before he turns his attention back to you, that flirty smirk reappearing as he claps his hands together. “Anyway, are we all set for tomorrow?”

“Yep,” you respond. “Are you still sure you want to spend your day off helping me?”

“Of course. Any day with you is a day well spent, whether it involves manual labour or not.”

You asked Jake a few weeks ago to help with the delivery and assembly of your new bedframe and mattress and getting rid of your old stuff, since the last time you did it on your own you nearly ended up in the hospital with a slipped disc. Normally, you would ask Bradley for help with this kind of thing, but your crush has been so stifling the last couple of months that you know it would be counterproductive to have Bradley sweating and moving heavy things in your bedroom. Besides, Jake happens to have the day off because he’s owed an RDO, and he insists that he doesn’t mind helping you out. It’s a win-win situation; you get a new bed, and no one ends up in the hospital with a broken back. Not that you would mind if Bradley broke your back.

“What’s tomorrow?” Bradley asks, his brows pinched into a frown.

“I’m helping her in bed,” Jake replies quickly, his grin downright evil. “I mean, with her bed.”

You roll your eyes at Jake again, before looking up at Bradley. “I’m getting a new bedframe and mattress, remember?”

“Right,” he says, brows still furrowed. “I thought I told you I’d help you with that?”

The way he’s looking down at you is making the butterflies in your stomach riot. He looks like a scolded puppy, wondering what he did wrong to deserve this punishment.

“You did, but Jake has the day off and you’ve already done enough slave labour for me.”

“But I like being your slave,” he says, the corner of his lips tipping up slightly.

It takes all your strength not to groan out loud. He is not making this easy.

“And you will always be my favourite slave, Bradley.” You pat a hand on his chest. “Which is why I need to give you a break every now and then.”

You pull your hand away quickly, immediately regretting the fact that you just felt up his firm chest and damp shirt, because now you’re getting that familiar ache behind your hipbones. The ache that only your vibrator and fantasies of Bradley can satiate, but even that hasn’t been enough lately. You need the real thing.

The sound of your name echoing through the hangar draws your attention, and you look over your shoulder to see Maverick with spikey, wet hair waving you toward him.

“That’s my cue.” You turn back to Jake. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you”- you look up at Bradley -“on the weekend.”

When you slide out from under Bradley’s arm, it suddenly feels like this very hot day has turned cold. It takes all your strength to keep your feet moving one after the other away from him. You’ve had a crush on Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you first met him, but it’s called a ‘crush’ for a reason, because now it is crushing you. He’s the first thing on your mind when you wake up, and the last name on your lips before you fall asleep.

“Are you alright?” Maverick asks once you reach him, and you know it’s because your cheeks are bright red.

“Yeah, just a bit hot out here.”

He nods as you both start walking toward the door. “It’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow.”

Back at the Visitor Control Centre, Maverick signs everything he needs to in order to grant you unchaperoned access to the base. After that, he walks you to your car and bids you farewell. You’re more than grateful for your car’s aircon as you take a moment to collect your thoughts, the ones that are running wild with fantasies about Bradley in that damn flight suit.

Eventually, you make your way home and immediately hole yourself up in your room. You spend over an hour in there to trying to satisfy that ache below your belly, but the incessant messages from the group chat popping up on your phone screen make it difficult. Only when your stomach starts to grumble do you give up and head into the kitchen, reading through the messages you’d been trying to ignore.

You hit send on your last message and smack your phone face down on the kitchen counter. Your cheeks are red and your heart is racing, and you’re not hungry anymore because your stomach has twisted itself into one big nervous knot.

You know that whatever it is between you and Bradley is no secret. You assume it’s because you drunkenly confessed to Bob, Mickey, and Natasha one night that you had a huge crush on him, and since then the rest have seemingly caught on. You don’t mind the teasing – at least, you didn’t at first, but it’s becoming more frequent and making you more nervous. Bradley rarely interacts with it, and all you do is tell them to shut up or butt out. You can’t figure out if they’re simply teasing because they can, or if they actually see something between the two of you that is real.

There have been a couple of times when you’ve wondered if Bradley might feel the same way. You even almost made a move once, before chickening out and refusing to look him in the eye for two weeks straight. You know you’re being a little bitch about it, and you hate yourself every day for being like one of those characters in your romance books that pines and pines, despite their broody love interest being obviously smitten. But you still can’t stop yourself from being a chicken. You justify it by telling yourself that it's to protect your friendship and the group’s comfortable dynamic, but you know that deep down, you’re scared. You’re scared that Bradley only wants that one thing, while you’re nothing short of hopelessly in love with the man.

You wake up to the sound of your phone vibrating on your bedside table. You know it’s too early for your alarm and way too early for the delivery driver to be calling you, so you’re not surprised when you see Jake’s goofy contact photo lighting up your phone screen.

“Good morning, Hangman,” you say groggily.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he replies cheerfully. “Did I wake you up?”

You sigh and roll onto your back. “Yes.”

He chuckles. “Oops. How’s about I make it up to you with breakfast?”

You sit up quickly. “You’re already on your way here?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, throwing your bed covers back.

“Just the usual?” he asks.

“Make it a double shot.”

You toss your phone onto your bed before hurrying into your ensuite, quickly stripping down as the shower heats up. You brush your teeth in the shower and scrub everything as quickly as you can before wrapping yourself in a towel and starting to pull all the bedding off your mattress. Just as you’ve finished shoving it all into your already overflowing hamper, your apartment intercom buzzes.

You hitch your towel higher as you step out of your room and press the button on the intercom to unlock the lobby door. There’s an affirmative beep and a click, and then you walk toward the front door and double check that your towel is covering you.

As soon as you hear footsteps, you pull the door open with a scowl. “Since when did I tell you to get here at the ass crack of dawn?”

His green eyes widen as he takes you in, that signature smirk painting his features. “I thought it would be good to get an early start, but this”- he nods at you -“is an unexpected bonus.”

You roll your eyes and step aside, allowing him in. He stops at your kitchen bench and places the cup tray of two coffees down alongside a paper bag filled with deliciously greasy smelling breakfast.

“Give me five minutes,” you say, before walking back into your bedroom.

You quickly change into a pair of exercise tights and an oversized shirt – one that you’re not sure even belongs to you – before fixing your hair and doing a very quick version of your morning skincare routine. When you reemerge into the main area of your open-plan apartment, Jake is seated on the lounge with your breakfast laid out across the coffee table.

You flop beside him and take a hashbrown. “So, what’s the plan?”

He turns to you with a frown. “Why do I have to come up with a plan?”

“I wouldn’t need your help if I had a plan, would I?”

He chuckles softly. “I guess not.”

You spend the next five minutes inhaling your breakfast while Jake asks a few logistical questions. Once you're both finished eating and quietly sipping on your coffees, he pushes himself off the lounge and walks toward your bedroom.

He pauses at the door. “Can I go in?”

You nod, and the door squeaks as he nudges it open. He takes one step in and stops, cocking his head thoughtfully before continuing in. He assesses the area and walks further in, at which point you decide to join him. He’s standing on the opposite side of your bed when you get there, and he’s wearing the type of shit-eating grin that you know comes with some sort of teasing or offensive remark.

“So,” he says, “this is where you touch yourself and fantasise about Rooster every night.”

Your stomach drops and you splutter against the lid of your coffee cup, spraying half a mouthful of it across the room. You can feel your face turning red as you cough, but you know it isn’t just the lack of oxygen to blame.

Jake gasps, laughter bubbling from his lips as he rushes around the bed to you. “I’m so sorry,” he says between giggles. “Are you okay?”

You continue to cough, holding a hand against your chest as you try to blink back the tears in your eyes. It takes almost a minute for you to compose yourself, but Jake takes even longer to quell his laughter.

He sighs loudly and wipes the corner of his eye while you turn to him with a scowl. “Who told you?”

He bats his eyes innocently. “Told me what?”

You hesitate, your eyes narrowed as your mind races to send the right words to your lips. “That I might have a small crush on Rooster.”

He snorts a laugh. “No one had to tell me anything. Any idiot who spends enough time with the two of you can clearly see that you’re obsessed with each other.”

“What? No.” Your frown indignantly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, still chuckling. “I can practically see you cataloguing your spank bank every time you stare at him.”

Your eyes grow wide and your skin burns. You have to look away from him to stop yourself from smacking that smug smile right off his face.

“You know what,” you say, sparing him only a glance. “I don’t think I want to have this conversation with you, so can we please get back to the bed.”

He sighs wistfully. “If only Rooster heard you say that to me. He’d be ropable.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip from your coffee, ready to turn away from him when realisation hits you. “Wait. Is that why you’re always flirting with me, just to piss off Bradley?”

He shrugs, but his smile is sheepish. “I flirt with you because you’re gorgeous, but annoying Rooster is a small plus.”

“You are unbelievable.” You turn on your heel and walk back out of your room, finding your phone on the couch to check if there are any updates on the delivery of your new furniture.

“Hang on a minute.” He follows you into the living space. “I could help you, you know?”

You scoff. “With what? Moving my new bed in? Because that is why you’re here. Not to make me feel shitty about some stupid, unrequited crush that is apparently pretty fucking obvious.”

He rolls his lips to hold back another laugh. “I could help you make a move,” he clarifies. “Because I’ll tell you this, it is not unrequited. Rooster is as crazy about you, as you are him.”

Your heart stutters, but your walls stay up. “How do you know?”

“Just believe me,” he says. “That man’s right forearm is thicker than his left because of you.”

You frown and cock your head, processing his words until the meaning hits you and your mouth pops open.

“Anyway.” He claps his hands and rubs his palms together. “Let’s get this old mattress out of here and start pulling apart the bedframe. I’ll give you some advice while we work.”

For the next few hours, you let Jake tell you what to do. You hold things, you move furniture, you unscrew things, and you listen to his surprisingly sound advice on what to do about Bradley. The more he speaks, the more confident you feel, because something about Jake’s charisma is infectious. You know you might not feel the same when face to face with Bradley’s big brown eyes and pretty smile, but it at least feels good to talk to someone about it. Even if that someone gags every time you start swooning.

- Bradley -

Today is hot, almost too hot. Bradley has pushed his body to the limit before, it’s basically in his job description, but today feels different. He feels sick. His flight suit is too heavy and his muscles are shaking. His stomach is twisting and gurgling with every sharp move, and his head is spinning.

Bradley is only in the sky – flying like a rookie – for an hour before Maverick grounds him, giving him a brutal workout to do while the rest of the squad finish their drills. Even Hondo has taken shelter in the hangar, watching Bradley complete his exercises from afar with a damp towel wrapped around the back of his neck.

The concrete is hot, and Bradley is pretty sure he’s getting second-degree burns on his palms as he pushes himself up into his twenty-fourth burpee. His flight suit is tied around his waist, and he can feel an excess of sweat gathering in the bunched-up material there. His dog tags are jingling as he jumps up and down, occasionally smacking him in the face when his moves are too jerky.

“That’s enough,” Hondo calls out. “Have a break. Drink some water.”

Bradley stops and swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. He can see the squad getting ready to land now, so it must be time for lunch. He waits for them inside the hangar, his heart beating loudly in his chest even after twenty minutes of standing still. Eventually, the group stroll in and head toward the lockers, grabbing their personal items before going to the mess hall.

Bradley finds a seat while everyone else continues to get food. He’s not sure his stomach can handle anything right now, even his water bottle remains untouched. He pulls his phone out and brings up the group chat that has five new messages.

His insides twist at the sight of Jake in your apartment. It’s not like he hasn’t been there before, but he’s never been there alone with you. Bradley clamps his teeth together and wills that sick feeling in his gut to fuck off. This isn’t the time nor the place to vomit about the fact that the girl he likes is spending the day with one of the most charming men he knows.

“You look pale,” Bob says as he puts his tray down on the table.

“But also kind of red,” Natasha adds, a frown pinching her brows. “You look like you’re trying not to hurl.”

Bradley swallows hard and sits up straighter. “I’m fine, just a little wrung out from the heat.”

The rest of the squad join the table and conversation flows easily. A couple of them reply to you in the group chat, but Bradley doesn’t want to know anything else about what’s going on, so he lets his phone buzz face down on the table. He stares straight ahead at the space between Bob and Natasha’s heads, zoning out and imagining a much worse scenario than what is actually happening at your apartment.

He pictures you both sweating and giggling together, bumping into each other as you move and assemble furniture. Then he sees you both on the new mattress, flopping down exhaustedly after finally sliding it onto the new bedframe. You’d stop giggling with a sigh before turning to face one another, locking eyes, expressions turning serious as Jake’s hand comes up to caress your cheek. You would roll onto your side to get closer to him, and he’d only have to move an inch toward you to press his lips against yours. That kiss would unlock something in you, igniting your attraction to this man and making you climb on top of him. Clothes would be torn off, teeth and tongues clashing, and the bed would quickly be broken in.

“Rooster.” Natasha snaps her fingers in front of Bradley’s face.

He blinks a couple of times before refocusing on the woman in front of him. “Huh?”

“Jesus Christ, dude,” she says. “What is wrong with you today?”

Bradley looks to his left and right before spotting the rest of the squad making their way out of the mess hall. He jumps up from his chair. “Shit, that went quick.”

“Well, you were off with the fairies the whole time.”

He tries not to look her in the eye despite her intense stare. The journey back to the hangar is silent, but he can tell Natasha is studying him, scrutinising his expression until they both approach the rest of the group waiting with Maverick.

Mav takes the floor and announces that today is the perfect day to test limits. He starts explaining the workout that he has planned for the squad, because they may have to face extreme heat on their next assignment, and it’s important to be prepared. Everyone groans in protest, even Hondo, but Mav ignores it. He’s almost excited to torture his lieutenants.

An hour later, everyone is absolutely dripping with sweat. All flight suits are at least half off, some discarded entirely as the squad run, jump, and swerve through the makeshift fitness course Mav set up. It feels more like torture than conditioning, but no one has the energy to even speak up.

“Alright,” Mav calls out. “That’s enough. Take a break, have some water, then come inside and take a seat.”

They all slowly drag themselves toward Hondo, who is handing out towels and cold bottles of water. None of them can muster a single word, they all just huff and puff and groan when they wipe their skin with the wet towels. Bradley is the last to approach Hondo, his gaze fixed on the outstretched water bottle as he wonders when the last time it was that he had a drink.

“Rooster.” Hondo takes a step toward the lieutenant. “Are you alright?”

Bradley blinks slowly, looking up as one Hondo turns into two. His surroundings blur and his limbs start to tingle. His head feels heavy and his stomach sinks, his eyes fluttering shut as his body goes limp.

- You -

“Harder,” Jake grunts. “Push harder.”

You let out a puff of air before tensing your muscles and shoving as hard as you can. The mattress slides along the carpet slowly, making your blood boil with frustration. “Why is this thing so fucking heavy?”

Jake chuckles. “I just assumed you bought an extra sturdy one so you and Rooster can fuck as hard as- woah!”

You push with all your strength, sliding the mattress into an unsuspecting Jake. He laughs as he rights himself and guides the mattress further into your room.

“If I knew that annoying you would give you super strength, I would have started earlier,” he says, leaning around the mattress to show you his cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes. “You’ve been annoying me all day.”

“It’s called bonding.”

“Whatever, just get this thing on the frame.”

After a short argument on how you should manoeuvre the mattress, and a string of cuss words as you heave the thing into place, you finally manage to get the mattress sitting snuggly on the new bedframe. You both fall onto it immediately, facing the ceiling as you work to catch your breath.

“Fuck me,” you sigh.

Jake snorts. “I would, but I think Rooster might flay me alive.”

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time today. “I wasn’t offering, and I’m still on the fence about believing you, so stop it with the constant remarks.”

He rolls onto his stomach, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Then let’s have sex and see what happens?”

You huff out a half-assed laugh as you sit up. “Like I said, Hangman; I wasn’t offering.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. We shouldn’t play with Rooster’s feelings like that.” He rolls onto his back again and blinks slowly at the ceiling.

It makes you feel better to see a small sign of exhaustion from him, because for most of the day, you’ve been wrecked while Jake has been running off some sort of endless energy reserve. He’s like the human personification of a border collie, a little too keen and full of bounce, and you can definitely see him tearing the lounge apart if he’s bored and locked inside.

You open your mouth to tell him how he reminds you of a herding dog when the sound of your phone’s ringtone cuts you off. You frown, wondering who it could be as you rush out of your room to get it off the kitchen bench.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Mariam. I’m calling from the Primary Health Clinic on North Island Naval Air Station. I need to speak with about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

Your stomach sinks so fast and so hard, you feel like it might have fallen right out of your arse. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in our care this afternoon due to a minor incident, and while he’s doing just fine, we cannot permit him to drive himself home. Would you be able to come pick him up?”

You rush over to the coffee table and pick up your car keys. “Of course.”

“That’s great,” the woman replies, her tone calm and even. “I’ll text our address to this number. Do you require any further assistance locating the clinic?”

“No, that should be fine.” You prop your sunglasses on top of your head. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. We’ll see you soon.”

You pull the phone away from your ear as you hurry back into your room. Jake is sitting up now, his brows furrowed and eyes wide with curiosity. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Something happened to Bradley and now he’s at some health clinic or something.” You’re not surprised by the panic in your voice, if only a little embarrassed. The woman said he’s fine. The last thing you need to do right now is panic.

Jake stands up and rounds the bed quickly, putting a hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t freak out, I’m sure he’s okay. He’s at the clinic, not the hospital, so he’s probably just tripped on his own shoelaces or something.”

You let out a breathy laugh as you search Jake’s face for any hint of worry. He doesn’t seem concerned, so you let yourself relax and picture Bradley sitting sheepishly in a hospital bed with nothing more than a papercut.

“They said he can’t drive, so I have to go pick him up.”

Jake nods. “You go. I’ll stay here and clean up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go get your damsel in distress.”

You hesitate for a second before throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him. “Thank you.”

He hugs you back with a chuckle before you pull away and practically run out of your apartment. You don’t slow down for anything; you even take the stairs instead of the elevator because you can’t stand still for even a second. You try not to drive like a maniac, but it’s hard not to as your mind swirls with the possibilities of Bradley’s accident.

In less than fifteen minutes, you’re flashing your identification at the front gate and waiting impatiently for them to raise the boom gate. You swerve into the visitor’s parking lot and jump out of your car, legging it toward the health clinic where your phone’s map tells you to go. It only takes a few minutes for you to get there, and you stop a few feet from the door, taking a moment to control your breathing.

The air is thick and the sun blistering. You’re sweating more than you have all day, since you've spent most of the day inside your airconditioned apartment. If Bradley isn’t really hurt, you’re going to actually hurt him for making you worry this much and run in this heat.

Once your breathing feels more regular, you grab the stainless-steel handle and push the door open. The small reception space is painted blue and white, with a couple of plastic chairs on one side and a magazine rack beside a water bubbler on the other. The blonde woman behind the desk peeks up at you through the Perspex shield surrounding her space.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hi.” You step forward. “I got a call about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

To the right of her desk is a hallway leading further into the building. Voices and footsteps echo off the blue walls, and despite the desolate reception area, it seems like the rest of the clinic is rather busy.

“Yes, that was me.” She smiles. “I’ll just get you to fill this out so we can start his discharge, then I’ll take you through.”

You take the clipboard from her and sit in one of the plastic chairs. You barely read the form, skimming quickly over it before answering the few questions and signing your name at the bottom. After you hand it back it to her, you walk over to the water bubbler and fill up a small plastic cup. You drain it three times before she waves you over and starts walking down the hall.

The noises get louder the further you delve into the building, and you quickly realise that this place is something of a mini hospital for minor emergencies to help keep the actual ER from being overrun. The hallway eventually opens up into a larger waiting area with lemon-coloured walls and bigger chairs occupied by sickly officers. One of them is holding a bloody gauze pressed to the palm of his hand, and two others are paper white and dripping with sweat.

“Heatstroke,” the blonde woman says over her shoulder. “We’ve had so many of them today, but your husband was by far the worst.”

You choke on your breath and trip on nothing as you follow her. “M-My what?”

“Oh, sorry.” She turns to her left at the end of the hall. “I just saw you were listed as Lieutenant Bradshaw’s ‘partner’ and assumed. It’s force of habit. I forget that a lot of couples don’t bother with marriage these days.”

Your mind struggles to catch up, half of it rejoicing about the fact that someone thinks Bradley is your husband, and the other half wondering why the fuck he would list you as his partner. Before you can come up with the words to correct the woman, she stops.

“Just in here.” She pushes the door open a small way. “I’ll get his papers sorted and let you know as soon as he can leave.”

You nod, still speechless, and she walks away. You stand still for a moment, your hand on the door and heart racing as you take one deep breath and push.

The room is small, with powder blue walls and the same white linoleum as the rest of the clinic. There’s a stool and tall portable desk in one corner, and one of those plastic waiting room chairs in the other. In the middle of the room is a hospital bed, but there’s no guard rails or bedding, and it's folded up so the sheepish lieutenant occupying it is sitting up straight.

“Hey,” you say, your lips twitching as you hold back a smirk.

He’s hooked up to an intravenous device that has a long tube connected to a bag of clear liquid. His face is flushed and the hair at his neck damp, but otherwise, he looks just as delicious as usual.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You close the door behind you before approaching the bed. “How are you?”

He shuffles on the crinkly mattress, making room for you to sit. “Never been better.”

"Want to tell me what happened?” you ask as you sit at the foot of the bed.

He rubs the back of his neck, the pink in his cheeks deepening. “Well, it’s hot day, and I forgot to drink water, so I passed out.”

You lose the battle with your maturity and let out a soft laugh. Something about Bradley looking so defeated in a hospital bed amuses you more than it should. That combined with the relief that he isn’t seriously hurt means that you can’t control the elated laughter forcing its way through your lips.

You cover your mouth to try and stop the noise. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I was just really worried and now I’m really relieved.”

He rolls his eyes despite the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad my stupidity amuses you.”

“Do the others have a video of you fainting?”

He nudges your thigh with his socked foot. “Even if they do, you’re not seeing it.”

You laugh quietly for another minute, letting your eyes roam is perfectly healthy and incredibly firm body until it sinks in that he is okay. “I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt.”

“Me too. That would have been embarrassing.”

Your mouth pops open to ask him another question, but the thought is quickly usurped by another. The front reception area had been completely empty despite the fact that there are other patients here. You’re the only civilian here, the only emergency contact for an injured officer, and the injured officer in front of you is looking a hell of a lot better than some of the others you’d walked past.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “Did you ask them to call your emergency contact?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, where are the others?” you ask. “Why don’t the guys out there have their parents or partners here to pick them up?”

He shrugs. “They’re probably going to get patched up and sent back to their squads.”

“Exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. “So, why am I here?”

He shifts nervously, the mattress crinkling beneath his weight. “They said I can’t drive myself home.”

“And you didn’t think to ask one of the other six friends you have that are already on base to drive you home?”

His lips part but no words come out. You can see him struggling, wracking his brain for any sort of excuse, but the longer it takes, the surer you are of the answer to your next question.

“Bradley.”

He looks at you and rolls his lips, his skin turning pink from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Did you tell them to call me so I wouldn’t be alone with Hangman anymore?”

His eyes widen and his mouth pops open, but so does the door to the room. The same blonde woman as before walks in with a nurse close behind.

“Alright, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” she says, clipboard in hand. “You’re just about free to go.”

You quickly hop off the bed as the nurse approaches, pressing yourself against the wall while she removes Bradley’s IV and check his temperature one last time. She gives him what you assume is not the first lecture about staying safe in the heat before declaring him well enough for discharge. The blonde woman then steps forward and asks him to sign a few forms on her clipboard.

“Is that everything?” he asks.

“Almost.” She takes the clipboard from him and flips to the last form before turning to you. “I just need one more signature from you.”

You nod and take the outstretched pen. “Just here?”

“Yep. Just under your name,” she says, before giggling.

You pause mid-signature, turning to her curiously. Her smile vanishes instantly, and she takes half a step back, holding a hand over her mouth, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so unprofessional,” she says. “It’s been a long day, and I just remembered that when he was brought in, he kept mumbling your name. I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. I honestly thought it was really sweet.”

Bradley – who is now sitting on the edge of the bed – groans and drops his head into his hands. You have to press your lips together to suppress your laughter, but you can already feel it rattling in your chest. You sign your name quickly and hand the forms back to the woman, who apologises again before exiting the room.

Silence hangs thick and heavy between the two of you as Bradley laces his boots. You don’t speak, you’re not sure you can, so you simply watch him gather his things from across the room. When he’s finished, he finally looks at you with raised brows and flushed cheeks.

“Ready?”

You nod once, pressing your lips together to keep the giggles at bay. He turns toward the door, and you can swear you see his lips tip up into a smirk, but he walks too quickly into the corridor for you to be sure.

You follow him through the building, not the same way you had come in, but out through a different entrance that you assume is for bringing in the injured officers. The heat hits you the second you step out of the building, and you almost choke on the hot air, but you don’t have time to hesitate because Bradley is already forging across the small parking lot.

He glances over his shoulder, but his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “Where did you park?”

“The visitor’s parking near the front gate,” you reply.

He slows his steps and falls into pace beside you. His mouth pops open as a thought flashes across his face, but he closes it just as quickly, rolling his lips and getting lost in his thoughts again.

You decide to help him out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He clears his throat, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, Bradley,” you sigh, a smirk on your lips. “There are so many things to talk about, but I thought I’d be polite and let you choose.”

His resolve cracks and a smile splits across his face. His cheeks are still bright red, and thanks to the blistering sun, every inch of his exposed skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. You can’t help but watch the column of his throat as he chuckles, his Adam’s apple moving in the most delicious way. It’s probably not healthy how attracted you are to this man.

“I’d barely been awake for five minutes when they asked me who they should call,” he says. “I was still a little out of it.”

“Right.” You nod slowly. “And because you’d just been dreaming about me, I was the first thing that popped into your head.”

He sighs and tips his head back, squinting up at the clear blue sky. “This has to be the most embarrassing day of my life.”

You bite your lip to hold back more laughter, almost stumbling as you come to a halt at the curb. Instinctively, Bradley grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours, keeping you steady as he checks the street each way for traffic. Little sparks of lightning rocket up your forearm and across your chest, zapping your heart and kicking it into overdrive.

You let him guide you across the street, expecting him to let go once you’re safely on the other side, but he doesn’t. The butterflies in your stomach flap to life, but you refuse to let your nerves get the better of you. You have too many questions you need answered right now.

You clear your throat, peaking up at him from the corner of your eye. “So, just so we’re clear, calling me had nothing to do with getting me away from Hangman?”

He keeps his gaze fixed ahead. “Of course not.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

You resist the urge to smile as you wait for him to take the bait. It takes a few minutes, and you’ve reached your car by the time you notice his brows scrunch into a frown.

“Wait, what do you mean that’s good?”

You walk around the front of the car toward the driver’s side. “I don’t know, I just felt different today. You know? Like, being alone with Jake was nice.”

His frown turns into a scowl. “It’s Jake now?”

You roll your eyes, being careful not to appear too amused as you play with fire. “Yes, and Jake is really sweet. He’s funny too, and really smart and… well, he’s hot.”

Bradley takes half a step back from the passenger door. “So, you like Hangman now?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

His eyes flick down to his boots, his mouth popping open as if he’s going to argue, but no words come out. His lips clamp shut and the muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“Do you have a problem with that?” you ask, batting your eyelashes innocently.

When he looks back up, his glare is lethal. The warm honey-brown eyes you often love to stare into are almost completely black beneath his furrowed brows. “Do I have a problem with that?”

You roll your lips and nod, keeping your eyes as wide and innocent as you can while watching him take long strides around the front of the car. Your heart thunders in your chest, making your pulse thump loudly in your ears as he walks right up to you.

He towers over you, his body barely inches from yours. “You know damn well I have a problem with that.”

You look up at him through your lashes, finally letting your lips curl up into a smirk. “Why?”

His hands grab your hips and turn your body so your backside is pressed against the driver’s side door. “You know damn well why.” He presses his body against yours and moves his hands to lean on the car either side of your shoulders, trapping you.

Your head spins and you struggle to breath, overwhelmed by every inch of him that is pressed against you. “Why?” you ask again, your voice barely above a whisper.

He groans and pushes his hips harder into yours before leaning down and catching your lips with his. Your hands grip the sides of his shirt and pull, as if he isn’t already crushing himself against you. When you feel him slide a leg between yours, you gasp, and he takes the chance to push his tongue past your parted lips. You grind down on his thigh and a let out a soft whimper. You can feel him grin against your mouth before lifting his knee a little higher between your legs.

The rest of the world melts away as you grind and moan against each other, completely lost in the feelings you’ve stamped down for so long. Only when you feel your car door begin to bend behind you do you reluctantly put a hand on his chest and push him back.

He frowns as he steps back, looking adorable with lust-blown eyes and puffy red lips. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re about to put a me-sized dent in my car door,” you reply with a soft laugh.

“Oh.” His shoulders relax and he steps back toward you, his hands landing on your hips. “So, you were joking about Hangman, right?”

You roll your eyes, resting your hands on his chest. “Obviously.”

“Good.”

You give him a small smile before letting your eyes drop, panic seeping into your bones as your usual doubts begin to infect your thoughts. Did he only kiss you because he was jealous? Does he want more than friendship, or just a few extra benefits?

“Hey.” He crooks a finger beneath your chin to tilt your head up. “Do you want to know why I’d have a problem if you really did like Hangman?”

You nod as you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down nervously.

“Because then it would’ve been too late for me to tell you that I’m in love you.”

Your heart almost leaps out of your chest. “In love with me?”

His cheeks go from pink to red and he quickly averts his eyes away from yours. “Unless you don’t feel the same, then I’m just in love with you like a friend.”

You roll your eyes again and softly smack his chest. “Don’t be stupid, of course I’m in love with you. I thought it was pretty fucking obvious.”

His lips split into a grin before he dips back down and kisses you again. “Thank God for that,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You giggle as he trails his lips across your cheek, along your jaw, and down your neck. “As much as I love this,” you say, “I would also really love to get out of the heat.”

“Good idea.” He steps back and pulls your body with his, turning a little to the side as leans toward the car and pulls the driver’s door open. “Let’s get back to your apartment and test out that new bed.”

Your knees almost wobble as you step toward the car and drop into the driver’s seat. Bradley is around the car in less than a few seconds, climbing into the passenger’s side and reaching one hand across the centre console to grab your leg.

“Let’s just hope Hangman hasn’t decided to take a nap,” you say as you begin pulling out of the parking spot.

Bradley turns to you with raised brows. “He’s still at your apartment?”

You nod. “He offered to clean up when I left.”

“What if he refuses to leave?”

You shrug one shoulder, your lips tipping up into a smirk. “Then he can join in.”

Bradley’s fingers squeeze hard around your thigh. “Not a fucking chance.”

You giggle when you glance at his stormy expression, but you’d be lying if you said his jealousy wasn’t a bit of a turn on. “You’re not into wife-swapping?” you ask.

He tilts his head, clearly confused. “Wife?”

“Well, yeah. I’m your partner, right? Your emergency contact partner.”

It takes him a few seconds to realise what you mean, but once he does, he drops his head into both hands and sighs loudly. “They told you that?”

You almost feel bad for laughing at him again, but you can’t help it. “The woman called you my husband when I first got there.”

When he looks back up, you’re positive you’ve never seen a more gorgeous boy in the world. His cheeks are bright pink, his honey-brown eyes are sparkling, and he’s grinning so wide you can’t help but grin back at him. “Well, they didn’t really have an option for ‘best friend who I really want to bang and eventually marry one day’.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you’re pretty sure your heart stops. “Marry?”

He turns his attention out the windscreen, still smiling, and his hand returns to its place on your thigh as he says more to himself than you, “One day soon hopefully.”

END.

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