#bob floyd fluff

[pullmecloseman]

HONOR & DUTY

Pre-Boyfriend!Bob x reader

summary: What was supposed to be a fun week in paradise quickly becomes something more when two quiet souls are thrown into close quarters. As the days unfold—from lazy mornings and town adventures to wedding prep and late-night confessions—tension simmers, walls begin to crack, and unexpected connections start to bloom. It’s just one week. But sometimes, that’s all it takes to change everything.

word count: 21.8k

A/N: If you can’t tell, yes i did rewrite it completely from the beginning, it’s a lot longer and a lot more detailed but i honestly wouldn’t have it any other way! please comment and tell me if u liked it or not :)) ALSO OMG THIS IS THE LONGEST FIC I HAVE EVER WRITTEN?? unfortunately it did cut off so i will have to post it in 2 parts 😭. Something about the whole airport chaos gets me, might need to write another squad trip

Warnings: This fic has some mild swearing and squad-style banter, a bit of drinking and party vibes (nothing too wild), and a slow-burn romance with a sweet first kiss—no explicit stuff. Lots of chaotic humor, teasing, and pranks, plus some wedding and travel stress moments. There are light mentions of past military stuff (nothing graphic), crowded group hangouts, and flashbacks to crazy party moments with some confusion and mixed-up sleeping spots. Also, some minor hangover and sore muscle vibes. Just a heads-up in case any of that’s a trigger for you!

masterlist boyfriend!bob masterlist

You’d set five alarms. One on your phone. One on your tablet. One on your smartwatch. One on the hotel alarm clock just in case. And one on a travel timer that beeped like a nuke countdown.

Because there was no way you were going to be the reason the Dagger Squad missed their 4:00 a.m. flight to Maui for Rooster and Phoenix’s wedding. You were the Maid of Honor. Bob was the Best Man. You were the only ones keeping this entire operation from crashing before wheels-up.

At exactly 2:01 a.m., your phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call from the squad group chat:

💀 DAGGER DEATH FLIGHT 207 💀

You accepted with a groan, still half buried in your comforter. The screen filled with a grid of faces, some upright, some terrifyingly horizontal.

First was Fanboy, sporting a cracked pair of Star Wars sleep goggles and surrounded by open suitcases and piles of graphic tees. “Yo. Who needs me to smuggle Sour Patch Kids in their carry-on?”

Next was Coyote, dead-eyed and already in a zip-up hoodie. “If you bring candy or collectibles, I’m reporting you to TSA before we even hit the parking lot.”

“They’re not collectibles, they’re conversation starters!”

“They’re why you get cavity searched every damn trip,” Payback chimed in, yawning as he popped up on the screen from the driver’s seat of a parked car. “Y’all better be packed. I rented a land yacht to haul everyone’s nonsense to the airport.”

You joined the call with a sigh, dragging your phone onto the pillow beside you. “If I don’t get coffee within twenty minutes, I’m murdering someone and using my Maid of Honor dress to hide the body.”

“You can borrow my tux jacket for that,” Bob said, appearing on-screen in a navy hoodie, hair an absolute disaster, voice still low and rough from sleep. “You’ll look classy while doing it.”

You gave him a flat stare. “Floyd.”

“Yes, Sweetie?”

“Did you pack?”

“Technically? Yes.”

“…Define technically.”

“I know where my suitcase is. That counts, right?”

“Bob,” you said, sitting up, “you are the Best Man. You’re supposed to be organized.”

“I am organized,” he argued, entirely too calm. “I just like to do things last minute. Keeps the blood flowing.”

Hangman popped on screen, shirtless, brushing his teeth with one hand and holding a can of Red Bull in the other. “Everyone shut up. I’m in charge of good vibes and airport mimosas. I expect full participation.”

“You’re not even dressed.”

“Yet I still look better than Coyote.”

“Eat dirt, Seresin.”

Rooster’s face appeared next, squinting against the bathroom light as he attempted to shave and talk into the camera at the same time. “If any of you idiots forget your suits, I’m replacing you with local hula dancers and calling it a day.”

From off-screen, Phoenix’s voice rang out: “We are not late to our own damn wedding!”

“Tell her I packed,” Bob muttered.

“No one believes you,” you replied, grabbing your toiletry bag with one hand and your charging cords with the other.

Coyote snorted. “If packing means bringing seventeen bottles of sunscreen and three different types of insect repellent, then yeah, Bob’s a legend.”

Payback laughed. “And I swear he’s got at least one of those bug zapper rackets hidden in his sock drawer.”

“Actually,” Bob said, leaning closer to the camera with a mock-conspiratorial grin, “I’m starting a bug sanctuary.”

“Great,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So when we get eaten alive, we know who to thank.”

Fanboy raised a tired hand. “Guys, can we just agree the real MVP is Sweetie for actually having a packing list that doesn’t include three different wigs and one portable karaoke machine?”

“Hey!” You held up your hand in defense. “The wigs are for the joint bachelorette party. Which is going to be wild.”

“Wild?” Hangman grinned, mouth still foaming a little from brushing. “Like how wild? Should I bring fireproof pants?”

You glanced sideways at Bob, who gave you a small smile and a shake of his head. No words necessary.

“Speaking of,” Rooster said, “who’s in charge of making sure Sweetie doesn’t lose her shit before the wedding?”

“Bob’s job,” you said without hesitation. “Mostly by being loud enough to drown me out.”

“Hey, I’m a delicate flower,” Bob said, mock offended. “And you need someone to balance out the planner energy.”

“You’re balancing it out by being a human wrecking ball.”

“Touché.”

The group laughed—softly now, the chaos simmering into something almost comfortable. You caught Bob’s eye on the screen, that familiar warmth behind his sleepy gaze making your heart do a little sprint.

Before you could say anything else, Fanboy’s phone buzzed with a notification, and his face went from “space commander” to “please kill me.”

“Guys, I just remembered,” he said, voice cracking, “I still need to download like, ten more playlists.”

“Great,” you muttered. “We’re going to Maui with 200% more bad music.”

Payback nodded solemnly. “I’m already blasting the sound system in the car. It’s going to be a long ride.”

“Get ready for my rendition of Livin’ on a Prayer,” Hangman promised.

You groaned. “Please no.”

Bob chuckled. “Can’t wait.”

Your phone buzzed again, this time with a message from Phoenix: “Everyone packed? No drama. No late arrivals. I’m trusting you.”

You looked at the group, smiling despite yourself.

“Alright, team,” you said, “let’s make this nightmare happen.”

Bob’s eyes met yours again, and for a brief second—longer than it should be—everything else fell away.

The squad was going to Maui.

-

Payback rolled up to your place first, in a comically large black SUV that looked like it could transport a rock band and their entourage. The engine rumbled like it was challenging the sunrise to a duel, and the smell of lingering coffee and leather hit you before the door swung open.

You climbed in shotgun with your travel pillow, planner, and a bag of emergency chargers. Already, you could feel the familiar knot of excitement and exhaustion twisting in your gut.

“I’ve made an itinerary,” you declared, voice sharp but playful, brandishing your planner like a weapon. “If any of you derail it, I will throw you into the ocean.”

Payback gave you a solemn nod. “Noted. Ocean it is.”

The interior of the SUV was already a chaotic mess — discarded energy bar wrappers, a rogue sunglasses case, and what looked suspiciously like a half-empty thermos of Hangman’s questionable homemade “energy elixir” on the floor.

Next pickup: Bob.

He emerged from his place looking like a professional who just survived a surprise drill — single duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a neck pillow looped around his shoulders like a scarf, and a coffee in each hand.

He handed you one without missing a beat. “I got you the cinnamon one,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep but laced with that soft warmth you knew well. “Even though you called me a disgrace on the group chat last night.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You remembered that?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “You always get the cinnamon one. Even when you say you’re gonna try vanilla.”

Your heart did a weird little flip, and you forced yourself to look away, pulling the sleeve of your pajama top down over your hand. He climbed into the third row, sliding his duffel under the seat with a tired sigh. You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him there anyway.

Next stop: Hangman.

He arrived like he was headlining a rock show — suitcase in one hand, a hanging tuxedo bag slung over the other, a tote full of random clinking glass bottles balanced precariously on top, and a ukulele strapped to his back.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why.”

He grinned, unfazed. “It’s Maui. I’m bringing ambiance.”

“You’re bringing chaos,” Payback muttered from the driver’s seat.

At the front door, Fanboy and Coyote were locked in their usual pre-trip standoff, voices raised just enough to be heard over the hum of the city waking up.

“I’m just saying if I don’t bring my Captain Rex helmet, who’s gonna protect me from UV exposure?”

“You’re gonna end up on a TSA watchlist, man.”

You smirked to yourself. The helmet was a relic from Fanboy’s cosplay days, too bulky for travel but apparently essential.

As the door opened, they both piled into the back with the grace of a pack of raccoons digging through a dumpster.

The SUV was filling fast.

Finally, Phoenix and Rooster slid into the backseat together, each lugging matching duffels and wearing the same slightly frazzled look.

Rooster muttered, “This is cozy.”

Phoenix swiped through her inbox on her phone. “Cozy like a warzone.”

You shifted in your seat, scanning the crowded interior — 5 groomsmen, one Maid of Honor, one bride, one groom, seven bags of snacks, a ukulele, and approximately zero patience.

Payback started the engine, and the SUV lurched forward with a groan, tires crunching over gravel as you pulled out of the driveway and into the predawn traffic.

The air inside was thick with half-suppressed yawns, the hum of sleepy voices, and the faint scent of coffee that clung stubbornly to Bob’s jacket.

You caught Bob’s eye across the SUV as he settled in next to you, and for a split second, the chaos faded. You both knew this ride was just the beginning — the slow, messy, beautiful unraveling of everything you’d been holding back.

-

The engine hummed steadily as Payback expertly maneuvered the massive SUV through the quiet, pre-dawn streets. Inside, it felt like the world had been shrunk down to this cramped, noisy bubble of blankets, chargers, and endless coffee cups.

Fanboy immediately popped his headphones on, blasting what sounded suspiciously like ’80s rock ballads, and promptly started belting out every lyric—off-key but with full enthusiasm.

“Dude, lower it!” Payback barked without looking. “I’m trying to drive, not attend a karaoke competition.”

Fanboy gave a dramatic shrug. “You don’t own the radio.”

From the back, Hangman strummed a few chords on his ukulele, setting an impromptu soundtrack that didn’t quite mesh with the ’80s rock but somehow fit the chaos perfectly.

Coyote, who had wedged himself into a tiny corner between duffels and snack bags, deadpanned, “This is how I imagine hell smells.”

Bob tossed you a grin as he took a sip of his coffee, careful not to spill in the tight space. “You know, for someone who claims to have this itinerary locked down, you’re already off schedule.”

You shot him a look, fiddling with your planner as if it was a weapon. “That’s because I anticipate chaos, Floyd. I live for chaos.”

“Of course you do,” he said, smirking.

Your eyes caught his for just a moment longer than necessary before you looked away. The air between you was charged with something unspoken—an undercurrent beneath all the noise.

Payback suddenly slammed a hand on the console. “Snack time!”

Everyone groaned but reached for the bags anyway.

You raised an eyebrow at Bob as he peeled open a bag of overly salted chips. “Watch out, Sweetie. This might throw your whole hydration plan off.”

“Better than your plan to drink nothing but energy drinks and coffee,” you teased back.

Bob grinned. “I have a system.”

“Which involves being a walking jitterbug.”

As the miles ticked by, conversations bounced wildly—from Rooster’s awkward attempts at wedding puns (“If you mess up the vows, I’ll ground you for life”) to Phoenix’s strategic analysis of flight delays (“We’ll be lucky if the plane’s on time”).

Hangman suddenly blurted out, “We should start a playlist battle. Everyone submits one song. Loser has to do the chicken dance at the reception.”

Fanboy immediately shot back, “You’re going down, Seresin.”

Coyote just shook his head, muttering, “I’m too old for this.”

You and Bob exchanged a glance—half amused, half tired—before he quietly said, “You’re gonna kill me for this, but… I actually like this chaos.”

You smiled softly. “Me too.”

Payback glanced in the rearview mirror. “Alright, squad. Ten minutes till airport. Last chance to make peace with your luggage.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hangman said, unzipping one of his bags and pulling out a questionable bottle labeled ‘Liquid Courage.’ “I’m already made my peace.”

Bob caught your eye again and gave a subtle nod, like a silent promise that he’d be there to steady you through whatever came next.

And as the SUV rolled closer to the airport lights flickering in the distance, you felt it—this trip, this mess of friends, family, and maybe something more—was going to change everything.

-

Valet parking? A nightmare.

Hangman tried to tip the valet with a shot-sized bottle of rum.

“Bro,” the kid blinked at him, “I can’t take this.”

Hangman held it out again, smiling like he was on a resort commercial. “C’mon, you’re telling me you don’t need this more than I do?”

Phoenix groaned and yanked him backward by the backpack strap. “Put the contraband away, Jimmy Buffett.”

The rest of the squad poured out of the car like clowns out of a tiny circus vehicle. Bags hit the curb. Coffee cups spilled. Someone’s neck pillow went flying.

“Whose Crocs are these?” Payback yelled, holding them up like roadkill.

“Mine,” Fanboy said proudly, slipping them on. “Flight mode: activated.”

Check-in? Worse.

Fanboy’s bag got pulled aside because his lightsaber replica “looked suspiciously real.”

“It’s a collectible!” he argued as the airline employee gently prodded it like it might explode. “It’s signed by Ewan McGregor!”

Coyote had to dig through Bob’s bag after it flagged for “unusual items.”

“Bro,” he said, pulling out what looked like thirty tiny travel bottles of sunscreen. “Are you trying to open a beachside CVS?”

Bob shrugged, completely unbothered. “Skin protection is squad safety.”

Rooster, already stress-sweating through his t-shirt, frantically patted his jeans. “Where’s my wallet? I had it—”

“Check your left jacket pocket,” you and Phoenix said in unison, not even looking up.

He paused, reached in, and held it up sheepishly. “Thanks.”

You were carrying six people’s boarding passes like some sort of chaotic air-traffic controller.

“Stop handing me snacks! I have important documents!” you barked as Fanboy tried to pass you a mini bag of Cheez-Its.

Phoenix was at the counter, all but breathing fire at the airline rep. “I paid for aisle seats. We were guaranteed aisle seats. Why does my fiancé now have to middle-seat between two strangers named Gary and Donna?”

“Ma’am,” the agent said flatly, “the system auto-assigned based on status—”

“My status is BRIDE, I will burn this system to the ground.”

You were three seconds from combusting. You hadn’t even gotten through security and you were ready to fake a medical emergency just to lie down.

“Hey,” Bob murmured, stepping up beside you while the others bickered over snacks and whose luggage had wheels.

You turned, your shoulders still tight.

“You’re keeping everyone alive right now,” he said gently.

You exhaled, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Feels like I’m babysitting grown children.”

“You are,” he said, smiling faintly as he handed you a granola bar. “But I’ve got your back.”

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your fingers brushed his as you took the wrapper. His hand lingered for a second longer than it should have. You didn’t move away.

Then Hangman yelled, “C’MON! LAST ONE TO SECURITY PAYS FOR DRINKS AT THE GATE BAR!”

Suddenly it was the Kentucky Derby and your squad was off like caffeinated horses.

-

The security line was somehow both long and entirely unequipped to handle this particular brand of chaos.

Hangman tried to flirt with the TSA agent.

“Ma’am, do you believe in love at first pat-down?”

The woman didn’t blink. “Sir, take your boots off and step aside.”

Fanboy’s backpack sang the Star Wars theme when it passed through the scanner, drawing a solid ten seconds of dead silence from the line.

“It’s the bag,” he said, holding his hands up. “It has motion sensors. It was a gift!”

You, meanwhile, nearly left your phone in the plastic bin and had to run back barefoot while Bob frantically waved it at you.

“You’re literally the one with the itinerary!” he hissed, handing it over.

“I’M UNDER A LOT OF PRESSURE,” you shouted, tugging your shoes on and stumbling forward.

Somehow — by the grace of every wedding god in existence, including probably Aphrodite herself — you made it to the gate.

The sun hadn’t even risen. The airport still smelled vaguely like bleach and stale muffins.

Only six more days until the wedding.

God help you all.

You all made it through, somehow.

Only minor casualties: Hangman got flagged for “suspiciously charming energy,” and Fanboy almost cried when TSA opened his duffel full of Marvel merch and confiscated a replica Mjölnir.

“I need that for emotional support!” Fanboy had argued while Payback filmed from behind a potted plant.

Rooster got randomly selected for an extra pat-down and immediately claimed it was “because they could sense greatness.”

Coyote, stuck behind a family of seven with matching Mickey Mouse ears, looked five seconds from committing a felony.

Eventually, the Dagger Squad emerged victorious into the terminal—sweaty, half-awake, and fueled entirely by spite and overpriced coffee.

You flopped into a chair next to Bob with the kind of boneless exhaustion that came from being awake since 3:45 a.m. and mentally wrestling the squad through security.

Bob passed you half his granola bar without looking, eyes still scanning the boarding monitors.

You accepted it without a word, chewing slowly as the chaos unfolded around you like a play no one had rehearsed.

Across the terminal, Rooster was aggressively trying to herd the rest of the group toward the gate. He was yelling something about boarding zones, final calls, and “WHY IS NO ONE LISTENING TO ME?”

Hangman, naturally, was ignoring him and live-commentating strangers’ outfits like he was hosting a red carpet.

“Okay, we’ve got cargo shorts at two o’clock—bold choice. And—oh!—a fanny pack and Crocs combo. Revolutionary. We’re witnessing history, folks.”

Payback had started singing for no reason. No lyrics, just pure dramatic humming like he was the soundtrack to an epic war film.

Fanboy had re-opened his backpack on the floor and was aggressively reorganizing his Funko Pops like they were combat troops.

Coyote, meanwhile, sat hunched over in a nearby chair, neck pillow on, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, looking like a man who had aged ten years since curbside drop-off.

It was the kind of beautiful disaster that only this group could cause in a public space.

“You okay?” Bob asked softly, voice barely above the terminal buzz.

You turned your head toward him. He was watching you, calm and quiet and steady, like he hadn’t just been stuck between Hangman’s feet and a crying toddler for a five-hour layover.

You exhaled. “It’s a good chaos. I love this chaos.”

His mouth quirked, just a little. “Same,” he said. “As long as you’re in it.”

And that was—goddammit. That was dangerous.

You turned to say something—something dumb and sarcastic and safe like, ‘aw, you’re getting soft on me,’ or ‘tell that to me after another week of wedding stuff,’—but before you could open your mouth, the gate agent’s voice cut across the speakers like a battle cry:

“Flight 176 to Maui is now boarding. First class and Group One may now approach the gate.”

Rooster stood up like he was being deployed to a combat zone. “Let’s move, assholes! We trained for this!”

Hangman tripped over someone’s duffel. “It’s not mine, but I’m suing whoever left it there.”

Fanboy dropped his Switch and screamed like he’d been shot.

Payback fist-pumped. “CHAAARGE!”

(Several other passengers flinched.)

Phoenix, holding a cold brew like it was a weapon, just muttered, “And this is why people hate group travel.”

And Bob?

He turned to you, held out his hand. “C’mon.”

You took it.

Just for a second—to help you up. Just to steady yourself.

But it lingered a little longer than it had to.

Warm. Familiar. Electric.

You didn’t let go right away either.

And neither of you said anything about it.

Not now. Not yet.

The chaos of boarding swallowed you up, but your hand still felt like his had never left.

-

You all surged toward the gate like a pack of caffeinated raccoons in overpriced athleisure.

Rooster tried to organize the line based on boarding groups. “Group Three! Where’s Group Three? Hangman, you’re Group Three! Quit trying to sneak up with Group One!”

“I am Group One,” Hangman argued, holding out his phone like it was proof of royalty. “I paid for premium. It’s called treating yourself, baby.”

“You paid for an exit row,” Fanboy snorted. “Relax, Bezos.”

Phoenix sidestepped them both and handed the gate agent her ticket with the precision of a Navy sniper. Payback followed, dragging a carry-on that kept wobbling like one wheel had committed treason.

You scanned your boarding pass, barely dodging a stray elbow from a woman who looked like she would cut someone for an overhead bin.

And Bob?

Bob had your backpack slung over his shoulder, because you’d switched with him back at security when your strap started digging into your collarbone. He didn’t complain. Just adjusted it and kept walking.

You reached the jet bridge.

“Smell that?” Hangman announced behind you.

Phoenix didn’t even look back. “If you say something weird, I will hit you.”

“I was just gonna say it smells like vacation,” he defended. “And maybe a little like disappointment and Jet-A fuel, but mostly—vacation.”

Fanboy wheezed. “I thought that was Coyote’s deodorant.”

Coyote shoved him gently into the side of the jet bridge.

Rooster handed his ticket to the flight attendant and turned to yell over his shoulder. “Remember! Assignments don’t matter. Just sit down and shut up!”

Thirty seconds later, karma hit him like a delayed airbag.

Because somehow—some beautiful, divine twist of fate—he got separated from the group and was now wedged in the middle seat of Row 21 between a man named Gary, who smelled like boiled peanuts, and a woman named Donna, who was knitting with steel needles.

“Hi there!” Donna chirped, stabbing the air three inches from Rooster’s ribs with her scarf-in-progress.

Gary gave him a solemn nod. “You with the military?”

Rooster blinked. “Uh—yeah.”

“Cool. Wanna see pictures of my lawn mower?”

Twenty rows ahead, you buckled into your window seat and looked over at Bob in the middle. His knees were already pressed uncomfortably into the seat in front of him.

You offered him the aisle. “You want to switch?”

He shook his head. “No, you love the window. I’m good.”

Fanboy flopped into the seat next to Bob with zero grace, nearly elbowing a flight attendant in the process. “DIBS ON BOB. Road trip rules, I ride with the snack guy.”

Bob looked at you like help, but you just smiled sweetly and put in your earbuds.

Across the aisle, Payback and Phoenix were already arguing about what to watch.

“Let’s do a thriller,” Phoenix suggested.

“Woman, I am barely held together with caffeine and prayer. We’re watching Moana and we’re crying about it.”

Coyote and Hangman had somehow finagled exit row seats and were now trying to convince the flight attendant that they definitely read the safety instructions.

“Of course I know how to open the emergency door,” Hangman said, leaning back like he was already on a beach. “Just throw a chair through it, right?”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand.

Bob leaned toward you slightly, voice low. “Place your bets. How long before Rooster snaps?”

You checked the clock on your phone. “We haven’t even taken off yet.”

“Exactly.”

A loud thwack echoed from the back of the plane.

Fanboy hissed, “Oh my god, what was that?”

Bob peered over the seat. “Donna dropped a knitting needle. Rooster looks…trapped.”

You looked too.

Gary was now showing Rooster something on his phone that looked suspiciously like a spreadsheet of lawn care stats.

Rooster’s soul had visibly left his body.

You turned back to Bob, trying not to laugh. “We should help him.”

Bob tilted his head. “Should we?”

You grinned. “No. Definitely not.”

The plane started to taxi.

Hangman yelled from somewhere up front, “IF I DIE, DELETE MY BROWSER HISTORY!”

Payback shouted back, “TOO LATE!”

The engine roared.

You closed your eyes and leaned back, fingers lightly brushing the armrest between you and Bob.

His hand was right there.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough to feel.

And for one second—just one—you thought about linking your pinky with his.

But then Fanboy yelled, “I LEFT MY FUNKO BAG AT THE GATE!” and Bob shot up so fast he almost headbutted the overhead bin.

Chaos resumed. The moment passed.

But your hand still tingled.

And you weren’t sure if it was the altitude, or just Bob.

-

The seatbelt sign dinged off.

Which, apparently, was everyone’s cue to descend into lawlessness.

Hangman immediately reclined his seat into Coyote’s lap like a Victorian fainting lady. “Wake me up when we land, darling,” he mumbled, already yanking his hood over his face.

“Bro. I can’t move my legs.”

“Then die quietly.”

Across the aisle, Phoenix was already popping her second Dramamine like she was prepping for war. “Don’t touch me,” she warned Payback. “I’m entering my dissociative travel state.”

Payback grinned and opened a pack of Skittles with the sound of a tiny explosion. “Want one?”

“No.”

“Want five?”

You watched with silent amusement, adjusting your tray table and glancing sideways at Bob, who’d just pulled out a book. One of those worn paperbacks with a cracked spine and a small yellow highlighter clipped inside.

“What are you reading?” you asked, genuinely curious.

He showed you the cover. Dune.

“You brought Dune on a six-hour flight?”

“I like the world-building,” he said, softly.

You smiled at him, about to ask a follow-up, when—

THUD.

A kid two rows behind you kicked the back of Hangman’s seat so hard his head snapped forward.

He jolted upright like he’d been tased. “WHAT—”

The kid’s mom shushed him without even looking up from her iPad. “It’s fine, he’s just excited.”

Hangman turned around. “Excited to do what, commit war crimes?!”

Bob sighed, rubbing his eyes.

Fanboy reached into his bag. “Okay, I brought snacks. Like actual snacks. I had a coupon.”

You stared at the pile he produced: three Lunchables, a can of Pringles, two sleeves of Oreos, an unwrapped mozzarella stick, and a jar of pickles.

“A jar?” Bob asked.

Fanboy shrugged. “Emotional support pickles.”

“I’ll allow it,” you said, taking a Pringle.

Rooster, meanwhile, was suffering. From twenty rows back, you could see Donna knitting like her life depended on it, while Gary showed Rooster videos of squirrels using tiny umbrellas in his backyard.

“Did I ever tell you about my nephew?” Donna asked.

Rooster opened his mouth. “No, but—”

“Well, he’s in jail.”

“Oh.”

“For arson.”

Bob leaned forward again to peek back. “I’m giving him twenty more minutes before he jumps.”

“Optimistic,” you murmured, cracking open a Sprite.

Then—turbulence.

A hard bump shook the plane like someone had uppercutted it from below. Your drink splashed over the edge, fizzing on your tray. Phoenix cursed. Fanboy screamed “WE’RE GOING DOWN” in a falsetto. Bob instinctively reached out, hand bracing the seat in front of him—and accidentally brushing your thigh.

His touch was fleeting.

But it lingered.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But now you were very aware of the space between you.

Another bump rocked the cabin. Hangman yelped. “If I die next to this demonic toddler, I swear to God—”

“Stop yelling at children,” Coyote hissed.

“I’m not yelling. I’m disciplining.”

Meanwhile, Bob was calmly digging around in the seat pocket, pulling out the barf bag and offering it to Fanboy. “Just in case.”

“I don’t need that,” Fanboy said proudly.

Then immediately turned green.

The seatbelt sign dinged back on.

Phoenix opened her eyes. “Are we crashing?”

“No,” Bob said evenly. “Just mild turbulence.”

“Mild?” Hangman shouted. “My organs just realigned.”

A flight attendant wobbled down the aisle, bracing herself. “Folks, please remain seated—”

She didn’t finish the sentence before someone spilled their orange juice across the aisle, narrowly missing her.

Rooster suddenly stood up from Row 21, looking disheveled and haunted.

“I need to switch seats,” he said, loudly. “Gary’s showing me squirrel taxidermy. Donna just invited me to her nephew’s parole hearing.”

The flight attendant smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir, please remain seated.”

“But I can’t remain mentally intact—”

“Sir.”

Rooster sat back down with a groan so loud, you heard it all the way up front.

Fanboy was now half-curled in the aisle like a shrimp. Bob was patting his shoulder with medical-grade calmness. “Deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”

You were trying not to laugh.

Until Bob looked at you and said, “Wanna split a Lunchable?”

You lost it.

For the next twenty minutes, the plane jostled mildly, Fanboy whimpered quietly, and you and Bob passed back and forth tiny slices of cheese and crackers like it was some post-apocalyptic picnic.

When the turbulence finally subsided, the cabin slowly relaxed.

The kid behind Hangman fell asleep mid-kick.

Fanboy muttered, “I lived, bitch,” and passed out on Bob’s shoulder.

And you?

You leaned against the window, eyelids fluttering.

Just as you felt yourself drifting off, you felt something.

Bob.

His arm. Shifting, slightly.

Not enough to wake Fanboy.

Just enough to brush your elbow with his.

And then—he left it there.

You pretended to be asleep.

But your heart was wide awake.

-

Maui.

They say paradise smells like plumeria and saltwater.

But for your squad, it smelled like recycled cabin air, old socks, and emotional damage.

The wheels touched down on the runway with a jarring bounce that had everyone bracing like it was a crash landing. Fanboy cheered. Hangman clapped ironically. Rooster muttered, “Thank you, Jesus,” like he’d just survived war.

“Welcome to Kahului,” the flight attendant said over the speaker, way too cheerfully for a woman who had just endured seven hours of chaos and a man named Gary explaining the ecosystem of squirrel mating rituals.

The plane doors opened. A wave of heat slammed through the cabin like God turning on a blow dryer.

Coyote stood up and immediately hit his head on the overhead bin. “Maui, baby!” he yelled, while clutching his skull.

Rooster stumbled out behind him, dragging his carry-on like it was a corpse. “I need therapy,” he whispered. “And ginger ale. And possibly an exorcism.”

Hangman tossed his bag over his shoulder like a movie hero, then turned back to the toddler who’d been kicking his seat.

“Hey, champ,” he said, kneeling to the kid’s level. “Hope you step on a Lego.”

The mom gasped.

Coyote yanked Hangman by the collar. “Leave the child, Jake.”

-

Baggage claim was carnage.

The conveyor belt whirred to life, and every person on your flight swarmed like seagulls spotting a french fry.

“Okay,” Phoenix said, cracking her neck. “We grab the bags, grab the van, and get to the resort before I die of dehydration or punch someone in TSA.”

Fanboy was leaning against a column like a man freshly reborn. “I left my soul somewhere over the Pacific.”

Payback’s duffel came out first, then Rooster’s floral monstrosity. Bob’s was last, because of course it was. He stood there silently watching the empty belt loop back around like it had personally betrayed him.

“I don’t even know if my bag exists anymore,” he said.

“I think it went into another dimension,” you added.

“Maybe Donna took it.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Eventually, the gang was luggage-loaded and shuffling toward the rental car lot, which was about ten minutes too far from the terminal for people running on zero sleep and spite.

Payback pulled up the booking on his phone. “Okay, I got us a van. Big one. Seats eight. Let’s ride.”

You spotted it first—silver, already running, air conditioning cranked. A beacon of hope in the Maui heat.

Everyone sprinted like it was the Hunger Games.

“SHOTGUN!” Phoenix yelled.

“HELL NO, I’M THE GROOM,” Rooster shouted, bounding up the sidewalk.

“I’M THE BRIDE!”

“AND I LOVE YOU, BUT THAT SEAT IS MINE.”

You were doubled over laughing, watching them both full-on sprint to the passenger side door like their lives depended on it.

Phoenix got there first and slapped a hand on the door handle.

Rooster, panting beside her, stared at her like a man betrayed. “Babe.”

“I’m the bride.”

He put a hand on his heart. “You’re right.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously. You’re absolutely right. My bad. Please—” he opened the door with a dramatic bow, “take the seat. I’ll just crawl into the back row with Satan and his gremlin friends.”

The group exploded into laughter.

Fanboy screamed. Payback wheezed. Coyote was on the ground.

“Satan and his gremlins,” Hangman repeated. “Is that us? I’m honored.”

Rooster climbed into the third row with you, Bob, and Coyote, sulking like a Victorian widow. “I was this close to freedom.”

Phoenix tossed her bag at his feet. “You’re welcome, my love.”

“Unbelievable,” Rooster muttered, wedging himself between Bob and a cooler full of snacks.

Bob offered him a Capri Sun.

Rooster blinked. “Is this ‘Pacific Cooler’?”

“Only the best.”

“Okay, maybe this trip will be okay.”

Fanboy cranked the aux cord from the middle row. “Alright, what are we thinking? Beyoncé? Reggaeton? Or full ‘Mamma Mia’ soundtrack?”

“Option C,” Hangman said immediately.

“‘Voulez-Vous’ or nothing,” Payback agreed.

As the van pulled away from the curb, eight grown adults began belting ABBA like they were auditioning for Broadway.

You glanced sideways at Bob, who was silently mouthing the lyrics.

You bumped your knee against his. “You like this song?”

“I like any song you sing along to.”

And just like that—

You forgot about the flight. The chaos. The heat.

Because Bob was smiling at you like you were the whole reason he came on this trip.

And maybe, just maybe…

You were.

-

The van rolled to a stop under the shaded portico of the resort, the ocean glittering just beyond the palm-lined entrance like a smug postcard.

You barely had time to blink before the squad spilled out of the vehicle like gremlins escaping a box.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix said, staring up at the open-air lobby. “This is… wow.”

“I suddenly feel poor,” Fanboy muttered, dragging his suitcase like it owed him money.

The resort was absurd. Massive white columns, koi ponds, bellhops in floral shirts. Everything smelled like orchids and tax brackets.

A valet approached, and Payback tossed him the keys. “There’s an open Capri Sun in the back. It’s for emotional support.”

Rooster looked around, squinting behind his aviators. “Where’s the desk?”

You pointed. “There. Past the statue of King Kamehameha and the water feature shaped like a stingray.”

“Casual.”

Phoenix, with full bride energy, marched inside like she owned the place. “Let’s check in before I pass out and haunt this resort as a petty little ghost.”

You followed, dragging your duffel and sunglasses and the weight of a 4:00 a.m. wake-up call.

Bob, already sweating through his shirt, carried his backpack, your carry-on, and Rooster’s camera bag like the unproblematic king he was. “Do we know what name the reservation is under?”

Phoenix looked over her shoulder. “Mine. Natasha Trace.”

Hangman snorted. “Damn. Full government name. We’re serious now.”

The front desk attendant—young, shiny, and probably named something like Skylar—greeted you with a rehearsed smile. “Aloha! Welcome to the Kāne Kaiaulu Resort. Checking in?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, all business. “Natasha Trace. Bridal party.”

Skylar’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “Ooooh! You’re the bride!” She tapped away on her keyboard like this was the best thing to happen all shift. “We have you in the Ali’i Suite. And you’ve got two adjoining rooms and a villa booked for the rest of your group.”

“Villa?” Rooster echoed. “We got a villa?”

Phoenix gave him a look. “I got us a villa. You’re welcome.”

“You’re so hot when you’re aggressive.”

“Shut up and carry my purse.”

Skylar handed out room keys with a flourish. “Okay! Room breakdown is as follows: Phoenix and Rooster in the bridal suite. For the villa, Coyote and Hangman in Room 1403. Payback and Fanboy in Room 1405. And then…” she grinned, “1406 Bob and—” she looked at you, then down at the screen, then back at you, “Sweetie? That’s your callsign?”

“Don’t ask,” you said.

“She’s sweet until she’s not,” Hangman chimed in.

“She bit me once,” Coyote added.

“She’s never gonna live that down,” you muttered.

Skylar handed you both a gold keycard. “You two are in the ocean-view master bedroom with a king bed, private balcony, and rainfall shower.”

There was a pause.

You blinked. “King bed?”

Bob blinked. “Rainfall shower?”

Rooster cackled in the background like this was the best sitcom he’d ever seen.

“Enjoy your stay!” Skylar said cheerfully.

-

The elevator ride up to the villa was silent.

Well, almost.

Coyote was humming “Mamma Mia.” Hangman was FaceTiming his abs in the reflective ceiling. Rooster kept smacking Bob’s shoulder and mouthing king bed like a fourth grader in sex ed.

You looked at Bob.

He looked at you.

And yeah, this was gonna be a long-ass week.

-

The elevator dinged at the top floor with an overly posh chime that felt almost offensive after twelve hours of hellish travel. A hotel staff member led the way, unlocking a large frosted-glass door with a “Kaiaulu Elite” plaque that screamed if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

You stepped inside and immediately forgot how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” Fanboy said, wide-eyed.

The villa looked like it had been ripped straight out of a travel influencer’s reel. Vaulted ceilings, sleek marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened to a massive balcony with a panoramic view of the Pacific. There were palm trees swaying dramatically in the breeze like they had an aesthetic to maintain. A massive kitchen gleamed like no one had ever dared touch it. The living room alone could host a TED Talk.

And the bedrooms?

All off a central hallway, each with its own locked door, each labeled with gold plaques: 1403, 1405, and 1406

“This isn’t a villa,” Hangman breathed. “This is Beyoncé’s panic room.”

Payback flopped onto the designer couch and let out a long groan. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be stuck to this leather like a Fruit Roll-Up.”

Bob hovered awkwardly near the hallway, scanning the room numbers. “Looks like… Hangman and Coyote are in 1403, Payback and Fanboy are 1405…”

He turned to you.

You were holding the 1406 keycard.

His said 1406, too.

You both stared at it. Then at each other. Then at the very large, very shared king-sized problem waiting behind that door.

“Oh, hell yes,” Hangman said, already halfway down the hall. “Roommate reveal time!”

“No shoes in the bedrooms!” you called after him.

“Too late,” he yelled.

Fanboy wheeled his suitcase in a lazy circle across the marble floor. “I feel like we’re in the final round of a reality show. Like if someone doesn’t cry in the shower by day three, it’s a failure.”

Payback raised a hand. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Bob set down his bags and looked over at you. “Do you wanna… check it out?”

You lifted your brows. “What, our shared domestic life in Room 1406?”

He blushed. “I meant the rainfall shower.”

You snorted and led the way.

-

Room 1406 was—of course—insane.

Cream walls, massive windows, a balcony with two lounge chairs and a view straight out of a dream. There was a complimentary bottle of champagne chilling in a gold bucket. The king bed looked like it could fit six people and still have room for regrets. The en suite bathroom had a soaking tub, twin sinks, and a shower big enough to host a concert in.

Bob let out a stunned little breath. “This is… wow.”

“Yeah,” you said. “We’re definitely gonna end up accidentally married in here.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but he laughed softly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I mean, statistically,” he said. “I do already know your toothpaste brand and how you like your eggs.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get cocky, Floyd.”

He smiled. “Never.”

You dropped your bag on the bed and sank down next to it. The mattress cradled your body like it had been blessed by saints. You groaned. “I’m never moving again.”

“Dinner’s in an hour.”

“I will simply ascend and feast as a ghost.”

Bob, still standing awkwardly by the door, gave you a look like he was about to say something else—maybe something real. But then:

“YO! WHO TOOK THE MASTER BATH?!”

Coyote’s voice echoed down the hallway, followed by a crash and Hangman laughing maniacally.

You sighed. “And so it begins.”

-

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a syrupy gold light over the resort as you and the rest of the squad made your way across the winding, lantern-lit paths to the oceanside restaurant reserved for the welcome dinner.

You had about thirty minutes to unpack, shower, and pretend you weren’t feral. Somehow, you made it—barely. Your hair was damp from a frantic rinse, you were still applying mascara in the elevator, and Rooster had been yelling down the hallway for ten minutes about how “this wasn’t optional.”

You were in a beachy dress you didn’t remember packing, your sandals were on the wrong feet, and Bob had walked into the bathroom twice mid-shirt-change while politely trying to not see anything. So yeah. Normal vacation stuff.

By the time you reached the private outdoor patio at the restaurant, the place was already buzzing. Tables were strung together beneath rows of glowing bistro lights, the air heavy with the scent of plumeria, roasted garlic, and whatever cocktail was glowing bright blue in Rooster’s hand.

“Squad, assemble!” Phoenix called from the head of the table, raising a mai tai in greeting.

She looked stunning—white dress, flower tucked behind her ear, a total bridal vision. Next to her, Rooster was already schmoozing with guests like he was running for office. You watched him nod seriously at someone’s uncle, then immediately trip over a tiki torch.

“Smooth,” Payback muttered.

“Presidential,” Fanboy added.

You found your name card halfway down the table, tucked beside Bob’s—of course. He was already pulling out your chair for you.

“Wow,” you said, smirking as you sat. “Chivalry?”

He shrugged, smoothing his dress shirt. “Trying not to embarrass you in front of Phoenix’s mom.”

“Too late for that,” someone drawled from across the table.

You looked up—and nearly choked on your breath.

The man sliding into the seat opposite you was tan, broad-shouldered, with a crooked grin and hair a little too good for someone not famous. He wore his Hawaiian shirt open just enough to be a problem.

“Leo Trace,” he said, offering a hand. “Phoenix’s older, hotter brother.”

You shook it, heart skidding. “Sweetie,” you said. “Bridesmaid. Not hotter.”

“Debatable,” Leo said, smiling right at you.

Across from you, Bob choked softly into his water.

Phoenix leaned across the table and gave you a look. “I forgot to warn you. He flirts like it’s a sport. Feel free to ignore him.”

“Rude,” Leo said. “I came all this way for my only sister’s wedding and I’m being slandered already?”

“You came because mom guilt-tripped you,” Phoenix said flatly.

“She said I’d get a tan and maybe meet my future wife.”

You glanced down at your plate.

Bob quietly readjusted the silverware.

“Anyway,” Leo said, grinning at you again. “So. You’re in the squad? You fly, too?”

“She flies,” Rooster said, materializing beside the table with a fresh beer. “She terrifies.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Hangman called from three seats down. “She once threatened to land a jet on my truck.”

“Because you parked in her spot,” Phoenix added, sipping.

Leo looked absolutely delighted. “Do you come with subtitles? Because I’m trying to keep up.”

You smiled sweetly. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get the crash course soon enough.”

Across from you, Bob adjusted his seat again.

You turned toward him. “Hey, did you try the rolls? They’re like, stupid good.”

He blinked, clearly caught mid-spiral. “I—uh—yeah. The bread. Very good bread.”

“Best man, right?” Leo asked him.

Bob nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Must be wild having your whole squad here. Feels like a reunion episode of a military soap opera.”

Bob let out a short breath. “That’s… one way to put it.”

You kicked him lightly under the table.

His eyes flicked to yours, and he relaxed—just a little.

-

By the time dessert rolled around, Rooster had spilled his third drink, Payback was crying laughing at something Fanboy showed him on his phone, and Hangman was deep in a bizarre debate with Phoenix’s aunt about whether or not Die Hard was a Christmas movie.

You were leaning back in your seat, completely full and very buzzed, when Leo turned to you again.

“So,” he said. “Any chance you’ll save me a dance at the reception?”

You opened your mouth—

“She’s sharing a room with me,” Bob blurted.

The table went quiet.

You blinked. “I—I am.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “Good for you, man.”

You watched Bob flush crimson. “I just meant—like—we’re friends. It’s not—we’re not—”

“Bro,” Fanboy said. “Abort.”

Bob let his head drop into his hands.

You turned to Leo and smiled. “I’ll think about that dance.”

-

The welcome dinner had technically ended three hours ago.

But someone—probably Fanboy—had muttered “I’m not tired, are you tired?” and that’s how eight fully grown adults ended up sprinting toward the beach with zero plan and a dangerous amount of post-mai-tai confidence.

The tiki torches lining the sand were flickering low, casting long shadows. The stars were out. The pool lights were off. Your feet were bare. Your dress was still on. Someone had handed you a half-finished drink that tasted suspiciously like tequila and regret.

Phoenix kicked off her heels with dramatic flair and yelled, “I’m getting in whether you bitches follow or not!”

“You’re the bride!” Rooster shouted. “You can’t drown till after the ceremony!”

“She’s a Navy pilot, Bradshaw,” Bob said flatly. “She’s not gonna drown.”

“Thank you, Floyd!”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t get bitten by a crab though.”

Hangman let out a gasp from where he was aggressively digging a hole in the sand with a margarita glass. “THAT’S WHY THE OCEAN SMELLED WEIRD. THEY’RE PLOTTING.”

“Who gave Jake tequila!?” Payback bellowed.

“You did,” Fanboy said calmly. “We all watched you do it.”

Rooster ripped his shirt off like he was auditioning for Baywatch and yelled, “If I die tonight, I want my gravestone to say ‘Died as he lived: dramatic and mostly shirtless!’”

And then he sprinted into the waves at full speed.

He got maybe six steps in before a wave took him out like God personally smited him.

You doubled over wheezing.

Coyote was crying laughing. “YOU LOOK LIKE LAUNDRY IN A WASH CYCLE.”

“I’M FINE,” Rooster yelled from the surf. “MY KNEE DID SOMETHING WEIRD BUT I’M FINE.”

Phoenix grabbed your wrist. “We’re next.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit!”

Phoenix looked you dead in the eye. “Neither does anyone. Let’s go, Sweetie.”

Before you could object, she pulled you full-speed into the surf. You screamed at the cold—only for a wave to slam into both of you with unholy vengeance. Saltwater hit your face. Your hair stuck to your skin. Someone behind you tripped and yelled, “WHY IS THE SAND SO UNEVEN???”

That was probably Leo.

You pushed your hair out of your face just in time to see Hangman cannonball directly into the water in jeans.

“HE’S IN DENIM,” Coyote shrieked. “SOMEONE STOP HIM.”

“I’M MAKING ART,” Hangman hollered, soaking wet, arms spread like Jesus in a Levi’s commercial.

Fanboy tried to body slam Payback. Missed. Got dunked.

Rooster reemerged from the sea with a piece of seaweed on his shoulder and shouted, “Poseidon has accepted me as his child!”

“Good for you, buddy!” Phoenix called.

Bob was still on the edge of the water, just past the shore, standing knee-deep with a calm look on his face. His dog tags glinted in the moonlight as he adjusted his glasses and watched all of you with the fond exhaustion of a man in love with the exact chaos he’d willingly walked into.

You waded over, soaked and breathless.

“Having fun?” he asked, voice barely above the sound of the surf.

“Define fun.”

“You’re smiling.”

You splashed him lightly. “You’re wearing socks with slides, Bob. Why?”

He glanced down. Groaned. “This is bullying.”

“No, this is love.”

He gave you a long look. A real one. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something else. But you both let the silence sit there, sweet and salt-laced, just long enough for Hangman to start yelling about bioluminescence behind you.

-

You burst into the villa like a group of very wet, very overdressed burglars.

Hangman slipped first — his loafers had zero traction on the polished tile — and barely caught himself on the back of the couch. “Who builds a beach next to a resort?!” he yelled, as if the architecture was to blame for him falling in.

“Literally everyone,” Fanboy answered, already peeling off his soaked blazer. “That’s the point of beachfront property.”

Payback followed behind him, sloshing with every step. “I swear to God, if I get trench foot because you idiots started a splash war—”

“You jumped in!” Coyote reminded him, squishing past in his damp linen pants.

“You said I wouldn’t!”

You were too cold to speak. Your dress clung to you like a wet napkin, and your clutch was full of seawater. Bob walked behind you with a dazed, almost peaceful expression — like he’d accepted his fate. His glasses were fogged and useless, and his button-down shirt had become transparent enough to qualify as a scandal.

“Your hair looks like a mop,” you said over your shoulder.

Bob blinked slowly. “I think my contacts dissolved.”

“Sweetie, you got kelp in your bra?” Phoenix asked, poking her head in from the open lanai door as she and Rooster prepared to leave for their private villa.

You pulled a sad little seaweed string out of your cleavage. “I’ll never be clean again.”

Phoenix saluted you solemnly. “Godspeed.”

Rooster slung an arm around her shoulders. “If the villa floods, don’t call us.”

“YOU’RE the one who started the splash fight!” Fanboy yelled after them.

They were gone before anyone could throw a sandal.

Back inside, the rest of the squad was in various states of undress and defeat. Clothes hit the floor with dramatic flair. Coyote was already rifling through the mini fridge in the living room, dripping water onto the marble like a trail of chaos.

“Who wants a road beer?” he asked.

“You’re in the villa,” Bob said, pointing at their suite number as he dragged his bag across the floor. “Go shower.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Dad,” Coyote called, grabbing a mini tequila and sauntering off to 1403 with Hangman trailing behind him.

“I feel like I’ve been exfoliated by the sea,” Hangman muttered.

“I think you mean violated,” Payback corrected.

Fanboy was sniffing his shoe. “This smells like fish death.”

“Then don’t bring it in the bedroom!” Payback snapped, grabbing his own bag and dragging Fanboy toward 1405.

The chaos slowly filtered out into doors slamming and muffled voices as the villa quieted down — or, at least, as quiet as it could get with six Dagger boys trying to figure out the bidet in their respective bathrooms.

That left you.

And Bob.

Both standing in front of your room: 1406, the master suite.

“I’m never getting the sand out of this dress,” you said quietly, twisting your braid over your shoulder.

Bob looked like a shipwreck survivor. “You could’ve taken it off before swimming.”

“You could’ve not walked straight into a wave like a sleepwalker.”

“…I panicked,” he mumbled.

You both stepped into the suite. The bed looked like a cloud made of marshmallows and wealth. There were soft robes folded neatly on the bench at the end of the bed, and a bowl of chocolates on the nightstand. The bathroom was the size of a studio apartment.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a sigh. “We survived the flight. The check-in. The dinner. The ocean.”

Bob sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his socks with an exhausted grunt. “You forgot the part where Coyote tried to baptize me with a piña colada.”

“I thought you liked tropical immersion.”

“I didn’t think it would be literal.”

You both peeled off wet clothes — not in a sexy way, more like two soggy roommates trying not to drip on the expensive rug. You pulled on the villa robe, tied it tight, and rubbed a towel through your hair.

Bob reappeared from the bathroom in boxers and a soft gray t-shirt. His curls were damp, his glasses finally clean, and he looked like a man who had absolutely no control over his own life anymore.

“You want the left side or right?” he asked.

You climbed into the bed without answering, burrowing straight into the sheets like a creature reclaiming its natural habitat.

“…Okay,” Bob muttered, slipping into the other side. “Noted.”

A moment passed.

Then you both burst into laughter — half-hysterical, half-delirious. The kind of laugh you get when you’re tired and overwhelmed and slightly buzzed from an evening of dumb decisions.

“I smell like seaweed and rum,” you wheezed.

“I can’t feel my kneecaps,” he whispered back.

You rolled onto your side, finally catching your breath. “Goodnight, Bob.”

He reached over and turned off the light. “Goodnight, Sweetie.”

-

The room was quiet.

Soft hum of the air conditioning. Outside, the ocean churned somewhere in the dark. A palm frond tapped the balcony glass every so often like a polite ghost asking to be let in.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up.

But it had to be deep in the middle of the night — the kind of hour where time felt soft and blurry, like the world had gone out of focus.

You were hot.

Or maybe cold. Or maybe just tangled. The comforter was twisted around your ankle, You shifted, trying to find a less cursed position.

Bob stirred beside you.

You froze.

“…You good?” he mumbled sleepily, voice thick and rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Sorry. Just—my spine’s in a permanent state of confusion.”

He made a soft noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “You should’ve taken the fluffy side of the pillow.”

“Why is your side fluffier?”

“Because I claimed it.”

You squinted at him through the darkness. “Are you hoarding the good pillow, Floyd?”

“I’m not hoarding, I’m just—” he paused, clearly not awake enough to argue properly. “Whatever. Take it. I’ll survive.”

There was a brief shuffle, fabric rustling, and then he passed over the good pillow like some kind of medieval offering. You flopped dramatically onto it with a sigh of relief, and he laughed again — low and tired and genuine.

Silence returned.

But only for a minute.

“Hey,” you said suddenly.

“Mm?”

“If I die of sea-fungus or mysterious ocean bacteria from swimming in a saltwater infinity pool in clothes that have never been washed, tell everyone it was Rooster’s fault.”

“Obviously.”

“And bury me in this robe. Tell Phoenix it was my final wish.”

Bob shifted closer, just a little. You could feel the warmth of him behind you now — not touching, not quite, but close. The kind of close that buzzed.

“You’re not dying of sea-fungus,” he said. “I’m making you shower in the morning.”

You grinned into the pillow. “Bossy.”

“Tactical.”

You turned your head just slightly toward him. Couldn’t see much — just the vague blur of his face in the dark.

His voice went softer. “You warm enough?”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then — and you weren’t sure how or why it happened — you moved back half an inch. Maybe less.

Just enough for the back of your shoulder to brush against his chest.

He didn’t move away.

His fingers brushed yours under the blanket. Not a full hold. Just—there. Light, tentative.

Your pulse did something ridiculous.

“…Goodnight again,” you whispered.

This time, he didn’t respond with words.

Just a gentle squeeze of your pinky.

-

Somewhere in the villa, an iPhone alarm went off at full nuclear volume.

“WHOSE PHONE—”

“I’m gonna kill someone.”

“Make it stop. Kill it. Smash it.”

“FANBOY TURN IT OFF.”

“I thought I did!” Fanboy shouted from the other room, smacking random buttons on his phone. “Why is it connected to the bathroom speaker?!”

The alarm continued, now echoing through the villa like a demon inside a cave. Someone groaned loudly, then there was the muffled thud of a pillow being thrown and a distant splash — possibly Payback falling off the bed.

In room 1406, your eyes blinked open in slow, confused horror.

“What the hell,” you rasped. Your throat felt dry, your hair was stuck to your cheek.

Across the bed, Bob made a noise that sounded like a dying walrus and rolled over. “Did we get trampled by a stampede of sea cucumbers?”

“No,” you croaked. “That’s just Fanboy’s alarm.”

There was another thud, followed by Hangman’s voice somewhere in the hallway:

“Jesus Christ, I thought we were under attack. Fanboy, what are you doing, syncing it to the Bluetooth speaker like a war criminal?”

“I didn’t mean to! I was trying to set an ocean sounds sleep timer!”

You threw the covers off with a groan and stumbled into the bathroom. Your eyes were puffy, your eyeliner was half-melted down one cheek, and you had a faint outline of a leaf stuck to the side of your neck. Awesome.

Bob appeared in the doorway behind you, his hair sticking up at six different angles.

“I think the seaweed tried to strangle me in my sleep,” he said.

“You have a sock in your pocket.”

“Do I?”

You both stared at his reflection for a moment in silence.

“…We need to go eat something,” you finally said.

-

The squad stumbled into the hotel’s grand buffet like a group of very pretty, very hungover zombies.

Coyote had one shoe on. Phoenix was wearing sunglasses indoors. Rooster looked like he’d been dragged backward through a wedding centerpiece. Hangman kept muttering about “Bluetooth betrayal.”

The buffet itself was absurd.

Six omelet stations. A waffle bar with ten syrups. A juice fountain. There was a cheese concierge.

“I feel like I’ve wandered into a very sexy fever dream,” Fanboy whispered as he picked up a plate.

“I’m gonna get married just for this buffet,” Payback said, already scooping eggs like a man possessed. “Put it in the vows. Till death, waffles, and bacon do us part.”

Bob, still half-asleep but holding two mugs of coffee like lifelines, handed one to you without a word.

You took it gratefully, barely awake enough to register that it was somehow exactly how you liked it.

“Sweetie, you have a seaweed strand in your hair,” Phoenix deadpanned, not looking up from the fruit bar.

“I know,” you said flatly. “It’s part of my look now.”

You and Bob returned to the table, plates fully loaded, just in time for Payback to hold up his third croissant and say, mouth full: “So, what’s the plan today?”

“Town day,” Phoenix announced, still wearing her sunglasses like a celebrity in hiding. “We explore. We shop. I buy things I absolutely don’t need. I bully Rooster into matching outfits. I taste twelve flavors of shaved ice and rate them on a spreadsheet.”

Rooster nodded solemnly. “I accept my fate.”

“And,” Hangman added, pointing dramatically with a fork, “we all buy horrendous tourist merch. Like coconut bras. Or shell necklaces. No one’s leaving Maui without looking like a budget Survivor contestant.”

“You just want an excuse to wear a floral sarong again,” Bob said.

“Again?” Fanboy blinked. “I’m sorry, what do you mean again—”

“I said what I said.”

Phoenix raised her mimosa. “Squad goal: spend money. Avoid sunburn. Only two emotional breakdowns allowed today.”

“And no one gets left behind this time,” you added pointedly.

Everyone looked at Rooster.

“OKAY,” he barked, holding up his hands. “I got on the wrong shuttle one time—”

-

The hotel shuttle door slid open with a hiss, and the Dagger Squad spilled out like contestants on a deranged group vacation special.

Phoenix immediately clapped her hands. “Okay, listen up. Here’s the plan: shaved ice, souvenir shops, matching t-shirts, tourist photos by the banyan tree, and then happy hour at that place on the beach. No one wander off. No one get another tattoo.”

“I regret nothing,” Fanboy muttered, tugging down the collar of his shirt to show off the tiny pineapple on his collarbone.

Rooster was already squinting against the sun. “It’s hot. Why is it so hot.”

“Because it’s the tropics and you refused to wear sunscreen,” Coyote said, handing him a floppy hat. “Put this on before your face peels off.”

“I look like a grandma.”

“You are a grandma,” Hangman said cheerfully. “Now smile. Squad photo time.”

-

You were in a full pineapple-printed outfit: matching shorts and crop top, courtesy of a wildly overpriced souvenir shop that you all ransacked like drunk pirates.

Rooster was in a shirt that read I GOT LEI’D IN MAUI. Phoenix had a tote bag that said Bridezilla Mode Activated. Payback was carrying two coconuts like he was dual-wielding them in a cartoon.

Bob was in a navy blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with tiny fighter jets and palm trees. His bucket hat said ALOHA, NERDS. He looked unreasonably good.

You told him that.

He promptly forgot how to breathe for a full three seconds.

Hangman, of course, noticed immediately.

“Oh, did Sweetie just call Bob hot again?” he gasped, hands to his chest. “I think I felt the earth quake.”

“Shut it,” you said, but you were smiling.

“I hate to say this,” Coyote added, “but you two are getting dangerously close to ‘mom and dad on vacation’ vibes. If you start arguing about dinner coupons, I’m out.”

“WE ARE NOT—”

“Sweetie, do not yell at me like I’m the manager of a resort timeshare,” Fanboy interrupted.

“I hate all of you,” you muttered.

-

You were halfway through your mango shaved ice and actively ignoring Hangman trying to barter with a street vendor over shell necklaces when you heard someone whistle low and familiar.

You turned—and there he was.

Leo Trace, wearing swim trunks, sunglasses, and a sleeveless tank top that showcased his deeply unfair arms. His hair was windswept. His grin was criminal. His tan had gotten even better overnight.

“Oh no,” Bob muttered.

“Oh yes,” Hangman said under his breath.

Leo jogged over, flashing a grin that was already trouble. “Hey, you guys made it! I just got done surfing—figured I’d come see if you all survived the buffet hangover.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes. “Leo, go away.”

“You invited me to your wedding?.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Leo ignored her, turning to you with a lopsided smirk. “You look good in pineapples.”

“Thanks. You look like you belong in a cologne commercial,” you replied dryly.

“Appreciate that.” His eyes flicked to Bob. “Nice shirt, man. Really brings out the existential dread.”

Bob didn’t blink. “Thanks. So does your tank top. You buy that in the children’s section or was it just pre-shrunk from all the attention-seeking?”

You choked.

The squad exploded.

“Oh my god,” Fanboy whispered.

“Bob!” Payback clapped a hand over his mouth.

Leo blinked, then grinned wider. “Damn. You finally got teeth. Love that for you.”

Bob looked entirely unbothered. “Love that you noticed.”

Hangman was doubled over. “Someone give these two a kiddie pool and let them wrestle it out. I am begging.”

“Let’s not do this,” you said, somewhere between amused and horrified.

“We already are,” Rooster said, filming the whole thing on his phone.

Leo leaned toward you just slightly. “Hey—if you want to escape the senior citizens’ discount tour, I was gonna grab lunch by the cliffs. You in?”

Before you could answer, Bob said flatly, “She’s booked. Shaved ice, matching shirts, group meltdown scheduled for 2:15. Full itinerary.”

Leo snorted. “Well. In case you change your mind…”

He shot you a wink and sauntered off, giving Phoenix a noogie as he passed. She slapped him in the stomach and shouted “STOP BEING HOT AROUND MY FRIENDS” like she said it twice a week.

When he was gone, the group just stood there in stunned silence.

Then Fanboy whispered, “I’m scared to check Bob’s blood pressure.”

You turned to him. “Are you seriously beefing with Leo now?”

Bob didn’t look at you. “I’m not beefing.”

You just stared.

“Okay. I’m passive-aggressively defending your honor.”

Rooster howled.

You bit back a laugh. “My honor?”

“You heard me.”

“Okay, medieval knight.”

“Dibs on writing his dating profile,” Coyote said. “Bob Floyd: Defends Your Honor. Wears floral. Hates Leo Trace.”

“I don’t hate him,” Bob mumbled.

Everyone: “Mmmhmm.”

-

“I need an hour away from testosterone,” Phoenix announced, already peeling herself away from the group. “No offense, Bob.”

“None taken,” he said, still glaring in the direction Leo had walked.

You looped your arm through hers. “Are we ditching them?”

“We’re escaping them,” she corrected, pointing across the street. “That boutique. You’re coming with me.”

“Is this a bride-zilla errand or a retail therapy errand?”

“Yes.”

-

The shop smelled like plumeria and coconut candles. Soft acoustic covers of early 2000s hits were playing over the speakers — Norah Jones was crooning something about waiting. There were racks of linen sundresses, lace coverups, and flower-print wrap dresses. The kind of place that makes you believe in soft lighting and second chances.

Phoenix bee-lined toward a rack of flowing white maxi dresses.

You wandered toward a blush pink one with a tie at the waist. “You realize you already have your dress, right?”

“Yes, but I don’t have a brunch after the wedding, please excuse my post-nuptial glow dress,” she said, holding a sheer one up to the mirror. “This is logistics.”

“Sounds like an excuse.”

“I am the bride.”

“…Fair.”

You flipped through hangers. “So what’s the vibe you’re going for? Effortless goddess? Sexy domestic vacation wife? Do you want to look like you own a villa or like you own an espresso machine and a quiet divorce?”

She held up a white halter with a gold clasp. “This says I make organic smoothies and my husband writes screenplays.”

“This says you eat your husband,” you countered.

“Perfect,” she grinned, and slung it over her arm.

-

A few dresses later, you found yourself half-draped across the plush pink chair in the dressing room lounge while Phoenix modeled her fifth option.

“This one’s kind of giving… spiritual retreat leader,” she said, turning in front of the mirror.

You squinted. “You look like you’d charge me $800 to rebalance my energy with ethically sourced moon crystals.”

“Okay, that’s a yes.”

You both laughed — the kind of easy, familiar laugh that came from years of this exact routine. Dress shops. Dumb commentary. Her being fearless. You being her anchor.

Phoenix stepped out of the changing room again, barefoot now, holding a gauzy shawl like she wasn’t totally convinced about it. “Hey… you okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re doing the thing where you go quiet and start folding clothes that don’t belong to you.”

Sure enough, your hands were smoothing out a top that had nothing to do with you.

You sighed, sitting back down. “Just… exhausted. Long night.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “Did Bob snore?”

“No. He was actually weirdly quiet. Like, suspiciously polite. Like he was pretending he was asleep for most of it.”

“He probably was.”

“I don’t think so.”

She gave you that look. The one that meant: Say it out loud or I will. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

Phoenix sat beside you. “Sweetie.”

You rubbed your hands over your face. “It’s just… I got in bed thinking it’d be awkward, or maybe funny, or we’d have a weird moment and joke about it. And instead, it was just—quiet. And warm. And he said goodnight like he meant it. And I—” you trailed off. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Because of Bob.”

“Because of Bob.”

Phoenix was silent for a beat. Then: “Can I ask something real?”

“Always.”

She turned toward you. “Are you scared it’s not just a crush anymore?”

Your breath caught. Then you whispered, “Yeah.”

“Sweetie.”

“I don’t know when it happened. Or how. It’s just—he’s always there. He listens, and he knows all my shit and doesn’t flinch. And when I wake up, I always kind of hope he’ll be there too.”

Phoenix leaned her head on your shoulder. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“You’re already halfway in. And so is he. The rest is just one of you being brave enough to say it.”

You didn’t answer. You just sat there, surrounded by linen dresses and the smell of coconut, trying to breathe around the weight in your chest.

“Anyway,” Phoenix said, brightening, “I’m buying the expensive one.”

“I knew you would.”

“I deserve it.”

“Absolutely.”

-

By the time you and Phoenix made it back from the boutique, the rest of the squad had migrated to a beachside bar just down the road from the resort — the kind of place with frozen drinks served in pineapples, no walls, and a ukulele player crooning something vaguely Jack Johnson-adjacent in the corner.

You spotted them immediately: Hangman and Coyote arguing over who could bench more (both wrong), Fanboy building an elaborate tower out of coasters, Payback filming it for “scientific documentation,” and Rooster sipping a neon-colored drink that did not match his energy.

Bob was sitting between Rooster and an empty chair — sunglasses on, cheeks a little pink from the sun, shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked up as you approached.

And then blinked. And blinked again.

Because you weren’t wearing that hideous pineapple set anymore—no—you were wearing a dress. The one Phoenix had convinced you to buy. The one with the low back and the soft pink floral print and the sash that tied at your waist just so. Your hair was swept up in a lazy clip, and the breeze had pulled a few strands loose. You looked… warm. Relaxed. Like vacation agreed with you.

Bob? He looked like his brain had just short-circuited.

“Hey,” you said, sliding into the seat beside him.

He made a sound that might’ve been a word.

You tilted your head. “Everything okay?”

He took a slow sip of his drink and muttered, “That dress should be illegal.”

You laughed — and okay, maybe blushed a little too. “It was on sale.”

“That’s a crime.”

Rooster leaned over with a smirk. “You gonna say something or just sit there like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time?”

Bob didn’t even bother to answer him.

Phoenix returned a moment later, flopping into the seat next to you and stealing a sip from your drink without asking. “This is awful. I love it.”

“It’s a coconut mojito,” you said. “You ordered it.”

“Yeah, well, past me had terrible taste.”

Fanboy pointed dramatically across the bar. “Incoming hot older brother. I repeat: Leo approaching at six o’clock.”

You didn’t even have to look to know he was smirking.

“Afternoon, degenerates,” Leo said, all golden confidence and lazy charm as he slid into a chair beside Phoenix. “Y’all survive the swim last night?”

“No thanks to you,” Bob muttered under his breath.

“What was that, Floyd?”

“Nothing.”

Leo stretched like a cat and nodded toward your drink. “Sweetheart, you gonna let me try that or do I have to earn it?”

You gave him a slow blink. “You want to earn it? Go build a sandcastle with Fanboy and don’t speak to me for fifteen minutes.”

Fanboy gasped. “Wait yes, we should build a moat.”

“Only if it has tiny turrets,” Leo said, immediately on board.

Phoenix snorted. “God help us.”

Rooster leaned toward Coyote, deadpan: “How long you think until Leo gets himself kicked out of this bar?”

“Ten minutes,” Coyote said. “Five if he starts flirting with someone’s mom.”

“I don’t discriminate,” Leo said, raising his drink. “Moms deserve attention too.”

Bob looked like he was internally screaming.

You nudged him with your knee under the table. “Hey.”

He turned, and you smiled — soft, real, just for him.

“You okay?” you asked.

He exhaled slowly, lips quirking. “I think I liked last night better when it was just us and the fish.”

You laughed. “Me too.”

He looked at you for a long beat, like he was trying to memorize something. Then nodded, like he’d just come to a decision.

“I’ll get us another round,” he said, standing and heading to the bar.

You watched him go — watched the way his hand rubbed the back of his neck, the way his shoulders moved under his shirt, the way he still looked a little like your favorite secret.

Phoenix elbowed you. “You’re so gone.”

You didn’t deny it.

-

The squad villa was bursting at the seams with food, noise, and the unmistakable scent of garlic, salt, and something suspiciously sweet coming from a giant bowl of leftover Mai Tais.

The long dining table groaned under the weight of the feast: heaping platters of crispy fries, sushi rolls stacked like towers, at least four kinds of pizza (including one with jalapeños that had everyone pretending to be braver than they were), and a massive bowl of spicy noodles that was being eyed like a ticking time bomb.

Rooster was already halfway through a pizza slice, balancing it precariously in one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. Phoenix sat at the head of the table, eyes darting between the squad and a list of last-minute wedding to-dos on her tablet, but a faint smile betrayed her amusement at the chaos unfolding.

“You know,” Phoenix said, “I feel like I should be stressed right now, but instead I’m just watching you all try to eat without setting something on fire.”

“You say that like it’s not a talent,” Payback said, dipping a fry into a suspiciously generous amount of ketchup.

Coyote gave him a side-eye. “You’re the reason we almost had to call the fire department last trip.”

Fanboy, meanwhile, was meticulously organizing his sushi pieces by type and color, while Hangman somehow managed to juggle a bowl of noodles, a slice of pizza, and a cocktail all at once.

Bob sat next to you on the couch, his plate overflowing with a dangerously large pile of fries and half a slice of pizza, eyes flickering between his food and you. You caught him staring and smirked, adjusting the sash of your dress as you took a bite of a spicy chicken wing.

Bob? Poor guy looked like he was short-circuiting.

Coyote nudged him. “You good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Because you haven’t blinked in like… two minutes.”

“Totally fine.”

You leaned back casually, taking a bite of your fries. “He’s just trying to process how dumb you all are.”

“I’m trying to process how good you look in that dress,” Bob mumbled into his fork.

The room fell suspiciously silent.

Hangman’s head whipped around. “Sorry, what was that, Floyd?”

“Nothing,” Bob said, way too fast.

You gave him a slow side glance, lips twitching. “That wasn’t nothing.”

Fanboy whispered, “Y’all gonna kiss on this pizza box or what.”

Payback wheezed.

“Hey,” Rooster said, throwing a pizza slice onto your plate with mock generosity. “Eat before you turn into a stressed-out statue.”

You grinned. “Thanks, Captain Romantic. Don’t strain yourself with all this charm.”

Rooster smirked, glancing at Phoenix, who shook her head with a knowing smile.

The conversation swirled between silly and serious: debates over which wedding song would destroy the dance floor, last-minute checklist panic, and playful teasing about who would actually survive the wedding day without embarrassing themselves.

Fanboy made a passionate case for an ‘80s dance medley, which Payback immediately mocked by launching into an exaggerated version of the moonwalk that left everyone laughing.

Hangman attempted to one-up him with a clumsy breakdance move that ended with him sprawled on the floor, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Coyote rolled his eyes but grinned. “Remind me why I agreed to come on this trip again?”

“Because you love us,” you said, tossing a fry at him.

Bob laughed quietly, then leaned closer to whisper, “You really look incredible tonight.”

You felt your cheeks warm, but kept eating like it was no big deal.

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you didn’t forget your manners and pick a fight with the food,” you teased.

Bob shrugged. “I saved my energy for keeping you alive all weekend.”

You glanced at him, catching that brief flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

Phoenix clapped her hands, cutting through the noise. “Alright, lovebirds and degenerates — dessert’s on me. Let’s order something ridiculous.”

“Brownie sundae with extra whipped cream,” Payback declared.

“And a pineapple upside-down cake,” Fanboy added.

Rooster raised his glass. “To surviving weddings, friendships, and all the chaos in between.”

Everyone cheered, the noise swelling into laughter and loud conversation that carried well into the night.

-

Somewhere in between pheonix and rooster leaving, the boys going to bed and room service coming by to get the dirty dishes, you and bob went outside on the villa balcony.

It was quiet outside — just the distant sound of ocean waves and the soft hum of island nightlife. The breeze had cooled slightly, salt-heavy and sweet, rustling the palms below. The villa balcony overlooked the water, soft yellow lights strung around the railing and casting warm glows over the white cushions.

You leaned against the edge, arms crossed loosely. Bob stood next to you, one hand braced on the railing, the other shoved in his pocket.

“That dress really is…” he started, then gave a helpless little shake of his head. “You look beautiful.”

You smiled, turning slightly toward him. “Thanks, Bobby.”

His ears flushed. “Don’t call me that.”

You grinned. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“I know you like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

A few beats of quiet passed. You both stared out at the water like it had answers. Like it might solve whatever tension had been simmering beneath the surface all day.

“You ever think about it?” you asked softly.

Bob glanced at you. “About what?”

“Weddings.”

That startled him more than he expected. “Yours or in general?”

“Both.”

He hesitated. “I guess I think about… being there. The people I’d want. The vibe. Good food, live music. Definitely no choreographed dancing.”

“No chicken dance?”

“God, no.”

You laughed, and he relaxed a little.

“What about you?” he asked.

You shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that meant yes, a lot. “Used to want a huge wedding. Now? I think I’d be happy with something small. Family, friends. Just… people who really know me.”

His eyes softened. “They’d know you picked that dress.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna talk about this dress the whole night?”

“Possibly,” he said. “I’m in a bit of a spiral.”

You bit back a smile, looking away again. “I don’t think I’d want a big venue. Maybe something outdoors. Garden, beach. Sunset ceremony. Then dancing under lights just like these.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then quietly: “I’d dance with you.”

You turned.

He was still watching the water, but you could see the way his hand curled tighter around the railing. Like he was holding onto something that scared him a little.

You stepped closer.

“Maybe you will,” you said softly.

That finally made him look at you — really look. Like his heart was right there in his eyes and he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“…Are we still talking hypothetically?” he asked.

You just smiled.

-

The first light of dawn filtered softly through the tall windows of the villa, painting the rooms in gentle hues of pink and gold.

The squad villa was still, the kind of quiet that felt like the calm before a storm — and with the Dagger Squad, storms were basically guaranteed.

One by one, the bedrooms slowly came to life.

In room 1403, Coyote stirred under his rumpled sheets, the early sun warming his face. His phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand with a message from Fanboy: “You up yet? The plan’s happening.” He groaned, stretching, and reluctantly shoved his feet into slippers.

Down the hall in 1405, Payback lay half-curled on one of the queen beds, eyes fluttering open as his playlist softly filled the room. He reached over to silence his phone and immediately regretted it—the text preview read: “Coffee or death? Choose wisely.” He chuckled and rolled out of bed.

Meanwhile, in the master bedroom 1406, Bob was still tangled in sheets, the soft hum of his smartwatch quietly alerting him to a reminder: “Maid of Honor + Bachelorette Planning @ squad villa today.” He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, glancing toward the door where he knew you were likely stirring too.

You stirred as well, stretching beneath the light linen sheets, the faint scent of salt and island flowers lingering in the air. Your phone buzzed softly on the nightstand—a group message from Phoenix: “Ready to get the party started?!” You smiled and set the phone aside, deciding to give the squad a little more time before the inevitable morning chaos.

The kitchen slowly came alive as the first of you shuffled through to start coffee. Coyote was already up, pouring the first strong cup of the day, while Payback helped unpack a stash of pastries and fruit from the previous night’s haul.

Fanboy, freshly showered and still humming a half-remembered tune, appeared next, arms full of juice cartons and yogurt cups.

Gradually, the others joined in, drawn by the promise of caffeine and the low hum of morning chatter — no yelling yet, just sleepy smiles and the occasional groan.

Phones glowed as someone pulled up an iPad on the kitchen counter — Phoenix’s weapon of choice for today’s mission — a blank note ready to become a master plan.

The villa was calm, the squad gearing up for a day of strategizing and laughter, before the inevitable arrival of Phoenix and Rooster, who would soon burst through the door and kick everything into overdrive.

-

Just as the squad was settling into the rhythm of a slow, caffeine-fueled morning—quiet conversation, half-finished coffee cups, and the soft glow of the iPad screen—an abrupt knock-knock-KNOCK shattered the calm.

The door to the villa rattled under an enthusiastic pounding.

“Get up, you maniacs!” Phoenix’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

Rooster’s followed, just as insistent. “Open this door before I come in like a wrecking ball!”

Coyote groaned loudly, sinking deeper into his chair. “Is it too early to declare war on the bride and groom?”

Payback rolled his eyes but stood, heading to unlock the door.

You exchanged a look with Bob, the slight smile that said: Here we go again.

The door swung open, and Phoenix and Rooster burst inside like a whirlwind of energy and purpose.

Phoenix’s eyes sparkled with that determined “leader” vibe, while Rooster sported that half-smirk that meant he was ready to play referee and ringmaster all at once.

“Morning, degens,” Phoenix announced, dropping a bright tote bag on the kitchen island. “We’re officially on squad time now.”

Rooster followed, tossing his keys on the counter. “No more leisurely wake-ups. We’ve got planning to do — and someone’s got to keep Bob from going back to bed.”

Bob raised his coffee cup in mock surrender. “I’m awake. Mostly.”

Phoenix smirked and pulled out her iPad. “Alright, team. Let’s turn this beautiful chaos into a legendary bachelorette party.”

The squad circled the island, eyes on the screen as Phoenix started typing up ideas.

“Beach bars, scavenger hunts, ridiculous costumes,” she rattled off.

“Don’t forget the karaoke,” Hangman added with a grin.

“Only if we can force Rooster up there,” Payback laughed.

Rooster shook his head but laughed along. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t burn the island down.”

You caught Bob’s eye as the buzz of ideas filled the room — the quiet, simmering energy between you two suddenly feeling warmer in the tropical morning light.

-

The squad was gathered tight around the kitchen island, the iPad glowing like a beacon of organized chaos as Phoenix tapped furiously on the screen.

“Okay, so first things first — themes,” Phoenix declared, eyes scanning the eager faces.

Fanboy was the first to shout out: “Tropical fiesta! You can’t go wrong with palm leaves, flamingos, and endless fruity drinks.”

Hangman grinned. “Or how about a ‘Spy Games’ theme? Secret missions, disguises, and definitely some harmless sabotage.”

Coyote deadpanned, “Because nothing says ‘fun’ like covert ops and broken hearts.”

You laughed, setting down your coffee. “I’m voting for something that screams Dagger Squad chaos. Maybe an obstacle course with a cocktail at the end?”

Payback nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! And challenges like ‘Find the Worst Tattoo in the Bar’ or ‘Convince a Stranger to Buy You a Drink.’”

Bob raised an eyebrow, voice dry but amused. “Public humiliation already sounds like a plan. I like where this is going.”

Rooster shook his head, pretending to be the voice of reason. “Remember, Phoenix wants this memorable, not the next viral disaster.”

Phoenix smirked. “Speak for yourself, Rooster.”

The ideas flew fast and furious. There was talk of ridiculous costumes — you and Bob shared a look, imagining the horrors that might entail. Fanboy suggested a dance-off challenge, which Hangman immediately turned into a full-blown mock battle, complete with terrible dance moves and exaggerated trash talk. You caught Bob’s gaze again. His eyes lingered just a beat too long, that familiar warmth making your chest tighten.

“Alright,” Phoenix said, trying to regain control amid the laughter, “here’s what we have so far: a bar crawl hitting the best beachside bars, a scavenger hunt with ridiculous dares, costumes that may or may not involve glitter and tutus, and a dance-off karaoke showdown.”

Payback raised his coffee cup. “To the best chaos we’ve ever caused.”

Everyone echoed the toast, laughter filling the villa.

Bob leaned closer to you, voice low and teasing. “You ready to lose?”

You smirked. “In your dreams, Floyd.”

fic continued here

taglist: @yagurlannastasia , @funkyfable , @msfirth , @eclipse134 and sorry to anyone else that wanted to e tagged but didn’t i posted this in a rush

[althaiareads]

This was so cute! I really enjoyed it. The yearning, the pining! So good.

I really loved the squad's shenanigans, of course, they would be behind messing with Rooster. The fact that she and Bob get to be together is just a fun perk.

That picture of the Bradshaw family was such a cute detail to add. Bob really is thoughtful like that.

Oh, and reading "Me Before You"? So cute!

So It Goes : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Bradshaw!Reader

Summary: From the moment you laid eyes on Bob Floyd, you were head over heels, and he was too. Your overprotective brother, though, was making it increasingly harder for either of you to make a move. Maybe it's time you defy his wishes.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, oral f. receiving, dirty talk, praise, multiple orgasms, might be a slight hint of a breeding kink in there, kinda takes place in a public setting, aftercare!), porn with a LOT of plot, fluff, idiots in love, friends to lovers, brother's best friend trope, language, female reader, alcohol consumption, reader works at a vet clinic, kinda a slow-burn, there is ONE "killing myself" joke in here, lightly edited so I apologize for any mistakes!

Word Count: 19,944 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

You hated Bradley’s Bronco.

Well, hate was a strong word; it was just…outdated. The seats were cramped, there was barely any room for you to hang your feet up on the dash, and the stereo system was also way too old for your liking. The lack of Apple Maps compatibility, or just Bluetooth in general, had gotten you and your older brother in trouble many times when it came to directions. He also loved driving without the top on, which part of you believed he did specifically because he knew it annoyed you to no end, but you had learned to deal with the roaring wind in your ears.

Honestly, you didn’t have too much of an issue with the vehicle until times like this: driving almost three hours north, further into California, with the wind constantly beating your face and your brother’s music blaring. Bryan Adams’ classic hit, Summer of ‘69, was blaring through the old stereo, but it was also the third time you had heard the song since you hit the road. Three times was enough to have you reaching forward to manually switch the song.

“Absolutely not,” Bradley’s hand left the steering wheel for just a moment to slap at yours. You recoiled with a scoff, kicking your feet up onto the little dashboard space you had, and pulled out your phone instead. “Dude-! What have I told you about feet on my dashboard?”

“You fucked Jamie Pierce in these front seats in college,” you shot back at him, not missing the sideways glare he shot you for the comment. “This dash has seen worse than my feet.”

“A hot girl’s tits and my sister’s dirty ass sneakers are two different things, back on the floor chickie,”

He didn’t care for the indignant groan you let out, just reached over to swat at your leg before you finally threw your feet back on the floor of the passenger side with a huff.

“This is abuse, I’m telling Mav,”

“It’s not abuse, but we both know you’re his favorite and he’ll side with you anyway,” Bradley shot back as you locked eyes with your brother, knowing smirks on both of your faces. Mav really did let you get away with a lot. Bradley only shook his head with a laugh, keeping straight at the intersection before you, Big Bear Lake finally in your view in the late afternoon sun.

The song switched: Higher by Creed. Bradley didn’t waste a second in singing along, shoving one hand in front of your face like a pretend microphone to get you to join in. You only shoved him away with another laugh, digging your phone out of the back pocket of your shorts as it buzzed.

“Mick says hit the gas before Hangman breaks down the door to the cabin,” your brother rolled his eyes at the update from your friends. “Told them that I think we’re ten minutes out.”

“We are,” Bradley cleared his throat performatively, straightening up in his seat as he glanced over at you with a semi-stern look in his eyes. “Which means it’s time we lay down the ground rules for this trip.”

Ah. You were wondering how long this would take, for your brother to go full ‘brother mode’ on you and ‘lay down the law’ for your extended trip to the lake. You let out an exaggerated sigh, one that got you another look shot your way.

“This is your birthday trip, Roo. Do we really need to do this?”

“I’m your older brother, I make the rules-”

“Older by, like, two and a half years–give me a break!” you laughed incredulously, turning your head to watch the trees passing on your side of the car.

“Still older. Rule one: I know my squad are your friends too, but if anyone makes any comments toward you, you are to tell me immediately,”

Yeah, as if that would happen. It had been almost exactly a year since you had met Bradley’s squad: The Dagger Squad, the elite squadron formed at North Island under the command of your godfather, Pete Mitchell. It was right around Bradley’s birthday the year before that they’d been made a permanent squad. He’d called you immediately and convinced you to move back home to California with him, since you had stayed close to your college after graduating.

It wasn’t a hard decision to come home. You and Bradley…you were all each other had left, besides Maverick. There were also an abundance of vet clinics in the country, it wasn’t hard to find a new place to work. So, you flew in to go apartment hunting in San Diego on Bradley’s birthday, and met the entire squad. Meeting that crew of pilots was the easiest thing you had ever done. They accepted you with open arms, brought you in as if you were one of them, calling you their ‘Baby Roo’ or sometimes stealing Bradley’s own little nickname of ‘Chick.’ You were family to them; no one was going to be making any comments toward you.

“Highly unlikely, but go on,”

“Rule two: never be alone with Jake Seresin-”

“Bradley, you don’t even need to make that a rule; I do that of my own volition. Get on with it,”

“Rule three, the most important one of them all: keep your eyes and your hands to yourself and off of Bob,”

Ah, Bob Floyd. You saw that rule coming from a mile away. The only one of that entire squad, your group of friends, that you didn’t look at like extended family, like long-lost cousins, or more siblings. The moment you had walked into the hard deck and locked eyes with those deep, blue eyes hidden behind those dorky little glasses, you knew you were fucked.

“Bradley-”

“That means no eye-fucking him, chickie,” Bradley cut in, not allowing you to speak. You only sank lower into your seat with a sigh, knowing this was going to go on for a while. “Don’t be cuddling up next to him on the couch, don’t try sneaking off with him, don’t be ogling him when you think no one is looking, don’t make those little heart-eyes, for the love of god don’t wear those stupidly tiny bikinis…”

Your phone buzzed, a saving grace to save you from having to listen to your brother’s rant (that happened once a month at this rate). Opening your texts, you expected another message from Natasha or Mickey that Hangman had gotten impatient and broken down the door of your rented cabin.

A smile crossed your lips involuntarily the second you saw his name: Bobby. The rush of butterflies that flew through your stomach and into your chest, making your body feel weightless, as if you were floating in the clouds from a silly little text. That’s what Bob Floyd did to you, and he barely had to try.

Another flight of butterflies through your chest, almost begging to be let out and set free. Your smile only grew as you looked at his contact photo, just picturing him. His glasses probably slipping down the bridge of his nose, that little smile formed by those lips you spent way too many nights thinking about, and looking at. You wondered how he was dressed right now, if he was dressed down in a white t-shirt that would hug his biceps in a way that would almost have you drooling.

“-DUDE! You’re doing the heart-eyes shit right now–oh my god, he fucking texted you, didn’t he–knock it off!” Bradley reached over as you came up to a stop sign, grabbing your arm and getting a quick look at your screen before you could pull your phone away fully. “ARE THOSE HEARTS BY HIS NAME?”

“You have a heart by your name, too! So does Natasha!” you argued back, settling back into your seat with your phone back in your pocket. Bradley’s two hands returned to the steering wheel, and you let out a sigh as you saw the white knuckle grip he had. “Bradley, you treat me as if I’m not a grown woman. I’ve dated men, I’ve fucked men…what’s your problem with me having a crush on Bob?”

“Because he’s my best friend,”

Here you both went again, around in circles on the same argument you had been having since the night you met Bob Floyd. 

You liked Bob…hell, at this rate, you were verging on the edge of saying you loved him. His laugh, his ability to get snarky when timing called for it, the way he was an absolute gentleman and opened every door for you, even brought you lunch at work some days when he had the time. You weren’t blind, either: he liked you, too. Neither of you ever said it out loud, but it was obvious. The constant brushing of hands when walking, the lingering stares, the way you always chose seats next to one another in a room, you both made your feelings evident without needing to say it. But there was Bradley, ever the over-protective older brother, standing in the way of things for an entire year with the simple excuse of ‘he’s my best friend’ every time. And sadly, neither you nor Bob wanted to anger him.

“Bradley, you would think that you’d be happy I chose Bob of all people. He’s, like, the perfect gentleman compared to most military men,” you shot back at him with a shake of your head. “I could’ve fallen for Jake-”

“Okay, first off, don’t even joke about you and Hangman. I don’t need that mental image,” he gagged at the thought, shuddering in his seat, as he turned down the road that led to the cabin. “Second, don’t even use the word love. Just…we aren’t going there. Bob is my best friend, and that just breaks so many sibling codes. You want to fight me on this topic when we get home, fine, but not for this trip.”

You didn’t get another word in before the Bronco pulled into the multi-car driveway of the cabin. You could make out Jake’s car and Natasha’s, meaning that the group was all here based on the earlier plans made for carpooling. You could see them, too, just barely up ahead, crowded around the electronically locked front door that only Bradley had the code to get into since he’d booked the place.

He was silent as he unbuckled himself, but when his glance turned to you, your gaze was formed into a glare and set on him as you practically threw the seatbelt off of you and threw the passenger door open.

“This conversation isn’t fucking over, Bradley,”

“Finally!” it was Hangman who called out from his place by the front door, waving over Bradley before he could comment back to you. “The fucking Bradshaw Bronco stopped moving at a snail’s pace, I see. You take the fucking scenic route? Come open the door so Reuben can get the grill going!”

You shook your head at the antics of your friends, laughing lightly under your breath as Bradley shook his own head and jogged over to get the cabin you’d be calling home for almost two weeks unlocked.

With him occupied, you moved around to the trunk, popping open the door and reaching in toward the back to grab both of your suitcases that had flown further back than you had placed them when loading. The door of the trunk was cutting into the skin of your thighs as you reached back into the trunk, when a hand suddenly curled around your waist. Fingertips barely brushed the exposed skin between the top of your shorts and your shirt as an arm reached past you to grab the suitcases. Despite the butterflies once again beating against your ribcage, you cursed the fact that your hormone-addled brain had the veins of Bob Floyd’s arm fucking memorized.

“I got them,” he’d mumbled out with a short laugh, tugging the suitcases to the edge of the trunk where you could fully reach them now. You spun, jumping up to sit on the open trunk bed so that you could fully look up at Bob. His smile grew the second you locked eyes, the hint of a red flush visible in his cheeks, but that hand didn’t stray from your waist. Instead, his thumb drew a small shape into your bare skin, and the heat that bloomed from his touch travelled through your body in an instant. “Hi.”

“Hi, Bobby,” you hated the fact that you were giggling like a little schoolgirl. He was barely touching you, had just said ‘hi’ of all things, and you were putty in his hands. “I told Bradley to step on it, heard a certain WSO missed me.”

“Yeah, we both know i-if you told him I said that, he’d have you halfway back to San Diego by now,” Bob joked, his hand leaving your waist to lug the suitcases from the trunk down onto the driveway at his feet. Your eyes followed every movement. The way his biceps strained against the sleeves of that ‘U.S. Navy’ t-shirt he wore, or the way his veins seemed more prominent from lifting what you knew was your heavy suitcase. Nothing was able to stop your depraved mind from even trailing your gaze to his ass for half a second.

“True,” you gave him a tiny grin as he leaned against the suitcases, looking back to you now with that softness in his eyes that you knew was reserved just for you. “I missed you, too, you know.”

Flustering Bob Floyd was one of your favorite pastimes, and it was just so easy. An easy brush of your fingers against his own, his arm, sometimes right across his chest if you could get close enough without Bradley breathing down your neck. Those simple little touches brought that delicious red hue to his neck and his cheeks, even the tips of his ears, if you really got him going. Words were the easiest, even the most simple of compliments from you got to him.

You had flustered him now with that simple admission: I missed you, too. Granted, you had just seen him the night before at a team dinner with Maverick in celebration of Bradley’s birthday, since the older pilot wouldn’t be joining you on the trip, but you missed him nonetheless. He had sat directly across from you that night at Penny’s dining room table, and every time you glanced up, his eyes were already on you, even if they looked away with a sheepish grin the second you caught him. The game of chicken with your gazes was interrupted by the swift kick that Bradley had landed to your shin with his foot from his seat beside Bob, followed by the piece of garlic bread you threw at his face that had Maverick mumbling about how ‘you two were why he never had kids’ as the entire squad laughed.

“I-I just saw you last night,” Bob was shaking his head, teeth biting just barely into his bottom lip as he looked up at you. His hands were tucked into the front pockets of his shorts as he rocked back and forth, a nervous tick you had picked up on of his.

“No–you don’t get to turn this around on me, Floyd!” he laughed at your teasing as you jumped back to your feet, standing now before him as you tilted your head to look up at him fully. His eyes only left yours for a moment to trail along your index finger, pointed right into his chest. “I have the text message proof that you said you missed me first.”

You could tell he was biting back another laugh, his lips curled into a cheeky smile that was tinged with adoration, just like your own was. A cord of tension hung in the air between you both. Not an uncomfortable one, just an ever-present one. It was hanging by its last thread, looking between you both to see who would snap first and finally cut it, but neither of you moved, just locked in your own little bubble together as if the rest of the world didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, not when you were with Bob, the only man who ever had your heart ready to leap out of your throat with nothing but a smile.

That was, until Bradley himself broke your bubble. His sun-kissed hand came in, almost out of nowhere, swatting at your hand until it hung back by your side. The pilot’s other arm wrapped around Bob’s neck, and you could tell by the slight wince in Bob’s face that Bradley was tugging him in just a tad bit harder than he needed to be.

“Ah, it’s so nice to see my best friend and my sister getting along…such platonic friends,” your eyeroll was instant as your brother exaggerated his delivery of each of those key words. His smile was tight, teeth gritted, as he shot you a look in his eyes that read ‘what the fuck did we JUST talk about.’ “Bob, help me bring the bags in, please. Coyote has the grill going, and we need to do inventory before we make a run to the store.”

Bob obliged your brother, just as he always did. Of course you two were stuck in an endless ‘will they, won’t they’ loop with one another: Bob refused to cross Bradley’s boundaries, and you were a firm boundary that had been drawn since day one.

They stalked off as Bob sent you one last look over his shoulder, and you could barely make out the slight tinge of disappointment in them. Hangman blocked your view of your favorite Navyman, falling into step behind them. He casted a glance your way, mouthing a quick ‘cock-blocked’ your way that got him a mock laugh and a middle finger.

“I’m not sure what Bradley would rather let go of first…this damn Bronco or his obession with keeping you and baby-on-board from fucking,” Mickey’s comment drew a laugh mixed with a groan from you as Natasha’ slung her arm around your shoulder, giving you a place to rest your head as Mickey leaned on the car door in front of you.

“Neither, because he’s a stubborn and over-protective dick,”

“It’s just because he loves you,” Nat tried to remind you, leaning her own head against yours. “You’re rooming with me, by the way.”

“Ah, which means Bradley put you on cock-blocking duty during the night-”

“Have no fear, baby Roo, because I had an idea earlier,”

Your eyebrow immediately shot up at Mickey’s comment, his face full of pure delight and excitement as if he’d thought of the most brilliant plan in the world.

“Mick, last time you told me you had an idea, you ended up driving Reuben and me halfway to Sacramento before realizing you put the directions in wrong-”

“NO–that’s besides the point!” he interjected as you and Nat laughed at him, his cheeks burning at the memory he wanted to forget. “Look, I know you don’t want to anger your brother, and I know Bob doesn’t want to piss his best friend off, so you’ve respected Bradley’s wishes…for the most part. All you’re really doing, though, is driving us all insane. So, I’m going to make it my goal to get you and Bob as much alone time as I can.”

“Bob and I have been alone together plenty,” you shot back, feeling the rumble of Natasha’s body as she laughed at your statement. “He’s been to my apartment, he’s visited me at work, we’ve gotten dinner. If he hasn’t thrown caution and Bradley’s threats to the wind yet, what makes you think he will now?”

“A peaceful, tranquil, romantic lake? I don’t know, chickie, but you’re just as capable of saying ‘fuck it’ and making a move. Aren’t you tired of not being able to call him yours?”

You hated to admit it, but maybe Mickey had a point. The lake was beautiful, the house was beautiful, and if your best friend really could manage to distract your brother as much as he said he could…maybe that cord of tension could finally be snapped.

You were sick of not calling Bob Floyd yours.

❤︎

Your first night in the cabin was eventful, though it always was with the Dagger Squad. Coyote was an excellent cook, and the steaks and burgers he had managed to cook up were to die for. Payback and Fanboy had volunteered to make the food run to the local supermarket, coming back with what felt like the entire liquor aisle. It only took four drinks mixed by Hangman, who you suspected was mixing you doubles, before Bradley had carried your drunk ass off to bed for the night.

Not even a hangover stopped you from waking up at the crack of dawn the next morning, though, not that you wanted to be up. Your phone was showing it was only 5:30 in the morning, but given how quickly you had passed out the night before, you weren’t surprised. So, with one of Bradley’s old t-shirts tossed over your body, bare legs freezing in the cool California morning, you’d trudged as quietly past the sleeping Natasha in your bed and through the otherwise quiet cabin.

It gave you time to truly admire the cabin your brother had chosen. A fully open concept layout, the living room, dining room, and kitchen essentially mixed into one. A gorgeous a-frame shape, outlined in exposed wooden beams, with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the entire home in the faint light of the sun just barely peaking over the horizon and glinting over the lake. Truly picturesque…and romantic, as Mickey had called it.

You’d been afforded just a few minutes of silence in the kitchen, just a single warm light over the stove turned on, as you dug through the now fully stocked pantry and fridge to grab everything you could: pancake mix, butter, eggs, sausage, bacon, bread, the entire works to feed an entire crew of Navy fighter pilots.

“You’re not a morning person,”

You almost didn’t recognize Bob’s voice this early in the morning–or was this still considered the night? It was lower, lower than you had ever heard it before, and raspy in that way that most voices were when you’ve just been pulled from sleep. The sound itself sent a shot of heat through your veins and your lower body. No one’s voice was allowed to sound that hot–it should be criminal for a voice in general to be that hot.

He was leaning against the island counter, a sleepy little smile on his lips. His ‘Dagger Squad’ t-shirt hung from his frame, a funny gift you’d given the entire group for Christmas the year before. You watched with your own little smile as he rubbed at his eyes from under his glasses, which were sitting just slightly tilted on the bridge of his nose, and as he ran his hand then through his hair to try and flatten it out. 

It was almost inevitable the way your eyes trailed downward, though, as he stretched. That navy blue shirt rode up just slightly, letting your eyes feast upon the sight that was Bob’s well-concealed abs and defined V-line that ran beneath the edge of his boxers. You hated the way your mouth almost dropped open at the sight as you ogled him like he was a museum sculpture, modeled to perfection. It took every ounce of willpower in your body to not eye up the bulge in his boxers, either.

You caught his own eyes as they, too, traveled along your body wordlessly. Over Bradley’s oversized t-shirt that was just barely covering your ass–which was already barely concealed by your black, lace panties–and down the expanse of your bare legs. Even in the dim light of the kitchen, you could tell there was a blush coating his cheeks as he tried to look anywhere but at you, but you knew you were sporting a similar red on your cheeks.

“I’m not, but I crashed so early last night I couldn’t sleep anymore. But last I checked, you aren’t a morning person either,” you shot back at him, turning back to the counter before you and rifling through the ingredients, reaching over to flip on the stovetop and arrange your pans. Anything to not think about the work of art that was Bob Floyd. “Except for work, that is.”

“T-That’s true. Guess I forgot to turn my work alarm off, though, because it went off a few minutes ago. Rooming with Fanboy and Payback, and I didn’t want to wake them, so I just came out here,”

With your back still turned to Bob, you smirked slightly to yourself. You could only assume that Bob’s alarm being on was no accident, and reminded yourself to give Mickey a sly ‘thank you’ later for his ingenious plan.

“Lord knows those two will be cranky if you wake them up this early,” you shared a laugh as you glanced back at Bob, nodding him over. “Since you’re up, come help me.”

He obliged, coming to stand right by your side at the countertop. The kitchen wasn’t small by any means, but Bob had placed himself directly at your side, edges of your arms just barely brushing one another, as you moved ingredients around before you both.

“Breakfast for the squad?”

“I typically do this on Bradley’s birthday. At least, when we’ve been in the same city over the years. If I’m already up, though, I might as well do it today instead of getting up early again on his actual birthday,” you explained as Bob held the glass bowl in front of you so that you could mix together the pancake mix with just a few cups of water. “It was a tradition our mom started when we were really little. I always got a cookie cake with a fun design, and Bradley always got breakfast.”

There was silence in the kitchen for a moment, just the quiet little hum of the gas stove as it heated the pans. Suddenly, Bob’s arm found its way around your shoulders, tugging you into his side with a press of his lips to your hairline.

“She’d be really proud of you two,”

Leave it to Bob Floyd to have you choked up before it was even 6 in the morning. Neither you nor Bradley talked about your mother often; it was still a touchy subject, but the squad knew the story. Bob must have seen it; the tension in your shoulders, the slight hint of melancholy that trickled into your tone at the memory. Bob knew you too well, better than anyone besides maybe your own brother.

When the guy at the Hard Deck months ago was flirting with you until you were ready to punch him, it was Bob who came to your rescue, noticing your discomfort from a mile away. The day you’d lost a patient, a young stray dog your coworker had found abandoned on the side of the road, and came into the Hard Deck after as if everything was fine. Bob had pulled you outside, simply took you in his arms, and let you weep without even needing to know what happened. At Maverick’s birthday party at his shared home with Penny, it was Bob who took your hand gingerly in his with a squeeze when you saw the photo hanging on the wall of your father. 

Bob Floyd could read you like an open book. You weren’t sure if you had left the pages open for him to read, or if he just truly knew you that well.

You let yourself lean into the feeling of him for a moment, wrapped up in the warmth and the way his arm felt like it belonged around your shoulders and that lingering heat from his kiss to your skin, before you dug your finger into his side until he laughed, swatting you away as you wore matching grins.

“Hey-!”

“No making me sad,” he only laughed again as you waved your spatula threateningly in his direction, his hand gently moving it out of his face. “There will be no sadness in my kitchen!”

“Oh, my apologies, your highness,” he gave a mock bow that had you rolling your eyes, even as your lips quirked up at the sight, before he fell into place beside you at the stove to lay the sausage and bacon in a pan while you flipped pancakes. “We ever tell you about the time Hangman tried to make us breakfast?”

“Hangman, doing something nice for you guys?” you teased, flipping the pancakes on the pan in front of you before piling them onto the plate next to you on the counter. “You probably didn’t tell me because it didn’t happen.”

“We would’ve been better off if it didn’t happen, actually,” Bob laughed out, reaching around you to grab another packet of bacon from the counter, his hand just barely grazing along your arm as a shiver shot down your spine. “He has t-this belgian waffle maker in his kitchen, right? But he’s never used it, it was a gift from his sister. So I had to teach him how to use the thing. He gets it flipped, until I realized that he used two cups of mix…and 6 cups of water.”

“Wait, hold on, 6 cups of water-?”

“Runniest waffles you’ve ever seen,” Bob explained, dumping the cooked sausage and bacon onto the plate next to him at the stove. “The mix came pouring out of the sides of the machine. I’m telling him to flip it back, but he’s not listening and instead hits the damn thing so hard it gets jammed. Suddenly, t-the thing is smoking and burning the batter inside and the fire alarm is blaring. Had to evacuate the entire apartment complex because of it.”

You threw your head back laughing for a moment, just picturing the absolute chaos that was probably happening in that kitchen that day. Bob laughed with you, leaning into your side until your arms were pressed right against one another.

“This is why, anytime I’ve cooked around him, I tell him to stay out of my kitchen,” Bob was still laughing. You watched him for a moment, gaze flickering to the bowl of mix beside you, before back to him as your lips quirked into a smirk. “At least none of you started a food fight…not like I’m going to.”

“Like you’re going-”

Bob didn’t get to finish his sentence before your hand, slathered in pancake mix, ran across the lower half of his face. You were conscious of his glasses, you always were.

His eyes were wide as he turned to stare at you. Your non-mix covered hand instead covered your mouth, trying to conceal the cascade of giggles that were endlessly pouring out of you at the sight of him. His shock was gone not long after seeing you laugh, his batter covered lips spreading into a grin of his own as he reached for the glass bowl himself.

“...alright, war it is,”

Your shriek was still concealed by your own hand as you darted around the island counter behind you, using it as a barrier between yourself and Bob. He was laughing uncontrollably, hand covered in mix that was dripping down onto the wooden floor beneath your feet, and you felt yourself stuck there for a moment, reveling in the domesticity of the situation.

So many of your dreams had been of moments like this. There was one, once, just like this where you and Bob chased one another around the kitchen in the dim refrigerator light. There had been another dream, the same setting as before, but instead you were dancing in his arms as “The Way You Look Tonight” played off one of your phones in the distance. Late night drives, stargazing nights on the beach, dinner dates in restaurants by the shoreline. Many of the dreams were you, curled up in his arms on a couch as some movie played aimlessly in the background. Those dreams always took a turn, from innocent to downright filthy, as those large hands you’d spent too many late nights getting yourself off to the thought of would drift up your calves, your thighs, and then finally touch you right where you wished he would.

The middle of a food fight–one you had initiated–was the worst place to daydream about the man in front of you. Suddenly, Bob wasn’t in front of you, but at your side. Another playful shriek left your lips, this time not muddled by your hand, as Bob’s arms encircled your waist and spun you around. Pinned against his body and the fridge, your laughter never stopped as Bob’s hand covered in pancake batter ran over your face, from your forehead to your chin as the tasteless batter seeped past your lips and across your tongue.

“I concede, you win this war,” your giggles had turned soft. Both of your hands were wiping at your eyes, trying to keep stray bits of batter from sneaking their way into your eyes. Bob laughed with you, his hand still covered in batter trying to help, but ultimately just making the situation worse than it already was.

“No longer certain that one ever does win a war, I am,” Bob’s comment came under his breath, but he was close enough that you heard it loud and clear. Even through the batter smeared on his face, you could see the red seeping into his cheeks as you deadpanned at him.

“Robert, did you seriously just quote Star Wars to me?”

“I-I’d prefer if we pretended I didn’t just do that,” he shook his head, laughing at himself as a smile grew across your face. “Kind of embarrassed that I did.”

Your laughter mixed with his as you wiped at the batter on Bob’s face, clearing it from his skin. His gaze was trained on you, watching your every movement, as you cleared what you could from his skin. You could feel the sharp intake of breath he had the second your fingers ghosted over his lips, swiping the mixture from his skin, as Mickey’s voice played in the back of your head.

Aren’t you tired of not being able to call him yours

Bob’s breath audibly hitched again as you leaned up, lips brushing over his skin and against the corner of his mouth as your hand cupped his pancake mix covered cheek. You could almost feel the burn in his skin as, with a shot of confidence only found in the dead of night, your tongue poked out to rid his pale skin of the batter streaked along his face.

The hold of his hand, gripped onto your hip, grew tighter as you were suddenly made aware of it. Bradley’s old t-shirt had ridden up, exposing the expanse of your skin to Bob’s hand. The large appendage engulfed your hip, fingers pressing into you and leaving behind a trail of heat as his thumb drew circles into your skin, catching on the string of fabric that barely separated your body from his.

The bulge you tried not to look at before was making itself very known right now, pressed into the skin of your thigh in the close proximity you had found yourself in with Bob. As you pulled your lips from his skin, you had to force yourself to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat as your brain grappled with the sheer size of what was pressing against you now.

“Well…you’re lucky you’re cute,” the second you pulled back enough to look in Bob’s eyes, heat shot down to your core. Feral, hungry, you weren’t sure what the look was that was dancing across those blue irises. You could feel his groan in your own skin as his grip on your hip tightened, his teeth biting into his bottom lip.

“Y-You can’t do that. You can’t look at me like that,”

“Like what?”

“Like you like me,”

“I do…and I know that you know that. Just like I know that you like me, too,” you breathed out as your fingers danced along his jawline lightly. “So I’m just left wondering why you don’t do something about it.”

His dilated pupils stayed locked on you for a moment, teeth still sunken into his bottom lip, before his eyes cast a glance toward the direction of the living room. As if waiting for someone to appear. A sigh left his lips as he leaned forward, resting his head against the fridge behind you as his breath ghosted just over the shell of your ear. Your hand trailed down from his jaw, resting now over his chest. His heartbeat was quickened, you could feel the rhythmic beat beneath your hand, and you knew your’s matched his.

“Because there’s someone in the other room that will kill me if I do,”

“Maybe, but it’s really not fair if he controls our lives,” it took a moment for you to speak, dancing on the edge of pushing yourself over that line and making the leap you’d been too afraid to make for so long now. “It only matters if we’re happy, right?”

Bob moved back to his original position, his forehead just barely grazing yours as you looked down. Those dilated eyes behind those beautiful glasses darted between your lips, your eyes, and then finally back down to your lips, before an easy smile spread across his lips. His hand on your bare waist tightened, and a flurry of butterflies shot through your stomach and into your chest.

“You’re right-”

“Hot DAMN is that bacon I smell?”

The moment was shattered in an instant. Bob’s hand left your waist, space put between you both as he leaned against the island counter, leaving your back pressed against the fridge. A deep sigh left your body, almost emanating from your bones and soul itself, as you looked to the ceiling and cursed whatever forces were keeping you and this man apart.

Of course, it was Jake Seresin that rounded the corner into the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes glancing between your pancake covered face, to Bob’s pancake covered face and his terrible attempt at hiding his boner from his teammate. His signature smirk, the one he shot both the ladies and every time he was ready to be a smartass, crossed his lips in an instant.

“Whoa there, didn’t know I was interrupting something. If you want to bring food into the bedroom, might I suggest actually trying that out in a bedroom next time?”

The glare you shot him was downright murderous as Jake only laughed. Bob retreated back to the stove, clearing the rest of the food onto plates with his back turned as Jake shoved you out of the way of the fridge with his hip to get himself a drink.

“Hangman, have I mentioned that I fucking hate you?”

“No, right now you should love me for keeping you two from playing hide the zucchini in the middle of the kitchen,” you could hear the short laugh that snuck past Bob’s lips at the comment, and you couldn’t help the quirk in your own lips at the comment. Hangman just shot you a wink as he passed by you. “Especially when your brother is going to walk in here any second now.”

“...oh,”

“Yeah, oh. Never say I hang you people out to dry ever again, I just kept this entire trip from imploding,”

❤︎

“Wait…so you two finally almost kissed?”

“Don’t ignore that almost part, Nat, that’s the most annoying part,”

Bradley had filled your first two days at the lakehouse with a packed itinerary. An entire day on your own private stretch of beach, followed by another dinner on the grill courtesy of Coyote’s masterful grill skills. The second day he never let you leave the water, crowding you all onto the boat that came with the house and dragging you out onto the lake.

“I just have to say, I’ve been doing the best I can,” Mickey chimed in, throwing his hands up in a surrender motion. “Your brother’s meticulous schedule has made it almost impossible to get you and Bob time alone.”

You huffed out a laugh, turning the page of your book. Your brother had, finally, allowed you all a day of nothing planned, and you had chosen to spend most of the afternoon lounging on the top floor balcony seating area with a good book. Perfect views of the water, the boats, the trees, and nothing but a beautiful breeze and plenty of sun.

“It’s okay, it’s still appreciated,” Natasha and Mickey were seated around the outdoor table with you, curled up on their own respective patio chairs. You’d claimed the couch, tucking your legs up under you on the cushion and letting the crochet cover-up over the top of your bikini set drape around your legs. “It’s annoying, but…I don’t know, something feels different now. Like that moment changed something. Turning his alarm on was a nice touch, though, Mick, I have to give you props there.”

“You turned that on?” Natasha shot Mickey an incredulous look, reaching over to whack him on the shoulder as he dramatically acted as if she’d really wounded him. “I’ve been making fun of him the last two days for that, Fanboy!”

“I woke up to go pee and heard little chickie over there in the kitchen,” Mickey tried to defend himself. “So, with Bradley fast asleep, I used Bob’s passcode and then set his alarm. Ingenious idea, if I do say so myself!”

You glance up from your book, eyebrows raised in question as you looked at your best friend.

“You know Bob’s password?”

“Most of us do,” it was Nat who chimed in this time, a smirk on her face as she took a sip of her drink. “It’s Bradley’s birthday.”

It was impossible to hold back the laugh that you let out at that statement.

“I’m sorry, you’re telling me that Bob’s passcode is my brother’s birthday-”

“Yeah, because it’s the day you two met,”

That…you weren’t expecting that. Mickey’s simple statement had you pausing, racking your brain for something to say. You weren’t able to speak before your best friends were hunched over, grabbing at one another’s arms as they laughed so loudly you were surprised the entire lake couldn’t hear you three.

“Jesus, Mick, I think you broke her with that!” Natasha’s laughter wouldn’t stop as she wiped at the stray tear that managed to spill in her laughter. Mickey simply picked up his water, trying to drink it through his own laughter.

“Did you see the way her brain literally stopped working? I think she started buffering the second her skin turned as red as a damn tomato!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re both fucking comedians,” you shot back at them, grabbing one of the chips on your plate from the patio table and tossing it in their direction.

There was a yell from somewhere downstairs that sounded like Reuben, telling the two of them to hurry up. He’d, somehow, coerced the two of them into joining him for an hour trip back into the heart of San Bernardino to go to the local mall. He claimed he just wanted to look around, but you had a sneaking suspicion Payback had managed to forget to buy Bradley a birthday present for the following day’s celebration.

“Alright, enjoy your book, baby Roo,” you huffed out a fake laugh, shooting your smiling friends a middle finger that they waved off. “And just know: we weren’t kidding. That really is why that’s Bob’s passcode.”

That thought floated through your head, even as you tried to relax in the warm California sun and read your book. It brought a smile to your face, one that you couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard you tried. Instead, you tried to just focus on the romance playing out in your book.

The couple were dancing together at a wedding, albeit not traditionally given the man’s medical condition. She talked about how in any other timeline, he would’ve never noticed her. He agrees, but says it’s because he used to be ‘such an arse’ and she laughs and agrees with him. Then, he gets a look on his face that she can’t stop staring at, and he tells her that she is the only thing that makes him want to get up in the morning. The most blatant confession of ‘I love you’ without having to say the words.

“Thought you told me that was a sad book?”

Ripped out of the moment, you glance up from your book to Bob Floyd himself. He was leaning against the back of your patio couch, blocking the sun from your eyes, and smiling down at you in his swim trunks and University of Montana t-shirt. You gave him an unimpressed look, but smiled nonetheless at just the sight of him.

“It is, but it’s still beautiful. And one of my favorite books,”

“You just reread it last month, didn’t you?”

“Well, now you just sound like a stalker, Floyd,” he laughed, standing up straight to let you situate yourself against the corner of the couch, bookmark tucked into your pages and book discarded to the other end of the couch. You eyed his outfit for a moment. “Where’s Brad dragging you boys off to?”

“Back out on the lake,” he nodded his head over the railing as you turned to look, seeing your brother working with Hangman and Coyote to get the boat ready to head back out onto the water. “Saw you sitting up here, t-thought I’d come check on you.”

“Always the gentleman,”

Bob smiled at that, leaning back down against the back of the couch so that he was just slightly closer to you now than before.

“Work hasn’t called to pester you yet?”

“I had a quick text from Taylor this morning, there was an older cat that she had some concerns about-” your eyes lit up as you snapped your fingers, pointing to Bob with an excited grin on your lips. “Oh! I never got to give you an update on the kittens the other day!”

“The feral ones some lady brought in?” he asked as you nodded.

“Healthy mom, seemed like she was once a housecat that either got abandoned or escaped. But seven healthy little kittens that we gave off to one of our foster families we usually work with,” your grin turned into a smirk. “And guess what? Six boys and one girl!”

Bob stared at you for just a moment, doing the math in his head, before hanging his head with a dramatic sigh.

“Chickie, don’t tell me-”

“There were two brothers that kept fighting with one another, so they obviously had to be named Rooster and Hangman,” Bob’s laughter was contagious, his entire body shaking as he looked up at you with a hint of amusement in his eyes as you hand settled on his forearm over the edge of the couch. “Hangman had a little bit of a shadow always following him, ready to back him up, so that obviously was Coyote. Two of the other brothers were like two peas in a pod, so they were easily Fanboy and Payback. The lone girl? Every time she made her presence known, the boys stopped fighting, so even if Phoenix weren’t the only girl in your squad, that little girl would’ve gotten her name from her.”

“And the last kitten?” Bob asked.

“Oh, he was my favorite. A perfect little angel,” your grin grew as your hand left Bob’s arm. His eyes followed your movements, locked in as your finger traced the edges of his glasses, barely skimming over the skin of his cheeks as you went. “The strangest little markings, like two big, black circles around his eyes, as if he were wearing glasses. It just made sense that we named that little angel Bob.”

Your hand fell back down, resting on top of Bob’s forearm again as you smiled sheepishly toward him. His own grin only grew, his other hand landing on top of yours with a squeeze.

“W-Was he cute?”

“Easily the cutest one of the bunch,” you replied with ease. “Possibly the cutest kitten I’ve ever seen.”

Bob laughed again, his hand engulfing yours with another affectionate squeeze that had your heart feelings as if it was tying itself in knots.

“Are you still talking about the kittens here?”

“Hm, maybe, who knows-”

“BOB! Get your ass down here!”

You rolled your eyes. Even when your brother didn’t realize he was being a cockblock, he was. Though if he knew he was interrupting a moment, he’d probably jump up and click his heels together like a lucky little leprechaun.

Bob chuckled at your brother’s insistence. Your eyes never left him as he hesitated for just a moment, before squeezing your hand one again and leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. The second his lips made contact with your skin, your eyes shut in just pure bliss as that familiar flutter erupted in your chest as you leaned into the feeling that was gone all too soon.

“I SAW THAT FLOYD!”

You both shared a laugh before Bob was gone off the deck in an instant, and you immediately missed his presence. When you dared to turn around and look toward the dock, your brother was shooting you a glare that you happily gave him the middle finger for, while Hangman and Coyote were making kissy faces and many lewd gestures in your direction from behind his back the entire time.

That little kiss weighed heavily on you the rest of the day. That cord of tension in your chest, the one tying you to Bob, was on the verge of snapping. You weren’t sure how much more of it you could take.

Since Payback, Fanboy, and Phoenix had already been in the city, Bradley had tasked them with bringing back pizza as he proclaimed a movie night in the living room on the giant flatscreen. They’d obliged, walking through the door of the house hours later with a stack of pizza boxes almost half the size of Phoenix herself.

“The Hangover? Seriously, Rooster, that’s so basic,” Jake complained with a groan from his place on one end of the sectional, plate of pizza and a beer in his hands as everyone took their places around the living room. “Thought you had better taste?”

“It’s my birthday trip, Bagman, I get to pick the movie,” Bradley shot back, settling down on the loveseat next to the sectional sofa with Phoenix, taking his plate from her as he queued up the movie on Netflix. “Not all of us want to watch chick flicks or 2000s romance movies all the time, I get enough of that with chickie.”

You shot him a fake laugh from across the room, ducking out of the kitchen with your own plate of pizza and beer. Bradley nodded toward the wall next to you before you could get too far, and you took the hint, flipping the light switch to plunge the living room into darkness. The only light now was the setting sun and the moon creeping into the sky from the windows.

“I’m not a chick flick guy,” Hangman scoffed, waving off Bradley’s comment as Payback settled on the couch next to him.

“Dude,” Bradley shot him an unimpressed look. “I caught you crying over Bridget Jones’s Diary, like, three weeks ago. Don’t even try it.”

There was a chorus of laughter through the room as Hangman mumbled something that nobody caught. You rounded the couch, falling into the open space on the opposite end of the section beside Bob, stretching out your legs on the chaise before you.

Coyote and Fanboy entered the room last just as Bradley started the movie. While Javy took the open space on the floor near Hangman’s end to use the couch as a cushion, Mickey stole the pillow out from behind your back, plopping it down right where your legs were as he shot a smirk at you.

“Mind moving your legs so I can lie down?” you shot him an incredulous look, until he gave both you and Bob an overexaggerated wink. 

Ah, another ploy by him.

Bradley always locked into movies hard whenever they were on, which worked in your favor at this moment. You curled your legs into your chest, allowing Mickey to lie across the chaise with another wink in your direction. The second you glanced at Bob, he lifted the blanket across his lap with a tiny smile, and you lay your legs out across his lap without hesitation.

The sun set, plunging the room into true darkness, just 20 minutes into the movie. Coyote had volunteered to do the clean up, clearing the plates and bottles from around the room while Jake and Bradley argued over who was the best character in this movie.

With hands now free, you tucked yourself further under the blanket that Bob had laid out across you both. Bob too tucked his hands under the warmth of the blanket, but they hovered there for just a moment, until his brain seemed to make up his mind and they rested against the skin of your own legs.

The movie was an afterthought in your mind at that moment, even as your eyes stayed locked on the screen. Every thought that ran through your head was about Bob’s hands. Their size, the way they engulfed your skin, and spread heat through every inch of their touch. The soft circles he drew into your knee, sending a small shiver straight through your bones that was complemented by the heat of his touch.

You couldn’t help but let your mind drift further, wondering what that delicious heat of his hands would feel like if they just drifted further up your legs. If they splayed out across your thighs, fingertips digging into your flesh like they had dug into your hip so early in the morning in the kitchen. What it would feel like for his featherlight touch to drift up the inner portion of your thigh, to graze over the edge of your sleep shorts to the spot you had dreamed about feeling him touch. Where you’d dreamed of the pleasure he could bring you from just one little touch to the most sensitive part of your skin.

Bob’s gaze turned to you in the dark of the room, and you looked back at him. Another shiver shot up your spine, goosebumps coating your skin, and you weren’t sure if it was from the chill of the air conditioning in the room or from that soft, adoring look Bob Floyd had every time he looked at you. He could feel the goosebumps under his own hands; you knew he could. His teeth bit into his bottom lip in contemplation, and action you couldn’t look away from, before his eyes flickered to Bradley, still engrossed in the movie.

In the shroud of darkness in that living room, spurred by Bradley’s inability to look away from his movie of choice, Bob’s hands left your legs. His arm wound around your waist, tugging you closer until you were sitting directly in his lap, legs curled up beside him. Your arms wound their own way around his shoulders, linking together at the nape of his neck as your fingers twirled through the strands of hair, tickling the skin there. Your eyes drifted to Bradley, who was still oblivious, as Bob draped the blanket further over both of you. His hands settled against you, one splayed across your hip while the other found its home on your thigh, sending heat just a short distance straight to your core as those thoughts filtered through your head once again.

Bob’s head leaned toward yours, his nose and the edge of his glasses just barely grazing along the edge of your hairline. You glanced at Mickey, who was looking back at you both with a triumphant grin. Even Hangman was giving you a thumbs-up from down the couch, which was met with your middle finger once more from behind Bob’s head. From the small rumble in the couch from his laughter, you knew he could see it even in the darkness.

Bob pressed another kiss into the side of your head, and you melted.

The movie was long forgotten to you the second you let your head rest in the space between Bob’s shoulder and his neck, your nose and lips brushing against his skin as you inhaled the scent of his cologne that you knew all too well: cypress and bayberry, the perfect sweet but earthy scent. You’d helped him pick the cologne out months ago. The second you said you liked the smell of it, Bob was at the counter purchasing it without ever smelling it for himself.

In Bob’s arms, wrapped in the heat of him and listening to the gentle beating of his pulse that could’ve lulled you to sleep, you realized there was no other place you wanted to be. You also were about ready to chew your over-protective brother out for keeping you from this man as long as he had.

❤︎

“I hope you all know I AM judging these presents and there will be an official ranking from best to worst after,”

The sun had just disappeared beyond the horizon on Bradley’s birthday, a day full of non-stop celebration. Hangman had been the one to wake up early that morning and make breakfast, almost burning the lodge down. When Bob met your eyes with an ‘I told you so’ look across the room as he and Coyote opened every window to fan out the smoke from the stove pans, you couldn’t help but break down into laughter. Another afternoon spent on the boat, followed by a fancy dinner in the nearby town, had all wound down to now.

Mickey had drug the firepit out of the lodge’s garage, situating it on the private stretch of beach belonging to the home. The teal Adirondack chairs littering the sand were situated in a circle around the fire Mickey had put himself in charge of attending to, and everyone had settled in. 

Your chair was placed directly next to Bradley’s, a request by him so that you could inspect each of the gifts placed at his side with him.

“Well, I say we go with the best gift first, which is obviously mine,” Jake said, sitting across the fire pit and gesturing toward the comically large green bag placed at Bradley’s feet. “It’s the one that’s quite large, just saying.”

“Compensating much?” Natasha snuck in her comment from her chair beside him, getting a cloud of sand kicked up into her lap that she happily kicked back at him.

You shook your head at their little spat, sipping on your beer as you pulled your feet up onto the chair. The lake breeze floated through the early night, providing a perfect contrast for the heat that still lingered in the air. Your arms sat wrapped around your knees as your glance found Bob’s, like it always did. He was sitting directly across from you, the orange glow of the flashes accenting his face and painting it in beautiful shades that reflected off his glasses. He shot you a tiny smile, and you hated the way even something so little had such an effect on you.

“Jake, seriously dude?” Bradley’s voice sounded done with Hangman, even as he was trying to conceal his laughter. Your gaze snapped back over to your brother as he held a very tiny bag that sat within the larger bag, reaching inside to pull out a circular, almost rubber-like object. “Is this a gag gift–did you seriously buy me a fucking cock ring?”

The group erupted into laughter. Bob and Natasha both almost tipped backward in their chairs from laughing so hard. Javy was pacing the sand, waving his hands in the air, and just repeating ‘nah, I’m done’ over and over again. Mickey was busy patting Reuban’s back as he coughed into the sand, having spit out his beer and choked on the air that rushed into his lungs. You simply covered your mouth, trying to contain your laughter while you could barely look in your brother’s direction. Jake just sat with a smug look on his face.

“You haven’t gotten any action in a while, thought this could…spice things up for your right hand,” he shot him a wink with that damn heart-breaking smirk on his lips. “Your real gift is, I told Maverick I’ll do all your paperwork for the next few weeks, so…you’re welcome.”

“Yeah, such a sweet gift that’s for sure going at the bottom of the list…next!”

Bradley took his time opening every gift that sat by his side. Natasha had played it safe, just a few new pairs of button-ups that she joked would ‘never stay buttoned up’ and a new pair of aviators. Fanboy and Coyote had joined together to get Bradley a brand new golf club set, one that poor Mickey had to run off to get from the garage so it wouldn’t have ruined the surprise.

Payback’s gift bag had some books that your brother had been wanting to read for a while, along with another bottle of the cologne he typically wore. He’d forgotten to take the price tag off the bag, though, so when you shot him a look and he avoided your gaze with a fake whistle, you knew you were correct about why he suddenly wanted to run into town the day before.

“Little chickie’s gift comes in an envelope,” Bradley announced to the group, proudly showing off the little letter envelope in his hand before tearing into it to get to the card. “As my sister, I’m immediately expecting great things from you and will judge this gift harshly.”

You just watched from behind your beer bottle, using it to mask your smirk as Bradley flipped the card open, and his mouth dropped in an instant.

“Holy shit…”

“Don’t leave us hanging, Rooster! What is it?”

“Suspense is killing us, dude!”

“Los Angeles Chargers tickets?” Bradley turned to you with wide eyes, and a laugh tumbled from your lips at the look on his face.

“I know you’ve been dying to go for a while, so I figured I’d be the world’s greatest sister. 50-yard line, home team side, down in the 100 section,”

Bradley was at your side in a second, leaning down over the side of the chair to wrap you in a hug, rustling your hair and pressing a kiss to the side of your head before you shoved him off with a laugh.

“Quick question,” Hangman chimed in from across the beach. “Do those tickets come with a ‘must take Baby Roo’ stipulation, or…?”

“Bagman, I’m taking Mav to this game before I’m taking you,” Bradley shot back as another round of laughter echoed through the group. He picked up the final bag by his chair, a light blue in color, and pointed across the fire toward Bob. “You’re up, Bobby! Let’s see if you can beat little chickie.”

Your eyes found Bob again, head resting against your hand, and you just watched. Watching him was one of your favorite things. The little quirk in his lips when he smiled, those expressive blue eyes that were always blown wide like a baby deer. Even watching him now, as he seemed to watch Bradley nervously, your thoughts drifted back to all those little moments.

The feel of his hand on your waist. The gentleness that he touched you with, subconsciously knowing he had permission to but still walking the line until you gave him the go-ahead. That soft look in his eyes, that one he seemed to have reserved only for you. The second you’d locked eyes in the Hard Deck that day, you knew you were a goner, but somewhere along the way…you weren’t sure when it became love, but it did.

Loving him quietly was killing you.

“Sis…”

Bradley’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. All eyes were trained on you, and Bob’s nervous smile was turned in your direction now. You whipped around to face Bradley, a stray tear falling down his cheek that had you jumping out of your seat within a second. But then, he turned the picture frame in his hands around, and your breath caught.

You’d only ever seen Nick Bradshaw, your father, in photos. He’d passed away while you were still a little bun in the oven, and there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t give in this world to meet him. But you knew what he looked like; you carried a photo of him with you everywhere. That light brown hair that looked almost blonde in certain lights, those big, brown eyes that were the same color as the chocolate bars you loved so much. He was almost always in a Hawaiian shirt, buttons undone, when he wasn’t in his flight suit. You knew where Bradley got it from.

Carole Bradshaw, on the other hand, you knew her like the back of your hand. That light blonde hair and bangs she’d sported her entire life, barely ever letting her hair grow past your shoulders. She let it grow that long just once when you were in middle school, and complained about it every day. Those pale blue eyes, such a stark contrast to your father’s darker ones, always looked down on you in pure adoration and affection. She loved color just as much as your father, you swore every dress in her closet was colorful and patterned.

One gone before you even graced the world, and one gone too soon. You never got to have a photo with them both, never got to stand beside your father for homecoming, prom, or graduation photos. Bradley had so many photos from when he was little with your father, but he always said how he wished you were in them, too. He never spoke it out loud, but you know he wished that his father was beside him in his own prom pictures, or holding his high school diploma with him.

But now, in the frame in Bradley’s hand, you both had what you never did. What you had always wanted.

The picture of you and Bradley had been taken two months ago, another night out at the Hard Deck. Natasha had taken it, while Bob had convinced you to put on Bradley’s Hawaiian shirt. He had stood behind Natasha, positioning you and your brother against the Hard Deck’s patio railing, the ocean and sunset the perfect backdrop.

This was that photo, but different. Wrapped around your other side was your father, light brown hair, deep chocolate eyes, mustache that matched Bradley’s, and his very own Hawaiian shirt to match the one on your shoulders. His arm lay around your shoulders, hugging you to him as your other arm was wrapped around your brother. Your mother stood at Bradley’s side, just as you always remembered her. Blonde hair hitting just below her ears, bangs styled to perfection, soft smile on her lips, and hands wrapped around Bradley’s arm as the colorful plaid pattern of her dress stuck out.

The perfect family photo you had never had, taken as if their ghosts had been beside you that night, posing along with you.

“Y-You both just always talk about them, about how you miss them. How you wished you had a photo like this,” Bob chimed in from across the fire pit, a slight stutter to his words, and he cleared his throat. “I found someone who kind of specializes in things like this…thought it was time you guys finally had a Bradshaw family photo.”

You couldn’t take your eyes off your parents, even as Bradley moved the photo into your hand completely, his feet moving through the sand. That black frame was hugged tightly to your chest as you looked up, seeing Bradley hugging Bob to him tightly, patting him on the back over and over as he mumbled something to him.

Bob’s gaze caught yours, and all you could muster was a watery smile as you looked at him, letting a single tear slip past your defenses. His eyes seemed to soften upon seeing that, mouthing something along the lines of ‘you’re okay’ in your direction.

“Well, I think we all know who’s at the top of Bradley’s gift tier list…”

Hangman’s comment didn’t matter, nor did the laughter of your friends. All that mattered to you was the frame in your hands, and the man who had so graciously thought of it and gifted it to not just your brother, but to you.

You weren’t sure when you quite fell in love with Bob Floyd, but in this moment, you knew there was no man in this world you could ever love more.

That thought stuck with you as the night wore on. The fire was put out, the chairs left buried in the sand, all as the moon rose higher into the sky. Most of the team huddled in the game room, conversing about something Maverick had texted them earlier in the day, and laying out the plans for the hike around the lake trails that would begin the following morning while engaged in an intense game of pool. Bob wasn’t with them, though, off somewhere else in the house.

You were alone in your shared room with Natasha, sorting through both of your piles of dirty clothing so that you could throw them in the wash the following morning. Those thoughts wouldn’t leave your mind, of Bob and the love that was bursting out of your chest at the seams, as you mindlessly sorted through the clothing. There were three quick raps on the doorframe, and you tilted your head up to see Mickey leaning against it with a grin.

“Convinced your brother we needed more alcohol,” he informed you. “There’s a 24-hour store in the little town down the road where we had dinner, so we’re going to run out and grab some stuff. Might be done in 20, maybe 30 minutes…”

You simply gave him a nod as he trailed off, turning your attention back to the clothing in front of you.

“Sounds good, be safe,”

He hummed in response, going quiet for just a moment.

“I know you, chickie. I know what’s going on in your head. I’m taking your brother out of the house for half an hour,” you glanced back at him again just as he was disappearing around the corner with a smirk and a wink. “Bob’s in the hot tub, if you’re not too busy with your dirty laundry.”

His words hung there in the air as your gaze flickered over to your suitcase. Sitting right on top was one of the bikinis you had yet to wear: a tinier, black string one, much more suitable for tanning than swimming. But Mickey’s words hung in your head, the softness of Bob’s stare was burned into your memory, and those butterflies were beating against your ribcage.

Moments later, there was a towel wrapped around your body as you padded out into the quiet living room. The overhead lights were off, just the light of the TV and the one above the stove in the kitchen illuminated the area. You could hear your friends off down the hallway, laughing in the game room, but your mind was set on your destination.

The lower-level patio door was already cracked open, letting the cool nighttime breeze flow into the house as you stepped into the doorway. The moon shone down over the lake, but your gaze was too busy admiring the man resting in the hot tub in the corner of the patio.

The patio light was off, leaving just the blue shine from the lights in the water to reflect back on Bob. For once, his shirt was off, half of his torso buried in the steaming water. His head hung back against the edge of the circular tub, resting his eyes and occasionally wiping at the steam that fogged his glasses. That blue light illuminated him, every inch of his body, and highlighted every dip and crevice along his collarbone that your eyes trailed along as if they were a map. He looked so beautiful, so peaceful in this light with just the faint sound of the hot tub's jets ringing through the air.

“Have room for another?”

Bob’s head shot up, mouth falling open just slightly as he reached for his towel hanging off the side of the tub, wiping the fog from his glasses. He relaxed just a bit at the sight of you, lips pulling into a soft grin.

“Always,”

Your eyes never left his as you let the towel fall, tossing it off to the other side of the patio to the hammock swinging in the gentle breeze. Bob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and you could see his eyes trail down your body. Over your neck, your collarbone, down the valley of your breasts in the bathing suit that did nothing for modesty, down your hips to the strings just barely hanging on at the sides, before back up to your eyes.

Neither of your gazes moved as you settled into the hot tub across from him, the heat of the water warming your skin in seconds. It was barely meant for two people, your knees brushing in the middle as you took your seat. Bob’s legs instantly parted, allowing yours to slot in between his own as you were caged between them. Only then, soaking in the steaming water, did you let your gaze trail away from him and out to the lake, to the shadows of the pine trees in the distance. That blue light illuminated you both, now, and it only seemed to make his blue eyes shine even brighter.

“That gift…felt more like a gift for both of us than just one for Bradley,”

You could hear his soft laughter, the way it stumbled slightly with the nerves running through him.

“It was too good an idea. D-Did…you like it?”

Your gaze found his again, voice low in the quiet night.

“I loved it,”

That cord of tension was back, tugging between you both in the most unbearable way. It almost hurt, how close yet how far Bob seemed at that moment. So, you toed your foot along that line, just barely dipping it across as you spoke again.

“You want to play a game?”

Bob quirked his head, like a puppy trying to understand its owner. Then, he nodded.

“Sure, why not?”

“The yes or no game,” you responded. “We ask each other questions, simple ones. Answer yes, or answer no. That’s all.”

“Sounds…e-easy enough,”

“Good,” you took a deep breath, before shoving yourself fully over that invisible, mental line that had been drawn between you. “Do you like me?”

Bob didn’t seem shocked by the question. It’s like he already knew the second you settled into the water that the line between you both was gone, was blurred. He ran his hands over his thighs, taking in a deep breath, before giving you a small nod.

“Yes…and I think you know that. Do you…like me?”

“Yes, and I know that you know that,” he huffed out a short laugh at that, enough to bring a smile to his lips that had one growing on your own. “Do you want to follow my brother’s rules?”

“God no,” Bob laughed again, as if saying the words was finally releasing the tension from his shoulders that had been hanging there heavily for months. “Do you?”

“No. Never wanted to in the first place,” you gave a little shrug, stretching your arms out along the edge of the tub on either side of you as you watched him, that cord of tension hanging by the barest of threads. “So…why are you still doing what he says?”

Bob paused for a moment, just watching you, but that smile slipped into a tiny smirk.

“That…wasn’t a yes or no question,”

“Well, yes or no is going to get up about as far as the last year of hopeless pining and sneaky glances have gotten us, so forgive me,” 

There was another shared laugh between you both before you fell into silence. Comfortable, but heavy, the weight of your words and the conversation at hand hanging in the air. Bob rolled his neck around, before taking in a deep breath as he found his words.

“Because…you’re Baby Roo, and he’s my best friend,” Bob gave a shrug, his hand drawing little circles in the water as he watched the water swirl around. “You walked into the bar that day, and I thought…fuck, I-I think the girl of my dreams just walked in. Then you talked, you joked like you’d known us for years, and sassed Hangman back with ease, and I knew I was so incredibly fucked. But he’d given us the talk upward of four times that week that you were off limits, that not a single one of us was allowed to make a move, no matter what.”

“He gave me the same talk, too,” you responded, giving him a tiny shrug of your own with a short laugh. “Told me all of you were off limits because you were his best friends. But I still walked into that bar and fell for you without even realizing I had.”

“You’re all he has, though. You’re the last thing he has, the most precious thing in the world to him. I couldn’t defy him like that,” Bob continued, letting out another laugh and running his soaked hand over the bottom of his face as he glanced at the ceiling, before looking back at you. “You are…the embodiment of sunshine. I-I could listen to you talk for hours and never get bored, because I never get tired of just being around you like I do others. You invade every one of my waking thoughts, every one of my dreams, and I can’t even pretend that I try to make them go away because I want them there. I get to have you in those thoughts when I know I shouldn’t, when I promised my best friend I wouldn’t look at you that way. But then you smile at me, you call me late at night and say you just want to hear my voice…and I can’t bring myself to push you away because, selfishly, I don’t want to. I can’t.”

You stared at him. There was nothing you could do in that moment, not when it was all finally out in the open. Your chest was tightened up into a knot, your stomach in your throat, but you also knew there was nothing but pure love shining through your eyes as you looked at him across the water.

Bob waited quietly, looking as if he were holding his breath. You could see his hands gripping onto his seat beneath the water, as he waited for you to speak.

“He’s all I have left, too. That’s why I’ve always listened to him, why I-I’ve always trusted him,” you leaned forward, hands dipping under the water to rest on your own seat as you gave him the smallest smile you could muster, nerves shining through as you stumbled over your words. “I might be his little sister, but I-I’m not a little girl. He can’t dictate my life forever, especially not when…not when it’s keeping me away from the man I’m so hopelessly in love with.”

That word hung in the air: love. The weight of it crashed over you, and you could see it crash over Bob in real time. The way his eyes widened just a fraction more in shock, before that shock dissipated into more of a disbelief. Then, you could physically see the way his pupils dilated, the way his eyes almost seemed to darken, as a flash of something new washed over them.

The hot water sloshed around the tub as Bob surged forward, invading your space. You sat still, letting it happen, as his arm wound its way around your waist and simply tugged. A small noise tumbled from your lips, something akin to a gasp, before Bob settled back into his seat on the far end of the tub. The hot water splashed up your torso as you instinctively spread your legs, letting them settle on either side of his waist.

The water began to calm, the little ripples and waves dying down, as you both sat there for a moment. Bob’s large, calloused hand splayed across your hip, fingers just barely toying with the string of your bikini bottoms, before they traveled downward, fingertips inching their way over the edges of your ass with a firm grip. Your hands left the water, trailing up the expanse of his bare chest that you took a moment to admire in the dim blue lighting. They settled on his broad shoulders, water dripping down his collarbones and back down into the pool of water you were submerged in. Bob’s other hand didn’t waste a second, cupping your jaw, thumb running over your lips with such intentionality that a shiver shot down your spine even in the heat of the water.

“I’ve been in love with you since the moment you stepped into the Hard Deck,” his voice was low, soft, but there was a giddiness to it. It was even present in his smile, in his eyes as they trailed over every inch of you. “And if you don’t stop me right now…I’m going to do something that’s going to piss off your brother-”

“Piss him off, please,”

He didn’t need to be told again. His hand tugged, the one now fully cupping your ass pulled until you were fully seated across his lap, and Bob Floyd’s lips met yours. You sank into the feeling, and there was only one word moving through your mind: finally.

He kissed you with so much love and devotion woven into the very fabric of his movements. Every drag of his lips pressed in firmer, hotter, as if it was a brand against your own lips. Leaving his mark so that you’d never be able to forget the way he loved you.

“I love you,” Bob had all but moaned out, tongue just barely peeking past your lips as yours met back with him, hands sliding into his hair with a tug that had another moan tumbling from his lips. “Fuck–I love you–I’ve dreamt about this. So, so, so many times, baby.”

“I-I’ve dreamt about it too,” a sigh of pleasure tumbled past your lips as Bob’s lips left yours, a flash of heat through your skin at that simple little pet name. They trailed to your cheek, to your jaw, and down your neck in a trail of heat and saliva. Your hands in his hair held tighter, nails scratching against his scalp as Bob let out a groan against your pulse point, leaving a searing kiss over your neck. “Tell me…tell me what you dream about.”

The hand enveloping your ass pressed down hard, firmer, pushing your core directly against the bulge waiting for you, just you, in Bob’s lap. Another moan of pure ecstasy fell from your lips as the hand on your jaw quickly woven into your hair, tugging over so slightly. You didn’t hesitate to roll your hips after the initial contact, a shared moan falling between you both in the quiet of the patio as your barely covered core dragged itself over the bulge of his hardened shaft. Your breath quickened the second you did, holding onto Bob as if your life depended on it, as you felt the sheer size of him beneath you, a flood of arousal coursing through every inch of you.

“I-I’ve dreamt of this,” his words were breathy against your skin, hot, wet kisses still trailing up and down your neck, and down to your collarbone. His hand left your hair, trailing down your spine as he bit into the hollow of your neck, leaving a soothing kiss along the mark moments later. “You right–fuck–right here, falling apart. Ruining me. God, I-I was ruined the moment I met you.”

“So was I,” it felt like you had been deprived of all of the oxygen in your body, your words barely audible at the moment. One hand left Bob’s hair, trailing down his chest, over the toned abdomen he so expertly hid. You let your nails leave a trail over the defined lines of his abs. You felt his breath hitch against your collarbone, his kiss frozen in place, as your nails ghosted down the deep V-line that ran beneath his swim trunks, dipping just below the waistband. “Most of my dreams d-don’t have me on top, though. That’s usually you, ruining me for any other man for hours on end until I’m begging you to stop…even though I don’t really want you to.”

Bob’s head flicked up, glasses fogged, nose trailing over your side of your neck, up your jaw, before just barely nudging against yours. His lips were just a breath away from yours when you finally dipped your hand beneath the waistband of those swim trunks and held him in your hand.

God, you could feel how swollen he was just from this, and there was only maybe a third of him sitting in your hand. Not even the heat of the water could compare to the heat of him, of the way the skin of his throbbing, thick cock burned into your hand. Bob shakily exhaled, his lips barely ghosting over yours as your thumb just barely brushed over the head. His member twitched in your hand, his hips rutting up into your hand to feel you move, as his lips caught yours in a searing kiss that had you moaning into his mouth. His lips alone swallowed the sound, his teeth just barely grazing your bottom lip as the hand cupping your ass tugged your forward once more, dragging your core back along the bulge in his swim trunks.

“Fucking hell,” Bob groaned out, your hand still gripping him with a light squeeze. “Tell me this is real and Phoenix didn’t kill us in the air and send me to heaven.”

His words tore a laugh out of you, your hand sliding out of his trunks and back up his body until it rested against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm brought a tiny grin to your lips. Bob tugged you in again, forehead resting against yours, as those bright blue eyes shone with unconditional love when they looked at you.

“This is real, I promise. Late, but real,” he laughed with you that time, leaning in to steal yet another kiss from your lips, a flutter cascading through you at that sweet, timid, loving press of his lips to your own. “If Phoenix accidentally killed you now, I’d probably kill her in retaliation.”

“That’s fine, because Phoenix is thinking about just ending it herself given whatever the fuck she just had to walk in on,”

The third voice on the patio drew a yelp out of you. Bob tensed as you both jumped away from one another back to opposite ends of the hot tub as if the other person were on fire and you couldn’t get away fast enough. Your head whipped around to Phoenix leaning in the sliding glass doorway, a hand shielding her eyes from the sight of the two of you.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you muttered, running your hands down your face as you glanced at Bob. Messy hair, swollen kiss-bitten lips, and eyes as wide as saucers as he stumbled over his words.

“P-Phoenix, that uh–uh-that wasn’t-”

“Save it, Floyd,” she cut in, her voice clearly exasperated as she still kept her hand up so she didn’t have to look at either of you. “Look, I’ve been rooting for you to two say fuck it to Bradley’s bullshit but–this is a PATIO! Any one of us could’ve walked out here, my god! You couldn’t find a more private place to try and fuck each other?”

“Nat!” you groaned with a bit of a shout, seeing Bob out of the corner of your eyes shake his head, cheeks flushing an even darker red than before. You dragged yourself out of the water, stepping onto the wooden patio and walking past Natasha to wrap yourself in your towel, finally catching her eye. “The fuck did you even come out here for?”

“Mickey told me to come check on you two, see if the raging sexual tension had finally broken,” Nat finally dropped her hand now that you were wrapped in your towel. Bob was stumbling out of the hot tub himself at the other end of the deck, drying himself off with his own towel. “He and Bradley just pulled into the driveway, so you’re welcome. My god, imagine if he had walked out here instead to see you two well on your way to a homerun-”

You shoved past Natasha, cheeks flaring red at her laughter, her attention now turning to congratulating Bob on ‘making a move’ while you focused on getting into the shower before Bradley walked in to question why you and Bob were alone in a hot tub together.

Your brother was none the wiser to what had occurred the rest of the night, too engaged in his game of pool with the others over another round of beers to even think about it.

Then, there was you, lying in bed beside a fast-asleep Natasha, very much unable to not think about the hot tub. About every drag of Bob’s hands across your skin, at the heated trailing of his lips along your neck, at that cock you were desperate to feel pressing inside you-

Jesus Christ, you needed to sleep. You flipped onto your side with a sigh, grabbing your phone; 1 a.m., and you still couldn’t sleep. A soft groan tumbled from your lips as you flopped back onto your back again, before a foot from the other side of the bed reached out and kicked your shin under the covers.

“Chickie, I have been able to feel you tossing and turning for, like, two hours,” Natasha’s voice was muffled by her pillow as she, too, groaned. “Just go the fuck to sleep.”

“I can’t, that’s the problem!” you huffed in exasperation, running a hand down your face. “I keep thinking about the fucking hot tub, and Bob’s hands, and his lips, and his fucking big ass di-”

The fighter pilot was up on her knees in seconds, grabbing her pillow in her hands and whacking you with it multiple times as you held your hands up in defense, begging her to stop. When she finally did, the glare she fixed on you was illuminated by the streaks of moonlight pouring through the blinds.

“I do not want to hear about Bob’s genitalia, dude. Good on you for finally saying fuck it to Bradley’s stupid rules and getting your guy, but I don’t need to hear the play by play of your hot tub fondle session,”

“Okay, but like, it’s true. They always say it’s the quiet ones that have the big dicks-”

Natasha’s groan cut you off again as she flopped back onto the bed, head buried into her pillow.

“I am drunk and exhausted. Go have wet dreams over my back-seater by the lake or something, not right beside me, for god’s sake,”

Well, it wasn’t a terrible idea.

In just one of Bradley’s t-shirts and a pair of panties, just as you had been days ago in the kitchen, you found yourself not long later standing by the lake in the dead of night. The patio light was off, every light within the house was off, leaving the private beach to be illuminated by nothing but the moon. The sand was cool beneath your feet, those tiny little grains pushing into every crevice that they could. Gentle waves from the lake lapped at the tips of your toes, soaking the sand before you before it retreated once more, just to repeat the cycle. 

A quiet night. Lines of pine trees separated your private home from your neighbors, leaving you well and truly alone in the peacefulness. The perfect place to think, to let your thoughts roam to the man you had been hopelessly in love with for so long.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

There Bob stood as you whipped around, a gentle breeze billowing the large sleeves of your t-shirt just slightly. The moon reflected off his glasses, casting a small sheen of light over his eyes. His own t-shirt hung loosely from his body, barely covering the top of those dark blue boxers that hung around his hips. Your eyes couldn’t help but dart down to them, now knowing what lay beneath. When your eyes met his again, you could feel the heat in them as that same heat rushed through you.

“Was hard to,” your voice was breathy, soft as if not to disturb the peacefulness of the night. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Glad I wasn’t alone in that,” a small laugh tumbled from Bob’s lips as he spoke.

That cord of tension had already broken when his lips touched yours for the first time, when his calloused hands had caressed every inch of your body, when your own had pushed past the waistband of his swim trunks into the land of no return. It was back, now, but heavier. It hung in the air between you both again, but different this time. It wasn’t so much tension anymore as it was pure hunger, pure need for a feeling your body craved.

Your hand toyed with the edge of your shirt as you spoke before you could stop yourself to think.

“I think…I’m going to go for a swim,”

Bob’s lips quirked up, eyebrow shooting up just slightly.

“In that?”

You tugged the shirt over your head without another word, discarding it to the sides somewhere in the sand. The hitch in Bob’s breath was audible even from where you stood, his lips parting as they soaked in every inch of your bare chest and torso on display for him. Without ever looking away from his gaze, you leaned forward, slipping the lace panties that clung to your hips down your legs at an agonizing pace, before they joined your shirt in the sand.

Bob shifted in place, and you could visibly see the bulge in his pants grow and harden just from the sight of you: bare, standing before him in the quietest hours of the night.

“Don’t need clothes to swim, not on your own private beach,” you gave him a small smirk, taking small steps backward and further into the cool lake water waiting for you, and beckoned him with a single motion of your finger. “Want to join me?”

“Y-Yeah…yeah, I do,”

The water was cooler in the night, sending a shiver up your spine and coating your skin in a layer of goosebumps. It rested right below your breasts by the time Bob had thrown his own shirt in a pile by your own, and his boxers joined it seconds later.

Fuck. He was big.

You had already felt it before, but seeing it with your own eyes was something else entirely, something that soaked your core without ever having to be touched. Thick and flushed, the head just a few shades darker than the rest of him, one large vein visible from where it ran down the side of his length that you could only imagine was pulsing.

Before you knew it, he was standing before you in the water, towering over you just slightly. The waterline sat somewhere along his abdomen, and you could see the goosebumps running along his own skin. You flicked your gaze from his collarbone to his eyes, still partially shrouded by the glint of moonlight across his glasses.

He took a step closer, invading your space, as the heat that radiated off his body seeped into your own skin and warmed you in the cold water. It was almost as if, on instinct, guided by something deep inside yourself, your arms wrapped around his shoulders to rest your hands across the nape of his neck as his own found their rightful place around your waist and tugged until your bare body was flush against him.

Bob didn’t give you a second to think about it before his lips were back on yours.

The kiss was heavier than your first kiss, his lips parted, and his tongue traced along the edge of your own until you parted for him without a second thought. His touch sent cascades of pure want and need through your very being, every little moan that slipped past those beautiful pink lips accentuated with the softest confessions of ‘I love you’ that you’d ever heard. That alone had you pressing further into him, carding your fingers into his hair and tugging, sucking his bottom lip between your teeth with a gentle nip at them. It was rewarded with another groan that emanated from somewhere deep within him, the grip around your waist firmer than it was just a moment before. Bob’s lips travelled to your ear for just a moment, hot breath ghosting over the shell of it, as he whispered.

“Jump,”

You obeyed. You’d obey anything he told you to do at this moment. His hands caught your thighs, slotting your legs around his midsection as your ankles locked around his back. Bob’s lips found yours again, head tilted just barely to the side as his mouth all but devoured your own, and the two large, calloused hands that had found their way to the curves of your ass tugged your body against him as hard as he could.

A gasp, a choked moan, even a mewl, whatever the unholy noise was that tumbled from your lips and was swallowed by Bob’s own mouth was unknown the second his flushed cock was settled between your folds. The heat of it alone was enough to soak you again as it throbbed against you in need. You could feel it physically twitch against you as Bob’s hips ground into your core just slightly.

With a hand still locked into his hair, you raked your nails against his scalp and ground your own hips against him.

You could feel every inch of him. The ridge right around the flushed head of his cock, the pulsing vein that ran up the side, you felt every bit of him as you rolled your hips back and forth over him, breath escaping your lungs in stuttering breaths. Bob choked on his own breath, pulling away from your lips with a thin trail of saliva connecting you before his lips locked to the side of your neck, biting into the kiss with a groan. He held you impossibly close to him as your hips ground against him, seeking any minuscule form of friction that they could as the water sloshed around your bodies, creating tiny waves of its own.

“Fucking h-hell,” Bob groaned against you, fingers digging into the skin of your ass so tightly you were sure his hands would be marked into your skin for days to come. “Baby–fuck–if you keep doing that I-I’m not going to last very long.”

“What a shame,” you choked out a laugh mixed with a moan of your own as the head of his cock caught just slightly over your opening, before gliding upward again. Tugging his head toward you, you bit just barely into his earlobe as you spoke. “I was hoping you’d at least be fucking me when you came.”

A small shriek flew past your lips as Bob turned you both on his heel in seconds, marching you up the sand bank and out of the water. He stumbled just slightly in the water, almost dunking you both back under, as shared laughter echoed through the quiet night and soft apologies were muttered from his lips.

With a gentleness that you could only ever expect from a man like Bob Floyd, he laid you back against the sand, the waves lapping just barely up around your thighs. On instinct, your legs parted, letting Bob settle between them like he belonged, his upper arms caging your head as he looked down at you with a passion that was anything but gentle.

You were pretty sure you clenched around absolutely nothing. It was sinful how soaked you were for this man when he’d barely touched you. At least, hadn’t touched you with intention.

Another kiss was placed against your lips, softer but still so full of love that another high-pitched and broken moan left your lips. Those plump, kiss-bitten lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, and over the valley between your breasts. A shaky breath left your throat as his fingertips just barely ghosted over the edges of your breast, skating right past your nipples that were already stiffened from the cold and arousal that flooded through you, before his lips languidly continued south. Over every inch of skin, a gentle kiss placed above your belly button and then a matching one below it, before they continued their journey south.

Bob’s hands found the bare expanse of your thighs, parting your legs further apart. You held your breath without even realizing it as he placed intentional kisses along the sensitive skin, before he hovered just where you wanted him most. You watched him as he simply stared, admired. A breathy chuckle left his lips, his hot breath just barely ghosting over your lower lips as you clenched once more.

“God…you’re the most beautiful thing this world has ever created. I’ve dreamed of seeing you like this,” he rasped out, need blown eyes looking up at you through his eyelashes, a thin sheen of fog coating his glasses. “Let me touch you…let me make you feel good.”

“Please…please, Bob, please touch me,”

He took your words to heart, tongue flattening as he dove in, licking one stripe directly up your core as your breath stuttered out of your lips.

“Darling–fuck–you taste like heaven,”

With one last groan, Bob buried himself in your folds. Eager, breath hot, lips drenched in the arousal that dripped and coated you. Whimpers fell from your mouth with every flick of his tongue right against your clit, every lap of his tongue through your folds and down to your opening as he dipped inside for just a second. He put every ounce of himself into it, tongue and lips buried in your core as if he were a starving man and you were a four-course meal spread out before him.

One of your hands curled in his hair, the other trying to find something to grip onto in the sand as the grains moved through your fingers, as those long, slender fingers you stared at way too many times prodded right at your opening. You cried out into the night, no care in the world for the volume of your voice, as his fingers pressed into you, stretching your walls as they curled against the spot you needed them most. Your back arched, and one of Bob’s free hands was quick to leave your thigh in order to press against your abdomen, holding you down onto the sand as the waves lapped cold water up your ankles.

“Bob–oh my god–Bob, please, don’t stop!” you mewled, breath leaving you in heavy gasps as your grip in his hair tightened, his groan reverberating against your core.

“I won’t,” you could barely hear him over your own cries and shattered moans. “I won’t. Let go, baby, I-I got you.”

He devoured you, tongue lapping at every bit of your juices that flowed from you in a consistent gush. His fingers never stopped, curling against that spot as they moved back and forth, your walls constricting around him as that ball of heat coiled tightly and tighter in your lower abdomen. You tried to lift your hips to get closer, but Bob held you firmly to the sand and somehow drove himself even deeper, practically drowning himself in you.

“B-Bob-!”

A single, desperate cry of his name was all the warning he needed. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking and lapping at the bud and ravishing it with every ounce of attention he could give it, his fingers still curling deliciously against that spot as you cried out.

That coil inside of you snapped, a shattered moan leaving you, as your body pulled taut against him.

You were left in a haze, one where you were only able to repeat his name over and over again like a prayer. His fingers slipped from you, his hands finding themselves back against your inner thighs as they massaged little circles into your skin as the stars slowly faded from your vision, the tension in your body releasing as your muscles relaxed. Bob lapped just one last time at your opening with a hum that you could feel against your lips, before leaving one last gentle kiss to the most sensitive part of you that was still pulsing with need.

He was hovering above you when you finally peeled your eyes open. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched as he wiped at the fog that coated his glasses, but your eyes were locked to his lips. So red, so swollen, coated just like his chin in a sheen of your own arousal. He saw you then, watching him, and leaned in to kiss you with a soft lip on his lips. You mirrored it, a giggle bubbling out of you and into his mouth as he laughed with you, the aftertaste of your own slick seeping past your lips.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips with a final peck, pulling back to see you fully. One of his hands came to cup your cheek, and you leaned into the feeling with a blissful, giddy look stretched across your face.

“Never better. It really is always the quiet ones that can absolutely ruin you, isn’t it?”

One small laugh shot out of Bob at that as he wiped at the beads of sweat rolling down the side of your face. God, he looked down at you so tenderly, so lovingly that it almost hurt. You weren’t sure what you did to deserve this man.

“I love you,” it was whispered against your lips as he leaned down for another kiss. Whispered into your skin like a promise. “I don’t think I could love you more than I do right now. But I know, come tomorrow, I somehow will.”

Even when he’d completely ruined you, Bob Floyd still managed to make your heart beat so erratically in your chest that you feared it would stop beating altogether.

That moment hung there for a minute as your body fully came down from the pleasure, as the heat left your body and allowed the cool night breeze to settle over you once more.

But even if the physical heat had left your body, the heat inside of you didn’t. Every moment you looked into those blue eyes, so full of love, it only grew hotter and hotter. You finally moved one leg, wrapping it around Bob’s waist and tugging him into you, letting your core meet with the incredibly stiff cock that you’d been dying to feel now for months. Bob sucked in a breath at the contact, and you could physically see the way his pupils dilated again.

“A-Aren’t you sensitive-”

“I don’t care,” you practically begged, hand curling back into his hair with another little tug. “P-Please, Bob, I don’t care. I need you, I’ve needed you for months. Please.”

“Shit–okay, okay,” Bob nodded along to every word you said, hand gripping the back of your neck once again as he pressed another passionate kiss to your lips that had you bucking your hips against him. “Fuck–okay, m-message heard. I…I don’t have a condom-”

“I don’t care,” you whined, watching as Bob let out a breathless laugh, tugging on his hair once again. “I’m on the pill, I don’t care.”

“Darling, i-it’s not safe-”

“Then that’s tomorrow’s problem,” you begged him, desperately. You knew you looked like an absolute mess. Dripping in lake water and sweat, remnants of make-up you hadn’t washed off probably streaked down your cheeks, pupils blown so wide in bliss that you were probably barely aware of just how much you were begging this man. “I need you to fuck me–I need to feel you–just, please, fuck me. If you knock me up, then we can just blame Bradley for driving us this far into fucking insanity.”

You weren’t sure which part of what you said it was that broke him, but you could guess. The way that Bob’s gaze got heavier, his breath catching, and his grip growing even tighter on your skin. Another bruising kiss was placed against your lips before his hands were on your legs, wrapping them around his waist, before he took his cock in his own hand and lined himself up with your core without another word and pressed forward.

God, the stretch burned, but in the best way. Your body gave almost no fight to him, still soaked to the core from the need you’d carried for this man for months. Your hands wrapped under his arms, resting against his back as you held him close, fingernails digging into his skin. Bob’s forehead dropped to your shoulder as he leaned in, biting at your skin just barely with every inch of him that sank into you.

“P-Perfect,” Bob’s moan was so broken as his lips trailed up to your throat, resting right over your pulse point. He was wrecked, as wrecked as you were, as your walls fluttered around him and drew another moan from him. “So beyond fucking perfect. So warm–so tight–all mine. Only mine.”

“Always yours…”

He bottomed out the second you spoke, your words cut off by your own gasp at the feeling. Bob’s hips sat flush against yours, sweat clinging to your skin and his own. Every inch of his cock was buried in you to the hilt, and you could feel the way it throbbed and twitched inside of you, the way that Bob’s own body shook at the overwhelming feeling. Your walls clenched around him, breath caught in your throat as your nails dug into his back again, so overwhelmed by the feel of him.

Better than anything you’d ever dreamed of.

Bob’s head left your neck, and he hovered over you for just a moment, as both of your bodies adjusted to the feel of the other. But as you looked at him, at the love that poured out of his gaze, it didn’t feel like adjusting. It felt like a welcome home, like the rejoining of two things that were always meant to be.

He dipped down, lips enveloping yours in a messy and heated kiss, as he pulled himself out of you just to dive back in.

And, fuck, you were a goner. You keened with every delicious drag of him against your walls, swallowing every grunt that poured from his mouth as his hips pistoned into you time and time again. A steady pace, one that had heat blooming through every inch of your skin and a flush crawling up your body. 

He’d drive into you, hold himself there, and drag himself out so slowly it was almost like torture. He’d repeat it again, and again, and again until your nails would dig into his back hard enough to pull a low groan from him. Then, the pace would change, hips his driving into you in shorter, faster strokes. All the while, his lips never left yours, saliva dripping between your plump, red lips as every wonton moan that left you echoed into the night.

“You take me so well,” his words were whispered in praise against your skin, lips trailing over your cheek to your ear, groaning directly into it as he drove into you faster until you were another mewling mess under him. “God–made for me–so perfect, so beautiful. So tight, so warm. Squeezing me, taking me so fucking well. God, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Bob–please–fuck me,” the feeling was overwhelming, tears almost pricking at the corners of your eyes as you held onto him, the sound of his hips snapping into yours mixing with the sound of your cried. “Harder–deeper–fuck me, p-please just fuck me.”

Bob’s head buried itself back in your neck as he did just that. His hips pistoned into you at the fastest pace his body could maintain, his hips driving into you so hard you could already feel the ache in your bones. Your nails raked scratches down his back, cries echoing in his ear as you could only find it in yourself to repeat his name over and over again like a mantra. Every thrust built that coil of heat inside of you, the thread begging to snap with every drag of his cock against your walls, with every squelching sound of your arousal pooling between you.

Your release came without warning, his body having shifted yours up just slightly enough that his hips were driving into you at a new angle, pushing him deeper than he’d been before. The second his hips had snapped into you, that spring coiling inside of you snapped, your eyes fluttering shut as the ripple of pleasure flowed through you. Your body clenched around him, his cock still slamming into you again and again as you sobbed out a moan into the night.

Even as it subsided, Bob didn’t stop, searching for his own release. Despite the ache between your legs, the rush of sensitivity in your core, you refused to stop until he’d found salvation. Your hand wound its way into his sweat-soaked hair, nose brushing the side of his head from where it was buried into your neck, as you held him close.

“Cum for me,” you’d choked out the words, barely a whisper. “Ruin me.”

It only took another three rolls of his hips against your’s before he bottomed out, nestled as deep within you as he could be, before Bob finally choked out a moan of his own and let go. You could feel him throb, feel it as he twitched, warmth flooding your insides and pooling inside of you. All you could do was hold him, eyes trained on the stars above through half-lidded eyes as you lay there together, panting and gasping.

Bob finally lifted his head, hovering above you. Your shaky hand reached for his glasses, wiping at the fog that coated them, letting you see the dazed look that had crossed his eyes. His lips quirked into a smile, a blissful one, that you mirrored instantly.

Not a single word was spoken as he pressed the softest of pecks to your lips, then another, and another. And when it had all subsided, when your breathing had finally returned to normal, Bob finally dragged himself out of you. He was quick to kiss away the wince in your brow the second your body was empty of him, adjusting to the feeling. Another kiss was pressed to your temple, your nose, your cheek, and you knew that smile on your face was never going to leave.

“Hold on,” he whispered, unlocking your legs from his waist in order to rise to his feet. “I got you.”

You didn’t fight back. Bob pulled you to your feet, hands on your hips, steadying you as that ache in your hips and thighs threatened to pull you back to the ground. Bob’s arms were quick to swing your legs up, cradling you against him as he stepped back into the lake. Your head never left his chest, letting his steady heartbeat almost lull you to sleep in his arms as he submerged you both in the water, ridding your bodies of the sand that had invaded every crevice. All the while his hands never stopped massaging little circles into your skin.

He carried you back up the beach, grabbing your bundles of clothing from the ground and bunching them up in his hand, before he placed you gently against the stairs going up to the patio. Your head leaned against the railing as his lips rested gently against the side of your head, promising to be right back.

You could only smile to yourself in the moments he was gone, replaying every moment from the night you knew you’d never forget in your head like a movie.

The sliding glass door opened softly before Bob appeared before you again. He was drier than he was moments prior, kneeling on the steps in front of you now in a new pair of boxers. He draped a towel around your shoulders, letting you snuggle into the warmth and run it over your soaked skin before taking the water bottle he so gently held out to you with an appreciative grin.

“So,” your voice was slightly hoarse when you finally spoke, chugging a good bit of the water before offering him the rest. He accepted, one hand resting on your knee with light patterns being drawn into your skin by his fingertips. “In all those dreams you’ve had of us, was our first time ever on a lakeside beach?”

“Absolutely not,” Bob responded with a laugh, tossing the empty water bottle up onto the patio somewhere. “But I wouldn’t have traded it for the world. It…it was perfect.”

You rung the last bit of water you could from your hair with the towel, tossing it up over the railing to dry before leaning forward, cupping Bob’s cheek in your hand to press a sweet kiss to his lips.

“It was perfect because it was with you,” you weren’t sure you’d ever get tired of that giddy smile on his lips. 

Bob reached behind you, slipping one of his own t-shirts over your body now that you were dry, before taking the spot beside you on the stairs. You leaned into his side without hesitation, his arm settling in its place around your shoulders as he pressed another kiss to your temple.

“I love you,”

You let those words really wrap around you, let yourself really feel them, as you looked up at the stars and moon glittering against the lake.

“I love you, too…now, what do you say we go pass out on the couch and give Bradley a coronary at seven in the morning?”

Bob’s laughter echoed through the night.

“Well, if you aren’t going to be the death of me…guess your brother gets that honor in the morning,”

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X Reader: Pretty boy

a/n: another Bob played by Lewis that i absolutely love and never got to writing for.

Warnings: readers call sign is Echo, fluff, Bob being a nervous cutie, kissing, mutual pinning, cheesy lines (its fluff guys let me have this one), no use of y/n.

Word count: 2.2K

“Hey there, pretty boy.”

Bob didn’t need to raise his eyes to know you were the one talking to him. You’d given him the nickname and made it extremely clear only you were allowed to use it. He lifted his eyes from the pool table, gaze finding your frame. You were wearing civilian clothes like the rest of the crew, but somehow, seeing you out of uniform affected Bob more than seeing the others. Maybe it wasn’t the clothes. Maybe it was just who was wearing them.

“Can I have some?”

Bob understood you were talking about the chips in his hands—his go-to snack at The Hard Deck. He lifted the container from the table beside him, offering it to you. You gave him a small smile of gratitude, grabbing a handful and stuffing it into your mouth. Bob continued to look at you as you chewed, but you were focused on the pool game before you. Phoenix scored a shot, causing you to yell out in victory. The rest of the crew raised their heads to look in your direction, realizing for the first time that you had arrived.

“Didn’t think you were coming, Echo.”

“Oh yeah? Why, scared I'd beat you again, Hangman?”

Phoenix grinned at your words. You two always had a knack for getting on the boys' nerves. Hangman was an easy target thanks to his inflated ego, so you took whatever shot you could when it came to him.

“Better put your money where your mouth is.”

Hangman moved over to you, lifting the pool stick in invitation. You raised your eyebrows at him—you knew better than to take the bait.

“Nah, I’m good. Don’t need to prove myself to you.”

The others let out small noises like “uff” and “oh, burn” at your words, causing your smirk to widen.

“Plus, I think I'd rather spend time with Bob anyway.”

Hangman's eyes shifted to the man beside you, lips curling into a teasing smile before turning back to you.

“I’m sure you would.”

There was something cruel hidden beneath the phrase. You chose to ignore it. Like you often did. Realizing he wouldn’t get a rise out of you, Hangman turned on his heels, moving back to where Phoenix was still waiting for him to take his shot.

You turned your attention back to Bob, moving to sit next to him. The stools were small and close together—an attempt to use up as much of the limited space as possible—which caused your body to be flush against Bob’s. You felt him shift a bit, body slightly tense.

“This okay? I can sit somewhere else.”

You moved to get up, but Bob placed a hand on your thigh in desperation.

“No, it’s okay.”

He paused, realizing where his hand rested on your body, then moved it as quick as lightning. You laughed at the action.

“Sorry. I was just trying to be a—”

“Gentleman?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled at him, patting his thigh with your hand.

“You’re all good, Bob. Don’t worry about it.”

With that, you removed your hand from his thigh, resting it in your own lap. Bob's eyes remained glued to where you had touched him. His skin felt warm. You always seemed to have that effect on him. Whenever you were close, Bob would find himself getting flushed. He forced himself to drag his eyes back to the pool table, even though he’d much rather continue looking at you.

Upon remembering your request for his chips, Bob reached for his beer, touching your shoulder gently with his to get your attention. You looked over at him, glancing at the cup in his hand before giving him a questioning gaze.

“You want some?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, thanks.”

Bob merely shrugged, handing you his cup. You took a sip before passing it back. You continued to do that until the cup was empty.

“Oh shoot. I finished it. Sorry, Bob—I’ll go get another one.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I don’t need—”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll get it.”

You turned to the others.

“Anyone else want a top-up?”

After getting everyone's cups, you began moving toward the bar. Bob grabbed your arm as you passed, causing you to pause.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. Really, it’s—”

“I want to.”

You were slightly taken aback by the words, but you welcomed the company.

“If you’re sure.”

You and Bob made your way through the crowd toward the bar, weaving between bodies and half-full tables. The Hard Deck was packed tonight—sailors, aviators, and locals all jostling for elbow room. The air smelled like beer and salt, and the music thumped loud enough to feel in your ribs.

Bob stayed close, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he always did—quiet, alert, steady. You liked that about him. No pretense. No bluster. Just Bob.

You’d only just placed the drink order when the song changed—one of those upbeat, slightly retro tracks with a funky bass line and smooth vocals, the kind that immediately lit a spark in your chest. Your head snapped toward the jukebox like it had called your name. A wide grin spread across your face.

“Oh my god, I love this song.”

Bob turned to look at you, eyebrows lifting behind his glasses. “

Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

You bobbed your head to the beat, already feeling the rhythm in your limbs. 

“Come on, Bob. Dance with me.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Dance?”

You didn’t wait for a full yes. You grabbed his hand, tugging him gently but insistently away from the bar. 

“You can’t say no, Bob. It's the rules.”

“What rules?” 

He asked, but you were already halfway to the open space between the dartboard and the old jukebox, a makeshift dance floor when the vibe was right.

“The ones I just made up.”

Bob stumbled after you, half-laughing, half-dreading, though his fingers stayed laced in yours. You stopped in the center of the room, turning to face him, still swaying to the music.

“Just follow my lead, pretty boy.”

“I don’t really dance,” he admitted quietly, looking everywhere but at you.

“Doesn’t matter. Just move. It’s not about looking good, it’s about having fun.”

You placed his hands on your waist and gave him an encouraging smile. Bob hesitated a second longer, then slowly let the music guide him, shifting his weight side to side. He was awkward at first, uncertain, but you were patient—moving in closer, syncing your steps with his, laughing when he accidentally bumped your knee with his.

“You’re doing fine,” you said, leaning in like you were telling a secret.

He gave you a small, sheepish smile—the kind that made your chest flutter a little.

“I think you’re just saying that.”

“Maybe,” you said, teasing. “But I’m still glad you’re out here.”

And then, like some switch flipped inside him, Bob started to relax. His shoulders dropped. His grip on your waist grew surer. The next spin you pulled him into wasn’t met with hesitation—it was met with a chuckle.

Maybe he wasn’t a dancer. But dancing with you? That, he could do.

And then the song changed into a slower one, causing your body to move closer. Bob’s breath hitched as he felt the shift—the proximity of your bodies finally settling in his mind. His throat felt dry. His gaze moved around the room, searching to see if anyone was watching. No one was, each person glued to their own conversation to notice a couple of people dancing near the bar.

You felt the tension in Bob’s body, causing you to call out his name. He forced his eyes to meet yours. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer at first, trying to figure out what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss you. But that wouldn’t be appropriate. Not in front of all these people. Not without making sure you’d be okay with him doing it.

The lack of response made you pull away slightly, becoming a bit self-conscious yourself. Had you gone too far? Had your desire to be near him made him feel uncomfortable?

“We can stop if you want. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Bob began to feel you pull away. The feeling caused him to act, his hands tightening around your waist. Not forceful—just reassuring. “No, I…” he paused for a moment, uncertain. “I want to keep dancing with you. If you want to, that is.”

You smiled at him, shoulders relaxing. You hadn’t scared him. Not yet.

 “I’d like that.”

You moved together in an easy rhythm, your bodies swaying gently, comfortably. Bob’s hands rested on your waist like he was afraid to hold you too tightly, but they stayed. Steady. Sure. You looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his neck, and for a moment, the world felt small in the best way—just the two of you in a noisy bar, dancing like no one was watching.

You leaned your cheek against his, lips close to his ear.

“You’re a fast learner,” you murmured, your breath making him shiver.

Bob gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and close. 

“I have a good teacher.”

Another minute passed like that—close and quiet—until Bob pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Would it be okay if we stepped outside for a bit?” 

His voice was soft, almost uncertain. 

“It’s a little loud in here.”

You nodded immediately. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bob gently took your hand again, weaving you both through the crowd. The door creaked open and spilled warm air into the cooler night, the ocean breeze brushing against your skin. You both stepped out into the open air, away from the music, away from the bodies and lights and laughter.

Once you’d stepped out, Bob let go of your hand. You longed for the feeling again, but you understood that he’d probably let go because he wasn’t sure if you'd be okay with him holding you like that. You opted to stay quiet, tailing beside him as you two walked. You didn’t know where he wanted to go exactly, but you continued to follow him. You looked up at the sky, a soft “wow” escaping your lips as you caught sight of the moon. Bob heard the sound, gaze shifting to see what you were staring at. A soft smile made its way onto his face as he looked at you taking in the moon.

“Come on. I want to show you something.”

He lifted his hand to you. You took it, glad to have his palm back in yours. He began running—not fast, but enough to make you have to race a bit to keep up with him. Once you made it to the spot, he let go of your hand, moving to lean over the railing. You copied his movements. And then you saw it: the way the moon reflected against the ocean. You let out a soft gasp.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It really is.”

You turned to face Bob, finding his eyes on you instead of the sight before you. You flushed a bit, realizing he’d been talking about you and not the moon. Bob inched closer to you, pulling off the railing so he could face you directly. You allowed him to go at his own pace, making his way to you slowly.

Bob stopped a breath away from you, his eyes flickering down to your lips before darting quickly back up to your gaze. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You waited, giving him time. He always seemed to need a second longer to speak his mind.

“I’ve been wanting to do something,” he finally said, voice low, as if afraid the wind might carry it away.

You tilted your head slightly. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “But I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to... assume anything.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone. You stepped in a little closer, closing the last of the distance between you. Close enough to feel his warmth.

“You won’t.”

Bob leaned in, slow and deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t—when you leaned into him too—his hand found your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. His lips met yours in a kiss that was every bit as sweet and careful as you’d expected from him. No rush. No push. Just Bob. Steady. Honest.

The kiss was soft at first—testing the waters. But when you kissed him back, really kissed him, he melted into it, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, like he’d finally stopped holding himself back.

When you pulled apart, your forehead rested against his.

You stood there in silence for a moment, just breathing each other in, the ocean crashing softly below, the moonlight catching in his glasses.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, not quite looking at you.

“I was hoping you would.”

You both smiled. Then Bob reached for your hand again, interlacing your fingers.

“Wanna stay out here a little longer?” 

You nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Yeah. I think I could stay right here all night.”

Bob gave you a full, toothy smile.

 “Not a problem with me.”

You settled back into his arms, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the warmth radiating from his body. He was your pretty boy—yours, and no one else’s.

It had taken him a while to realize it, but he’d managed to get there eventually. And you couldn’t have been happier.

[t1red-twilight]

masterlist b. f. masterlist blurbs

loving bob was the quietest thing you’d ever known. your entire life had been loud in an overwhelming way. you had what some might call an unconventional childhood, but it was happy enough. your family was known for being rambunctious in some ways, something that was easily tiresome.

when you met bobby, he was the kindest, most gentle soul you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. he had stopped traffic to let a mother duck and her ducklings cross safely, and you’ve often thought that’s when you fell in love with him.

sure, you fell deeper as you knew him longer, but that inciting incident is what drew you to him like a magnet to its opposite. you don’t really remember what life was like before bob, but you didn’t care to try and remember it.

the home you shared was a sanctuary; there were times when you’d go hours without speaking to one another. you’d still communicate, you just didn’t need to talk to each other to do so. he knew what you liked, and you knew his routines.

your friends would tease two of you for the way you functioned with one another. “it’s like you can read his damn mind, i swear,” nat had said once. you shrugged and moved on because he was the easiest person for you to read.

although, it was clear the sentiment the both you held for the other. that was a well known fact, it did not fly under the radar. to love bobby was to give him a part of your soul, and he had graciously given you part of his as well.

as cliche as it is, bob really was your other half. the first person you’d think of when you woke up, and definitely the last before you fell asleep. bobby felt no need to quell the waterfall of love he had for you, especially when you weren’t around (he didn’t drink often, but when he did the only thing that tumbled through his lips was your name).

it didn’t take long for anyone that met him to know just how deeply he loved you.

bob floyd loved you loudly, but in the quietest way you’d ever known love.

[mickandmusings]

professionally mrs. floyd

word count: 1.7k

pairing:

robert 'bob' floyd x f! reader

desc:

bob was no stranger when it came to days that were neverending. his job was stressful, his nerves shot by the end of every shift with the navy. so his home became his place of peace, perfect for a moment of solitude, thanks to the one person he always made sure to come home to-his wife.

when his wife has a less than satisfactory day at her own job, he makes sure to return the favor, and perhaps ensure that she never sees a day quite so bad again.

author's note:

none! more of a blurb than an imagine, just something short and sweet to get me back on my feet :)

for @fraaaaankiiiiieee

you know i love you and all your ideas, and your love for this bespectacled wso. thanks for being my forever cheerleader. <3

-

If there was anyone who was well accustomed to long days and short nights, it was Lieutenant Robert "Bob" Floyd. He woke early every morning, long, long before the sun would rise. He'd drearily shuffle into the bathroom and straighten his hair, brush his teeth, and don his khaki uniform. He'd kiss his still sleeping wife's forehead, grab the lunchbox she'd packed the night before off the counter, and be out the door before the first birds chirped in the morning.

His day at work would not be any less laid-back. He'd sweat through his flight suit in the backseat of a multi-million dollar aircraft, putting his trust entirely in the dark-haired pilot in front of him. (Not that he ever doubted Phoenix. Well, at least never to her face.) Bob had never had a weak stomach, it simply wouldn't fair well with the job he had, but sometimes his teammates maneuvers made his heart rate spike with stress. By the time he walked off the tarmac at the end of the day, he'd be thoroughly exhausted.

He'd arrive home in much the same fashion-the sun sinking steadily, soon to be replaced by the moon. He'd be well past worn out, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled in, but he'd still gather enough energy to greet his ever-doting wife, scarf down a warm dinner, scald himself in a hot shower, and fall asleep on the couch while attempting to catch up on the show he watched with his wife. Once she convinced him to finally come to bed, he'd hardly take the time to shove his glasses on his bedside table before crashing against his pillow for the short hours of rest allotted before he'd have to repeat the whole process over again.

It was safe to say that he was no stranger to a day that never seemed to end.

His wife, however, the eternal optimist she was, often found her days less harrowing than her husband's. Today, however, was not one of those days.

The day had started with asinine complaints-the bed had been a little too cold without Bob next to her, lacking the incinerator-level heat her husband's body always radiated. She'd groaned and hid her face back into his pillow, still smelling of his ridiculous 3-in-1 shampoo from the night before. How his hair was so incredibly soft despite the monstrosity that was that hygiene item was beyond her. The smell of his lingering body wash had lulled her back into sleep, the true source and start of her no good, very bad day.

She was so fast asleep she hadn't heard her alarm blaring, not until she was already ten minutes over the time she was supposed to be leaving the house. She'd panicked, racing through their bedroom in a flurry of already tangled nerves. Realizing quickly that Bob had forgotten to start the dryer the night before, all of her work clothes were still damp and unwearable. It was nothing to truly be angry about, they'd both been tired the night before, heading straight to bed without much care about anything else other than hitting the sheets. She'd trudged through with her less comfortable work clothes, the ones that itched if she moved a certain way, but it would be fine. It totally wouldn't become a minute thing that toppled her over the edge later in the day.

Right?

She thought little of it as she grabbed her water bottle and her lunch container off the counter, not even noticing the sweet note Bob had left her on top. In her rush to get out the door, she'd neglected her morning coffee, and, without meaning to, missing the other sweet post-it her husband had left on the machine next to her favorite mug. Bob was always leaving small actions of his love for her, something she adored about him. Unfortunately, her mind was more focused on the passive-aggressive comments her boss would give her for being late.

She'd already hit the rush hour traffic miles before her workplace, already ready to simply pull over on the shoulder and call it quits before she even gave her breakdown a moment to form. Swallowing down her already bubbling emotions, she pushes through and finally pulls into the parking lot of her workplace.

Naively, she had hoped things would start to look up from there.

She had, of course, been wrong.

Her boss' comments had indeed been backstabbingly biting, the coffee machine at work was out of order, her shoes had begun to rub blisters on her heels, her backup work clothes had become grating and her work was monotonous. By the time the clock hit five, she wasted no time in being the first to leave, responsibilities be damned.

She raced through the roads leading back to the home she shared with Bob, caring little about the possibility of a speeding ticket. She needed only one thing-her husband. She knew he likely wouldn't be home for another hour after her, but it would give her ample opportunity to have her dramatic breakdown before he came through the threshold of their front door.

To her surprise, however, her husband was already home. He'd already traded his stiff uniform for an old sweatshirt and some sweatpants, padding around barefoot in the kitchen. He was standing at their stove, the aroma of something savory filling their home.

"Hey, darlin'."

That accented voice she loved met her ears, already causing her bottom lip to wobble. She couldn't even respond with her usual sweet sentiment, too afraid she'd burst into a pile of tears.

"You're home early."

She redirects the conversation. She sees his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Uh, y-yeah, baby. I told you I was, left a note on the coffee pot this morning."

His wife's shoulders completely slump, bringing a hand to her eyes, furiously trying to avoid the tears that burn. She'd been in such a rush she'd neglected it completely. She felt guilty. He'd woken up early enough in his already incredibly early morning to write her little notes, to fill her water bottle with the fancy pebble ice she loved. Small actions to show he was thinking of her, that he cared.

"Bobby, m'sorry, I just-"

That was it, she was done for. One scalding hot tear falls down her cheek, and suddenly a tsunami of the others follows. Bob's eyes go wide, dropping the mixing spoon in his hand in favor of scooping her up in his arms.

"Hey, hey, shh, s'okay."

This wasn't the first time he'd ever had his wife sobbing into his shirt, and likely wouldn't be the last. Bob was an incredibly patient and understanding man, it wasn't something he'd hold against her. For some time, he just let her get her emotions out, let them fester forward to get that burdening feeling off her chest. He'd learned years ago that the method proved effective, she'd talk when she wanted to talk.

It only took a matter of minutes for her to do just that.

At most it was incoherent babbling over tears, but it was a language Bob had learned after several years of marriage. She just wanted to be held, to be listened to. So he did just that-his calloused hands caressing her sides as he listened to her incredibly distressing day. But Bob was also a man of action, always ready to fix a problem, and he instantly knew how to resolve this one. As his wife carries on about her 'asshole' boss, he stops her. Not meaning to interrupt, simply getting his thoughts out.

"So quit."

She looks up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, letting out a dry chuckle.

"Very funny, Floyd."

"M'not joking, Floyd," he retorts back, his voice entirely serious. He runs a hand across her cheek, pushing back a strand of hair from her face. "I make plenty for both of us. We've got everything we need on my pay alone. Got the insurance, the house...baby, the only reason you have to keep working is because you want to."

She simply looks at him as if he had sprouted an extra limb. Had it truly always been that simple?

"Plus," he raises an eyebrow under his thick lenses, that all-knowing smirk painted across his face. "If we decide to go through what we've been talking about, 'could work to our advantage, won't have to pay for daycare."

He gives a shrug, as if it was nothing. They'd been discussing the idea of kids for the past few weeks. For the first time in the entire day, his wife gives a genuine smile, a hint of a laugh crawling across her face. Always trust in Bob to see the bright side.

"Trying to get me as your housewife, Floyd?"

Bob feels a faint pink blush paint his cheeks, but grins.

"Is it working, Floyd?"

She can't help but erupt into a genuine laugh, falling against her husband's chest, finally content after a taxing day. She thinks for a moment-as if she even needed a moment to decide-before placing a soft kiss against his jaw.

"I think I can handle that, being professionally Mrs. Floyd."

Her comment makes Bob's own laughter fill the otherwise quiet air.

"Let me finish dinner and we'll write that two weeks notice together. But-"

He cuts himself off, lifting her with ease onto his shoulder and trekking her over to plop her onto the chair of their breakfast bar, pulling off his own hoodie so she can wear it instead of the uncomfortable looking work clothes that adorn her frame.

"-as your new boss, I'm ordering you-,"

He slips the itchy blouse off her arms, sliding the hoodie on in replacement.

"-ordering you to sit there and let me take care of the rest. And look, you're doing great already. Star employee."

He kisses her head, squeezing her side before going back to the stove. She felt her shoulders relax, that heavy weight on her chest eliminated. This she could get used to. No rushed mornings or hectic days, just leisure, soft days with a man who held her above anything else, as if she hung the moon and stars each night.

"I love you, Robert Floyd."

Bob smiles widely, crossing back over to her, hands on either side of her face.

"Going full legal now, are we? I love you more, Mrs. Robert Floyd."

-

[lianmendes]

⋆˙⟡ bob floyd fic recs ⋆˙⟡

welcome to my directory of all the bob floyd stories I love! all writing credit belongs to each individual writer, and if you resonate with any story, make sure to show that author some love by commenting, reblogging, or both! reader discretion is advised, so be sure to check the warnings. this list will be updated regularly. updated: 7/21/2025

ʚɞ you should see him in italy - @pullmecloseman

A romantic destination wedding in the hills of Italy should’ve been a dream getaway—but sharing a luxury villa with your entire extended family and a boyfriend who looks unfairly good in linen? Yeah, it’s a lot.

ʚɞ build-a-bear - @the-shedevil-writes

Ever since you started dating Bob, his wardrobe’s had a serious glow-up, thanks to your love of dressing him up like your own personal Build-A-Bear. But on a lazy mall day, you challenge him to return the favor, asking him to pick out an outfit for you.

ʚɞ everytime, i choose you - @ilovebabyonboard

You’ve loved Bob Floyd since before either of you knew what love was. Now, with a toddler in your arms, a baby on the way, and a Navy career pulling you in opposite directions, you’re learning what it really means to build a life across time zones—and hold on to each other through it all. Soft reunions, stolen moments, found family, and the quiet kind of love that stays.

ʚɞ keys & kisses - @pullmecloseman

A warm summer night at the local city night market with the Dagger Squad. You and Bob are the only official couple in the group—quietly affectionate, teasing, and fully caught up in the glow of food, games, and late-night laughter. Flirty banter, close calls, and a stolen kiss in a photo booth make for a night neither of you will forget.

ʚɞ worst way - @geminiwritten

being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

ʚɞ glide - @em1i2a3

When your friends drag you to a frat house party during spring break you weren’t expecting much, but when you go to seek out a moment of silence and end up accidentally stepping into someone’s room, you end up forming an odd connection with one of the fraternity members.

ʚɞ perilous skies - @shortnspidey

Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.

ʚɞ so it goes - @scarletmika

From the moment you laid eyes on Bob Floyd, you were head over heels, and he was too. Your overprotective brother, though, was making it increasingly harder for either of you to make a move. Maybe it's time you defy his wishes.

ʚɞ speedy landing - @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

Can’t stop thinking about Bob cumming in his pants from desperation and being embarrassed.

ʚɞ all the dreams of you - @fandom-geek17

From the moment you and Bob met, the connection was undeniable, but also inappropriate. As his on-base doctor, every professional idealism called for you to stay away. Only problem? You didn't want to

ʚɞ supersonic - @em1i2a3

When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

ʚɞ knight in shining glasses - @scarletmika

All you wanted to do was enjoy your first night in San Diego at the bar recommended to you by your father, but a hot-shot new to the Top Gun program was intent on bringing you home with him, or at least couldn't take a hint. Lucky for you, there's a knight in shining glasses ready to save you.

ʚɞ endgame - @itwillbethescarletwitch

ʚɞ concussion drabble - @38livesalone-has3cats

bob floyd gets a concussion and is flustered and embarrassed when wife!reader tells him they’re married, and he doesn’t believe her because she’s so pretty

ʚɞ drunk on you - @the-shedevil-writes

Bob rarely drinks. But after losing a bet with Phoenix, he ends up downing five drinks of her choice—none of them realizing just how absurdly strong they are. Leaving you to take care of your sweet and very drunken boyfriend as he fights for his life.

ʚɞ short skirt weather - @geminiwritten

you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

ʚɞ it's that simple - @tropes-and-tales

ʚɞ cliche - @scarletmika

There's always a joke surrounding weddings that the Maid of Honor and the Best Man will end up falling in love; it's one of the oldest clichés in the book. When you're the Maid of Honor, though, Bob Floyd wouldn't have it any other way.

ʚɞ sunflower - @scarletmika

Bob Floyd was head over heels for you from the moment you met. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. But Hangman knew just how to get under people's skin, too well sometimes, and sometimes frustration hits a boiling point when the people you don't want to hurt are standing in the way.

ʚɞ winding bob up in public - @delopsia

ʚɞ change of plans - @bradshawsbaby

You and Bob are supposed to be getting ready to attend the Navy Ball, but after being gone on a mission for three months, your husband has other plans.

ʚɞ bob from stats - @attapullman

College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

ʚɞ hiccups, pens, and other ways bob might be a wizard - @dancethroughthethunder

Five times your teammate Bob knows and does the exact thing you need and one time you hope to return the favor.

ʚɞ sleepy, cozy, domestic bob - @sometimesanalice

ʚɞ bob from pi kapp - @attapullman

First he's late to chapter, and now Bob is late to your Stats final. You saved him a seat. But should you also save one for his hobby horse?

ʚɞ family day with bob - @lewmagoo

ʚɞ birds of a feather - @dearsnow

phoenix and her girlfriend set you up with a wso they insist will be right up your alley.

ʚɞ a man with a mission in two or three editions - @onceuponaoneshotfanfic

ʚɞ 12:39 am - @dearsnow

your normally sober husband comes home drunk out of his mind after a party, and you can't say he's any less sweet.

ʚɞ the plan - @geminiwritten

the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

[daisyfieldrecs]

Bob Floyd Fics Pt. 2

Man of your dreams| One-Shot| Fluff| @sorchathered

Please Come Home for Christmas| One-Shot| Fluff| @nerdgirljen

bleeding love| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @bobgasm

do you wanna make somethin' of it| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @theharddeck

All I Want| One-Shot| Fluff| @cornishkat

Pride, Prejudice, and Flyboys| One-Shot| Smut| @sorchathered

Explicitly Yours| One-Shot| Smut| @roosterforme

Cards Close to the Chest| One-Shot| Fluff| @ohtobeleah

Sprinkles of Love| One-Shot| Fluff| @bradshawsbaby

Ruin the Friendship| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @withahappyrefrain

Stiff Competition| One-Shot| Fluff| @roosterforme

The Kind of Girl I Could Love|One-Shot| Fluff| @roosterforme

Stud on Board| One-Shot| Fluff, Implied Smut| @roosterforme

He Sees All My Colors| One-Shot| Fluff, Angst, Implied Smut| @peachystenbrough

i want you midnights| One-Shot| Fluff| @laracrofted

Bob and T Swift| One-Shot| Fluff| @peachystenbrough

The Perfect Pink| One-Shot| Fluff| @attapullman

Something in the Orange| Pt.2| Two-Shot| Smut| @sorchathered

A Lesson in Love| One-Shot| Fluff| @tip-top-cloud-surfer

Bob and the Moon| One-Shot| Fluff| @topguncortez

Baby Boy Bob| One-Shot| Fluff| @topguncortez

Dandelions| One-Shot| Fluff| @callsign-phoenix

there's a hole where something was...| One-Shot| Fluff| @bobfloydssunnies

you don’t have to be a star| One-Shot| Fluff, Implied Smut| @sunlightmurdock

color up my skies| One-Shot| Smut| @thiswaytwoinfinity

scenes from the kitchen sink| One-Shot| Fluff| @bradshawsbaby

High On Lovin' You| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @bradshawssugarbaby

Bob From Stats| One-Shot| Smut| @attapullman

six summers| Series| Warnings in Each Chapter| @lewmagoo

Mav's Reaction to Each Dagger Dating His Daughter| One-Shot| Fluff| @tip-top-cloud-surfer

I will ease your mind.| One-Shot| Fluff| @floydsmuse

Like Peas in a Pod| One-Shot| Fluff, Angst| @bradshawsbaby

Covering the Classics| Series| Warnings in Each Chapter| @roosterforme

good girl| One-Shot| Smut| @bobgasm

Some Things Take Time| One-Shot| Fluff, Angst| @roosterforme

All The Pretty Girls| One-Shot| Fluff| @bradshawssugarbaby

the legend of the great wizard bobernius| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @sio-ina-bottle

As you wish| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @sorchathered

Pretend| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @attapullman

Room for Dessert| One-Shot| Smut| @purelyfiction

I HEARD SCREAMING| One-Shot| Smut| @oncasette

Stupid White Car| One-Shot| Fluff| @attapullman

DIAL TONE| One-Shot| Smut| @oncasette

So Hold Me Close and Say Three Words| One-Shot (for now)| Fluff, Smut| @attapullman

Untitled| One-Shot| Fluff| @bussyslayer333

"i made a playlist for you, come sit and listen."| One-Shot| Fluff| @bussyslayer333

Make Me Your Masterpiece| One-Shot| Fluff, Smut| @sometimesanalice

four eyes.| One-Shot| Smut| @promisingyounglady

Grow Old With You| One-Shot| Fluff| @vivwritesfics

Vice| One-Shot| Smut| @ohtobeleah

Slice of Your Pie| One-Shot| Smut| @callsign-joyride

The Mug Situation| One-Shot| Fluff| @vivwritesfics

shopping lists.| One-Shot| Fluff| @sebsxphia

[wynnevee]

crash landing

bob floyd x reader

synopsis: a risky mission nearly takes you out and bob has a moment of crisis as a result.

warnings: callsign is scout, i don’t know planes, near death, plane crashes, mentions of explosives, blood, injuries, pain medication, crying, unedited, kind of abrupt ending because it felt like it was dragging on

notes: this took so long but i went extra descriptive and i’m happy i did. this is also pretty heavy on bob’s perspective which is new for me so i hope y’all enjoy it!!

missions like this one were every pilots dream—and every navy spouses worst nightmare. considering bob fit into both of these categories, he felt like he was being ripped right down the middle just thinking about it.

maverick’s voice droned on his ears like a broken record that made his head ache. “high risk… uncertain terrain… scout and rooster, you’ve been selected for this mission.”

bob had almost hurled on the spot.

he tried to smile for you, giving congratulations on earning such a respect from maverick that he’d chosen you for a mission like this. he tried to ignore the urge to grab maverick by the collar and tell him you were not expendable, that you had to come home.

on one hand, he knew it was a good thing for you, a big step in your career, and he really was proud of you—on the other, the image of your jet blowing into bits before you could eject looms behind his eyes, projected onto every surface.

when he saw you off for the mission, kissing you desperately and trying to make it feel less like a goodbye, the image became more vivid. you had a blue ribbon tied around your wrist—said it went with your outfit for date night tonight. your rings were tucked safely on your dog tags where they always were. what if that was all they’d recover from the wreckage? a bloody blue ribbon and dog tags holding the promises bob had made and failed to keep. he vowed to protect you, after all—and he loved rooster, but fuck, he didn’t want to put that responsibility in his hands.

“i’d never let anything happen to her,” bradley had reassured him during a brief pat on the back.

‘that’s not always your choice,’ bob wanted to say. instead, he nodded and walked off to the radars where he could observe your flight.

he watched the blinking light of your jet and listened to you confirm your preparedness with the air control commanders. he gripped his own ring and dog tags so tight, he was surprised they didn’t cut into his palm.

at first, everything was normal. it was like this was any other mission, and for a moment, bob let the familiarity of it fool him. he knew these words, these protocols—this was fine.

but then it all started slipping, morphing into a panicked chatter that grew louder and louder as seconds ticked by. it sounded foreign to his ears, like the organs were rejecting the very premise of an error. even if his ears rejected it though, his gut knew it, his heart knew it, his bones knew that something was wrong.

and his eyes knew it too when your little blinking light flickered out.

his head fell to his hands, jaw clenched in an effort to hold the horrible feeling inside, though it was fighting to break through his chest, to pry open his ribs and split open his sternum—and it was winning.

he felt a hand on his shoulder and it burned him because it wasn’t yours; still, he didn’t pull away.

“they still have connection to rooster’s radio,” phoenix explained. “they could still pull through.”

he nods, but it’s not him doing it. it’s just his body reacting like it knows it should. bob is buried somewhere deep inside his own mind.

honestly, he’s impressed he hasn’t lost it yet—hasn’t let out that scream brewing in his chest, the tension it’s created unlike anything he’s ever felt. he wants to scream, wants to break something, wants to drive off into the ocean. maybe he has more self restraint than he thought, or maybe he’s just in shock. either way, there’s a pressure in his head and it feels like the grief is gonna break out and swallow him whole.

“hello? hello?”

his head shoots up at the sound of your voice through the radio static. this time, the sound comes out: a cry of relief. he clasps his hand over his mouth, almost keeling forward from the force of joy that shoots through him.

“this is scout speaking. rooster and i have crash landed. my jet is not fit for flight and rooster has sustained a blow to the head. i’m going to try and fly his back to base.”

you sound so calm, if a little winded. not in pain, or like a tree branch had impaled you, or an explosive had blown an arm off of you.

time moves by in a blur after that, and before he knows it, bob is standing on the tarmac, waiting on bated breath for your jet to break through the skyline. he couldn’t stay in that room for longer than five minutes after your last radio—it felt like the walls were closing in. now that he was outside though, it began to feel like the sky was falling, like the air wasn’t breathable.

when your jet finally came into view, bob braced for the worst as it came down faster than normal, puffs of smoke falling behind you as you came closer and closer. finally, you made impact with a screech—from the wheels or the engine, it wasn’t quite clear—and bob was on you before you even stepped out.

he helped you rise carefully, taking the brunt of your body weight into his arms before he carefully lowered you both to the ground. as he sank to his knees beside the still rattling plane, his glasses fogged and blurred with tears. he held you in his lap with his face buried in the crook of your neck. he knew you needed medical attention, and he would carry you to the infirmary, just as soon as his legs started working again.

“where are you hurt?” he sobbed, pulling back to look at you—black smudges mixed with blood and ran down your cheeks like mascara, but he didn’t see anymore evidence of carnage.

“i don’t know,” you cried, adrenaline masking the pain you’d felt on the impact of your first crash landing—the overwhelming ache in your… well, everywhere, the second you hit the ground.

words fought against tears, clawing at his throat, so he opted for a kiss instead, cradling the back of your head carefully. he knew it wasn’t graceful, more of a clash of lips, teeth, and tears, and he knew the tarmac was hardly the place for such a feverish embrace, but he didn’t care.

for a solid five minutes, he thought he’d never get to hold you like this, or kiss you like this, or feel your pulse under his fingertips ever again; so he certainly wasn’t going to take it for granted now.

he was vaguely aware of the other pilots surrounding you, of hangman’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to take you to the clinic. of course, he obliged, but he refused to lay you on the stretcher and carried you all the way instead. you preferred it this way, too: wrapped up in your husbands arms, face buried in his chest.

bob stayed right by your side as the doctor checked you for injuries and gave you some pain medication, which was presumably strong, if your drooping eyes were any indication.

“severe bruising, minor lacerations, a fracture in your wrist, and a dislocated knee,” the doctor read off. “you’ll be restricted to ground work for a good while, but you’ll be okay.”

“rooster?” you asked hoarsely, mind swimming with a fuzzy sensation.

“right here, sweetheart,” bradley called, raising a hand from a couple beds over. “seems they’ve got you on the good stuff, you’ve asked about me three times.”

you scrunched your nose. “no i haven’t.”

“that’s the third time you’ve said that, too.”

“he’s fine, ma’am,” the doctor cut in with a poorly concealed laugh. “just a concussion and some bruising, he’ll recover just fine.”

you nodded, eyes already closing. bob ran his thumb over your knuckles, pausing by your rings, which he’d been surprised to see were back on your finger.

“i didn’t know if i’d make it back to base after the crash,” you’d explained, the beginning of the drugs slowing your speech. “wanted to have them on my finger if i died. where they belong.”

bob had barely had time to react to your confession before the doctor had returned, prompting a thousand questions from his own lips and a few more from yours. mostly, you’d just looked at him, head lolling to the side as you held his hand.

you did the same now, as the doctor left the room and a nurse wheeled rooster out for a few more tests. “what’re you thinkin’ about?” he asked softly, raising your hand to kiss.

“you’re so handsome.”

bob flushed. “thank you, honey.” he tried to sound more upbeat, maybe even teasing as he normally did when you made such a comment, but it felt like weights were pulling at the corners of his mouth.

even in your state, you noticed the persistent frown. “what’s wrong? you look sad.”

bob felt his eyes brim with tears once more and he dropped his head with an exhausted laugh. “yeah, i was really fucking scared for a minute back there. i mean, i thought i’d lost you,” he sniffled, trying to swallow his tears. it was fine, you were fine. he shakes his head, blue eyes red around the edges. “it was the worst feeling in the world. like—like something had been torn right out of me and it hurt so bad.”

your frown deepened and you squeezed his hand. “i’m so sorry, bobby. and before you say it, i know it’s not my fault,” you interjected, rushing to speak over him at the last part. “but i’m still sorry. i can’t imagine what i would’ve done if it was you.”

he looks back down at your interlocked hands, at the blue ribbon still safe around your non injured wrist. “sometimes i wish we weren’t pilots,” he admits. “that we worked normal jobs that came without the risk of falling out of the sky.”

you shook your head. “sounds boring.”

bob laughs—an actual laugh, the first real one since your name had been called on that mission—and straightens his back a little. the sound takes a weight off your shoulders.

“plus, look at me now: i just fell out of the sky and i am fit as a fiddle,” you add.

he gives you a skeptical look. “did you not hear the doctor?”

you shook your head. “you looked way too cute. totally distracted me.” you waited for him to crack a smile again before you continued with the… less funny part. “i’m okay, bobby. you didn’t lose me.”

he swallows. “i could next time. and i wouldn’t survive that.”

“there’s always been a chance that one of us won’t make it back,” you counter. “but there’s even greater chances that we will. and either way, i would never trade our love for the comfort of certainty. i wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

bob sniffles again, but quickly quells it with a smile and a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture saying more than a response ever could.

[0mg-bird]

All the Good Stuff ~ B. Floyd x Fem! Reader

Summary: This is basically a list of little imagines of what it would be like over the course of yours and Bob’s relationship.

Warnings: Bob’s the best partner, sweet fluff!, suggestive content, language.

• Bob would be so nervous on a first date because he’s struck out in the past, so when you ask about a second date, he is in shock at your enthusiasm. He’d play it cool around you but would go home and fist bump.

•Being the perfect gentleman he is, he doesn’t expect anything on the first or second date. So when he drives you home on your second date, he’s a little shocked at the way you melt into him at your front door. As soon as you show it’s okay, he’s holding your waist, pulling you into him as he kisses you slowly. He’s the kind of guy to take his time so you’re standing there with your arms around his neck for a while, while you both savor each other.

•This man is in love with you even before you sleep together and that scares him. When the two of you are calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend, he takes you to a beach day with his squad and everyone watches how enamored he is with you. Jake says “The sex must be good if you’re acting this hung up on her” when you’re away with Natasha, and Bob gets soooo red. The boys make him explain his weird behavior and when he admits you guys haven’t had sex yet, they all blow up. They’re asking so many questions like ‘why not?’ and ‘what if it’s bad?’ and at one point Bradley actually shakes his shoulders and asks if he’s stupid or just dumb. Bob explains that you don’t seem like you’re ready and Brad and the guys all share a look like ‘what an idiot’. Then they explain all the signs you give that you want him.

•The sex is not bad.

•It all starts with an argument, you finally break down and ask if he’s just not attracted to you. Bob is so confused and has to ask why you think that, then you just yell ‘because you won’t fuck me!’ and that snaps Bob out of his overly nice guy headspace. You guys end up going most of the night, because by the time one round would finish and you’d rest for a second, you two were back at it again because it just felt too good.

• Bob said ‘I love you’ first, on accident. You’d been dating for a month, maybe a little more, and he’d leave your house after a night in together. You kiss him goodbye at the front door, watching him step away from the threshold. You lean against the open door, looking utterly peaceful and cute to him. “I’ll text you in the morning.” He says because he is always up before you, so you like to wake up to a good morning text. You nod and bite your lip. “Okay, good night.” You’d say, then laugh as he kisses you one more time. When he pulls away, he nudges his nose against yours and then turns. “Good night, I love you.” He doesn’t even realize it right away, he takes about four steps before he pauses with realization. You stand there in shock, realizing what he just said. “I…didn’t mean to say that.” He tries to take it back but you just grin widely. “Do you mean that?” You ask, and when he sighs and nods, you rush back into him.

•Bob never thought that he was a very physical person, but since being with you, he loves affection. He’s like a puppy, honestly. He’s always on you in some way, his hand on your back, knees pressed together when sitting beside each other, his finger twisting around a strand of your hair. You are much like him in this aspect, he makes you feel so comfortable and safe that you are utterly relaxed in public when you’re with him. He lets you play with his fingers, trace shapes on the backs of his hands or on his arms, your head finds a way to rest on shoulder, your finger hooks in one of his belt loops.

•This man is calling his Mama and talking about you, it makes him feel like a teenage kid because of how twitter-pated you make him. He could go on and on about how you’re such a kind person, how big your heart is, how you are so intoxicating. He wants to take bigger steps with you but doesn’t want it to be too soon. His mom has to reassure him that when it’s right, it’s right and when he knows, he’ll know.

•You guys move in together at the six month mark.

•This is when he discovers he has a housewife kink. He comes home to you unpacking a few boxes in some sweatpants and one of his t-shirts? He’s hard. Watching you fold towels or wash dishes? He pushing you up against the counter and dipping his head to your neck.

•You’re trying so so hard to be perfect for him because you just want to take care of him, but somehow you burn dinner often. You never had to cook for another person before, you were completely fine with a cup of ramen noodles. But you loved your Bobby, you wanted to prove you could do this. You got so frustrated at yourself when you mess something up, it honestly broke Bob’s heart. He’d ask for seconds on purpose, just to make you feel better.

•Bob buys a ring a month before your one year mark and he’s so sure about this decision. On your year anniversary, he takes you out to dinner and then you guys walk across the beach as the sun is sinking. Natasha planned everything out, her and some of the boys were hiding on the platform trail that’s on a hill above the beach. Even though Jake pretends it’s too sappy, he is standing with binoculars, watching every move you two make and reporting it to Bradley who’s trying to get the camera ready to record. Natasha ends up snatching the phone from Brad because he’s got his finger in front of the camera. Bob is so nervous that his hands are so shaky and he can hardly breathe. At one point, you stop to walk closer to the waters edge to pick up a pretty shell. When you turn back around to show him, he’s down on one knee, holding a velvet ring box out to you. When you agree to marry him, he pulls the ring from the cushion and goes to slide it on your finger, but he’s still shaking so much that it falls into the sand. Jake is making fun of him for it for two weeks.

•You’re so obsessed with the fairly large diamond on your hand, Bob catches you always looking at it. Even during the times you’re on top of him, hand on his chest while you’re grinding down on his lap, or when you’re gripping his shoulder as he’s knocking you into the headboard, you’re eyes are watching the shiny rock on your hand.

• The crew thinks something’s actually wrong with the two of you because you’re always a ‘yes honey’ couple and never quarrel, but everyone gets to their whits end at some point. You and Bob hardly fight, but when you do, it’s all heated arguments and frustrated sighs. You guys fight when the other is feeling a little insecure about something, the problem is you don’t communicate right, until everything bubbles over. You could be feeling that Bob is hiding problems from you, claiming he’s okay because he doesn’t want to stress you out, then he’ll go and have long conversations with Nat or Brad. You guys eventually spiral until every other little thing that’s annoying you is spilled, and by the end of it you’re crying and storming off. Only once did you ever throw your engagement ring at him and claim that you will not be with someone who won’t take you seriously as a partner, and that broke Bob. He was so hurt that he lashed out and said some unkind words he’d never ever mean, then left home to clear his head. When he came home after about an hour, he found you curled in bed, face red from crying so hard. You guys talked it out, he slide your ring back on and once you two understood each other, he made you promise to never do that again, no matter how mad he made you because it made him feel absolutely horrible.

•He loves waking up on days where he doesn’t need to go anywhere or do anything. You’re always curled into him or sprawled across his chest. He used to sleep with a tank top on because for some reason you could not understand, he was a little insecure about himself. You hated that, he was built to absolute perfection, you could spend hours just running your lips and fingers over his toned chest and the muscles the lightly ribbed his stomach. So, Bob slept in mostly just boxers, flannel pants in the winter. You had convinced him to be bare when you told him you liked feeling his skin on yours, it also helped that you hid those white tanks from him until he felt normal to have you pressed against him.

• He’s always been modest, but you found out just how much Bob had in savings when he told you that when you got married, you didn’t have to work if you didn’t want to. Then, when he bought you the wedding dress you had your eyes on since you first searched through bridal shops, no questions asked. You called your best friend and determined he was sent from above. You were never impressed by money, and you’d love Bob if he didn’t have what he has, but knowing that you were financially secure, it made you want to show your appreciation for all he does, every day.

•The bachelor/bachelorette parties went crazy. You and your party are bar hopping, you’re wearing a plastic tiara that says ‘bride’ and Bob’s never seen you drunk before so when you run into him at the hard deck, all he does is laugh at you. You were scared that he wasn’t going to have fun because all his friends drink and he doesn’t, but he spent the night making Payback and Fanboy do stupid stuff for him.

•You never were a fan of over the top weddings, you liked elegant things but didn’t feel the need for an over the top day. You had planned for what seemed like forever, then the day finally came and everything turned out beautifully. Bob was a nervous wreck, he’s got a little anxiety so that didn’t help his nerves. He stood at the end of the isle, watching all the groomsmen and bridesmaids come down, then when everyone stood and a piano rendition of your favorite song played, he looked up and there you were.

• You’re trying not to cry the entire time even though he is.

• Bradley gets drunk and cries during the first dance and Nat has to make him sit down and drink some water before he makes a fool of himself.

• You and Bob honeymoon in some place like Greece or maybe Rome because you both are huge nerds for pretty sights and history. It’s so peaceful that he totally forgets you guys have a life back home and he has a pretty important job.

• When you guys come home, he drives in the other direction of your house so you think he’s lost his mind. When you ask what he’s doing, he just says you’re going home and then pulls into the driveway of a gorgeous two story house that has a very rustic charm to it. This man had your little two bedroom house packed up while you were away and had everything moved into this gorgeous house he picked out.

• You fall in love with life, everything seems so perfect. You’re closer to your family and friends, the sun soaked hardwood floors are always supporting your bare feet as you dance around. Bob loves music, there’s a book shelf full of records and CDs and he’s always twirling you around or slow dancing you in the kitchen.

•He makes sure you have everything you need before he deploys for over a month on a mission. This is the first deployment you experience with him and it’s the first real test on your marriage. Going from sleeping beside someone every night to falling asleep alone was a strange adjustment. He calls you when he can, you’re always lying in one of his shirts, listening to him talk about his day. “I miss you, Bobby.” You’d say, making him smile on the other line. “I miss you too, honey.” He’d say.

• When he comes back home, it’s like a wrecking ball. Bob’s never been an overpowering dominant person, but there’s nothing calm about him when you two get home after not seeing each other. The front door is practically knocked down, it’s slammed shut so hard that you yelp, afraid the hinges might just snap. He’s pushing you up against the wall in the hallway, backing you up against it so hard that one of the framed pictures falls from the place it was hung. You’re so utterly at a loss for words at his animalistic behavior, yet you’re so excited and turned on because he isn’t like this. You’re pulling at his uniform, leaving parts of it on the stairs. Your sundress is thrown onto the bathroom tile as he pulls you into the shower with him, both of you still half dressed. Soaking wet, peeling fabric off each other, it may start in the shower but it doesn’t end there. He’s carrying you to the perfectly made bed, hair still wet, he’s pushing you into the mattress, his dog tags are hanging above you and you wrap your finger around the chain to pull him closer. The house looks like a tornado ripped through it buy the time both of you are too tired to continue. You honestly think you black out because when you wake up on the living room floor, you don’t remember exactly how you got there.

• You might just die when Bob goes to answer the door, hopping into a pair of sweatpants. You remember getting dressed when you thought you were done…then you remember tearing those sweatpants off of him. He opens the door, eyes immediately widening as he looks at who’s on the other side. “Hi.” He greets awkwardly. “My daughter hasn’t answered my calls, I was just seeing if she was alright.” The woman says, hugging her son in law. You hear your mother’s voice and panic, trying to stand and search for a hoodie to slip on to cover yourself. You limp over, very aware at how sore your body feels, and hide yourself behind your husband. You have to explain that your phone was dead and that’s why you didn’t answer…nothing else. But she looks between the two of you and then behind you to the catastrophe of a home. “You’re going to get pregnant.” She tells you. “That’s sort of the goal, ma’am.” Bob responds.

• You took sex ed in school, you know what happens when you have unprotected sex, but truthfully you believed the birth control that you mixed up the days on had your back. You start feeling a little funny, then when you’re late on your next cycle, the fear sets in. You don’t know why you’re scared, you have no reason to be, but you still are. Standing, looking at all the different tests hung on the shelf, you decide that one of each couldn’t hurt. You debate on who to call, once you decide, your best friend is there within ten minutes. “Why’d you buy every single one to ever be made in the world?” They ask as you lay them all out on the bathroom counter. “I didn’t buy every one in the world…just the ones made in America.” You respond. It’s the longest five minutes you ever experienced, you sit on your bed crying and freaking out, hashing out every little thing that could go wrong. Your best friend is there to call you crazy and debunk every fear. “It’s too soon.” “You got married after only knowing him a year.” “What if Bob decides he doesn’t want this?” “That man sends you onesies with planes on them all the time.” “What if he doesn’t love me after I give birth?” “He’d love you if you were a worm.” “What if I can’t do it? I’ve never raised a kid before.” “You’ll be fine.” After the timer goes off and you dry your face, you two walk back into the bathroom slowly. Every single test you took is positive. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m pregnant.” Is all you could say, first in fright, but soon you’re jumping up and down and screeching like a teenage girl.

• Bob comes home from work, unzipping his flight suit as soon as he walks through the door. You come to meet him in the foyer, kissing him sweetly. “Hi.” He smiles. “I’ll go take a quick shower, then I’ll be down for dinner, okay?” You just nod, keeping quiet so you didn’t burst into tears right away. You hear his shower going, and you pace back and forth in the kitchen, shaking. Every shape and color of the tests you took are laid on the table, you don’t even know what to tell him when he comes down. He’s starting to tell you about something that happened when he pauses, curious as he walks to the table. “What…what’s all this?” He asks, picking one of the tests up, looking at the two pink lines. Then he picks up another, and another before it starts to click in his mind. He looks at you, eyes full of hope. “You’re pregnant?” You nod, starting to cry. “Yeah, Bobby, I’m pregnant.” He immediately wraps his arms around you, kissing you sweetly. He’s so over joyed, he can’t even think straight.

• For nine months, he treats you like you’ll break and though you love him for it, you think it’s all a little dramatic. He’s so gentle and understanding throughout everything, even when your hormones are just totally unbalanced and you’re crying or yelling for no reason. He’s so caring and helps you with anything he can, and when the baby is born he makes sure you’re the top priority too.

•Dad Bobby is hot.

[jacksabbotts]

·˚ ༘ ┊͙ ˊˎ - BABY CHICK ( part four )

main masterlist || series masterlist || inbox || join the taglist || dividers by @cafekitsune

. ᵒ . �� PAIR . robert floyd x bartender!reader

. ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . in the early morning haze of departure gate b, you ( the reader ) nearly disappear. bag in hand, boarding pass clenched like a white flag. but one unexpected text from bob floyd—sweet, polite, and entirely unaware—unravels everything. you don’t get on the plane.

. ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! parental abandonment / estranged parent , emotional neglect , emotional hurt / familial tension , mentions of therapy and identity crisis , alcohol use ( implied ) , mild profanity , post topgun : maverick events

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT . ~ 1.8k

you hadn’t slept.

the clock had ticked past every hour—2:00, 3:00, 4:00—and still, your body refused to rest. you'd spent the whole night in the airport and you hadn't got a lick of sleep. beside you on the ground. the same bag you’d carried off the plane days ago. a strange sort of symmetry.

by 5:50 am, you were at the terminal, boarding pass clutched like a lifeline in your fist, headphones in but no music playing. just white noise. just silence. just…nothing.

you kept your head down, heart quiet, like if you didn’t think too hard, it wouldn’t hurt.

and then your phone buzzed.

hi. this is bob. ( from last night. ) hope you got home safe. also—i think i left my jacket at the bar. if you find it, no rush. just let me know.

you stared at the screen, stunned.

home.

he meant san diego. he meant here. as if you belonged here. as if this was your place now. as if you had something—a life, a presence—worth returning to.

you hadn’t told him anything about your plan to leave. he didn’t know. of course he didn’t. but something about the message—a little clumsy, overly polite, sincere in that unshakably Bob way—made your chest ache.

it wasn’t dramatic. there was no music swell, no voice in your head screaming wait! you just...stood. at the gate. phone and boarding pass in hand. and realized you just couldn’t do it.

not yet.

you throw away the boarding pass. you didn’t throw away the ticket. you just turned around and walked out of the terminal.

you text one person as you make your way to the airport entrance. bradley.

to bradley 🙄

can you pick me up?

he didn’t answer right away. but twenty minutes later, his beat-up bronco pulled to the curb in front of departures, the morning sun still low in the sky, casting a pale haze over the tarmac.

he didn’t park. just idled with the window down and eyes on the windshield, aviators hiding whatever thoughts were flickering behind them.

you opened the door without a word, tossed your bag in the back, and climbed in.

no hello. no questions.

just the sound of the blinker ticking as he pulled back into traffic.

for a while, there was nothing. only the whir of the road beneath the tires and the quiet creak of his elbow against the open window as he drove. you leaned your forehead against the glass, letting the coolness bleed into your skin.

'you hungry?' he asked eventually, voice low.

you shook your head.

'coffee?'

'no.'

another few miles passed.

'so…' he tried again, gentler this time, 'you didn’t get on the plane.'

'nope.'

he waited. you didn’t offer more. eventually, he asked, careful, like he was tiptoeing across glass, 'why not?'

you turned your head, met his eyes just long enough to say, flatly, 'didn’t have enough points. flights were a mess.'

he blinked. 'right.'

bullshit. you could see it in the way his jaw ticked. in the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel. but he didn’t call you on it. just nodded once and focused on the road again.

you rode the rest of the way in silence.

the base faded into the rearview. the city gave way to little houses with scrubby yards and chain-link fences. eventually, he pulled up to a one-story place with chipped paint on the mailbox and a porch swing that looked older than both of you combined.

he didn’t speak as he shifted into park.

you did.

'can i stay with you?' you asked. 'just for a little while.'

his eyes flicked toward you. just once. and then back to the windshield. 'yeah,' he said. 'of course.'

inside, the house was clean, if a little cluttered—books, records, a guitar in the corner. not what you expected, and yet completely bradley. familiar in a way that settled just beneath your ribs.

you didn’t bother exploring. just dropped your bag near the door, turned on your heel, and said, 'don’t tell them i’m still here.'

he paused halfway to the kitchen. 'them?'

'penny. pete.' you didn’t say mom and you sure as hell didn't say dad. you wouldn’t. not when it felt like your throat would close around the words.

bradley stood still. you watched his back tense. 'why?'

'because as far as they know, i’m on a plane home. and in a few days, i will be. no point in tellin them otherwise.'

he turned to face you. brow furrowed, mouth set in a line. but he didn’t argue.

'okay.'

just that. no lecture. no guilt. no playing therapist or peacekeeper. just . . . okay.

you didn’t thank him and he doesn't ask for it.

but when you walked past him, brushing his arm on the way to the guest room, you felt the way he watched you go—silent, steady, and full of something that wasn’t pity.

it was worry.

and you couldn’t decide which was worse.

bradley’s guest room felt exactly the way a guest room should—clean, quiet, and temporary. there were no pictures on the walls, no clutter on the nightstand, just neutral-colored sheets that smelled faintly like fabric softener and empty drawers that whispered how easily you could disappear.

you unpacked half your bag. just enough to get by. just enough to pretend this wasn’t running again, even though you knew it was exactly that.

eventually, your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. with a reluctant sigh, you headed to the kitchen.

bradley was already there, leaning against the counter, fork halfway to his mouth. some frozen dinner, reheated in a plastic tray that looked about as appealing as cardboard.

'want half?' he asked, glancing your way. the microwave beeped softly behind him, the sound slicing through the silence.

'no thanks,' you replied, opening the fridge without really seeing its contents. you stared blankly at the rows of takeout containers, ketchup packets, and a lone carton of expired milk. you closed it again without taking anything.

bradley watched you, chewing slowly.

'not hungry?'

you shrugged. 'not really.'

another pause. long and awkward.

you leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded defensively across your chest, eyes fixed on the faded linoleum.

finally, bradley broke the silence. his voice was cautious, gentle in the way people spoke when trying not to spook a frightened animal.

'you really staying just because of a bad flight?'

your stomach twisted. you didn’t look at him. 'don’t worry about it.'

'i’m just trying to understand,' he said, even softer this time.

'there’s nothing to understand,' you said firmly, almost snapping. 'i’ll be gone soon. and then you’ll have the house back to yourself.'

bradley stared at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly, weighing your words against the quiet tremor in your voice. you knew he didn’t believe you, could feel it in the way his jaw clenched and released—but he didn’t push.

'alright,' he finally said, scraping his fork against the plastic tray again, sounding resigned. 'you know where the snacks are if you change your mind.'

you nodded once, barely a movement at all, then slipped back down the hallway to your temporary bedroom.

in the darkness, you lay flat on your back, eyes wide open, your mind a tangled knot of frustration and regret and longing. everything felt too still, too quiet, too fragile.

your phone screen lit up suddenly, the blue-white glow piercing the dark like a signal flare.

you rolled onto your side, pulse quickening when you saw the name flash across the screen.

bob.

you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly, and unlocked the screen. your heart kicked, a sudden, hopeful ache.

and despite everything—despite the lies you’d told bradley, despite the anger still smoldering in your chest, despite the very temporary nature of this hiding place—your lips twitched upward in the smallest, quietest smile.

maybe, you thought, there was something here worth pretending for.

you opened his message.

from bob

hi. this is bob. ( from last night. ) hope you got home safe. also—i think i left my jacket at the bar. if you find it, no rush. just let me know.

you’d read the text that morning—sitting at the gate, seconds from boarding—and hadn’t answered. you couldn’t. not when you were trying to run. not when you weren’t sure what the hell last night even meant.

but now . . . lying in the dark, in someone else’s bed, in a house that didn’t belong to you, you opened the message again.

you stared at it a while longer.

you weren’t home. not really. not anywhere, actually. but Bob didn’t know that—and for some reason, the thought made your heart squeeze.

you finally typed :

to bob ( from last night. )

i’m holding your jacket hostage. pay up.

a few white lies never hurt anyone. you technically hadn't returned to the bar since last night, but you specifically remember him throwing the jacket on the chair behind the bar when he'd come over to help pick up all the coins you had dropped.

three dots appeared. then disappeared. then reappeared.

from bob ( from last night. )

😳 how much are we talking?

you smiled. you couldn’t help it.

to bob ( from last night. )

depends. what’s it worth to you?

from bob ( from last night. )

it’s a really good jacket. fits great. smells like ginger ale and heartbreak.

you snorted, trying not to laugh too loud. bradley’s house was quiet.

to bob ( from last night. )

oh no don’t tell me i kissed a tragic poet

from bob ( from last night. )

don’t worry i only write poems when i’m emotionally compromised or sleep-deprived

to bob ( from last night. )

which one are you right now

from bob ( from last night. )

i’ll let you guess.

you rolled onto your back, clutching your phone to your chest like it might float away if you didn’t hold it tight.

to bob ( from last night. )

it’s a nice jacket. but it looks better on my floor.

the three little dots appeared. then disappeared. then came back.

from bob ( from last night. )

okay. wow. i was not emotionally prepared for that

to bob ( from last night. )

you kissed me first

from bob ( from last night. )

that is not how i remember it

to bob ( from last night. )

semantics. you kissed back. so whose fault is it really?

from bob ( from last night. )

i’m beginning to suspect you’re dangerous.

to bob ( from last night. )

takes one to know one, baby chick.

there was a pause—longer this time.

you stared at the ceiling. your smile faded just a little. your heart still buzzed, but there was something heavier beneath it now. something sad.

the next message blinked in at just the right moment.

from bob ( from last night. )

when can i see you again?

your chest ached.

you didn’t know how to answer. because you didn’t know what tomorrow looked like. because the only plan you’d made this morning was to leave.

but now? now you were here. in a borrowed bed. in borrowed silence. staring at a screen like it held all the answers.

you read his message again.

and again.

you didn’t reply.

instead, you locked your phone. tucked it under your pillow.

🔖  .    @Princesssunderworld  @qtmoonies  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @Soupie_MeowMeow  @gardeniarose13  @flyinglama  @kmc1989  @letstryagaintomorrow @madzleigh01  @qardasngan  @sweetdayme4427 @cannonindeez @nubecita040  @beebeechaos @gaypoetsblog @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @b4tm4nn @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @fortjackson @timeofmadness @october-baby25 @writergirl28 @silas-aeiou @alldaysdreamers @blackirisesinthesunlight @nightmenotyou @notgothenough @timeofmadness @yoonshiiuii @hiireadstuff @purplerainx1 @bobsbri

[pullmecloseman]

HONOR & DUTY - 2

Pre-Boyfriend!Bob x reader

summary: What was supposed to be a fun week in paradise quickly becomes something more when two quiet souls are thrown into close quarters. As the days unfold—from lazy mornings and town adventures to wedding prep and late-night confessions—tension simmers, walls begin to crack, and unexpected connections start to bloom. It’s just one week. But sometimes, that’s all it takes to change everything.

A/N: If you can’t tell, yes i did rewrite it completely from the beginning, it’s a lot longer and a lot more detailed but i honestly wouldn’t have it any other way! please comment and tell me if u liked it or not :)) ALSO OMG THIS IS THE LONGEST FIC I HAVE EVER WRITTEN?? unfortunately it did cut off so i will have to post it in 2 parts 😭 this is the link to part 1

Warnings: This fic has some mild swearing and squad-style banter, a bit of drinking and party vibes (nothing too wild), and a slow-burn romance with a sweet first kiss—no explicit stuff. Lots of chaotic humor, teasing, and pranks, plus some wedding and travel stress moments. There are light mentions of past military stuff (nothing graphic), crowded group hangouts, and flashbacks to crazy party moments with some confusion and mixed-up sleeping spots. Also, some minor hangover and sore muscle vibes. Just a heads-up in case any of that’s a trigger for you!

The squad villa was an absolute madhouse, the kind of energetic chaos that only a tight-knit group with a shared history could pull off with equal parts love and mischief.

You found yourself crouched on the plush carpet of the master bedroom, surrounded by a sprawling mess of makeup palettes, hair tools, and sparkly accessories that Phoenix had insisted were essential. Your phone buzzed quietly with texts from the rest of the squad, already deep into their own pre-party rituals across the villa.

“Okay, hold still,” you said, carefully twisting a stubborn section of Phoenix’s hair around the curling iron, trying not to burn either of you. Phoenix sat in the chair, a mix of nerves and excitement playing on her face. “If you blink, this whole thing is ruined.”

Phoenix huffed a dramatic sigh but smiled. “I trust you… mostly. Just don’t set the place on fire.”

You smirked, leaning in to carefully apply a swipe of shimmering eyeshadow. “No promises.”

The room smelled faintly of tropical flowers and coconut-scented lotion, mixed with the unmistakable tang of hairspray and the sharper edge of last-minute nerves.

As you worked, Phoenix chatted softly, running through her mental checklist. “I swear, if anyone tries to sabotage this night, I’m blaming Bob. He’s probably planning some ridiculous stunt right now.”

You laughed. “Knowing him, he’s got something embarrassing lined up — maybe a tutu or a dance-off challenge.”

Speaking of Bob, you heard his voice boom from the living room, where the rest of the squad was gathering.

“Okay, everyone, party favors coming through! Glow sticks, boas, and — wait for it — inflatable guitars!”

You peeked out the door to see Bob standing with a pink feather boa draped dramatically around his neck, clearly trying to look intimidating but failing spectacularly.

Hangman, ever the instigator, appeared behind him with a devilish grin. “Looks good on you, man. Real classy.”

Bob rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips.

In the hallway, Payback and Fanboy were locked in a heated debate over who had the more ridiculous stash of party props.

“I’m telling you, nothing tops the inflatable shark,” Fanboy argued, holding up a deflated blue menace.

Payback scoffed. “That’s amateur hour. I packed LED glasses, flashing hats, and—”

“Enough,” Coyote’s deadpan voice cut through, as he lounged against the wall with a cup of coffee, scrolling through his phone. “You two are a walking hazard. Please don’t kill us before the party starts.”

Phoenix’s tablet chimed softly from the kitchen counter, reminding her about vendor confirmations and last-minute calls.

Rooster appeared in the doorway, a tray loaded with expertly crafted cocktails balanced carefully in his hands. “Operation ‘Make Everyone Shine’ is officially underway.”

Bob accepted a glass with a mock bow. “Thanks, Rooster. Now, if only you’d let me off the hook for the tutu.”

Rooster smirked. “Not a chance.”

Back in the bedroom, you finished the last curl and stepped back, admiring Phoenix’s glowing face in the mirror. You handed her the lipstick.

“Here,” you said softly. “One last touch.”

Phoenix took it with a grateful smile. “Thanks for doing this. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool but feeling the warmth of the moment. “You’d survive. But I’m happy to help.”

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Hangman, who stepped in holding a ridiculous party hat adorned with feathers and glitter.

“Time to get our game faces on,” he said with a grin.

You exchanged a quick look with Bob, who was already adjusting his jacket, the teasing sparkle in his eyes making your heart skip.

The squad was ready. The night was waiting.

And the chaos? It was just getting started.

-

The squad villa was a buzz of neon lights and laughter by the time you all piled into the waiting rides to the first bar on the crawl. Someone—probably Hangman—had smuggled a portable speaker, and “Jump Around” blasted through the SUV’s cramped cabin as the squad whooped and sang along, already halfway into the night.

You sat beside Bob, who wore that stupid pink feather boa from earlier, still managing to look impossibly handsome. He nudged your arm, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Ready to lose, Maid of Honor?”

You smirked. “In your dreams, Best Man.”

The bar was a beachside dive with tiki torches and sticky floors, a perfect playground for chaos. Phoenix and Rooster were already there, the bride glowing like a queen and the groom trying to keep her from starting a conga line on the bar.

The squad split into smaller groups, each tasked with dares and challenges—some harmless, some borderline insane.

Fanboy was dared to serenade a stranger with a cringe-worthy pop song, which he performed with dramatic flair and unexpected talent. Payback got talked into downing a suspiciously spicy cocktail and then sprinting across the patio, coughing and laughing.

Hangman—ever the instigator—pulled out the “wheel of misfortune,” a homemade spinner with dares like “Karaoke solo,” “Dance with a stranger,” and “Swap shoes with someone.” Every spin ended in uncontrollable laughter and some very questionable decisions.

Meanwhile, you caught Bob’s eye across the room. His grin was easy, his gaze warm as he leaned into the chaos but never lost sight of you. At one point, he raised his glass and gave a mock toast, making you laugh harder than you expected.

The night blurred into a montage of flashing lights, bad dance moves, and endless teasing. Someone ended up with a giant inflatable flamingo, another with a ridiculous hat that wouldn’t stay on. You and Bob found yourselves side by side more than once, sharing quiet smirks amid the madness.

At one point, Phoenix pulled you aside, breathless and laughing. “You’re killing it tonight. Thanks for being my rock.”

You shrugged, heart full. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As the night rolled on, the squad’s banter grew louder and the dares wilder. Somewhere between the third and fourth bar, the slow burn between you and Bob shifted — a shared glance lingered a little too long, a touch brushed fingers just a beat too slowly.

This night wasn’t just about the party anymore.

-

The first thing you felt was heat.

The second was a very heavy arm thrown across your waist.

The third was a knee digging into your calf that definitely wasn’t yours — or Bob’s.

You cracked open one eye and immediately regretted it. The sunlight streaming through the hotel curtains felt like someone had flashbanged your entire skull. Your mouth was dry. Your dress was still halfway on. And someone was snoring into your shoulder.

You turned your head.

It was Phoenix.

You blinked.

Then glanced down and saw another arm, this one covered in fake tattoos, looped over her hip and across you.

“Rooster,” you croaked.

The body behind her stirred. “Mmmph?”

You shot up so fast you nearly gave yourself a concussion. “What the—why are the bride and groom in my bed?!”

Phoenix groaned. “Stop yelling. Why is your voice yelling.”

You looked wildly around the room. “Where’s Bob?!”

A knock sounded on the door, followed by Fanboy’s voice. “Hey. Um. Bob’s in my bed. I don’t know how to handle that information emotionally.”

You collapsed back onto the bed, covering your face with both hands.

“Oh my God. This is not happening. This is not real.”

Rooster groaned and rolled onto his back. “Why does my mouth taste like salsa?”

“You drank straight from the nacho cheese fountain at the club,” Phoenix muttered. “And I think you dared the bartender to slap you.”

Rooster sat up too quickly and swayed. “Did she?”

“She did,” you and Phoenix both said at the same time.

“Okay, we need a roll call,” you said, crawling out of bed in last night’s dress, one shoe on, your makeup hanging on by a thread. “Where’s everyone?”

Coyote wandered past the open door, wearing a towel toga and carrying a mop like a battle staff.

“Payback threw up in a ficus,” he said solemnly. “Hangman’s asleep in the hallway wearing a bachelorette sash. I think he thinks he’s engaged to Leo.”

You blinked. “Phoenix’s brother Leo?”

“He gave a toast,” Coyote said. “To their fake wedding. I cried.”

You closed the door.

Rooster flopped back down. “My head is trying to kill me from the inside.”

You were halfway through pulling on a robe when it hit you. Like a lightning bolt. Like divine punishment for your sins.

“Oh no.”

Phoenix blinked at you, mascara smudged. “What?”

You turned slowly. “The rehearsal dinner. Tonight.”

Phoenix stared at you. “No, no, that’s tomorrow—”

You whipped your phone off the nightstand, checked the screen… and showed her the date.

Phoenix screamed.

Rooster sat up straight. “What?!”

There was a loud THUNK from the hallway. Hangman, you assumed.

Another voice: Bob, somewhere behind the door, voice still sleepy and horrified. “…Is that real? Like, is that actually happening tonight?”

You threw open the door. Fanboy stood there in pineapple boxers and a hoodie, holding two giant bottles of Gatorade and an economy-sized bottle of Advil.

“Good morning, bestie,” he said. “Do you wanna talk about how you sang ‘Before He Cheats’ on the bar with Phoenix while Rooster played air guitar using a flip-flop?”

Rooster stuck his head out from the bed. “Did I shred though?”

Bob appeared behind Fanboy, wearing someone else’s sweatpants and holding his glasses in one hand like they’d personally offended him. “I just woke up in a bed full of glitter, next to a karaoke mic, and I’m still not the most confused person here, am I?”

You groaned. “We have four hours to be camera-ready, put on formalwear, and convince your families that we’re functioning adults.”

“Phoenix,” Bob said, trying and failing to look calm, “your mom called me at six a.m. asking if the restaurant should bring out the champagne tower early.”

Phoenix screamed again.

Fanboy shoved the Advil in your hand. “This is what happens when you plan a joint party. The chaos doubles.”

You downed the pills dry, no shame. “Okay. I need all of you to find your actual clothes. I need to know who lost their shoes, who ended up in the koi pond, and who took a selfie with the Elvis impersonator in the elevator.”

Coyote popped in again. “That was Rooster.”

“Hell yeah it was,” Rooster called.

Bob moved past everyone and wrapped an arm around you. “We’re going to be okay. We’ve survived worse.”

“Name one thing worse than waking up in a bed with the bride and groom the morning of the rehearsal dinner,” you said into his shoulder.

Bob thought for a moment. “That time Payback locked himself in a porta-potty on base and yelled for an hour.”

“…Yeah, okay, fair.”

Phoenix pulled herself up off the bed with the strength of a thousand brides. “Alright, degenerates. I need an IV, a coffee the size of my head, and someone to call my mother and tell her I’ve lost my dignity but not my ability to show up in heels tonight.”

You saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”

Fanboy turned to the rest of the group. “Operation Rehearsal Recovery is go.”

Hangman moaned from the floor down the hall. “Tell Leo I want a divorce.”

-

You didn’t plan to do a group glam session in your hotel suite.

But between Hangman’s emergency hair situation, Phoenix’s dramatic meltdown over a smudged lash line, and Rooster insisting on a hair mask like he was going to the damn Oscars, your room had somehow turned into a full-on pre-rehearsal war zone.

Your phone buzzed violently on the bed — three missed calls from the coordinator, two from Phoenix’s mom, and one text from your own mother that just said:

Remember you’re supposed to look like someone people want to give a toast, not arrest.

Meanwhile, chaos reigned.

“Do not let him touch the flat iron,” you barked, pointing at Hangman, who was holding it upside down like a medieval weapon.

“But I saw a tutorial!” he yelled over the sound of three different hair dryers and the faint thump of Lizzo playing off someone’s speaker.

Rooster was in front of the mirror shirtless, wearing under-eye patches and sipping a green juice like a Real Housewife. “Where’s my roller? Someone took my face roller.”

“It’s on the goddamn balcony,” Coyote shouted from the bathroom, where he was trying to figure out bronzer for the first time in his life.

“Why?” you cried.

“He said he needed to ‘cool it down with the ocean air.’”

You turned and nearly collided with Bob — sweet, calm Bob, holding two coffees and a travel-sized bag of your emergency bobby pins like he was on a humanitarian mission.

You kissed him on the cheek as you grabbed the bobby pins. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“You said that to Fanboy five minutes ago.”

“He brought concealer and didn’t ask questions.”

Bob laughed softly and handed you your coffee. “Do I need to wrestle anyone into pants yet?”

“Give it ten minutes.”

You turned back to Phoenix, who was now sitting in front of the vanity, scowling at her reflection while a poor hairstylist tried to get her curls to hold.

“I look like a humidified flamingo,” she muttered.

“You look like a bride with main character energy,” you said, handing her a chilled water bottle and dabbing under her eyes with a clean beauty blender.

“Why are you always good at this?” she asked, even as you pinned back a strand of hair and fanned her with a napkin.

“Because if I wasn’t, you’d have murdered all of us by now.”

Across the room, Hangman screamed, “OH MY GOD MY LEFT BROW IS BIGGER THAN MY RIGHT BROW—”

“Good,” Coyote said. “It matches your ego.”

Fanboy, sitting cross-legged on the bed, was speed-reading the rehearsal schedule like it was the script to a dramatic telenovela. “We’ve got speeches, two songs, champagne pop during golden hour, the dance floor opens after the seafood risotto, and I think Phoenix’s aunt’s therapy dog is walking them into the garden.”

“She said he’s wearing a bow tie,” Phoenix mumbled, eyes closed as her hair got curled.

Bob reappeared behind you and slid his arm around your waist, voice low in your ear. “Are you okay? You’ve been juggling flaming torches since 8 a.m.”

You leaned into him. “I’m fine. Just need like… two Advil and one solid hour of not being within a ten-foot radius of Jake Seresin’s highlighter.”

“I heard that!” Hangman shouted.

“I meant for you to!”

You finally turned toward the mirror. For the first time all day, someone — blessedly — handed you a chair, a brush, and said, “Your turn.”

Your hair was halfway done when Phoenix reached out and held your hand.

“I know we’re a disaster right now,” she said. “But I’m really glad you’re here. You’ve been making all the chaos feel… kind of like magic.”

You gave her a soft smile, squeezing her fingers. “You’re marrying the love of your life, Nat. This is supposed to feel like a fever dream.”

“Mission accomplished,” she muttered, but her eyes were glassy. She meant it.

Bob leaned down and whispered into your other ear, “You’re the reason this whole machine is running.”

You turned your head and kissed his cheek again. “Don’t make me cry right before eyeliner.”

By the time everyone was mostly in their outfits — and you’d confiscated Rooster’s third glass of champagne pre-dinner — the squad stood lined up in front of the mirror like the most dysfunctional wedding Vogue spread in history.

Phoenix looked like a goddess in silk. Rooster was perfectly disheveled in an open-collar shirt and tan suit. Coyote actually pulled off a patterned vest. Hangman and Payback argued over pocket squares. Fanboy wore a bolo tie for reasons no one questioned. Bob adjusted your earrings for you with hands so gentle it made your pulse skip.

You caught your reflection for one second — and you looked good.

Not because of the makeup. Or the dress. Or the very expensive hairspray.

But because of the people around you. Loud, chaotic, beautiful idiots — all together.

Phoenix lifted her champagne glass and looked at you.

“To the Maid of Honor,” she said. “You didn’t kill any of us today. That’s real love.”

The squad raised their glasses with wild whoops.

You clinked your glass to hers.

“Let’s go make it through one more night,” you said, “and then we get her married.”

-

The dinner had officially started twenty minutes ago.

Unofficially? No one had even touched their food yet — not since Rooster and Phoenix walked in hand-in-hand and everyone exploded into hoots, whistles, and a standing ovation like it was the freakin’ Oscars.

You weren’t sure if it was the sunset or the champagne, but your eyes stung from the second they made it to the head table.They looked like they’d stepped out of a Vogue travel spread. Or off the cover of a rom-com DVD. Or both.

Even Bob leaned over to whisper, “Jesus. They’re hot.”

You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, yeah. We know. Try not to cry again.”

But he didn’t answer. He was still watching them. Like he couldn’t believe they were real.

-

The dinner was simple — local food, citrus-scented candles, the kind of music that sounded like summer — and every person at every table was smiling like idiots.

At one table, Rooster’s mom and dad were going through a photo album Phoenix’s mom had made, laughing so hard they had to set down their forks.

At another, Hangman was actively trying to smuggle a second dessert from a different table while Payback kept loudly calling attention to him — “Security! We got a blond bandit in aisle three!”

You sat next to Phoenix’s brother Leo, who was chatting with Bob and Coyote about which Dagger wedding was going to be next.

Coyote said, “My money’s on Sweetie and Floyd.”

Bob choked on his water.

You said, “Absolutely not, I’m already married to chaos.”

Leo grinned. “Kinda sexy, though.”

Bob blinked. “The chaos?”

“No, her.”

“Okay, moving on,” Bob muttered.

-

The first person to stand up was Fanboy.

He didn’t even grab his glass. He just stood, raised his arms, and said, “Okay, listen up, everyone. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I saw them nearly kill each other during dogfight drills in Fallon.”

Phoenix groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare.”

The crowd cheered. Rooster reached for her hand under the table.

“They were insufferable. You couldn’t put them in the same briefing room without someone getting hit with a file folder. And then one day — bam! — we’re all drinking at the Hard Deck, and she’s yelling at him about hogging the jukebox, and he just grabs her face and kisses her like a movie villain with a redemption arc, and everyone lost their minds.”

The entire crowd roared. Phoenix covered her face.

“I’m talking bets being exchanged! I won seventy bucks that night!”

You screamed, “I knew you made money off that!”

“Damn right I did. And I’d do it again!”

More laughter. Glasses clinked.

“But real talk?” Fanboy lowered his voice a little, getting that uncharacteristically soft edge he pulled out maybe twice a year. “I’ve never seen two people fight harder for each other. And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Fighting. Choosing. Over and over again.”

Phoenix wiped a tear. Rooster kissed the back of her hand.

“Anyway,” Fanboy added, “Rooster, please stop telling her to ‘calm down.’ You will die.”

-

Next was Phoenix’s dad — short, simple, heartfelt.

Then Hangman stood.

“Oh, god,” Phoenix whispered. “Someone take the mic.”

But it was too late. Jake stood tall, lifted his glass, and cleared his throat with full best-man-at-a-wedding swagger.

“I hated Bradshaw when I met him,” he said. “Like. Immediately.”

Cackles. Rooster rolled his eyes.

“But then we flew together. And drank together. And fought a little. And drank some more. And somewhere along the line, I realized, oh — this guy? He’s not just loyal. He’s not just smart. He’s the kind of guy who flies into literal enemy territory for his friends.”

The table quieted.

“And Nat? She’s been my wingman since before I knew how to fly straight. The way she fights, the way she loves — it’s all the same. She gives everything. So the fact that she gave you her everything?” He looked directly at Rooster. “Means you better take care of it.”

Rooster stood up and hugged him. Hard. Jake didn’t even joke about it.

-

After dinner, before dessert, Phoenix dragged you away to the balcony. The string lights above glowed warm against her skin. Below, everyone was milling around, starting on dessert, still laughing.

She leaned on the railing, still holding a cocktail, shoulders finally relaxing.

You passed her a breath mint. “You okay?”

She glanced at you and smiled.

“You know what’s weird?” she said. “I was never that girl who dreamed about her wedding.”

“Yeah, you were more like the girl who planned tactical raids in middle school.”

“Exactly.” She nudged you with her hip. “But this? This feels like everything I didn’t know I needed.”

You rested your head on her shoulder. “I’m really proud of you.”

She blinked, eyes glassy.

Then — “You’re not allowed to cry. If you cry, I’ll cry, and then I’ll look puffy in the photos.”

“I already am puffy,” you sniffled. “You think I want to be on the wall in your house all squinty?”

She laughed, leaned into you. “I love you.”

“I love you too, bridezilla.”

-

Meanwhile, Bob was cornered by Rooster inside.

They stood by the drink station, quiet for a second as the chaos buzzed around them.

“She’s really doing it,” Bob said.

Rooster looked toward the balcony. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Rooster smiled slowly. “I think I’ve been okay since the second she said yes.”

Bob clinked his drink against Rooster’s. “Don’t screw it up.”

“I’d die first.”

-

As the night rolled on, people slipped off to bed one by one. Parents. Grandparents. That one drunk cousin who got lost trying to find the bathroom.

You and Bob slow danced to the last of the music while Hangman tried to juggle empty beer bottles and Payback live-commentated from a lounge chair.

Phoenix and Rooster were wrapped around each other under the lights, whispering, her heels dangling from her fingers.

“You ready for tomorrow?” she asked.

He kissed her shoulder. “I’ve been ready since the day I met you.”

“Liar. You were so awkward back then.”

“I was enchanted by your rage.”

“Dork.”

-

08:00 A.M.

Bridal Suite -

The morning sun filtered through the sheer linen curtains of the bridal suite, turning everything soft and golden. It should have felt peaceful. Serene. Maybe even sacred.

It felt like a battlefield.

“WHERE IS THE OTHER EYELASH?”

Phoenix stood in the center of the suite, hair in a half-curled frenzy, robe half falling off her shoulder, and a look in her eyes that could down a grown man.

You held up the tiny black strip of lashes like it was a grenade pin. “I have it! It fell in the sink. I saved it. Crisis averted.”

“I love you,” Phoenix whispered, grabbing it like she was retrieving a weapon, before disappearing back into the chaos of the glam team.

Her sister, already in a sleek silk robe and sipping coffee like it wasn’t DEFCON 1 in this suite, raised an eyebrow. “She’s handling this better than I expected.”

“Really?” you deadpanned, walking by with a handheld steamer and a mouthful of safety pins. “Because she just tried to put on deodorant with setting spray.”

The glam squad was working like a pit crew in a race. One was curling Phoenix’s hair while another airbrushed foundation over her freckles. The makeup artist had wireless earbuds in and an alarming focus in her eyes. “Nobody sneeze near the lashes or I swear to God I will cry.”

Outside on the balcony, the bridesmaids had started taking turns doing TikToks in their robes. There were champagne flutes with tiny gold names on them, croissants on every available surface, and A Star is Born playing softly in the background.

You paused in the middle of it all, watching your best friend — flushed, giddy, overwhelmed — beam at herself in the mirror.

“Nix,” you said softly, touching her arm. “You’re getting married today.”

Her eyes snapped to yours, wide. “Holy shit. I am.”

Then, for the first time that morning, Phoenix smiled in that way that wasn’t about panic or logistics — but love. That soft, secret kind of love that turned her entire face into something glowing.

You grabbed your phone and texted the groom suite group chat:

SHE’S SMILING LIKE A PSYCHOPATH. ETA TILL CRYING?

Immediately, Hangman replied:

Countdown: 2 hours. Bring tissues and tequila.

-

08:45 A.M.

Groom’s Villa -

If the bridal suite was a battlefield, the groom’s villa was a frat house after a hurricane.

Bob sat on the arm of the couch, tying his shoelaces in a corner that wasn’t covered in discarded tuxedo packaging, beer cans, or a suspicious pile of socks.

Hangman walked out of the bathroom shirtless and holding a razor like a sword. “I am not shaving this glorious jawline unless someone makes me.”

Rooster, in full groom mode — tux hanging from the closet door, hair slightly too perfect — looked like he was five seconds away from blacking out. “Jake, I swear to God—”

“I think I left my dress socks in Payback’s room,” Fanboy said, hopping on one foot while putting on the wrong shoe. “Or the pool. Maybe both.”

Coyote appeared, drinking hotel coffee straight from the pot. “It’s cool. We have backups. Right, Bob?”

Bob looked up from his pocket square, blinked, and said very calmly, “I am two seconds from losing my mind. So unless your socks are currently on fire, figure it out yourselves.”

The room froze.

Then Payback whispered to Fanboy, “He’s cracked. Bob has cracked.”

Rooster sank onto the edge of the bed, head in hands. “I just want to marry my fiancée without anyone bleeding, crying, or being shirtless in my wedding photos.”

“I’m not shirtless in the photos,” Hangman argued. “Yet.”

Everyone ignored him.

Bob stood and adjusted his shirt cuffs, walking into the other room and reaching for his suit jacket. He didn’t say it, but he was nervous — not about the wedding, but about seeing you. Not the tequila-fueled, salt-in-your-hair you from last night. But you-you. The you that would be in that bridesmaid dress. All glammed up. Walking down the aisle with him.

He didn’t have the words for what that would do to him.

He just hoped his tie didn’t choke him mid-walk.

-

09:30 A.M.

Back in the Bridal Suite -

Phoenix was officially transformed.

Her dress — modern lace and clean lines, with a structured neckline and a slit high enough to make Rooster sweat — fit her like a dream. Her hair was pinned back with tiny gold combs, makeup soft but showstopping. You stared at her, stunned, almost forgetting to breathe.

“You look… perfect,” you whispered.

She blinked at you, and then her eyes filled so fast you barely had time to catch her mascara.

“Nope!” yelled one of her bridesmaids, waving a fan aggressively. “Don’t ruin the liner! Suck it back in!”

But it was too late.

Phoenix wrapped her arms around you, clinging tight. “Thank you for everything. I love you so much.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “You’re my best friend. Of course.”

And then, like a movie cue, your phone buzzed again — a picture from Hangman of Rooster in his tux, captioned:

“He looks like James Bond if Bond surfed. Get ready.”

You showed Phoenix, and she burst into tears again.

-

10:30 A.M.

Groom’s Villa-

Bradley stood in front of the mirror, fidgeting with his tie. It was done. Everything was ready. All that was left… was to see her.

“Hey,” Bob said from the doorway. “You good?”

Rooster turned, slow grin spreading across his face. “Never better.”

Coyote stepped into the room, looking dapper as hell. “Time to head out. You ready, Best Man?”

Bob nodded, but his thoughts were somewhere else — like a certain someone in a slate-blue dress he hadn’t seen yet. The butterflies in his chest were staging a full-on air show.

-

The bridal party gathered, the groomsmen in line, the bridesmaids taking deep breaths.

You turned, and there was Bob.

Your arm hooked through his instinctively. He looked down at you, wide-eyed. “Wow.”

You smiled nervously. “You look sharp, Floyd.”

“And you…” He swallowed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Don’t die,” you whispered. “We still have to walk down that aisle.”

“Right.” He offered his arm.

And together — hearts in your throats, nerves high, the squad in front of you — you stepped forward.

-

The Maui sun was soft but warm, casting golden light over the narrow white aisle that cut through the beachside setup. The scent of saltwater mixed with tropical blossoms filled the air, and the gentle rhythm of waves provided a natural soundtrack.

Guests murmured softly, turning their attention toward the path where the bridal party would soon appear.

First out came Coyote and Phoenix’s sister. Coyote’s usual stoic expression softened just a fraction as he adjusted his tie and offered a small, encouraging smile to his partner. Phoenix’s sister, wearing a flowing blush dress, took a careful step over the uneven sand, her eyes flickering nervously to the guests as she steadied herself with a breath. Their steps matched, measured and steady, side by side, arms loosely brushing as they made their way toward the altar.

Behind them, Hangman strode forward with his trademark confident swagger, his white dress shirt crisp beneath his jacket, though his tie was slightly loosened like he’d already settled into the evening’s rhythm. His bridesmaid, the first of Phoenix’s three friends, walked with him—smiling, but clearly trying not to laugh at his low-key antics. Hangman gave a subtle wink to a nearby guest and threw an easy finger gun in their direction, eliciting a quiet chuckle from his bridesmaid, who shook her head but kept pace, the light teasing moment grounding the tension.

Next were Payback and the second bridesmaid friend. Payback’s focus was half on walking, half on adjusting his cufflinks, which he fiddled with as though they held the key to the universe. His partner walked with calm poise, a practiced smile resting on her lips. She whispered something in his ear—a joke or a gentle reminder—and the tension in his jaw eased as he returned a rare, genuine grin.

Bringing up the rear of the pairs were Fanboy and the third bridesmaid. Fanboy clutched his beloved Captain Rex helmet a little too tightly, his wide eyes scanning the seated guests like they might spontaneously erupt in applause—or worse, questions about his prop. His bridesmaid gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, offering a soft smile that seemed to say, You got this. Together, they moved slowly down the aisle, a little awkward but full of good-hearted determination.

Then came the moment you’d both been waiting for.

You and Bob stepped onto the aisle, side by side.

Bob’s suit fit like a glove — navy blue, sharp lines, every button in place. His hair was slightly tousled from the morning’s chaos, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a quiet mixture of nerves and something more unspoken. His eyes met yours, a subtle spark passing between you that neither dared to name out loud.

Your dress swayed with each step — a shade of muted slate blue, simple but elegant, the fabric soft and flowing, catching the breeze just enough to feel like the ocean itself was part of your outfit. You matched his pace, feeling the steady pressure of his arm against yours, the rhythm syncing as you walked toward the altar.

Behind you, the crowd’s low murmurs softened as all eyes fell on the next tiny figure appearing at the far end of the aisle.

The flower girl.

She came bounding forward like a whirlwind — cheeks flushed, curls bouncing, a basket of petals held precariously in one hand. With reckless joy, she tossed handfuls of petals into the air, scattering pink and white across the sand in an unpredictable shower. Some petals found their way into the laps of surprised guests, who chuckled at the chaotic innocence of it all.

Finally, the music shifted.

A hush fell.

Phoenix appeared, radiant in a gown that seemed spun from the sun itself, walking arm in arm with her father. Her steps were measured but graceful, the slight nervousness in her breath softened by the quiet strength in her father’s steady hold.

The guests sat in reverent silence, watching as she floated down the aisle.

Rooster’s hands curled into fists at his side, his jaw tight, eyes fixed solely on her.

When Phoenix reached the altar, she turned to face him, their smiles bright and shaky, filled with the weight of every moment that had led here.

You and Bob took your places on either side, shoulders squared but hearts pounding.

The officiant cleared his throat gently, his voice calm.

“Let us begin.”

-

The officiant’s voice softened as he spoke, the words carrying weight across the warm Maui air.

“Phoenix, please share your vows.”

She took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around Rooster’s hands. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her voice was steady.

“I never believed in forever — not really. I thought love was just a word we used to make the hard parts easier.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, and for a moment, the crowd melted away.

“But you changed that. You showed me what forever really means. You’re my anchor in the storm, my calm in the chaos, my best friend.”

She swallowed hard, a tear trailing down her cheek.

“I promise to stand by you, to laugh with you, to fight with you when we need to — and to never stop choosing you, every day.”

A soft gasp rippled through the crowd, her words sinking in like sunlight.

Then Rooster stepped forward.

His voice was low, rough with emotion but clear.

“Phoenix, from the moment you stole my mission notes and my heart, I knew I was in trouble.”

The crowd chuckled, tension breaking just enough.

“You make me better. You make me brave. You make me want to be the man you see when you look at me.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle.

“I vow to protect you, to cherish you, to be your partner in every way — through the calm and the chaos.”

His eyes searched hers, full of promise and love.

You and Bob watched quietly from the side.

Bob’s jaw was clenched, eyes darkening with something almost like awe. You caught him stealing a glance at you, his expression unreadable but undeniably intense.

Your hand twitched, almost reaching out — but instead, you squeezed your own fingers into a fist at your side.

The officiant smiled softly.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers.

Rooster pulled Phoenix into a kiss — slow, full of every word left unsaid.

Tears pricked your eyes as you watched the love between them bloom like the island flowers around you.

Bob let out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

The moment was perfect — raw and messy and beautiful.

And as the music rose again, signaling the start of the celebration, you knew this was only the beginning.

-

The sun had fully slipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky painted in shades of deep purple and burnt orange that slowly faded into night. String lights, delicate and warm, were draped overhead in generous swags, casting a soft glow over the open pavilion where the reception was underway. The ocean breeze carried a gentle saltiness and the faint scent of tropical flowers, weaving through the laughter and chatter that bubbled up from the gathered crowd. The air was warm but not heavy, as if the island itself was breathing life into the celebration.

Tables were draped in crisp white linens, decorated with lush arrangements of hibiscus, orchids, and plumeria, their colors vivid even in the fading light. Candles flickered in small glass holders, sending dancing shadows over the polished wood floor. Somewhere just out of sight, the scent of roasted pig mingled with grilled pineapple, promising an indulgent feast to come. The hum of a Hawaiian slack-key guitar floated gently from the bandstand, setting a relaxed, almost dreamlike rhythm for the evening.

The Dagger Squad was, as always, the beating heart of the room’s energy. They weren’t just guests—they were the wildfire of controlled chaos in an otherwise pristine wedding setup. Coyote was near the buffet, carefully balancing a plate overloaded with food, his usually deadpan expression softened by a reluctant grin as he navigated the sea of guests and plates. Hangman was nearby, animatedly defending Hawaiian pizza as the only acceptable wedding food, his exaggerated hand gestures knocking a napkin into a guest’s lap. The guest’s amused chuckle only fueled Hangman’s ridiculous arguments, while the bridesmaid beside him shook her head, smiling indulgently.

Fanboy was pacing near the DJ booth, eyes darting nervously between the crowd and the dance floor. His grip on a second Mai Tai tightened and loosened in rhythm with his internal debate over whether to risk embarrassing himself with a dance move or retreat to the safety of the poker table Payback had already claimed. Payback himself was holding court at the tiki bar, expertly dodging drink requests while managing a running commentary on the best strategies for keeping the party alive without spiraling into chaos.

Rooster hovered near the pavilion’s entrance, cracking his usual lame jokes about limbo competitions and making Phoenix roll her eyes with affectionate exasperation. She laughed despite herself, the easy teasing between them a quiet testament to the depth of their bond. Her hand found his, their fingers intertwining briefly before she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, grounding them both in the swirl of wedding day excitement.

You moved through the crowd like a thread weaving through the fabric of the celebration. Your dress whispered softly with each step, the slate blue fabric catching the light and the occasional island breeze. Your fingers nervously traced the edge of your clutch as your mind replayed the months of planning—the endless calls, the last-minute crises, the quiet moments spent hoping everything would come together just right. You felt the weight of it all, but beneath that weight was a steady flame of pride. This was your squad. Your family. And today, you were Maid of Honor.

From across the pavilion, Bob caught your eye. He was leaning casually against a wooden post, a glass of sparkling water in hand. His hair was still tousled from the day’s chaos, and the faintest crease of exhaustion marked his brow. But his eyes held something softer—a quiet awe, maybe, or just relief that the day was unfolding as it should. His lips curled into a small, inviting smile, and without hesitation, you made your way to him.

When the MC’s voice rang out, calling for attention, the murmurs died down into a respectful hush. Bob stepped forward, the weight of the Best Man’s role settling onto his broad shoulders. Clearing his throat, he started with a dry joke about how he had always assumed he’d be the last guy to make it up here without tripping over his own feet. Laughter rippled through the crowd, breaking any lingering tension.

But then his tone shifted. The cocky veneer melted away, replaced by something raw and genuine. He spoke of how lucky he felt to be part of this moment, to stand beside two people who embodied what it meant to fight for each other every day. His gaze flickered to Phoenix and Rooster—soft, full of respect and affection. Then, just briefly, it landed on you. The smile he gave was small but sincere, and your throat tightened in response.

He finished with a toast—to laughter, love, and chaos—words that felt like a promise not just to the couple, but to everyone gathered. Glasses raised, the applause rolled in, warm and heartfelt, and you blinked back a sudden prick of tears.

Later, you found yourself on the terrace, the ocean stretching endlessly beneath the moonlit sky. The night was cooler here, the scent of salt and jasmine mingling in the air. Bob joined you silently, and the quiet felt like a balm after the chaotic joy of the reception.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said softly, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You smiled, cheeks warm with the memory of the day. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He looked at you then, eyes searching, the unspoken hanging heavy between you.

“We make a hell of a team,” he said.

You nodded, heart hammering louder than you expected. “Yeah. We do.”

-

The music shifted, soft and slow, wrapping the entire pavilion in a bubble of intimacy that felt almost unreal after the chaos of the day. The Hawaiian slack-key guitar softened into a gentle melody, and the warm string lights above flickered as a breeze stirred the night air. You barely noticed any of it, because Bob’s hand found yours, steady and familiar, pulling you effortlessly onto the dance floor.

Your heart hitched at the contact, an unexpected jolt that set your nerves ablaze. You moved closer, his palm warm against your back as you settled into the rhythm, the rest of the world fading into a soft blur. His other hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining like they’d done this a thousand times before — even though this felt like the very first.

Neither of you said anything at first. Words seemed too loud, too clumsy. Instead, you let the music do the talking, the subtle brush of his breath against your cheek, the steady beat of his heartbeat echoing through the space between you. You caught his eyes, the usual teasing spark replaced by something raw and searching — like he was silently asking permission, silently confessing everything he’d held inside.

The moment stretched, slow and charged, the kind of silence that hums with unsaid things. You tilted your head slightly, your breath catching as Bob’s gaze softened and his thumb brushed a light, featherlike stroke across your knuckles. The warmth radiating from him was a lifeline in the middle of a sea of emotions.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in — just a little. His lips brushed yours so gently you thought you might be imagining it. Your breath caught, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music. You tipped your face up, closing the distance with a shy, trembling urgency that surprised even you. The kiss deepened slowly, careful and tentative at first, like learning a secret language. His hand cradled your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone as your fingers curled into his shirt.

The world didn’t explode — it rippled.

Until it did.

Suddenly, the soft murmur of guests erupted into whoops and whistles. The Dagger Squad, having spotted the moment from their corner, launched into an all-out cheer. Payback’s loud “About damn time!” cut through the night air. Hangman howled in delight, nearly knocking over a table as he jumped up. Coyote raised his glass, a rare genuine smile breaking through his usual deadpan. Fanboy was nearly bouncing in place, shouting your names like a sports commentator.

Bob pulled back slightly, breathless, and you laughed softly — a mixture of disbelief, relief, and happiness flooding through you. You glanced around at the squad, who were practically vibrating with excitement and approval, and felt a warmth spread from your chest that had nothing to do with the tropical heat.

Bob squeezed your hand gently. “Looks like we just gave them a show.”

You smiled up at him, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I think they’re okay with it.”

And in that moment, beneath the twinkling lights and the vast Maui sky, something new and beautiful took root — slow and steady, exactly how it was supposed to be.

taglist: @yagurlannastasia , @funkyfable , @msfirth , @eclipse134 and sorry to anyone else that wanted to e tagged but didn’t i posted this in a rush

[lives-in-midgard]

On a date with Bob Floyd

A/N: This is my first Top Gun Moodboard. I hope you like it!

Moodboard Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[buckysdingus]

say don’t go - taylor swift

bob floyd x reader

you got drunk quick. when you were in a safe environment where you could let loose- you let loose hard. one drink after the other. doing shots with jake and roo at every turn, phoenix telling you to slow down and making you drink water.

bob sits in the corner usually, watching you, watching over you.

to say your relationship with bob was complicated would be an understatement. sometimes he was cold and distant with you while other times he didn’t hesitate to reach out for you, his arms wrapping around you, squeezing you tight. his lips brushing your cheek.

quite frankly you were tired of the back and forth.

you weren’t sure if he just liked dragging you on and twisting the knife or if he really did like you and was just too scared to do or say anything.

tonight he was in the corner of the couch in your shared apartment with phoenix. you feel bold, you go over to him, laying on the couch, head in his lap.

he welcomes it, taking a few strands of your hair and twisting it between his fingers. he takes a bag of chips and lays it ok your stomach, encouraging you to eat and sober up a tad.

you welcome the food quickly. the food soaking up some of the alcohol in your system, helping you see and think clearer.

everyone settles down and are scattered around the living room. some on the floor, starring at the ceiling and some asleep on other furniture.

you tilt your head up, looking at bob, “do you like me bob?”

he takes a swig of his beer, nodding, “yeah,” he drops your hair.

light a match only for him to blow it out.

you sit up, “why’d you stop playing with my hair?”

he shrugs, avoiding your eyes. you place a hand on his face and gently pulling it towards you. his eyes finally finding yours for a moment, before they drop to your lips then back to your eyes.

“bob…” you both lean in, your breath colliding with his.

he blinks, pulling away and standing up. going away from you.

you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. you stand and follow him to the hallway. you open your bedroom door and pull him in, closing it.

“you have to stop this,”

“what did i do?” he asks, forcing his brows to furrow.

“you’re killing me bob,” his face falls, “i knew from the start we were a shot in the dark. i didn’t know if we could make anything work and you make it seem like we can’t… sometimes and other times you make it seem like we could conquer the world together. i develop this sadness that melts into madness as i obsess over the small things you do,”

“what do i do?” he challenges.

“letting me lay on your lap and play with my hair. covering corners so i don’t hurt myself. bringing me lunch everyday. zipping up my suit without asking you. tightening my helmet every time we go out like it’s our routine. every time i think we share something you pull back. why?”

you were starting to feel crazy.

he made you crazy.

“i keep thinking if i hold my breath a little longer you’ll cut the bullshit. you’ll get on the tightrope with me and guide me home. every time to try to close this door your foot is between it and the frame. you won’t let me shut it- shut you out. and i think you want this too. you make me believe you want it too bob. but then you walk away. you walk away from me.”

he stays silent watching you.

you trina way from him collecting your thoughts, “you kissed me once, do you remember it? the next day you blamed it on the alcohol but i know you had two beers. i didn’t have any,” you turn back to him, “you stopped time for me. it felt like time actually stopped when you kissed me bob. you won’t show me what your next move is, every time i think i know- you hide again.”

he says your name softly, reaching out but you pull back.

“you whisper to me in the dark. whispers no one else hears, only me. then you just leave. you leave me, screaming in the silence, in the darkness, in the emptiness. say don’t go. say it and i’ll stay forever.”

he stares back at you. his poor mind not knowing what to do. how does he admit you’re all he thinks about? how does he admit he was just scared?

you nearly crumble at his silence, “why’d you have to make me want you? why’d you have to lead me on? why do you have to twist the knife you’ve already plunged into me time and time again.”

his mouth opens only to close again.

bob likes you a lot. maybe even love. but how is supposed to tell you that without you getting scared by his words? he can tell now how you feel.

he knows now how he’s the biggest idiot there ever was. you’re standing in front of him, on the verge of tears, tears he’s causing, all because he can’t talk you how he feels.

you sigh, “i’m yours but you’re not mine,” you laugh at yourself, “i’m standing in my room, telling you i love you and you’re saying nothing back,” you feel pathetic.

the man you just admitted love to is standing inches from you, saying nothing. doing nothing.

you take a step back again, “i’m sorry,” you apologize, “i shouldn’t known this was a bad idea,” you rub your forehead, “i just thought that if i-“

his lips are on yours in matter of seconds. the wetness on his hand from the condensation from his beer is cool against your hot skin. your noses scrunch together, his glasses push against your face. his hand on your jaw and neck, pulling you closer.

your hand fist his shirt, pulling him closer to you. his hands fall down to your waist, arching you into him.

he pulls back.

“don’t go,” he says.

you pull him back in and kiss him again. he lays his forehead against yours.

“i’m sorry i was silent. i know i led you on but i didn’t know what else to do. i was scared and that’s a shitty excuse but it’s the only one i’ve got. i didn’t know how you’d react or how you’d feel or think about it all. we may be a shot in the dark but im a damn good aim,”

something before i go to bed <3 (lmk if you have any requests for floyd i love him 🫶🏻) lewis masterlist

[withahappyrefrain]

Unraveled- Bob Floyd

Summary: Bob Floyd likes to think he can keep it cool. Then along comes a sundress.

Warnings: friends to lovers, smut, so much pining, language,

Bob Floyd didn't like to brag, but he considered himself pretty dang smart and sensible. 

He knew the ins and outs of every jet he has flown. Hell,  he could break it apart and put it back together again within a few hours, if that.  He was able to quickly assess a situation, weigh the pros and cons, and come to a sound decision. It’s why he was the top WSO for the mission in Miramar. 

So why has a piece of fabric thrown him for such a loop? 

All Bob was trying to do was be polite. You had mentioned taking an Uber to the Hard Deck tonight and Bob knew the polite thing to do was to offer a ride. After all, he wasn't going to drink. You would save money. It's what any good friend would do. It had absolutely nothing to do with the crush he had been harboring since your first debriefing. 

He was just trying to be courteous. The gentleman his Mama worked hard in raising. Getting to spend time with you, without the other members of your shared squadron around or loud music, wasn't even near the forefront of his mind when he made the offer. Bob was just trying to be a good friend. A good friend who just wanted to help. A good friend who was forcing himself to look at you through a platonic lens, not a romantic one. 

Bob liked to think he was doing pretty well at that. 

That is, until a dress came along and unraveled him. 

Perhaps you said hello when you opened the door.  You probably did, considering how polite you were. But all Bob could focus on was the way the fabric of your dress hugged your curves. 

And what little fabric there was. He had seen you in civilian clothes before. But never anything like this. His mind absolutely went blank when you hugged him and he could feel how much of your bare skin was exposed. Due to the halter style of the straps, nearly your whole upper back was now perfectly visible.

“Um you-you look um nice,” Bob barely got out. He was too busy trying to burn the feeling of your soft skin into his brain. You were warm, like a walking ray of sunshine. 

“Thanks! I got it yesterday and I figured with the weather being so nice, today was the perfect day to wear it!” you said, giving a little twirl. Bob tried to focus on the pattern of dress; how the green brought out your eyes. 

But all he could focus on was the curves of your body, now being highlighted. The way the halter style made your breasts swell and the lack of a bra very apparent. How the fabric stopped at the top of your thighs when you spun, giving Bob a peek of what he often thought about late at night. 

This was bad. 

“I take it you came early to watch an episode of Love Island before we leave?” You asked as he stumbled walked in.

The truth was, Bob wasn’t a fan of reality TV. But he watched because it gave the two of you a chance to talk to one another. Just as friends, nothing more. When watching the silly show, you two could make jokes, talk about things other than work. 

“Yeah! Ready to watch hot people make poor decisions again,” Bob said with a nervous laugh. The joke failed to put him at ease. If anything, it reminded him that he was about to spend at least forty minutes with you and that did not include the drive to the Hard Deck. 

“You’re using my tagline!” your smile lit up your whole face. Bob was certain it could light up the whole turmac. All he could do was nod, his heart fluttering when you grabbed his hand, leading him into the living room. 

"I have some kettle corn in the microwave for you! I also made cherry seltzer water!" Bob could feel heat rush to his face. You always remembered the little details that no one else seemed to pick up on; that he loved salt but had an even bigger sweet tooth. How in an attempt to cut back on soda, he switched to sparkling water. His favorite flavor was cherry because it reminded him of cherry coke. 

"Did you see the video I sent you?" You gently squeezed Bob's hand as you two sat down. 

"Y-yeah. You're absolutely right, having three otters would be my dream." Ever since learning about Bob's favorite animal, you had sent him every otter-related video you came across while scrolling the internet. You even got him a pair of Otter socks for his birthday.  It was the fact you paid attention to seemingly minor details that made Bob fall head over heels for you. 

But alas, you were a coworker. The problem at hand wasn't whether it was allowed, ‘incest’ (as Jake unfortunately called it) happened all the time in the Navy. After all, there were only so many things you could do on a ship before switching to people. No, it was the potential issues that came with dating. Rejection being the main one. Bob had no trouble believing you and he could be professional should you two date and it not work out. That happened all the time. What worried him was rejection. Having to go to work everyday and put on a facade, that things were fine. When deep down, he knew he'd be heartbroken. And even worse, he'd no longer have your friendship. 

So Bob settled, as he often did when it came to love. He took comfort knowing he'd still have you, albeit as a friend instead of a partner. That should be more than enough. For the last few months, he had convinced himself that it was enough. 

But God was it difficult when you bent over right to grab the remote. 

The hemline of your dress inched upwards, showing off the backs of your upper thighs and- 

he could see the swell of your ass. He could see the flash of red lace. Your skin looked so soft and supple and you were so close he could just reach out and- 

Oh God he was hard. Oh no. 

This was bad. Worse than that time he popped an erection during sex ed in middle school. There, he at least had a jacket and a desk to cover it. 

But here? He was a full grown adult and San Diego’s seventy degree weather didn't give him any additional layers. Bob looked around, desperate for something, anything, to hide his cock that was currently straining against his jeans. 

Thank fuck for your love of decorative pillows. 

He grabbed the closest one, shaped and designed like a pomegranate. You were so excited the day you picked it up from some Facebook Marketplace deal. He had driven you, partly out of wanting to spend time with you, partly because he wanted to ensure you were safe. It was adorable and definitely shouldn’t be used for nefarious purposes, such as hiding a boner. This was wrong, so fucking wrong.   

Bob was trying to think of anything and everything that would kill this boner. But his spot on the couch aligned perfectly with the entranceway of the kitchen, where you currently were, rummaging around to fix Bob a drink. 

What ever happened to doors? Why were people so opposed to doors? Doors were lovely. You could close doors. Every time he tried to think of something, you were right in his line of view, turning every thought into something more devious. 

His family? His family would love you. If you two got married you could make  your own family. 

Work? You worked with him, in that damn flight suit that clung to your every curve. No one else could make that god forsaken green fabric look good.  

School? God, you were so smart. The top of your class. And witty, always ready with a clever, underhanded comeback. It’s how you two originally bonded, both having muttered something about Jake under your breath. 

Bob Floyd was screwed. Thoroughly. 

He tried to comfort himself with the fact that soon you two would be watching people in their early twenties making the dumbest decisions over dating. If anything were to be a boner killer, that had to be it. He just needed to make it through then. 

“Bob?” Your lithe voice broke him out of his thoughts. Not that it was much of a reprieve, with the way you were standing at the kitchen entranceway with a glass of sparkling water in each hand, “You good?”

“Me? Oh yeah, I’m great!” He said with an all too eager nod, desperate to convince you this was truly the case. Fuck, you were so beautiful. And you were showing so much skin. He had seen you on the beach before, adorned in athletic shorts and a sports bra. But this was different. 

The dress was far too nice for the Hard Deck. No, you deserved to be taken to a nice restaurant, one with a lovely outdoor patio. The image of you sitting on a lovely chair with a glass of wine in your hand came easily to Bob. It was also the perfect dress for a picnic, particularly at the nearby park, specifically in that little secluded area. God, the idea of you laying down on a red and white checkered blanket, the hem of your dress pushed up your thighs as he leaned over you, ready to take you-

Bob leaned forward, clutching the pillow as he tried to will himself the strength to get it together. 

“Bob? Are-are you okay?” You quickly placed the drinks down on the coffee table, rushing over to kneel in front of him on the couch. 

Oh what a sight that was, you looking up at him with big eyes, full of concern. Your hands were on his biceps, and Bob knew if he looked down he would have the perfect view of your breasts. 

 It was so hot and also the very last thing Bob fucking needed. 

“I’m good. Stomach doesn’t agree with what we had for lunch, that’s all.” Lying was never good, his mother instilled that in him at an early age. But in this scenario, Bob was certain the truth was much worse. 

“I’ll go get you a ginger ale!” Bob opened his mouth to protest, though no words came out due to seeing not only the tops of your thighs, but a flash of your ass as you spun around to go back into the kitchen. 

For a few seconds, the  supple, plump flesh was so close to him. Practically within arm’s reach. 

Maybe he should just leave while you were in the kitchen. 

But that would be rude. Not only rude, but it would raise your suspicions if they weren’t high already. Plus, he had already promised you a ride to the Hard Deck. He couldn’t just leave you hanging, not after you brought a dress for the occasion. He may be in dire need of a cold shower, but the last thing Bob Floyd was going to do was hurt you. He squeezed the pillow, knuckles turning white as he tried to find strength. For once, he couldn’t wait to start an episode of Love Island. Hell, he would even take an episode of The Bachelor at this point. 

“Here ya go,” You sat down on the couch next to him, glass of ginger ale in hand. You even remembered how much ice he preferred in his cold beverages. You were perfect. 

“Thanks,” Bob slowly took one hand off the pillow, the other still holding onto it for dear life. 

“You uh, like that pillow?” You chuckled, though your nerves still shined through. 

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Bob looked down, ensuring his big problem was still covered, “It uh, helps my stomach!”

You raised an eyebrow, though you didn’t further question it. Instead, much to Bob’s delight, you reached for the remote, clicking through until you finally landed on the desired episode. With a shaking hand, Bob gulped down the ginger ale, promptly placing it on the coffee table so he could have both hands on the pillow. 

The room was silent, saved for the ridiculous conversations happening on the TV screen. Normally you and Bob would be shoulder to shoulder, laughing as you both narrated your opinions on the contestants. But today Bob was rigid, his fingers still clutching to the pillow on his lap. He hadn’t even touched the bowl of popcorn. 

"Do you like my dress?" It took everything in Bob not to groan at your question. The last thing he needed was a reason to look at you. But how could he deny himself such a chance? So he put on his best smile as he turned to face you.    

"Uh yeah it's lovely. I'm sure everyone will love it-" 

"I got it for you.” Your voice was soft as you hit the pause button on your remote, eyes remaining on the screen. 

The words hit Bob like a freight train. 

"What? Why would you-"

You shrugged, fingers toying with the short hem of your dress, "I thought maybe, if you saw me in something different, something that wasn't my flight suit or a tee shirt, that maybe you would finally notice me?” 

You finally looked him in the eyes, “Maybe you'd finally notice that I've been trying to flirt with you for the last few months?" 

Bob opened his mouth just to promptly close it. He thought back to the last few months, now analyzing every seemingly ordinary interaction he had with you. 

The way you insisted on sitting next to each other during lunch. As well as during briefings. And when you went to the Hard Deck. Whenever a guy tried to flirt with you there, you turned them down, focusing your attention back on him, continuing your conversation about his latest D&D campaign or a Lego set you had found that reminded you of him. The way you always touched his arm, your hand lingering on his skin as you bore your eyes into his. How you always texted him. How you baked a cake for his birthday. The little trinkets you’d bring him. 

Oh god, he was a fucking idiot. 

The tension in the room was thick. You, sitting restlessly as you waited for Bob to acknowledge what you had said. Bob, processing your words and what they meant. 

“How long?” Bob asked, his voice soft yet firm.

You chuckled as you shook your head, “Honestly? First day. We hadn’t even spoken yet. I saw you walk in and you just were….not only handsome but also looked so kind? Then you offered me a spare pencil, made that comment about Jake’s driving and I….was a goner.”

“I saw you talking to Halo before the briefing room was open,” He confessed, “She said something that made you laugh and it….it was the prettiest sight I had ever seen.”

“We’ve wasted a lot of time, huh?” You both stared ahead at the TV, still too fearful to face each other. 

Bob dryly chuckled, “Yeah….a lot of time. Months, if we’re being more exact.” 

The two of you remained in silence, your words sinking in. Neither sure what should be said, if anything should be said. Until finally, you spoke up. 

“Bob? What’s underneath the pillow?” 

His hips shifted, involuntary, “What?” For a moment, he forgot about the darn pillow and the erection he was covering with it. 

The cluelessness in his voice brought a giggle, “The pillow? Why are you using it to cover your lap?”

Bob sighed, “Can I at least kiss you first?” 

You nodded, moving to close the gap between you and Bob. Pillow be damned, his hands cupped your jawline, giving you a sweet smile before leaning in, closing the gap between your lips and his. 

Bob Floyd’s lips were soft, no doubt due to the sweet mint chapstick you'd watch him apply countless of times. You didn't want to admit how often you'd wondered about the taste, what his hands would feel like on your body. God, they were huge. His thumbs rested comfortably on your jawline, but you could feel his other fingers spanning your neck, down to your collarbone. 

The first kiss was gentle, practically modest. Your lips were only apart for several seconds, if that, before connecting again. 

You easily found his shoulders, grasping them for purchase. The gap between your bodies was too much, Bob wanted to be as close as possible. So his hands trailed down your body, skimming along until they found the back of your thighs. Using his strength, he moved your body, situating you onto his lap. 

A high pitched gasp fell from your lips upon feeling the bulge that was straining against his jeans. Good god, he was thick. You had heard whispers, chalking it up to typical locker room talk. 

Nope, those rumors were one hundred percent true. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob groaned, hands exploring your soft curves. Worst of all, he sounded earnest, only making you want to touch him more. 

“I-I wore this on purpose ah-after all,” you confessed, finding it difficult to speak as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your exposed chest. 

Right. You wore this on purpose. To entice him. To see if perhaps he felt the same burning desire. Once realization hit him again, Bob’s hands moved along your back, just stopping above your ass. 

Wait, he was about to touch your ass. 

“We-we shouldn’t,” Bob mumbled, retracting his hands from your body. You stilled, a crestfallen look painting your face. 

“We shouldn’t?” Repeating the words felt like driving a knife through your heart. Had regret finally emerged, beating the rush of adrenaline? Was he going to regret this, ask that you two never speak about it ever again, pretend it never happened?

“I…” Bob sighed, “I need to take you on a date first.”

Bless his heart. 

Sighing, you relaxed your body into his, resting your head in the crook of his neck, “You’re too sweet, y’know that?”

Bob chuckled, “That's supposed to be my line.” 

His hands gave your hips a loving squeeze, causing you to nestle further into him, until your bodies were nearly molded as one. Your lips searched for his, trailing up his neck, his jawline, along the side of his button nose until finally reaching his soft lips. Bob shifted in his seat, causing you to do the same. As a result, you could feel his erection, despite the layers of clothes. 

“Good lord Bobby, you've just been walking around with all that?” Bob groaned, but not due to your words. No, it was because you had started moving your hips in circles, his erection now pressed against your covered core. 

“I’m- I’m trying to be a gentleman.” Bob couldn't even look at you. He didn't want to stop. He should stop. Maybe you two could skip the Hard Deck and go out to dinner. Then he could take you home and not feel as guilty. 

“You can be a gentleman later,” by throwing your arms over his shoulder you finally had access to his neck. His skin was so soft, so delicate. How could you not sink your teeth into his neck? 

Normally you'd have better self control than this. But you were ovulating and had six months of sexual frustrations and wet dreams- 

“You had dreams about me?” Uh-oh. That wasn't meant to be said out loud. Granted, maybe it was for the best to get everything out in the open. 

Timidly nodding, you explained, “Yeah. The days I didn't sit next to you were because….I had a dream about ya the night before.” 

A band had snapped within Bob, no doubt due to the numerous times you didn't sit next to him during briefings. 

Within seconds, you found yourself on your back against the couch, the bespectacled WSO hovering over you. There was a fire flickering in his blue eyes as he remained laser focused on your face. 

“After this, you're putting this dress back on and I'm taking ya out to dinner, is that clear?” his voice was gruff and deep, similar to when he did a hundred pushes that one day (that you definitely didn't think about while masturbating). 

Chest heaving, dress pushed up to your upper thighs, lips kiss bitten, God, you looked like an angel to Bob. He remembered learning about angels in church growing up. How pious they were, that seeing them was a sign of comfort, that they would guide one to safety, to a holy life. 

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to you. 

His mouth was hot, searing kisses along your skin. Your back arched into him, desperate for me. But he always seemed to pull away before you could get enough. Would you? Ever get enough of Bob Floyd? 

Finding an answer would have to wait, for now you wanted to relish in the feeling of Bob’s hands kneading your breasts. It was obvious you weren't wearing a bra, a fact Bob ob had spent forty minutes trying not to think about. He still felt a smidge of guilt, as though the newly drawn line between friends and more hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Was he even supposed to be doing this?

“You can keep going. I want you to.” You sensed his hesitation. In all the time you knew Bob, he had never taken someone home for a one night stand. He wasn’t like that. He needed time to build a connection, to feel comfortable enough to be himself. That’s why he loved spending time with you. With you, there was no need to put up a front, no need to be fearful of judgement. 

“And then afterwards, we can order some Thai food and continue watching the episode, if you want. Or we can just do that now,” your hands cradled his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you. He found a sweet, reassuring smile, similar to the one that made him smitten six months ago. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” Bob could be blunt, and often was when it came to his colleague’s shenanigans. But with his own feelings? He always chose his words carefully. 

Hence why his admission took you some time to process. Bob could see it on your face; first your eyes widened, lips slightly parting as if driven by the need to respond immediately. But then your lips closed, your brain quickly gaining back self control. 

“I’m falling in love with you too Robby.” You were the only one who could call him that. It was that familiarity, that intimacy, that gave him the courage to move his hands to your hemline up to your hips, revealing the thin, lacy red fabric underneath. 

You were breathtaking. Always were. But this? This solidified things for Bob. You two had made a step forward in your relationship. Many things would still be the same. But there were now new things to experience. Simply another layer of intimacy had been added.

His long fingers skimmed over the fabric of your panties, every touch sending a spark of electricity along your spine. Every stroke caused a small gasp to fall from your lips, music to Bob’s ears. Lowering himself, Bob decorated your hips with opened mouth kisses. Finally, gaining enough courage, his fingers pushed your panties to the side. 

Fuck, you were wet. 

If there was any hesitation left in Bob, it died upon seeing how visibly aroused you were. He had done that. No one else. Lowering himself even more, he was now at eye level with your wet cunt. This wasn’t some vivid wet dream. 

When his touch licked a broad stripe up your slit, a broken moan fell from your lips, echoing off the walls. It was the prettiest sound Bob had heard. He wanted to hear it again. All the time. 

With more confidence, Bob begins lapping up your arousal, determined to taste every inch of you. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you closer. Looking down, you see his glasses are now crooked, though you highly doubt Bob cares, given how his eyes are half closed in pleasure. 

Wait, was he grinding against the couch? 

The discovery caused your thighs to clamp over Bob’s ears, your hips thrusting upwards to get more of his talented tongue. Bob wasn't reserved around you, never had been. But this was a new side to him that you had wondered if it ever existed. Animalistic. Devouring. Loud. 

His groans vibrate against your core, only heightening the pleasure. Slowly, his right hand goes from your hips to your core, mouth moving to your clit as the long digits trace your opening. 

“Oh my God, please,” you all but beg, not quite ready to admit how often you thought about his fingers and how they would feel inside of you.

Always thinking about your comfort, Bob started off with just one finger. You tried to fuck yourself with it, your own fingers gripping the soft strands of his hair for better leverage. The thought of making you beg crossed Bob’s mind. Would you like that? Would you be open to that? There were so many new topics to discuss, so many new boundaries to explore now. 

You happily welcomed the stretch of two, three fingers. Bob found the little moans you let out to be quite adorable. He could feel his cock throb against his jeans, but pleasing you took priority. 

“C’mon honey. Wanna feel you come on my fingers.” His voice was low, husky even. 

“C-can you be inside me? Like your…your cock?” A broken groan fell from Bob’s lips at the very thought of being inside of you. 

“I don't….I don't think I'll last long,” he admitted sheepishly. Hell, he could probably come just from eating you out. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it sounded pretty good- bringing himself to the height of pleasure just from ravishing you. 

“I don't think I will either,” you giggled, “But we’ll….we have lots of other times to go slow.” 

Bob helped you sit up on the couch. “You wanna go to the bedroom?” He asked, thinking about how this could be more comfortable for you. 

Instead, you shook your head, hands moving to his jeans, hastily undoing the buttons. 

Now it was your turn to explore, to discover. There was a dark trail of hair that went past the waistband of his jeans. He wore boxer briefs. And Bob Floyd had the prettiest cock. 

His face turned bright red at the compliment, “Oh it's…I mean it's like fine, but it's not-” 

“Take the damn compliment Robert,” you all but scolded, eliciting a laugh from him, your favorite. The high pitch, near giggle one. The one that made your heart flutter. 

Feeling at ease, you moved so that you were hovering over Bob’s lap. Your fingers moved to the base of his cock, making you realize you would have to ease yourself into it. 

“I gotcha,” his hands found your hips, slowly easing you down. His sapphire eyes never left your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. He went slow, waiting until you made it vocally known you were ready for more. 

By the time you reached the base of Bob’s cock, you were a mess. You wanted him to move, to fuck you within an inch of your life. But he was also so big. The stretch was nothing you had experienced before. 

“Hey, we can take our time, okay? I know it's, that it's a lot,” he assured you, as though he could sense your internal conflict. His lips found yours, and in that kiss you found comfort. Bob grounded you, always had, whether it was up in the air or right here on your couch. 

How much time had passed, who was to say? You could recall both your phones vibrating a few times, no doubt messages from the rest of your squad. Those messages could wait. 

“I think I'm ready,” you whispered against Bob’s lips. He needed, digging his fingers into your hips to gain a better grip. With his help, you lifted yourself no more than a couple of inches off his cock, returning to the base. 

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Bob moaned. You just made Bob Floyd curse. Something not even a bird strike could do. That four letter word gave you the confidence to lift your hips up on your own accord, returning swiftly. Slowly, just an inch or two, which became several inches. Up and down motions turned to swiveling your hips in a circular rhythm. What was once a quiet living room, saved for a few small gasps and the static from the TV, had now become a symphony of melodic pants and groans. 

Bob could tell you were close. Your pussy was tightening around his cock more and more, your fingers dug into his broad shoulders, as if trying to anchor yourself. You practically whined at the sight of Bob taking two fingers into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. He lowered them to where your bodies connected. 

Upon first contact with your clit, your head dropped to the crook of his neck, unabashedly moaning his name, hips moving in a now frantic motion. 

“That's it, I gotcha.” Fuck, we he going to talk you through it? Was Bob Floyd a talker? Ironic, considering at work he was known as a man of few words. 

“Feels s’good, being inside ya.” Fuck, he was a talker. You were doomed, “Wanna, wanna make us cum. Bet ya gonna feel even better when ya soak- fuck- soak my cock.” 

Your brain was hazy. Was this real? If it was a vivid wet dream, you never wanted to wake up. Was it wrong to hope that you were in a medically induced coma, so that if this  was indeed a dream, you wouldn’t have to wake up so soon? Surely, your friends and family would understand upon meeting Bob. 

Then he pointedly thrusted his hips upwards, reminding you that no, this wasn’t a dream. No, you wouldn’t wake up feeling frustrated and unable to look him in the eye. After this, you two could go out to eat, on a real date. Not some hey let’s get dinner that feels like a date in everything except in name. You could also order delivery and cuddle up on the couch. Maybe you could even shower with him beforehand, and see his bare body, find out what was truly hiding underneath that flight suit. Oh, he was deceptively strong, you always knew that. But to see it, to feel the hard planes of his muscles? Oh, that would be quite the joy to experience. 

“Sweet girl,” you clenched at that nickname, you wanted him to continue calling you that for eternity, “Let go. Know ya want it.”

“I-I do,” you all but whined. Bob found the noise cute. What other sounds did you make? What would you sound like if he kept fucking you after you came? What about if he ate you out for hours? Or teased you until you were teetering on the edge?

There were so many questions, so many areas to explore. But for now, Bob was satisfied with experiencing how tightly you clenched his cock, how you practically sang his name as you came. Your release triggered his, pulling your hips down until they were flushed against his. His lips smashed against yours, swallowing your moans. 

Then there was silence. No words spoken. Only the sounds of panting, you both clearly trying to catch your breath, and kisses exchanged, ones that neither of you could resist giving. 

Realization hits you like a freight train. “I’m on birth control.”

Bob’s eyes widened, “Oh thank God.” He was usually so good about asking, about pulling out. But you….you made his brain feel like cotton. 

“You saying you don’t want to have kids with me?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek to let him know you were only saying it in jest. 

“Not yet.” You sat up to find he had an earnest smile on his face, cheeks rosy and eyes shining in adornment. 

Bob Floyd was going to be the death of you. 

So you brushed several strands of sandy brown hair off of his forehead, replacing them with a kiss, "Gotta get me a ring first."

Luckily, you were going to be the death of Bob Floyd.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

HEARING YOU

PAIRING: robert “bob” floyd x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 4225

SUMMARY:

Bob Floyd has a crush on the air traffic controller with the pretty voice.

The air traffic controller has a crush on the quiet WSO.

Nat is determined to get them to meet.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

explicit content (18+ minors do not interact), female reader insert, no use of y/n, not beta read, reader is an air traffic controller at NAS north island (take the jargon with a grain of salt), very requited crush, flirty jake seresin, wingwoman natasha, light alcohol consumption, semi-public sex (bob’s truck), making out, dry humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk.

The sky is just barely starting to lighten from an inky black to mottled blue when you swipe into the Cab, floor-to-ceiling windows giving you a bird’s eye view of the airfield below. It’s quiet this morning, conversation dialed to a low murmur. You get a few nods of acknowledgement as the door closes behind you with a soft click and you cross the room to your console, setting your travel mug of coffee down and tapping your workstation awake.

“We’ve got Dagger Squad again this morning,” your coworker, Jason, says with a yawn, rolling his chair beside yours. “Last drill of the week.”

You hum. “Flyovers are easy. Rooster’s leading the first run.”

“Nice. At least we’ll start off strong and not with someone trying to show off before the sun is even up.”

“And by someone you mean Hangman.”

“Bingo.”

You plug your headset into the jack and lift it over your head. “Maybe if we’re lucky Maverick will knock his ego down a couple pegs.”

“A couple pegs ain’t nothin’ for that one.”

You look down at the tarmac. The Super Hornets are lined up on the apron, gleaming beneath the floodlights. There’s movement below, tiny figures in flight suits and high visibility vests going through pre-flight procedures. You’ve always thought they looked like ants from up here.

Jet engines roar to life. Ground crews start to disperse. The aviators climb into their birds and get themselves situated. You press the button on your mic.

“Dagger Squad, Tower. Runway two seven is active. Taxi via Alpha, hold short at two seven. Launch order as briefed, Rooster in the lead. Call when you’re ready,” you say, the words sharp in the quiet room.

“Tower, Dagger zero two — wilco, taxiing via Alpha,” Rooster replies.

“Not even a good morning?” A female voice asks. You chuckle.

“Good morning, Phoenix,” you say to your friend. “And good morning, Bob.”

“Oh, uh…good morning,” Bob replies. You bite your lip, fighting a smile.

Natasha’s backseater, a WSO by the name of Bob Floyd, caught your attention when he first arrived to base. He wasn’t like some of the other aviators on the newly formed squad, loud and cocky with egos to match, and he didn’t clog up your radio with unnecessary chatter. He was sure, steady, and good at his job. Nat had nothing but good things to say about him whenever his name came up in conversation.

Which, you’ll admit, it often does.

Down on the runway, Phoenix smirks, switching to intercom. “You okay back there, Bob?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

“Just making sure you didn’t burst into flames.”

Bob doesn’t reply, focusing instead on the systems in front of him. His cheeks are flushed, the direct result of hearing your voice over the radio — sharp, controlled, a little raspy this early in the morning.

“I could introduce you,” Nat says. “If you want.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.

The first time Bob heard your voice over the radio, he knew he was in trouble. You were calm and confident, a force to be reckoned with, and when your laugh crackled through the radio, his heart started racing the same way it did during take off.

Despite never having seen you before, his crush on you took root and refused to budge. Nat, always observant, noticed it right away and has been trying to play matchmaker ever since.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to meet you. He does.

But he’s also just…Bob. Quiet, observant, a little awkward. He worries that you’d meet him and be disappointed, that maybe someone like Jake or Bradley or Javy would be a better match.

“Dagger zero two, Tower,” your voice says in his ear.

Bob shakes his head to clear his thoughts and focus on the drill, a time-on-target run that means he has to be locked in to make sure the strike lands with precision.

“Wind two nine zero at six, runway is clear.”

Bradley taxis the plane down the runway and Nat follows into position. Bob taps his fingers on his knee, the adrenaline starting to kick in.

“Tower, Dagger zero two is ready.”

“Dagger zero two, you are cleared for take-off, runway two seven. Good luck.”

The jet engine roars to life as Bradley speeds down the runway before lifting off into the sky. Nat eases the jet forward.

“Tower, Dagger zero three holding short for two. Ready.”

“Dagger zero three, cleared for take off.” There’s a brief pause before you add, “Do a flip.”

Nat laughs, the sound drowned out by the afterburners as she takes off. After climbing a few thousand feet, she spins the jet in the air. Bob’s back slams into the seat and he lets out a breathless laugh.

“I give it a six out of ten,” you say. Nat groans.

“Tough crowd,” she grumbles, veering off to join Bradley.

The two jets fly together in perfect sync, level in the sky with Bradley in the lead and Nat following close behind. Bob’s focus remains on the navigation, watching the position as they approach the waypoint.

“Dagger three, time check,” Bradley calls on the comms. “Target flyover in two minutes, mark on 0700.”

“Copy,” Nat replies.

You watch from the tower, clipboard in hand. Today’s target is unmarked, just coordinates for a spot in the ocean, making it a more difficult run than a terrain drill. The clock above your console glows red, time ticking closer to the mark. Rooster’s voice sounds over your headset.

“Tower, Dagger zero two and zero three inbound for flyover.”

“Copy, Dagger zero two. Tower standing by for time,” you call back.

“Quick push, eight knots,” Bob says to Nat. She nudges the throttle forward, picking up speed. “Perfect, hold it. We’ll be right on top.”

“I’m counting on it,” Nat replies.

Bob smiles beneath his mask and begins to count down under his breath.

Five, four, three, two—

Bradley speeds over the mark, Nat following closely behind him. You scribble the time on your clipboard.

“Dagger zero two and zero three, flyover complete. Nice job,” you tell them. “A double zero. Impressive, Bob.”

Bob blinks, surprised by the compliment. “T-thanks,” he manages to stutter.

Nat follows Bradley back towards base, keeping in tight formation. Bob’s thoughts are a loop of your praise.

“Tower, Dagger zero two and zero three inbound,” Bradley says.

“Dagger zero two, pattern is clear,” you reply.

Bradley lands first, followed by Nat, the impact of touchdown jolting Bob in his seat. The aircraft director waves them forward off the landing area and Nat steers the plane into park. The deck crew gives her the okay to kill the engine and Bob’s ears ring in the silence of the turbofan going still.

The canopy lifts and Bob removes his mask, taking a deep breath of the salty air. Ground crew gathers around the jet, going through the post-flight check. Nat unbuckles her harness and eases out of the cockpit first, climbing down the ladder with practiced efficiency.

Bob moves slowly, his stiff limbs making him feel like a newborn calf. He climbs down the ladder and joins Nat on the tarmac, tugging his helmet off and holding it in his hand. Bradley approaches, followed by Jake, Reuben, and Mickey, who are suited up for the next run.

“Damn, Baby-On-Board. That was clean,” Jake says, a heavy hand landing on Bob’s shoulder. “Don’t know if Fanboy is going to beat that.”

“If he does, I’ll buy his drinks tonight,” Nat chimes in.

“How the hell am I supposed to beat a double zero?” Mickey asks.

Nat smirks. “Exactly.”

Bradley, Bob, and Natasha return to the ready room, where Maverick already has the playback ready on the monitors.

“That might have been the cleanest run I’ve seen out of this squad. Tight formation, quick adjustments,” Maverick says with a sharp nod. “Nice job, Lieutenant Floyd.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bob replies.

After they’ve been dismissed, Nat drags Bob down to mess for breakfast. She sits across the table from him, picking at her eggs while he sips from his styrofoam cup of coffee.

“You coming out with us tonight?” She asks. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Maybe,” he replies. She lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Come on, you’ve blown us off like, three times now. That’s bad for morale.”

“You know I don’t like crowds.”

“When half the crowd is your squad, that’s hardly an excuse.”

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll be there.”

Nat gives him a wide smile.

He doesn’t notice the mischievous glint in her eye.

Nat: Hard Deck tonight?

Nat: You can’t say no

Nat: I know you’re off tomorrow.

You laugh at the series of texts from Nat. You’re back in your apartment early in the afternoon, enjoying the extra downtime — a benefit of working an 0500 flight drill with the Daggers.

Yeah, I’ll come, you reply.

Later, you arrive at the Hard Deck a little earlier than Nat’s suggested time. The small bar is busy but not yet packed and you easily find a spot to squeeze into, flagging down Penny. The older woman smiles at you.

“Hey, stranger,” she says. “Long time no see.”

“Did you miss me?” You ask. She chuckles.

“‘Course I did.” She grabs a glass from beneath the bar. “The usual?”

“Please.”

You take a moment to scan the room, recognizing a few faces from around the base. By the pool tables, you spot a group of men playing a game. A tall man with neatly combed blonde hair and Navy issue glasses leans over the table, lining up a shot and sinking two solid colored balls into separate pockets.

He’s cute in that unassuming kind of way. The sleeves of his shirt highlight the lean muscle of his arms and the fabric stretches nicely over broad shoulders that dip into a narrow waist. Penny sets a drink by your elbow and you hand her some cash with a quick thank you, your attention drawn back to the man.

“Well if it ain’t the princess herself, visiting us from her tower,” a voice drawls from beside you. Jake grins at you when you look over at him, his eyes flicking down your body. “Lookin’ good, by the way.”

“Hangman,” you sigh.

Jake was the first of Nat’s squad members that you met after befriending her. He’s loudmouthed, cocky, and he flies just the same. You’ve had to correct him from the tower on more than one occasion.

“What, you’re not happy to see me?” He asks, mock hurt. “Because I’m sure happy to see you, darlin’.”

You roll your eyes. “Not after the shit you pulled during your drill.”

“I was just showin’ off for you.”

“Five seconds ahead of mark isn’t anything to be proud of.”

“You wound me,” he says. The door opens and you spot Nat, waving her over.

“Save me,” you whisper loudly when she’s close enough to hear you.

“Bagman, quit bothering my favorite controller,” Nat says, slinging an arm over your shoulder. “She’s too good for you, anyway.”

“Something we can agree on,” Jake says, winking at you. “Fine. You know where to find me.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Jake disappears through the crowd, heading straight for the pool tables. He greets the men with friendly familiarity, patting each of them on the back.

“He’s relentless,” Nat says. “It would be admirable if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

Penny comes by, greeting Nat and taking her order. Your friend requests a second drink for you on her tab, despite your objections. When her beer and your fresh glass are delivered, Nat grabs your arm and drags you over to the pool tables.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away, princess,” Jake says. “You want to play?”

“I don’t know how,” you tell him. Beside you, Nat hides her laugh in her drink.

“That’s okay, I’m a real good teacher.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll give it a shot,” you relent. While Jake sets up the table, you say hello to Reuben, or Payback as you know him over the radio, the other member of Nat’s squad that you’ve met in person. You introduce yourself to the rest of the unfamiliar faces, putting names to voices and call signs.

The tall blonde man from earlier is sitting down now and you catch him staring at you before he ducks his head and focuses intently on picking the label of his beer bottle with his thumb nail. You’re about to approach him when Jake shoves a pool cue in your hands and says, “Ladies first.”

Jake is rambling on about how to play pool as you line up a shot, striking the racked balls with impressive precision, three solid balls sinking into pockets. Jake frowns across the table. You come around to his side and lean over for another shot, sinking another ball.

“Forget princess,” he grumbles. “You’re a shark.”

Some times later, the game finishes in your favor and you hand your cue to Nat to take the next game. You pat Jake on the back.

“Better luck next time, Bagman,” you tell him.

The blonde man is still sitting in the same spot. He looks up at you when you approach him, pretty blue eyes going wide.

“Hi,” you tell him. “We haven’t met yet.”

It’s you, he thinks. The air traffic controller. If he thought your voice was pretty over a staticky radio, nothing could have prepared him for hearing it in person. He’s surprised you noticed him over here — you looked like you were having a good time with Jake, destroying him in a game of pool.

He suddenly realizes you’re waiting for him to respond but he’s been staring at you.

“No, uh, don’t think we have,” he says.

You take a seat on the stool beside him, keeping yourself angled towards him.

“You must be Bob,” you say, reaching a hand out and introducing yourself.

He huffs a laugh. “What gave me away?”

“You’re quiet.” You don’t say it like it’s a bad thing. Just a truth, an observation. He ducks his head and you add, “I like quiet.”

For the rest of the night, you sit beside Bob, drawn into conversation with the man. It’s a little awkward at first but once Bob starts to get comfortable, the shy WSO really starts to open up and you can’t help but be drawn to the sweet, funny guy he reveals to you.

“Well. I’ll be damned,” Jake says, watching the two of you across the room. You’re leaned in close, laughing at something Bob said, your hand on his bicep. The man looks like he’s about to combust. “Bob’s got an audience tonight.”

“I’ve been trying to make this happen for months,” Nat tells him. “Don’t you dare do anything to screw it up.”

“Roger,” he replies with a mock salute, returning his attention to the dart board.

Penny shouts for last call and Bob looks up, surprised to see how empty the bar has gotten. He checks his watch.

“I don’t remember the last time I was out this late,” he says. You smile at him.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” you tease. “But I guess it’s time to head out.”

Disappointment settles in his chest. “Right, yeah. We should…go.”

Bob walks with you out of the bar, hands shoved in his pockets so that he doesn’t give in to the intense urge to pull you into him. The air is a little colder now that the sun has set and he notices the way you shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“How’re you getting home?” He asks.

“I was going to walk. My apartment isn’t too far once you get off base,” you tell him.

“I can give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Please,” he interrupts. “It’s late and cold. My mama would be disappointed in me if I didn’t.”

You give him a soft smile. “I definitely don’t want you disappointing your mama.”

He leads you through the parking lot to his pick up truck and unlocks the doors, opening yours for you. He waits until you’ve settled into the passenger seat before shutting the door and jogging around to the driver’s side.

The short ride to your apartment is quiet, the silence broken only by your occasional directions. It’s not awkward but something settles between you that makes his heart pound frantically against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears.

Bob pulls into a spot near your building, putting the truck in park. It’s late enough that your complex is quiet, the parking lot dark and empty. You unbuckle your seatbelt but you don’t reach for the door, turning to face him instead, one leg tucked beneath you.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” you tell him.

“Me, too,” he replies. He clears his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth, gaze drawn to your lips like a magnet.

“Are you going to kiss me, Bob?” You whisper.

“Do you want me to?” He asks, just as quiet.

You nod your head. He swallows nervously, unbuckling his seatbelt before leaning toward you and lifting a hand to cup your cheek. You tilt your head into his touch, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. His thumb drags across your bottom lip and when your mouth opens with a small sigh, he pulls you in for a kiss.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes your blood run hot in your veins, slow and sure and deep. You shift a little closer, the center console pressing uncomfortably into your stomach but you don’t care, not enough to stop, not enough to pull away from the intoxicating warmth of his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours and there’s an unexpected confidence in the way he tilts your head to his liking, chasing the best angle.

He pulls back suddenly and before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s reaching beneath the center console flipping it up, removing the annoying barrier. You grin at him.

“That’s convenient.” He laughs, the sound a deep rumble in the quiet of the cab.

“C’mere,” he says, a little breathless, the words stringing together. You shuffle a bit closer and he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you across the seat until you’re in his lap, legs open over his thighs and the steering wheel at your back. He runs his palms up your thighs and traces the curve of your waist. “You are—god—you’re a dream, you know that?”

He says it so earnestly, like it’s an undeniable truth, and something in you cracks. You kiss him again, harder this time, a little desperate. Your hands are in his hair, messing up the neatly combed strands. He groans when you tighten your grip, his hands squeezing your hips.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips leaving messy kisses across your jaw, down to your neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Really?” You ask. He nods against you, sucking the sensitive skin over your pulse between his teeth.

“First time I heard you,” he says, “on the radio. Prettiest voice I’d ever heard, right in my ear.”

You rock your hips, moaning when you feel the hard length of him beneath you. He slips a hand beneath the hem of your t-shirt, reaching up to tug the cup of your bra down to expose the tight bud of your nipple. He pinches it lightly, making you gasp.

“Knew you’d make some pretty noises, too.”

He lifts your shirt, just enough that he can get his mouth on you. He sucks your nipple between his lips, swirling his tongue around it before releasing it with an obscene pop and moving to your other breast to give it the same attention. You squirm in his lap, your core aching for friction.

Bob lifts his head, looking up at you. His hair is a mess and his blue eyes are dark behind his slightly foggy glasses, splotches of pink coloring his cheeks.

“Can I eat you out?” He asks. “Please?”

He asks so eagerly, so sweetly, that all you can do is nod your head and let him guide you down to your back on the seat beside him. His hands reach for your jeans, his fingers deftly popping the button and dragging the zipper down.

He tugs the denim over your hips and down your thighs, freeing one of your legs completely but leaving the fabric gathered in a heap around your other ankle. You sit up a little to give him some space, your back pressed to the door. He settles between your thighs, staring down at you with a hungry look in his eye.

He rests his heavy palm on your mound, dipping his thumb down to drag it over the wet spot that’s formed on the gusset of your underwear. He grazes your clit and you gasp, flexing your hips to chase the sensation. His other hand presses your hips down into the seat.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he says, voice low and steady. “You want to take care of you?”

“Mhm,” you hum, your head thumping against the car door when he draws slow circles over your clit.

He slides his hand beneath the elastic of your underwear, finally touching you. It’s lewd and messy, the way he swipes his calloused fingers over your slick heat. You can hear how wet you are, even above the blood rushing in your ears and the sound of your breathing.

He pulls your underwear down to your knees and ducks beneath them, his face close enough to your cunt that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, making you shiver in anticipation. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, before licking through your folds with a satisfied groan.

Bob takes off his glasses, tossing them on the dash with little regard for whether they remain in one piece. He doesn’t care, he’ll get new ones if he has to.

He tastes you again, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit before circling his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair and he outright moans against your pussy, tongue moving faster.

You’re so on edge that you know this won’t last long, not with the way he eats you like a man who just stumbled across an oasis in a desert. You can feel the combination of spit and slick dripping to the seat below you as you grind yourself against his mouth.

“Look at me,” he says, pausing for only long enough to get the words out. You lift your head and he holds your gaze as his attention returns to your clit.

His vision is blurry without his glasses but he can still see the way your eyes roll back when he flicks his tongue just right or how your mouth drops open and the sweetest sound he’s ever heard spills from your lips when he sucks your clit between his lips and hums.

“Bob—fuck—oh my god,” you cry, trying to keep your voice low, trying to remain cognizant of the fact that you never even made it out of this man’s truck before he was between your thighs.

He slides two fingers inside of you and you moan, long and loud and desperate, that knot of release growing impossibly tighter. He drags his fingers along your front wall, hitting a spot that makes the knot unravel, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, every nerve lighting up with the euphoria of it.

Bob reaches down to press a hand to his cock, rutting into his palm. It only takes a few flexes of his hips for him to come in his pants like a teenager, sticky heat filling his boxers as he moans, his forehead pressed to your thigh.

“Holy shit,” you gasp. “That was—“

“Good?” He asks hopefully. Your answering giggle is a little wild, a little incredulous.

“Great. Amazing. Spectacular,” you assure him. He smiles against your skin.

When he’s caught his breath, he sits up and helps you get your underwear back in place. You shimmy back into your jeans, sweat damp skin making the effort more harrowing than it has any right to be. Bob reaches for his glasses and puts them on, blinking at the adjustment to his vision. Once you’re dressed, you turn towards him again.

“I can—“

“I already, uh—“

“Oh.” You bite your lip. “Maybe next time?”

“Yeah?” He asks. You nod.

“Definitely.”

You lean forward and he meets you halfway, capturing your lips with his, matching wide smiles making it less of a kiss and more of a shared breath. You pull back, reaching up to smooth his hair into place.

“Where’s your phone?” You ask. He reaches into his back pocket for it, handing it to you.

You dial your number and save it into his contacts. “Call me tomorrow.”

“Yes m’am,” he answers.

You give him one last lingering kiss before opening the passenger door and hopping out of his truck, shutting the door behind you. He doesn’t start the truck until he sees you disappear through one of the apartment doors.

As he’s driving home, his phone pings with a new message. He checks it when he’s back on base.

Nat: You’re welcome, btw.

Thank you for reading! 💕

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | AO3

[em1i2a3]

Supersonic

Pairing: CollegeAU!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Reader is an Engineering Major who is just trying to take a required elective that doesn’t tank their average, Bob is a Physics Major who is an overachiever and is top of his class. We love a good tutor trope y’all, and technically it’s friends to lovers hehehehe

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all, wrap it up), Bob’s a certified munch…What Can I Say? It’s in the holy scripture lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Hair Pulling, Face Grinding, Bob’s got a bit of performance anxiety (and loves praise, but the man also likes worshipping hehehe), Breast Play, Bob’s giving sub vibes in this, Handjob (I don’t think I’m missing anything)

Author’s Note: Alright. Alright. I heard the crowd lol. I heard the masses, and I finally got around to writing for THE Bob Floyd....And I came out guns blazing on this one. I hope it’s not a let down, I know y’all have been waiting for something from me regarding this cutie patootie, so I’m glad I can please the masses 😂Enjoy!!! (Side note: I’m not a physics major but I took a few courses here and there, don’t strike me down if I don’t get certain things right about the questions please! lol) This was also a request by @shewhocallstothestars but I did modify it a bit (hopefully that's okay.) 😏

P.S: Evil stuff dropping this so casually on a Wednesday afternoon! Lol Surprise tho!

Word Count: 19,626 (HA!)

The first time Bob Floyd saw you, you were late for Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Not embarrassingly late–but just enough for the heavy lecture hall door to groan open and click shut behind you with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Just enough to make the professor falter mid-sentence, his marker hovering above the whiteboard as heads turned in your direction like a wave.

Your chin stayed tucked, gaze low as you moved up the steps with a quick, purposeful stride that practically whispered “please for the love of god don’t look at me.” Still, it was a walk that carried weight. Not flustered or apologetic–just sharp. Like you were used to showing up in the middle of things and moving through rooms without needing to explain why.

But even if you didn’t owe anyone an apology, you didn’t want the attention.

Especially not in the outfit you were wearing.

You didn’t mean to put on anything eye-catching, but laundry day had come and gone without mercy. Between leading three straight days of exhausting freshman orientation–clipboard, whistle, and all–and trying to get your textbooks, syllabi, and housing situation in order before classes began, your options had run out. So you’d thrown on a slightly-too-tight zip-up hoodie, your college’s emblem half-hidden under the worn zipper, and the only clean bottom you had left: a black skirt you hadn’t touched since the first day of summer.

It rode a little higher than you remembered, and paired with your bare legs and sneakers, it was far from inappropriate, but in a room where everyone else was in jeans and sweats, it made you feel seen. And not in a way you liked.

You spotted a half-empty row about midway up the lecture hall, three seats in from the aisle, and made a beeline for it, holding your skirt down as you made quick strides towards the spot that had your name written all over it. The weight of dozens of eyes prickled against your skin, but you kept moving, zeroed in on that opening like it might swallow you whole and hide you from the ogling stares.

Bob was seated near the end of that row.

His notebook was open, half a page of densely packed notes already filled in with that small, impossibly neat handwriting of his. A mechanical pencil twitched in his right hand as you approached–still mid-spin from the distraction you had caused. He looked like someone who took school seriously, but not obnoxiously so. His light brown hair was cropped short and a little mussed on the top, as though he hadn’t quite decided whether to tame it or not–or the wind got to it and messed it up on the way to class.

He was wearing a white t-shirt–simple, fitted just enough to hint at the softness of muscle underneath, but crisp in that way cotton gets when it’s been folded with care. Not stiff, but starched just slightly from the wash, like maybe he had just done his laundry the night before. His jeans were a classic blue–not faded or overly worn, but comfortably lived-in. No rips or frays.

His glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, the thin metal frames glinting faintly beneath the harsh overhead lights–almost silver against the warm tones of his skin. They sat just crooked enough to suggest he’d pushed them up one-handed without really thinking about it. Lenses wide and clear, catching reflections of the whiteboard, but not enough to shield the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment your footsteps slowed beside him.

He looked sun-kissed from the dying summer–like August had clung to him a little longer than it should have. His skin was a shade deeper than it would be in a few weeks’ time, golden along his forearms and the high points of his face, like he’d spent the end of break outside–on rooftops, maybe, or walking alone down sidewalks still radiating heat. His lips were a touch dry, his knuckles faintly rough. But he looked steady. Bright-eyed and well-rested. Like he wanted to start the semester with good intentions and achievable goals.

You stopped just beside him–hovering for half a second, your bag shifting on your shoulder as you nodded toward the empty seat a few spots in.

”Sorry, just gotta get by,” You murmured, voice low and unassuming.

Bob looked up fully then and immediately shifted forward, pulling his legs in without hesitation. His knee brushed the underside of the desk as he tucked himself close to make room for you, the motion smooth but stiff like he hadn’t quite expected you to speak to him. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to sound like that–soft, a little breathless from the walk up the gauntlet of steps, but still sharp.

You moved past him in one fluid step whispering a thanks, then your scent hit him.

It wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t the cloying kind of perfume that lingered too long in a hallway. It was just…You. Soft and sweet, but grounded–like vanilla left to steep in warm skin, the subtle warmth of almond or cream trailing just behind it. Lotion maybe. Something gentle. Something worn, not sprayed on. Like it had been absorbed into your hoodie, your neck, the backs of your knees in the early September heat.

But then there was something brighter, just beneath it–like sugar and citrus had melted into the mix. Not sharp. Not tart. Just the idea of lemon. A barely-there twist of brightness that reminded him of the first sip of a drink on a hot day. Cool. Balanced. Memorable.

It made Bob lose all his grip on the pencil in his hand, and made him straighten slightly, as his eyes glanced over to you slipping into the seat three down from his, holding your skirt against yourself so it didn’t ride up when you settled. When you shifted–once, just enough to adjust your bag or maybe smooth your hoodie–his eyes dropped quickly to your legs.

Bare and warm-looking in the stale lecture hall light. The skin smooth, catching little glints of reflection in a way that made him stare too long before he realized what he was doing.

His gaze jerked back up, and his pencil fell out of his hands. He fumbled to catch it before it rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor, and somehow he barely managed to do it. He cleared his throat so quietly that it didn’t even echo under the dome of the lecture hall. And then he exhaled once, trying to shake off the heat that creeped up his neck, fingers curling tight around the side of his notebook.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

Not even when you pulled out your pen and your fresh, untouched notebook and started scribbling quick, efficient notes in handwriting he couldn’t quite see. Not even when your fingers fidgeted once at the hem of your hoodie like you weren’t sure if it was covering enough. Not even when you tilted your head slightly to the left, exposing the faint shape of your jaw and that one stubborn wisp of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t look back.

But he couldn’t stop glancing.

Every time there was a lull in the lecture–every time the professor turned toward the whiteboard or paused to answer a question from across the room–Bob’s eyes slid sideways. Just for a second. Just to check.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he hadn’t seen you around before, and that this class wasn’t usually the kind that brought in new faces. Not Advanced Theoretical Physics. Not on day one. And especially not someone like you.

You didn’t fit the mold–not in the way you moved, not in the way you sat. There was a presence to you, even when you were quiet. Like you weren’t just taking space–you owned it. It made him curious. It made him distracted.

It made the last half of his notes nearly unreadable.

He’d rewrite them later. He always did.

But he’d still remember the scent you left behind when you passed him. The subtle trace of sweetness and skin-warmed citrus that had settled in the air like something meant to haunt him.

And he’d remember that you never once looked back.

—————————

You didn’t speak to Bob until the third week of classes, when you got your first ‘mini’ test back and got hit with the harsh realities of the choice you had made in picking Advanced Theoretical Physics for your upper elective.

You got a 68. You had never got a 68 in your life.

Not in high school, not in your other college courses, not in anything that involved formulas or numbers or mental gymnastics you were usually proud to be good at. Being an engineering student was supposed to make classes like this feel natural. Calculation, logic, technical problem solving–it was your bread and butter.

But this? This was humbling.

You stared down at the note the professor had written in red just beneath the grade:

”Revisit your derivations–conceptual understanding needs tightening.” You didn’t even know what the hell that meant. You had studied everything possible to prepare yourself, you knew you had been on the right track, there was no possible way this was the right grade. Your jaw flexed, and you tapped your pen once against the corner of your desk before you forced yourself to still.

You tried to breathe through the sting crawling up the back of your neck, the tightness that formed just under your ribs. This wasn’t even a midterm–it wasn’t supposed to matter. But to you, it did. You prided yourself on being able to handle anything. Being the kind of student professors leaned on. A leader. Someone who could run orientation like a sergeant and still ace quantum mechanics in the same week.

And here you were. With a 68 circled at the top of your page like a slap.

You let the paper fall face-down across your notebook and sighed hard through your nose.

Then you glanced over.

Three seats down, Bob was sitting quietly, glasses low on his nose again, flipping his test booklet over to the back like he wanted to get one more long look at it before class officially started.

You caught a glimpse of the front page as he did–and there it was. Written in the same red your grade was given in, unmistakable in the overhead light.

97.

Clean, confident. Circled big enough to make a statement.

He didn’t look smug about it. Not exactly. But there was something in the way he stared at that number, his brows lifting faintly as if confirming to himself, Yeah, that sounds right. His lips were pressed together in a close-lipped smile, the kind people wear when they’ve worked hard and know it paid off. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the bottom of the page once. Then again.

Pleased as punch.

You didn’t mean to keep staring–but it was hard to look away.

His black t-shirt was tucked just barely into the waistband of his jeans today, like he’d rushed to get dressed but still managed to look clean and composed. His hair looked softer, freshly washed maybe, curling a little more than normal without any product in his hair. The sun-kissed flush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded just yet, but it was slowly revealing little patches of paleness beneath it. The silver frames of his glasses caught the light again as he leaned slightly forward, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook to take pre-class notes even though nothing had started yet.

He was…Prepared. Calm, and clearly good at this.

And you were not evidently.

You sat back slowly in your seat, gaze flicking toward the whiteboard, but your mind was still racing. Not with formulas. Not with panic. But with something slower, more deliberate.

You needed help. That much was obvious.

And unfortunately–or maybe fortunately–the only person who hadn’t fumbled through the last three weeks with shaky handwriting and unsure eyes was sitting just three seats away.

Then…You made a decision you never thought you would be making in a class you expected to be good in.

You were going to ask him for help.

It went against every fibre in your being–the pride you carried like a shield, the belief that if you just studied harder, dug deeper, figured it out on your own, you’d make it through. That’s how it had always worked before. You didn’t need tutors. You didn’t ask for things.

But your test score was still burning a hole through your notebook, and Bob Floyd was still sitting three seats down, calmly annotating equations while half the class looked like they were on the verge of weeping. He definitely had the highest mark and there was no denying that, and you had to pick his brain to see if you could emulate the same genius level thinking. Maybe there was a secret to it all, and he would somehow share it with you so you could make a quick recovery and still grasp honours at the end of the semester…At this point you’d take even the craziest solutions to save yourself from another embarrassing mark.

So…You waited until the end of the lecture.

It took everything in you not to bolt out the second the professor dismissed the room. You always left quickly–efficiently–avoiding the post-class shuffle of students with questions or headphones already in. But today you stayed seated, even as the sound of backpacks zipping and notebooks slamming shut rose around you like thunder. You didn’t move, just flicked your pen closed and kept your eyes on the spiral binding of your notes until most of the room had emptied.

You packed up faster than usual, sweeping your things into your bag in quiet, practiced movements–but you left your test out, folded once, red ink still just barely visible beneath the crease. Your hands felt warm. A little clammy. The kind of nervous energy you hadn’t felt since your very first midterm in undergrad. But you stood anyway.

Bob was still at his desk, leaning forward, transcribing the last few formulas the professor had scribbled across the bottom corner of the board. His notebook looked the same as always–clean lines, small print, mechanical pencil pressed tight to the paper like he didn’t know how to be imprecise.

You made your way down the row, test in hand, and stopped just short of his space. The words were already forming in your mouth, even before he noticed you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… Sorry to bother you. You’re Bob, right?”

His head snapped up fast, and his eyes locked onto yours like he hadn’t expected you to actually exist this close.

“Uh–yeah,” He replied, “Yeah. Bob Floyd.”

You’d caught him off guard. You could tell by the way he blinked, like he had to reset. His mouth parted slightly, lips soft and chapped in the middle, and then–almost as if he remembered he was supposed to be someone in this moment–he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

“You’re…Y/N? Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He held out his hand, a little unsure. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitated for a beat–because it wasn’t every day someone in a physics class offered a handshake–but you took it. His palm was warm and dry, his grip a little firm at first, like he hadn’t meant for it to feel that strong.

His fingers were long. His nails clean, almost manicured in a way that surprised you. His thumb brushed yours briefly, and for a second, the contact lingered just a little too long.

You let go, and Bob rubbed his hand on the knee of his jeans as you both sat in the pause that followed, air slightly charged.

You weren’t wearing anything special today–just an old cropped t-shirt that rode up when you lifted your arms and a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had long since given up trying to cling to your hips. A hoodie hung open over it all, soft with wear. It wasn’t much. Just lazy comfort. But something in the way Bob’s eyes dropped for half a second–just below the hem to a flicker of skin at your waist–told you it wasn’t invisible either.

He gulped again, trying to recover from being caught.

You cleared your throat. “So, uh… I was wondering if you offer tutoring or something. I kinda bombed that first mini quiz.” His brows lifted over the rim of his glasses–an expression halfway between surprise and amusement.

“I…I don’t offer it or anything,” He said, already fumbling a little, “But I can help, if that’s what you’re looking for…How bad did you do?” He asked, trying not to assume the worst, but knowing there was a possibility he was going to see a fairly bad mark, judging by the conversations that happened behind him when the tests were handed out at the beginning of class. You flipped the test open toward him, and he stared at the 68, a smirk drawing up on his lips. He let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, more of a warm exhale than anything mean.

”I mean…It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.” You raised your eyebrows at him and smirked faintly.

”How comforting.” You mumbled. He shifted in his seat, thumb rubbing across the corner of his notebook like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His gaze didn’t meet yours directly; it just hovered somewhere around your shoulder, your mouth, and your hair. He was still absorbing the fact you were in front of him asking to be tutored.

“I can definitely help you bring your grade up. It’s early enough in the semester to get it back on track.” He explained. Something in his voice steadied–like the gears in his brain had finally clicked into place. Like this was territory he knew how to navigate. Structure. Process. Solutions. A small smile tugged at your lips. A breath of relief rushed through you before you could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” You replied. And then, already leaning in with eagerness, “When can we get started?” Bob paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked slightly upward–thinking, scanning the mental file cabinet of his day.

“We could do today…You could meet me at the library,” He suggested, after a second, “I'm free after four.” You wrinkled your nose a little, already shaking your head.

“The library’s kind of a distraction for me,” You admitted. “It’s always too loud–someone’s always coughing or typing like they’re in a race. Even the reserved study rooms…I don’t know, it never really works for me.”

Bob tilted his head a little, listening closely, waiting for you to present a different option.

You hesitated for just a second before offering, more carefully now, “If you feel okay with it…We could study at my dorm? It’s definitely quieter. And there’s not much to get distracted by.”

You didn’t say it with any kind of tone. No flirt, no implication. Just facts. Just a space.

But Bob’s throat tightened anyway.

His mind, helpful as ever, immediately conjured the image–your dorm. What it looked like. What it might smell like. You curled up in your desk chair, with your hair pushed out of your face, sleeves rolled, and a half-empty mug of tea or coffee next to an open binder. Maybe your bed was still unmade. Maybe there was a bottle of lotion on your nightstand in the same scent that clung to you now, soft and sweet and skin-warmed.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Not because he had any ulterior motives. Not because he thought anything would happen. But because it had been a long time since he’d been invited into someone’s space like that. A woman’s space. A woman like you–all sharp eyes and soft smiles, casual comfort and effortless pull.

“Yeah,” He agreed, clearing his throat and nodding. “Yeah, that’s totally fine. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t,” You said easily, and the way you said it–so certain, so casual–made something tighten low in his stomach again.

“Okay,” He replied, and he finally looked at you. His blue eyes were steady behind his glasses, a little glassy from the fluorescents, but locked on yours. “Just email me your dorm number. I’ll bring the notes, you bring the test, and we’ll make a plan.”

You grinned, and god, it hit him like a sucker punch. Like something he hadn’t braced for.

“Deal.”

And then you turned, backpack swinging over one shoulder, hoodie hem swaying against your hips as you made your way back up the aisle.

Bob sat still for a moment. Longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t even packed up yet.

It took him another ten seconds before he finally exhaled, shoved his pencil into the spiral of his notebook, and muttered to himself under his breath–

“…Way to make this hard for yourself…You dummy.”

————————

Your dorm wasn’t anything glamorous–but it was yours, and that made all the difference.

When you unlocked the door and pushed it open after class, you were immediately met with the familiar scent of fabric softener and the faint citrus-vanilla from the reed diffuser you kept on the dresser. The room was small, technically a single dorm, but it was just enough space for you to carve out your version of comfort. Still, as you stood in the doorway, backpack slipping off one shoulder, you looked around and immediately thought that there was no way in hell it was going to stay like this, especially with a guest coming over.

You dropped your bag near the door, and got to work immediately.

The bed was first. You hadn’t made it this morning–just rolled out with your alarm still going, one arm flung across your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone, groggy and unwilling to admit the day had started. The sheets were still tangled, your navy-blue comforter half-slid to the floor, the corner twisted around your foot in your sleep. You tugged it all back with quick, practiced tugs, smoothing the fitted sheet until the last of the sleep wrinkles vanished under your palm.

Your comforter had a faint rip in the seam on the left side near your hip–stitched up once, badly, with mismatched thread. You’d done it the second week of your freshman year, the night you’d fallen asleep sobbing after a brutal call with your high school boyfriend, and woken up the next morning tangled so tightly in the blanket that it tore when you got up. You never fixed it properly. You kind of liked the scar.

You fluffed the single throw pillow you used for your head–an old one, pillowcase faded with soft clouds printed across pale blue fabric. Not the prettiest, but it felt like home. And the long body pillow you always fell asleep hugging–cream-colored, with one end slightly more smushed than the other–went right in its usual spot against the wall. A comfort thing. You didn’t sleep well without it.

Then you moved to your desk.

It was more shelf than desk, sure–but it held your brain in neat, tiny pieces. Notes, sticky tabs, a single battered wire basket for loose paper, and a coffee mug you never drank out of that just held highlighters, lip balm, and the same pair of scissors you’d had since high school. You stacked your textbooks neatly–physics, mechanics, one painfully dry thermodynamics manual–and slid your notebook on top, flipping it to the most recent page so Bob wouldn’t see your chaotic post-lab scrawl from earlier in the week.

There was a Polaroid pinned to the corkboard just above the workspace–one of you and your best friend from home, taken in your kitchen during winter break. You were both in pajamas, mid-laugh, a sliver of frosting from a baking experiment smeared across your nose. You paused for a moment, fixing the pin to straighten it, and sighed.

Your reed diffuser sat on the corner of the dresser–three pale wooden sticks soaked in a warm citrus-vanilla scent that reminded you of summer mornings and freshly folded laundry. The bottle was nearly empty now. You should’ve replaced it weeks ago, but you kept putting it off. There was something comforting about the familiar scent, even as it faded.

Near it sat a tiny glass tray shaped like a shell, where you kept rings you barely wore and two hair ties you always reached for. One had stretched out completely, the elastic barely holding together–but you refused to throw it away. It had survived too many late-night study sessions, too many chaotic mornings before class. It had history.

You lit your desk lamp–the one with the soft yellow bulb, not the bright blue-white you hated. It cast a glow across the room that made it look gentler, less like a dorm and more like a nook carved from a novel. Cozy. Private. You turned off the overhead light and stood there for a second, letting yourself just look. The soft shadows, the freshly made bed, the diffuser’s scent hanging lightly in the air.

You sigh, satisfied with your work, eyes scanning over the room once more. Everything was in its place. Not perfect, maybe–but it looked lived in, cared for, warm. It looked like you.

With that final breath of approval, you turned toward the door tucked just beside your dresser–the greatest stroke of luck you’d had all year.

An attached bathroom.

Single dorms were hard enough to land as a second-year, but a single with a private bathroom? That was near mythic. Your RA had called it the “housing lottery jackpot,” and you hadn’t argued. No communal showers meant no mildew smell clinging to your towel, no forgotten flip-flops, and–best of all–no awkward small talk with girls brushing their teeth beside you at midnight.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, and reached for your phone on the counter. 3:30 PM. Forty-five minutes, give or take.

Bob said “after four,” but something told you he wasn’t the type to be late. You weren’t sure if that meant he’d be early–but either way, you weren’t risking being caught in your towel when he showed up at your door.

Without much thought, you tugged your clothes off in a few quick motions and tossed them into the hamper tucked beside the sink. The hoodie fell in a heap, the fabric heavy with the day’s wear. Your cropped t-shirt was damp at the neckline, your waistband creased from sitting through the afternoon lecture. It all smelled faintly of the campus and the late-summer air–sun-warmed concrete, paper, and the barest hint of classroom chalk.

You flicked on the fan and twisted the shower knob until the water reached the right balance of hot–just shy of scalding.

Steam bloomed in the narrow space like it had been waiting, curling along the top of the curtain and fogging the mirror in soft, slow layers. You stepped in, letting the heat rush over your shoulders in a way that made your muscles go slack and your eyelids flutter briefly closed. You weren’t indulging, not really. You just needed to rinse the day away–strip it off like a second skin, let the tension from your shoulders drain down the tiles and vanish with the suds.

While the water beat down over the back of your neck, your thoughts began to drift.

Even though this was just a tutoring session–just notes, formulas, and a second chance at a first impression–it felt bigger than that.

You hadn’t brought a guy into your room in months.

Not since you’d drawn that invisible line in the sand–the one that said: this space is mine and mine only. Not since you started guarding your time, your energy, and your peace. You weren’t a prude–far from it. You weren’t closed off either. You just…Stopped inviting chaos into your life. And sometimes, chaos looked like someone else’s backpack thrown on your floor, someone else’s hand on your thigh or under the waistband of your sweatpants, or someone else’s voice asking, “Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

You didn’t miss it.

But still–when you looked Bob Floyd in the eyes and suggested your dorm like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything–something in your chest had fluttered. Not panic. Not excitement. Just a shift.

A crack in the routine.

Now, standing under the steaming pulse of your shower, with the scent of citrus shampoo rising like vapor and the water cascading down your spine, you realized you hadn’t really prepared yourself for that part.

Bob Floyd. In your dorm. Sitting on your bed, or at your desk…Breathing in your space.

You didn’t think it would be weird. He didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d knock twice even after you told him the door was open. He was polite. Mild-mannered. A little tightly wound in a way that made you think he probably alphabetized his class folders.

But you didn’t know him.

And it was dawning on you, as you tilted your face into the stream and let it blur your vision with heat, that this was only the second conversation you’d had with him. Two conversations, and now you were inviting him into the most intimate space a student could have–your dorm. Your bedroom. Your sanctuary. A place where your throw blanket still held the scent of last week’s laundry, and where your pillowcase had that faint stretch of mascara from the night you fell asleep before washing your face.

What if he thought it was messy?

What if he thought you were messy?

What if he saw the tangled cords beside your bed or the half-finished cup of coffee on your nightstand and assumed you were the kind of person who couldn’t get it together–even when your whole reputation said otherwise?

What if he looked at your 68 again, and thought you were dumb suddenly?

You hated that thought most of all.

You weren’t dumb. You knew you weren’t. You were sharp, resilient, calculated when it mattered–and still, you wondered if he’d already made up his mind about you. Academic ego like his–97s without breaking a sweat–probably came with an equally inflated sense of who could keep up. Maybe he was too polite to say it, but what if he thought you were just another pretty girl in a hard class, grasping for help she hadn’t earned?

You scrubbed your hands over your scalp trying to shake the thought loose, because it didn’t matter what he thought.

Right?

You’d asked for help. That was the whole point. And he’d agreed. He’d said yes without hesitation–well, after a small nervous stammer, but still. He’d seemed open. Kind, even. And if you were being honest with yourself–and not just stewing in self-preservation–you didn’t think he saw you that way. Not as dense. Not as helpless. If anything, he seemed genuinely surprised that you’d asked him at all. Like he hadn’t expected someone like you to even talk to someone like him.

You rinsed the last remnants of soap and shampoo off your body, letting the moment pass.

You weren’t going to overthink this.

He was coming over, he was going to sit down. You were going to go through your test and try and work through the incorrect answers, maybe laugh once or twice, and you’d be one step closer to not failing this class.

That was it.

You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening in the tiny bathroom.

Steam clung to every surface. You wiped your hand across the mirror, catching your own reflection looking back at you–a few beads of water dripping from your hair, over your collarbones, down over your breasts, the light reflecting off of them like little glowing orbs.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, padded out onto the tile, and toweled your hair dry with slow, deliberate motions. You’d keep things light. Professional. You’d study. You’d ask questions. You’d nod along when he explained something that made sense. And then–

You paused.

Then maybe…Maybe you’d ask what his secret was. The 97. The sharp notes. The calm in his hands. The look in his eyes when he first saw you walking up those lecture hall stairs. Not because you wanted anything from it.

But because part of you was just…Curious.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the last traces of damp heat, the steam still clinging faintly to your skin like a second breath. The scent of your shampoo followed you into the room–light citrus, clean warmth, a kind of quiet comfort–and you padded barefoot across the tile, leaving soft marks on the floor that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your nightstand.

3:55 PM.

Of course it was. Right on the edge of too early, which meant Bob would probably be here right on time–maybe even five minutes ahead, just to be polite. Just to prove he meant it when he said he took this seriously.

You crossed the room in quick, practiced steps, flipping through your clothes without ceremony. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t overthink it. You were still a little warm from the shower, your skin flushed and hair damp, and the last thing you needed was to feel sweat pooling under a too-thick hoodie while trying to understand whatever theoretical mind game was about to come your way.

So you grabbed a soft t-shirt–a light heather grey, already worn thin in spots from too many washes–and a pair of black workout shorts that hit mid-thigh. Functional. Comfortable. No-nonsense. You pulled them on in a few quick motions, not bothering with makeup or overthinking how the shorts made your legs look in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the slits of your blinds. It wasn’t about that.

You hung up your towels quickly on the hook by the door, turned to your desk, and yanked open the middle drawer with a quiet clatter. Your whiteboard markers were all crammed into a cup at the back–caps loose, labels fading. You pulled out four of them–blue, green, red, and black–and lined them up on your desk next to your notebook like you’d planned it that way all along. Some kind of subconscious need for control, maybe. Or maybe you just didn’t want Bob to see you fumbling for supplies mid-conversation.

Then you reached for the test. The test. The damn 68, still folded and creased and red-inked like a bruise on paper. You slapped it onto the desk with a sigh, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room. Your hands slid to your hips. You stared at it for a long second.

This was where it would start. Hopefully where it would turn around.

And then–just as your breath settled and you were about to pull your chair out–

Knock knock.

Two firm taps.

Not tentative. Not obnoxious. Just…Precisely delivered. Like he’d rehearsed it.

You sighed. Not from dread–but from inevitability. From the knowledge that this, right here, was the moment it would all shift. You rolled your shoulders once, exhaled through your nose, and crossed the room in five brisk steps.

You pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Bob Floyd stood just outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, a black three-ring binder hugged awkwardly to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He had changed. He was wearing a navy t-shirt that clung just enough to his chest to remind you that he was broader than he looked seated in a lecture hall. His jeans were dark again–clean, cuffed slightly at the ankle because they were a little too long for his legs–and his sneakers looked freshly wiped down, as if he’d paused just outside the dorm building to rub them clean against the concrete.

His glasses were perched on his nose again, slightly fogged at the corners from the outside humidity. His hair was still a little mussed, like the wind had gotten to him–or maybe he’d run his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes met yours instantly, wide and a little unsure, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“Hey,” He said, and it came out just a little too soft.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still resting lightly on your hip. You didn’t mean to look casual–but you did. Warm skin. Damp hair. Legs bare in your shorts. You were dressed like comfort, like late afternoon, like a version of home he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Hey,” You returned. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Right on time.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Bob adjusted the strap on his backpack like it gave him something to do. “Didn’t wanna be early. Or, you know, too early. But also didn’t wanna be late.”

You stepped aside. “You’re good. Come on in.”

He hesitated just slightly before crossing the threshold, like he was stepping into a space that demanded a kind of reverence. And maybe, in a way, he was. His eyes swept the room instinctively, slow and deliberate–not nosey, just observant. His gaze skimmed over the bed, the desk, the glow of the warm lamp light, the closed bathroom door. Then back to you.

You watched him take it all in. The details. The neatness. The quiet hum of your diffuser still at work in the corner.

“This is…Nice,” He said finally. And he meant it. “Like, really nice. Kinda cozy.”

You smirked like you hadn’t been panic cleaning for the past hour or two, “I try.”He nodded once, still a little awestruck, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here.

“Smells good too…Like you baked something.” You raised an eyebrow at him and gave a small laugh, motioning behind him.

”It’s just my diffuser.” Bob’s gaze drifted toward the thin plume of steam rising from your dresser, his face going slightly blush.

“Oh…” He blinked. “Didn’t notice that.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a sheepish little smile, soft and crooked. He ran his palm over the front of his jeans like it might smooth over the awkward pause that followed.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brow arched.

“Well,” You started, already moving toward your desk, “You can sit anywhere you’d like. I’m just gonna pull my whiteboard out so we have somewhere to work.”

He opened his mouth–maybe to respond, maybe to stall–but you cut in before the silence could return. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water, Sprite, or…” you paused with a shrug, “an emergency stash of energy drinks if you’re into heart palpitations.”

Bob let out a short laugh, ducking his head as his fingers scratched the back of his neck. “Water’s good, thank you. Do you… need any help with anything?”

You shook your head with a quiet chuckle, already crouching to slide the whiteboard from behind your desk. “It’s all good, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you replied with a grin. “Just get comfortable.”

Bob hesitated for a beat–then nodded once and toed off his shoes with quiet care, tucking them neatly beside the frame of your bed. The soft creak of your mattress followed as he eased himself up onto it, adjusting his binder across his lap. He settled back against your pillows like someone trying not to disturb a shrine. His back met the wall in a slow, deliberate lean, shoulders squaring before his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent just slightly.

You were still crouched in front of your desk, tugging the whiteboard forward and flipping the eraser out of the marker tray with practiced ease. When you stood and propped the board upright against the far wall–angled so you could sit beside the bed and still reach it–Bob’s gaze caught on you again.

He wasn’t proud of it. But he couldn’t help it.

The soft sheen on your legs caught the warm light from your desk lamp, the moisture from your shower still clinging in subtle streaks across your skin. Your shorts were tight–they were the kind that followed the natural dip of your thighs when you bent forward, holding you in all the right places. Every angle pulled his attention. The curve where your hip met your waist, the shadow along the back of your knee when you adjusted your weight. You were only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, nothing scandalous, nothing remotely calculated–but Bob felt like he was seeing something private.

Like you’d invited him into something sacred and forgot to mention just how much of you lived here.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window beside your bed, the blinds slatted just enough to let in the softest touch of late afternoon sun. The light was golden. Low. Hazy in the kind of way that made everything look suspended in time.

He told himself to focus. On the equations. On the test in your hand. On the notes in his binder.

Not on the way your legs moved when you crossed the room again, not on the lotion-sweet smell of you that lingered now even stronger than it had that first day in class, and not on the sight of you–relaxed and warm and totally unguarded–in a way he hadn’t seen before.

You crossed the room with a bottle of water and handed it to him without fuss, and when your fingers brushed, he felt the jolt of it deep in his chest.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, cradling the bottle like a peace offering.

You gave him a smile. Not teasing, not knowing. Just kind. Grounded. Unbothered.

And that made it worse somehow. Made it harder not to stare. Harder not to wonder what this was becoming, and how much trouble he was in already.

Because he could memorize equations. He could build models, ace problem sets, and calculate theoretical orbital mechanics in his sleep.

But none of that had prepared him for you.

You didn’t sit right away.

Instead, you hovered just beside the whiteboard for a moment longer, the test clutched in your hand, thumb brushing over the red mark like maybe you could fade it out with friction alone. But Bob waited patiently–quiet, composed, the bottle of water still nestled in his lap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

You held the test out toward him. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

Bob offered a faint, crooked smile as he took the folded packet, careful not to smudge the corners with condensation from the bottle. He flipped it open to the first page, eyes scanning the first problem set. His gaze moved quickly–but not dismissively. He was reading, really reading, lips parting slightly as he traced your work with his eyes.

Then his brows lifted, just a touch–not surprise, but curiosity.

“Can you…” He glanced up at you, the glint of his glasses catching the light again, “show me how you got this answer? Go through it with me…I just want to pick your brain first. See your logic a bit.”

You hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because you didn’t remember how you got the answer. You did. You remembered every painful minute of trying to pull it out of thin air, piecing together old lecture notes and half-remembered formulas from late-night readings. But the thought of speaking it out loud? Of saying it in front of him?

That part felt…Vulnerable.

You bit the inside of your lip for a second, eyes flicking from the board to his face, then back again. Then, without a word, you bent down and picked up the black marker.

Bob leaned forward just slightly, shifting the binder onto the mattress beside him as you uncapped it with your teeth and started writing on the board. The soft squeak of dry erase on the surface filled the room.

“Okay,” You said finally, your voice steadier than you expected, “So the question was asking about particle behavior in a non-inertial reference frame, right? So I assumed we were supposed to use the rotating frame model the prof showed us last week. The one with the centrifugal and Coriolis corrections?” Bob nodded slowly, eyes locked on the board, on your hand.

You started to draw–carefully, neatly, the way you always did when trying to make sense of something. A circle. A line to represent the radius. Arrows for velocity, angular acceleration. You wrote out the base equation next to it, then began working through your substitutions.

“I plugged in the knowns here,” you continued, underlining as you spoke, “and then tried to isolate the pseudo-forces…but I think I misapplied the coordinate system. I used polar, but I think the solution assumed Cartesian.”

Bob made a small hum in the back of his throat–soft, thoughtful. You glanced back at him.

He was watching you. Focused, engaged. Almost the look a professor would give when they saw potential flickering just beneath a student’s mistake, and that made your throat tighten from the nerves that began to bubble over in your stomach.

Bob shifted again, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed beside his binder. “No, that’s good,” He murmured. “That’s actually really good. You weren’t wrong to try it that way. I think the issue’s just here–”He reached for the red marker from your stack, uncapping it with a soft click.

“See how you treated this term?” He pointed gently toward a partial derivative in your equation, careful not to touch the board. “You factored it like it was independent, but because it’s nested in the rotating frame, it still has angular dependence. That’s what threw the rest off.”

You blinked at the board, then at him.

“Wait…So if I’d just accounted for the cross-product instead of canceling it…”

“You would’ve landed within the margin of error,” He finished, smiling softly. “Easily a B. Maybe even B+ depending on how much partial credit he gave.” You stared at your own math like it had betrayed you and then slowly dropped your hand to your side, still holding the marker.

“That…Makes so much more sense,” You said, voice a little quieter now. Not embarrassed. Just a little humbled.

Bob stood up slowly, the mattress giving a soft groan beneath him as he rose. His steps were quiet but sure as he moved to stand beside you at the whiteboard, marker still poised in his hand like a baton he didn’t quite realize he’d taken control of. You stepped slightly to the side to give him space, though your shoulders still nearly brushed.

His voice came low, steady, as he started to rewrite the middle portion of your equation. His handwriting was sharp and balanced–blocky print with just a hint of slant, the kind of penmanship that spoke of hours spent copying down formula after formula with care.

“Your approach wasn’t bad,” He started, glancing at you just briefly before continuing, “Seriously. You just went too fast on the middle step, that’s all…And honestly?” He let out a breathy, half-laugh. “That’s the part that gets everyone.” You let out a quiet, half-aware chuckle–more breath than voice.

“Well…Evidently it doesn’t get you. You’re the one that got a 97.”

Bob flushed immediately. The back of his neck went pink first, then the tips of his ears. He ducked his head as he kept writing, though his next words carried a little laugh of their own.

“I’m a physics major,” He said. “So I better be getting that mark or else I’d be needing a refund from the school.”

You let out a real laugh at that–light, short, amused–and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, watching him scribble through the rest of the correction with a kind of practiced rhythm.

“No wonder you’re so good at this…” You muttered, more to yourself than him, but loud enough for him to catch.

Bob’s head tilted slightly toward you. “What’re you majoring in?”

You scratched the back of your neck, mildly self-conscious. “Engineering.”

He paused–just long enough to let the silence feel deliberate–and then let out a short, knowing laugh. “Ahh. Now it makes sense.”

You raised a brow, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You guys are chronic overthinkers,” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. “And you guys aren’t? Please. Look at all the work you need to do just to get a simple solution. Two extra diagrams and four substitutions just to prove a particle moves left.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that had barely any edge–just enough sass to keep the playfulness alive. “Least if I took an engineering course, I’d still hit an 80 on the tests.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. Bold of you to assume you’d survive statics.”

Bob turned toward you a little more, raising an eyebrow, eyes glittering behind the faint reflection on his glasses. “I’d thrive in statics.”

“Oh, really?” you said, grinning now. “You think you would have a handle on it?” He cleared his throat lightly and gave you a soft smirk, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Maybe if I had the right tutor.” You blinked once. And then…Smiled.

He turned back to the board and finished the last line of the solution with a soft swipe of the marker.

“There,” He said, voice quieter again. “That’s how I did it.”

You stared at the board, then at him. The space between your shoulders eased a little. The knot in your chest began to loosen.

”Well…That’s one question down…At least I know where I went wrong…” Bob nodded, tapping the cap of the red marker softly against his palm.

“Let’s go to the next one.”

You reached over to flip the test packet to the next problem set, fingers skimming over the thin paper before tugging the top page aside. The math was already crowding your vision–variables stacked in tight lines, subscripts nestled between integrals and force vectors–and you let out a breath as you raised the black marker again.

He stepped back slightly to give you room, standing just behind and to your left. You could feel the warmth of him, the quiet energy he held so close to his chest, just skimming your shoulder. You swiped the board clean with the eraser in a few broad, practiced strokes until nothing remained but the faint sheen of leftover marker ghosting the surface.

“I’m gonna admit,” You started, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I winged this one. So I’m definitely not gonna have an explanation for it.”

Bob shrugged, unbothered. “Then solve it,” He said casually. “Or attempt to. I’ll guide if you need it.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone–something a little less guarded, a little more drawled than usual. A slight southern cadence that lilted through the last few words, soft but present, like a warm hush pulled from somewhere deeper than lecture hall confidence. You felt your cheeks heat slightly at the sound.

Still, you nodded. “Alright.”

You started from scratch–no notes, no copying, just your best attempt. The marker glided smoothly under your hand as you worked through the logic piece by piece, pausing every few steps to reassess. You murmured quietly to yourself as you went, instinctively talking through the math aloud, and Bob said nothing–just watched. You could feel his eyes trace the path your gaze took, from the top of your diagram down through the first few steps of your math. Then–

“Nope. Wrong,” He interrupted, it came gently but firmly.

You blinked at the board, your hand frozen mid-step, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why?”

He stepped forward again, lifting the red marker. He didn’t correct it for you–just circled one specific term, the ink smooth and patient.

“This,” He pointed out, “You forgot to convert the mass into angular components. You treated it like a point mass.”

Your stomach sank just slightly. Not out of shame, but frustration. You dipped your head and started erasing that line.

“Sorry,” You murmured, almost under your breath.

“No need to apologize,” Bob said immediately, softer now. “Though I’m hopin’ this stuff sinks in…”

Your eyebrows knit, and you turned your head a little toward him. “Do you think it won’t?”

He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders. “It takes a while to apply the theory. Knowing it in your head’s one thing…Applying it to a random question is something else…But being able to fix your own mistakes is the first step to understanding things a little better to apply things properly.” You nodded once, pressing your lips together. Then you went back to work, quieter now, more deliberate. He watched you fall into the rhythm of the solution again, only stepping back when you didn’t seem to need his guidance. You could feel his eyes flicking down toward the test for a second before he moved behind you.

You heard the soft scrape of his hand over the textbook as he grabbed it from your desk, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Pages whispered past each other as he navigated straight to the chapter you’d been tested on–like he’d memorized the structure without even meaning to. His eyes scanned the problems, fingers tapping the margin of the page as he skimmed.

By the time he turned back around, you were capping the black marker with a little sigh of effort. “I think I got it?”

Bob came closer again and tilted his head to read your work. His gaze moved from line to line, his mouth twitching just slightly before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” You caught the smile as it crept over his face–unfiltered this time, soft and a little proud. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before holding out the textbook toward you, with his thumb slipped between the pages.

“Try number twelve,” He said, the corner of his mouth still lifted. “New problem. Same concept. Let’s see what you remember.” Your eyes scanned the paragraph of setup–classic physics problem: rotating frame, non-uniform mass distribution, some sly attempt to catch overconfident students slipping past the conversion factor. You clicked your tongue once and let your focus shift back to the whiteboard, grabbing the green marker this time.

He watched you move–quiet, efficient, no hesitation as you picked apart the language of the question, breaking it into manageable parts. You leaned your hip against the desk just slightly, skin catching the late-afternoon light in the softest gleam. Your fingers danced over your phone screen, pulling up the calculator, thumb tapping with precise rhythm as your eyes flicked between the numbers and the formulas.

Bob didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring anymore.

There was a faint shimmer along your shoulder from where the light met your skin, a dewy glow from the shower that hadn’t fully faded. You were chewing softly on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed in concentration, and he thought–briefly, helplessly–that he could watch you solve problems forever if it meant watching you like this.

You didn’t say anything. Not for the full ten minutes it took you to work it through.

You just calculated, and wrote, and thought. You whispered a few fragments to yourself as you filled in a diagram at the top right corner of the board, then traced your logic through in smooth, deliberate steps. You stepped back finally, the marker hanging loosely from your fingers, your other hand planted lightly on your hip.

You turned slightly toward him.

“Well?” You asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Bob blinked–once, hard. Then blinked again.

“Right,” He replied quickly, moving forward, the textbook now tucked under one arm. He studied your work for a moment, leaning in just enough to squint at one portion of your substitutions. His lips pressed together.

“You did most of it right,” He murmured, pointing to a midsection of your math. “This part’s good…But you forgot to apply the correction here–” He tapped gently on a bracketed term near the top. “That throws the coefficient off. Still–partial credit would be earned. It’s not like you’d lose all the points.”

You let out a breath and nodded. “Got it.”

Bob uncapped the red marker again and leaned forward, elbow bent as he carefully scribbled a correction in the margin beside your step. His handwriting was still annoyingly neat, even in red, even when rushed. He talked you through it slowly, the pace gentle but firm, breaking down the terms like a translation instead of a reprimand.

Your arms crossed as you leaned against the edge of the desk, chin tilted toward him slightly. He didn’t rush, didn’t sound superior–he just…Taught. Like he wanted you to understand it, not just memorize it.

You smirked.

“You should become a professor with the way you teach.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder at you, an amused little tilt to his head. “Why? Am I boring you?”

You let out a real laugh this time, low and warm and amused. “No. Not yet, at least.”

He turned a little more to face you, one hand still holding the red marker.

“Don’t speak too soon,” He warned, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, boyish grin. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot more opportunities to do that.”

And even though the whiteboard still glowed behind him, filled with formulas and diagrams and half-solved questions, all you could see was the quiet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way his voice–soft, sincere–almost sounded like a promise.

————————

Bob’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced, binder long forgotten beside him on the bed.

You were pacing.

Again.

Back and forth in front of your desk, your physics textbook open in your hands like it might suddenly say something different if you glared hard enough at the chapter title.

“I don’t understand,” You huffed, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “We’ve been working through these questions almost every night for the past two weeks. I’m getting them very close to right when I do them here. I know what I’m doing on the whiteboard, I’m getting partial credit in class–but then I sit down during the quiz and it’s like…Like my brain just decides to take a smoke break.”

Bob watched you quietly from the bed, his gaze flicking down briefly as your shirt lifted with your movements. The hem rose just enough to show the waistband of the boxer shorts you’d thrown on after your shower, the edge of soft cotton skimming the top of your thighs as you turned in another sharp step.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just watched. Like he always did when you got worked up–like his stillness might balance out your storm.

You dropped the book onto your desk with a soft thud, dragging both hands through your hair before planting them on your hips in frustration.

“I mean, it’s ridiculous,” You muttered. “I can do it here. I’ve done it. You’ve seen me do it. What the hell happens between here and the classroom?” Bob leaned back slightly, hands now braced behind him against the bedspread, one leg bent, the other stretched long.

“Do you feel anxious when you’re writing the test?” He asked, tilting his head just a little.

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“It’s a normal amount of anxiety,” You said flatly. “What, are you about to tell me that’s why I’m still not doing well on quizzes? A little test stress?”

He shrugged, his lips quirking upward like he knew he was about to toe the line. “Could be,” He replied simply. “Or…Maybe you just need some kind of…Positive reinforcement.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Positive reinforcement?” You repeated slowly, curious and suspicious of how he was bringing up the topic.

He nodded, straight-faced. “Affirmations. Encouragement. Rewards. You know. Psychology stuff.” You crossed your arms, the motion slow and deliberate, as you turned fully to face him. Your hips settled just to one side, weight shifting into that slightly challenging posture–the kind that said you weren’t going to let this slide, but not in the way he should be afraid of. Your head tilted a little, eyes narrowed like you were sizing him up. Watching.

Noticing.

And God, was he blushing.

Not a violent flush, but that creeping kind–the kind that started at the tips of his ears and crawled slowly down the sides of his neck like embarrassment blooming from the inside out. He wasn’t meeting your gaze now. Just staring down at the binder on his lap, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the plastic like it had something important to say.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Took him in.

The soft slope of his shoulders where they leaned back into the pillow. The subtle indent his jaw made when he clenched it without meaning to. The flush of red creeping into his cheeks, all while trying to keep that composed, helpful tone–like he was still just your tutor and not someone who thought about kissing you when you leaned too close during derivatives.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then you spoke.

“So you’re trying to condition me?”

Bob’s head snapped up, and his eyes met yours–wide, startled, and already bracing for the tease he knew was coming. But then, to your surprise, he laughed. A real laugh. Short and soft and so genuine that it made the tips of his ears go even redder.

“N-No!” he said quickly, shaking his head, that lopsided smile overtaking his face. “Jesus–no, I wasn’t–conditioning you?”

You smirked, keeping your arms crossed like a challenge. “It kinda sounds like you’re conditioning me.”

He laughed again–this time accompanied by a quiet snort he couldn’t quite swallow down fast enough. It made your grin widen.

“I’m not trying to train you like a dog,” He commented, wiping a hand down his face with mock-exhaustion. “I just meant…If you associate physics with something good, maybe your brain will stop freaking out every time you’re handed a test.”

You blinked at him once. Raised an eyebrow.

“So…” You started, slowly, carefully, “You’re trying to open my third eye for physics?”

Bob looked at you. Deadpan. “That’s not what I said.”

You stepped closer, a teasing lilt curling into your voice now as you gestured with one hand. “No, no, I think that’s exactly what you said. You want me to transcend. Find academic Nirvana through external praise.” He rolled his eyes.

”Okay. Now you’re just twisting my words.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Am I?” You grinned. He gave you a look. A very Bob look. One part fond, one part I walked into this with my eyes wide open and it’s too late to leave now. But the pink still hadn’t faded from his cheeks.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk again, bare thighs catching the warm glow of your desk lamp, watching the way Bob’s eyes flicked toward your legs and then immediately back up again.

“Alright, Professor Floyd,” You said lightly, “I’ll bite. What kind of positive reinforcement are we talking about here? You handing out gold stars? Stickers? Should I bring a report card for you to sign?” Bob cleared his throat. It was soft but unmistakable. A nervous reflex that made him sit up a little straighter on your bed, one hand rising to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they hadn’t really slipped.

“I mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on some distant point above your shoulder. “I was thinking more like…A kiss.” Your entire body stilled, hands still loosely clasped in front of you from your teasing posture, your weight half-shifted against the desk. A beat passed–just long enough to wonder if you’d misheard him. But then his eyes flicked back to yours, just for a second, and the heat in his gaze made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t said exactly what you thought he did.

You could feel your cheeks warm–instantly, helplessly–heat blooming beneath your skin like it had been waiting for the right moment to spill forward. But you masked it with a slow raise of your eyebrows and a smirk, playful but laced with that sharp new curiosity curling low in your gut.

“Yeah?” You said, voice softer now. You shifted your weight and tilted your head. “A kiss? That’s what you had in mind?”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the space beside your head before dropping to the floor–then back up to you, like he was trying not to look too long but couldn’t help it. He shifted on the mattress, fingers brushing over the edge of the binder like he needed something to hold onto. “I-I mean…It was just an idea. One of…Several.”

You stepped closer.

“Is that what you’ve had in mind this entire time?” You questioned, voice low, the smile on your lips laced with something sweeter now–teasing, but sincere. “Kissing me?”

Bob let out a nervous little laugh, breath catching as he tried to string together a reply. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the binder now, eyes flicking toward your legs again before jerking back up to your face.

“I–no, I mean, not… I never really got that idea till today,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought—I don’t know. It might help.”

You took another step forward.

“You sure about that?” you asked, the words curling in your throat like heat, low and just a little amused. Now you were standing directly in front of him, and the change in height made it impossible not to notice how he looked up at you–head tilted back slightly, wide blue eyes tracking your every move. His glasses slid a fraction down his nose, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to fix them.

His mouth opened and closed once before he found his voice. “I personally…Think it might work,” He murmured.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips–soft, parted slightly, flushed–and then back to his eyes. He was blinking slow now, like your presence this close was physically slowing his thoughts.

You bit your lip. Slowly. Purposefully.

“So you’re telling me,” You said, almost whispering now, “That you want to reward me with kisses…Whenever I get a question right?”

Bob exhaled through his nose. His legs had parted slightly where he sat, not intentionally–but enough to suggest his body was reacting faster than his brain. He nodded once, tentative but clear. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

“I could…Do a whole lot more than kisses,” He said.

The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Like he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the binder, his spine curving slightly forward as if he could fold himself up to hide from the boldness that had just escaped him.

Your breath caught–just barely–and something about the way he said it, almost reverent, almost pleading, sent a shiver down your spine. You watched his throat work, his chest rising and falling in subtle, shaky breaths.

He wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing you back with confidence.

He wanted you.

Desperately.

You leaned in, closing that last bit of space between your knees and the edge of the bed until your thighs brushed his. The binder slid from his lap onto the comforter with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice warm, velvety, almost indulgent. “You think you could do more?” Bob nodded, slowly–eyes wide, lips parted, breath coming a little uneven now, fanning over your face.

“If you’d let me,” He said quietly, “I’d do anything.”

The words landed between you like a weight, heavy with longing, trembling with truth.

And you believed him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t flirt to win. He offered, quietly, completely–like giving a piece of himself to someone felt holy.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up, instinct carrying you as you lifted them slowly–deliberately–and rested them against the sides of his neck.

He was warm.

The kind of warmth that radiated from beneath the skin, the kind that felt like it could seep into your palms and settle somewhere inside your chest if you let it. His skin was soft under your thumbs, his pulse fluttering just beneath one, and when your fingers brushed lightly over the edge of his jaw, you felt the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Bob stilled.

Completely.

The kind of stillness that only came when something sacred was happening–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the moment by breathing too loud.

And then you leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow–measured. Confident in the space he’d given you. Confident in the way his knees shifted to make room for you between them, in the way his lips had parted already, waiting, hoping.

Your nose brushed his cheek softly. His glasses tilted just slightly from the nudge, slipping down the bridge of his nose in a slow, unbothered drift. You felt the ghost of his breath over your mouth, shaky and warm, and then–

You kissed him.

Gently. Just once. Lips pressed to his like the start of a sentence that would take its time to finish.

Bob breathed into it–exhaled a soft, shuddering hum from the back of his throat that vibrated against your mouth. His hands came up slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to assume. But then they settled–one sliding to your lower back, warm and careful, the other ghosting over your hip before stilling there.

And then he kissed you back.

Really kissed you.

Slow at first. So slow it made your knees weak.

He lingered on your upper lip, plush and steady, then pulled back half an inch and tilted–just enough to brush your bottom lip between his with soft, seeking pressure. His lips moved with purpose, not urgency. Thoughtful. Intent. Like he wanted to memorize you in pieces, to map the shape of your mouth one breath at a time.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into him–a quiet, pleased little “mmm”–and he kissed you again like he needed to drink it in. His thumb pressed lightly against the small of your back, grounding him, grounding you. Every motion of his mouth was reverent, restrained, and dripping with a kind of intimacy that made your skin burn.

You pulled back just an inch–lips brushing his, breath warm between you.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. His pupils were blown wide behind his fogged glasses, lips pink and slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with careful, controlled breaths. He looked dazed. Unmoored.

You smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile, and let your thumbs brush the sides of his jaw.

“Better go get the next question right, huh?” You whispered, teasing but breathless. “Gotta meet my end of the bargain.”

And just as you started to pull back, maybe to reach for the marker again, maybe to hide the way your heart was slamming against your ribs like a drum–

Bob’s hand on your lower back pressed just slightly.

“Wait,” He murmured, voice low and husky now. “How about we suspend the studying for now?”

The words came quiet. Careful. But you could hear the edge beneath them–that hunger he’d tried so hard to suppress now curling softly around the syllables.

You arched an eyebrow at him, still close enough that your noses brushed.

“Hmm…” You started, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Now you’re just going to end up distracting me.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth. Then back up.

You ran a finger gently down the side of his neck, your voice warm and teasing.

“Let’s stick to the plan…” Bob exhaled slowly. Like it took everything in him not to pull you back in.

His hands didn’t move. But he nodded.

Barely.

And when you stepped away and turned toward the whiteboard again, you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing after you–like he was trying to sear every inch of the moment into memory.

———————

By the second correct answer, you were setting a timer for yourselves.

Ten minutes. That was the new rule.

Ten minutes per problem, per kiss. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Because the last time you’d leaned in for one–intended to be short, controlled, just enough to make good on the deal–you’d ended up in his lap. His hands had slipped under your shirt almost instinctively, like they knew where to go before he consciously gave them permission. And when his palms flattened against the small of your back, warm and strong and bare, your breath had hitched in a way that surprised you.

Not because it was too much.

But because it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been needing.

His fingers pressed into your skin–not harshly, not possessively, just enough to ground you. Like he couldn’t believe he was touching you and needed to memorize the shape of your body with his hands before you slipped away again. You’d gasped into his mouth, not even meaning to, and felt him inhale like the sound had gone straight to his chest.

And then you kissed him harder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wrecking the neatness of it with the kind of carelessness that only came when heat outweighed hesitation. You pulled, just a little–testing, exploring–and he moaned softly against your lips like it cracked him open. His glasses were crooked by then, fogged from your shared breaths, and neither of you bothered fixing them. The world could stay blurry if it meant this stayed sharp.

Somewhere in the haze, Bob’s shirt had come off. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate. It had just…Happened. One minute your hands were sliding beneath the hem, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that lined his stomach, and the next, the shirt was gone. Flung off to the side without a single graceful motion. You hadn’t even looked where it landed.

He was solid beneath you. Not chiseled in a gym-rat kind of way, but strong in that natural, everyday way. Like he was built for work. His skin was sun-warmed with just a pinch of colour, a faint line of tan cutting across the middle of his arms where T-shirts always stopped. You touched him like he might disappear. He held you like he never wanted you to.

And God…He was good.

Surprisingly good.

Not in the way of someone who practiced, but someone who paid attention. Someone who kissed with focus. With reverence. Like your mouth was an answer he’d been solving toward for weeks. He kissed like he studied–slow, thorough, intentional. His tongue was gentle at first, coaxing. His teeth grazed your lip once, barely, and you swore you could feel it in your spine. When he kissed you the second time–after the next problem, when your timer dinged again–you already knew it wasn’t going to stay brief.

And it didn’t.

He pulled you in with hands that were just slightly rough from calluses and pencil grooves, fingers curling tight around your waist, your ribs, like he needed to feel you under his hands. And when he slipped those same fingers under the hem of your shirt again—this time slower, surer–you let him. You wanted him to. His touch wasn’t greedy. It was searching. Savoring. Like he was learning every inch of you the way he learned his formulas.

And you didn’t realize how touch-starved you’d been until then.

Until the heat of his hand met the curve of your spine, and you arched into him like your body had been waiting for permission. Until he kissed down the side of your jaw, slowly, reverently, and you felt the hum of it in your chest. Until your own hand traced the broad slope of his shoulder, down over the rise and fall of his ribs, and found nothing but steady strength and gentle restraint.

You didn’t say it out loud–but he could feel it.

The hunger in the way you kissed him. The gratitude in the way your hands explored him. The desperate edge that slipped into your breath every time you whispered his name between kisses like it wasn’t something you’d meant to do.

And maybe it wasn’t about physics anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

Because as Bob pulled back, breathless and flushed, his glasses still askew and hair mussed into soft waves from your fingers pulling and tightening, he looked at you like you’d changed something fundamental inside him. Like you’d opened a door he didn’t know was locked. Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Your timer buzzed again in the background. Neither of you moved.

“…You got that one right,” He whispered, lips brushing your cheek “Think you deserve…A break.” You let out a breathless little laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the aftermath of the last kiss. Your hair was a bit mussed from his hands, your lips slightly swollen from the soft, reverent press of his mouth–and you were dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the way he looked at you.

“Bob…” You murmured, voice playful, warm, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got some sort of ulterior motive.” Bob, still slightly breathless, hand still planted firm and reverent on your thigh, sat back just a little. Enough to give you a look. One of those boyish, guilty-but-not-really guilty grins that curled slow at the edges and made your heart skip.

He pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

“Me?” He said, lips twitching. “No…Definitely no ulterior motives here. I’m just…” He leaned in again, close enough for his breath to dance against your jaw, “Trying to do something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Your brows lifted, pulse tripping.

“Oh?” You murmured, teasing but curious. “And what’s that?” He pressed a kiss to your jaw–so gentle it nearly didn’t register as a kiss at all. Just warmth. Just intent. Then another, lower, slower, right beneath the curve of your ear. And then:

“Going down on you,” He whispered.

The words landed hot, like they’d been spoken directly into your bloodstream.

Your breath hitched audibly. You swore you could feel your pulse flutter in places you didn’t think could react to words alone. Heat pooled low in your stomach like syrup spilling into something hollow. Still, you managed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, voice tightening as you tilted your head to look at him again.

“Now I need to know,” You said, fingers threading back into his hair, “How long you’ve been thinking about that.” Bob let out a soft laugh, one hand splaying open against your hip, the other bracing himself still, like he needed to keep steady before he admitted anything to you. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time–each inch of skin passed over with the kind of devotion that said this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment confession.

And when he reached the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hung loose from earlier tugging, he nosed at it gently. Not greedy. Just wanting more.

You tugged lightly on his hair, not to stop him, but to coax him to pause–just enough to get him to look up.

“Hey,” You said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours–blue and wide and already glassy with the weight of how badly he wanted you. And then his face turned a shade deeper, that telltale blush painting up his cheeks and crawling behind his ears.

“Since…” He paused, like the words were too embarrassing to say. “Since the first day of class. When you came in late…Dressed in that skirt.”

You blinked, lips parting slowly.

“The black one?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your mouth like it might give him the courage to keep talking.

“It rode up just a little when you walked past. And you sat a few seats down and didn’t look at me once. And I–” He broke off for a second, laughing nervously. “I dropped my pencil because of how you smelled and how your legs looked and because you didn’t even notice me looking.”

You stared at him.

Then grinned, slow and wicked.

“Well,” You murmured, leaning in again until your lips were just barely brushing his, “Guess it’s a good thing you’re getting your chance now.” Bob exhaled a shaky breath–one of awe, of disbelief, of absolutely overwhelmed want.

And then he kissed you again.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Your lips opened beneath his without hesitation this time, and he drank in the permission like it was oxygen–his hands curling tighter around the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You gasped softly against his mouth as your knees bent around him, your weight settling against the solid warmth of his thighs, your hands sliding up the broad slope of his bare shoulders.

He kissed you like he’d waited for this.

Like every moment you’d spent leaning over equations, brushing fingertips, trading teasing words had led to this exact point–and now he had you here, soft and open in his lap, your legs bare and warm against denim, your breath stuttering into his mouth every time he tugged you closer.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt again, palms hot against your back, and this time he didn’t hesitate. The fabric peeled upward in one smooth motion–up, over your ribs, brushing your chest–until you lifted your arms and let him tug it off completely. He tossed it somewhere behind you, neither of you looking to see where it landed.

His eyes dropped.

The moment he saw what you were wearing underneath, his breath hitched—and for a second, he didn’t move. A soft cotton sports bra in a worn, dusky pink–simple, comfortable, a little faded from wash after wash–but the way it hugged you? The way it molded to the curve of your breasts, straps digging gently into your warm skin?

Bob Floyd looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

He swallowed once. Then again. His glasses had slipped slightly lower on his nose, giving him that boyish, dazed expression he got whenever something completely wrecked his train of thought. You watched his eyes trail over you, caught between reverence and want, and then–

He hummed. A soft, breathy sound from deep in his chest. Something unfiltered. Something warm.

Then he looked back up at you.

And kissed you again.

His hands gripped your hips now, anchoring you down in his lap like he didn’t want you to shift an inch. He kissed you harder–open-mouthed, deep, letting out a quiet groan as your hips rocked forward ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just let the noise fall between you, ragged and raw, swallowing your gasp as he shifted his grip and guided you until your back hit the mattress.

The room spun gently with the motion, soft yellow light from the lamp catching in the lenses of his glasses as he leaned over you. His body followed—broad shoulders, warm bare chest pressing down as he settled between your legs. He braced his hands on either side of your ribcage, framing you like a question he couldn’t stop asking. His eyes searched your face for just a second, but you nodded–softly, wordlessly–already reaching for him again.

He dipped his head.

Kissed your throat.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He took his time.

Every press of his lips trailed down the line of your collarbone, across the top swell of your breasts where the fabric cut gently across your skin. His glasses slipped again, nearly falling off–but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even lift a hand to adjust them. He kissed you through the blur, lips brushing the tops of your breasts like they were something sacred.

You let out a quiet sound–half gasp, half moan–and threaded your fingers into his hair again. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin as he groaned softly against you.

“Are you always this sensual?” you whispered, voice thick, dazed, breathless.

Bob let out a quiet sigh, like your question made something in him ease and deepen at the same time.

“Let’s just say I love giving…” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest. “…A lot.”

The way he said it–low, quiet, honest–made your legs clench involuntarily around his waist. Your mind flooded with images far too filthy for someone as sweet as Bob Floyd to inspire.

But then again, the way he looked right now–glasses fogging, lips red and glistening, his chest moving in slow, hungry waves with every breath–maybe he wasn’t that sweet after all.

His fingers reached for the thin straps of your bra.

“Hope you don’t mind,” He whispered against your skin, lips still pressing hot kisses between every word.

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t mind at all…”

With a reverent kind of care, he slipped the straps off your shoulders. One. Then the other. His fingers brushed your arms on the way down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your skin like he was memorizing it. Then–slowly, carefully–he tugged the fabric down, baring you to him inch by inch.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts, soft and flushed from heat and touch, rose with every breath you took. Bob didn’t reach for you right away. He just…Looked. Let himself take it in. His hands slid up your sides again–rougher now, purposeful–and when they cupped the curve beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushed upward, stroking slowly until your nipples tightened under the attention.

His glasses fogged completely.

Still, he didn’t take them off.

He leaned in and kissed the soft mound of your left breast, then your right, each kiss dragging slower than the last. His lips were gentle, his hands firm, and when he finally brushed the tip of his tongue over your nipple, your hips bucked without warning.

“God,” You whispered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. Bob just smiled. Quietly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, lips hovering just over your nipple again, breath warm and teasing.

You shook your head slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. “I call it anticipation.”

His low laugh rumbled against your skin. “Didn’t know we were calling it that now… but okay.”

Then he kissed you again–this time firmer, lips wrapping around your nipple with a slow, aching pull that made your hips twitch beneath him. His tongue was wet and warm, lapping slow circles around the soft peak before closing over it again, sucking just a little deeper now–just enough to make you moan quietly, enough to send a thrum straight between your thighs.

His hands didn’t stop, either–broad palms sliding up and down the sides of your ribcage, thumbs sweeping in careful, reverent passes. He alternated between breasts with the same kind of concentration you’d seen in study sessions: deliberate, measured, like he was solving you.

And when he finally pulled away, lips red and glistening from worship, he blew a soft, chilled stream of air across your saliva-slick nipple–then the other.

Your entire body arched. He watched it happen with wide eyes, completely entranced.

Then–without a word–you sat up.

He blinked in surprise, hands still resting on your sides as you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra the rest of the way, slipping the fabric down your arms and flinging it off the bed. The second it landed somewhere behind you, you laid back down–bare, flushed, and completely open.

Bob’s breath hitched hard. His glasses had slipped lower again, fogged beyond all reason now, and he still hadn’t touched them. He didn’t even seem aware of the state he was in–just that you were laid out beneath him, chest rising in unsteady waves, eyes soft but daring.

He exhaled shakily.

And then he moved lower.

He kissed the center of your sternum once, then again, trailing down past your navel with slow, reverent care. When he reached the waistband of your boxer shorts, he paused. His hands came to rest just above your hips, fingers curling slightly under the band.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark behind the silver frames.

You nodded–slow, sure.

That was all he needed.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch. Then another. Just enough to reveal the top of your hips, the soft line of your lower stomach. His lips followed–kissing each inch as it was exposed, trailing warmth into places that had never felt this kind of attention before. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air made your thighs twitch, and he hummed softly against your skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” He whispered. “You don’t even know, do you…”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Your fingers were tangled in the sheets again, breath catching every time his lips brushed lower, every time he said something in that breathless, reverent voice that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time.

When he reached the base of your hips, he gave the waistband a firmer tug, and you lifted your hips to help him–knees bending slightly, thighs parting as he pulled the shorts down your legs. He slid them off with practiced care, and you watched as he tossed them aside with the same nonchalance he’d flung his shirt–like every barrier between you was one more step toward something sacred.

He paused there.

Just knelt between your legs for a second, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needed to anchor himself before continuing. Then–without saying anything–he pushed your thighs up gently, spreading you open just enough.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee.

You gasped.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. A promise. His lips lingered there for a second, and then they moved–trailing up the inside of your thigh in slow, wet presses, each one firmer than the last.

“You’ve got no idea,” He murmured against your skin. “How long I’ve wanted to do this… How many times I’ve imagined being between your thighs just like this…”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your inner thigh, and your hips jerked slightly at the contact. He didn’t move away. Just kissed the spot he’d grazed. Then again. Higher this time.

“Wanted to take my time with you,” He whispered, voice low, breath hot. “Make sure you know what it feels like when someone actually wants to do this…” Your hands gripped the comforter.

“I want to hear the way you sound when it’s good. When it’s real. When it’s slow…”

He kissed the top of your inner thigh–right at the edge of where you needed him most.

Then, finally, he glanced up–his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth slick with his saliva and swollen.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” He said softly. “You’ll never forget it.”

His tongue moved with devastating precision–slow, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He started with a kiss-low, just at the edge of your folds, then dragged his tongue up in one long, warm stripe that made your legs twitch. You gasped, hands flying instinctively to his hair as he groaned into you, deep and low, like he’d been starving for this.

“Jesus–Bob–” You whispered, voice cracking on the edge of a moan.

He didn’t answer. Just licked you again, slower this time, tongue flattening against you with such gentleness it made your stomach tighten. Then he did it again. And again. Until the room dissolved into heat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of him eating you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

He used his mouth like a worshipper—like this wasn’t about getting you off, but about tasting everything he’d been dreaming of for weeks. He kissed your clit softly at first, then circled it with his tongue—just enough pressure to make you cry out, just enough to leave you chasing more. Your hips rocked against his mouth before you could stop them, and instead of pulling back, he moaned again, deeper this time, and grabbed your thighs—holding you open like a man possessed.

His fingers dug gently into your hips as he sucked on you now, lips wrapped around your clit with wet, deliberate pulls. His glasses were fogged beyond saving, the lenses glinting in the dorm light as they slipped further down his nose. He didn’t stop. Didn’t lift his head once. Just kept tasting and kissing and groaning like your body was the only thing he needed to study for the rest of his life.

You whimpered.

“F-Fuck, Bob–too good–”

That finally earned a reaction. He groaned again, louder, like your words were gasoline, and then–God–he slipped two fingers between your thighs, slick with your arousal, and pushed them in with a slow, practiced ease.

Your back arched.

The stretch was perfect. His fingers curled immediately, searching for that spot–and finding it like he’d mapped it out ahead of time. His mouth never left your clit, tongue flicking faster now, suction intensifying just slightly, just enough to send a full-body tremor through you.

“C’mon,” He murmured between strokes, voice ragged, lips brushing against you with every syllable. “That’s it… Just like that. Let me hear you.”

You did.

You let go of any remaining shred of restraint and moaned–loud, broken, lost to the rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth. Your thighs shook, your body tightening, unraveling. The dorm room felt like it might dissolve around you.

“G-Gonna–”

“I know,” he whispered, breath hot, eyes glassy as he looked up at you from between your thighs. “Go ahead. I got you.”

And then he did something devastating.

He sucked harder.

Curled his fingers deeper.

And moaned into you like your orgasm was his reward.

You shattered.

Your hands clutched his hair, your legs tensed around his head, and your breath broke into a stuttering cry as he licked you through it–never stopping, never letting up. He worshipped you all the way through your high, his mouth messy, eager, lips slick with you as he kept kissing, kept groaning, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, panting, spent–he didn’t move right away.

He kissed your inner thigh.

Then again. And again.

Then trailed up your body with soft, slow presses of his mouth, leaving a trail of your own taste on his lips as he made his way back up. His chest hovered over yours, his weight warm and solid, and when he finally kissed your mouth again–full and deep–you could taste yourself on his tongue.

And he let you.

Let you feel it.

Let you know exactly what he’d just done to you.

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering above you, mouth swollen from all the work he had done, lips slightly parted. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way–hair mussed from your fingers, flushed cheeks, chest rising with the weight of restraint.

Then, like a flicker of light through the haze, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

You laughed too–soft, breathless, dazed–your palm dragging slowly down his bare chest before reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose. The lenses had slipped almost entirely off his face, smudged and misted at the edges. You caught the little fingerprints and streaks near the bottom and smiled, chest still heaving slightly as you murmured:

“Where…The hell did you learn that?”

Bob’s laugh deepened this time, short and warm, his entire face flushing deeper crimson. He covered his face with one hand for a second, then dropped it to your waist, eyes shining with both amusement and bashfulness.

“From…My past partners?” He said, half like a question, half like a confession. “I told you I’m a giver. I may look timid but…As you can tell, I know my stuff.”

You grinned, your heart skipping at how proud–but still modest–he sounded. You leaned up, catching his mouth in another kiss, slower now, languid. He hummed against your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands pulled you just a little closer.

“Bit surprising,” you whispered against his mouth.

He nodded, kissing you again, hands smoothing down your sides. “I know.”

And it would’ve stayed gentle, dreamy, lazy like that–until your hand drifted between your bodies.

You hadn’t been trying to tease. Not really. But when your palm brushed over the thick bulge in his jeans, the way his breath hitched immediately had you curling your fingers lightly around him, just enough to feel the weight of him. The heat. The hardness pressing insistently behind the denim.

You smiled, eyes soft but mischievous. “Your turn?”

But to your surprise, Bob flinched—barely, but it was there. His hand caught your wrist gently, not to push you away, but to pause.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You blinked, your palm still resting against him. “What?” You tilted your head. “You don’t… even want to have sex?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, eyes darting to yours before lowering again. “I just…It’s really okay. You don’t have to.”

You sat up slightly, just enough to bring your faces closer again, concern slipping behind your smile.

“Are you…” Your voice gentle. “Are you nervous?”

His lashes fluttered. A breath stalled in his throat. And that was all the answer you needed.

You reached for his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. His skin was hot, his jaw tight, but he leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“Bob,” You said softly, a smile curling into your voice. “How can you be nervous after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life?”

That made his eyes shoot open–just a little. You watched his expression shift. Like he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Like praise landed harder than touch ever could.

“Seriously,” you continued, your voice warm and slow, “That was unreal. No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like they wanted to. Not like they were…Memorizing it.”

His mouth parted. You didn’t miss the way his breath trembled now. His hips shifted slightly against yours, and when you glanced down, you could see he was getting harder from your words alone.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “You’re incredible, Bob.”

A sound left him–barely a sound, more of a low exhale, like it physically knocked something loose in him. His hand tightened slightly on your waist.

“You made me feel so good,” You whispered. “Safe. Wanted. Perfect.”

His eyes closed, lips parting with a shaky breath, and his hips rolled the tiniest bit into your palm. You could feel how much he wanted it now. How much he wanted you. He just hadn’t known if he was allowed.

And God, the way he responded to praise–it made something ache inside you.

Your foreheads rested together, breath shared in the quiet space between words, between heartbeats.

“Let’s do it together, hm?” You murmured, your voice warm and coaxing–softened with affection, laced with intent.

Bob let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, and his lips brushed yours as he smiled. “Okay.”

The word was nearly a whisper, but it carried weight–an unspoken trust folding itself into the syllables.

You leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the button of his jeans. He inhaled, shaky and quiet, watching you as you popped it open, then tugged the zipper down. The sound broke the hush of the room, loud in the stillness.

Bob shifted, lifting himself up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband. He wriggled out of his jeans with a little bit of awkwardness, and when the denim bunched at his ankles, he kicked them off with a grunt.

You both laughed. Low and breathless, the kind of laughter that came when something was too intimate not to be a little bit funny.

His glasses slid further down his nose.

“Sexy,” You teased, bumping your knee gently against his side.

He rolled his eyes–blushing, flustered, but grinning–and settled back between your thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of your hips now. The closeness allowed you a better view of him, and you didn’t waste the opportunity.

Your gaze drifted downward. His boxer briefs were tented–straining. You could see the thick outline of him pressed against the fabric, the darkened patch of wetness at the tip where he was already leaking.

Your hand slid slowly down the middle of his torso–over the soft rise and fall of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle, the trail of hair beneath his navel. Bob held perfectly still, his breath shallow, watching you.

When your fingers ghosted along the inside of his waistband, just above the swell of him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Tease,” He muttered, voice tight.

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you slid your fingers a little deeper. Tugged the fabric down just enough to expose him.

He sprang free with a soft, needy sound escaping his throat.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He was…Big. Thick, flushed, already glistening with precum. The head was ruddy and swollen, shiny with need, and your stomach fluttered at the realization that he’d gotten like this just from pleasuring you.

He looked desperate.

You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, your palm sliding up his length with soft pressure. His breath hitched immediately, head tilting back slightly. His glasses slid another fraction down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them–just closed his eyes for a moment, his chest lifting in a shallow, shivering inhale.

You stroked him again–long, slow, deliberate. Your grip was just firm enough to make him twitch, your thumb swiping over the slick bead at his tip.

His hips bucked. He gasped, and then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sensitive?” you murmured, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

Bob’s head dropped forward a bit, cheeks flushed to hell. His voice cracked slightly.

“N-no…Anticipation.” He corrected jokingly, using your own words against you.

You laughed softly. So did he.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept stroking him, slow and sensual, your hand gliding up and down the length of him, savoring every tremble in his thighs, every shift in his breath, every twitch of his fingers against the mattress beside you. He was fully braced now, arms trembling slightly as he rocked into your touch.

His voice came out thin, frayed at the edges.

“I’m really…Really not gonna last if you keep doing that, and…” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper, “And I really do want to have sex with you…”

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

You leaned up slowly, hand still wrapped around him, lips brushing his ear.

“No need to beg…” You whispered, voice thick with heat. “But if you want to come inside me, Bob…Then you better hurry up and get these off.”

His whole body jolted.

A groan–low, raw, helpless–escaped him.

His boxer briefs were gone a second later. Pushed down and kicked away without a single thought, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance.

He came back over you with reverent slowness–climbing the length of your body like he was rediscovering it inch by inch.

His bare chest skimmed yours, warm and solid. His hips dipped low, the hard length of him brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“God,” he whispered, voice raw as his lips brushed against your neck. “You feel so good already.”

You arched into him just slightly, your hands finding his shoulders–broad and warm beneath your palms, still trembling faintly from restraint. His glasses were fogging again, slipping lower, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t care.

He kissed the side of your neck.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek–lingering there with a kind of gentleness that made your stomach twist.

And then he kissed your mouth again. Slow. Sweet. Deep.

You moaned softly into him.

The tops of his thighs pressed flush to the backs of yours now, his cock resting heavily between your legs–leaking precum that smeared slightly against your inner thigh as he shifted to fit himself against you perfectly.

His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it, thumb stroking lightly against your skin as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You sure?” He asked softly, voice shaking with the weight of everything he was holding in. His eyes searched yours, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

You nodded. Slow. Certain.

“I’m sure,” You whispered. He let out a shaky breath, then he reached down between the both of you, eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the warm glide of his knuckles against your folds first, then the soft, slick drag of his cock as he slowly ran the tip of himself through your arousal.

Your breath caught.

He swirled it over your clit once, twice–just enough to make your thighs twitch.

And God, the way he looked at you while he did it.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Worship written into every line of his face, made you feel dizzy.

“You’re so wet,” He murmured. “You feel…Unreal.” You whimpered, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your other hand wrapped tighter around his bicep.

“Bob…” You whispered, voice already trembling. “Please.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips–soft and slow and steady.

Then–finally–he began to push in.

You both moaned.

The stretch hit immediately, slow and burning, a delicious ache that made your spine arch and your mouth fall open.

“F-fuck,” Bob gasped, his forehead dropping briefly to yours as he sank in inch by inch. “God, you’re–you’re so tight. So warm. You feel so good…Wow…” Your hips shifted, trying to take more, and his hands immediately gripped your thighs, grounding you.

“Easy,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I got you. Just breathe.”

You nodded, your head swimming.

He pushed deeper.

You could feel every inch–every throb of him, every shudder in his breath as your walls stretched around him.

“Just like that,” He murmured. “Doing so good. Taking me so well.” You whimpered, and the sound cracked open something in him.

“You like that?” He whispered, kissing your cheek again, his hips rolling just the slightest bit deeper. “You like hearing how perfect you feel around me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes, Bob–keep talking–please–”

“Fuck,” He breathed, his voice breaking again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He rocked forward the last inch with a soft, helpless moan. Your body trembled beneath his as you adjusted, your thighs hugging his hips, your hands gripping him tightly. Bob groaned into your neck, voice ragged.

“God…You’re perfect. I swear, you’re–Jesus, I don’t even know how to describe this–” You turned your head, catching his mouth again in a deep, desperate kiss. You could feel him trembling above you, his muscles taut, breath stuttering with the effort of staying still.

“You feel so fucking good, Bob–so full–so deep–” His breath hitched.

“Say that again,” He whimpered, “Please.”

You kissed his neck, your voice thick with heat.

“You fill me up so good…God it feels amazing.” Bob let out a deep moan.

Then he began to move.

Just a tiny thrust at first–barely pulling out before pressing back in, the friction slow and hot and devastating.

Your mouth fell open.

His lips ghosted over your cheek as he whispered, “Gonna make you come on me just like this…” Your back arched at the words, your cheek bumping against his glasses. “You like the sound of that?” He added. Your fingers curled into his shoulder blades, nails dragging softly over warm skin as you nodded, breath catching on a moan.

“Yes…Yes, please.”

The quiet plea cracked something open in him.

He kissed you again–mouth hot, searching, needier this time–and his hips began to move.

Slow at first.

A deep roll forward, dragging his length out almost completely before easing back in, the friction molten, smooth, aching. You gasped into his mouth, your body lifting slightly to meet the next thrust. Bob groaned–low and husky–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, glasses fogging up again from your breath. Still, he didn’t take them off. He looked wrecked. Gorgeous. Reverent.

“God, you feel…” He whispered, voice thick and ruined as he rocked into you again, a little harder this time, “So good…So tight around me, baby–oh god.” Your breath stuttered. The nickname, unintentional or not, hit low and warm and made you clench involuntarily around him.

He felt it.

He swore softly–“Jesus”–and dropped his head to your shoulder, the next thrust coming sharper, more instinctual.

Your hands roamed—up his back, over the rise of his shoulders, down to his hips where your fingers dug in just slightly. He kissed your neck between thrusts, then bit gently just beneath your ear, and the second his teeth grazed your skin, you gasped.

Your body clenched again.

Bob moaned, full and broken.

“Fuck, that–You like that?” He murmured, voice hot and desperate against your ear. “You like when I do that?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered, trembling, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so good, Bob…You’re hitting every part of me.”

He groaned–long, low, filthy in how soft it sounded. His hips began to move faster now, deeper, each thrust dragging a moan from your throat, and his hands slid beneath your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist so he could sink in even further.

“God, you’re perfect,” He praised. “You’re so perfect for me. Every inch of you–I swear–fuck–”

Your head fell back against the pillow. You were gasping now, barely able to respond, but you tried. You wanted him to hear it. You wanted him to know.

“You’re so good at this,” You panted, voice trembling. “So good at making me feel good–God, you’re incredible, Bob–”

His whole body stilled for half a second, as if praise struck something too deep.

Then he moved faster.

A rougher thrust–still controlled, still measured, but heavier now, thicker with want. He let out a moan against your neck, raw and hot, and your back arched at the sound.

You could feel him everywhere–his chest brushing yours, his lips at your throat, his hands gripping you tight like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

You cried out, hips lifting into his, clenching around him with every thick, slick stroke. He felt it. Groaned again. Slid one hand up your body to cradle the side of your face.

“Look at me,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You did.

And the second your eyes locked, his pace stuttered–just for a heartbeat–like the sight of you, soft and dazed and open beneath him, was enough to make him lose rhythm.

Then he started thrusting again. Deep. Steady. Hot.

“I want you to come on me,” He whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “I want to feel you come again–want to hear how good it feels.”

Your lips parted. Your thighs trembled.

“Bob,” You gasped, desperate now. “You’re so good–please don’t stop–please–”

He kissed you again. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and breath and heat. His thrusts got heavier, faster, until you could feel your climax curling up your spine like a fuse.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He murmured, hips stuttering with restraint. “I can feel it, baby… You’re so tight–so fucking wet–come for me–please–“

You shattered.

With a cry that broke in the middle, your walls clenched around him, waves of heat and release rolling through you so hard your vision blurred. Bob moaned your name–ragged, reverent–thrusting into you a few more times before he groaned loud against your shoulder and came with a shuddering, broken gasp. Bob’s entire body tensed as he came–his cock pulsing deep inside you, hips stuttering against yours in involuntary thrusts as thick, hot ropes of cum filled you.

You felt everything.

The way his muscles tensed above you, taut and trembling. The low, broken sound he made as he buried his face in your neck. The way his arms curled tighter around your waist like he needed to hold onto something to stay connected to consciousness

“F-Fuck,” He choked out, hips giving one more weak, slow push. His release was hot and endless, spreading warmth low in your belly as his body finally started to give in. His breathing was ragged, the heat of it ghosting over your skin. He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t move at all for a long moment.

Just slumped forward, his bare chest sticky against yours, the last tremors of orgasm still rolling through him. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, and you felt him exhale with all the weight of a man undone.

Even the frames of his glasses were warm.

You let your arms slide around his back, hands splayed wide across the muscles there, sticky with sweat, anchoring you both. The only sounds in the room were your shallow, echoing breaths, and the soft hum of a distant hallway light buzzing just outside your dorm door.

Bob’s weight against you felt right. Heavy in the best way. Settled. Natural.

Your fingertips traced slow, thoughtless patterns over his back as you both lay tangled together, letting the afterglow settle around your limbs like warm syrup. Your heartbeats synced slowly–yours still fluttering, his gradually calming.

And then–

He shifted.

Lifted himself slightly on one trembling arm, the other brushing your hair back from your forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pink, and his glasses crooked beyond saving. His smile was dazed. Soft. Glowing.

He leaned in and kissed you again. A soft kiss. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and also more, and also stay.

When he pulled back, still breathless, still inside you, he murmured:

“We’re gonna have to start going to the library to study.”

You blinked. Confused. Flushed and blinking at him through the haze, your breath still catching a little in your throat.

“…Why?” You asked, voice hoarse but amused, one hand reaching up to gently smooth the short, light brown strands of his hair that were now sticking out in every direction.

His smile widened–lopsided and boyish, just a little cocky.

“Because we’re never going to get any studying done if we’re near a bed…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “The temptation will be too strong.”

You laughed–light, breathless, your chest shaking under his with the sound.

“Well,” You teased, trailing your fingertips down the curve of his back, “There goes that positive reinforcement idea, then.”

Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“I’m sure we can figure out a replacement,” He replied, “Something that can be done in public spaces.”

You burst out laughing.

He did too.

And you stayed like that–wrapped up in each other, laughter echoing soft and breathless into the quiet room.