#jake/bradley | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 2 months ago

Text

domestic fantasy ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend

notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 10937

“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.”

Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?”

You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation.

You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things.

It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.”

“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.”

“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.”

“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-”

“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them.

Fuck.

There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?”

You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.”

Another awkward stretch of silence.

“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says.

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.”

“See you Friday, then.”

“See you Friday.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud.

What the fuck did you just do?

Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them.

You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you.

Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?”

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply.

Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?”

You nod. “Whatever you’re having.”

He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder.

Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.”

She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?”

You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.”

Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty.

You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer.

“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?”

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.”

Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.”

Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?”

You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips.

“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends.

“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.”

Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?”

You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.”

You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly.

“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.”

He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return.

“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.”

Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.”

You raise a brow. “That easy?”

He lifts a finger. “On one condition.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?”

He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.”

Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.”

Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.”

You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.”

He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation.

You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put.

You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously.

You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him.

Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to.

“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.”

Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment.

Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?”

“Spencer is always civilized.”

You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.”

You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.”

Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”

You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.”

Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?”

“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.”

The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping.

He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom.

Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch.

“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”

You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused.

“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?”

Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.”

You choke on air. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.”

You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.”

Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.”

When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.”

Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture.

You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.”

Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?”

You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.”

Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.”

You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness.

He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.”

You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge.

Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.”

Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop.

You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.”

“Hey, how are you?”

Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?”

Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.”

“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.”

You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.”

Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.”

His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.”

You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.”

Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?”

You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.”

“I highly fucking doubt it.”

Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.”

With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.”

His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.”

“I know.”

You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.”

“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place.

The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.”

Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.”

The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?”

He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.”

You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare.

And it almost wrecks you.

Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves.

But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything?

“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?”

You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.”

Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.”

You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-”

“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.”

Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.”

You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.”

Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.”

You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had.

“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.”

You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life.

That’s the plan, anyway.

But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it.

Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking?

Yeah. This might be harder than you thought.

The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute.

Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.”

You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt.

You feel it everywhere.

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters. This is just pretend.

Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest.

“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob.

The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock.

“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?”

You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down.

Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership.

He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats.

But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life.

“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?”

Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.”

You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted.

Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.”

Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.”

Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.”

You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs.

Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.”

“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one.

Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.”

Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?”

Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.”

You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along.

“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.”

Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.”

“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much.

“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.”

You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first.

“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.”

Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer.

“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.”

Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face.

You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard.

“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.”

Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment.

You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.”

He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.”

You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.”

His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?”

Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.”

He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?”

Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting.

“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-”

The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears.

Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he��s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne.

You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it.

You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair.

You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him.

Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you.

This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all.

Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.”

You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you.

The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.”

Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke.

Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...”

He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there.

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle.

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.”

Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?”

You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader.

“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe.

Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?”

You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash.

It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you.

He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible.

You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones.

Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf.

Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh?

The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.

You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you.

You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.”

He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.”

You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.”

You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted?

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream.

You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat.

“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?”

He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.”

His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-”

“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.”

“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.”

His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle.

“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.”

Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight.

You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes.

“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop.

His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?”

Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?”

“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge.

You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him.

What the fuck are you doing?

Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way?

He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package?

The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea.

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag.

You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly.

You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever.

You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining.

You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake.

He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips.

“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.”

You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter.

“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”

“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?”

You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be.

“I didn’t ask you to come in.”

“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.”

The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone.

“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases.

“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast.

“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink.

You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles.

“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching.

He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare.

You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then:

BZZZZZZZZZZZT.

The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath.

“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved.

He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.”

You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.”

He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?”

You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet.

Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell.

“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.”

You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake.

“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body.

You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-”

“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.”

Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed.

You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years.

Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.”

His dreams?

Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one.

Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless.

Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching.

You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system.

You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room.

He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.

You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand.

Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?”

You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.”

Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?”

You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days.

“Jake…”

His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that.

Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.”

You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest.

“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.”

Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything.

Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then—

“Fuck it.”

He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself.

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once.

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to.

You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes.

You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.”

You wake up warm. Too warm.

Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale.

You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he.

And then... you remember everything.

The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for.

Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you.

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.”

“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.”

You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions.

By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.”

You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

“Not when I’m this right.”

You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser.

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.”

Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?”

“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.”

You arch a brow. “Define right.”

He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.”

You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard.

But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand.

Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-”

You smirk. “Jealous?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery.

To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend.

“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.”

Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?”

A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.”

He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.”

He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped.

If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them.

“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?”

You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life?

You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin.

It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second.

You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something.

The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts.

Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door.

“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out.

“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear.

You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently.

When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator.

But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.”

You shake your head. “I’m not broken.”

“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present.

You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut.

“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking.

He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him.

“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.”

The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.”

Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?”

Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding.

“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning.

Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.

You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in.

“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.”

He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync.

“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.”

Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train.

“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.”

“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said.

Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.”

And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall.

Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window.

But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional.

“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.”

Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out.

Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?”

Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock.

You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment.

There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs.

END.

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #glen powell #glen powell x reader #jake hangman seresin #hangman #top gun #top gun maverick #rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw #natasha phoenix trace #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #one shot #imagine #maverick

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that-one-fangirl69 · 5 months ago

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you ever read a fic so good you just gotta sit there and contemplate your entire existence and everything you’ve ever read before?

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marigold-field · 6 months ago

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nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens

#adri yaps #fanfic #fandom #criminal minds x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #dc comics #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #top gun x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #dutch van der linde x reader

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asuperconfusedgirl · 1 year ago

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how I read the most toe-curling, spine-shattering, nerve-wrecking, nastiest smut ever written in this god forsaken app

#charlie walker x reader #lip gallagher x reader #eddie munson x reader #john wick x reader #jess mariano x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader #steve harrington x reader #kevin pickford x reader #marcus lopez x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #spencer reid x reader #bucky barnes x reader #jake seresin x reader #conrad fisher x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #chef luca x reader #vincent renzi x reader #aaron hotchner x reader

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 10 months ago

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Why do writers apologize for long fics? why aRE YOU SORRY FOR FEEDING US POOR, SORRY SOULS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK WE COULD EVER DREAM OF READING?? DO MICHELIN STAR CHEFS APOLOGIZE FOR COOKING THE MOST DIVINE FOOD EVER MADE??? DO THEY APOLOGIZE FOR NOURISHING OUR BODY AND SOULS????

#seriously if I could make out with all of you I would #jason todd x reader #steve harrington x reader #logan howlett x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #matt murdock x reader #eddie munson x reader #peter parker x reader #bucky barnes x reader #fic recs

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mxrcusflint · 2 months ago

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Hangster but put them on The Bachelor

#hangster #sereshaw #tgm #rooster x hangman #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #why? bc im overcaffeinated #crack edit #top gun maverick #erinedits #sorry bobby we love you

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writesick-lover · 2 months ago

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Hiiii,,

Could you write something for bob? Anything. I really enjoyed ‘cry baby’ if that helps.

All the best

A/n: Hiii! I was waiting for the moment when I finally get the kick to write to Bob and this was it! I actually got a bunch of ideas, but in the end I settled for this! Hope it was worth the wait - I do plan to share other tropes for Bob as well... maybe in a Cry baby universe? ;) But for now, ENJOY!

That’s my wife

Robert 'Bob' Floyd x fem!reader

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

═══════☆♡☆═══════

It was crowded in Hard Deck, as it was every Friday night. Bob usually didn't mind, always staying close to his group by the pool, but today was different. All of a sudden, he felt annoyed by the pushing bodies, making it hard for him to see the entrance of the bar. Because today was not an ordinary night at the pub. Something special was happening for Robert Floyd, thanks to special someone about to make an appearance.

And just as he thought about her, he manifested her presence into the bar.

Bob would recognize his wife anywhere. Even in a totally packed Hard Deck, where he probably wouldn't be able to find his own mother. She made her way through those sweaty bodies, her 'excuse me's and 'thank you's flowing through his ears like a melody.

Bob started to look for a place to put his beer to for the time, ready to meet the girl of his dreams at the bar just like they agreed to. When he finally found a small space under the window, he heard a loud whistle. His head snapped.

"And who is this pretty lady," Hangman's voice made the whole company turn as he gazed towards the bar. "Ha, Hangman," Rooster joined him at the staring contest, nudging his ribs. "You can bet, she wouldn't go for a guy like you," he grinned, seeing Jack's shocked face. "A guy like me?" He repeated. "Then what are you? A trashcan?" He retorted, wiping the smile from Rooster's lips in a second.

Bob gulped. He followed the direction in which the two were looking.

His body froze on the spot, trying to figure out what to do. They were eyeing her. She was beautiful, as always. It was these moments, when Bob couldn't comprehend his own luck. His right hand traveled to his left, subconsciously playing with the ring on his finger. Well, shit.

"You're just worried she wouldn't go for a trashcan like you," Hangman provoked and everyone could only watch with a small smile how quickly Bradshaw took the bait. "We'll see about that," and with that, he was on his way to the center of the room, Jake Seresin right at his heels.

Bob was too stunned to do anything. Something in him started to burn, eating him from the inside, pinching every corner of his heart. But he just kept on twisting the golden ring, not noticing the questioning look Phoenix gave him. Her face twisted in surprise at first, connecting the dots pretty quick despite the silence from her best friend. But then she was right beside Bob, nudging his shoulder a little.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "She's got the same ring on her finger," Bob only managed to nod. Natasha's face brightened. "Congrats," she gave him a smile and Bob shared the enthusiasm with a small lift of the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he said, finally picking up the courage to take a step forward. "I told her about you, although I wish this wasn't the way they meet for the first time," Natasha caught his arm in his motion.

"Hold on," she said, nodding towards the three at the bar. "I wanna see this,"

"Hey there," Rooster went all out. His huge frame surely made an entrance for him, but an additional smile and a confident greet couldn't hurt. And beside that, chicks are digging his deep voice.

Before you even got to turn around, another man was standing beside him, his smile brighter as ever. You eyed them both, with Hangman pushing Rooster to the side and stepping forward. "Is he annoying you? I can take care of him for you," Hangman cooed, not noticing your slight lean backwards, away from the two peacocks in front of you. It took you a while to recognize them, but after a few seconds, it was unmistakable who these two were. You knew them from a photo of the whole group Bob was showing you after he got back from his mission. You weren't sure if you were supposed to laugh or cry. Who would have thought you would meet like this?

☆ ☆ ☆

"That's Hangman" Bob pointed at a handsome pilot with a smile that shined with bright white teeth. "Avoid him at all cost," he looked at you, his eyes completely serious, which only made you burst into a fit of laughter. "I'm serious," he said, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "I can see that," you breathed, your hands travelling to his back and rubbing it reassuringly. "But noted," your kiss tickled Bob's cheek, spreading a tint of pink across his face.

"And this is?" you pointed to a tall man with a stache, his big arm hugging your husband around the shoulders. "Oh, that's Rooster," Bob's eyes softened. "And this is Nat, right?" you exclaimed, pointing at the woman hugged by Rooster from the other side. "Yeah, that's her," you two shared a smile as you watched Bob slide his fingers across the photo. "I can't wait to meet them," you said softly into the warm morning and Bob couldn't help but smile sweetly. "They mean a lot to me," he whispered back, gulping. "I know," you turned his face towards you before pecking his lips, both of you falling into a calm silence of comfort with each other.

☆ ☆ ☆

You slightley stretched upwards, trying to look past the men's broad shoulders that bumped to each other, trying to push the other out of the way. Your husband was nowhere to be seen and although you were quite enthusiastic to meet his crew, enthusiasim was pretty far from what you were feeling now. You watched the two glaring at each other and you bit back a smile. If only they knew.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Rooster pushed forward, making Hangman stumble back. "Get in line, chicken," Hangman grabbed his shoulder, forcing himself next to you instead of Rooster. "Boys, I hate to say this-" you began, your fingers falling on the ring on your left hand.

"Come on, sweetheart, let me get you something," before you could finish, you were blinded by Jake's perfect set of teeth, the photo from Bob apparently doing it injustice. "Guys-" you tried to speak up, but to no avail. "Penny, one more on me," Jake called to the woman behind the bar, who only nodded, preoccuppied with other customers. You sighed.

"Don't listen to him," Rooster touched your right hand gently, making you look at him. Ah, missed. The two completely ignored the shiny stone on your ring finger glistening in the dimmed lights of Hard Deck. You decided to let them go in this one, forcing on a straight face as they bickered with each other.

"They are all over her. Maybe I should-" Bob watched the bar, an anxiety creeping into his voice. Phoenix looked closer, noticing the crease forming between his eyebrows and the way he narrowed his eyes. His hands, unbeknownst to him, closed into fists. He was ready to shoot.

"Bob?" she grabbed him by his shoulder, grounding him. He looked at her, his brown eyes a little lost. "I've got your back," she tightened her squeez and that was all Bob needed. It was time to get his wife.

"And why shouldn't she listen to me? She obviously likes what she sees," Jake retorted, nudging you with a flirty smile. "Cause you're a casanova, Bagman," Rooster fought back. "You wouldn't smell love even if it was right under your nose," you had to pause at those words, yanking your hand from Rooster. This was going too far. Bradley looked at you in surprise, to which Hangman bursted out laughing. "You too, so it seems," he got out through heavy breaths, leaning on the bar for support. "Nice one sweetheart,"

"Speaking of love, gentlemen," a woman's voice came from behind the two competing mountains of men. They both turned to the lieutenant who grined at them. If she didn't have ears, she would be smiling all around. "Nat," you sighed in relief, recognising her immediately. "In the flesh," she grinned at you. "It's so nice finally meeting you," she said, Jake and Bradley exchanging confused looks. "Bob told me so much about you," you ignored the two, clinging to a conversation with Natasha like a tick. "Bob?!" the loud yell of both aviators brought you back to the reality. "Are you Bob's sister or some-"

"Yeah, no, I didn't have you for the types to go after married women," Nat giggled, cutting off Hangman as the two completely paled. They slowly turned towards you, their eyes falling on your left hand resting on the counter. A silence fell on the Hard Deck.

"Whose-" Rooster was the first to recover. "Mine," a bright smile blossomed on your face as you saw Bob walk from behind Natasha. "Sorry, looks like I got here first," he grinned as well before stepping in front of you. "Penny?" he called out, but he didn't have to say anything else.

That night, Hard Deck was filled with the dreading sound of a bell and if Rooster and Hangman could become more pale than they already were, they probably did. "Guys," Bob turned sround, his hand automatically traveling to your lower back. "This," he looked at you, his eyes twingkling in the warm light.

"Oh no," Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand through his face.

"Oh shit" Rooster let out.

"This is my wife,"

Your face brightened hearing the words as cheers errupted from around you - everyone ecstatic they will get a free round. And there was a lot of them. "Nice one, Bobby," Coyote and the rest joined the group, not even trying to hide their smiles. They mirrored Bob's contagious smile, the warm atmosphere spreading to everyone around. Well, to almost everyone.

"How do you want to pay?" Penny stopped by amidst pouring shots, smirking at Hangman and Rooster, both still in shock, grilled in their own embarrassment. "We-" the two looked at each other pleadingly for help from the other. "Shit," both said at the same time. "Well, lads," Payback and Fanboy patted their shoulders. "It was nice to know you," they pushed them lightly towards the door leading to the empty beach.

"I'm gonna kill you, Bagman," Rooster glared at his friend, Jake only laughing slightly. "Can you believe it? Our little Bobby found himself a wife! And I went after her!" he laughed at himself. "Yeah, cause you're a fucking idiot!" Roosters last words disappeared into the night, drowned in the laughter and chatter of the people around.

"Well, that was something," you giggled, looking back at the two men, now having it out with each other, their feet sinking in the cold sand. "You're okay? I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Bob started to apologize but you knew how to shut him up.

"I'm okay. Better even, now that you're here," you pulled back. "And here I was, thinking that they wouldn't like me," you joked, making Bob snort as others joined you.

"Congrats, man," Fanboy hugged Bob around the shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze. "You seem like a lot of fun," Coyote laughed, pointing at you. "I sure am. If only they listened," everyone followed your motion to the entrance, "they could have had some fun too,"

Everyone laughed as you looked at your ring one more time. "But honestly, Bob, where did you find her? She's hot! Do you have siblings?" Payback had to chime in, other boys only agreeing with his statement and awaiting your answer. You only shook your head, earning a few groans from the group. "No wonder she got those two out of their minds," Natasha smirked.

"Yeah," Robert's eyes fell to the floor, suddenly feeling overwhelmed from the compliments. A sheepish smile spread on his face.

That's my wife

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Let me know how you liked this story with a like, comment and repost!

Who should be next from the Dagger squad?

If you liked this story, you might like -> Cry-baby

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ruerecs · 1 year ago

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fanfic writers NEVER contemplate or apologise for your fic being over 3-5k words long, we readers LOVE longer fics!! anyways have a good day/night 🙂‍↕️

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kcsplace · 8 months ago

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Top Gun Silliness

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allaboutalf · 11 months ago

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If Glen Powell didn’t get to kiss Miles Teller after he saved his life at the end of Top Gun Maverick then he doesn’t get to kiss Daisy Edgar-Jones at the end of Twisters. The universe balances things out.

That’s why Glen Powell is for the bisexuals.

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jayjay-thejet-plane · 4 months ago

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There’s a magnet pulling me to you

Bradley followed Jake outside the Hard Deck intending to have some words with him, but he never has been able to resist the pull between them… they can’t help but surge towards one another again and again

The toothpick and raybans will be lost very quickly ;)

Iineart and sketch below:

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geminiwritten · 6 days ago

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picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain,” you reply, nodding.

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

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

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She quick?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.”

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

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes.

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

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

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

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.”

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

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles.

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

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

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

“The usual?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred.

“Does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him. “Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind if I play next?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.”

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

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

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

Your mouth drops open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.”

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All from a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks.

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

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

“Pizza?”

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”

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

You stop walking. “With who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

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

Good.

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

Good?

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

Good.

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

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

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

BOB FLOYD

📎 [Image attachment]

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

And there he fucking is.

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

Holy fuck.

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

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

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

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

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with?

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

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

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

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

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

A little notification pops up beneath your message.

Read. Immediately.

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

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

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

But first…

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

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

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

But you can’t stop thinking about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.”

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly.

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

“Did I beat Hangman?”

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

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

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

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… a baby sim?”

“Basically. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming in,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he says, grinning now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sim bucks suddenly.

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

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

But it’s too late.

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

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…”

“You eject,” you say dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless.

“Now keep her steady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know, not what Fanboy did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Nice shot.”

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

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

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back.

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

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

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

He does so without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing.

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

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

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE.

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

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

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

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

He falls forward.

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

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

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

“Are you okay? Your head—”

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

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

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

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

Your laughter fades, breath catching.

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

And then—

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shame. Still hot though, right?”

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

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

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

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

“What, you’re not into her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. That.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because it was Bob.

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

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

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

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd.

Fuck that guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don’t look at him at all.

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

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

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

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

“That thing work?” he asks.

“What thing?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.”

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

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

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

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer.

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

“What’d you watch?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?”

He frowns. “What do you—”

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

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod once. “Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Mickey replies.

“Copy,” Bob mutters.

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

“Hangman, you ready?”

“When you are, boss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy that. Repositioning.”

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

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

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.”

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

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

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

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn.

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

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

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

“Pilot ready?” you ask.

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.”

You nod. “Run it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows something’s wrong.

- Bob -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob glances up. “Hm?”

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

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Is this about Lucky?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters.

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

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

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob frowns. “Where?”

“Hangman’s birthday.”

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

“I don’t know, it—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cute? You called him cute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’

‘She only uses Morse code.’

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then... there’s you.

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

So you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh.

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

- You -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All for you, baby.”

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

“Show me the way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea.

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

Bob.

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

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

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

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

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline.

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

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

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

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

Bob.

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

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

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving.

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

And you feel it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he’s there. Beside you.

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

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls.

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

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

You blink. “Excuse me?”

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

“What’s your problem?” you bite back.

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

“Doing what?” you demand.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s the most confusing part.

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why would you say it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he’s on you. Everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he grinds against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then—

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches.

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask.

“Bob…”

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.”

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis.

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.”

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be.

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too.

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.”

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?”

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his.

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need.

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant.

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking.

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.”

You’re just about to kiss him again when—

Bang, bang, bang.

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?”

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.”

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock.

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?”

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?”

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.”

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.”

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor.

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing.

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?”

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.”

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist.

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.”

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?”

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass.

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?”

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?”

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.”

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red.

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted.

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away.

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!”

1K notes · View notes

romerona · 3 months ago

Text

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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