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demie90s · 2 days ago

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Your Fault

Diana Taurasi x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’ve been in a mood all damn day—rolling your eyes, being mouthy, and acting like Diana don’t run that.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.7k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Smut, Age Gap, Power Play, Brat Taming, Soft Dom Diana, Emotional Burnout Themes

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. Oral (f receiving), strap use, dom/sub dynamics, choking, begging, refusal of touch (at first), light degradation, possessiveness, vacation setting

I woke up agitated. Not irritated. Not upset. Agitated. Like my skin was tight and everything was two seconds from being the final straw. The sun was out. The bed was soft. The AC was perfect. Diana was still asleep, breathing slow, her shoulder bare and glowing with leftover sun from yesterday.

I should’ve been grateful. But I wanted to scream.

The vacation was her idea. You need a break, she said. You’ve been saving the damn world every shift. Your charting looks like a crime scene. You need sand, a tan, and me. In that order.

She wasn’t wrong. But this morning I hated everything.

“Come on,” she said, eyes still sleepy as I stood at the bathroom mirror with my arms folded. “Don’t start today mad. It’s illegal to be fine and fussy on an island.”

I cut her a look. “It’s not fussy. It’s overstimulated and under-fucked.”

“Exactly,” she muttered, already dragging the covers off and tossing a bikini my way. “Put this on. We’re going to the water.”

She didn’t give me room to protest. Practically drug me out the room like a toddler in time-out, grinning like she hadn’t just ignored my very real cry for help. And maybe that’s what pissed me off the most. I was telling her. Plain. Calm. Mouthy. But honest.

I needed her. And she just kept walking.

The morning became the afternoon. The beach got louder. My mood got worse.

She bought me a coconut, held my waist when I rolled my eyes at strangers, whispered shit in my ear just to watch me huff.

“Why you so pretty when you mad?”

“Shut up.”

“I should’ve filmed this.”

She wasn’t helping. She was making it worse. Then came the moment.

We were standing near the rocks, sun hitting the water like a goddamn oil painting, and I was staring at it like it offended me.

She sat behind me on the stone bench, arms draped around my hips lazily.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “I love you, but you got the worst attitude on Earth when you don’t get your way.”

That hit. Not hard. But deep. I swallowed. Kept my eyes on the tide. “…So fuck it out of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even kiss me.

By the time we got back to the room, I was fuming in silence. She knew it. She was eating it up. That smirk was back on her face, smug and slow as she leaned against the patio door, eyes flicking toward me every time I moved like she was watching a volcano warm up.

“You done sulking?” she asked, peeling off her tank top with no urgency.

“No.”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“You still mad?”

“…Yes.”

She laughed. Laughed.

Then laid on the bed like she wasn’t the problem. Head on the pillows, long legs stretched out, watching me like I wasn’t mentally screaming.

I stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed again. “Why couldn’t you just fuck it outta me earlier?”

She blinked slow. That smug-ass look turned into something hungrier.

“…Say that again?”

I didn’t. I got in the bed. Got close. Didn’t touch her—just leaned in like heat was enough. My lips barely touched her shoulder.

“You wait until I’m begging,” I muttered. “You wait until I’m crawling. That’s not fair.”

She turned to face me, hand sliding over my waist as I straddled her thigh without thinking. My hips didn’t move—but my mouth did.

“You like when I act like this?” I asked, lips brushing her collarbone. “You like when I’m miserable with an attitude? That turn you on?”

“I like when you act like you don’t need me.”

She kissed my jaw, lips soft but firm.

“And then melt the second I touch you.”

I scoffed. But my hips rocked slow against her leg.

“That’s evil.”

“That’s honest.”

She sat up. Kissed me like she’d been waiting all day—hands under my thighs, mouth opening over mine, tongue slow and deep. I moaned and felt stupid for being mad. For going the whole day aching when I could’ve just thrown myself into her lap.

But no. She liked that I waited. I liked how she made me come apart for it.

Her fingers found me without a word. My whole body shivered.

Just when I gasped—whined, needy, almost crying from how good it felt—she whispered “There’s my girl.”

She didn’t say it soft. She said it like finally.

Like it took all day to break me down just to rebuild me open and wet and obedient under her hand.

But I was still a brat. She slid two fingers along my slit—over my panties—and watched my thighs twitch. I exhaled like I hadn’t breathed in hours.

Then her voice dropped low, calm as ever.

“…Tell me.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Tell me about work, baby.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But she didn’t. Her mouth brushed my neck. Her fingers stroked again. Slow. Lazy.

I narrowed my eyes. “You wanna talk about work?”

She hummed like yes. Like I didn’t have a pussy leaking for her right now. Like she wasn’t slipping the pad of her thumb over my clit through soaked fabric.

I swear—swear—I tried to ignore it. I looked up at the ceiling like that would keep my mind straight.

I started slow. “It’s been… long. Stupid.”

“Mhm.” She mouthed at my throat, still warm, still moving her hand with zero rush.

“I’m tired of people acting like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I didn’t graduate, like I’m not licensed. You know this old man tried to—f-fuck—”

Her mouth was lower now, smirking against my chest. I paused.

“Keep going,” she said.

My stomach clenched. I should’ve told her to stop. But my hands were already in her hair.

“I had to cover three patients on restraints. One bit me. You saw the bruise.”

“I did.” She licked slowly over my nipple. Bit it. Sucked it.

“Keep talkin’.”

“You’re such a bitch,” I whispered. She laughed into my skin.

Then kissed down. Slower than necessary. Mouth dragging over my stomach, my hip, my inner thigh like she was reading a script off me.

She kissed my pussy through the panties—one kiss. Two. I gasped. She didn’t move them yet. Just flattened her tongue over the fabric and moaned, deep and smug like this what you wanted, huh?

She looked up. “Mad again?”

I glared. “Yes.”

“Mhm.” She kissed again. “Keep goin’, nurse.”

I whimpered. “He told me I was rude… for not smiling. While I was cleaning shit. Actual shit.”

That’s when she moved the panties. One hand, no hesitation. Slick and sticky and hot underneath, and she grinned.

“Aw. That why you been actin’ out?” she teased, running her thumb over my clit now, bare and throbbing. “Needed a little attention? Thought I forgot how nasty you get when you’re tired.”

I tried to sit up. She pushed my hips down. She didn’t even look at me.

Her mouth found me again. No warm-up. No soft licks. Just her tongue, slow and firm, licking right up the middle while her hand spread me wider.

I whined. Embarrassingly. Loud and helpless. My thighs shook, but her hands were locked around them—tight grip, holding me still.

I wanted to grind, to press harder, to roll my hips.

She did not let me.

“Diana—”

She paused. Glanced up. “Say it right.”

“…D.”

That got her going. She hummed low and started sucking on my clit. Tongue firm. Circles. I yanked at her hair—moaning, open-mouthed, legs trying to close.

She didn’t let me. She moved lower, tongue dipping into me, deep. Then up again—licking through everything, slow and wide and endless.

“You taste so mad,” she teased. “So fuckin’ mad at me. Can’t even focus.”

Her fingers replaced her tongue, two slipping in like nothing, making me arch.

“Oh my God—” She curled them. Hit it. Smirked. Bit my inner thigh.

“God’s not here right now, nurse.”

I was panting now, voice stuck in my throat, heat crawling up my neck.

“You said you wanted me to fuck it outta you,” she said, dragging her tongue back over my clit. “So stop running.”

I cried out. Actual tears stinging a little. Not from pain. From overwhelm. From the slow, deep suck of her lips around me like she was drinking a mood swing out of my body. Like she was cleansing me.

I grabbed the sheets. She kept going.

No breaks. No mercy. And still—still—so fucking slow. I felt the build. All of it. A full-day ache tightening into one perfect climax.

“D—I’m—fuck, I’m—” She moaned, loud and proud, mouth locked on me, fingers never slowing.

And I Came hard. Legs shaking, pussy twitching, toes curled, moaning her name like a secret I couldn’t keep.

She licked me through it. Then back up. Then kissed my lips like she hadn’t just ruined me. I could barely speak. She grinned against my mouth.

“Still mad?” I blinked. Then nodded.

She was smirking.

But not sweet. Not teasing. Not that I told you so look from earlier. No. This was different. This was dangerous.

This was the look of a grown woman who’d been waiting to make you cry since the first week you whined about your hours.

Since you slammed the car door, threw your bag, and muttered shit under your breath. She let you live. Let you talk slick. Let you sulk through a vacation she paid for.

Now she had the strap on. Now she was gonna make you apologize.

“…D-Dee.”

It barely came out. My throat burned. I was already shaky and tender from her mouth, but this? This wasn’t fair. The way she fucked—it didn’t feel good in the moment. It felt like I was losing my mind. Like I couldn’t breathe right. Like I was vibrating from the inside out and couldn’t find the sound that matched what my body was screaming.

Butterflies. Not the cute kind. These were the wild, erratic, emergency alarm kind.

The kind that told you something was happening in your body that your brain couldn’t catch up with.

Diana didn’t care.

“Come here,” she said, voice flat but full.

Like she meant business. Like she was certified in this shit.

I climbed over her, knees shaking, pussy aching. She didn’t wait. She grabbed my hip, lifted my leg, and pushed in again—slow, mean, deep.

My eyes rolled. My mouth dropped open. Her other hand slid up my back, holding me close while her hips rolled into me like a damn curse. And she kissed my neck. My shoulder. Whispered shit I couldn’t even hear over the sound of my own broken breathing.

“This what you needed?” I nodded. Couldn’t even lie.

“Then take it.”

She fucked me like she was fixing something.

Like my attitude was a medical emergency and her strap was the cure.

She hit every spot, slow enough to feel like it was personal but hard enough to break rhythm. I was grinding, panting, eyes fluttering.

Just when I felt it—right there, right there—she pulled out.

I gasped. Clawed at her forearm. “No, no—Diana please—”

She laid back. Calm. Hands behind her head like she wasn’t just inside me seconds ago.

“You wanna act brand new?” she said.

“Cool. You do all the work. Don’t touch me.”

I stared at her. Stunned. Heart racing. “Now.”

I climbed on like I had no pride.

Slow. Needy. Sinking down on the strap with a shaky moan that made my knees buckle. She didn’t help. Didn’t move. Just watched. Eyes locked on my face like she was enjoying the show, the breakdown, the sweat glistening on my chest.

I tried to fuck her right. Roll my hips. Find a rhythm. But my thighs were weak, my clit pulsing, my brain scrambled.

I tried to kiss her. Tried to lean forward and press my mouth to hers like that would make her touch me.

She turned her head.

“You hard of hearing?”

I froze. Sat up straight again. My hands clenched on her stomach. I was losing it.

“You said not to touch you…” I mumbled. Voice cracking.

She raised a brow. “I meant all of me, smartass.”

My breath caught. I gave up. Whined. Actually whimpered, lips trembling.

“…Please touch me.” Still nothing.

I ground down on her anyway. Hips desperate. Neck arched. Whimpers turning to cries. And finally—finally—when I shook so hard I had to collapse forward, she caught me.

One hand around my throat, thumb on my chin, bringing my mouth to hers.

“You gon’ act right now?” she whispered, dragging her hips up, slow and deep again.

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl.”

She said it like a reward, like a verdict—like I hadn’t been anything close to good all day, but somehow, she’d trained me there. Hips still moving under mine, hands tight on my waist, guiding my body like I was just something she’d decided to break in slowly.

I was gone. Fully. Head back, lips parted, brain blank. All I could do was ride. And let her fuck me up.

Her thumb dragged across my bottom lip, and her voice was low, barely above a hum. “That’s it, baby. Don’t think, just feel it.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t form a single sentence. My moans weren’t words anymore—just breath and pitch, soft at first, then ragged. The deeper she hit, the wetter I got. I could feel it. The mess. The slap of our bodies. Her name falling out of me without permission.

She loved it.

Her hands slid down to grip my thighs, pulling me down rougher, meaner. Her strap curved just right, hitting that spot that made my stomach twitch.

“D… D—fuck—”

I reached for her again, desperate, fingers curling on her chest. I needed something—anything to ground me—but she grabbed both wrists in one hand and pinned them behind my back like no. Like take it.

That’s when the tears hit. Not sobbing. But the kind that slid out quietly, uninvited, just ‘cause the pleasure was too much. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t scared. I was overwhelmed.

She noticed. Of course she did. She kissed the edge of my jaw, her voice syrup-slow.

“There she go. Look at you.”

She rocked up deeper. “This how you act when you finally get touched right?”

I nodded. Barely. My whole body tensed, locked down on the strap so hard I felt my orgasm choke halfway out my throat.

“I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

She grabbed a handful of my ass, her other arm wrapped around my waist, and she fucked into me. Intentional. Punishing. Her goal wasn’t to get me off. Her goal was to empty me.

I came. Hard. But it didn’t stop there. She kept going. Stroking through it. Pushing past it. My thighs shaking so bad they gave out, and that’s when it happened.

My whole body snapped forward—and I squirted. Loud. Wet. Shameless.

She groaned into my neck. “There she is.”

I whimpered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes you did. You always do.”

She eased the strap out slow, dragging my body with it, guiding me back onto my side like I’d been spun in a dryer. She kissed my temple. My shoulder. My spine.

I was twitching. Barely conscious. Breathing like I’d run laps around the planet.

“Next time you get mad on vacation,” she whispered, “just ask.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But the next tear that slid down my cheek had nothing to do with frustration. And everything to do with how full I finally felt.

She kissed my back, whispered a smug little, “There you go…” and tucked me in like I wasn’t still twitching from the inside out.

Didn’t even bother wiping me up all the way—just enough so I didn’t stick to her chest while you curled up against it, knocked clean out. Face buried in her neck, thighs still sore, pussy pulsing like it knew better next time.

I didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. She had me slumped, soul quiet, body fed. Just what her baby needed.

She laid there wide awake, arm wrapped tight around my waist, smirking in the dark like. Attitude? Where? That’s what I thought.

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 25 days ago

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All That Lingers

bob floyd x fem!reader

jake seresin x fem!reader

I’m not gonna lie, this one kinda hurts.

It’s not like she expected her whole life to change because of a coffee order.

The café sits just off the base—small, cozy, a little worn around the edges. The kind of place that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread, where the same old bell jingles every time the door opens. It’s early—too early for most people—but she’s already there, wiping down the counter and humming quietly to the radio.

The place is almost empty when the bell rings.

She glances up, her hair pulled into a messy bun, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. That’s when she sees him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Crisp uniform. A little unsure, like he’s not quite sure where to stand.

He looks around, then steps up to the counter, shifting his weight like he’s debating whether to speak.

“Uh… morning.”

His voice is soft—gentle—with the faintest hint of a Southern drawl.

She smiles, just a little.

“Morning.”

He glances at the menu, but she can tell he’s not really reading it. His eyes keep drifting back to her, like maybe he’s not here just for the coffee.

“Black coffee, please. Nothing fancy.”

She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Classic.”

His ears go a little pink, and he laughs softly, a sound that’s more breath than voice.

When she slides the cup across the counter, their fingers brush. Just a moment, but it makes her heart skip.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, and she has to bite back a grin at the way the word sounds on his tongue—soft, polite, sweet.

“You’re welcome… Lieutenant?” she guesses, eyeing his name tag, but he beats her to it.

“Bob. Just Bob.”

She tilts her head, studying him. “Alright, Bob. I’ll see you around.”

He nods, taking a cautious sip of the coffee like it might burn him—and maybe it does, a little. But he lingers by the door for a second longer, glancing back at her like he wants to say something else.

Then he’s gone.

And she’s left standing there, holding the rag she’d been wiping the counter with, feeling a little breathless.

Just coffee.

That’s how it starts.

——

The bell above the café door jingles again the next morning.

She’s in the middle of stacking plates behind the counter, half-humming to herself, not really expecting much. It’s early, the kind of sleepy morning where the air feels a little too heavy, and the sky’s still a soft, hazy pink.

When she glances up, her breath catches.

There he is.

Bob.

He stands a little awkwardly just inside the door, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be there. Same uniform, same careful posture, but his eyes catch hers, and—God help her—he smiles.

It’s small, barely there, but it’s soft. Like the kind of smile a man saves for when he really means it.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little steadier today.

“Morning, Bob,” she answers, and the way the name sounds—his name—makes something warm bloom in her chest.

He steps up to the counter, glancing at the chalkboard menu like it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t.

“Same as yesterday?” she teases, already reaching for a cup.

Bob’s ears go a little pink. He scratches the back of his neck and ducks his head.

“Yeah. Unless you’ve got a recommendation?”

That stops her for a second.

Because she could tell him the best thing on the menu. The cinnamon latte. The blueberry scone. She could list off half a dozen things.

But what she wants to say is,

“Well, there’s a table by the window that gets the best light this time of day, and if you sit there long enough, you’ll see the way the world wakes up.”

She swallows it down. Instead, she says, “Black coffee, coming up.”

Bob watches her work. She feels it, the weight of his gaze—like he’s memorizing the way she moves, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way she wipes her hands on a towel before handing him his coffee.

When she slides the cup across the counter, their fingers brush again. A little longer this time.

Bob’s voice is quiet when he thanks her, and he doesn’t leave right away. He lingers, like he’s looking for an excuse to stay, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

“Busy day ahead?” she asks gently, hoping it gives him something to hold onto.

Bob shifts on his feet.

“Uh, yeah. Training runs. It’s… it’s a lot, but, y’know.” He trails off, and his gaze drifts down to the counter, then back up at her like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to keep talking.

She smiles—soft, inviting.

“Be careful up there, Bob.”

And God, the way his name sounds on her lips… it’s enough to make him swallow hard.

He nods, like he’s heard her, but also like he’s feeling it—every word.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, voice a little hopeful, like he’s testing the water.

She laughs quietly, a soft, breathy sound that feels so much bigger than it is.

“Yeah, Bob. I’ll be here.”

And she will be.

——

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks of Bob showing up at her café every morning.

Two weeks of her learning the little things—how he takes his coffee black but not too hot, how he likes his muffins warmed up, how he always glances at the door before he leaves, like he’s waiting for something.

And she’s not the only one who’s noticed.

⸻

“Alright, Floyd. Spill.”

They’re at the hangar—Phoenix, Rooster, Fanboy, and Payback—all watching him.

Bob blinks, looking up from the checklist in his hands, and he’s already gone a little pink at the ears.

“Spill what?”

“Oh, come on,” Rooster groans, throwing an arm over Bob’s shoulder and practically shaking him. “You’ve been smiling like an idiot for two weeks, man. Who is she?”

Bob stammers. “I don’t—there’s no—”

Phoenix cackles. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen, Floyd.”

Bob looks down, shoulders tensing, but he’s smiling.

It’s small, barely there, but it is.

And Phoenix notices.

“Oh my God.” She grins like she’s just won the lottery. “It’s the café girl, isn’t it?”

Bob’s head snaps up, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, and that’s all the confirmation they need.

“I KNEW IT!” Fanboy yells, slapping Bob on the back so hard the checklist drops to the floor.

“Leave him alone,” Payback mutters, but he’s grinning too.

Bob mutters something under his breath, cheeks bright red, and he tries to focus on the checklist again—but Phoenix leans in, voice low.

“She’s cute, huh?”

Bob’s ears turn bright red. He won’t look up.

“She’s… sweet.” His voice is quiet, barely there, but it’s honest. “I just… I like talking to her.”

———

The café is quieter in the afternoons.

The morning rush fades, the lunch crowd thins, and there’s this warm, sleepy hush that settles over everything—like the world exhales for a minute.

She’s behind the counter, wiping down the tables when Bob walks in.

Again.

Second time today.

Same shy smile. Same careful posture. But there’s a new hesitation in the way he holds the door open, like maybe he’s thinking about leaving—but he doesn’t.

He steps inside.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.” She smiles, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Uh…” Bob looks down, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh… was wondering if you had a break coming up?”

Her brows lift, surprised—but in that good way.

“Actually, yeah. I do.”

Bob’s whole face lights up—just this quiet little grin, but it’s so Bob, and her stomach does that annoying little flip.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

They sit at the small table by the window—her table.

Bob looks… awkwardly big in the little chair, his knees bumping the table, his hands fidgeting with the napkin holder. But there’s something so soft about it—how he’s a little hunched, a little nervous, but trying.

She pulls her coffee toward her, fingers wrapped around the warm mug.

Bob glances at her—then quickly looks away. Then back again, like he can’t help it.

“So… uh… I just realized I never asked your name.”

She laughs, a quiet little sound, and tells him.

And when she does, Bob says it back.

Like he’s tasting it for the first time.

Her name.

Soft, careful. Like it’s important.

“Nice to finally meet you, Bob,” she says, and he smiles.

They talk—about small things. The weather. The base. Her favorite song on the radio.

And Bob… he listens.

Really listens.

He’s got this little tilt to his head, like he’s soaking in every word. Like she’s the only thing in the room.

And when she laughs—really laughs—at one of his awkward jokes about planes, Bob… looks at her.

Really looks.

Like maybe he wants to memorize her.

Like maybe he’s wondering how long he can stay in this moment before the world pulls him back.

————

“You’re seeing her again, aren’t you?” Phoenix asks, voice casual, but her grin is anything but.

Bob blinks. “What?”

“Café Girl,” Payback says.

Bob’s cheeks go red. “She—she has a name, you know.”

“Oh, we know,” Rooster says, leaning in. “We just want to hear you say it.”

Bob looks down at the table, shoulders hunched.

But there’s this little smile he can’t quite hide.

⸻

Two days later, it happens.

A group night out.

Rooster’s idea, apparently. A casual thing. Drinks at a bar near base, nothing fancy.

They invite her.

She says yes.

And Bob? He’s trying to act cool, like it’s no big deal, but the whole team can see the way he looks at her.

Like maybe she’s the only thing in the room.

Like maybe he’s already halfway in love with her and doesn’t even know it yet.

⸻

Halfway through the night, Phoenix nudges Bob hard under the table.

“You gonna ask her out or just stare at her all night, Floyd?” she whispers.

Bob goes bright red. “Shut up, Trace.”

Phoenix just grins.

The team starts peeling off, one by one, with weak excuses.

“Oh man, I forgot I have an early briefing tomorrow.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Oh no, we should really get going—”

And suddenly it’s just Bob and her.

Sitting side by side at the table.

Music humming in the background.

Her knee almost brushing his under the table.

Bob feels his heart pound.

His fingers twitch on the glass.

She looks at him, head tilted, eyes soft.

And Bob… he’s so close to saying something. So close.

But he just… smiles.

Soft. Shy.

And she smiles back.

Bob is frozen.

He’s sitting there, staring at her, his hands gripping his glass a little too tight, the condensation slipping under his fingers.

The rest of the team has cleared out.

It’s just the two of them.

The bar’s humming low, the lights soft, her perfume drifting across the table.

She watches him, eyes warm, her lip caught just barely in her teeth, like she’s thinking—really thinking.

And Bob… he feels his heart in his throat.

He’s about to say it.

The words are right there.

But he hesitates.

And in that tiny pause, she looks down—just for a second.

Then she lifts her gaze, soft and shy but bold, and she says it first.

“Bob… would you maybe want to go out sometime? Like… just us?”

Her voice wobbles, just a little.

And Bob—he can’t breathe.

He can’t move.

He’s just staring at her, like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Then, finally, his brain catches up to his heart, and he nods.

“Yes,” he says, a little breathless, a little stunned.

And then, stronger: “Yes. I’d really like that.”

⸻

The next morning, the team grills him.

Phoenix’s grin is feral.

Rooster leans in, arms crossed, and says, “So. When’s the date?”

Bob just smiles, soft and helpless.

He can’t stop smiling.

——

It’s simple, really.

A little diner not far from base.

Bob shows up early. Too early.

He’s standing by the door, shuffling his boots on the concrete, hands in his pockets.

And when she pulls up, stepping out in a soft sweater and jeans, hair pulled back loose, Bob thinks—

I’m in trouble.

Because she’s beautiful.

And he’s… just Bob.

But she smiles when she sees him, that wide, beaming smile, like she’s happy to be here with him.

————

After dinner, they walk outside.

It’s quiet, a little chilly.

Bob offers her his jacket—he doesn’t even think about it, just shrugs it off and holds it out.

She laughs, soft, and slides it on.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, wrapping it around herself.

Bob’s heart is pounding.

She looks up at him, all soft eyes and shy smile, and says, “I had a really nice time tonight, Bob.”

Bob feels like the world’s tilting under his feet.

“Me too,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

They hover, close but not quite touching.

Bob wants to kiss her.

God, he wants to kiss her.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He just smiles, soft and hopeful, and walks her to her car.

⸻

Bob’s running on fumes.

It’s been a brutal week. Long hours, endless drills, a last-minute flight that kept him at the hangar way past midnight.

He’s got that thousand-yard stare as he sits at the ready room table, eyes barely open, a coffee cup empty and sad in his hand.

Hangman’s talking way too loud. Phoenix is flipping through a manual.

And Bob’s head is nodding, the coffee not doing anything.

Then—

The door creaks open.

And it’s her.

Standing there, holding a white paper cup with Bob’s name on it.

She’s grinning, wearing that soft sweater he likes, hair pulled back in a messy clip, and there’s this little sparkle in her eyes.

“Hey, Bob.”

He blinks, slow, like he’s dreaming.

“Hey… you.” His voice is rough, like he forgot how to speak.

She walks in, hands him the coffee, and her fingers brush his.

It’s just a second.

But Bob’s wide awake now.

Hangman raises an eyebrow, leans back in his chair, and says, way too loud—

“Well, well. Look who’s got himself a coffee delivery.”

————

It happens late.

Bob’s parked his truck behind the café after closing.

The place is dark now, lights off, the last customer long gone.

She’s leaning against the bed of his truck, arms crossed, laughing softly at something Bob just mumbled about Texas storms and the way the thunder feels in your chest.

The air smells like coffee and summer night.

Bob’s standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, nervous as hell.

He’s been working up to this moment for weeks, and it feels like it’s right there, balanced on the edge of something huge.

She’s looking at him.

And it’s quiet.

Just the two of them, under a sky full of stars.

Bob swallows hard, shifts his weight.

“I, uh… I’ve been wanting to—”

She tilts her head, soft and curious, like she knows exactly where this is going but wants him to say it.

Bob’s heart is slamming in his chest.

“I’ve been wanting to do this,” he says, barely above a whisper.

And then he steps closer.

Slow. Careful. Like she’s something fragile.

She doesn’t move.

Just watches him.

Her breath catches, barely a sound, but Bob hears it.

His hand hesitates—a split second—then brushes her cheek, the pad of his thumb barely grazing her skin.

And then he kisses her.

It’s soft, almost tentative, like he’s afraid to break her.

But when she leans in, when her hand grips his shirt, when she melts into him—

Bob knows.

He’s gone.

⸻———

It’s hot as hell.

The sand burns underfoot, the sun blazing down, and there’s a light breeze that does absolutely nothing to stop Bob from sweating through his t-shirt.

The team’s sprawled out across the beach—towels and chairs and coolers full of drinks.

Phoenix has her sunglasses pushed up, grinning wide as she pelts Rooster with a water bottle.

Hangman’s already shirtless, showing off, tossing a football with Payback.

And Bob?

Bob’s standing a little off to the side, sunglasses low, watching her.

She’s laughing, sitting cross-legged on a beach towel, hair pulled back, wearing a simple tank top and shorts, her skin glowing in the sunlight.

And Bob is doomed.

He’s trying to play it cool, but every time she glances his way and smiles, Bob feels like his chest is too tight.

⸻

They end up sitting together under the umbrella.

Talking about nothing—the heat, the waves, her favorite movies, the best places to eat in San Diego.

Bob’s legs stretch out next to hers, and their knees bump.

Bob doesn’t move away.

Neither does she.

⸻

Later that afternoon, Bob’s standing by the water’s edge, sunglasses on, watching the waves.

She comes up beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.

“Texas has beaches, right?” she asks, looking up at him.

Bob smiles, soft.

“Yeah… but they don’t look like this.”

She nudges him, gentle, like she’s waiting for him to say more.

And Bob…

Bob wants to.

——

It’s late—really late.

The beach day is over, everyone’s gone home.

Bob’s sitting on the tailgate of his truck, quiet, looking up at the stars like they might give him an answer.

She’s there too, sitting close, legs dangling, a soft sweater pulled over her arms.

There’s a calm between them—just the sound of the night and the way the air feels cooler than the day.

Bob’s voice is low, almost like he’s afraid to break the spell.

“Back home… we used to sit outside at night, like this. The stars were so bright it felt like you could reach out and grab ‘em.”

She turns to him, her profile soft in the moonlight.

“Sounds beautiful.”

Bob nods, smiles a little, but it’s bittersweet.

“Yeah… My folks had a little ranch. Horses, some cattle. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. We’d sit on the porch… my mom would make tea, and we’d just listen to the crickets. Watch the lightning bugs. My dad would tell stories, or we’d just sit there… not say a word.”

She leans in a little, her hand brushing his on the tailgate, just barely.

“Maybe you could come with me. To Texas. If you wanted.”

—it hangs there. Heavy.

For a second, he’s sure he’s messed up.

His stomach knots, his hands twitch in his lap, and he can’t breathe.

But then—

She smiles.

Soft and warm.

And says, quiet, almost like it’s a secret:

“Yeah… I want to.”

Bob blinks.

Like he misheard.

“You—” His voice catches. “Really?”

She laughs, soft and a little shy, and nods.

“Yeah, Bob. I really do.”

——

It starts the night before.

Bob’s house feels small and quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones. She’s curled up on his couch in one of his sweatshirts, her bag already packed by the door, and the faint glow of the kitchen light spills into the room like a soft promise.

Bob’s in the kitchen, fussing with something—probably snacks—because he’s been nervous all day, rearranging things, checking and rechecking their itinerary. He’s trying to stay cool, but the way he keeps glancing at her, how his fingers keep tapping the counter like he’s playing a quiet rhythm only he can hear—it gives him away.

“Bob,” she calls softly, voice a little hoarse from the late hour.

He stops, looks at her over the top of the fridge, wide-eyed.

“Yeah?”

She smiles, small and tired, her hair falling into her face.

“Come sit down. It’s late.”

Bob hesitates, then nods—like he can’t help himself—and crosses the room to sit beside her, the couch dipping under his weight. She shifts, leans into him without thinking, her head resting on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

For a while, they just sit there, quiet.

Her breathing is slow, and Bob swears he can feel her heartbeat through the fabric of his hoodie.

“You nervous?” she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bob smiles, small, fond, like he doesn’t know how to answer.

“Not about going,” he says quietly. His thumb brushes along the seam of her sleeve, a soft, careful touch.

She lifts her head, eyebrows drawn together.

“Then what?”

Bob looks at her, really looks at her, like he’s trying to memorize everything—the shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, the way her eyes catch the dim light.

“Just… you. I mean, bringing you home.” His voice drops, soft as the night air. “You’re important to me.”

⸻

They’re up before dawn, the world still dark and sleepy.

Bob’s hair is a mess, his eyes soft with sleep, but he moves around the kitchen like he’s on a mission—making coffee, shoving granola bars into her tote bag, double-checking the flight info on his phone.

She leans against the counter, watching him with a tiny smile, sipping from the mug he handed her.

“You know I’m capable of packing snacks, right?” she teases, voice still raspy with sleep.

Bob glances over, grins, and shrugs.

“I know. I just—” He stops, looks at her like he’s trying to say everything with his eyes. “Just wanna make sure you’ve got what you need.”

Her chest tightens, and she sets the mug down, reaching out to grab his wrist, holding it like it’s fragile.

“Bob. I’m good.”

His eyes soften, and he nods, quiet, but his fingers still brush against hers like he needs the contact.

⸻

When they land, it’s hot—that kind of Texas heat that wraps around you like a weighted blanket.

Bob’s truck is waiting in the long-term parking lot, and she teases him about the messy backseat, but he just laughs, says he’ll clean it up “next time,” and starts the engine.

The drive is long, the highway stretching out like a quiet promise, fields and old farmhouses passing by in the late afternoon sun.

Bob points out little things along the way—that diner’s been there since I was a kid, we used to fish at that pond, the old drive-in is where I had my first date—and she listens, smiling, filing every little detail away.

When they finally pull up to his childhood home, it’s golden hour, the sky streaked with soft oranges and pinks.

His mom is waiting on the porch, hands on her hips, a knowing smile on her face.

And when Bob turns to her, voice barely a whisper, he says—

“Ready?”

She takes a breath, her heart thudding, and nods.

“Yeah. Ready.”

The porch creaks under their feet, and Bob’s mom—Margaret Floyd—is standing there, beaming, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s in a floral apron, her hair in soft curls, and when she sees Bob, she lets out a little gasp of joy.

“Oh, my stars—Robert, honey!”

Bob’s ears turn pink immediately, and he’s barely out of the truck before his mom is pulling him into a hug, swaying them side to side.

“Hi, Mama,” Bob mumbles into her shoulder, voice soft with affection.

And then—then—Margaret pulls back, eyes twinkling, and turns her attention to Y/N.

“And this must be her.”

Y/N feels her stomach flip—nervous, excited, breathless—and she glances at Bob, who’s already watching her, his expression somewhere between adoration and pure, stunned awe.

Margaret doesn’t wait. She sweeps Y/N into a hug like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment.

“I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about you,” she says, holding Y/N at arm’s length, her hands warm and gentle. “Bob talks about you all the time, bless his heart. You must be somethin’ special to make my boy grin like that.”

Bob groans, shoving his hands in his pockets, his ears bright red.

“Mama,” he mutters, half-mortified.

But Margaret just waves him off, all grinning and twinkling eyes, and she pulls Y/N inside, already talking a mile a minute.

⸻

The house smells like fresh cornbread and slow-cooked brisket, and Y/N feels like she’s stepped into a warm, safe bubble. There are family photos everywhere—Bob as a kid in a cowboy hat, Bob holding a fishing pole twice his size, Bob in an awkward high school portrait with braces—and she’s smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

Margaret leads her into the kitchen, offering her sweet tea in a mason jar, and before Y/N can even sit down, Margaret is launching into stories.

“Oh, you should’ve seen him when he was little—bless his heart, Bob was the shyest thing you ever did see. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But he had the sweetest soul, always pickin’ dandelions for me, always tryin’ to fix things when they broke. Once, he got stuck in the dryer tryin’ to rescue a kitten—I’m tellin’ you, he’s been a hero since he was knee-high to a grasshopper!”

Y/N laughs so hard she snorts, and Bob—standing awkwardly in the doorway—groans again, dragging his hand down his face.

“Mama, please,” he mutters, face burning.

Margaret just winks at Y/N.

“Oh, honey, I’ve got plenty more stories. Like the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by ridin’ a bull at the fair. Poor thing barely lasted two seconds before he went flyin’—oh, Bob, your ears were so red, I thought they’d catch fire!”

Y/N is gasping, laughing so hard she has to wipe her eyes, and Bob looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But then—then—his dad walks in.

Robert Floyd Sr. is tall, with a kind face and weathered hands, wearing a baseball cap that says “World’s Okayest Dad.” He looks between Bob and Y/N, smiles, and offers a quiet, “So, you’re the girl my boy’s been talkin’ about.”

Y/N nods, cheeks flushed, and shakes his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Floyd.”

“Oh, call me Rob. And listen—if you can put up with this one”—he points a thumb at Bob, who looks like he’s about to melt—“then you’re a saint, sweetheart.”

Bob’s protesting, mumbling “Dad!” under his breath, but Y/N just laughs, and she feels the tension melt away, replaced by something warm and full and right.

⸻

The rest of the family starts to trickle in—Bob’s two sisters, a couple of nieces and nephews who run circles around the yard, and an uncle who brings a guitar.

Bob hovers close to Y/N the whole time, his hand occasionally brushing hers, his eyes soft and full of pride.

At one point, as the sun sets low and the fireflies start blinking in the yard, Margaret leans over to Y/N, her voice low and gentle.

“You know, sweetheart… he’s been different since he met you. Happier. Brighter. Like he’s got a light in him I ain’t seen since he was a kid. I think… I think you’re good for him. Real good.”

Y/N feels her heart ache in the best way, and she glances at Bob, who’s in the yard tossing a football with his nephew, laughing, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.

She thinks—Oh. I’m already in love with him.

And in that moment, she knows it.

The backyard smells like smoke and barbecue sauce, a little bit of fresh-cut grass, and something sweet baking in the oven. The kids—Bob’s nieces and nephews—are already running barefoot in the grass, shrieking with laughter. The grown-ups are clustered near the grill, nursing cold beers and iced tea, telling stories like it’s the only thing that matters.

Bob’s hovering. He keeps glancing at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re here. His hand rests lightly on your lower back as he guides you toward the lawn chairs, his thumb tracing absent little circles over the thin cotton of your shirt. Every now and then, you catch him staring, his cheeks pink, and he quickly looks away.

Margaret notices everything.

She slides into the seat next to you, holding a glass of sweet tea, her eyes sparkling like she knows every secret in the world.

“You know,” she says, her voice low enough that Bob can’t hear, “he never brought a girl home before.”

You freeze, your stomach flipping.

“Really?”

“Oh, really.” Margaret grins like a cat who caught the canary. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, honey. And let me tell you—he’s been talking about you nonstop. You should hear the way he says your name.”

Your cheeks burn, and you glance over—Bob’s helping his dad stack firewood, sleeves rolled up, arms flexing just a little, and when he catches you looking, he gives you a soft, crooked smile.

Margaret keeps talking, voice full of fondness.

“He’s always been a quiet boy. Sweet, kind, but quiet. Always thinkin’, always dreamin’. And when he was little, he had this old blanket he wouldn’t let go of—called it Mr. Snuggles. Carried it everywhere. Wouldn’t even go fishin’ without it. Bob, the little boy who wanted to fix everything, always takin’ care of his sisters, always makin’ sure everyone else was okay.”

Bob’s dad, Rob Sr., chimes in from the grill.

“And don’t forget the time he tried to build a treehouse with duct tape and a butter knife. We found him halfway up the tree, legs dangling, lookin’ like a baby deer caught in the headlights.”

The whole family laughs, even Bob, though his face is bright red, and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

“Oh, and when he was seven,” Margaret adds, “he told us he was gonna grow up and be a cowboy-astronaut, and he’d lasso the moon and bring it home for me.”

Bob groans, burying his face in his hands.

“Mama, please.”

But it’s too late—you’re gasping, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes, and Bob is half-smiling, even as he shakes his head like he’s in mortal agony.

⸻

Later, after dinner, Margaret hands you an old photo album—Bob as a baby, Bob in kindergarten, Bob at his first day of flight school.

“Oh, look at this one,” she says, turning the page. It’s Bob in high school, gangly and sweet, standing in front of a beat-up old truck.

“That was his first car,” Margaret says, grinning. “Bought it with his own money. Spent every weekend fixin’ it up, tinkering with it ‘til it ran. And let me tell you, sweetheart—Bob’s got a good heart. A big heart. He loves deep, and when he gives it to you, it’s forever. You hold on tight to that boy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you blink hard, trying not to cry.

Across the yard, Bob is helping his nephew tie his shoes, his head bent low, his hands gentle. He glances up and catches your eye, and there’s a look on his face—soft, warm, a little shy.

You feel it like a punch to the chest.

⸻

Later, when you’re both curled up on the bed, the quilt pulled over your legs, you lie face to face, the lamp casting soft golden light across his features. He’s still in his t-shirt, hair a little messy, and he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re here.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, “I used to dream about this.”

“About what?”

“Bringing someone home. Someone I…” He pauses, swallows hard, then reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Someone I could see a future with.”

Your throat closes up.

You brush a thumb across his knuckles, voice barely a whisper. “What does that future look like?”

He smiles, a little sad, a little soft.

“Messy, probably. Loud. Full of love. Maybe a couple kids running around. A dog or two. Us, in a little house somewhere quiet.”

Your breath catches.

“You really want kids?”

His whole face softens.

“Yeah. Always have.”

He doesn’t say with you—he doesn’t have to. It’s there, clear as day, in the way his fingers tighten around yours, the way his voice breaks just a little.

You lie there quiet, the weight of it all settling heavy in your chest. The future he wants, the life he’s dreaming of—it’s right there, so close you can taste it.

And in that moment, you let yourself believe.

You let yourself want it too.

You press your forehead to his, breathe him in, and whisper into the dark:

“I want that too, Bob.”

And his breath shudders, his grip on you tightens, and for a little while, the world outside the four walls of his childhood room disappears.

———

The soft knock comes just as the first hints of sunlight spill across the quilt.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Robert?” Rob Sr.’s voice is gentle, muffled through the door. “Your momma’s got breakfast almost ready.”

Bob’s eyes crack open, still sleepy and warm, his hair mussed from the pillow, and his arm tight around your waist. His voice is rough, barely a murmur against your skin.

“Mm. Okay, Dad. We’ll be down in a minute.”

You hide your face against Bob’s chest, biting back a smile. The scent of coffee and bacon is already drifting up the stairs, mixing with the faint smell of cedar and laundry soap in Bob’s room.

Bob stretches—lazy, warm, his hand smoothing down your back—then presses a kiss to your hair, a soft, slow kiss that feels like more than a kiss.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough. “Let’s go before Mom starts sending search parties.”

You grin, heart fluttering, and he helps you up—both of you a little rumpled, a little glowy.

⸻

Downstairs, the kitchen is bright and busy. Margaret is by the stove, flipping pancakes, her apron a little flour-dusted. The table’s already half full—plates of bacon, biscuits, scrambled eggs, a big pot of coffee, and a pitcher of orange juice.

The kids are already up—barefoot, messy-haired, in pajamas. Bob’s sisters are sitting at the table, chatting and sipping coffee, and when you step into the room—Bob’s hand on the small of your back—everyone looks up.

And oh, the smile Margaret gives you is everything.

“Well, good morning! Hope you two slept alright.” Her eyes sparkle like she knows exactly what went on upstairs, and Bob’s face flushes pink.

“Y-yeah, morning, Mama.” He tugs you gently toward the table, his voice shy.

Margaret sets a plate in front of you, beaming. “Now, you just sit tight, sweetheart. Eat up. We’ve got plenty.”

And then, as everyone’s settling in, she leans over the table, resting her chin in her hand like she’s so ready for this moment, and smiles right at you.

“So,” she says, teasing, but kind, “tell us more about you, darlin’. I wanna see if Bob’s been telling us the whole story.”

Bob groans, hiding his face in his coffee cup, while his sisters giggle, and Rob Sr. just chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling.

You blush, heart racing, and Bob reaches under the table—lacing his fingers through yours, squeezing gently, like a little steadying anchor.

Margaret’s eyes are warm and curious.

“Where’re you from, honey? What’s your family like? What do you do? How’d Bob manage to charm someone like you?”

Bob mutters, deadpan, “I’m right here, Mama.”

The whole table laughs, and the moment is so sweet, so full, it makes your throat tighten.

You take a breath, squeeze Bob’s hand back, and start talking—about where you grew up, your job at the café, how you met Bob, the way he always ordered the same thing, how he’d linger just a little longer than necessary at the counter.

And Margaret is just beaming, nodding along like she already loves you, and Bob’s dad listens quietly, his eyes soft and thoughtful, and the kids keep sneaking glances at you, wide-eyed and curious.

Bob just watches you, a little in awe, his smile small and soft, like you’re the only person in the room.

—————

The sun’s already dipped low, casting a warm golden glow over the front porch. The air hums with the sound of crickets and the soft buzz of the porch light. It’s 8:00pm, just a couple hours before your flight back to San Diego, and the house is quieter now, the kids tucked into bed, the barbecue long cleaned up.

Bob’s mom, Margaret, stands in the doorway, her arms folded tight across her chest like she’s holding herself together. Her eyes are glassier than usual, and when you step forward to hug her, she wraps you up so tight it takes your breath away.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, her voice shaky, “you take care of my boy, okay? And yourself too, you hear?”

“I will, ma’am,” you whisper, your own throat tight with tears.

Margaret lets go reluctantly, smoothing a hand over your hair before turning to Bob.

“Robert Floyd, you come home soon, you hear me? Don’t stay away so long this time.”

Bob hugs her hard, burying his face in her shoulder, and for a moment, he’s just her boy, not the Naval Aviator, not the quiet, steady man you’ve come to love.

“Love you, Momma,” he says, voice rough.

“Love you more,” she whispers, sniffling into his shirt.

Rob Sr. claps Bob on the shoulder, gives him a quick, gruff hug, and says, “Y’all drive safe now.”

Then the rest of the family steps in—his sisters, one by one, tight hugs and whispered promises to visit soon. The kids wake up just enough to cling to Bob’s legs, their voices sleepy and soft as they say goodbye.

By the time you’re in the truck, the windows rolled down and the cicadas buzzing in the trees, it’s past eight-thirty.

Bob drives one-handed, the other resting on your thigh, fingers tapping a slow rhythm. Neither of you says much—the air feels thick with everything left unsaid, the kind of heavy quiet that wraps around you like a blanket.

You watch the Texas night roll by—the gas stations, the dark fields, the occasional headlights from another car. Bob’s profile in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, his jaw tense, his eyes on the road.

At one point, you reach over and lace your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

He glances at you, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes are shining.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice barely there.

“Yeah?”

“I had a really good time here.”

Bob lets out a slow breath, like he’s trying to hold it together, and nods.

“Me too,” he says, voice gruff.

————

The apartment is dim and still, the air cool and familiar. Bob drops the bags by the door, kicks off his shoes, and pulls you in close, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You melt into him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart under your palms.

“Missed this,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your hair.

“Me too,” you whisper, your voice catching a little.

He kisses you then—slow, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else to be. It’s the kind of kiss that unravels you, soft and deep, his hands cupping your face like you’re fragile and precious.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he whispers, “Come to bed, darlin’.”

You nod, exhausted, and let him lead you down the hall.

—————

“You know,” he says, voice low and careful, like it’s something he’s been carrying for a long time, “I used to think I’d never get to have this.”

You tilt your head, eyebrows furrowing.

“Have what?” you whisper.

He glances at you, and his smile is so soft, so achingly tender it hurts.

“This. You.” His voice hitches on the word. “A home. Someone to come home to. I thought maybe… maybe I’d just be that guy who loves flying, loves the team, but never has somethin’… more.”

Your breath catches.

Bob takes a step closer, like the words are pulling him toward you, like they’re too big to hold back anymore.

“I wanna build a life with you,” he says, quiet and earnest. “When this—the Navy, the missions, the call signs*—when all that’s done… I wanna go back home. To Texas. I wanna find a little house on some land. With a porch, maybe. Somewhere we can watch the stars.”

Your throat tightens, and his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs brushing gently under your eyes.

“I wanna have a family, too. If you’d want that.” His voice cracks a little, so hopeful, so soft.

Your eyes sting.

Bob’s whole body is radiating warmth, and it feels like he’s laying his heart in your hands.

“I’d want that,” you whisper, voice shaky. “I’d want that so much, Bob.”

And God—he melts.

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I love you,” he says, so quiet it’s almost a prayer.

Your hands grip his shirt, your heart racing.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, the words trembling against his mouth as he kisses you—slow and aching and full of promise.

For the first time in a long time, Bob Floyd lets himself dream.

And he dreams of you.

——

Bob’s house is quiet, the flicker of the TV painting soft light across the living room walls.

You’re tucked into his side on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting on his chest. The air smells like popcorn and Bob’s cologne, and the movie on the screen is half-forgotten—some old rom-com you both picked out without really paying attention.

Bob’s fingers are tracing slow circles on your arm, his touch absent, like he’s thinking about something.

You tilt your head up, just a little, to look at him—his jawline in the dim light, the soft curve of his mouth, the way his eyes are a little far away.

“What’s on your mind, baby?” you whisper, your voice gentle.

And Bob, God—he doesn’t even pause.

He just says it.

“You should move in.”

“Bob,” you breathe, your voice barely there.

“I want you here,” he says, quieter now, but steadier. His hand comes to rest on your thigh, gentle, warm. “Every day. I want to wake up with you. I want to cook you breakfast. I want you to have your toothbrush in the bathroom next to mine. I want you to leave your shoes by the door. I want to come home from base and know you’ll be here.”

Your heart aches, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“I want it,” you whisper, your voice muffled but fierce. “I want it so bad, Bob.”

——

It’s late afternoon, the golden light slanting across the hardwood floors in Bob’s living room. The day has been slow, quiet—a rare stretch of hours where it’s just you and Bob, tangled up on the couch, a movie playing softly in the background, your fingers tracing absentminded patterns on his chest.

You’re both in that warm, sleepy haze when Bob’s phone buzzes—once, then again, then three times in a row.

Bob tenses under your hand, his body going still, and you feel it before you even see it.

You sit up, watching as he reaches for the phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe.

His eyes scan the screen, and then he sits up, running a hand over his face.

“Bob?” you say, your voice small, a knot of dread already forming in your chest.

He doesn’t look at you right away. His eyes are glued to the screen, reading something over and over. Then, he sighs, a sound that feels like it punches the air out of the room.

“Mission came in,” he says, voice quiet.

You freeze.

“But it’s your day off,” you whisper, like saying it out loud might change something.

Bob finally looks at you, and his eyes are soft, but there’s a weight behind them.

“I know, darlin’,” he says, reaching for your hand, squeezing it tight. “But this one’s… important.”

You swallow hard, trying to breathe, trying to hold it together.

“How long?” you ask, voice tight.

Bob’s jaw flexes. “Two weeks.”

Two weeks.

It feels like the words crash into you, knocking the air out of your lungs.

You nod, because you know you can’t ask him not to go. You know this is his job, his duty.

But it still hurts.

Bob sees it—he always sees it—and he pulls you into his arms, holding you tight, so tight, like if he just holds you hard enough, it’ll make it okay.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he murmurs against your hair, voice rough.

You nod again, but it feels like your throat is closing.

“I love you,” you whisper, choking on the words.

Bob’s arms tighten, and he kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“I love you too. So damn much.”

———

The sun is just starting to set when you pull up to the base—the sky a soft mix of pink and gold, the air cooler now, carrying that faint, salty breeze from the ocean.

Bob’s hand is warm on your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, steady circles as you drive through the gates.

Neither of you has said much since you left the house—just quiet touches, the soft squeeze of his hand, the way he looked at you like he was trying to memorize you, every detail.

You park in the visitor’s lot, and Bob grabs his bag from the backseat.

The team is already there—Mav, Phoenix, Hangman, Fanboy, Payback—all of them waiting near the hangar, chatting quietly, a few of them glancing up when they see you.

Your heart is pounding.

You step out of the car, trying to breathe, trying to hold it together.

Bob turns to you, his expression soft, eyes warm.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you step into him, letting his arms wrap around you.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you—his steady breathing, the way he holds you, like he needs to.

Then you pull back, just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his chest.

“Be safe,” you say, your voice low, wobbly.

Bob’s hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“I will,” he promises. His voice is so sure, so steady.

You nod, forcing a smile, even though your eyes are burning.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words barely there.

“I love you too,” he says, soft, tender.

You hug each of them, trying to smile, trying to hold it together.

“Be safe out there, Hangman,” you say, voice tight.

Hangman gives you a little grin, but even he looks a little more serious than usual.

“Always,” he says, his voice low, and you nod, biting your lip.

“Phoenix—take care of him,” you say, and she nods, eyes gentle.

“You know I will.”

Bob lingers near the plane, his bag slung over his shoulder.

“Gotta go,” he says, his voice quiet.

You nod, blinking back tears, and Bob leans in one more time, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll see you soon, darlin’.”

———

The first few days after Bob leaves are quiet. Too quiet.

You keep busy—wiping down tables at the café, taking orders, smiling when you don’t feel like smiling. Every spare moment, you’re checking your phone, waiting for that buzz, that message.

And he texts you.

Tuesday, 2:17 PM

Hey darlin’, safe on base. Long days ahead, but I’ll text when I can. I love you.

You hold onto it like it’s a lifeline.

Then another, a few days later:

Friday, 10:39 PM

Missing you something fierce. Can’t wait to get home.

You reread that one a hundred times, smiling through the ache in your chest.

And the team checks in too.

Phoenix texts, brief and to the point:

Bob’s good. Holding up fine. We’ll keep you posted, okay?

You feel relieved every time you see their names pop up—until they don’t.

Then comes the silence.

The updates stop.

No messages. No calls.

Just silence.

———

It’s been ten days.

Ten days since the date Bob was supposed to come home.

No calls. No texts. No “I’m okay, sweetheart.” No “I miss you.” No nothing.

And every day that passes, the weight in your chest gets heavier.

You try to be rational.

You tell yourself that the Navy is slow. That there are debriefs, security protocols, a million reasons why he hasn’t called yet.

But you can feel it—deep in your gut, in the pit of your soul—that something is wrong.

So you tell yourself it’s fine.

He’s fine.

But you can’t breathe.

And tonight… tonight it feels like something inside you is splintering.

And then—

The doorbell rings.

You take a breath, your chest tight, your stomach in knots.

You open the door.

And there they are.

The whole team.

Maverick. Phoenix. Hangman. Fanboy. Payback.

Maverick’s holding the folded flag.

And your world stops.

You just stand there, frozen, the sound of your own heartbeat crashing in your ears.

No one says anything for a long, long, agonizing moment.

Then Maverick, voice low and rough, barely getting the words out—

“We figured… since you didn’t come to the funeral… you should have this.”

Your whole body jerks.

You stumble back, shaking your head in wild disbelief.

“Funeral?”

Your voice cracks, a broken whisper.

“What… what funeral?”

Phoenix’s breath shudders, her eyes filling with tears.

Hangman looks like he’s about to explode, jaw clenched so tight his teeth are grinding.

You stumble back again, your back hitting the wall.

Your hands go to your stomach, clutching at the fabric of your shirt like you can hold yourself together, but you can’t.

You can’t.

And the sound that rips out of you is animalistic, guttural, raw.

“No,” you sob, over and over, like if you just say it enough, it won’t be true.

“No, no, no, no—no—not my baby—no—”

Your legs give out, and you collapse onto the floor, sobbing so hard it feels like your ribs are going to shatter.

Phoenix is on the ground next to you, her arms wrapping around you, holding you as you scream.

Hangman paces, fists clenched, looking like he wants to punch the wall.

Maverick stands there, rigid, his face tight, his eyes haunted.

“They should’ve told her,” he mutters under his breath, furious. “She should’ve been told. Goddamn it.”

You barely hear him.

You’re curled up on the floor, sobbing, your hands gripping the floorboards like you’re afraid you’ll fall through the earth.

And the team… they stay.

They stay, because they loved him too.

Because you’re family.

Because you’re going to need them, more than ever.

And because they can’t leave you alone.

You stare at it until your vision blurred.

Bob’s name on the plaque.

The team stays for hours.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

And that breaks something in Phoenix. She sobs, holding you tighter.

“I know, I know,” she whispers, over and over, her tears mingling with yours.

Maverick comes back late, furious, pacing in the kitchen.

“They didn’t tell her. They didn’t fucking tell her.”

Phoenix swears under her breath, her hand on your shoulder.

Hangman mutters, dark and bitter, “Someone’s gonna pay for this.”

—————

A few days later.

You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, barely functioning, just going through the motions.

And you feel it.

A wave of nausea, crashing over you so hard you stumble, gripping the counter.

No, no, no.

You scramble for your phone, your hands shaking.

You check the calendar.

And your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, your hands shaking so hard you can barely dial the number.

You call Phoenix.

Your voice is broken, shaking.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

————

You don’t remember much of the days after.

You remember the team moving through your house like shadows, quiet and careful, like they’re afraid you’ll shatter if they breathe too loud.

Phoenix is always nearby, her hand on your shoulder, rubbing soft circles on your back when the tears start silently falling.

Hangman makes sure you eat, even when you don’t want to.

Fanboy and Payback come over with groceries, whispering softly that they’re here for you, always.

Maverick shows up with takeout, saying “I didn’t cook, but I’ll make sure you eat.” He hugs you tight when you break down in the doorway.

They all try.

But nothing helps.

Because you wake up and you expect to feel Bob’s arm draped over your waist.

You reach for him in the dark, and your hand finds nothing.

The bed is cold.

His side of the bathroom stays untouched. His coffee mug sits on the counter.

His laugh echoes in your mind, but the house is silent.

And it feels like you can’t breathe.

⸻

It’s two weeks later when Phoenix sits you down, gently, her voice soft but firm.

“Have you been to the doctor yet?” she asks, her hand warm on yours.

You blink at her, confused.

She hesitates, then says it—

“For the baby.”

The words crack the air around you, like a glass shattering.

The baby.

Your hand flies to your stomach.

The baby.

Bob’s baby.

You nod, barely.

Phoenix squeezes your hand.

“Let’s make an appointment, okay? I’ll go with you.”

⸻

The appointment is quiet.

Phoenix drives you there, holding your hand so tight in the waiting room that your fingers ache.

You fill out the forms with shaking hands, the pen slipping once, your handwriting barely legible.

You stare at the box that says Emergency Contact, and you can’t write Bob’s name.

Phoenix gently puts her hand over yours, and you write hers instead.

The ultrasound room is cold.

The paper crinkles under you.

You close your eyes as the tech starts, and then—

You hear it.

That tiny, racing heartbeat.

And you sob.

Phoenix is crying too, her hand gripping yours, whispering, “That’s your baby, honey. That’s your baby.”

You can’t stop crying.

Because Bob should be here.

Bob should be holding your hand, grinning at the screen, whispering I love you in your ear.

But he’s gone.

And it’s just you.

⸻

You tell the team that night.

You’re sitting on the couch, the folded flag still on the table, when you say it in a whisper, your voice barely a breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room goes silent.

Phoenix’s eyes fill.

Hangman curses under his breath, standing up and pacing, his hands on his hips.

Maverick looks away, blinking fast.

Fanboy rubs a hand over his face.

Payback nods, like he’s trying to hold it together.

No one says anything for a long time.

And then Phoenix leans forward, gripping your hands, tears streaming down her face.

“We’re going to get through this, okay? We’re going to take care of you, and that baby.”

Hangman nods, his voice tight.

“You’re not alone.”

You don’t believe them.

Not yet.

Not when the nights are so dark, and the bed feels so cold.

But the team stays.

They stay, because you’re family.

Because they loved him, too.

Because this baby—Bob’s baby—is a piece of him they can’t lose.

And slowly—so slowly—you start to breathe again.

——— (incredibly long timeskip)

It’s been eight months since Bob’s been gone.

Eight months of aching.

Eight months of trying to breathe through the pain, of forcing yourself out of bed every morning because you have someone else to live for now.

The baby’s due date is close—so close—and you’re terrified.

Hangman’s been hovering all day, driving you a little crazy but you love him for it. He showed up with a bag of tacos, acting like it was no big deal, but you could see it in his eyes—he’s worried about you.

He’s sitting on the floor in your living room, flipping through a baby name book you haven’t touched in weeks, while you sit on the couch with a blanket over your legs. The baby has been moving all day, little kicks and turns, and you have a hand resting on your belly like it’s second nature now.

You’re laughing—actually laughing—at something Hangman said when it happens.

That sharp, sudden pressure.

A pop.

And then the warm rush of liquid, soaking through your sweatpants, pooling on the floor.

Your eyes go wide.

Hangman freezes.

You stare at him.

“Jake—”

“Oh shit.”

“Oh my God, Jake, it’s happening.”

He’s already on his feet, frantic, like all his cocky swagger has been sucked out of him in an instant.

“Okay, okay—uh—uh—keys, where are my keys—”

“Jake!”

“I’m—okay! Okay! Get in the car!”

He scoops your hospital bag off the chair and practically shoves you out the door, one hand on the small of your back, trying to stay calm but his voice is panicked.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart, deep breaths—Jesus Christ, Bob’s gonna kill me if I screw this up.”

You want to laugh but you’re crying.

Because Bob’s not here.

Bob’s gone.

But you don’t have time to think about that because oh God the contractions hit—hard.

“Fuck!” you gasp, gripping the dashboard as Hangman peels out of the driveway.

He’s on the phone in an instant, dialing Rooster.

“Bradshaw—Bradshaw, listen, it’s happening. I’m driving her to the hospital right now—yeah, yeah, tell everyone—I’ll call when we get there.”

You can hear Rooster’s voice through the phone, sharp, focused, calming.

“Hangman, breathe. You’re okay. Get her there safe.”

“Yeah, yeah—I’m trying.”

You’re moaning in the seat, tears streaking down your cheeks, clutching at your belly.

“Jake, it hurts—”

“I know, honey, I know—shit, we’re almost there—”

He runs every red light, shouting apologies out the window, and when you get to the hospital, he leaves the car running in front of the ER doors, bolting around to your side, practically carrying you inside.

Nurses swarm you, a wheelchair appears, and Hangman’s shouting, “Her water broke! Contractions are close! She’s due—any day!”

And then they’re wheeling you away, and you’re crying, sobbing his name.

“Bob—Bob, I wish you were here. I wish you were here.”

Your heart is breaking.

Because Bob should be here, holding your hand, telling you everything’s going to be okay.

Hangman squeezes your shoulder, his voice rough, barely holding it together.

“We’re all here for you, sweetheart. We’re all here.”

———

The contractions are sharp, blinding, tearing through you like waves crashing on the shore, leaving you breathless and crying out.

You’re gripping the side of the bed so hard your knuckles are white, and there’s a panic in your chest that won’t leave, a terror that you can’t hold back anymore—

Because Bob’s not here.

And you don’t think you can do this without him.

Hangman is pacing the corner of the room, running his hands through his hair, trying to give you space but staying close, like he knows you’ll need him.

When the contraction lets go, you take a shaky breath, tears streaming down your face, and you whisper, voice cracking,

“Jake—”

He’s there in an instant, crouching by the bed, his hand wrapping around yours, warm and steady.

“Yeah? I’m here, honey, I’m here—what do you need?”

And then it breaks—the fear, the grief, the weight of everything, it crushes you.

“I can’t—” Your voice is so small, so shattered. “I can’t do this without Bob, Jake, I can’t. I need him. I need him here. He was supposed to be here—this was supposed to be us.”

Your breath is ragged, your body shaking, and the sobs come hard, from a place so deep inside it hurts.

Hangman’s voice is tight, his eyes red. He squeezes your hand, his voice cracking.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. But you’re not alone, okay? I’m here. We’re all here. Bob would want me to stay with you. He’d want you to be safe, for that little guy to be safe.”

You let out a whimper, looking at him with so much pain in your eyes that it guts him.

“Stay with me,” you beg, barely able to get the words out. “Please, Jake. Don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone.”

He nods, immediately, not even a second of hesitation.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay? I swear to God, I’m staying right here. I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Your grip on his hand is desperate, like you’re clinging to a life raft, and he holds on just as tight.

The nurses move around you, and the doctor comes in, saying it’s almost time to push, but you don’t hear any of it—because all you can think is that Bob’s not here, and you don’t know how you’re going to survive this.

Hangman presses his forehead to yours, his voice low and urgent.

“Breathe with me, okay? You can do this. I know you can. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re his girl. And I swear, I’ll stay right here the whole time.”

You nod, tears still falling, and you whisper, so soft it’s barely there,

“I miss him so much, Jake.”

Hangman chokes on a breath, nodding, his voice shaking.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. We all do. But he’s here, okay? He’s here. And you’re gonna see him in that baby’s eyes.”

You sob, full-bodied, heart-shattering sobs, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you tight, anchoring you while the storm rages through you.

You cling to him like he’s the only thing holding you together.

And when the doctor says it’s time, you grip Hangman’s hand so tight he thinks it might break, but he just squeezes back, whispering over and over,

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And when you push, when you scream with the effort, when you shatter with the pain, Jake holds you through every second, his voice in your ear, steady and strong, the voice you need when Bob’s is gone.

Because this baby is Bob’s.

And yours.

The moment the baby’s cry shatters the air, the whole room seems to pause.

The nurses move quickly, cleaning him off, but it’s all blurred for you—just a whirlwind of hands and voices—until they place him on your chest, tiny and warm, skin flushed and so small.

And then it hits you.

Because he’s not just any baby.

He’s Bob’s baby.

He’s your baby.

And when you look at him—really see him—you break.

Because he has Bob’s nose.

Bob’s cheeks.

Bob’s chin.

And when his little mouth opens in a wobbly cry, you hear Bob in it somehow, like his voice is echoing in this tiny, perfect person.

Your hands are shaking as you reach for him, cradling him close, your tears soaking his blanket, and you can’t stop sobbing, can’t stop whispering, over and over,

“Oh my God, you look just like him—just like him—my baby, my baby.”

Hangman’s standing by the bed, one hand over his mouth, eyes red-rimmed, staring at you like his heart is breaking.

He knows.

He sees it, too.

Sees Bob in this tiny baby’s face, in the curve of his lips, the shape of his eyes.

You’re sobbing so hard you can barely breathe, clutching your son to your chest like you’ll never let him go.

“I wish he was here,” you choke out, your voice cracking, barely a whisper. “He should be here. He should be here.”

Hangman’s voice is rough, thick with tears, as he steps closer, his hand on your shoulder, grounding you.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. But you’ve got a piece of him, right here.”

You look down at the baby again, your heart splintering into a thousand pieces, and you press a kiss to his soft, downy head, sobbing.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Hi, my little Robert.”

And when you say his name—Bob’s name—it’s like the air is sucked out of the room.

Hangman chokes on a breath, turning away, wiping his face, breaking.

Because this is Bob’s son.

Bob’s legacy.

And he’s perfect.

——

You’re still holding him—Robert Floyd Jr.—when the door bursts open.

They all come in.

Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback, Rooster, Maverick, even Hondo.

All of them, faces streaked with tears, red-eyed, quiet.

You barely have the strength to lift your head, but you do, and when they see him—this tiny, perfect boy, your Bob’s boy—

It’s like the air leaves the room.

No one speaks.

Hangman steps back, giving them space, but he stays close, like an anchor, his hand on the bed.

Phoenix is the first to move, stepping closer, her hands trembling. Her voice is shaky, small.

“Is that…?”

You nod, your eyes flooded with tears.

“This is Robert,” you whisper, your voice barely there. “Robert Floyd Jr.”

Phoenix gasps, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes fill with tears.

Maverick just stands there, frozen, staring at the baby like he’s seeing a ghost.

Rooster’s wiping his face, his breath shaky.

“Looks just like him,” Rooster whispers, voice cracking. “God, he looks just like Bob.”

You sobs, clutching Robert closer to your chest.

“I know. I know. He’s Bob’s baby. He’s all I have left of him.”

Phoenix’s tears spill over, and she reaches out, barely touching Robert’s tiny hand, her fingers shaking.

“He’s perfect,” she whispers.

Hangman’s voice is rough, choked with emotion.

“He’s got his daddy’s nose. And those ears, too.”

You laugh—a broken, raw sound that turns into another sob.

Maverick steps forward then, his hands trembling, eyes glossy, voice barely holding together.

“May I…?”

You nod, shifting slightly, letting him see.

He stares down at Robert for a long, aching moment.

“He would’ve been so proud,” Maverick whispers, voice thick. “Of you. Of him. Of everything.”

You break down, full, body-wracking sobs, clutching Robert tight, and Phoenix moves in, wrapping her arms around you from one side, Hangman on the other, Maverick’s hand on your shoulder.

The whole team is there, holding you while you cry, while you grieve, while you try to breathe through the heartbreak of Bob not being there to see his son.

You press your lips to Robert’s forehead, whispering, voice cracking,

“You’re so loved, baby boy. You’re so loved.”

And it hurts. God, it hurts.

But you survive it.

Because Robert is here.

And Bob’s in every part of him.

The nurse wheels you out slowly, baby Robert swaddled tightly in your arms, his head tucked beneath your chin. You’re still sore, still aching, still raw, inside and out.

Jake walks right beside you. He’s been there every minute since the delivery, never left your side, not even once. And he’s carrying the baby bag with one hand and your overnight bag slung over his shoulder, looking more like a big brother than a fighter pilot.

When the hospital doors slide open and that first cold breeze hits your cheeks, the tears come.

Not loud, not messy. Just soft. Quiet.

Because Bob was supposed to be here.

He was supposed to carry you to the car like an idiot, buckle in the car seat way too carefully, hold your hand all the way home while you both laughed at how insanely tiny Robert was.

Jake opens the car door gently. He buckles the carrier into the backseat with a soft little, “There you go, little guy. Ride’s not as smooth as your dad’s old Bronco, but I promise I’ll get you home safe.”

You slide into the passenger seat, cradling your arms over your stomach. The absence beside you is suffocating.

Jake doesn’t say anything. He just drives.

You watch the ocean blur by, street signs and palm trees, and with every passing block, your heart sinks deeper.

Because Bob isn’t waiting at home.

He’ll never be there again.

And you don’t know how to walk through that door.

⸻

Jake opens the front door of Bob’s house for you, pushes it open like it’s sacred.

You step inside, and it hits you like a punch.

His jacket is still hanging on the hook.

His boots are still by the door.

His stupid favorite throw blanket is still balled up on the couch.

Everything is exactly where he left it.

You don’t take two steps before your knees buckle.

Jake catches you before you hit the floor, wrapping his arms around you from behind, holding you up as you cry, loud and guttural now, the kind of cry that doesn’t care how anyone hears.

“I can’t do this,” you sob. “I can’t. He should be here. He should be here.”

Jake says nothing at first. He just holds you, one arm around your middle, the other rubbing your back.

And then, so soft you almost don’t hear it:

“You’re not doing it alone.”

He helps you to the couch. Gently takes Robert from the car seat and places him in your arms. Then he sinks to the floor at your feet and looks you right in the eye.

“I’m not leaving,” he says. “Not for a while. Not until you’re sleeping. Not until this little guy is on a schedule. Not until you tell me to go. I’m staying, okay? I promised Bob I’d take care of you both. I meant it.”

You’re crying again. But you nod. Because if anyone could keep a promise to Bob… it’s Jake.

Robert lets out a soft little whimper, like he knows the weight in the air. You press your lips to his forehead and whisper,

“It’s okay, baby. We’re home.”

It doesn’t feel like home anymore.

But maybe—just maybe—someday it will again.

———

It’s almost 2 a.m.

The house is dark, quiet in that way that only happens when a heart has stopped beating there.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of Bob’s old hoodies, knees pulled to your chest. The baby monitor glows faint blue beside you, casting soft shadows on the floor.

Robert is asleep in the bassinet in the bedroom—his room now. Not the guest room anymore. Not the office.

Jake’s sitting in the armchair across from you, feet up on the ottoman, a soft baby blanket folded on his lap. He hasn’t left, like he promised.

He’s not sleeping either.

You’re both just… sitting. Listening.

Grieving.

Every so often, you look at each other but don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Not yet.

When Robert stirs—tiny, breathy sounds from the monitor—you both sit up. Jake’s already standing before you even move.

“I’ve got him,” he says softly. “You rest. Please.”

You nod, lips trembling. You don’t want to rest. You want Bob to walk through that door. You want this all to be a nightmare you can wake up from.

But you let Jake go.

He disappears down the hallway, and the baby monitor picks up the soft creak of the nursery door.

Then his voice.

Low. Cracked. Tired.

“Hey, little man,” Jake whispers, barely audible. “You got some lungs on you, huh?”

You hear the shuffle of fabric, the gentle bounce of arms rocking a baby, and then—softer than anything—

“I miss him too.”

Silence.

“I’m gonna try, okay? I’m gonna try to be good for you. I can’t be him, but I’ll be here. I’ll show you pictures. I’ll tell you everything he said about you. Everything he wanted.”

There’s a pause, and when Jake speaks again, his voice breaks completely.

“He should’ve been here. I wish it was me.”

You press your hand to your mouth, sobbing silently.

Not just for Bob.

But for Jake. For the weight he’s carrying now. For the love he’s trying to give this tiny boy that isn’t his.

Because it is love.

All of it.

When Jake comes back, Robert asleep on his shoulder, his eyes find yours. They’re wet. His jaw is tight. But he nods, like a promise.

You nod back.

Because this is the shape of your life now.

No Bob.

But so much love.

———

It’s not light that wakes you.

It’s the quiet.

That unfamiliar, heavy quiet that only comes after everything breaks—where the stillness isn’t peace, but the echo of what’s been lost.

Robert is nestled against your chest, impossibly small. His tiny fist grips your hoodie like instinct, like even he knows what the world has taken from him. His breath is warm through the fabric, and every few minutes, he makes this soft sound in his sleep—somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

You stroke his back slowly.

You haven’t spoken out loud today. Haven’t moved much since Jake handed him to you hours ago.

There’s something terrifying about morning now. It used to be safe—coffee and Bob’s stupid jokes and sunlight on the kitchen counter. But now it means another day without him. Another reminder that you survived something you weren’t supposed to.

Across the room, Jake is slumped in the armchair. He’s too tall for it, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side. He’s snoring softly.

He stayed all night again.

This is the fourth time in a row he’s fallen asleep sitting up.

He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t say anything when you cry while changing a diaper, or when you flinch hearing a sound that reminds you of Bob’s laugh.

He just stays.

And you’re not sure you could’ve made it through even this one night without him.

So you sit there—Robert pressed to your heart, the man who made a promise to his best friend asleep across from you—and you let the sun rise slowly.

You don’t move.

Not yet.

You don’t have to be strong yet.

———

You don’t answer the door at first. You just sit on the couch, still in the clothes you slept in, cradling Robert in one arm while Jake gets up to check.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Phoenix says gently from the hallway. “It’s just us.”

You nod when she enters, but your throat tightens too much to speak.

She brings food—warm and wrapped in foil, probably made by her mom, if you had to guess. She puts it on the counter without a word, washes her hands, and comes to kneel in front of you.

She doesn’t ask to hold him. She just waits.

You hand Robert over slowly, afraid that letting go even for a minute might unravel you.

But then you see her face.

And everything shatters again.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix whispers, voice trembling. “He looks just like Bob.”

She presses her lips to his forehead and lets the tears fall silently, rocking him gently like it’s second nature.

Fanboy and Payback show up together, arms full of grocery bags and boxes of baby wipes and formula. Rooster lingers in the doorway longer, unsure if he should even be there until Jake pulls him into a hug.

No one talks about Bob.

Not directly.

But his name floats between the pauses, heavy and quiet and undeniable.

Rooster finally takes Robert from Phoenix, cradling him in his big hands like he’s made of glass.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, soft and warm, eyes wet. “Your dad was the best man I ever knew.”

You feel your heart split open again.

No one moves to comfort you.

They just let you cry.

Let you feel it.

And somehow, that helps more than anything.

(Part 2 is already uo chat, I wrote TEW much)

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