#study: bob floyd | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

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Pairing: College AU! Frat Boy!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When your friends drag you to a frat house party during spring break you weren’t expecting much, but when you go to seek out a moment of silence and end up accidentally stepping into someone’s room, you end up forming an odd connection with one of the fraternity members.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Some Angst, Mentions of Alcohol and Drug Use, Reader gets a little anxious in the crowd and mentions agoraphobia, Swearing, Reader has beef with one of the fraternity members, Reader is a Chemistry Major, Bobs in Aerospace Engineering

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female and Male Receiving), Handjob, Bob is Inexperienced (but he’s enthusiastic to try everything), Bob talks a lot during sexual acts, Dirty Talk, Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, Making Out and Dry Humping, Bob is super sensitive.

Author’s Note: Frat Boy Bob y’all. This was technically a request, but I dashed away with it and truly came to enjoy this so so much. Also just as a side note lol, Frats aren’t really a huge thing where I am, they’re so subdued it’s not even funny, though if you go to party schools you’re definitely going to get an experience and a half (I did not go to a party school so I’m going off of my friends experiences at this point 😂)

Word Count: 17,352

”Tell me again why the hell we’re going to this party?” Your voice cut through the late evening air, low and flat, edged with irritation as you pulled your windbreaker tighter across your chest. The nylon rasped beneath your fingers, a poor excuse for protection against the sharp spring breeze. The smell of your dorm clung to it–laundry detergent, stale coffee, and whatever perfume your roommate had sprayed on in the vicinity of it.

The sidewalk beneath your sneakers was still damp from a passing rain shower. Faint streaks of moisture glimmered on the concerte, catching the fractured yellow light from the street lamps above. You stepped around a crushed beer can and kept your head down, following the clacking of heels and bare legs that were moving a few paces ahead of you.

Jess, Monica, and Sue, your friends by proximity. You had met them during welcome week and never managed to shake them–even though you didn’t really want to. They existed in a different orbit entirely, but they took you in with open arms and tried to crack the shell that you had built around yourself. They were the people that convinced you that college didn’t have to be all about studying and going to class and that it could also be fun too, despite the hefty tuition bill.

The girls had built a three person wall along the sidewalk, pushing against each other as they chatted and laughed about something you hadn’t heard, keeping balance on their heels, skipping cracks in the pavement. They were dressed like the party was going to be a runway show instead of an absolute chaotic mess. Jess wore a short leather skirt and a cropped corset top under a trench coat she wasn’t planning to keep on. Her hair was up, slick and sharp, gold hoops brushing her jaw. Monica had on a silver halter top that sparkled under every porch light you passed, paired with high-waisted jeans and glossy lipstick that matched the cherry polish on her nails. Sue, as always, looked like she’d stepped out of an editorial spread–draped in a backless silk dress and strappy heels that should’ve been impractical, but somehow weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were the outlier–and it was obvious.

Black low-rise jeans hugged your hips, the waistband dipping just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach where your t-shirt stopped. The top was fitted and a plain navy blue, not short enough to be bold, and not long enough to be considered modest–though it was enough to remind you of the cold every time the wind shifted. Your black sneakers were scuffed at the toes, laces uneven, but they were practical for the walk home.

Technically, you were dressed for the weather, but standing next to your friends made you feel underdressed in a different way. Not because you didn’t look good, but because you just didn’t meet the same standard they had set for the group.

Your question had interrupted whatever conversation they were tangled in. Jess glanced over her shoulder first, her earrings catching the light at the turn.

”Well, Jake personally invited us,” She explained, like that was a valid reason, “And you’ve been holed up in your room almost all of spring break studying. You needed to get out. Breathe some fresh air, get social contact apart from us…Maybe drink something that hits a little better than three iced coffees a day.” You groaned immediately at the name Jake, ignoring the rest of the comments she had made about what you had been doing during the break.

”Not that meathead…If I knew that moron invited you guys, I would’ve locked my door and turned off my phone.” Monica sighed.

”C’mon, Y/N, he’s not that bad.” You let out a short laugh–dry and humorless.

”He’s a douchebag. And he thinks I’m a cockblock because I don’t let him get handsy with you guys when you’re half a drink in. I think he’s exactly that bad.” Jess gave a low laugh.

”He’s just a flirt.” You hummed.

”Right, and I’m just a buzzkill.” You muttered. Sue looked over at you now.

”We appreciate the defense. Really. But tonight…We’ve got a bit of a bet going.” You raised an eyebrow.

“What, like who’s gonna bed him first?” There was a pause, and the silence was telling. It caused you to stop walking.

”Oh god.” You rubbed your fingers into the corners of your eyes like you could physically wipe the idea out of your brain. Monica didn’t even flinch.

”He’s hot! How can you not be curious?! I’ve heard a lot of good things…” You dropped your head, staring at her.

”You better make that guy bathe in hand sanitizer before he touches you. God only knows where he’s been.” That got a laugh–sharp, unapologetic. Jess bit back a grin. Sue let out a quiet, breathy chuckle behind her hand, and even Monica smiled.

They didn’t deny it. They didn’t defend him, either.

The four of you continued to walk, your pace catching up to them so you could get involved in their conversation a little more, as your ears caught a hint of bass echoing through the streets.

Campus was surprisingly crowded for a week that should’ve been quiet. Most students hadn’t gone home–not for lack of desire, but practicality. A three-day visit to your hometown wasn’t worth the bus ticket, the packing, and the return. The majority of people who didn’t travel long distances had quietly agreed to stay put, which caused a social pressure cooker of chaos. Parties bled from one house to the next, yards were flooded with empty kegs and pool floats, and of course people were out till all hours of the night taking in the extracurriculars.

You were one of the people who chose to stay, but it was for different reasons.

You had a chemistry midterm that was going to hit you on the Monday right after break, and you needed peace and quiet to get the thirty five page study guide your professor had emailed. You had been hunched over your laptop, dragging a pen across every other line and downing iced coffee like it counted as fuel. Your residence hall had been silent–peaceful in the way only empty buildings could be. No thumping floors. No bathroom chatter. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional door shutting down the hall.

And honestly, you liked it that way.

Which was why walking up this street, with the scent of cheap body spray and beer already creeping into the air, made your skin itch.

Jess, Monica, and Sue weren’t wrong–you had wasted half your break studying. But a frat party was a far cry from the kind of break you would’ve chosen. You would’ve taken a quiet bookstore, a blackout curtained room, maybe a hot bath. Instead, you were heading straight into the epicenter of campus chaos.

The house came into view like a rising tide–inevitable and loud.

Theta Rho Alpha Sigma Heta.

TRASH, for short.

It was a reputation as much as a name. It was burned into every party story, every Camus warning, and every early morning regret that started with “so we went to TRASH last night.” Ten fraternity brothers lived inside, and every square foot off the place bore evidence of that fact. It was a massive, century-old house–once regal, now abused. Three floors, five bedrooms, two makeshift attic spaces, a finished basement that doubled as a moldy second living room. The paint on the siding had faded into a blotchy, sun-peeled gray, warped by years of weather and neglect. The porch sagged under the weight of too many bodies. One of the support beams had been duct-taped after someone fell through it last fall.

The front steps were uneven, patched with mismatched bricks and sagging plywood. Two of the railing posts were zip-tied together in a last-ditch effort to pass housing inspection. The fraternity’s letters were bolted crookedly above the door, one hanging loose on a single screw. Half-lit from a porch light that flickered like a dying candle.

Light poured from every window–yellow, blown out, too warm. It cast strange shadows across the lawn, catching in the curls of smoke that drifted from blunts and vapes and burning firewood in the backyard pit. The music pulsed through the siding—more vibration than melody. Heavy bass that flattened everything it touched, beating into your chest like an arrhythmic second heartbeat.

The lawn was packed–shoulder to shoulder, people overflowing onto the sidewalk, the flowerbeds, the hood of someone’s car parked at a bad angle. Plastic cups were everywhere, crushed or half-full or abandoned in the grass. The scent of spilled beer hung in the air, warm and sharp, mixing with sweat, weed, fast food, gasoline from a knocked-over jerry can, and the stale breath of a thousand unwashed Red Solo cups.

Someone was blasting a megaphone from the porch steps–a guy in a backwards cap, red-faced and laughing, trying to shout over the music. You caught pieces of it: something about jello shots, something about the beer pong table being “winner stays,” and something that sounded suspiciously like “naked mile.”

Two guys were wrestling in the grass by the mailbox, one of them missing a shirt, the other holding a can of whipped cream like a weapon. A girl stumbled past them in glitter boots and a bikini top, waving a phone and yelling at someone you couldn’t see. Another was throwing up behind a bush while her friend held her hair and nodded along to the music like it was a shared ritual.

From the second-floor balcony, a makeshift banner drooped crookedly on a frayed bedsheet:

TRASH FEST 2NITE - NO RULES. NO EXCUSES. NO SLEEP.

“Jesus,” Jess muttered under her breath, pausing at the edge of the lawn. “It’s already booming and it’s not even 9:30. We are so late.”

You followed a few paces behind her, stepping carefully around a puddle of cheap beer that had soaked into the grass. “Didn’t know we could be late for a frat party,” You mumbled, eyeing the porch like it might collapse under the weight of the crowd.

But the girls were already in motion, rushing toward the chaos like it was gravity pulling them in. You hung back just slightly, weaving your way around the worst of the lawn–dodging a guy hurling glow sticks into the crowd and stepping over a discarded takeout container that looked like it hadn’t survived the walk from the sidewalk. Your shoes slipped slightly on the wet grass as you moved toward the porch steps, where cigarette butts and crushed cups had collected like driftwood on the edge of a rising tide.

You stepped up, sneakers hitting the warped planets, hand grazing the rickety railing as the music began to rattle your teeth at full force. The door was open, the entryway wide and glowing with overexposed yellow light. You could smell it all before you even crossed the threshold–booze, sweat, pot, deodorant masking body odor, and something burnt that might’ve been food or someone’s hair.

The second your foot crossed the threshold, it hit you all at once–the heat, the crowd, the crush of music and smoke and too many bodies packed into too little space. The entryway smelled like spilled tequila and cheap cologne. Someone’s hoodie brushed your shoulder, sticky with sweat, and you recoiled instinctively, scanning for your friends. Jess’s trench coat disappeared into the living room. Monica’s glitter top flashed once, then vanished into the blur. Sue was already at the bar cart in the corner, snagging plastic cups.

You were still deciding whether to follow–or leave–when he stepped in front of you.

Jake Seresin.

Leaning casually against the wall near the stairs, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He looked the same as always–clean cut and cocky, like a walking recruitment poster that never had to try too hard. His hair was neatly styled, strawberry blonde in colour, and slightly dampened from either sweat or a shower. You didn’t know and quite frankly you didn’t care.

He wore a snug black t-shirt that clung to the curve of his biceps, jeans slung low on his hips, worn-in boots planted like he owned the floorboards. A silver chain peeked from under his collar, catching the glow from the overhead bulb. The smirk on his face arrived before he spoke.

“Y/N…I see you’ve decided to come out of your cave.” Jake’s voice cut through the heat and noise like he owned the damn place–which, unfortunately, he sort of did, especially because he was the head of the house. His smirk was smug enough to slap off his face, and the way he looked at you–lazy, head tilted just slightly–made your blood itch.

“Didn’t realize you were doing doorman duty tonight. What’s the matter–couldn’t con a freshman into kissing your boots on the way in?”

Jake laughed, low and amused. He shifted his weight, arms crossing, biceps flexing like it was involuntary. “Cute. But if you really wanted to see me, you could’ve just said so. No need to pretend you’re here for the punch.”

“If I wanted to see you, I’d schedule a lobotomy first,” You said, eyes scanning past him to where the party stretched out like a sweaty nightmare, “You’re like athlete’s foot. Persistent. Itchy. Impossible to get rid of.”

That earned you a flash of teeth, the smirk sharpening. “Damn. Must’ve missed that sparkling charm of yours. Thought maybe you’d chilled out since fall semester.”

“Nah,” You replied, smiling without warmth, “You don’t know me well enough to assume something like that.” He hummed.

”You always this feisty, or do you just save it all for me?”

“I save it for pests,” You shot back, “Like you.” And with that, you pushed past him–your shoulder clipping his lightly–just enough to make it clear you were done. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You didn’t care what his smug ass had to said next. The music hit harder in the next room, and the humidity had already begun to creep under your clothes like steam.

Sue caught up to you almost instantly, already grinning like she’d watched the whole exchange from the sidelines.

“Thanks for buttering him up,” she said, patting your arm. Her tone was teasing, but not mocking. “I’m going in for the first interaction of the night.”

You raised your cup-less hand and gave her a small salute.

“Good luck,” You shouted back over the bass, smirking. She gave you a wink before disappearing into the crowd, swaying through the bodies with ease. You peeled off toward the kitchen, dodging a couple making out near the coat rack and stepping over a few abandoned beer cans. The kitchen was a warzone of overturned shot glasses, and a group of architecture students stacking some of the spare red solo cups in a tower. To your left, a half-empty bowl of lime wedges was slowly withering beside an array of crumpled napkins, and then your eyes found the coolers.

There were three of them, stacked neatly along the wall beneath the fogged kitchen window–white Igloo coolers with duct-tape labels stuck to their lids like someone had planned this out. You paused for a second, brow lifting slightly. It was the first thing you’d seen in this entire house that resembled forethought.

POP / ENERGY / SPORTS DRINKS

It was handwritten in black Sharpie, a little smudged from condensation, but legible. Organized.

You flipped the lid, expecting warm cans swimming in brown ice water and maybe the scent of something that had once been fruit punch. Instead, it was ice cold. There were cans lined up in half-hearted rows–soda, sports drinks, a few scattered energy drinks, and even a rogue seltzer tucked in the corner.

You spotted the ginger ale immediately and grabbed it, the can blessedly cold against your hand. You popped the tab with a low crack, the fizz whispering up as you turned around and leaned back against the counter. The metal felt cool through your jeans, a shock of comfort against your overheated skin.

You brought the can to your lips and took a sip–dry, sweet, clean. The carbonation hit your throat gently, but the cold grounded you.

The nausea that had been curling in your gut since you stepped into the house–maybe even since you left the dorm–began to quiet under the fizzy bite. Not completely. But enough.

Your eyes scanned the room as you sipped. People buzzed in and out like bees. Music bled through the drywall. There were beer pong shouts from the living room, someone screaming off-key to a pop remix from the basement, and a girl in the corner of the kitchen trying to convince her friend that no, taking another shot wouldn’t fix the situation.

You took another sip of your ginger ale, but this time it caught in your throat.

You coughed into your arm, quietly at first—then once more, harder, sharp enough to make your eyes water. The fizz didn’t settle your stomach like before. It turned sour, bubbling too fast. Heat rose under your skin, too much of it. The air felt wrong—like it wasn’t going in properly, like the room had subtly tilted without warning and your lungs were working against it.

Maybe it was the noise. The press of people. The humidity clinging to every surface like a second skin. Or maybe it was you.

You blinked slowly, dragging in another breath through your nose, but it didn’t go deep enough. Your chest tightened instead. Like a pressure band had cinched beneath your ribs, subtle at first, then steady, then sharp.

Shit.

You glanced around again, searching for something—a signal, maybe. A reason to leave. A place to bolt to. But everything looked the same: sticky floors, laughing strangers, red cups tipping on every flat surface. Too much noise. Too much movement. You couldn’t catch your footing in it. Couldn’t ground yourself.

You didn’t know if you were going to throw up or have a panic attack, and honestly, it didn’t matter—because either way, you needed out.

You pushed off the counter. The cold had left your jeans, and your hand trembled slightly as you set your can down, half-full and already forgotten. The kitchen was a blur behind you, the music thudding harder now, bass lines vibrating in your teeth.

You moved fast, weaving through the main floor with quick, shallow breaths. Eyes down. Shoulders tight. The living room passed in a smear of sweat and cheap cologne, someone’s laughter bouncing too loud off the crown molding. You didn’t stop to said anything. Didn’t look for your friends. You didn’t want to worry them–not yet. Not until you figured out what the hell was happening.

Going outside wasn’t an option. Not with the yard full of people. If one of your friends saw you slipping out, they’d follow. Or worse–they’d worry. You didn’t want that either.

So you made for the stairs.

The banister was sticky and warm under your palm as you took the steps two at a time. Your breath hitched halfway up, chest clenching like your ribs were welded shut. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to keep going.

The second floor was marginally quieter, but the walls were still too thin. Bass leaked through every inch. Laughter echoed from behind doors, and the smell of weed hung low like a fog.

You moved fast–hand grazing doorknobs, cracking one open only to find two people already tangled on a futon, backlit by LED strips. You didn’t pause. You just kept going.

Next room: a circle of guys smoking out of a gravity bong made from an Arizona bottle. One lifted his hand in greeting, eyes bloodshot and lazy. You shut the door.

Another: a girl crying on the floor while two of her friends huddled around her with shot glasses. You closed that one a little more gently.

The hallway seemed endless. Your chest was still too tight. Like there wasn’t enough air on this floor either.

Then finally the last door on the left creaked open to a well lit, completely empty room. You stepped in, fast, and shoved it shut behind you, the slam loud in the sudden quiet. Your back hit the wood, hard enough to jolt your spine, and you didn’t care. The silence was immediate, muffled and warm and blessedly still.

Your eyes adjusted to the sight in front of you and almost immediately you were absorbing all the details.

The room was bright in contrast to the rest of the house–lit by a desk lamp angled toward a bulletin board cluttered with index cards and printouts. The overhead light was on too, not dim or tinted like the others downstairs, but clean and soft and yellow, illuminating the space in a way that made everything feel more grounded. Less warped. Less unreal.

Your eyes scanned the details, cataloguing without meaning to.

A twin XL bed sat tucked in the corner, sharply made with a green-and-navy plaid duvet pulled taut at every corner. The sheet edges were squared, the pillows firm and aligned. Not a wrinkle in sight. There was a subtle indent on the right side of the mattress—someone had been sitting there recently. Maybe even within the hour. But whoever it was, they weren’t here now.

You stared at the bed like it might steady you. Like if you focused hard enough, the room would stop spinning entirely.

Beside the bed, a heavy oak bookcase ran nearly the full height of the wall. It was packed with titles, every shelf brimming. Not decorative either–thoroughly read. Dog-eared paperbacks leaned into thick hardcover editions, grouped not by color or aesthetic, but by subject. Biographies. Math. Novels. Non-Fiction. Chemistry and Science. A few textbooks on differential equations, stacked beside a worn copy of Dune and a boxed set of The Lord of the Rings. Your fingers twitched, instinctively wanting to trace the spines.

You blinked slowly. Breathed in through your nose. The room smelled faintly like pine and laundry detergent–clean and muted. No sweat, no beer, no weed. Just detergent, and the faint dry scent of paperback pages.

A corkboard hung above the desk, pinned with exam timetables, lab schedules, a few biology notes, and what looked like a printed-out list of citations in 12-point Times New Roman. The chair tucked neatly beneath was ergonomic, not cheap. Beside it sat a large, dented water bottle and a stack of neatly bound notebooks.

Posters lined the wall–nerdy ones. Retro Star Wars prints. A 2001: A Space Odyssey poster framed in black. There was a NASA diagram of the solar system pinned above the desk, annotated in ballpoint pen like whoever lived here used it to actually study, not just decorate.

You took a step forward, the floor creaking under your weight.

“…Geeky,” You muttered to yourself, voice hoarse, quiet. The sound came out more like a breath than a statement. Your knees nearly gave out when you reached the side of the bed. You sat down slowly, hands braced on the plaid comforter, fingers splayed across the dense fabric.

It gave a little under your palms. Still faintly warm.

You let out another breath–long, uneven, but better than before.

Your heart was still pounding, but it was loosening its grip. Slowly. The walls weren’t closing in anymore. Your lungs weren’t seizing.

You tapped your fingers against the mattress and started listing what you could see.

“Desk lamp. Physics textbooks. Star Wars poster. Clean sheets. Plaid pattern.”

Another breath.

“Water bottle. Books on aerospace…Math. Scent’s clean. No body spray. No beer.”

Another breath.

It wasn’t magic. But it helped. saiding it all aloud gave your mind something to anchor to.

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the corner of the room. “Big bookshelf. Index cards on the corkboard. Neatly folded blanket on the chair.” You paused, blinking. “Shit,” you whispered softly, dragging your hand down your face.

It wasn’t that you were weak. You knew what this was. You’d never been diagnosed, but the signs were hard to ignore. The panic. The way crowds made your body feel like it was misfiring from the inside out. How your throat closed up in packed rooms. How every party ended with your head spinning and your jaw locked in quiet dread.

Agoraphobia. You’d read about it. Dismissed it. Then quietly reconsidered it. And then dismissed it again.

But tonight? Tonight your body had decided to remind you it was real.

You leaned forward, elbows to knees, head in your hands. Not crying. Just breathing. For a long moment, you stayed like that–drinking in the quiet, letting the static in your limbs slowly begin to fade.

The sound of the door handle turning ripped through the quiet like a thunderclap.

You jolted upright–spine snapping straight, fingers braced against the mattress, breath catching mid-inhale.

The door creaked open slowly, a rectangle of warm hallway light spilling across the floor, cutting a golden line through the carpet and up your jeans. And then he stepped inside.

You blinked hard.

He froze halfway through the threshold. One foot in, one out, like he hadn’t meant to walk in on anyone–and certainly hadn’t expected to find a stranger perched on his bed.

He looked about your age, maybe slightly older. Tall but not imposing, lean in the kind of way that came from long hours of running or lifting–not bulking. His face was unmistakable even in the soft light: gentle features, tousled light brown hair that curled slightly at the ends from where it had dried naturally, no product. A strong jaw softened by the faintest dusting of stubble. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose–simple, silver rimmed, they looked similar to aviator glasses, just a little more rounded off in the lenses. They were crooked but he didn’t reach up to fix them.

And those eyes…Wide, bright, and startlingly blue.

Like the ocean under a cold sky. The colour made your stomach turn, and the way they reflected in the light made your head spin.

He wore a navy crew neck sweater with the university crest stitched over the chest, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing ink stains and a faint red pressure mark on his wrist where a watch probably used to be. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, soft enough that they must’ve been his go-to. A can of sprite was in his hand, dripping from the ice that had melted over it.

“Oh. Oh god–I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of your mouth quickly, breathless, “I didn’t mean to–I wasn’t…” His brows lifted slightly, but there was no alarm on his face. Just surprise. His voice was low, quiet, and careful.

“It’s okay…I–uh–it’s alright.” He hesitated, eyes flicking across the room, landing briefly on your curled posture, your flushed face, the slight tremble in your hand as you pushed back from the bed. “Are you…Okay?” You blinked. Your heart was still hammering. Not from fear anymore–but embarrassment. Humiliation. He didn’t look like he thought you were stealing. He didn’t even glance toward the desk or the bookshelf. He was looking at you. Really looking. Reading the panic that hadn’t quite drained from your body yet.

You felt your shoulders curl in instinctively, defensive. But there was no judgment in his expression–just a quiet, earnest concern that felt way too soft for someone who’d just found a stranger in his room.

“I–” You swallowed, hand hovering mid-air like you weren’t sure whether to stand or bolt. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I just–I needed out. I was–I had to get out of the kitchen.” He nodded once, like he understood completely. He stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him–not all the way, but enough to soften the noise from the hallway. It was strange how quickly the room felt like a bubble again. A barrier. A pause from everything that came before it.

“I figured…” He said quietly, “The parties here get pretty loud and overcrowded, so I don’t blame you for wanting to get some peace for a minute.” You swallowed thickly, your throat still tight with leftover nerves, and exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice quieter now, “I can’t imagine living here, to be honest.” He smiled—not cocky like Jake, not smug or practiced. Just a small, self-deprecating curl of his lips, as if he agreed with you more than he was willing to admit.

“Noise-cancelling headphones really come in handy.” That earned a low breath of amusement from you.

“I guess you’re right with that one…”

He took a sip of his Sprite, the faint crackle of carbonation filling the small silence that followed. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–just heavy with all the things neither of you were sure how to said yet. He stayed near the door, not wanting to hover or crowd you in any way. You watched him for a second, and then another, noting the way his shoulders shifted under the weight of the conversation–or maybe just the attention.

Then, softly, like he was testing the waters:

“I’ve seen you around before…In the science building. You’re in Chem 241, right?”

Your brows lifted slightly, caught between surprise and guarded curiosity. “Yeah… it’s my major.” You tilted your head. “How do you know what class I’m in?” He gave a sheepish, quiet laugh, the kind that curled at the corners of his mouth without ever really reaching full confidence. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion making it stick up slightly in the front.

“You’re in the class before mine. You’ve got kind of a familiar face.”

You paused, eyes still on him, your heart starting to settle into something else–less fight-or-flight, more puzzled curiosity. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly, but there was a warmth in his cheeks now, visible even in the soft lighting. A flicker of nervous energy vibrated at the tips of his fingers as he shifted his Sprite to the other hand.

Then, like the thought had only just occurred to him:

“Oh–Jesus, sorry. I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd.” He grimaced slightly at the awkwardness of it, wiping his damp palm against the thigh of his sweatpants before offering it out to you, fingers curled slightly.

You hesitated for only half a second before reaching out and slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm, slightly chilled from the condensation of the can but dry now. The grip was gentle, just enough to be firm without overcompensating.

“Y/N,” You said quietly. Your name sounded softer in this room than it had downstairs-like the sound itself respected the quiet.

He smiled again. “Y/N,” He repeated, a little slower this time, like he was filing it away in some meticulous corner of his brain. “Nice name,” Bob said, quiet and genuine. The words weren’t perfunctory–they landed with a softness that didn’t feel like filler. More like a real compliment, shaped by how he said it. You blinked once, caught off guard by how sincere it sounded.

Before either of you could speak again, a sudden crash reverberated through the floorboards beneath you–so loud and forceful that your feet actually lifted a half inch from the mattress. Something heavy had toppled on the first floor. Maybe furniture. Maybe a person. Followed by a cascade of laughter that barely muffled the groaning bass still pounding through the walls.

You flinched, eyes widening, then looked toward Bob with a raised brow.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a frat house, by the way?” You asked, your voice dry but curious, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans. “You seem too…Sane.” Bob took another slow sip of his Sprite, his glasses catching the overhead light as he tilted his head slightly.

“It’s pretty good to have on a résumé,” He said mildly. “Minus the parties, of course.”

You hummed, the sound low in your throat as your eyes flicked toward the ceiling like you were scanning for divine confirmation. “Yeah…I think if any future employer found out the type of parties TRASH throws, I’m pretty sure you’d be hired immediately. Just for surviving them.” That earned an actual laugh from him–low and warm, the kind that started in his chest and curled up into his mouth like it surprised even him. It settled something inside you. Not the panic entirely, but the vulnerability that had followed it. His laugh made the room feel a little more human. Less clinical. More like a moment you weren’t intruding on, but sharing.

“I don’t participate in them, evidently,” He claimed, gesturing lightly toward his desk. “So I’d be lying.”

You followed the motion with your eyes–the papers, the water bottle, a perfectly aligned mechanical pencil, and what looked like a cracked-open packet filled with printed slides and diagrams.

“Evidently,” you echoed softly, tilting your head a little as you looked around again. “What were you doing?” Bob exhaled–half sigh, half breath of frustration–and stepped toward the desk. He reached for the study packet, flipping the top corner up between his fingers to show you the first page. It was already heavily marked–some in black pen, some in red. Diagrams had been annotated, circled, dissected line by line. Across the top margin, written in neat, even letters, was the course title: Space Systems Design – Midterm Review Packet.

“Studying,” He said. “I have the test on Monday, and I’m nowhere near done with this thing.” His tone was tired but not bitter, just resigned in the way that only students deeply familiar with academic despair could be.

You gave a quiet, knowing laugh–one that felt more like release than amusement. “Of course. I guess every professor gets off on torturing science and engineering students,” You muttered, stretching your arms briefly. “Because I’ve got a very similar packet sitting on my desk right now for my Chem Midterm.” He placed the packet back on the desk with a soft tap.

”Misery loves company, I guess.” He offered.

“More like intellectual suffering,” You replied dryly, crossing one ankle over the other where you sat at the edge of his bed. There was a beat of silence, the kind that settled into the warmth between two people who hadn’t yet decided if they were strangers or acquaintances.

Bob leaned slightly against his desk, fingers still resting on the edge of the study packet. He tilted his head just enough for his glasses to slip down his nose for a moment, then asked softly, “So…Who dragged you out of your studying and brought you here?”

You huffed out a breath, half a laugh. “My friends got personally invited by your frat brother Jake,” you said, tone flat and unamused. “I’m assuming you know him well.”

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from Bob–his shoulders lifted slightly, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Well… I guess he’s trying to expand his roster again.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little on your palms. “Guess one of my friends is getting lucky tonight then, if he’s looking to score.”

Bob let out a hum, lips twitching toward a grin. “As long as they have a pulse, they’re fair game.”

You groaned. “Figured that…”

Another crash exploded beneath your feet–some combination of broken glass and furniture legs giving out–followed by a howling cheer from the crowd downstairs. You both winced slightly, shoulders tensing at the same time.

Bob exhaled a sharp breath, then straightened. He looked at you carefully–not with pity, but consideration–and then asked, quiet and steady:

“You wanna maybe…Get out of here?”

You blinked.

He shrugged one shoulder, casual but sincere. “Denny’s is 24 hours. We could sit there for a bit, get something to eat. And I’m sure if we stay long enough, the party’ll start to die down. Then you can get your friends when they’re all done here…” It was such a simple offer. No pressure. No weird edge. Just a safe, open hand held out toward the exit sign.

And god, it was tempting.

“Yeah…” you said almost immediately, your fingers already moving to unlock your phone. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually. I’ll just text them and let them know I’m going.”

Bob smiled–wide this time, soft and relieved. “Great.”

You glanced back up at him, still a little breathless from the past hour, still not sure if this was all a fever dream or the best part of your spring break. But you smiled back.

And maybe, just maybe, your night was finally starting to turn around.

———————————

The walk to Denny’s wasn’t long, but it was everything you needed.

The fresh air hit your lungs like a blessing–not sharp, not cold, just crisp enough to wash the smoke and sweat from your senses. Each breath cleared your head a little more. The bass from TRASH still thudded faintly in the distance, but the further you got from the house, the more it faded into the background noise of a quiet college town on a restless spring break night.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional burst of laughter echoing down from a distant porch or a cluster of bikes propped against a lamppost. The rain from earlier had left the sidewalks glistening, catching the glow from streetlights and shop signs like scattered glass. Bob walked beside you, not too close, not too far–just an easy, steady presence. Every now and then, his shoulder would sway slightly toward yours, like gravity had its own opinion on the distance.

Denny’s sat at the edge of campus like a low-lit promise. The sign flickered faintly overhead, buzzing with the tired hum of fluorescent tubes, casting a pale glow on the nearly empty parking lot. It was a local staple–open all night, slightly grimy, and universally understood to be the unofficial overflow space for students who couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to go home, or just needed somewhere to exist without judgment. You’d studied here before. So had everyone. It smelled like syrup and fry oil and burnt coffee, and for some reason, it always felt safe.

Inside, the place was quieter than usual. A couple of booths were filled–one with a pair of students whispering over open textbooks, another with two guys splitting a plate of mozzarella sticks and arguing over a March Madness bracket. But the energy was muted. Dimmed. Like the whole place had taken a collective breath and decided to chill.

You and Bob slid into a booth by the window, vinyl seats squeaking under your weight. The table was slightly sticky with syrup residue–standard–but the lighting overhead was warm and soft. You could actually hear yourselves talk. You could actually think.

The waitress–a woman with tired eyes and a pen stuck behind her ear–dropped off two mugs and a full pot of coffee without asking. She must’ve pegged you both as regulars, or at least as students. Bob gave her a soft “thank you,” and you echoed it before she disappeared behind the counter.

Bob poured the coffee first, filling your mug before his. The gesture was small, automatic, but it made you pause for just a second.

“I think breakfast is one of the only meals I actually enjoy at any time of day,” he said as he handed you the sugar packet holder.

You hummed softly, stirring a little cream into your cup. “Pancakes, waffles, French toast–all sweet things,” You replied, voice a little lighter now, “But I do agree…Breakfast foods are definitely better than most.”

Bob nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reached for a menu. “Haven’t eaten much today, so I’m probably going to order a lot,” He said, deadpan but with a flicker of a smile. “Just warning you now.”

You laughed, slouching into your seat as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the mug. “I won’t judge. As long as you don’t judge me for ordering an extra order of bacon. And possibly ham…And maybe another round of home fries.”

He looked up at that, a glint in his eyes beneath the lens glare. “Definitely won’t.”

Then, leaning forward just a little, voice conspiratorial and soft, he added, “But I will probably steal some of those home fries though, so…By all means, order away.”

You grinned, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Fair trade.”

And just like that, the tension that had wrapped itself around your ribs for hours began to unravel–for real this time.

It took a few minutes for both of you to confirm your orders–too many good, greasy options, too little brainpower left to commit. You squinted at the menu through the soft overhead glow, half your focus still caught in the feeling of warm coffee and the unexpected calm of the moment. Bob, meanwhile, flipped his menu once, then again, lips twitching like every option looked equally dangerous.

The waitress returned, pad in hand, looking only marginally more awake than when you walked in.

“I’ll have the fruit-topped pancakes,” You said, “With a side of bacon, ham…And an extra order of home fries…For the table of course…” You offered a small smile, like you were trying to excuse your own hunger, but she didn’t blink.

Bob, on the other hand, cleared his throat like he was preparing to read an oath. “Ultimate omelette, please. A side of pancakes, just the normal ones…And…A side of French toast, with bacon.”

She paused. Just slightly.

Her gaze slid over him like she was doing mental math on how someone built like a straight-laced study boy could possibly demolish what would equate to three breakfasts at once. Her brow lifted–just for a second–but she didn’t say anything. Just jotted it all down with a faint scribble of pen on paper, nodded, and disappeared with both menus in hand.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Bob let out a short, quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. “I think I freaked her out a bit with all the food.”

You stifled your own laugh behind the rim of your mug. “Yeah, maybe a little. She’s probably wondering how you’re going to eat all of it.”

He shrugged, lifting his coffee. “We’ve got a bit of time. I think I can manage.”

That earned a proper laugh from you, low and genuine. You settled back against the booth as the hum of Denny’s buzzed softly in the background—silverware clinking, someone flipping a page from the next table over, a soft beep from the kitchen.

Bob took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “So…” He began, voice still gentle, “what’re you doing on campus during spring break?”

You exhaled slowly, watching the light catch the small glint of moisture still clinging to the window beside you. “My parents’ house is… A little chaotic,” You admitted. “And I really wouldn’t be able to study if I went back. So I just figured I’d stay in my dorm. Easier to focus. Cheaper, too.”

Bob nodded, listening like he really meant to. “Do you work?”

You reached up to scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I work at Beans To You. Part-time barista. It gives me some extra spending money–enough to keep me caffeinated through exam season, anyway.”

That pulled another smile from him. “Do you like it?”

You lifted your hand and made a so-so motion in the air. “It’s fine. Tips are decent. My manager’s a nightmare, but I like the regulars.”

He nodded like he got it, then said, “I don’t really work…Not officially, anyway. Sometimes I write essays for a few of the frat guys and they pay me.” He gave a small shrug. “So I don’t know if you’d count that as a job or just…An Academic crime.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest like you’d just been personally betrayed. “You? Violating academic integrity? I’m shocked.”

Bob laughed, tipping his head down in mock shame. “Yeah, well…I can’t really keep a normal job while studying. Too much going on up here.” He tapped the side of his temple with a finger. “But I commend you for being able to juggle it.” You can feel your face heat up slightly.

“Thanks…” The silence between you and Bob stretches for a few seconds–comfortable, not strained. Outside the Denny’s window, a streetlight flickers, casting faint gold shadows across the table. The warmth of your coffee mug seeps into your palms, grounding you even as your thoughts turn over the night like a loose coin.

You glance over at him, chin tilted slightly, voice soft. “So why are you still on campus during spring break? Since you asked me…”

Bob’s hand curls around the coffee pot again. The ceramic glugs quietly as he refills his mug, steam rising faintly into the warm air between you. He doesn’t speak right away–just watches the dark liquid settle.

“Same as you, pretty much,” He replied after a beat, setting the pot back down. “But… I also don’t have a lock on my door, and the guys go into my room pretty often to steal things, so…” He shrugs one shoulder, faintly sheepish. “I figured it was better to be there. Y’know–stand guard.”

You smirk and lean forward slightly, grabbing a little plastic creamer cup from the holder and rolling it between your fingers. It clicks softly as it spins. “Interesting that you have a bunch of thieves in your presence.”

That earns a laugh from him–low and rough with amusement. “Well… they’ll always give the stuff back, of course. But only if I remind them.” He lifts his mug, lips quirking slightly as he takes a sip.

You hum, raising a brow. “Still sounds like thievery to me.”

His cheeks tint pink as he glances down into his cup, swirling it once before replying under his breath, “Touché I guess…” The silence slips in again—brief, like a shared breath—and you let your gaze settle on his hands for a moment. They’re long-fingered, a little ink-stained around the knuckles. Gentle, despite the size. His nails are clean but bitten at the edges. Tired hands. Capable ones.

Your voice cuts through the quiet again, this time softer, almost curious: “Your girlfriend must not like the guys coming in and out of your room, though.”

Bob pauses mid-sip. His lips part like he’s going to reply quickly, then he stops. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He sets the mug down gently.

“No girlfriend,” He confirmed finally. His voice is steady, but there’s a faint guardedness behind it. “Kinda stopped trying with the whole dating thing. It was a bit… much.”

You blink at that. “Too much of a line-up?”

That draws a real laugh from him–quiet, exasperated, a hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. His glasses slide slightly down his nose again.

“Oh, please…” He chuckles. “No. No line-up for me. I mean—look at me.”

You do, pointedly. “I am.”

He goes redder. You smirk.

“It’s just…” He exhales, shoulders relaxing as his fingers stir the coffee absentmindedly. “It’s complicated, y’know? I’m not very good at the whole–putting yourself out there thing. And I think people expect something when you show up to a date all prepared and polished. It gets weird. You have this whole pressure to perform. To be ‘on.’”

You tilt your head slightly. “Well, you seem to be outgoing. You’re doing pretty good with this conversation. I don’t know how it could be complicated.”

Bob stirs the sugar in his mug, the spoon clinking gently. He looks down at it, not quite meeting your eyes, but not avoiding them either.

“Maybe it’s because you’re pretty easy to talk to,” He explained. “It’s different when there’s no pressure. No expectations. You didn’t show up tonight wanting something from me. We just…Met. You don’t have a picture in your head of who I’m supposed to be.”

That strikes something in you–a truth you hadn’t quite realized was sitting at the edge of your own thoughts. You nod slowly, leaning a little further into the table.

“That makes sense,” You said softly. Your hand brushes the edge of the sugar packet holder again, fingertips tapping faintly. “I also think you walking in on me having a bit of an anxiety attack probably helped. With you staying calm, I mean.”

Bob’s head lifts slightly. His blue eyes catch yours again–bright, steady, warm. “That too,” he said, with a small smile. “It kind of cut through the usual noise. I knew what it was the second I saw you.”

You raise a brow gently. “Do you have experience with that kind of thing?”

He nods once. “I’ve had my moments. I’m…Pretty familiar with what it looks like. What it feels like.”

You feel your chest loosen–just slightly. There’s something in the quiet way he said it that wraps around you like a thread. Honest. Matter-of-fact. Not dramatic. Just shared.

You sip your coffee again, letting the silence settle in a way that feels companionable now, like you’ve both earned it.

Then Bob lifts his head a little more, his glasses catching the light as he looks at you across the table. His voice is lower now. “You’re okay now though, right?” You could feel your heart catch–not in that suffocating, chaotic way from earlier, but in a softer, almost stunned kind of ache. Because here he was: Bob, a stranger only hours ago, asking with quiet sincerity if you were okay. Not out of obligation. Not to get something from you. Just… because he cared. And somehow, that mattered more than you were prepared to admit.

“Yeah,” You replied, your voice light, but genuine. “I’m definitely feeling much better. I think it was just…How cramped the house was, to be honest.” You gave a soft, sheepish smile, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Wasn’t really a fan, I guess.”

Bob nodded, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. “That makes sense,” He murmured. “I think TRASH is like… the physical embodiment of a migraine.”

You snorted, and it broke the last of the lingering tension between you.

Before either of you could respond, the clatter of ceramic and the faint shuffle of sneakers announced the return of your waitress. She placed your food down with the weary grace of someone who’d balanced plates through hundreds of midnight shifts.

“Alright,” She said, eyeing the table, “Round one.”

She set down your fruit-topped pancakes–stacked high, glistening with syrup and dotted with blueberries and strawberries. The bacon was curled and crispy, the ham thick-cut and slightly charred at the edges. A steaming mountain of home fries followed, golden and peppered with bits of caramelized onion.

Bob’s first plate came next: a monstrous omelette, folded tight and stuffed with peppers, ham, cheese, and something else that looked like it might have once been alive and screaming. French toast followed, dusted with powdered sugar and still steaming, then the final plate of classic pancakes–plain, but perfectly browned and stacked like they belonged in a diner commercial.

“Damn,” You muttered as she walked away to grab another pot of coffee. “You weren’t kidding.”

Bob gave a faux-serious nod. “I take breakfast very seriously.”

Conversation flowed easily now, spilling over between bites and swipes of syrup, the low hum of the diner cocooning you in soft sounds: the hiss of the kitchen, the occasional ding of a timer, and the quiet scrape of forks over ceramic.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite professors. Weirdest drink orders you’d ever made at work. Other times, he said things you hadn’t expected: like how he wanted to work in aerospace design someday, or how he didn’t sleep well unless there was white noise playing somewhere nearby.

Somewhere between your second helping of home fries and Bob’s last piece of French toast, your phone buzzed. You picked it up mid-chew and glanced at the screen.

Jess: we’re heading back. dorms are too far but jake’s breath is worse. I’m tapping out.

Monica: don’t wait up <3

Sue: text when you’re home safe pls 🫶

You thumbed a quick reply, a warm smile tugging at your lips.

You: i’ll be good. i’ll text when i get back to the residence so you know i got home safe <3

When you set the phone down again, Bob was watching you–not in a weird way, just casually, curiously, like he could tell something in your expression had shifted.

“Friends bailing on you?” He asked, reaching for the last bite of his pancakes.

You nodded. “Yeah. Party must’ve worn them out.”

“Probably for the best,” He started, “It starts getting rowdy at around this time.” You snorted.

”What’s new? It’s like y’all don’t sleep, I’ve heard enough stories that it literally feels like when I don’t go to one of your parties I still attended.”

Bob laughed so hard he almost choked on his coffee.

By the time your plates were mostly empty and the coffee pot had been drained down to lukewarm remnants, you realized just how late it had gotten. The booths had began to thin out even more–there was just one table of students left, dozing over half-finished pancake stacks. The quiet was deeper now, but not uncomfortable.

The waitress returned to your table just as you were lifting your mug for one final sip, now half-cold and slightly bitter. Her pen was already poised, her notepad loose in one hand, her face unreadable behind the faint sheen of a night shift glaze.

“It’ll be one bill,” Bob said before she could even ask, his voice smooth but casual.

Your head jerked slightly in surprise, a protest already rising in your throat. “Wait, no–Bob, come on, you don’t have to–”

He shook his head gently, cutting you off with nothing more than a glance and a small smile. “It’s all good,” He murmured, already pulling out his wallet. “You got me out of the house for the first time this week. I owe you.” Your cheeks warmed, a slow bloom of heat rising into your ears. You blinked down at your mug, then back at him, and that’s when the sky opened.

A sudden roar of rain crashed against the diner’s roof, pounding like a thousand thrown pebbles. The windows misted almost instantly, a sheet of water streaming down the glass and distorting the world outside into a watercolor blur.

Bob flinched slightly, twisting in his seat to look outside. His shoulders hunched on instinct, and a low, resigned sound escaped from his throat. “Well…” he said, squinting past the droplets, “That doesn’t look good.”

You turned your gaze to the window and let out a dry laugh, exhaling softly as you looked down at the windbreaker you had draped over your lap. The nylon was thin and practically useless, more aesthetic than functional, and the idea of stepping into a monsoon in it was laughable at best.

“Guess I’m gonna be taking a second shower tonight,” you muttered.

Bob laughed—a soft, tired huff that carried the warmth of shared annoyance. He reached for the debit machine the waitress had just placed down, brows furrowing slightly at the glowing screen.

“I mean…” he began, eyes still on the numbers as he typed in a 20% tip with practiced ease, “TRASH is closer than your residence, I’m assuming…”

You stilled, your fingers lightly tapping the rim of your coffee cup. You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head toward him, a smirk flickering at the corner of your mouth. “Are you asking me to stay over at the frat house for the night?”

The question hung in the air, playful but open-ended, wrapped in something more vulnerable beneath the teasing. Bob’s fingers hesitated only a second on the keypad. Then he cleared his throat, his jaw flexing faintly as he focused a little too intently on the screen.

A tinge of pink crept into his cheeks, barely visible in the soft overhead glow, “Well,” He started, still looking at the machine, ““I don’t think it’ll be as chaotic as it was when we first left. It’s…”

He pulled his phone out of his hoodie pocket, thumb swiping the screen quickly before glancing at the time. His voice was slightly rough when he spoke again. “1:58…So most of the party crowd’s probably passed out or Ubered home.” You let the moment linger, your gaze resting on him as you traced the edge of your mug with your fingertip. The rain was still coming down hard, a near-constant shushing against the glass. You could feel the chill creeping in from the windowpane behind you, but your fingers were warm.

Your tongue flicked out to dampen your upper lip–an unconscious movement. “Okay,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes as he finally looked up. “You’re right.”

Something flickered behind his glasses–relief, maybe. Or hope.

“So…” He asked, voice gentler now, “Is that a yes?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it for dramatic effect. Then you nodded, slow and sure, your smile small but certain. “Definitely.”

———————————

By the time you reached the frat house again, your windbreaker had clung to your frame like a second skin–useless, soaked through, plastered to your arms and back. Bob hadn’t fared much better; his sweatshirt was darkened with rain, sweatpants sticking to his legs, curls dripping water down the sides of his face. You both half-jogged the final stretch of the walk, laughing breathlessly as puddles splashed beneath your sneakers, your jeans growing heavier with every step.

The porch light still flickered above the sagging steps of TRASH, casting its usual jaundiced glow across the warped wood and the crowd that lingered despite the downpour. The music inside had dulled to a murmur now–more background hum than bassline. A few people still lounged on the porch and by the windows, some wrapped in borrowed blankets or wearing half-soaked hoodies, clearly unwilling to brave the rain to get home.

You and Bob didn’t say anything as you stepped back inside. You didn’t need to.

The shift in temperature was immediate. Warmth hit you like a wall–sticky and musty from the remains of the party, but comforting after the rain. Your wet clothes clung to your skin, and you blinked against the fog that immediately fogged up Bob’s glasses.

He muttered something under his breath and took them off, reaching blindly for the nearest surface. A tissue box sat crookedly on the edge of a table cluttered with empty bottles and a half-eaten slice of pizza. He snagged one with a quiet “thanks,” as if the house had done him a favor, and carefully wiped the raindrops from the lenses.

You stood beside him, dripping gently onto the floorboards, ignoring the damp squish of your socks in your shoes.

“This is your fault,” You murmured dryly, nudging him with your elbow, pointing down at your shoes.

Bob smiled behind the tissue, his glasses still in hand. “Can’t control the way I splashed the puddles, it’s not my fault.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of the exchange settled between you like steam, softening the cold still clinging to your back.

The climb to the second floor was quieter than before–no bodies spilling down the stairs, no screams from behind doors. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of a nightlight near the bathroom and the soft hum of a TV still playing somewhere behind a closed door. You padded side by side, shoes squelching softly, until you reached the door at the very end.

Bob stopped and looked down at the wet prints you’d both left on the wood floor. “Wait,” He said, hooking a finger into the heel of his sneaker. “Let’s not trash the room on the way in.”

You mimicked him without question, tugging your own shoes off and stepping gingerly onto the dry patch of carpet just outside his door. Your barefeet were cold against the wood, but you followed his lead as he opened the door and ushered you inside.

The warmth of the room embraced you immediately–soft light still glowing from the desk lamp, books undisturbed, bed still neatly made. It looked exactly as you’d left it, like the universe had paused while you were gone. A pocket of calm in the storm.

Bob shut the door behind you with a quiet click, and you both stood there for a second, wet and shivering, taking in the familiar scent of detergent and paper and pine.

You turned to him, wringing out the bottom hem of your shirt slightly. “So…What’s the protocol here?” You asked, gesturing vaguely to your soaked clothes. Bob cleared his throat, the sound soft but a little strained as he shifted in place. His hair was damp and sticking to his forehead from the humidity of the rain and the faint warmth of the room.

“Um… I have some spare clothes you can wear,” He said, gesturing vaguely toward the small closet on the far side of the room. “They might be a little big, but…”

You shook your head immediately, brushing a few wet strands of hair back from your face as water dripped quietly from your sleeves. “I don’t mind,” You murmured. “Not really trying to impress anyone.”

That earned the faintest smirk from him, quick and crooked–just a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He turned away and opened his closet, the wooden door creaking faintly on old hinges. Inside, everything was neatly stacked or hung: flannel shirts, hoodies, folded sweats, a few plastic hangers twisting slightly from where they’d been jostled. It wasn’t much, but it was organized–just like the rest of him.

After a second of deliberation, Bob pulled out a pair of flannel pajama bottoms–soft-looking, forest green and navy plaid–and a white t-shirt with faded navy lettering stretched across the front.

You tilted your head, brows lifting slightly. “‘The All-State Mathletes’?”

He sighed. “Yeah…It was a math team I was on in my first year. Don’t ask.”

You grinned and took the bundle from his hands, brushing your thumb across the worn fabric of the shirt. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

“I figured,” He muttered with a low huff of a laugh. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Bathroom’s two doors down. Towels are in the top drawer if you need one.”

“Got it.” You nodded, stepping back into the hallway barefoot, flannel bundle tucked under your arm and your wet clothes slapping faintly against your side with every step.

The bathroom was empty–thank god–and you wasted no time peeling off your drenched clothes. The fabric clung stubbornly, cold and limp against your skin, your jeans making that awful suction sound as you dragged them down your legs. The windbreaker hit the floor with a wet slap, your socks not far behind.

The dry fabric of the borrowed clothes was a godsend.

The pajama pants were big, predictably, and you had to roll the waistband twice just to get them to sit above your hips. The t-shirt hung past your thighs, thin and worn soft with age, the letters cracked and faded from a thousand washes. You caught your reflection in the mirror briefly as you towel-dried your hair–still damp–but a little steadier now.

You bundled your soaked clothes into a loose pile in your arms and padded back down the hall, feet cool against the hardwood. The party had dulled into something sleepy and distant. A door creaked open somewhere behind you, but you ignored it, your focus set entirely on the quiet golden glow spilling from the crack beneath Bob’s door.

When you opened it, your hand halfway full of damp denim, you froze in the doorway.

Bob was halfway through pulling on a clean shirt, the fabric bunched in his hands as it hovered just below his collarbone. His back was to you, bare and still slightly damp, pale under the soft overhead light. And god–he was lean, sure, but he was defined. His shoulders tapered into the strong slope of his spine, the muscles along his back pulling tight with every breath as he raised his arms. His skin was smooth, but the planes of him were lined with quiet strength–faint dips and ridges casting gentle shadows across his shoulder blades and the curve of his waist. You hadn’t expected him to be built like that.

Your throat went dry.

You coughed–a soft, involuntary sound that slipped from your chest before you could stop it.

Bob startled slightly and turned, shirt still bunched in his hands. His glasses were back on, fogged faintly from the warmth of the room. His cheeks went pink almost instantly, like the realization had only just hit him. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered, yanking the shirt over his head in a single, awkward movement. “I didn’t know you’d be back already.”

You took a cautious step in, one hand tightening around the bundle of wet clothes clutched to your chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just walk in–didn’t really expect you to be…Changing.”

Bob shook his head as he adjusted the hem of the shirt, tugging it into place at his hips, smoothing it over the faint damp patches on his new pair of navy sweatpants. “No–it’s fine. Really. Uh…Let me get you a towel for your pillow…And I can throw your clothes in the dryer so they’ll be good by morning.” He moved quickly, brushing past you with careful steps, warm air trailing in his wake. You caught the scent of him as he passed–faint detergent, piney body wash, something subtle and clean that clung to the soft cotton of his shirt.

He opened a small drawer near the dresser, pulling out a thick grey towel and handing it to you without making eye contact. Then he glanced down at the soaked bundle in your arms and gently reached for it.

“I’ll toss these downstairs now,” He offered. “Give me five minutes and they’ll be spinning.”

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Thanks. Really.”

Bob’s expression softened as he looked up at you–his blue eyes still wide behind the lenses, but a little calmer now. “Do you want a drink or anything?” He asked as he backed toward the door. “I’m probably gonna grab some water before…Sleep.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. Water is fine…Thank you.”

He nodded once and slipped out the door, leaving you alone again in the soft glow of his bedroom. The sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs, and you sat slowly at the edge of the bed again, towel draped across your shoulders, the smell of his room slowly working its way deeper into your skin.

You thumbed open your group chat as you sat at the edge of Bob’s bed, the thick towel still draped over your shoulders like a shield. Your wet clothes were gone–already clunking softly in the dryer downstairs–and the cold had mostly left your skin, replaced by the slow radiating warmth of his room.

The group chat lit up under your fingers:

You: made it back to the frat house safe. staying here tonight—will explain tmrw. love you guys. <3

A second later, Sue reacted with a heart. Jess sent a gif of someone raising an eyebrow dramatically, and Monica just wrote: “knew it 😉”

You rolled your eyes and let out a soft breath of amusement, then set the phone down on Bob’s desk, the screen glowing faintly for another second before fading to black. You turned back toward the bed and let yourself sink into the mattress, exhaling slowly as your shoulders dropped. The towel slipped from your frame, and you folded it carefully, placing it over the pillow before lying back, arms stretched loosely at your sides.

The room hummed around you. Softly. Comfortably. A distant thump of music still pulsed from the floors below–muted now, a sleepy echo of chaos already starting to dissolve into morning fog. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Pipes murmured in the walls. And the desk lamp bathed the room in a low, golden glow, casting soft shadows against the bookshelves and the edge of the closet.

Then, the door opened again.

Bob entered quietly, closing it behind him with the same practiced care he’d used all night. His hair was slightly less damp, the ends curling gently around his ears. A bottle of water was tucked in each hand, condensation trailing slow rivulets down his fingers.

“Here,” He said, holding one out to you.

You sat up slightly, taking the bottle with a soft “Thanks,” and cracking it open. The cap clicked beneath your fingers, the cool water a sharp contrast against your warm skin. Bob twisted the top off his own and took a quick sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Then he lowered it and glanced toward the bookshelf with an unreadable expression.

“I’m just going to grab a blanket,” he said casually, “and take the spare room.”

You paused mid-sip, brows lifting. “What?” you said, letting the cap snap gently back in place. “You don’t want to share a bed?”

Bob’s eyes darted to yours, surprised. His lips parted faintly. “You…want to share a bed?”

You shrugged, voice light but steady. “Well…yeah. I don’t really mind. There’s enough room, isn’t there?”

His gaze flicked to the mattress like it needed to be double-checked. “Yeah, there is,” He admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be sleeping in a bed with a stranger.”

You tilted your head, the edge of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Hey now,” You teased softly, “Come on. We aren’t strangers.”

Bob huffed out a breath–a laugh, almost. “We met less than twelve hours ago and we’re already sleeping in the same bed. Seems fast.”

You stood slowly, the blanket falling back in soft folds behind your legs. “I’m fine with fast if you are,” you said, tone flirtier than before, the words curling at the edge like steam rising from pavement.

Bob looked at you for a long moment. His eyes flicked down your frame briefly–respectfully–but you caught it. Just the faintest breath of a glance at the oversized shirt, the rolled waistband of his pajama pants on your hips. Then he swallowed, the movement subtle but visible.

You climbed under the covers, placing your towel-topped pillow against the headboard and leaning back into it. The sheets were soft–cotton, a little warm from the dryer, carrying the faint scent of his detergent. Your body sank into the mattress like it remembered the panic you’d felt hours ago and wanted to nestle into something still, something safe.

You patted the empty space beside you, eyebrows raised in invitation. “Well?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just smiled–shy and a little stunned–and shuffled toward the bed like he didn’t quite believe this was real. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he climbed in beside you, his long legs folding under the blanket, which he pulled up to his shoulders like muscle memory.

His shoulder brushed yours–barely–but the heat of it lingered.

You reached across your chest and handed him your water bottle without a word. He blinked once, took it with a murmur of thanks, and leaned over to place it gently on the nightstand beside his own. The lamp clicked off a second later, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint sliver of moonlight that slipped through the small window of his room. A silver-blue sheen spread softly across the edge of the comforter.

The quiet pressed in, not heavy or stifling, but thick with awareness.

Your bodies didn’t touch, but the heat between them curled like smoke.

You could hear the shift of the covers when Bob adjusted his legs, the soft whisper of fabric against skin as he rolled slightly toward you on instinct–then seemed to catch himself and settle again on his back. The bed creaked faintly beneath the motion, and then stillness returned.

The air smelled like clean cotton, pine body wash, the faintest trace of rainwater clinging to the ends of your hair. You turned your head on the pillow slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Still awake?”

“…Yeah,” He said quietly. “You?”

You nodded in the dark. “Mm-hm.”

The quiet stillness wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, warm but buzzing with something new. It had shifted—gently, imperceptibly—but it was there now. Not the panic. Not the awkwardness. Something softer. Something waiting.

You turned over slowly, your arm sliding across the blanket as you rolled onto your side, the mattress giving slightly under your weight. The movement made a faint rustle, just enough for him to hear.

Bob shifted too.

His silhouette turned toward you, quiet and careful, until you could make out the soft rise of his chest beneath the covers, the faint slope of his shoulder, and the curve of his jaw in the pale wash of moonlight. His glasses were gone, probably folded on the nightstand with your water bottles, but even in the dim light you could see the glassy reflection of his eyes.

Blue. Gentle. Wide. Fixed on yours.

“Do you maybe want to maybe…Do something?” You asked, voice soft, watching as he swallowed hard.

”…What…What do you have in mind?” You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch between you like silk. Then your gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, to the shape of his mouth.

Soft, parted slightly. Waiting.

His breath caught–just the faintest hitch–and you saw his eyes flick down to your lips, mirroring you. Like instinct. Like gravity.

You leaned in.

It was tentative at first–your chest barely grazing his, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the pillow as you crossed the final few inches. Bob didn’t move, but his breath deepened, a quiet exhale drifting over your cheek as your nose brushed his. Then you closed the distance.

Your lips met his, soft and feather-light.

He froze for half a second, as if stunned–but then he kissed you back. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but so gentle it almost made your ribs ache. He moved like he was afraid to shatter you, like this moment was too fragile to claim outright.

His hand came up slowly–hesitant at first, then steady. His palm cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. The contact lit a slow-burning warmth across your skin. He let out a breath–long and unsteady against your lips, like the kind you exhale when you’ve been holding it too long.

He pulled back just a little, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he hovered, eyes open now, close enough that you could feel the faint tremble of his breath. You opened your eyes too.

And then you leaned forward again.

This time it wasn’t tentative. Still soft, still slow–but heavier now. More certain. You kissed him with your full mouth, with the weight of everything the night had built. Your lips parted slightly and so did his. The kiss deepened, quiet but lingering, the kind of kiss that said I see you. I feel this too.

Bob responded with a quiet sound in the back of his throat, like the breath had been pulled from him again. His hand shifted from your cheek to the base of your skull, fingers slipping into your damp hair, holding you with a gentleness that made your stomach flutter.

Your other hand found his forearm beneath the blanket, the heat of his skin a slow thrum against your fingertips. He tilted his head slightly to meet your mouth more fully, deepening the kiss just enough that you felt your body lean in instinctively. His lips moved against yours with the kind of reverence that made your breath catch–slow, aching, as if he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just enough for air. Just enough to look at you.

The moonlight caught in his lashes, his irises shining like sea glass. His lips were redder now, parted slightly, the corner of his mouth trembling faintly from restraint or disbelief. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he studied you, breath still coming a little faster than before.

“Is this okay?” He whispered.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice. You nodded–barely a motion–but it was enough.

“Yeah,” You whispered back. “It’s perfect.” Bob stared at you for a breath longer, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like this whole thing might vanish if he blinked too fast.

Then he leaned in again.

The kiss that followed was deeper–hungrier. Less tentative. His hand was still cradling the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, but there was a new weight behind the way he kissed you now. A heat that curled up from the pit of your stomach, spreading like honey beneath your skin. His lips parted a little faster, like he was giving in to something he’d been holding back.

You pressed in with him, lips slotting together again and again, and then you moved–your body shifting under the blanket as you brought one leg over his hip, slowly, testing.

Bob froze for half a second–just long enough for you to hesitate–but then his hand moved. The one on your cheek slid down, dragging lightly along your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder, until it found your thigh. His fingers curled around the back of it, firm and warm, and pulled you gently closer.

You moved instinctively, hips settling into the cradle of his body, your leg draped loosely over his, pressing in. The blanket bunched around your waists, forgotten. The worn cotton of his borrowed flannel pants brushed against your skin as you rocked forward, just enough to feel the heat between your bodies catch.

His breath hitched.

The kiss deepened again, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste his breath. And then you felt it–his tongue, tentative but sure, slipping past your lips to meet yours. It wasn’t sloppy or rushed. It was slow and searching, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside out. You responded in kind, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt, gripping the soft cotton as you rolled your hips again–just once.

Bob gasped against your lips.

It wasn’t loud, but it was raw–half breath, half sound, the air from his lungs catching in his throat. You felt the heat of him through the fabric, the slow, aching tension building there. His fingers dug into your thigh just slightly, not enough to hurt–just enough to pull.

You did it again. Slower this time. Your hips moved in a slow, steady circle, the friction sweet and hot even through the layers of borrowed clothes. Bob broke the kiss suddenly, his lips parting with a soft huff of air as his head tilted back against the pillow.

“Fuck–” He breathed, almost inaudible, as though it had been dragged from him by accident.

You pulled back slightly, brushing your nose along his cheek before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get on top?” he asked, voice rough, uncertain but yearning.

You nodded, lips still brushing his.

He shifted beneath you, back arching slightly as he rolled onto his back, adjusting the blanket so it slipped lower across his hips. You followed the motion, moving carefully, straddling him with slow, deliberate movements. The oversized shirt you wore fell forward slightly, hanging off your shoulders as you adjusted your weight over him.

His hands settled instinctively on your thighs, fingertips flexing gently as you leaned down to kiss him again–this time firmer, more desperate. It was less polished now, more honest. You kissed like people who hadn’t had something like this in a long time. Like this was a secret you weren’t supposed to be sharing but needed anyway.

You began to move again, hips rocking gently against him in a slow rhythm that made his jaw slacken beneath your mouth.

Bob groaned–quiet, tight–and his hands moved to your waist, holding you just a little more firmly now. His breath was hot against your mouth as he kissed you harder, sloppier now, letting go of some invisible restraint. Your thighs squeezed around his hips, the pressure sending heat curling down your spine. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants now, the heat of him pressed up between your legs with every slow drag of your hips.

His moan broke the rhythm.

Soft and helpless. It slipped into your mouth like a secret.

You pulled back, barely, kissing the line of his jaw and the soft, exposed skin of his neck. He tilted his head just enough to give you more space. His throat flexed when you kissed him there–gently, again and again–before murmuring softly:

“Are you okay?”

His fingers tightened just slightly where they rested on your hips. His breath came a little faster now, chest rising against yours in shallow waves. And then, softly, almost embarrassed:

“I…I’m a bit sensitive…”

You paused, still straddling him, your hand smoothing lightly over his chest. The thump of his heart was rapid beneath your palm.

You looked down at him, eyes searching in the dark. “Are you…A virgin?”

He shook his head quickly, cheeks flushed red even in the faint light.

“No…No, not a virgin. But it’s…It’s kind of been a while. And I haven’t… I haven’t had sex with many people.”

Your heart softened at the honesty. The way he said it, not ashamed–just cautious. Like he wanted you to know what you were working with. What you were holding in your hands.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against his jaw.

“We can stop if you want,” You murmured. “I don’t mind just doing this. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Bob shook his head immediately, voice quiet but steady. “No…No, we can keep going. I want to. I really want to.”

You smiled, slow and reassuring. A gentle hand slid down to his chest again, your thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt as you spoke.

“If you want to stop, just tell me, okay?”

He nodded, eyes wide and warm. “Okay.” You leaned down again, your lips brushing the corner of his jaw, then trailing lower, slow and coaxing. Bob tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat to you, and you took the invitation without hesitation–pressing soft, lingering kisses to the curve of his neck, the warm hollow beneath his jaw. You let your tongue flick out lightly, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint tang of piney body wash and rainwater still clinging to him.

His breath hitched again when your lips ghosted over the edge of his collarbone.

You kept moving downward, slow and deliberate, your hips still rocking gently against his as your kisses followed the slope of his body. The heat between your legs pulsed against the firmness beneath his sweatpants with each subtle shift, each teasing grind of pressure. You could feel him trembling slightly under you–barely noticeable, but there.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He leaned up just enough to grab the hem of his shirt and peel it over his head in one fluid, unhurried motion. His hair stuck up in damp little curls as he tossed the shirt aside, chest rising and falling more quickly now, bare and flushed under the faint light.

You paused.

Your gaze swept over him–up close now. Every inch of him laid out before you. His chest was broad, lined with soft muscle, not overworked but strong. The subtle lines of his ribs shifted with each breath. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweats, and your mouth went dry again.

“Jesus,” You murmured, almost to yourself, your fingers ghosting over his sternum. He shivered under your touch. Your hands traced down slowly–past his chest, over his stomach, feeling the flutter of his abs tensing beneath your palm. You kissed each inch as you moved, warm and open-mouthed, pushing the comforter lower as you went.

He was breathing harder now, lips parted, one hand fisting the sheets beside him as he fought to stay still.

When you reached the waistband of his sweatpants, you looked up.

“Can I take these off?” You asked softly, fingers already hooked into the fabric.

Bob looked down at you, eyes glassy with heat, and nodded. “Yes… Please.”

You pulled them down slowly, dragging them past his hips, down his thighs, then off entirely. Your breath caught as he was finally exposed to you–fully, completely. He was big. Thick and flushed and already twitching under your stare, the head glossy with arousal, a vein pulsing visibly along the underside.

Your eyes widened just a little.

He saw it.

His face went red immediately, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to cover himself or not. “Is…Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly–so quickly it made your hair shift. “Yes. Oh my god…Yes.” You reached up, wrapping your hand around him carefully. His whole body reacted–his hips stuttered and his eyes fluttered shut, a choked gasp leaving his lips. His thighs tensed beneath your knees.

“Still okay?” You asked gently, your hand already stroking him in slow, reverent pulls.

He opened his eyes, dazed and breathless, and nodded. “Yeah. Fuck–yeah.”

You leaned forward then, dragging your mouth along the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, kissing just above the base of him. His hips jerked slightly under you. And then you took him into your mouth.

The reaction was immediate.

Bob let out a sound–high and broken, something between a moan and a whimper–and his hand flew up, grabbing at the pillow behind his head like he needed something to hold on to. You started slow, letting your lips stretch around him, your tongue tracing every inch you could reach, eyes flicking up to watch the way he unraveled.

It was messy. Your lips were already slick, your breath hot against him as you took him in deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t manage. You let spit slide down your chin, let your tongue swirl at the sensitive underside of the head, and when you pulled back just enough to suck softly–he whimpered again.

“Fuck–Fuck, you’re–” He didn’t finish.

His chest was heaving now, one hand clenching the sheets, the other twitching at his side like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time. His head fell back.

He tried to warn you. “I–I’m gonna–shit–”

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, messy and steady, humming softly around him. That was what pushed him over.

He came hard.

It hit like a jolt–his thighs tensed, a full-body tremble ran through him, and his hips jerked once, deep and involuntary. You swallowed everything, kept your mouth on him, letting him ride everything out with soft, wet pulls until he was gasping, his voice broken and breathless.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, “Holy shit.” You pulled off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, then kissed the inside of his thigh gently. He twitched under the touch, already so sensitive.

You looked up at him.

His hair was wild against the pillow. His chest was still rising and falling fast. He looked wrecked–in the best way. Flushed and dazed and entirely undone.

“…You okay?” You asked softly, your voice a little hoarse. He nods. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, a light sheen of sweat just beginning to bead at his collarbones. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“You’re…” He swallowed, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “You’re so good at that.”

You smiled–lazy, warm, lips still glistening from where you’d had him in your mouth. “Glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Then you began kissing your way back up, slow and teasing, your mouth trailing over his thigh, the curve of his hip, the faint dip of his navel. His body tensed in small waves under you, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or ground himself.

By the time you reached his chest again, your lips hovered above his, your palms pressed flat against his ribcage as you straddled him once more. The moment your mouths met again–softer now, slower–he kissed you like he could still taste himself on your tongue. Like he didn’t care. Like it made him hungrier.

Then, without a word, he shifted beneath you.

His core tightened–subtle but strong–and his hands slid firmly up your sides. And in one smooth, steady motion, he turned you both. Rolled you right onto your back, his body pressing down over yours, careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath the change in weight, the blanket twisting around your waists as he settled on top of you.

You gasped, then laughed, the sound half-breathless. “Oh, okay,” You whispered, grinning up at him in the moonlight. “You’ve got muscles after all.”

Bob smirked–still shy, still pink in the cheeks, but he liked that reaction. You could tell.

His hands skimmed up beneath the oversized shirt, fingers warm and reverent as they rested just below your ribs. His thumbs rubbed slow, uncertain circles into your skin.

“Is this okay?” He murmured, already breathless again, eyes locked on yours like he’d stop the world if you flinched.

You nodded slowly, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah. Let me take it off for you.”

Bob leaned back just enough to let you sit up, his hands sliding down to brace your waist. You grabbed the hem of the shirt and peeled it up and over your head in one swift motion, the cotton catching briefly at your wrists before falling in a heap beside the bed.

The second you were bare to him, Bob’s eyes darkened. Not with anything aggressive–just wonder. Awe.

Then his mouth was on you immediately.

He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your breast, then the center of it, then closing over your nipple with a gentleness that made your breath stutter. His mouth was hot–wet and reverent–and when he sucked, slow and careful, your back arched instinctively off the bed.

You heard him moan against you.

It was low and quiet, but you felt the vibration hum through your skin, straight down your spine. One of his hands came up to cup the other breast, thumb flicking across the nipple, just barely grazing it–testing your reaction. You gasped, thighs shifting beneath him, and his fingers twitched in response.

He liked that. He really liked that.

Bob switched sides without warning–his lips moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of kisses behind. He sucked more firmly this time, tongue circling your nipple before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, broken moan, your fingers threading into his hair.

You tugged. Not hard, but enough.

His breath hitched again, and he groaned into your skin.

The sounds he was making were softer than you’d expected–gentle and desperate all at once. As if pleasuring you was more overwhelming than being pleasured himself. He took his time with your chest, letting each kiss linger, letting each flick of his tongue draw another gasp from you. He alternated pressure, learning what made your back arch, what made you squirm, what made your thighs tremble against his hips.

You tightened your fingers in his curls and whispered, “Bob…Fuck.”

He pulled back, lips red and wet, his breath warm against your breast. His eyes flicked up to yours.

“Can I go down on you?”

The question hit low in your stomach–immediate, electric.

Your lips parted before you even thought. “Yes…” A breath. “Yes, please.”

His smile broke through slow and stunned, like it had just dawned on him that he’d get to do this–that this was real. He kissed your sternum once, then lower, reverent as he worked his way down your body. His hands slid beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, fingers brushing your hips gently.

You lifted your hips in silent offering.

The flannel was untied with fumbling fingers–more eager than graceful–and he tugged it down with care, eyes glued to your body like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You helped him, pushing the fabric past your thighs, letting it fall in a heap somewhere at the end of the bed.

Bob shifted between your legs, hands bracing your thighs as he kissed the inside of one, then the other. His short strands of hair brushed your skin, his breath hot and unsteady against the most sensitive part of you, and when he glanced up–eyes wide, lips parted–you thought you might actually combust.

He settled lower. Breathed deep. And then tasted you.

The sound he made was immediate—a choked, guttural moan that vibrated through your entire pelvis.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked already. “You taste so good…”

Then his mouth was back on you.

Hot, open, eager.

He didn’t know what he was doing at first—at least not perfectly—but he learned fast. Every whimper, every shift of your hips, every breathless moan was something he studied. His tongue flicked, then flattened. Lapped broad and slow, then circled tight and precise, adjusting to your reactions like he was memorizing you.

The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming. It was everywhere. Wet and insistent and so good.

Your back arched and your hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the pressure, and he groaned into you again—into you—like the weight of your pleasure was his. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open for him, holding you steady like he needed to stay here, buried here, like he couldn’t risk missing anything.

“Bob–oh my god–”

You felt him moan at the sound of his name, his tongue dragging slow and deep, lips sucking just enough to make your breath catch and stutter. It was dirty and worshipful all at once. Sloppy and reverent. It had you squirming against his mouth, your legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

Then he paused.

Pulled back just barely–just enough to catch his breath and speak. His voice was thick and panting, his lips shiny, chin wet.

“I’m gonna…” He swallowed. “Add fingers.”

You let out a breathy, desperate moan, hips twitching up toward him involuntarily.

“Fuck, Bob…Please.”

He dipped his head again, kissing your clit once–soft and wet–before trailing lower with his tongue as his hand slid between your thighs. You felt the first press of his fingertips at your entrance–tentative, reverent–and then one slipped inside, slow and gentle, curling just enough to make you cry out.

“God,” He breathed, kissing your thigh as he moved. “You’re so wet…”

He added the second without warning–easing it in slowly, stretching you around his knuckles, and you swore the breath left your body in a rush. His fingers filled you, thick and warm and so good, and he started moving them–slow and firm, curling upward just right, just right–and then his mouth was back.

This time, he devoured you.

Messy, hungry, moaning against your clit as his fingers worked inside you, finding a rhythm that had your entire body going taut. You were writhing now–hips lifting, thighs clenching, voice catching in your throat as you tried to stay grounded, stay still, but he was relentless. Determined.

Like he’d waited years to do this and he was making up for lost time.

You felt it building–hot and sharp and inevitable–and your hands found his hair, pulling tight, holding on for dear life as your body surged forward.

“I–I’m gonna–fuck, Bob, don’t stop–”

And he didn’t. He just moaned into you, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping deeper, curling as he groaned in response to your tightening around him.

You shattered.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into the mattress, your hips twitching against his face as you came with a full-body spasm, mouth open in a silent cry. You heard yourself babble his name, hips bucking helplessly as the orgasm tore through you, hard and fast and blinding.

Bob kept going. Gentle but steady. Lapping you through it, moaning into you like your pleasure was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You finally collapsed back into the sheets, breathing ragged, hair clinging to your forehead. You laughed–soft and winded–still twitching every time he brushed too close.

He lifted his head slowly, face flushed, lips slick, chin glistening in the low light. His pupils were blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“You okay?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, dazed and completely blissed out.

“You’ve been blessed…” You dragged in a breath. “With such raw talent.”

Bob blinked–then laughed. Hard. Giddy. His smile broke wide across his face, messy and flushed and so proud. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Definitely. You were so good… So, so good.”

His cheeks turned red. “Like, uh… Good enough for a second round?” He teased, voice low. Your smile widened, slow and a little wicked, still flushed and catching your breath. “I think…” You murmured, voice soft but laced with heat, “I want to feel you. Actually.”

Bob’s breath caught. His eyebrows rose just slightly, like the words had short-circuited his brain. “Yeah?” he asked, half-disbelieving.

You nodded, lifting your hand to trace a lazy finger along the line of his jaw. “If you want to, of course.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I want to.” His voice was rough again, thick with desire, but gentled by the way he looked at you. With care. With hunger. With awe.

He crawled slowly up your body, his hands braced beside your ribs, his chest brushing softly against yours. His lips found your collarbone first–featherlight and reverent. Then your neck, where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below your ear, tongue flicking briefly against your skin.

You could feel him, hard and hot, dragging against your inner thigh as he moved. It made your hips roll on instinct.

“Going down on you really got me going…” He breathed into your skin, voice low and desperate, hips twitching slightly. His body was shaking with restraint.

You giggled–a breathy, warm sound that made him smile as you turned your face toward him. Your mouths met again, lips pressing together, and you tasted yourself on him–your own slickness still clinging faintly to his lips, his tongue. You kissed him deeper, your hand sliding along his spine.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You really want to?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Do I need a condom?”

You watched his pupils dilate at the question, a harsh breath catching in his throat. “I’m on the pill, and I haven’t had sex in a bit but my recent STD test was clean.” You added, voice even softer now.

“Fuck…” He breathed, voice cracking a little. “Okay.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time–urgent but not rushed. Like he needed to feel you everywhere before he could push in. One of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding the heat between your thighs with instinctive precision. He nudged the tip of himself against your folds, dragging it up and down–slick and hot–through your wetness.

You both groaned.

Your hands gripped his arms, fingers curling into his skin as he slowly began to push in. His body trembled above you, the pace careful but steady, like he wanted to feel every second of it. The stretch burned in the best way–deep, hot, slow.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, his voice completely wrecked. “You feel so good… You’re so fucking warm…”

You gasped when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, every inch of him buried deep inside. The fullness made your toes curl, your whole body responding with an involuntary tremble.

He didn’t move right away. Just hovered above you, his breath ragged, his eyes searching your face. He kissed you–softly–his mouth trembling slightly as he whispered:

“You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

You moaned at that, your thighs tightening around his waist, your hands sliding up his back and digging in just enough to make him gasp. His hips drew back and rolled forward again–deep, grinding, slow. Each thrust pressed his pubic bone against your clit, and the sensation made your breath stutter.

“Oh–fuck–“ You gasped, your voice catching.

Bob stilled immediately, looking down at you through glassy, blown eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded frantically, hand gripping his bicep. “Yeah. Do it again.”

He did.

Again. And again. A slow, sensual grind that hit exactly right every time. Your hips began to twitch under him, your breath breaking in little gasps as you chased the rhythm with your body.

He moaned into your mouth as he kissed you–lips sloppy now, too lost in the moment to care. Every sound he made was raw: gasps, whimpers, soft broken curses whispered against your lips and skin.

“Fuck… You feel so good, so good around me, sweetheart,” He rasped. “You’re squeezing me—God, you’re… You’re perfect…”

The praise was relentless. You could barely breathe from how hot it made you.

You tightened around him, fluttering involuntarily with every thrust. You were close again–dangerously close–and the next roll of his hips sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

Your orgasm hit with a choked moan, your nails digging into his back, your body clenching tight around him as your hips bucked helplessly. Bob groaned as your walls squeezed him, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuck–I’m gonna–” He gasped, hips stuttering.

Then he buried himself deep, letting out a ragged, whimpering moan as he came inside you, face pressed into your neck. You felt his teeth graze your skin, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a moment, you both just lay there–panting, gasping, covered in sweat and warmth and each other.

Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes dazed but bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

“…Do you,” He began, breathless, “Do you want to go out to dinner with me tomorrow?”

You blinked, and then started laughing–a soft, disbelieving, breathless laugh.

“That would be really great,” You murmured, your voice thick with affection.

Bob grinned, wide and flushed, before collapsing gently beside you on the mattress. Your legs tangled. Your breath slowed. The room hummed in the quiet aftermath, soft and safe and one with the both of you.

#bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd #bob floyd #top gun maverick smut #top gun maverick #top gun fandom #top gun fanfiction #robert floyd #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #hell yeaaaaaaah #Spotify

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tropes-and-tales · 4 months ago

Text

Lieutenant Steal-Your-Girl, Part III

(Bob Floyd x F!Reader; Jake Seresin x F!Reader)

CW: Angst (relationship woes); open relationships; violence (the boys be fighting); 18+ only.

Word Count: 3871

AN: This is part of a larger mini-series, found here, and it was requested by several anonymous folk!

AN2: This has not been edited in any way, shape, or form!

Jake has the idea to follow you and Bob. A nauseous rage courses through him from where he sits, tucked away in the shadows. He has the idea to follow Bob’s truck as it drives to Bob’s place, to confront the two of you: his treacherous girlfriend, and his fellow Dagger.

But from his vantage point, he watches you and Bob. He sees how broadly you smile, how Bob says something that makes you laugh. When was the last time Jake made you laugh like that—where you pause in your steps, throw your head back, and actually laugh?

Then he sees Bob Floyd—fucking Baby on Board—lean into you, sees the scrawny fucking back-seater kiss you. He sees how you melt into the kiss, the way your body arches into Bob’s. He sees you when you break away, the little laugh you give as you reach up and adjust Bob’s glasses, the tender gesture needling at Jake’s heart.

He has the idea to follow you and Bob, but Jake finds himself frozen in place. He sits in his truck in the side alley. He stays there long after you and Bob leave, his hands clenched so tight on the steering wheel that it creaks from the pressure of his grip.

*****

Bob knows from his work that there are always limits. A plane, designed in such a way, can only go so high or so fast before systems start to fail. Punishing speed, the crush of gravity, extreme cold or heat…engineering can only do so much. There are always limits where a system starts to fail.

Bob knows this thing with you is exactly the same.

He’s reaching his limit. Maybe he’s already reached it and has been a dead man flying for a while now.

He went into this thing with open eyes, he thought. This thing. Hell, he doesn’t even know what to call it. A fling? An affair? A relationship? No word really captures it, and half of the words make it feel tawdry, even though Jake was the one who opened up your relationship. The other half of the words make it feel tender and promising, which is hard to believe when you’ve only ever spent the night once.

Like tonight: Jake told you in no uncertain terms that he was going off to fuck another woman. You watched him leave the Hard Deck. Moments later, you left with Bob, came back to Bob’s apartment, and fucked Bob.

And now you’re dressing and getting ready to leave. You sit on the edge of Bob’s bed and pull your shirt back over your head, and Bob is left tangled in his sheets and feeling about as badly as a man can.

There are always limits. Steel, carbon fiber, titanium…it all cracks under pressure, if there’s enough pressure.

“You can stay,” Bob says. He sits up and reaches to the bedside stand for his glasses. He slides them back on his face and watches how your shoulders tense up at his offer.

“I should head home.”

Bob snorts at your choice of wording. Home. Where you live with Jake, when Jake deigns to come home and be with you. When he’s not out sleeping with other women, sowing his wild oats—too scared of being locked down for life to one woman, but too much of a coward to cut you loose in the meantime.

The noise makes you turn and look at him. You study his face and must see something there, because you frown and say his name in a way that sounds like a warning.

“Bob.” You meet his gaze and shake your head faintly.

“What?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He leans forward and takes your hand in his, but you pull it away. He sighs.

“Don’t…just…I don’t want to—” You try to find the words, but he cuts you off.

“What are we even doing?” he asks.

You turn away, hang your head, and with your back to him, Bob can see the tension in your shoulders, the slump in them. How tired you look even from this angle. Worn down. The pressure must be getting to you too.

“I don’t know,” you finally reply. Your voice is so quiet, barely above a whisper, he has to lean closer to hear you. “He…he wants to take me home with him for the holidays.”

Another snort, but more bitter. “So he can play Boyfriend of the Year? So he can pretend like he hasn’t been fucking around on you for the past year and making you feel like shit?”

You curl in more on yourself, wrap your arms around your waist, and isn’t this why Bob has steadily grown to hate Jake Seresin? That he’s made you into a cringing, insecure creature, so unsure of yourself that you can’t even voice what you want?

“Honey, c’mon.” He moves towards you and you don’t dodge him, so he settles behind and wraps both arms around you. He pulls you close, and he feels how you sag against him. He lays his cheek against your head and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I don’t wanna fight.”

“Then don’t fight.”

He kisses your temple, sighs again. Settles back against you and takes in the scent of your shampoo, the scent of you that manages to linger in his place long enough after you leave that he aches with how much he misses you.

“I just want to see you happy,” he says, and that’s the truth. He wants to see you laughing and smiling, and if Jake could do that for you, Bob would step aside even if it hurt. “Are you happy with him, honey? Are you happy with the life you’re living with him?”

You shake your head in reply.

“Then why…” He trails off, doesn’t finish the question, but you understand it anyway.

“Because he’s all I’ve ever known. The only boyfriend I’ve had. I’ve…Bob, I’ve followed him all over the country my whole adult life. Everyone back home knows me as Jake Seresin’s girl, for heaven’s sake.”

The admission stings Bob a little, but he can’t say he’s been your boyfriend. He’s mostly just been your hook-up.

“I’ve dated him since I was a kid,” you add. “It’s been so many years.”

“So many years and he still won’t commit.”

That makes you untangle yourself from him, and you stand up from the bed and turn to look at him. If he expects rage or tears, he is disappointed: there’s only your eyes fixed on his and a deep exhaustion behind them.

“Maybe all he needed was this time to get all this,” you gesture broadly, “out of his system.”

Bob shakes his head in frustration, and he reaches down on the floor to snag his boxers, his t-shirt. He pulls them on and stands to face you, and when he places his hands on your upper arms, you don’t pull away.

“And I need you to understand that a real man who really loved you would have had nothing left to get out of his system,” he tells you. He jostles you lightly, tries to get the words to sink into your skull for once. “He would have given you so much love, he wouldn’t have even looked at another woman. He would have given everything to you, with nothing left for them.”

You reach up and grasp his wrists where he holds you. You look so sad. Defeated. Bob can see not just the past year but the years, all the time you invested in Jake—so much that you aren’t even you to many people. You’re Jake Seresin’s girl, and your identity is wrapped up in your feckless boyfriend. Bob can guess that you only see yourself as a pale reflection of Jake’s bright fly-boy persona.

“It’s been so many years,” you repeat sadly. “It has to mean something, Bob.”

Then you gently pull yourself from his grasp, and Bob can only stand there as you leave.

*****

Bradley has a sense about these things: something bad is coming.

He has a preternatural feel for doom which, not to be dramatic, probably comes from his dad dying in a freak accident and then his mom withering away from cancer years later. He got both ends of the death spectrum—sudden, violent, and slow and wasting—and so he feels particularly sensitive to certain atmospheric conditions that signal trouble.

Then again, Hangman’s fucked up life blowing up during a Saturday game of dogfight football is hardly on the same scale as Bradley’s path to being an orphan.

Bradley scoffs at himself (dramatic asshole, he thinks), but his stomach does do a warning twinge the moment all the relevant players are on the field.

There’s Hangman, the Golden Boy from Texas, his jawline clenched so hard that Bradley imagines his teeth cracking under the pressure.

There’s you, you hand held firmly by Hangman until you get set up in your perch higher up on the sand—you shake out a blanket, weigh down the corners with your shoes and a cooler. You tilt your head towards Jake for the bruising kiss he lays on you before he turns away and makes his way to the other Daggers.

And then there’s Bob, standing quietly with the other Daggers, watching quietly as Jake kisses you.

Something about the scene makes Bradley go on alert, and the thought drifts through his head the moment Jake walks past Bob.

Jake knows.

Which should be fine. Jake should know. Bradley is entirely confused about how the man couldn’t know, since the open relationship was his idea. Since Jake brazenly took other women home while you watched like an abandoned kitten from the sidelines of the Hard Deck. Since Jake joked around about it sometimes, months ago, playfully tried to drum up dates for you with the other Daggers. Hell, Bradley was there when Jake sidled up to Bob once, asked the guy if he wanted to fuck you, and if it was all just joking around, Jake still shouldn’t be surprised if Bob eventually took him up on the offer anyway.

Goddamned Jake and his fucked-up life. Bradley never saw the point of it, opening up a relationship like yours. That sort of shit probably works fine for couples where both parties are into it, but any casual observer could see how miserable you’d been at the start of it.

You hadn’t really started smiling again until Bob came along, and that is something worth pondering, Bradley thinks.

The problem with Bradley’s sense for impending doom is that he’s rarely wrong. Almost never. So ten minutes into the first game of dogfight football, when Jake—who is on Bob’s team—hits the backseater, all hell breaks loose, and all Bradley can think is shit, I’m right again.

*****

One minute, Bob is standing in the sand, watching Harvard drop back and throw a perfect spiral to Coyote. As his gaze shifts to take in the other ball—currently tucked against Nat’s stomach as she tries to weasel past Javi—Bob’s world suddenly shifts sideways, and he finds himself with his face in the sand before the pain from the blow even registers.

“Wha—” he starts to say, but something presses him down into the sand, someone’s on top of him, and Bob only gets a glimpse of Jake’s red, furious face before a fist connects with his face. The wire frame of his glasses dig into his cheek, and Bob stops thinking and just reacts.

He jabs his elbow up and connects with Jake’s belly; the man grunts out in surprised pain and ease up enough for Bob to roll out from under him. He finds his feet, does a quick scan of himself. Ribs hurt. Face hurts from the hit and the cut from his glasses. Nothing catastrophic though.

Jake stands too, but only for a second—then he charges Bob again. Bob only has a split second to react. He takes a quick step to the side, manages to dodge being completely tackled, but Jake gets an arm around him and drags him back to the ground.

Bob’s never been much of a fighter. Aside from backyard squabbles with his brother and cousins when he was a kid, he’s never been in a proper fight until now.

He probably gets one half-assed blow in for every three of Jake’s. The man’s fists come fast, steady—timed to the hammering of Bob’s heart, almost—and each new bloom of pain is immediately replaced by a new one.

It feels like it goes on forever. It feels like Bob and Jake are the only two people in the world because everything is quiet except for the blows that reverberate through Bob’s skull. Later on, he’ll realize the entire fight is less than a minute, really just a handful of seconds before the Daggers understand what’s happening and pull Jake away.

Bob lays on the sand, gasping, sun-blinded and stunned in pain. The only sounds are his own pulse thudding away in his aching skull…but then he hears screaming. He manages to turn his head, blinks against the spots dancing behind his eyelids. His vision is blurry—his glasses are long gone—but he knows it’s you running towards him, and even against the royal beating Bob just took, he smiles.

*****

It’s funny how much can change in less than twelve hours.

You’d left Bob the night before, exhausted and confused and unsure of what to do.

Half a day later, here you are: kneeling on the sand between a bleeding Bob, glaring up at Jake, and the decision is so fucking clear to you.

“What the fuck, Jake?” you yell. You turn back to Bob; his face is already swelling, and a shallow gash on his cheekbone oozes blood. You notice a glint in the sand and see his glasses, but when you pluck them from where they are half-buried, you see that they are beyond repair.

“You know what the fuck,” Jake growls back. He takes a half-step towards you, but Bradley holds him back. You study Bob, take in each wince as he catches his breath.

“You okay to stand?” you ask him, your voice low.

Bob nods, and Nat kneels on the other side of him. Together, you each get an arm under him and help him stand up. He staggers for a moment, leans on you, and you brace yourself to take his weight.

Then you turn back to Jake. His expression is stony: his eyes cold and impassive as he takes in you and Bob.

“I’m closing our relationship,” he tells you.

That’s what makes you laugh. That’s what transforms all the hurt and confusion and self-doubt to a sad sort of hilarity. You take a sharp inhale at his words, but then breathe them out in punched-out laugh, a shrill giggle that probably makes you sound insane…but once you start laughing, you cannot stop.

You know it sounds hysterical, but it’s been years of this bullshit. Instead of screaming or crying, you laugh—until tears flow down your face, until your ribs ache from the effort. Bob has an arm around your waist, and he squeezes your side in a grounding, questioning gesture, but you let it all out.

It’s so fucking stupid. It’s been stupid for so long. You’ve been stupid for so long. Trailing after Jake like a whipped puppy, eating every bit of shit he ever fed you. And for what? For a man who never put you first, rarely even put you second, and who only wants to shut down this entire stupid open deal the moment it stops being fun for him. All those years meant nothing after all, and even if you’ve only ever been Jake Seresin’s girl, it hasn’t amounted to much anyway.

Are you happy with him, honey?

Bob asked you the question only hours ago, and now you know the answer with a certainty you’ve never felt before in your life.

“Oh, Jake.” You reach up with your free hand and swipe at the tears that have finally slowed as your laughter died down. You study the faces of the Daggers around you—their expressions range from wariness to confusion, and Bradley has a faint grin—and then you look your boyfriend dead in those gorgeous eyes a shade of greenish-blue you’d never seen in another person.

“Fuck you,” you spit out. “Forever until the end of time, fuck you.”

He sputters some reply, but it washes over you. You never note it at all.

That’s how you finally end your relationship with the only boyfriend you ever had: walking away from him on a sunny San Diego beach, staggering under the half-dead weight of the man who just took a hell of a beating for doing nothing but caring for you.

*****

Bob is not exactly clear the next few hours. He never loses consciousness, but he’s not entirely all there either. Pain makes time skip and drag in a weird way.

There’s a trip to urgent care. X-rays. His dislocated nose is reset; a dislocated finger is taped into a splint. He’s packed in ice packs, given prescription-dose ibuprofen, and sent home.

You and Nat take care of him: hover at his elbow, keep him steady as he totters from Nat’s car to the urgent care waiting room, then back, then home.

Nat disappears for a while, then returns with a pain pill left over from her wisdom tooth removal surgery. Together, you and her get Bob cleaned up, tucked into bed. The pain pill is just starting to pull him under when Nat calls out from the doorway of his bedroom.

“I’m gonna take her over to her place. Pack a bag or two. You okay on your own for a bit?”

Bob nods, and he wants to ask for you—he wants to see you, wants to take your hand in his, wants to make sure you’re okay—but his tongue is thick in his mouth, and his eyelids feel like they are weighted down.

He sleeps. Despite the pain, he sleeps deep and dreamless, and when he surfaces back to wakefulness, the day has ended. Long shadows creep across his bedroom floor.

He gets up on unsteady feet. Makes his way to the bathroom, studies his face in the mirror. He looks like shit, swollen and bruised.

He hears the low murmur of his TV, and when he makes his way to the living room, he finds Nat sitting alone. She stands up, makes her way over to him.

“How you feeling?” she asks.

Bob chuckles. “Like I got the shit kicked out of me.”

She helps him sit, then perches on the couch beside him. He doesn’t even have to ask the question before she answers it for him.

“She’s at my place. I told her she could crash there as long as she wants. I have the spare room, and things are…well, they’re a lot right now.”

“She could stay here.”

Nat nods, bites at her lower lip. “Yeah, she knows. It’s just complicated.”

Bob shakes his head. “Seems like it just got a lot less complicated.” The dark thought crosses his mind then, so he adds, “unless she didn’t break up with him after all.”

“She did.” Nat sighs, and she turns herself to face him. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He doesn’t like the ominous tone in her voice, but he nods.

“You need to let her go,” she says simply.

He’s stunned by Nat’s order for a moment, then he laughs. It’s ridiculous—after all of this, he’d just let you go? Now that you’re finally free of Jake?

Nat’s eyebrows furrow together. “I’m serious, Bob.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be let go.” It comes out defensive.

“Maybe she doesn’t,” Nat agrees. “But maybe you need to be the bigger person anyway.”

It takes his pilot a long time to get through to him, but in the end, Bob sees the sad wisdom of what Nat is trying to say. They talk for hours—interrupted only long enough to order food, then eat—and then they talk more.

Nat understands your situation as well as he does. Maybe she understands it better, even. She points out what everyone knows—you and Jake, your long history together—but then she adds more that Bob never knew, bits and pieces gleaned during girl-talk at the Hard Deck, then a flood of intel freely given during the past few hours as the two of you tended to Bob.

“They grew up in a small town in Texas,” she explains. “I grew up in a similar sort of place. Towns like that, they aren’t democracies. They are some weird fiefdom system, and people like Jake and his family are at the top of the heap. Jake’s dad owns a Chevy dealership, you know? His mom was the county fair queen. They live in this big, sprawling ranch and just rule the town. Then comes along your girl, and she’s from a middle-of-the-road sort of family. Nothing spectacular. But Jake noticed her, and a guy like him noticing a girl like her…that’d be like me turning down a date with a prince, Bob. She was so young, and everyone around her was telling her how lucky—how blessed—she was. Of course it warped her thinking. She was just a dazzled kid, and by the time she started to wise up, she’d invested years into her relationship with him.”

“I get it.” He lifts his hands, helpless, then lets them drop. “So I’m too late either way.”

“No.” Nat reaches out and puts her hand on his knee, pats him gently. “Not too late.”

“Then what? Let her go, then what?”

“Then you do like the cliché says. If you love her, let her go. If she comes back to you, then you know she’s yours.”

Bob shakes his head. He wants to disagree, wants to make Nat understand how he feels with you, another cliché: how he feels like a complete person. Not that he is missing pieces and you’re there to shore up the missing parts. It’s harder to describe, the calm that washes over him when you’re with him. A charged calm, a paradox, because he feels like he can finally relax, knowing he’s found his person, but he also feels a jolt of energy because he’s found his person and wants to face each and every adventure with you.

“You have to give her time and space to be alone. To learn who she is without Jake fucking Seresin jerking her strings. She’s never been alone, Bob. Doesn’t she deserve a chance to find out who she is? Who she might be?”

His voice, when he finds it, comes out rough-edged, a croak. “What if she doesn’t come back to me?”

Nat’s hand back on his knee, bracing him. “Then you’ll still always be the man who broke Jake’s spell over her,” she replies. “And that will always count for a whole fucking lot.”

#tropes and tales #bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick #robert floyd #robert floyd imagine #robert floyd x reader

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 26 days ago

Text

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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fyrewalks · 1 year ago

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bob was nineteen and drunk when he got his tattoo, a bumblebee with his sister's name an inch or so above his elbow, though he won't say that he was. bob claims young impulsiveness whenever asked. you have to know him to know it's a lie. you have to know that at this point in his life, he was showing up to lectures hungover with only vague memories of the night before. weekends were always a complete blur. regret isn't the right word for what he feels when he looks at the tattoo now; he certainly doesn't regret having such a tribute for his sister, but there's no denying the conflicted feelings knowing that he wouldn't have gotten it if things had been different - if he'd been talking to his parents or more caring of his faith. for that reason, he generally avoids the question if asked about getting another. saying no, which is the likely answer, invites too much scrutiny he'd rather do without. as it is, being the odd one out not drinking at a bar brings enough unwanted attention.

#hc: bob floyd #study: bob floyd #alcohol tw #literally this is all my brain would let me do tonight #bad photoshop is bad photoshop #but you get the vibes right #probs for another post #but bob is very very reluctant to call himself an alocholic #for one he doesn't want to admit it was that bad (it kinda was)#and two after a few years completely sober he got to the point where he can have the occasional wine with dinner or with his parents #he's sworn off social drinking etc completely #which was what led to the worst of it #he still smokes occasionally tho #so like he's in a healthy place now #it's just def not an approach that works for everyone

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attapullman · 1 year ago

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Bob From Stats | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ ONLY as always, dry humping, alcohol, drunken party games, mentions of studying because that gives me PTSD, semi-exaggerated Greek life for theatrical reasons

A Note From Mo: Somehow my frat!Bob, drunk Bob is Rhett, and 7 minutes in heaven ideas all rolled into one fic - wild! Massive shoutout to everyone who listened to me talk about Stats Bob (who is now officially my #2 Bob, I love him) and for supporting this here lil blog. May you find a hobby-horse-wielding future WSO to sweep you off your feet too!

If you liked this, you may also enjoy on our syllabus Bob From Pi Kapp.

“I hate this. I’m going to quit school and become a stripper.”

Anna gives you a wry look. “That joke was only funny the first time you said it.”

“So you admit I’m funny!”

The two of you have been spread out in the library the majority of the evening. Textbooks, snacks, and highlighters littering the glossy dark wood. You’re on hour five of assignments and your brain is pounding against the front of your skull. Your other classes aren’t too bad, a bit time consuming, but Statistics is a foreign language. Thinking in probable numbers? It was one thing when the nice guy who sat behind you helped explain concepts, but Anna does not have quite the same analytical mind.

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head.

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?"

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester.

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed.

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg.

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse.

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily.

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester.

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!”

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch.

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house.

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare?

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face.

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats.

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest.

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe.

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?”

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them.

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself.

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher.

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder.

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.”

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you.

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent.

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good.

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind.

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right.

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands.

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses.

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out.

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light.

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

Want more Frat Cowboy Bob? Hang out with Bob From Pi Kapp!

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writesick-lover · 2 days ago

Text

𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x fem!reader

⤞ My masterlist ⤝

summary: Even a regular evening at Hard Deck can change Bob’s world completely once he meets the oh-so familiar pair of eyes and the sweetest smile. The whole world sets into motion, love pulling him in like a force of nature - and physics.

a/n: Hi everyone! First and foremost, thank you so so much for the love and support you gave to the lastest fic, it was my biggest motivation to keep going! I’m finally pass the writer’s block I suffered due to a month full of studying and exams - but it was all worth the suffering in the end haha :D So here’s the winner of our poll! Hope you’ll enjoy this as much as I did, writing for our sweetheart Bob once again!!! Enjoy ;*

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"Earth to Bobbie," Jake's voice cut through the loud noise of Hard Deck, taking Bob out of his trance.

It was an evening like any other, Bob sipping his beer in the corner of Hard Deck, watching his friends play a round of pool before it was his turn. He let his eyes wander across the place, observing the bar ready to explode with people, who only kept coming in. There was music blasting from the nearby jukebox, the chatter falling into the perfect sync and although Bob liked his peace in quiet, after all these evenings, Hard Deck felt like home.

That was until a very loud group started cheering nearby, Bob's eyes suddenly getting stuck on the company of people near the darts. Some would say it is a coincidence, others that it is faith. But once Bob decided to watch those strangers, his evening was to change forever - he was to found out one wasn’t any stranger to him.

A familiar face appeared between the movement of the bodies, a face he didn't expect to see ever, and of all the places definitely not in Hard Deck.

His mouth went agape at first. It took him a few seconds to fully comprehend that you were real. Really there, standing just a few feet away from him. Then he dived into the chaos of questions popping up in his mind, the most important being - what should he do?

So Bob was determined to do what he knew the best. Observe.

He stole secret glances at you every now-and-then, stealthy, quickly looking away anytime you glanced his way. But then you got the darts into your hands and Bob found himself hypnotized, watching you giggle as you missed or hit the target, despite getting the smallest amount of points possible.

It was only Hangman's firm grip on his shoulder that brought him back to the reality he was in, staring too long at someone across the whole place.

"Bob, you with us, buddy?"

Bob shot his head towards Hangman, gulping. His face heated up immediately, suddenly becoming fully self-aware of what he was doing until now. He quickly looked away, plastering on a polite smile. He very much hoped Jake Seresin would leave it be. But then it wouldn't be Jake Seresin.

"Who is that girl you're so obviously checking out, huh?" Jake’s shit-eating grin glowed - with obviously no plan on leaving Robert alone. Bob let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head again.

"She's my friend from high school," he explained, falling silent again as he looked back at the group, proving to himself once more that you were real and not just his imagination playing tricks so far.

He hadn’t seen you in ages, but he would have recognized you anywhere. You didn't change at all, that bright smile of yours lighting up the room just like all those years ago. Your beauty forever unchanging.

Suddenly, Bob felt like that little kid sitting behind his desk, listening to the teacher in front of him faintly as his eyes were glued to the hair in front of him. He jumped slightly, trying not to seem caught red-handed, as the girl unexpectedly turned around, her eyes boring into his.

"Do you know the answer to the third question?" she whispered quietly, her gaze unwavering.

"Yeah, it's the third one. You just have to use Newton's first law of motion," Bob whispered back, earning a bright smile, from his classmate. "Thanks, B. You're a genius," she spoke softly before turning away.

Bob sighed, his heart finally slowing down before he was startled once more, again by the motion in front of him.

"Tutoring again at 4? In the library? I really need to get to know Newton or I won't get through this year,"

"Yeah," Bob broke a small smile, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We can get to know him,”

You laughed quietly before turning back, Bob unable to contain the smile on his lips until lunch.

"My man, you're out of it," Jake commented, letting go of Bob's shoulder. "If she's your friend, then you should go talk to her," he stated, crossing his arms.

"I couldn't possibly-" Bob snorted, "I haven't seen her in years!" He shook his head.

"I doubt she even remembers me," Bob looked towards the darts, his eyes landing on you again. But this time you were staring back, the intense look a little too familiar. And Bob's heart skipped a few more than just one beat.

He watched as you whispered something to your friends before leaving the spot, slowly making your way through the crowd. He gulped, looking away in search of something more interesting than you (which he found impossible) until you stood right in front of him, your presence now completely demanding his attention.

"Bob? Bob Floyd? Is that you?" you asked, your voice a little higher, curiosity crawling through it as your eyes widened.

"Hi, yeah, that's me," Bob smiled, his eyes still a little avoidant.

"I'm Y/n. Remember me? From high school?"

"How could I forget," he nodded with a small smile, pushing his glasses up once they slid on the tip of his nose.

"Oh my god, B, how are you?" you opened your arms, immediately pulling Bob into a tight hug.

"I'm good and you?" Bob chuckled into your hair, his arms slowly following your silhouette before finding their place on your back. You squeezed him slightly before a loud "ahem" came from the people next to you.

You both pulled back.

"Do you mind?" Hangman cleared his throat once more, his raised eyebrow directed at Bob.

"Oh," Bob grounded himself, clearing his throat before another bright smile painted his face. "Y/n, these are my friends," he pointed at the Dagger Squad, all letting out a ‘hello’ in unison.

"This is my friend Y/n, from high-school" he then pointed at you. "Nice to meet you all," you waved at them, earning a few smiles back.

You turned back to Bob, your eyes running from his matured face down to the laces of his large shoes. "You've grown so much," You checked him out, the muscles shaping his fabric also not escaping your attention, just as his height and the way his hair was now cut short. If it weren't for those warm brown eyes you knew so well, you probably wouldn't recognize him.

"I could say the same about you," Bob responded, his eyes finding the wooden floor as the well-known redness decorated his cheek.

A bunch of voices broke out, calling your name. You sighed.

"Guess that's my cue," your lips tightened into a line before you pulled Bob into one more hug.

"But it's so great to see you! I miss you a lot, B," you laughed into his shoulder, pulling back, your hand lingering on his arms. "Bet my semesters in uni would have been easier with you by my side," you confessed. “You were always the smartest,”

"No, no,” Bob blushed, scraching his temple.

”I'm sure you did just fine," his eyes found yours, "you always did,"

You could only sigh, not leaving his gaze. Your spark faltered for a second.

Until you heard another wave of shouts from behind you.

"See you around, okay?" was the last thing you said, pushing yourself on your toes and planting a quick peck on his cheek before you let go, briefly waving to his group and making your way towards the bar and to your friends.

"Okay," Bob repeated softly, turning to his friends and meeting their amused faces. "What?" he asked, clueless.

"You've grown so much, Bobbie," Hangman started, his voice climbing two octaves higher. "I miss you a lot, B," Rooster joined the mocking teasingly, Bob left only with a sigh of resignation.

"She's a friend," he explained again, but Phoenix chimed in, cutting him off before he could say any more nonsense.

"And friends hug each other like that - no judgment, I’m sure she knows how to hug a friend," the irony dripped from her tongue as a teasing smirk appeared on her face.

"I- We haven't seen each other for a while," Bob turned his head towards the bar longingly, falling silent.

"Bobbie, you're staring again," Jake teased. "It's like she hung your fucking galaxy,"

"Maybe you should go ask her on a date," Rooster tapped Bob's back in encouragement. "I mean, you both couldn't be more obvious,"

"On a-What?" Bob's head snapped towards him. "I don't think it's like that- I mean she-"

"Look man, if she isn't flirting with you, then I am an eight-eyed slug. Which I'm not," Jake crossed his arms.

"I-" Bob's words got stuck in his throat once he looked towards the bar again, meeting your gaze as you turned towards him, waving at him from the bar before you spun back to your friends with a sweet smile playing on your lips.

His heartbeat rose to the skies.

He was doomed.

"In human language, we call that a sign," Jake raised his chin, pointing towards the bar, "Go on, Bobbie, get her,"

"Okay," the squad observed Bob as he wandered towards the bar, carefully squeezing through the moving sea of bodies. "They grow up so fast," Hangman leaned towards Rooster, earning a loud chuckle.

"Hey, you," Bob tapped your shoulder lightly. "Hey, yourself," you said, your smile brightening. "I was thinking… Wouldn't you like to catch up? You know, about how you're doing and-"

"I would love to," you cut him off, standing up right when Bob extended his hand, accidentally brushing past your waist. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to," Bob started apologizing immediately but you hushed him. "That's okay, B. I don't mind," you smiled and Bob's breath hitched.

"Oh," was the only thing he could say when you took his hand, already dragging him towards the beach.

"How does it go in the navy?" you asked into the warm night, breaking the silence only followed by the sounds of the ocean. You were sitting on the deckchairs at the beach, the warm lights from Hard Deck falling on the backs of your heads as you watched the waves in the dark.

"Oh, you remember that?" Bob was taken aback by your question, correcting his glasses again.

"How could I not? You were such a nerd when it came to fighter planes," you sighed in content, glancing back at the porch of Hard Deck. "I bet that's your squad. I've never seen so many jacked people in one place," you giggled as Bob smiled sheepishly. "And besides, there's an airbase nearby," you shrugged.

"Wow," Bob bobbed his head in acknowledgement, "See? You're just fine on your own. Not everyone can connect the dots like that,"

"What do you mean?" you asked right away, noticing the widening smile on Robert's face. "This one time there was this group of people from out of town," he started and you leaned in, curious. "I was collecting empty cups from the squad, ready to go refill them, when this one man stopped me,"

"Oh god," you chimed in and Bob only gave you a validating look before continuing.

"And he stuffed my hands with another 7 cups, quickly let out a thank you and shoved 10 dollars into my pocket," Bob finished, proud once your laugh pierced the air. "You're kidding! What did you do?"

"I bought them beers - for those ten dollars," he only shrugged as if that wasn’t significant in the story. "Wow," now it was your turn to sigh. "You're still a walking angel, after all those years,"

"I guess anyone would do that," Bob only shook his head, taking a deep breath after another minute of silence. "Now it's my turn," You straightened as he looked up at you softly, lost in thought for a moment.

"Did you open the art gallery, like you always wanted?" he grinned when you chuckled, his heart skipping another pair of beats.

"Ah, I wish. I'm stuck in an office job right now," your posture faltered and so did Bob's lips. He couldn't believe it. "I still paint from time to time though, don't worry" you winked at him.

"It wouldn't be you if you didn't," Bob let out a breath of relief, his whole body relaxing in the moment and something in you moved.

"You know, I sometimes think about your physics tutoring," you confessed, shocking Bob once again. "Especially Newton's third law of motion,"

"You still remember that? You hated physics," Bob's eyes widened, shaking his head, unsure where all this was heading. "You even fell asleep during the tutoring. Twice,"

You laughed, the memory so vivid in your head.

"But now I know he was right," your soft voice made Bob freeze. "When one object exerts a force on another," you slowly leaned in, your eyes falling to his lips. "The other object should exert the same force back on the first object, right?"

"So you were listening after all," Bob spoke and for a moment you looked up, only to catch his gaze coming up to yours as well.

"So you know what I mean?" you asked, your voice slightly shaking.

Bob fell silent for a while, to the point where you thought he wouldn't say anything.

Then he cleared his throat.

"So can I… kiss you?" Bob rasped, his gaze now steady. Like you were the target.

The tips of your noses touched.

"I knew you were a genius, B," you whispered and with that, you closed the gap between your lips.

Your hand immediately went to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. His big hands completely covered your face, cupping it softly. Neither of you wanted to stop, diving into the sweet flavor of each other's lips until your breath ran out

A few cheers breaking out from behind you once you pulled away. You both snapped your heads towards the sound, finding your friends standing on the porch, clapping, their smiles so wide, it must’ve hurt them.

"That's my boy Bobbie," Hangman laughed out loud, grabbing Fanboy around the shoulder. "You rock, Bob," Rooster whooped, earning another wave of cheers. You hid in Bob's shoulder, trying to cool down the heat in your face, before looking up at him. "And no cheers for me?" you teased.

"I will cheer for you," Bob smiled slightly, unable to look away from your eyes. "I will tell them you're the best kisser,"

"I’m just finally making use of what I learned in school," you winked and Bob couldn't help himself but kiss you all over again.

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Please let me know how you liked this story with a like, comment or repost!

Who would you like me to write about next? -> requests open!

If you liked this story, you’ll enjoy -> Cry-baby

-> That’s my wife

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nostalgiaforplacesweneverknew · 6 days ago

Note

It could be a headcanon of Lewis Pullman's characters reacting to his girlfriend's (who has vision problems) new glasses because the new ones look good on her.

As a girl who wears glasses, I love this <3 thank you for sending this in!

Lewis Pullman characters x fem!Reader | 2.0k | Headcanon, tons of fluff <3, a little bit suggestive but nothing explicit (still, 18+/MDNI).

You could be doing something so mundane, like sitting at the dining table going over some mail or personal documents or something, and Rocco Gauthier doesn’t really understand it himself—but he is ready to wife you up. You absentmindedly push your glasses up your nose when they slide down and he's like, “Oh my god, marry me.” And you’re so puzzled? But also like, “Okay???” not thinking he’s serious. But then he’s giving you a ring and telling you he wants a fall wedding. Next step? Baby making, of course 😏

I love the idea of Bob Reynolds finding you asleep on the couch after watching TV or something, and he’s just like smiling wryly to himself like, “oh, silly girl, she did it again”. He goes over to maybe gently wake you up so you can go sleep in your bed, or maybe he’s about to princess carry you back to your room… but then he notices them, your new glasses. And for a minute, he’s just… really soft? He’s suddenly overcome with this really quiet, swelling affection for you. He sits on the couch right next to you just to look at you for a few seconds, brushing some hair away from your face near the temples. You stir under his touch, and when you open your eyes and smile at him, he’s whispering, “you’re beautiful”.

Miles Miller loves them, of course. He spends that first day just staring at you while you talk, maybe quietly reaching out to touch them like he’s still getting used to them, like he loves that there’s something new about you for him to memorize. And when guests at the hotel comment on them, he gets this tiny, proud little smile on his face, like yeah, he’s the one who gets to kiss the pretty, glasses-wearing dream girl behind the front desk.

Bob Floyd can’t stop sneaking glances at you, eyes flicking up to your face and then darting away. Then back again. Then away again. “You look… different, is all,” he says shyly when you ask him what’s wrong, and then his cheeks turn pink, “Not bad different! Like, good different… really good.” He also thinks it’s really funny because, before, you could just kiss him without a problem but now one of you has to take off your glasses first so they don’t crash into each other—so now whenever you take off your glasses, even for totally innocent reasons, he’s already licking his lips in anticipation.

I don’t think Calvin Evans would gush or make any grand declarations. We know Calvin doesn’t place a huge emphasis on looks, so his reaction is much more subdued, but of course he still notices right away. “You got new glasses,” he’d say, a bit flat, more observational than anything else. But then his gaze lingers for a little longer than usual, like he’s studying you. “I like how you looked before, but I really like this too.” And it’s such a simple, quiet statement, but it makes you warm and fuzzy on the inside anyway. He doesn’t say much more about it, but occasionally he reaches out to brush your cheek near the frame whenever you’re standing close. And of course, because he’s a doting husband, he carries extra microfibre cloths for you in case you need something to clean your glasses with. Or you can just use his sleeve, no big deal.

“You changed something,” Thomas Keefer says when he gets home one day, just back from the gym or from a run, all sweat-tousled and pink-cheeked. You point to your new glasses and he just nods once, still staring, still catching his breath. “You don’t like them?” You ask, but he’s shaking his head, “Didn’t say that.” And because he’s a reserved military man, all buttoned-up, disciplined and emotionally in control all the time, he says something super clinical like, “They’re nice. Sharp, clean lines.” You just give him this unimpressed look before he exhales through his nose, maybe on something of a laugh. He leans in close and drops his voice to something quiet and low, just for you, “Damn, that look is lethal.” Then he kisses you, slow and deliberate, and you’re much more satisfied with that answer.

Jordan Weaver pretends not to notice at first just to mess with you, because he’s such a little shit. You walk in and he doesn’t react, not even a glance. You step into his line of sight and he briefly looks up from a magazine he’s flipping through, then back down again, casually asking, “Hey babe, what’s up?” And you’re like, “Well? What do you think?” He looks up again to give you the world’s most exaggerated once-over… “About what?” You throw a pillow at him and he finally laughs, “Okay, okay! Damn.” Then he’s pulling you close to give you a real look, one that’s a little cocky and soft all at once. “You look like a sexy teacher… I’m into it. Like, way into it. You gonna teach me somethin’, honey?”

Todd Stevens does a double take, and then he’s coming closer to get right up in your space. “Damn, sweetheart, are you tryin’ to start something, or…?” And he goes on about how you’re giving off sexy librarian vibes and it’s giving him ideas—“Can I come see you after class, ma’am?” and the next time you dress up for nighttime shenanigans you’re wearing a knit cardigan and your glasses are hanging off a beaded necklace and Todd is just so flabbergasted but he’s kind of into it? And also, “You look so hot, I’m gonna have to fight off other boys now. You gonna make me get violent?” And I just—I’m weak.

Rhett Abbot is in front of the house tinkering with his truck, when you walk up wearing your new glasses. He glances up when he hears your footsteps and just freezes, doesn’t say a word for a good five seconds. Then finally: “That look’s dangerous, sweetheart... reckon I’ll be gettin’ in trouble all week because of you.” And he’s just looking at you like the sun’s just come up behind you and he’s never seen anything prettier <3

Harrison Knott pauses mid-step when he sees you, then clutches his chest like he’s been shot. “Are you trying to kill me? How am I supposed to function when you’re so dang cute?” But you’re still unsure, and when you’re staring into a mirror wondering out loud if you should’ve just gotten contacts instead, Harrison’s protesting immediately. He showers you with like five different compliments in under five minutes, telling you how obsessed he is with the new look. “I don’t look like a nerd?” You ask him, and he’s like, “Are you kidding? That’s why it’s hot.”

Major Major falls in love a little more, thinks you look so sophisticated and elegant. He’s so smitten, maybe stops talking mid-sentence, his eyes going a little wide and his mouth hanging open. He blushes adorably when he realizes he’s staring, when he realizes the whole room just heard him say, without realizing, “…So pretty”. When someone else compliments them, he’ll lean in and mutter something like, “I told you they look nice.” In fact, he likes them so much that sometimes, when you take them off, he’s flustered and asking, “Wait—put them back on for a second… please?”

Ben Mears keeps glancing at you over his computer screen, smiling because you’re giving off more writer vibes than he is. You’re holding your new glasses by one of the temples, the tip tucked between your lips as you read over a draft of his latest manuscript, brows furrowed in concentration and he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the urge kiss you silly. Instead, because you’re trying to be productive and he wants to respect that, he has you come sit in his lap—maybe it’ll inspire him to write something fun. Well, soon he’s kissing all over your neck and your shoulders anyway so it backfires.

𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐕𝐈𝐕 ༊*·˚

#headcanon sundays with viv #ben mears x reader #bob floyd x reader #bob reynolds x reader #calvin evans x reader #harrison knott x reader #jordan weaver x reader #major major x reader #miles miller x reader #rhett abbott x reader #rocco gauthier x reader #robert floyd x reader #robert reynolds x reader #thomas keefer x reader #todd stevens x reader #lewis pullman characters

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the-unidentified-author · 20 days ago

Text

I Am Not Used to Being Noticed, I Don’t Know What to Do | Lt. Robert 'Bob' Floyd | Top Gun: Maverick

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], shy guy, smut, nerd, talks you through it, in a truck, maybe not as nerdy as you thought, consensual!

POV: Reader / You, no personal descriptions

Summary: You catch Bob once again stealing glances at you in the bar. You decide that if anything is going to happen between the two of you then you're the one thats going to have to take the lead.

Word Count: 9,690

A/n: I once again have nothing to say for myself. This is really long and builds slow before the bang.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

Bob peered into his glass, swirling the ice as if it held classified secrets and he was trying to get it to spill them. The raucous laughter of his fellow pilots ricocheted off the walls. If call signs were based on evenings out at the bar, Bobs would undoubtedly be "Flight Risk." He nursed his drink at the edge of the boisterous crowd, secretly wishing for ejector seats to whisk him away from the claustrophobic confines of the dimly lit bar.

The jukebox in the corner wheezed out a nostalgic '80s power ballad, its tinny speakers straining to compete with the din of clinking glasses and lively banter. Bob hunched over on his wobbly stool, his index finger tracing idle patterns in the condensation rings on the bar, hoping nobody would notice he'd already checked his watch three times in the past ten minutes.

Rooster and Hangman were locked in a heated pool battle, chalk dust hanging in the air as Phoenix lined up her shot with cool precision. Fanboy offered loud, running commentary, half heckling, half cheerleading, his laughter echoing each time the cue ball skittered across the felt. Every lucky shot or wild miss earned a chorus of groans and cheers, their camaraderie turning the corner near the pool table into its own rowdy outpost.

Bob's gaze hovered over the row of aviation memorabilia above the bar, mentally naming each vintage model and pretending not to hear the raucous cheers from his squad. The door swung open, ushering in a drift of warm night air and the steady click of boot heels.

You spotted Phoenix first, her familiar grin slicing through the haze of jukebox light and neon beer signs. The pool cue in her hand was just as menacing as you remembered from your last game-night defeat. Phoenix’s eyes lit up. “There she is!” she called over her shoulder, waving you forward and igniting a new burst of banter from Fanboy, who wasted no time making a theatrical bow.

Hangman gave you a mischievous two-finger salute, while Rooster managed an easygoing smile before returning to his shot. You eased your way through the crowd, the tang of spilled beer and the thump of pool balls in the air, feeling the energy shift as the squad welcomed you into their noisy orbit. Phoenix slid over to make room by the table, her arm looping around your shoulders in a quick hug. “You here to finally win back your dignity?” she teased, her eyes sparkling with friendly challenge.

You shot Phoenix an exaggerated glare. "Only if you agree not to hustle me this time," you replied, grinning as you peeled off your jacket.

Fanboy clapped his hands together and declared, “Tonight’s about redemption and legends, folks!” before dramatically chalking a cue and handing it to you.

As you moved to join the game, your gaze drifted across the bar and landed on Bob. He was hunched over his drink at the far end, watching the scene with wary amusement like someone studying a tornado from a safe distance. The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, highlighting his strong jawline and the way his glasses reflected the neon glow of the beer signs.

Phoenix nudged you playfully, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "See Bob over there? He's always stealing glances at you whenever you show up." Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in closer, her breath warm, against your ear. "I think he might have a little crush on you."

Bob glanced up, caught your eye for a split second, and blushed, quickly finding sudden interest in his coaster. You smiled, feeling the tug of curiosity, before Phoenix called you back to the game, her voice slicing clean through the din. The pool table felt like a stage, and your friends old and new were the loud, rowdy audience.

The game kicked off with boisterous energy Fanboy cracking jokes as you lined up your first shot, Rooster egging you on with mock-serious coaching tips, and Hangman wagering a round of drinks on who'd win. Every clack of the balls seemed to ratchet up the banter, the crowd at the bar swelling and contracting as pilots drifted in or out from the airbase.

Between shots, Phoenix leaned close, quietly recounting stories of recent flights, near-misses, and infamous bets among the squad. You found yourself slipping easily into the group's rhythm, shaking off the dust of your day as laughter bounced from one face to the next.

After a particularly improbable shot by Fanboy arguably more luck than skill the cue ball leapt off the table, bounced once on the sticky floor, and rolled to a stop right at Bob's feet. He started, blinking down in surprise as the crowd erupted in laughter.

Phoenix grinned and waved him over. "C'mon, Bob, show her how it's done." The invitation carried a hint of challenge, her tone equal parts mischief and encouragement.

Bob hesitated just long enough for Fanboy to start an exaggerated drumroll on the side of the pool table. With a faint, embarrassed smile, Bob set down his drink and crossed the bar, every eye on him now some expectant, some skeptical, all entertained.

Fanboy fished the cue ball from where it had stopped at Bob's feet and handed it to him with a flourish, like he was knighting a champion. Hangman leaned in, towards you, whispering, "Secret weapon, watch out," which only ramped up the grins.

The chatter around the bar dimmed as Bob chalked his cue. He looked up, caught your eye, and something unspoken flickered there nerves, maybe, or a dare. As he held your gaze, Bob couldn't help but notice how the neon lights cast a warm glow on your features, accentuating the sparkle in your eyes and the curve of your smile. He felt a flutter in his chest, drawn to the magnetic energy that seemed to radiate from you.

With surprising confidence, he bent to line up his shot. Bob took aim, exhaled, and let the shot fly, sending the balls scattering in a clean, practiced break that shocked even the most skeptical in the group for just a moment, anyway. The squad erupted in a mix of whoops and incredulous shouts.

Phoenix elbowed you, grinning. "Told you he was trouble." As the group's attention returned to the game, Bob stole another glance at you, admiring the way your laughter lit up the room and how easily you seemed to fit in with the squad.

You risked a glance at Bob, catching the briefest flash of his eyes behind those classic aviator frames before he quickly looked down, making a show of dusting the chalk off his cue. A faint patch of colour crept up his neck.

You couldn't help but smile, too, just a little as Bob kept stealing cautious glances your way, each one lasting a fraction longer than the last. It was all subtle: a shared look, a quick glance away, the mutual awkwardness woven into the hum of your friends' banter. Phoenix must've noticed, but she let it be, focusing instead on lining up her next shot.

From the edge of the table, Bob replayed the last few seconds in his mind had he made eye contact too long? Was he reading too much into the quick smile you sent his way? He shifted his grip on the cue, feeling more visible than usual, but also unexpectedly anchored by the presence of the surrounding squad.

He told himself to look away, but curiosity tugged at him, the same restless energy that spurred him to study cloud formations or memorise call signs. You were just another mystery to quietly figure out except this one smiled when she caught him looking.

Bob traced a thumb over the smooth wood of the cue, calming himself with the familiar texture. In a crowd of loud pilots and swirling banter, he was used to lingering on the edge not used to having someone notice he was there.

The rest of the game played out with a swirl of banter and scattered jeers, but Bob quiet and steady sank the last ball with a crisp, unshowy shot. The squad cheered, clapping him on the back as Hangman and Rooster announced they'd take the next game head-to-head.

With the crowd reshuffling and a new layer of competition brewing, Bob hovered near the edge of the commotion, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. He glanced at you, a mixture of hope and caution flickering behind his glasses, but when you met his eye, he looked away, pretending to be deeply interested in lining up stray chalks.

You caught his drift a silent invitation, subtle as a tailwind. Picking up your drink, you wandered to an empty booth near the window, seating yourself with a clear view of the bar. A few heartbeats later, Bob found his way over, settling opposite you with a shy, uncertain smile, as if worried he'd made the wrong call.

Neither of you spoke at first. The space between you felt quietly charged, the distant shouts from the pool table now just background noise. Bob busied himself aligning the sugar packets and tracing the wood grain on the table, glancing up only long enough to catch your eye before dropping his gaze again.

You finally broke the silence, your smile genuine. "I have to say, you completely surprised me over there. I wasn't expecting you to sink all those shots like it was nothing."

Bob's fingers tapped quietly against his glass, his eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down its side. "It doesn't always go that way," he said, barely above the clamour around you. "Usually, I'm just hoping I won't miss."

You shook your head, leaning in a little. "You made it look easy." Your voice carried both admiration and a hint of disbelief. "Seriously, I've never seen anyone so chill you barely said a word and then just… cleared the table."

That coaxed a small, self-conscious grin out of him. "Guess I do better when no one's really paying attention." He glanced up at you, almost sheepishly. "But sometimes it helps when someone is."

You caught his eye, and for the first time, it lingered without either of you looking away. In that brief moment, the bustling noise of the bar faded into the background, the clinking of glasses and the laughter of your friends becoming a distant hum. The warm, amber lighting cast a soft glow on Bob's face, accentuating the mix of hope and caution in his eyes as the connection between you grew stronger, overshadowing the lively bar scene around you.

Bob's fingers fidgeted with the edge of his napkin as if gathering courage. "I'm uh… not really used to being the one people notice," he admitted, voice low, almost apologetic. "I think I usually blend into the background. Safer that way." He gave a slight, awkward laugh and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, the numbers on the altimeter make more sense to me than small talk. Or… well, anything like this." He chanced another glance at you, his shyness obvious, even as a hopeful smile crept onto his face. "But I don't really mind being noticed. Not tonight, anyway."

You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness in the small booth, the way his knee was barely a breath from yours beneath the table. As you let your fingers idle near the edge of his napkin, inviting but not quite touching, Bob's gaze lingered on your hand, his own stilled, as if worried any sudden movement might break the spell.

A gentle smile played across your lips as you leaned in, just enough for your words to belong to him alone. "Well, you've got my attention now." The quiet confidence in your tone had Bob glancing up, meeting your eyes a long, searching look full of shy hope and unanswered questions.

Bob's cheeks went a shade pinker, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Then, nervously, he started to fill the space with a shy ramble. "You know, being a back-seater, I'm sort of used to paying attention, but not really being the main—uh, I mean, I usually fly under the radar. Literally. Most of the time I'm reading checklists or keeping track of fuel. Honestly, the stick-and-throttle stuff is all—well, thats what Phoenix does, but…" He trailed off, catching your bemused expression.

As you gazed at Bob, taking in his shy rambling and the faint blush colouring his cheeks, you realised that if this evening was going to progress beyond quiet conversation, you would need to be the one to take the lead. His endearing mix of nervousness and desire tugged at your heart, and you knew that a gentle nudge in the right direction might make for an exciting night.

With a soft, reassuring smile, you reached over and set your hand lightly atop his, quieting his words, your heart thrummed in your throat as you pushed yourself to speak. "What do you say we go somewhere a little quieter?" you asked, your voice soft.

Bob blinked, his mind flickering through possibilities, clearly overthinking. "Oh—um, I could drive you home if you're tired? I don't mind—I mean, it's not a problem at all," he stammered, glancing hopefully at you, completely missing your meaning at first.

You couldn't help but laugh, letting your knuckles graze his. "That's sweet, Bob, but I wasn't thinking about calling it a night just yet."

Bob blinked again, your words finally catching up to him. Realization dawned slowly, washing over his face in a tide of color—his blush returning with a vengeance. He ducked his head, fiddling with the napkin between his fingers, twisting it tighter and tighter, his brain scrambling to catch up with his heart.

He risked a quick glance around the bar, as if half-expecting someone to call him out, then flicked his gaze back to you, searching your eyes for confirmation that he'd read things right this time.

His voice, when it came, was hushed and just a little shaky. "Oh. You mean… not home, just… someplace else. With you."

You nodded shyly, a small smile playing on your lips, encouraging him to continue.

A tiny, uncertain smile hovered at the edge of his lips as hope mingled with nerves. "Yeah. Uh. I'd—I'd really like that."

Bob cleared his throat, still twisting the napkin. “So, uh… where do you want to go?” His voice was soft, barely competing with the distant clatter from the pool table.

A faint blush crept across your cheeks as you realised the implication of your words, but you held his gaze, a silent confirmation that you wanted to spend more time together, just the two of you

You grinned at his earnestness. “Somewhere we don’t have to shout over Fanboy, maybe?”

Bob chuckled, glancing over his shoulder as if confirming that Fanboy was, in fact, narrating someone’s missed shot with theatrical gusto. “Yeah. That sounds nice. Just… us?”

You nodded, and he let out a quiet breath—steadying himself. "Okay," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Lead the way."

"Meet me out back?" you murmured, your voice low and inviting. Bob nodded, still a bit shell-shocked, and you slipped away first cutting through the laughter and clatter with ease. You felt his gaze on your back as you skirted around the crowded jukebox and ducked out the back door into the warm, quiet night.

The heavy metal door closed behind you with a soft thud, muffling the sounds of the bar. The air outside was thick with the scent of summer, warm asphalt, distant cut grass, and the faint, sweet hint of beer from the bar.

Inside, Bob stood, his chair scraping softly against the worn wooden floor. He reached for his jacket, slung over the back of the chair, and began to put it on, his movements a little hurried and nervous.

As he slid his arms into the sleeves, he glanced around the bar one last time, taking in the lively chaos he was leaving behind. The pool balls clicked and clacked, Fanboy's laughter boomed over the music, and the neon lights flickered and glowed.

With his jacket now on, Bob took a deep breath and headed for the door.

A minute later, Bob emerged, hands still fidgeting nervously at his jacket zip.

The alley behind the bar was narrow, flanked by the hum of distant summer cicadas and a low spill of neon from the doorway. The brick walls on either side were weathered, tagged with faded graffiti and ivy creeping up the sides. It wasn't glamorous, but it was private, but still risky enough to feel like you were both getting away with something, but safe. The single bulb above the door cast long shadows.

You leaned against the brick, letting the tension stretch between you. He stood close, his shoulder brushing yours, both of you caught between nerves and want. The sounds from the bar faded a heartbeat, a breath, the small town's quiet hum just beyond the alley wall.

Suddenly, Bob moved first. His hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, warm and a little trembling. He looked at you a silent question, his eyes searching yours for permission and then closed the gap, his other hand coming up to gently cup your face.

His mouth was softer than you'd imagined, urgent, almost desperate, the kiss tinged with a hint of beer and mint. The risk, the dark, made it sweeter, more electric. You kissed him back, both of you tipping into the kind of wanting that made you forget how to be careful, how to hold back.

In that moment, Bob’s world shrank to the feel of your mouth against his, your warmth tangled with the sharp edge of adrenaline. His heart rattled in his chest—part fear, part longing—stunned that you wanted him back with the same reckless energy that had taken over his hands.

Every instinct in him screamed to keep it quiet, to stay invisible, but your lips on his made hiding impossible. He was wide open breathless, a little dizzy, yet fiercely alive. The alley felt dangerous and safe all at once, a place where he could finally let go. He’d never been the one to take the first step, but now, with you pressed close, it all made sense. You saw him. You wanted him. And for once, he didn’t want to disappear into the background. All the nerves and second guessing faded under the rush of wanting, and he gave himself over to it, lost in the thrill of being chosen.

As he kissed you, Bob couldn't help but think about all the times he'd watched you from afar, wishing he had the courage to approach you. The countless moments he'd replayed in his mind, imagining what it would be like to hold you, to feel your lips against his. And now, here you were, in his arms, your kisses urgent and passionate, as if you'd been waiting for this moment just as much as he had.

With every touch, every shared breath, Bob felt a piece of himself falling into place. He realised that he'd been holding back, not just from you, but from himself. He'd been afraid to want something so badly, to put himself out there and risk rejection. But with your arms around him and your lips on his, Bob knew that he was ready to take that chance. He was ready to be seen, to be wanted, and to let himself want in return.

A sudden flare of light spilled into the alley as the door swung open beside you. Phoenix poked her head out, the silhouette of a beer bottle in her hand. You and Bob jumped at the unexpected interruption, your hearts racing as you quickly broke apart. Phoenix caught sight of the two of you, tangled close, and grinned, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Well, well," she said, raising an eyebrow, a wide smile spreading across her face. "Should I bring a drink, or is someone else on the menu tonight?" Her playful tone carried a hint of excitement, as if she'd been waiting for this moment to happen.

You and Bob exchanged a glance, his flush deepening as he looked everywhere but at Phoenix. You couldn't help but catch the flicker of her knowing smile, her expression radiating approval at the scene before her.

She held up her hands in mock surrender, stepping back into the doorway, keeping her distance. "Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Carry on, you two." Her eyes sparkled with conspiratorially, flashing you a grin, as she backed through the door, letting it swing shut behind her—leaving you and Bob alone again, hearts pounding, lips tingling, and suddenly unable to stop smiling.

The moment Phoenix retreated, Bob let out a breathy laugh, his face still flushed. Recovering a bit of composure, he cleared his throat and glanced down at you shyly. “Uh, maybe… we should go somewhere a little quieter? This alley’s kind of—well, everyone comes out here eventually.” His awkwardness was endearing, his boldness fading back to familiar nerves.

You nodded, biting back a smile. “Lead the way, then.”

He shot you a grateful, uncertain look and gestured with a tilt of his head. “I parked around the side. If you want, we could… just talk, maybe?” There was a crumpled hopefulness in his tone. You followed him around the corner, half expecting an old hatchback or some quietly reliable sedan—something sensible that matched his low profile.

But as you turned the corner, your eyes widened in surprise. There, parked among the other cars, was a gleaming, oversized F-150—midnight blue, with polished chrome and every fancy add-on imaginable. It looked like it could tow a small house. You couldn’t help but stare, your mouth agape at the unexpected sight.

You turned to Bob, a shocked laugh escaping your lips. “Seriously? This is yours?”

Bob ducked his head, a hint of pride mingling with his usual shyness. "Yeah, it is. I know it might seem a bit much, but I've always had a thing for big trucks. Plus, it comes in handy when we need to transport gear or equipment for the squad."

You shook your head, still grinning at the revelation. "I never would have guessed. It's just so… not you. But in a good way!" You playfully elbowed him, enjoying the surprised look on his face. "You know, I saw this truck on the way in and totally assumed it was Hangman's. It just seems like his style."

Bob laughed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, I get that a lot. People are always surprised when they find out it's mine. I guess I don't exactly give off the 'big truck' vibe."

You shook your head, still grinning at the revelation. "I never would have guessed. It's just so… not you. But in a good way!" You gently nudged his arm with your elbow, enjoying the surprised look on his face. “I bet this thing turns heads when you're out on the road."

Bob ducked his head as he unlocked the truck, scratching behind one ear. “Well, I grew up in the South, and down there, everyone drives trucks like this. I guess it just stuck with me. Plus, it’s good for road trips. And, uh, the heated seats.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on your lips. "Heated seats, huh? Sounds like you enjoy a little extra comfort during those long drives."

Bob's blush deepened, and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, yeah, I mean—it's a nice feature, right?"

As you approached the passenger side of the truck, Bob stepped ahead and opened the door for you, a simple, considerate gesture. You climbed into the passenger seat, taking in the sturdy interior and the smooth, cool leather beneath your fingers. As he circled back to the driver's side, you found yourself appreciating the easy, unassuming way he carried himself, making you curious to learn more about the other side of this seemingly shy man.

You settled into the passenger seat, the plush interior swallowing you in quiet comfort. It smelled like freshly cleaned upholstery and a hint of Bob's cologne something understated, a whisper rather than a shout. The subtle, woodsy scent with a touch of citrus seemed to envelop you, making your pulse quicken and your body ache for closeness. As the door shut with a solid, satisfying thud, you took in the gleam of the dashboard, the smooth, cool leather beneath your fingers. The combination of the truck's luxurious interior and Bob's intoxicating scent had your heart pounding, the desire to be near him washing over you like a wave of heat.

From your vantage point, you watched Bob as he walked around the front of the truck, his nervous energy almost visible in the way he fidgeted with his keys. Once he reached the driver's side, he climbed in behind the wheel and reached to pull off his jacket, awkward in the snug space between console and seat. As he did so, the soft stretch of fabric over his shoulders gave way to a brief, surprisingly defined flex of muscle in his arms.

You'd always seen Bob as a walking contradiction: the quiet, unassuming guy who could recite specs and checklists with ease, but never seemed to seek the spotlight like some other, more boisterous pilots. You knew, of course, that everyone in the military was required to stay in shape, but you'd always assumed Bob was more "lean and wiry" than anything else built for endurance rather than raw strength, and content to blend in rather than stand out. But as you watched him carefully manoeuvre his way out of his jacket, first one arm and then the other, you couldn't help but notice the telltale signs of real, deliberate power the kind that came from hard work and discipline, rather than a desire to impress. A warm feeling spread through you, drawn to his quiet strength and wanting to explore what was hidden beneath his uniform.

The interior filled with the faint slide of zippers and the shuffle of layers. As he pressed the jacket onto the back seat, you let yourself study him for a moment. The way his bicep tensed just enough to cause the fabric of his sleeve to shift, the way his forearms looked corded and reliable on the steering wheel, veins visible under skin brushed gold by the bar’s neon still glowing through the windscreen. Even the set of his jaw—tense, but earnest. You could almost imagine the discipline it took, the repetitions counted in solitude, unnoticed by anyone.

A thrill ran through you as you realised he might notice your lingering gaze, perhaps blushing even harder if he saw the appreciation in your eyes. You stole a furtive glance at his profile: glasses a little askew, the blush from earlier still faintly colouring his cheeks, a smile hovering as if he couldn't quite decide whether to be embarrassed by your company. Fingers fidgeting on the dash, he finally risked a sidelong look.

"You, uh, comfortable?" The question was tentative, soft, slightly uncertain, yet edged with hope.

You caught your reflection in the window, grinning. "Very," you answered, letting your tone drop just the faintest invitation.

Bob ducked his head, pushing his glasses up with a knuckle as he glanced at you—hesitant, as if the question carried twice the weight it should. "So," he asked softly, voice almost lost in the luxurious hush of the truck's cabin, "where do you want to go?"

You let the silence hang for a moment, taking in the way the dashboard's lights traced across his face his brown hair tousled from nervously running his hand through it, the bright, searching blue of his eyes barely visible behind thick lashes, the set of his jaw strong but not severe. The contrast between the careful discipline in his posture and the hesitant hope in his expression had your heart tripping over itself.

"How about somewhere, quiet?" you suggested, voice pitched low, the word lingering in the hush.

He nodded, swallowing visibly. "Yeah," he replied, the word tight at first, then relaxing as his eyes met yours, "somewhere quiet. That sounds… good."

You glanced down as you buckled your seatbelt, mostly to give your hands something to do, partly to keep from staring. The seats felt impossibly spacious, the oversized console maintaining a tantalising gap between you. For a beat, you simply took him in: the outline of his frame, the strong, capable hands curling around the wheel, the faint pink still ghosting his cheekbones under the electric glow of the dash.

Thoughts spun through your mind—how easy it would be to lean over, erase that space, or tease a confession out of him beneath the soft hush of the cab. In this quiet, closed-in world, your attraction felt sharper, more deliberate. You caught yourself wondering what it might feel like to trace the lines of his forearm with your fingers.

Bob started the engine, the truck humming to life, and slowly eased out of the gravel lot. You could hear the distant music and laughter from the bar fading as you pulled away, swallowed by the hush of night and the rolling dark that stretched across the countryside. He drove with cautious attentiveness—hands steady at ten and two, eyes flicking from road to rearview with that familiar vigilance honed by a lifetime of running checklists.

Neither of you rushed to fill the silence. Instead, you absorbed the soft glow from the dash painting his profile blue eyes glancing your way, the strong lines of his jaw flexing when he swallowed.

“Should I just… drive?” Bob ventured, voice barely louder than the turn signal’s tick.

You watched the ribbon of empty road ahead, then leaned in, a little conspiratorial. “Take the next left. There’s a road out past the fields nobody goes that way at night. Figured we could use a little privacy.”

He blinked, surprise lighting his eyes, but a breathless smile ghosted his lips. “Yeah, I—sure. Whatever you want.” The tires rolled over loose stones, headlights pushing back the dark as you guided him down the older, narrower lane. Crops lined either side stark and shadowed and a low mist hovered above the ditches, collecting in the dips and hollows of the fields.

For a while, Bob kept his gaze mostly on the road, but the silence seemed to grow too loud for his nerves. He cleared his throat, fingers drumming at the steering wheel. “You, uh… you weren’t kidding about the privacy out here,” he said with a laugh.

You grinned, resisting the urge to reach across and squeeze his arm. “Is it too much? I figure it’s nice to have somewhere just for us.”

He shot you a side glance through the blue-black dark, brow raised in playful disbelief. “No, it’s good. I don’t usually get… picked for these kind of field trips, you know?”

You let your gaze linger on him just a bit longer than strictly necessary, making sure your voice came out smoothly. "Well, thats other people's loss and my gain."

That made him laugh—nervous, but flattered. “So, you like taking quiet types out on midnight drives?” His tone was teasing but shy, words weighted with a question underneath.

You shrugged, letting your knees angle just a little closer to him. “Only if they’re handsome, and only if I have a good feeling about where the night might lead.”

Bob didn’t quite manage to hide the wobble in his smile. He wet his lips, glancing from the road to you and quickly back again. “And, do you? Have a good feeling?”

You waited a beat, watching as his knuckles tightened on the wheel for a split second. “I do,” you whispered, letting your fingers trail along the edge of your seat toward him before drawing back. “But you’re awfully focused on driving for a guy with a co-pilot.”

He laughed, relieved sound, and reached for your hand as the truck glided down the dark road, your fingers tangling on the console.

“So… do you always plot secret escapes from crowded bars, or is this a special mission?” he asked, risking a sidelong glance, fingers fidgeting at the seam of the steering wheel.

You laughed, letting the sound slip easily into the warmth of the cab. "No, I haven't done something like this in a long time."

He grinned, shy, glancing along your profile in the dark. "I was sure I was invisible back there."

You shook your head, letting your gaze linger over him while the headlights brushed gold shadows across his jaw. "Not even close, Bob. I've been noticing you for a while, actually. You make quiet look really good."

He drew in a quiet breath, surprise and hope flickering in his blue eyes. "You, uh… always watch this closely?"

"Only when someone gives me a reason," you said, your voice lower, daring.

The words lingered, heat rising between you, thickening the hush in the truck. Bob let out a long, careful breath, his fingers flexing on the wheel. Each subtle glance, each brush of your knees, charged the cab with electric anticipation.

Outside, the fields gave way to a scraggly line of trees, moonlight etched in tangled branches. You leaned forward, pointing—"There, on the right. That clearing."

Bob eased the truck off the main dirt road, tires crunching onto a forgotten strip where wild grass reached the doors. The engine idled, headlights spilling across the edge of a ragged fence just far enough from the world to feel secret, close enough that your heartbeat echoed in your chest.

For a beat, neither of you moved. The hush inside the cab was thick, thrumming with anticipation instead of nerves. Bob glanced at you, all uncertain hope and tentative desire, his face cast half in soft blue dash light, half in velvet shadow.

Without a word, you shifted in your seat, savouring how the plush leather and the truck's oversized space let you stretch out. One by one, you kicked off your shoes, letting them fall to the floor with a gentle thump. Then you drew your legs up, crossing them at the ankles as you twisted to face him fully. You leaned forward slightly, hands folded in your lap, watching the way he watched you, that shy awe growing in his eyes.

You gave him a small, conspiratorial smile—one that dared him to do something about all that tension. “You know,” you murmured, voice thick with a private sort of joy, “it’s not that hard to see you when you finally let someone get close.”

He seemed to catch his breath, a startled almost laugh escaping him before your gaze locked, and the moment rolled into something else. You stretched your legs out, toes skimming across the console, then unfolded yourself moving with slow, deliberate intent. The generous space of the truck gave you room to manoeuvre, so you slid across the buttery leather, tucking your legs beneath you until you were facing him completely.

Seized by a sudden surge of boldness, you decided to take things a step further. With a suggestive smile tugging at your lips, you lifted yourself up and climbed across the console, your movements deliberately slow and provocative. Bob's eyes darkened with desire as he watched you, his hands instinctively reaching out to grip your hips as you settled onto his lap.

Straddling him, your legs spread on either side of his hips, you felt the hard proof of his arousal pressing against you through the thin fabric of your clothes. The sensation made your heart race and your breath come faster.

Leaning in close, your breasts brushing against his chest, you revealed in the electric tension that crackled between you. In the dim glow of the dashboard lights, Bob's expression was a heady mix of lust, nervousness, and pure, unadulterated want a mirror of the hunger coursing through your veins.

Then Bob’s hand rose tracing the line of your jaw, brushing his thumb along your cheek and then he kissed you, it turning hungry and wild. With you straddling his lap, your bodies pressed intimately together, the cab’s space vanished.

His other hand found the hem of your skirt, lingering as though savouring the anticipation, then skimmed up your thigh, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin along the way. You rocked your hips against him, feeling the hard proof of his arousal through the thin fabric of your clothes, and he groaned into your mouth.

You chuckled breathlessly, letting some tension break, and your laughter faded naturally back into kisses gentler at first, then rougher, dirtier, as if you were both pressing your own pent up desires into each other, letting lust override caution at last. Your tongues tangled, exploring and claiming, as you ground yourself against him, the friction sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Suddenly, he broke away, his breath shaking, his face flushed with colour. His gaze dropped to his lap, then flicked up to meet yours, shy and earnest. “I, uh,” he began, voice barely more than a hush, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

You let the question hover between you, a teasing lilt in your voice. “Kiss a woman?”

He huffed a breath, cheeks going even pinker, but there was a ghost of a laugh beneath his nerves. “No, I mean—” He bit his lip, eyes darting to the expansive darkness outside the windscreen, then back to you. “I’ve never… kissed someone like this. In a truck. Out in the middle of nowhere. It’s… different.”

For a heartbeat, you simply smiled at him, warmth blooming in your chest. “Well,” you whispered back, hand skimming along his jaw, “first time for everything.”

You watched the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, then leaned in just slightly closer, your voice low and teasing. "Maybe we should head into the back seat," you murmured, a gentle smile playing at your lips. "Give ourselves a little more room."

Bob’s eyes widened just a fraction, the blush deepening in his cheeks. He looked like he almost didn’t realise what you meant at first a flicker of surprise, a tentative breath. His breath hitched when you traced your fingertips lightly along his jawline, the faint heat of your touch lingering.

He hesitated for only a second, blinked, then nodded ever so slightly, almost shy but undeniably eager an innocence pooling with something a little more daring beneath the surface. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking just a little, “that…that sounds good.”

He still seemed caught between being shy and secretly exhilarated, as if the whole world had tilted just enough for him to feel both uncertain, alive and more awake than he’d ever been. The quiet hum of the truck seemed to pulse in tandem with his rapid heartbeat, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, searching but longing.

The cab, suddenly too small for all the possibility buzzing between you, seemed to urge you both on. In a fluid motion, you slid off Bob's lap, your body brushing against his as you reached for the door handle on his side. The humid night air spilled inside as you slipped out, landing barefoot on the cool grass below.

Bob hesitated for only a moment before following you out, his movements a bit hurried and nervous. As he stepped out of the truck, he turned to face you, a shy smile playing on his lips. With a gallant gesture, he reached for the rear door, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he grasped the handle. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You climbed in then Bob clambered in after, slow but determined. The sight of you—bare legs curled beneath you, hair haloed in shadow, smile soft and inviting—left him nearly breathless. When he settled beside you, every careful inch, the world, pulled itself tighter around the two of you.

Carefully you climbed onto him again, adjusting your position on his lap, your legs straddling his hips, letting him cradle you as you eased him further from shyness and uncertainty into the warmth and fierce newness between you. Bob broke away for a heartbeat, breathless, eyes shining wide in the dim light. “Still can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered, voice as warm as the night around you.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, letting your hands wander in reassuring lines. “Believe it,” you whispered, fingertips dancing at his collarbone. “No checklists. No one watching.”

He hesitated for a moment, then subtly shifted, his hand finally reaching out to rest gently on your waist. His fingers lingered, trembling just a little, but there was a newfound determination in his touch something that betrayed his outward shy demeanour. The way his hand moved softly, almost reverently, along your side told you more than words ever could.

His other hand carefully traced along your back, fingertips brushing the fabric of your shirt, then slipping under it just enough to feel the warmth of your skin. The tenderness of his touch was honest, unhurried, yet brimming with a quiet confidence that no amount of shyness could hide. He had wanted this for so long wanted to cherish and explore without hesitation now that the moment had finally arrived.

You leaned into his touch, your breath catching softly as his hands moved with purpose, more bold than he seemed on the surface. His lips pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your temple, and then he turned his head, pressing a sweet, tentative kiss to your cheek before finally seeking your lips again all the shy nervousness replaced by a deliberate, loving hunger.

It was as if all those moments of quiet observation, of nervous glances and tentative touches, had built into this the loving, fearless way he wanted to hold you close, to claim this moment for himself.

Caught in his embrace, you felt the last traces of hesitation slip away between kisses, the hush in the cab thick with anticipation. Bob’s breath was warm at your ear, his hands steady now as he cradled your side. For a heartbeat, he paused—face close to yours, blue eyes shining in the shadows.

Then, his voice came low and earnest, edged with a confidence that surprised you both. “Lie back,” he whispered, his thumb sweeping a soft line along your waist. The simple request hung in the air, gentle, but leaving no doubt.

You met his gaze and saw the steady desire there, the invitation threaded through with something fiercely devoted. With a small nod, you shifted your position, Bob's strong hands guiding you, supporting your back as you eased down along the length of the seat, the leather cool beneath your bare skin.

Bob followed, moving with care but no uncertainty now, his presence filling the space above you. His hand supported your back, ensuring you were comfortable, and the soft brush of his fingertips along your side made you shiver in the best way.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours again, and this time his restraint gave way slow, deliberate, and entirely intent on showing you just how much he’d been holding back. For a breathless moment, Bob hovered above you, his gaze roaming your face as if memorising every detail, the way your lips parted just for him, the hope written across your eyes.

His usual urge to hide, to downplay himself, had vanished, drowned out by the certainty thrumming in his chest. He wanted to make you feel as cherished and wanted as he’d always dreamed of being.

His hands smoothed down your sides, learning the lines of you with growing assurance, his fingertips grazing your skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake. As the hush between you thickened, Bob dipped lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck and over your collarbone, savouring the warm, shivery way you arched beneath him.

He let himself be guided by every sigh, every soft press of your hand, each cue fuelling a new, hidden confidence. A quiet question flickered in his eyes as he drifted lower, his shoulders fitting between your knees as you shifted to welcome him.

Bob’s blush lingered on his cheeks, but there was nothing shy in the way he paused, breath fanning over your skin, eyes flicking up to meet your gaze—a silent, reverent request for permission.

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, then he lowered his head, his lips brushing lightly against your hip, a slow, deliberate caress. You felt a shiver ripple through you—anticipation and a tangle of nerves, but also an undeniable hunger. Bob’s hands, once tentative, now moved with gentle purpose, adjusting as he sought the right angle, his breath warm against your skin.

And then he surprised you: his lips met your body, soft but confident, tracing a feather-light path along your thigh, his tongue flicking over sensitive skin with a quiet mastery that made your breath catch. His movements were sure and knowing, as if he’d spent years practicing this calm, deliberate, and deeply intent on making you feel cherished in each careful motion.

He paused only to look up, eyes dark with a focus that sent a thrill rushing through you. Everything he did radiated a kind of loving precision no shy fumbling, just genuine intent, a desire to please and connect on a level that melted away all your doubts. His hands found your hips, steadying you, as his mouth continued its slow, assertive exploration.

Carefully he pushed your skirt up your legs, bunching it at your waist. You gasped softly, caught between the sensations a mixture of tenderness and the charged confidence he’d unexpectedly shown. For the first time, Bob wasn’t just shy—you realised he was letting go, giving all of himself, savouring this intimate moment with a quiet, compelling skill that made your pulse race even faster.

With every grazing touch, Bob's lingering shyness transformed into an intense, focused passion. His hands skimmed up your legs, thumbs brushing the soft skin of your inner thighs, as he settled more comfortably between them. Carefully he peeled your underwear away from your hips, slowly pulling them down your legs until he carefully tucked them into his pocket.

You could feel the warmth of his breath against your most sensitive areas, and then, boldly, his tongue flicked out to taste you. A jolt of pleasure shot through you at the first touch, your gasp echoing in the hush of the truck. Bob's mouth was hot and clever, his tongue swirling and dancing in patterns that made your hips twitch and your hands fist in his hair. He responded to every sound you made, every tremor, adjusting his pace and pressure with an intuition that left you dizzy.

His fingers joined his mouth, gently at first—circling, teasing at your entrance before slowly, carefully pressing inside. The combined sensations were electric, the slide of his fingers and the relentless caress of his tongue winding you tighter and tighter. Your breath came in short pants, your hips rocking to meet his movements as the tension coiled low in your belly.

"Bob, fuck that feels good.” you breathed, your voice rough with desire. The sound of his name on your lips seemed to ignite something within him, spurring him on with renewed fervour. He hummed in response, the vibration resonating through you like a plucked string.

Your climax built with every stroke, every teasing circle, until it finally crashed over you in waves, your body shuddering, your gasps loud in the quiet night. Hearing you say his name in the throes of passion only fuelled his determination to bring you to the peak of pleasure.

Bob gentled his touch, bringing you down slowly as you trembled in the aftermath. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and shining, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked, for the first time, like a man who knew exactly how much power he held and he had wielded it with all the skill and care you never suspected he possessed.

In the quiet aftermath, you couldn't hold back your grin, your voice still flushed with pleasure. "Fuck, Bob, where the hell did that come from?" you asked, laughter and amazement tangling together in your tone.

Bob straightened, adjusting his glasses with a hint of his old shyness. But his smile was new—confident, with just a hint of mischief. "I, um," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m just good at paying attention, I guess. To you." He met your eyes, his gaze steady and warm. "I wanted it to be good for you. I wanted… to be good to you." His voice was low, sincere, each word carrying a weight that made your breath catch all over again.

You reached for him, tangling your fingers with his, your smile softer now. "You were," you assured him, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips. "You are."

Bob's blush returned in full force, but he didn't look away. Instead, he leaned into your touch, his smile growing as he basked in the warmth of your praise. In a rush of boldness, you leaned in again, capturing his lips in a kiss that left no doubt about your intentions. Bob's surprise quickly melted into eagerness, his hands coming up to frame your face as he returned the kiss.

When you finally broke away, it was only to let your hands roam lower, fingers finding the hem of his shirt. "I want to see you," you murmured, tugging at the fabric. "All of you."

Bob hesitated only a moment before lifting his arms, letting you strip the shirt away. And there, in the moonlight filtering through the windows, you finally saw him—really saw him.

His body was a study in lean, defined muscle, each line and curve etched with careful precision. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a trim, muscular waist. His chest was sculpted, his abs a tight, toned six-pack that left your mouth dry.

This was no shy, unassuming man this was a man who honed his body with discipline and care. You couldn't help but stare, your eyes wide with appreciation and a little shock.

Your gaze traced the defined lines of his biceps, the corded muscles of his forearms, and the powerful thighs that seemed to ripple beneath the fabric of his trousers. The sight of his body sent a shiver of desire racing down your spine, your skin prickling with the need to touch him.

"Fuck, Bob," you breathed, your hands coming up to trace the lines of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. "Who knew you had all of this hiding away under there."

He ducked his head, a blush staining his cheeks even as he smiled. "I, uh, I try to stay in shape," he mumbled, clearly pleased by your reaction.

You laughed softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his collarbone. "That's an understatement," you teased, your hands starting to explore him.

Your touch seemed to light a fire in Bob, his skin trembling beneath your fingertips. He leaned into your caresses, his breath quickening, and when you dared to glance up at his face, you found his eyes blue eyes were dark with desire.

Emboldened, you let your hands wander lower, fingers trailing along the waistband of his jeans.

Bob's breath hitched, his hips twitching as if seeking your touch. "I… I want…" he stammered, his voice rough with nerves and longing.

"What do you want, Bob?" you murmured, your fingers teasing at the button of his jeans. "Tell me."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I want you," he whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I want to feel you, all of you, I want…" His words trailed off into a soft moan as you popped the button on his trousers, your fingers slipping just beneath the denim. "Yes," he breathed, hips arching into your touch. "Please, yes."

Together, you worked his jeans down his hips, revealing the rest of his body to your hungry gaze. He was just as beautiful below as above, his thighs strong and muscular, his erection straining against the fabric of his boxers.

You dipped your hand below the fabric took him in hand, stroking him gently, and he cried out, his fingers fisting in your hair. "Fuck, that feels… ah, god," he gasped, his hips bucking into your touch.

His reaction spurred you on, your strokes growing bolder, more insistent. Bob's head fell back, his eyes squeezing shut as he lost himself to the sensations. "Please," he panted, his hands fumbling for your clothes. "I need to touch you, I need…"

You helped him strip away your clothes, both of you trembling with urgency. When you were both, finally, naked, you tumbled together onto the seat, all tangled limbs and desperate touches.

Bob's hands were everywhere, tracing your curves, your planes, your dips, and hollows. He worshipped your body with his touch, his lips following the path of his fingers.

"I need you," Bob breathed against your skin, his hips nestling between your thighs. "God, I need you so much."

"Please," you gasped, your hands fumbling for the condom you'd tucked into your purse earlier.

He took the condom with trembling hands, fumbling a little as he rolled it on. The anticipation hung heavy in the air as you watched him, your eyes drinking in the sight of his lean, muscled body poised above you.

And then he was there, pressing inside you, filling you with a slow, delicious stretch that made you both moan in unison. He moved with a careful, almost reverent rhythm, his hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts that had you both gasping and trembling.

"God, you feel incredible," he murmured, his voice rough almost strained.

He moved with a careful, almost reverent rhythm, his hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts that had you both gasping and trembling. Each movement seemed to stoke the fire between you, the slide of his body against yours creating delicious friction that sent shivers racing along your spine.

"Faster," you begged, your hips rising to meet his thrusts, your fingers digging into his back. "Harder, please, Bob, I need…"

He gave you what you needed, his thrusts growing harder, faster, his hips snapping against yours with delicious force. The truck rocked with the force.

You could feel the tension coiling low in your belly, your climax building with every stroke, every gasp. "Close," Bob panted, his fingers digging into your hips, his eyes dark with desire. "So close, fuck, I'm gonna…"

"Come for me," you urged, your own release hovering just out of reach. "I want to feel you, Bob, I want…"

Your words seemed to push him over the edge, his body shuddering against yours as he came with a loud, drawn-out moan. The sound of his pleasure, the feel of him pulsing inside you, it was enough to trigger your own climax, your body clamping down on his as you tumbled over the edge into bliss.

You cried out his name as you came, your voices echoing together in the tight confines of the truck.

With a content sigh, Bob pushed his body down against yours, his weight pressing you into the seat beneath. He tucked his face into the curve of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

"That was…" he started, his voice rough with emotion. "You were… God, that was incredible."

You smiled back, your own heart full to bursting. "You were incredible," you countered, tracing your finger along the curve of his back.

He pushed himself up, the bulge of his biceps illuminated by the dull interior lighting.

Bob's smile softened, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "You're unbelievable," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "I… I've never felt like this before." his gaze drifted from your eyes to your lips and back again. "I don't want this night to end," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I want more… more of you, more of this feeling."

"We can go back to the bar, or… or we could go back to your place," you offered, your hand coming up to cover his. "Whatever you want."

Bob's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he smiled—a slow, sweet curve of his lips that made your breath catch. "My place," he said, his voice ringing with certainty. "I want to take you back to my place," he murmured a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. "I want to see you in my space… maybe even in my bed, if you'll have me."

Your heart melted at his words, at the sweet, hopeful look in his eyes. "I'd like that," you whispered back, moving your arms to circle around his neck. "I'd like that a lot."

Bob's grin was blinding, his eyes sparkling with joy. He kissed you again, this time with a fierce, possessive edge that made your toes curl.

"Let's go," he breathed, his hands already reaching for your clothes. "Let's go, before I lose my nerve."

A Link to My Complete Inventory

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