#robert floyd

[iamtrasch]

[the-shedevil-writes]

Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on. 

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one. 

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her. 

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him. 

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. 

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight. 

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons. 

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it. 

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away. 

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with. 

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing. 

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him. 

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?” 

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman. 

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller. 

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with. 

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go. 

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now. 

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did. 

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement. 

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!” 

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming. 

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly. 

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly. 

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it. 

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home. 

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.” 

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had. 

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.” 

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said. 

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently. 

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.” 

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’. 

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for. 

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by. 

[pink-petal-horns]

Dumb & Poetic

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

You always liked the loud ones.

The guys who knew how to work a room, throw a wink, rattle a bottlecap on the table with a cocky laugh. You’d fall for them fast, just as fast as they’d forget to call you back.

There was something about their edges, the way they caught the light like shiny things you knew better than to touch, but always did anyway.

And then—Bob.

Not flashy. Not loud. Not even remotely interested in taking up space he didn’t earn.

Which, in your history of “types,” meant you almost missed him entirely.

—

You met him in the bar one night, the kind of night when the Navy pilots swarm Hard Deck like it’s their own little arena. Jake Seresin—Hangman—was holding court at the pool table, Phoenix was tossing darts with deadly aim, and Bob?

He was sitting in the corner. Reading. Reading, in a bar where everyone was busy being a headline.

You had a drink in your hand and a headache from someone else’s charm. So when you noticed the quiet guy with the soft eyes and crooked smile trying to make himself smaller in a crowd that prized the biggest personalities, something in you tugged.

“What are you reading?” you asked, easing into the chair beside him.

Bob blinked like he hadn’t expected anyone to approach him—definitely not you, in a leather jacket and lip gloss and the remnants of someone else’s kiss still cooling on your neck.

“Just, uh, Dandelion Wine,” he said, showing you the cover. “Ray Bradbury.”

You tilted your head. “You read that for fun?”

He gave you a sheepish shrug. “It’s kind of… dumb and poetic, I guess.”

You laughed. It was the first real laugh you’d had in a while.

—

You didn’t mean to fall for Bob Floyd.

But he had this way of making you feel seen—not watched, like the other guys, but understood.

He asked questions and actually waited for your answers. He remembered little things, like how you hated cold drinks without straws and how your favorite song made you cry in a good way.

He didn’t flirt in the traditional sense. He didn’t make you dizzy. He made you safe.

You weren’t used to safe. You were used to boys who recited lyrics and sonnets with the same sincerity they used to pick up the bartender two nights later.

But Bob?

Bob didn’t need metaphors.

—

It was three months in when you finally cracked.

You were sitting on the hood of his car, the stars out, the air between you easy and warm. He’d just driven you back from a beach bonfire, and you still had sand in your hair and sun on your cheeks.

“I don’t get you,” you said.

Bob blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just—” you huffed. “You don’t try to be anything. You’re not pretending. You don’t even flirt right.”

He chuckled, then turned his head to face you. “And that’s a problem?”

“No, it’s just…” You bit your lip. “You’re not like the guys I usually go for.”

Bob’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Guess I should take that as a compliment or a warning.”

You looked at him, really looked. He had this steadiness to him. A kindness that wasn’t performative.

“You should take it as both,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

That was the thing about Bob. No dramatics. No fireworks. Just quiet understanding.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to you.

—

You started to fall hard.

Not because he bought you flowers or shouted love songs from balconies. But because he held your hand like it was something sacred.

Because he showed up. Every time.

Because when you cried after a bad day, he didn’t try to fix it with a joke or a kiss. He just sat with you. Quiet. Present.

Bob Floyd never made you feel like you had to perform to be loved.

And God, you were so used to performing.

—

It was your birthday when it happened.

The bar was packed. Everyone was there. The guys were drinking, dancing, yelling over each other. You were in the middle of it, spinning in a dress that someone else once told you was “too much.”

Bob walked in a little late, glasses slightly fogged, holding a cupcake instead of a gift.

He looked awkward and adorable and entirely out of place in the chaos.

But when you saw him, you stopped spinning.

You walked straight over to him, heart thudding.

“You came,” you said.

He held up the cupcake. “I didn’t know what to get you. But you said once you loved funfetti. This one’s got rainbow sprinkles.”

You blinked back something suspiciously close to tears.

“It’s dumb and poetic,” you said softly.

He smiled. “You like dumb and poetic.”

You pulled him down by the collar and kissed him. Right there, in the middle of the noise and the neon and the glitter of a life you were finally willing to leave behind.

—

It wasn’t always perfect.

You still had a sharp tongue. You still craved drama some nights. You picked fights when you felt too seen, too safe, too loved.

But Bob never raised his voice. Never threw your chaos back at you like a weapon.

He just waited. Anchored.

And one day, you looked at him across your messy kitchen table—his hair sticking up, wearing that NASA t-shirt you stole three weeks ago—and you thought, this is the kind of love that writes poetry in action, not words.

—

You used to fall for the ones who made you feel like fireworks.

Now?

You’d take Bob Floyd every time.

The one who never needed to be loud to be important.

The one who brought you cupcakes and calm.

The one who sat beside you, even when you didn’t make sense.

The dumb and poetic one.

Yours.

Always.

[kcsplace]

Top gun silliness

[callsign-swan]

Dick Diaries: Bob Floyd

I can't find the 141 post that inspired this but i wanna write a 'Dick Diaries' for the Lew characters I write for. also, i found out just before posting this that this is happy 500!!

18+, smut, creampie, breeding kink, period sex, oral

Bob Floyd has a big dick. Thick and long all at once. It was easily hidden beneath sweetness, beneath keeping to himself, beneath his uniform.

Bob Floyd's wife is all too aware of how thick Bob's dick is. Their first time together wasn't easy.

It was back when they were dating. Not planned, a spur of the moment thing after a dinner date. She was in his lap, him pinned beneath her on the bed. Jesus fuck, the feeling of him growing in his trousers.

He was above her, her ankles on his shoulders. She had started with her hands gripping the sheets as Bob touched her, but now her fingers were laced over her stomach as they struggled. "Fuck, sweetheart," he said through a breath, his head falling forward. "'s not gonna fit."

Removing her ankles from his shoulders, she pulled him towards her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him. A reassurance that it was okay, that she loved him and his third leg.

So Bob Floyd dropped to his knees. He would later say (to nobody but her) that, as he began eating her out, he knew she was the woman he was going to marry. The way she writhed while he had his mouth on her, her hands in his hair, he knew.

It got easier each time. On the second time they went to have sex, Bob managed to get inside of her. It was a squeeze, for sure, and he was unable to move once he was inside, giving her time to adjust.

Sharp breaths as she squeezed his wrist. But Bob wasn't going to go anywhere, not until she wanted him to move.

Bob Floyd loves all parts of fucking his wife. Undressing her slowly, squeezing the flesh of her ass in his palm, holding her hip as she wrapped her legs around him. Kissing her skin, leaving marks that were for his eyes only.

Dropping to his knees, eating her out slowly until her legs shook against his head. His fingers inside of her as he listened to every desperate noise she released as he opened her up. Bullying his thick cock inside of her, holding it still while she adjusted, rutting his hips against her.

Bob Floyd is a creampie man. (Actually, most of them are creampie men. Please check out THIS post by @lewmagoo). I think by now we all know how... virile Bob is. The man has three kids before the time he's thirty.

He loves creampie-ing his wife. Finishing inside of her, pulling out to watch it drip. Fucking hell. That sight was enough to get him going again. To push her past overstimulation, until she could babble out nothing but his name as he filled her with another load.

Did someone say breeding kink go brrr? ("Gonna make you a daddy." "Fuck." "Gonna put another baby in me?" "Fuck!")

Yeah, it's no surprise they have an army of kids.

(I've been asked to cover period sex with Bob). It can't be understated that, whatever Mrs Floyd wants, Mrs Floyd gets. Including period sex.

Its gentle, its loving and it's lowkey messy. But thats fine, but Bob is happy to put a towel down and get to work. He's happy to clean her up afterwards, to hold her up in the shower, her legs exhausted as she cleaned herself. But her period horny-ness had been sated, for now.

Bob Floyd is the KING of aftercare. It has become a ritual at this point. Sweet kisses, reassurance that she did so good for him, that she can come down. He cleans her up with a cloth first while the bath fills. Candles, bubble bath, music playing from the bathroom speaker.

Besides actually having sex with his wife, sitting in the bath with her was Bob's favourite thing. They stay in there until they're both clean, and then some. Until the water is cold and they both begin shivering.

I could go on. There is so much more I could say in the Dick Diaries of Bob Floyd. But we would be here all day

[peachesandcreames]

The One and Only Bob 💕💞

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X Reader: Pretty boy

a/n: another Bob played by Lewis that i absolutely write and never got to writing for.

Warnings: readers call sign is Echo, fluff, Bob being a nervous cutie, kissing, mutual pinning, cheesy lines (its fluff guys let me have this one), no use of y/n.

Word count: 2.2K

“Hey there, pretty boy.”

Bob didn’t need to raise his eyes to know you were the one talking to him. You’d given him the nickname and made it extremely clear only you were allowed to use it. He lifted his eyes from the pool table, gaze finding your frame. You were wearing civilian clothes like the rest of the crew, but somehow, seeing you out of uniform affected Bob more than seeing the others. Maybe it wasn’t the clothes. Maybe it was just who was wearing them.

“Can I have some?”

Bob understood you were talking about the chips in his hands—his go-to snack at The Hard Deck. He lifted the container from the table beside him, offering it to you. You gave him a small smile of gratitude, grabbing a handful and stuffing it into your mouth. Bob continued to look at you as you chewed, but you were focused on the pool game before you. Phoenix scored a shot, causing you to yell out in victory. The rest of the crew raised their heads to look in your direction, realizing for the first time that you had arrived.

“Didn’t think you were coming, Echo.”

“Oh yeah? Why, scared I'd beat you again, Hangman?”

Phoenix grinned at your words. You two always had a knack for getting on the boys' nerves. Hangman was an easy target thanks to his inflated ego, so you took whatever shot you could when it came to him.

“Better put your money where your mouth is.”

Hangman moved over to you, lifting the pool stick in invitation. You raised your eyebrows at him—you knew better than to take the bait.

“Nah, I’m good. Don’t need to prove myself to you.”

The others let out small noises like “uff” and “oh, burn” at your words, causing your smirk to widen.

“Plus, I think I'd rather spend time with Bob anyway.”

Hangman's eyes shifted to the man beside you, lips curling into a teasing smile before turning back to you.

“I’m sure you would.”

There was something cruel hidden beneath the phrase. You chose to ignore it. Like you often did. Realizing he wouldn’t get a rise out of you, Hangman turned on his heels, moving back to where Phoenix was still waiting for him to take his shot.

You turned your attention back to Bob, moving to sit next to him. The stools were small and close together—an attempt to use up as much of the limited space as possible—which caused your body to be flush against Bob’s. You felt him shift a bit, body slightly tense.

“This okay? I can sit somewhere else.”

You moved to get up, but Bob placed a hand on your thigh in desperation.

“No, it’s okay.”

He paused, realizing where his hand rested on your body, then moved it as quick as lightning. You laughed at the action.

“Sorry. I was just trying to be a—”

“Gentleman?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled at him, patting his thigh with your hand.

“You’re all good, Bob. Don’t worry about it.”

With that, you removed your hand from his thigh, resting it in your own lap. Bob's eyes remained glued to where you had touched him. His skin felt warm. You always seemed to have that effect on him. Whenever you were close, Bob would find himself getting flushed. He forced himself to drag his eyes back to the pool table, even though he’d much rather continue looking at you.

Upon remembering your request for his chips, Bob reached for his beer, touching your shoulder gently with his to get your attention. You looked over at him, glancing at the cup in his hand before giving him a questioning gaze.

“You want some?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, thanks.”

Bob merely shrugged, handing you his cup. You took a sip before passing it back. You continued to do that until the cup was empty.

“Oh shoot. I finished it. Sorry, Bob—I’ll go get another one.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I don’t need—”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll get it.”

You turned to the others.

“Anyone else want a top-up?”

After getting everyone's cups, you began moving toward the bar. Bob grabbed your arm as you passed, causing you to pause.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. Really, it’s—”

“I want to.”

You were slightly taken aback by the words, but you welcomed the company.

“If you’re sure.”

You and Bob made your way through the crowd toward the bar, weaving between bodies and half-full tables. The Hard Deck was packed tonight—sailors, aviators, and locals all jostling for elbow room. The air smelled like beer and salt, and the music thumped loud enough to feel in your ribs.

Bob stayed close, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he always did—quiet, alert, steady. You liked that about him. No pretense. No bluster. Just Bob.

You’d only just placed the drink order when the song changed—one of those upbeat, slightly retro tracks with a funky bass line and smooth vocals, the kind that immediately lit a spark in your chest. Your head snapped toward the jukebox like it had called your name. A wide grin spread across your face.

“Oh my god, I love this song.”

Bob turned to look at you, eyebrows lifting behind his glasses. “

Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

You bobbed your head to the beat, already feeling the rhythm in your limbs. 

“Come on, Bob. Dance with me.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Dance?”

You didn’t wait for a full yes. You grabbed his hand, tugging him gently but insistently away from the bar. 

“You can’t say no, Bob. It's the rules.”

“What rules?” 

He asked, but you were already halfway to the open space between the dartboard and the old jukebox, a makeshift dance floor when the vibe was right.

“The ones I just made up.”

Bob stumbled after you, half-laughing, half-dreading, though his fingers stayed laced in yours. You stopped in the center of the room, turning to face him, still swaying to the music.

“Just follow my lead, pretty boy.”

“I don’t really dance,” he admitted quietly, looking everywhere but at you.

“Doesn’t matter. Just move. It’s not about looking good, it’s about having fun.”

You placed his hands on your waist and gave him an encouraging smile. Bob hesitated a second longer, then slowly let the music guide him, shifting his weight side to side. He was awkward at first, uncertain, but you were patient—moving in closer, syncing your steps with his, laughing when he accidentally bumped your knee with his.

“You’re doing fine,” you said, leaning in like you were telling a secret.

He gave you a small, sheepish smile—the kind that made your chest flutter a little.

“I think you’re just saying that.”

“Maybe,” you said, teasing. “But I’m still glad you’re out here.”

And then, like some switch flipped inside him, Bob started to relax. His shoulders dropped. His grip on your waist grew surer. The next spin you pulled him into wasn’t met with hesitation—it was met with a chuckle.

Maybe he wasn’t a dancer. But dancing with you? That, he could do.

And then the song changed into a slower one, causing your body to move closer. Bob’s breath hitched as he felt the shift—the proximity of your bodies finally settling in his mind. His throat felt dry. His gaze moved around the room, searching to see if anyone was watching. No one was, each person glued to their own conversation to notice a couple of people dancing near the bar.

You felt the tension in Bob’s body, causing you to call out his name. He forced his eyes to meet yours. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer at first, trying to figure out what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss you. But that wouldn’t be appropriate. Not in front of all these people. Not without making sure you’d be okay with him doing it.

The lack of response made you pull away slightly, becoming a bit self-conscious yourself. Had you gone too far? Had your desire to be near him made him feel uncomfortable?

“We can stop if you want. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Bob began to feel you pull away. The feeling caused him to act, his hands tightening around your waist. Not forceful—just reassuring. “No, I…” he paused for a moment, uncertain. “I want to keep dancing with you. If you want to, that is.”

You smiled at him, shoulders relaxing. You hadn’t scared him. Not yet.

 “I’d like that.”

You moved together in an easy rhythm, your bodies swaying gently, comfortably. Bob’s hands rested on your waist like he was afraid to hold you too tightly, but they stayed. Steady. Sure. You looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers brushing the back of his neck, and for a moment, the world felt small in the best way—just the two of you in a noisy bar, dancing like no one was watching.

You leaned your cheek against his, lips close to his ear.

“You’re a fast learner,” you murmured, your breath making him shiver.

Bob gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and close. 

“I have a good teacher.”

Another minute passed like that—close and quiet—until Bob pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Would it be okay if we stepped outside for a bit?” 

His voice was soft, almost uncertain. 

“It’s a little loud in here.”

You nodded immediately. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bob gently took your hand again, weaving you both through the crowd. The door creaked open and spilled warm air into the cooler night, the ocean breeze brushing against your skin. You both stepped out into the open air, away from the music, away from the bodies and lights and laughter.

Once you’d stepped out, Bob let go of your hand. You longed for the feeling again, but you understood that he’d probably let go because he wasn’t sure if you'd be okay with him holding you like that. You opted to stay quiet, tailing beside him as you two walked. You didn’t know where he wanted to go exactly, but you continued to follow him. You looked up at the sky, a soft “wow” escaping your lips as you caught sight of the moon. Bob heard the sound, gaze shifting to see what you were staring at. A soft smile made its way onto his face as he looked at you taking in the moon.

“Come on. I want to show you something.”

He lifted his hand to you. You took it, glad to have his palm back in yours. He began running—not fast, but enough to make you have to race a bit to keep up with him. Once you made it to the spot, he let go of your hand, moving to lean over the railing. You copied his movements. And then you saw it: the way the moon reflected against the ocean. You let out a soft gasp.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It really is.”

You turned to face Bob, finding his eyes on you instead of the sight before you. You flushed a bit, realizing he’d been talking about you and not the moon. Bob inched closer to you, pulling off the railing so he could face you directly. You allowed him to go at his own pace, making his way to you slowly.

Bob stopped a breath away from you, his eyes flickering down to your lips before darting quickly back up to your gaze. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. You waited, giving him time. He always seemed to need a second longer to speak his mind.

“I’ve been wanting to do something,” he finally said, voice low, as if afraid the wind might carry it away.

You tilted your head slightly. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “But I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to... assume anything.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone. You stepped in a little closer, closing the last of the distance between you. Close enough to feel his warmth.

“You won’t.”

Bob leaned in, slow and deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t—when you leaned into him too—his hand found your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. His lips met yours in a kiss that was every bit as sweet and careful as you’d expected from him. No rush. No push. Just Bob. Steady. Honest.

The kiss was soft at first—testing the waters. But when you kissed him back, really kissed him, he melted into it, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, like he’d finally stopped holding himself back.

When you pulled apart, your forehead rested against his.

You stood there in silence for a moment, just breathing each other in, the ocean crashing softly below, the moonlight catching in his glasses.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, not quite looking at you.

“I was hoping you would.”

You both smiled. Then Bob reached for your hand again, interlacing your fingers.

“Wanna stay out here a little longer?” 

You nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Yeah. I think I could stay right here all night.”

Bob gave you a full, toothy smile.

 “Not a problem with me.”

You settled back into his arms, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the warmth radiating from his body. He was your pretty boy—yours, and no one else’s.

It had taken him a while to realize it, but he’d managed to get there eventually. And you couldn’t have been happier.

[geminiwritten]

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t. 

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t. 

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you. 

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar. 

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering. 

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?” 

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?” 

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily. 

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[hollyn1729]

I don't know where they made this guy but smh bc I want to order one next pls

robert 'bob' floyd

top gun: maverick (2022)

[38livesalone-has3cats]

Hiiiii i have a request 😛

bob floyd gets a concussion and is flustered and embarrassed when wife!reader tells him they’re married, and he doesn’t believe her because she’s so pretty

muaahahahaha😈😈😈 I absolutely loveee this !!!

warnings/tags: v minimal hospital stuff, anxious reader, (y/n) used like twice, fluff, bob is sooo in love lololl, very quick nsfw mention, also bob is southern because I SAID SO, reader is lowkey southern too cause i am and i’m projecting🥀

wc: 1.2k

a/n: sighhh i love bob so much, this was so fun to write :] thank you for the req !!

It wasn't very often you were invited on base. You aren't not allowed there, you just never really had much of a reason to spend the day over there. So that's why you're a little fidgety as you make your way through the parking lot of the small hospital on base. That, and you had received a worrying phone call this morning.

You were lounging at home- enjoying your day off- when your phone rang. You recognized the number from the very few times you had been called by one of your husband's supervisors. A doctor had informed you that your husband had had to make an emergency eject during training and hit his head pretty hard.

You had panicked immediately but the doctor assured you Bob would be just fine; he just has a fairly serious concussion and his memory and motor skills are a bit wonky at the moment. You finished up the phone call and rushed over as quickly as you could.

You aren't waiting in the lobby very long before a nurse leads you back to your husband's room. Your heart almost breaks at the sight of him in his hospital bed, looking absolutely pitiful. He's sitting up slightly with his head tilted back facing the ceiling, his eyes closed and his breathing a bit slower than usual.

"Bobby? Honey, how're you feeling?" You're by his side in an instant, one hand caressing his arm and the other brushing along his forehead as his eyes flutter a few times before his head tilts toward you. His eyes are a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but he's still got that light he's always had- like the sun itself has taken root in him and couldn't help but shine through. "'m doin' okay, how're you?" He mumbles, his tone completely serious. You can't help but laugh at him; those southern manners imbedded deep in him. "I'm okay, just worried bout you, Bobby." You run your fingers along the edge of a small bandage on his forehead, before turning and reaching for his glasses.

Carefully, you slide them onto his face and watch in amusement as his mouth drops open. You go to speak, but he beats you to it; "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A pretty flush rises to his cheeks and his eyes stay wide open, like he doesn't want to blink and miss any microexpression you might make.

"Oh, thank you, handsome." You grin, cupping his chin with one hand and leaning in to brush your lips against his gently. You're shocked when his shaky arms do what they can to push you away- there's not much force behind his wobbly movements, but you back away and look down at him with furrowed brows. "Nonononono, stop stop- 'm married." He frantically tries to get out despite the slur in his voice.

"Baby-" You start, fighting the giggle in your voice. He shakes his head, a beautiful pout taking over his features. "I love my wife. She's perfect- you gotta back up." His eyes screw shut, he turns his head away from you, and his shaky hands rub his eyes. "Her name's (y/n), she's fuckin' great- pardon my l-language." He mumbles, mostly to himself at this point.

"Bob. My name is (y/n). My last name's Floyd. I'm your wife." You reach out to gently grasp his wrists. Bob whips his head toward you so fast he's dizzy for a few moments. You keep your eyes on him, unsure whether to laugh or call for a nurse. Once his eyes really focus on you he seems to deflate, his arms falling to his lap and his cheeks quickly heat up a bright red. He looks.. nervous. "You okay?" You hum, slowly reaching out for him.

A beat of silence passes before he opens his mouth, his bottom lip trembling, "I missed youuu." He finally says- his hand shooting out to meet yours. He overshoots it a bit, though, and smacks your shoulder. You let out a relieved laugh, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers together. God, he really scared you for a second. "You're really my wife? How?" He asks, looking absolutely amazed as you run your fingers along his cheekbones.

"It's a very long story, Bobby. But I love you." You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He lets out a dreamy sigh, reaching up with his free hand to grip onto your shoulder. "Yeah? God, you're so pretty." He blinks up at you, unable to fight the smile on his face.

For a moment, you're stunned by just how beautiful he is- pink cheeks, wide eyes, and a boyish grin; a little beat up and bruised but easily the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. You chest seems to swell up with all the love you feel for your husband. You feel a tugging at your shirt and realize he's said something to you. "Sorry, what'd you say, honey?"

"'m tryna sweep you off your feet, sweetheart- you're makin' it hard." Bob grumbles, letting go of your hand to grip at the front of your shirt so he can tug you down with both arms. You let out a breathy laugh, allowing him to pull you closer. "I'm so very sorry." You grin against his lips before giving in.

He tastes the same, he's got the usual enthusiasm, his technique's just a bit wonky. You honestly wouldn't change it for the world. The kiss only breaks when he's gasping and you have to push him away or he won't stop. It's his favorite thing- drowning in you; in your eyes, your lips, your pussy. God, just the thought of having you has blood rushing to his dick so fast he's a bit lightheaded.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips before you're pulling back and turning to grab a chair. "Doctor said you gotta spend the night here so-"

"Need my pillow- need to move my pillow." Bob's voice is urgent when he interrupts you and you're letting go of the chair and running your eyes over him to see if anything's changed. "Where? Are you okay? You hurting?" You question him as you carefully slide the pillow out from behind him. He just furrows his brows and chews on his lip as you hold the pillow beside him for a moment. "Where do you want it, Bobby?" You repeat, worry clawing up your throat.

"My lap." One of his wobbly arms grabs onto the pillow and tugs it toward him- you don't let go just yet, your fear turning to confusion. A "Huh?" tumbles from your lips and Bob is grinning. "So pretty, my wife.. Gave me a kiss and I popped a boner." He sighs, still fighting with you for the pillow as he starts to giggle to himself over the word 'boner'.

You let go of the pillow with an incredulous laugh and watch as he settles it over his lap. Surely there's no way he's at full mast with all the pain meds in his system- you almost want to check- but you just shake your head and settle into the chair next to his hospital bed. You thread your fingers with his and settle your head onto his boner-hiding pillow, keeping your eyes on his as he traces his unsteady fingers along your features.

Bob stares at you in wonder, wondering what he could've done to ever possibly deserve having you. "My wife." He murmurs, reverently, like he can't quite believe it.

"Maybe we'll renew our vows when you aren't so hopped up on pain meds."

[itsonlystatic]

Generations of pilots

Bill Pullman as President Thomas J. Whitmore in Independence Day(1996) dir. Roland Emmerich

Lewis Pullman as Lieutenant Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd in Top Gun: Maverick(2022) dir. Joseph Kosinski

(A sticker design of Bob’s helmet will be available on Etsy soon! Along with all the others of the dagger squad!)

Little gift I whipped together for @thespillingvoid!!

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

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)

[the-shedevil-writes]

Country Girl (Shake It For Me) (Bob Floyd x Reader)

PAIRING: Bob Floyd x Reader DESCRIPTION: After admitting to everyone that you wanted to learn how to country line dance, Hangman decides to help teach you. When the Dagger Squad goes to a local country bar to show off your newfound moves, your timid but supportive boyfriend, Bob Floyd, gets a hell of a show. WORD COUNT: 3.8k WARNINGS: Swearing, Suggestive but no smut, Cowboy hat rule, Sexy dancing hehe NOTES: I've never written Y/N or reader fanfic before so this is a first attempt. (I just used a name and then edited after). MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It all started that night at The Hard Deck. A few months after the uranium mine strike, the Dagger Squad, now including honorary Dagger Y/N, sat around a beach campfire outside the bar. The night sky was filled with stars that blanketed over the group. And the cool North Island sea breeze ran straight through them, but that’s what the fire was for. 

She listened with genuine interest. They were on the subject of bucket lists, and she observed as they went around sharing ideas. She adjusted in her uncomfortable lawn chair and stretched a little, capturing the attention of her boyfriend, Bob Floyd. 

“You okay? Wanna switch chairs?” He asked, always so attentive. He was sitting in a sturdier wooden chair that didn’t slip in the sand as much as hers did. And of course, he noticed. Bob noticed everything that would appear so insignificant to anybody else. Every minor detail. That’s probably what made him a great WSO. He could take note of multiple screens and all the differing information needed for the jet to operate. 

They’d been dating for over four months now, and she felt like she was truly and properly falling in love with this man. She hadn’t wanted to rush things… but with a man like that? It was hard not to.

She shook her head. “No, I’m alright. Thank you, though.” She said, smiling, as she reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Oh. I’d love to hike a bunch of the famous mountains. Everest. Fuji. Rainier.” Rooster explained.

“Do you know how much training you gotta go through to do Everest?” Phoenix asked with raised brows, looking skeptical. Then she busted out into a grin. “I do. Took me a year of training.” She took a sip of her beer and made an L with her other hand.

Rooster rolled his eyes. “Okay, stay humble.”

“I wanna travel across South America-” Hangman said.

“Because they have the best chicks there.” Fanboy finished.

“Look, I wasn’t gonna say-” The blonde responded with a shit-eating grin, raising his hands. “But bingo.”

Phoenix and Rooster rolled their eyes. 

She and Hangman had had a rocky start to their friendship. She had despised him at first. He was cocky, arrogant and every other synonym for annoying. She couldn’t stand his flirts and quips… Especially knowing that he left Bob and Phoenix in the dust, beginning of training. But then she got to know him. And when you actually became his friend, he’d slowly let down the facade. Yeah, he was still a smug son of a bitch. But he becomes fun, caring, and as much as he’d protest, selfless. 

“How ‘bout you, Bob?” Rooster asked, switching the conversation. 

She was leaned over the arm of his chair. She looked up at him, wondering what his answer was. He looked down at her, smiled softly, then looked up at the rest.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just wanna have that American dream, you know? With the house and- and the kids, and the dog.” He stammered through the middle part, clearly trying to brush over the obvious. It was way too early in their relationship to have a serious conversation about it. But it made her heart flutter anyway.

“Isn’t that everybody’s goal, though? Does that count?” Payback asked

Hangman scoffed, “Sure ain’t mine.” He said, sipping his beer. 

Phoenix’s eyes squinted at Y/N, observing her. “You’ve been awfully quiet over there. What’s on your bucket list?”

A blush immediately covered her face. She smiled bashfully and kicked her feet into the sand. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.” 

Hangman leaned in, “Well, now you have to tell us.”

“But all of your guys’ goals were so cool! I’m gonna look dumb.”

Bob squeezed her hand, “You won’t look dumb.” He reassured.

Rooster put his hands up. “Hey, Phoenix has been making me look dumb all night, so if anything, you’ll at least be above me.” 

“See, you’re right, Rooster. You do look dumb.” Phoenix quipped. He looked around like he had just been shot. She nodded reassuringly,  “Come on, just tell us.”

She sighed, and a pursed smile came up as she glanced away, embarrassed. “I-I wanna country line dance.” She admitted in a small voice.

There was a small silence before a few laughs finally sputtered out. She covered her blushing face. “Don’t laugh at me!” She squealed, though she was also laughing.

Hangman’s head had perked up at her answer, “But didn’t you say you’re from Alabama?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, but I was never really in that crowd. Like, I never went to the rodeos or the country bars. Hell, I was outta there by eighteen.” 

There was a short stillness as people thought about what to say, but Hangman looked her dead in the eye. “Let’s do it.” 

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re looking at a red-blooded Texan. Let’s do it. I’ll teach you to line dance.” Hangman said, which made Rooster laugh. “What’s so funny?”

Rooster, coming down from his initial cackle, sighed, “Nothing. Nothing. Just the image of you in a little cowboy hat and holster flashed in my mind-” He broke again, which made everybody else burst out laughing. 

She looked at him and smiled. “Okay, Seresin. Let’s check it off my bucket list.”

She and Hangman started practicing before nights at The Hard Deck. She felt awkward and clumsy, but he was a decent teacher. It was clear he had done this before and had a couple of dances still memorized. 

She picked up the steps by themselves pretty easily. When Bob would stay over at her house, he’d come and find her doing a grape vine in the kitchen. Or trying to do a triple step when she had a moment alone. He found it cute, and he’d try not to startle her. Because the second she saw him, she’d stop, feeling embarrassed. The problem was combining them all and remembering how they went, which she found difficult. 

One night, she laid on the couch with Bob. Well, she laid practically and completely on top of him. Her chin sat on the top of her hands while they rested on his chest. So when he spoke, the vibrations would send up her face. He craned his neck down to look at her.

“So, when do I get to see these dance moves, huh?” He asked gently, reaching up and brushing some stray hairs out of her face.

“Hangman and I are planning an outing where we all go check out this country bar downtown.” She said with a hint of excitement in her voice.

Then she suddenly remembered. “OH!” Her eyes widened, and she hopped off of him. He sighed, missing the comforting weight of her body.

“What’s up?” He called out, sitting up, looking around for her. 

“I told my mama about the line dancing and…” She echoed from her bedroom.

After a second, she stepped out in a pair of brown cowboy boots and an alabaster cowboy hat. It looked… a little ridiculous paired with her pajama shorts and tank top. But the smile that grew on Bob’s face was genuine. “Ta da! She sent me these.”

He chuckled. “Well, look at you.” 

“They’re my old ones from high school.” She gestured to the boots. “I’m surprised they still fit and aren’t falling to pieces, honestly.”

Bob got off the couch and walked over to her. He wrapped his arms around her lower back and then gently lifted the lid of her cowboy hat. “You know, I’ve never met a real-life cowgirl before.” He said with a lilt in his tone.

“That’s right, Lemoore.” She teased, knowing he grew up in California. “I’m having so much fun. Reminds me of home.” 

They both knew that she had been homesick lately. It was just part of the work they both did. Being a pilot and being a medic, hopping from place to place was normal. But she had been in a lot of rural states so far. San Diego felt like her first real city, and it was so different from the small town smack dab in the middle of Alabama. They felt like polar opposites. 

“That’s good,” Bob said, his voice gentle. “I’m glad.” He rested his hand on the side of her face and brushed his thumb against her cheek.

It would be a lie to say that Bob wasn’t slightly nervous about her taking dancing lessons from Hangman of all people. He was cool and suave… though granted, also an asshole. But at the end of the day, he trusted her. He knew that she’d always come back home to him, excited to cling to him while watching a movie. (Inevitably always falling asleep in his lap).  Plus, Jake had left all that flirting behind once they came out about their relationship. So really, he had nothing to worry about.

It was just the comparisons in his brain that got to him sometimes. Why would she choose him? Out of all his objectively ripped and smooth squad buddies, why him? Bob with the Navy prescriptive glasses, and an utter lack of romantic experience at 30.

But then she kissed him, breaking him out of his thoughts. His mind always emptied when she did that. It was like he’d short-circuit, and all the logic in his brain would go out the door. There was no way to think when all he could smell was her mango shampoo, and all he could taste was her cherry chapstick.

“You sleeping over tonight?” She asked, looking up at him, cowboy hat still on.

He nodded, anxieties gone. “I’d like that.” He said breathlessly.

The next week passed, and finally, the group walked up to Brass & Boots, a country bar not too far from the base. It was a smaller group today. Just Rooster, Hangman, Phoenix, Bob, and of course Y/N, who was practically jumping with excitement as she held Bob’s hand. She was wearing a small gingham top with a pair of boot-cut jeans that hugged her curves just right. Of course, with the white cowboy hat and the boots her mother sent. 

Bob was already having a hard time not staring at those jeans. He was used to seeing her in loose denim shorts or scrubs. The pants fit her like a second skin, and if he looked at them too long, his heart would literally stop.

“You excited to check something off your bucket list?” Rooster asked

She nodded with a big smile. “Incredibly so.”

“You guys won’t wanna miss it.” Jake said with a smirk, “She’s good.” 

“Figured that as much. We all see her dancing circles around us at Hard Deck already.” Phoenix added, making her blush. 

As they walked up the wooden steps of the place, they took in the atmosphere. It was definitely country-inspired. The building itself was dark-stained wood, giving it a cabin-like look. A few benches sat on the porch outside, and trinkets and tchotchkes lined the walls. The sound of a slow classic country song boomed from a speaker inside. 

“So uh- how does this all work?” Bob asked curiously before they stepped inside. 

Hangman turned to look at him. “Well, it’s just like Hard Deck. Only the dance floor is for people who are learning the dance or already know it. But it’s not like you guys are very eager to dance at Hard Deck anyway.”

Bob nodded. Y/N and sometimes Rooster were the only people to dance at Hard Deck. Usually, Bob would join her, but he also spent a lot of his time with the squadron playing pool on the sidelines. 

It seemed like he’d just be watching tonight. But he didn’t mind- watching her dance was one of his favorite things to do. So the prospect of the night already sounded fantastic.

They walked into the bar, and it wasn’t too crowded. A country dive bar in the city wasn’t going to be. Her eyes lit up, taking in the scenery. Even though her upbringing wasn’t on a ranch or a shooting range, she took comfort in seeing the rustic decor. A wagon wheel hung above near the bar, holding lights. The Texas flag hung right next to the California one, and the whole inner walls had state license plates stuck in rows. Neon signs of cowboys and bulls lit the dance floor, which had a few older people dancing. This was just what she needed to be reminded of home. 

The group all found a table close enough to the dance floor and the bar, so both were within reach. Right as they were all sitting down, the familiar guitar strums of Any Man of Mine by Shania Twain played. Hangman and Y/N froze and looked at each other with growing smiles. 

Hangman stood back up and looked down at the group. “First dance of the night, ya’ll ready?” He asked, not even waiting for an answer before heading to the dance floor with Y/N following. 

It was the first dance that Jake had taught her. It was simple enough, slow enough, and she loved the song. That was a big proponent. 

As the verse finally started, they started the steps. Jake was… way too good at this. Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob watched with wide eyes.

“You’re telling me that Hangman could dance this whole time?” Phoenix asked

“Well, I don’t think he’s exactly in the mood to look this dorky at Hard Deck.” Roosted chuckled.

But Bob wasn’t even focused on Jake. He watched as his girlfriend followed the steps, sometimes looking at Hangman for reminders. But as the chorus started to hit, she looked over at Bob with an excited smile that melted his heart. She was so cute, and honestly, outdancing most of the older people in the bar. The steps felt much more natural during the chorus. So she wasn’t just simply kicking, jumping, and moving her feet; she was adding energy and variation to how she did the moves. She gave more effort than the older men and women who surrounded her. Patrons around the squad watched the two, the newcomers who were blowing this out of the water. Her enthusiasm alone could’ve carried her through the performance. 

“WOOO!” Bob yelled out, clapping his hands. 

When she heard him over the music, she burst out laughing and fell behind slightly before catching up to Hangman next to her. 

As the song came to an end, Phoenix, Bob, and Rooster were the loudest cheerers. Jake and Y/N walked back a little out of breath.

“I’m requesting this song at Hard Deck next time,” Rooster said

“I’ll kill you,” Jake replied before holding his hand out for her to high-five him. “Bucket list item achieved.”

She high-fived him and ran over to tackle Bob in a hug. “What’d you think? Did I do good?” She asked, pulling away, revealing the big grin on her face.

“Better than good, baby. Jesus Christ.” He replied, laughing, shaking his head a little in disbelief. “You look like you’ve done this your whole life.” 

“Well, just you wait- there’s more.” She said with a mischievous smile on her face. 

Jake nodded, overhearing as he sipped his beer. “Oh yeah. Your girl’s a quick learner, Floyd. We learned a few.” 

And that they had. Throughout the night, anytime a song they had learned played, her and Hangman would immediately get up to run to the dance floor. Even if they were in the middle of talking, one of them would point to the ceiling and tilt their head with a smirk. 

What Bob felt best about was that anytime a guy would try to get too close to her, Jake would quickly spin and put himself between them on the floor. If you had told him a few months ago that he would be grateful for Jake Seresin, he wouldn’t have believed it. With her on the floor, of course, she captured almost every guy in the room’s attention. That anxiety in him picked up a little, but every time he’d see her twirl and look at him with a proud smile, it would calm down.

It reached a later point in the night, and they all sat around the table, drinking and laughing. Bob loved having Y/N sitting right next to him, happily singing along to the music she grew up with. 

“Hangman, where’d you learn how to do all this?” Phoenix asked curiously

He shrugged, “Mom made me learn growing up. Family events and gatherings. She even had me in lessons for a few years.”

“That explains it,” Rooster said, nodding. “It’s weird seeing you excel at something that isn’t pissing me off.” 

He shrugged again, then some notes on the electric guitar made Y/N’s head perk up. Bob noticed with a small smile.

“What? Another song from growing up?” He asked 

She leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Watch this one.” Before getting up and heading to the dance floor. 

He had technically watched every dance she did, but something about the way she said it piqued his curiosity. Jake’s eyes widened as he recognized the song and watched her walk over to the dance floor. 

“Guys, I have a feeling we’re gonna want a better view,” Jake said, getting up and leading everyone to stand by the bar. Bob’s brows furrowed, but he followed him. 

The intro of Country Girl (Shake It For Me) by Luke Bryan played. She stomped her feet to the beat, anticipating the dance.

“You’re not gonna join her in this one?” Phoenix asked, looking up at Hangman.

“Uhhhh. That’s gonna be a no.” He said ominously.

As the verse of the song started, it was already clear why. The dance was a lot more feminine as she started strutting down the dance floor, her hair flowing with her. It started out innocently enough, with a few heel kicks and stomps. She already had Bob’s full attention from just that. But then she started moving looser and swaying her hips, and all the blood rushed to Bob’s face. He couldn’t hide his stare as she leaned over, shaking her thighs. 

Rooster’s eyes widened in a protective anger. “Jake, you taught her this?!” He asked. 

The four of them just stared. Rooster worried. Jake surprised. Phoenix impressed. And Bob trying not to pass out. 

“No- I uh- I think she taught herself this one. Cause I definitely didn’t teach her how to do-” Jake started.

Just then, she just did what the song said to do. Shake it. The denim hugged her body, but it wasn’t stiff and let her move in tantalizing ways that they had never seen her do before. 

“That.” He said

 Her hips and ass moving like that? In those jeans? With her hair flowing, and her top that low cut? Bob was mesmerized. His jaw dropped slightly as his face glowed pink. He always found her sexy, don’t get him wrong, but he didn’t anticipate country line dancing night to be this life-changing. 

She took her hat off for a second and waved it in the air as she turned slowly, arching her back, adding a flare to the dance. And it wasn’t like the dance was incredibly slow and sensual. No, she was rocking her body to the fast beat. Which made this an intense experience for timid Bob. 

Bob swallowed- suddenly, the bar felt sweltering hot, and the collar of his T-shirt felt like it was choking him. The once loud and cheering Bob was reduced to a silent, bashful man who didn’t know what to do with himself. It was like he was seeing her for the first time again, but times that feeling by a million.

Rooster and Hangman looked over and stifled their laughs at Bob’s reaction. They didn’t want him to notice as Rooster sneakily pulled out his phone and hit record. At first, the camera was set on her as she danced to the chorus.

“Country girl, shake it for me, girl. Shake it for me, girl. Shake it for me.”

Then they panned to Bob, who swallowed nervously like a cartoon character. And that made Rooster and Hangman absolutely lose it, breaking Bob’s attention as he noticed the camera. He widened his eyes.

“GUYS!” He cried exasperated.

But Rooster and Hangman were holding onto each other, laughing. Bob returned his attention to his girlfriend with a little more self-consciousness. 

Even though she was putting on the performance of a lifetime, it was clear she was having fun. To Bob, she outshone all the girls there, but she was also talking and laughing with a few of the other girls next to her as they danced in sync. She was having so much fun, and he was glad to see her so happy.

She ended the song on a spin and clapped with all the other girls on the dance floor. Then she ran over to Bob, just like she had done after all the other dances. 

“So, did you like it?” She asked, out of breath, with her hands on her hips.

Bob didn’t even know what to say. 

“Where’d you learn that one?” Jake asked, completely shocked.

“Online!” She said chipper. She looked at Bob’s starstruck expression and giggled. “You okay, baby?” 

He nodded with wide eyes, then dragged his hands down his face. “Y-yeah-yeah- Just… wow. Just wow.” He stammered.

“I think he’s more than okay.” Rooster chuckled, moving to order a drink at the bar with Phoenix. 

She moved in closer, proud of herself for making Bob this much of a mess. She put one arm on his shoulder, then took off her hat, and placed it on his head.

“Uh, Y/N-” Hangman started, “You do know about the-”

“The cowboy hat rule? Yes. Yes, I do.” She nodded proudly, not taking her eyes off Bob. God, he looked really good in that hat. It fit his face perfectly, and she was starting to get closer to how Bob was feeling just from that. 

Hangman shook his head with a smirk. “Good luck, buddy.” He huffed, patting Bob’s back and walking towards the rest of their group.

He looked around confused. So much was going on while his whole body felt like it had been lit on fire. 

“Cowboy hat rule? What’s the cowboy hat rule?” He asked, confused.

“Well…” She said, “If you put a hat on someone else, it means you want to go home with them.” She said, then leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You know, save a horse ride a cowgirl?” 

The surprise on Bob’s face was comical. He nodded quickly, “Yeah, I think I like that rule.” He said, making her laugh.

“You’re so cute.” She teased before leaning in and kissing him in front of everybody there. 

Bob’s anxieties were completely buried. He felt a newfound confidence that the hottest woman in the bar had claimed him as hers. He wrapped his arms around her and didn’t have a care in the world. Screw all the other guys. She chose him. 

[pagesfromthevoid]

Omg staph I love the teacher! reader annoucing to her class she's engaged blurb, I would love to see a blurb of the going away party they throw for her and Bob apologizing to her students lol

This...sort of turned into something else? Lol

----

The last day before winter break, instead of giving them a midterm, she gives them a party. Technically, it's her going away party but it's a party nonetheless. The kids wanted to do it after school, since it's an early release day anyway, and now any student that wants to be there can be there, in the library.

The kids have brought in snacks and drinks, as well as anything else they might need to host a party. But she's promised that she'd supply the pizza --or well, Bob will supply the pizza. He had insisted, because he wanted to come and apologize to them anyway. She promises him that he really doesn't need to do that but Bob knows better; he knows that these kids mean a lot to her and that leaving mid-year is the hardest thing she's going to do.

She glances at her phone and smiles, announcing that he's here with their food.

It's Savannah Johnson that offers to go retrieve him from the office.

"Don't you be mean to him," she warns but the student waves her off and hurries off to the front office.

Savannah greets Bob with a narrow-eyed look, but he just smiles sheepishly at her as the front office lady opens the door and hands him a visitor's badge.

"I'm not helping you carry those, Mr. Floyd," Savannah says indignantly, crossing her arms.

"I wouldn't expect you to, Ms. Johnson," he replies simply.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, but Bob knows there's something brewing under the quiet. He's only met Savannah once, technically, and that was when he first met the love of his life. Everything he knows about the student, he knows from stories she's told at home. But he knows enough to know that the girl walking him to the going away party is not going to stay quiet much longer.

"You're taking my school mom," she announces, looking up at him as they walk. Her eyes aren't narrowed anymore; they're softer. A little sadder. "You're gonna be nice to her, right?"

Bob walks backwards to open the incoming door, holding it open for the student. But they both stand there for a moment, looking at each other. Savannah looks like she wants to say something else, but she looks away quickly. He can see the tears in her eyes and it breaks his heart a little. He doesn't know how his fiancée does it.

"I'm gonna make sure she's happier than she's ever been," he promises, giving her a soft smile. There's another long pause before he finally says, "I'm sorry, y'know. For taking her away from you all."

"You better be," Savannah snaps, but Bob knows she doesn't mean to mean. She's upset, and he understands that. "You couldn't've waited?"

"I tried," he admits, adjusting his hold on the food. Savannah ends up taking two of the boxes. "But it's not as easy as asking to be deferred. Not in the military, at least."

"Yeah, well," she sighs, rubbing her eyes with the shoulder of her shirt. A little sniffle escapes her too. "As long as she comes to graduation. Then I might forgive you."

"I'd never keep her from watching you guys graduate," he promises again as Savannah opens the library door. "She's real proud of you, y'know."

Savannah perks up, looking up at him with a bright smile. "Really?"

"Yes ma'am."

[littlemissrbf]

I JUST REREAD THIS FOR PT 5 AND OF THE 150 OF YOU THAT READ IT- ABSOLUTELY NO ONE WAS GONNA TELL ME I WROTE "I'm was born and raised in Montana"

"I'M WAS BORN AND RAISED?!?!" ARE YOU KIDDING ME- I'M FIXING THAT SHIT IMMEDIATELY

I think I was deciding between: "I'm born and raised" and "I was born and raised" and then just combined them to make this monstrosity

I mean seriously, 12+ years of english courses just to write "I'm was"- at least this is basically proof that I don't use AI bc no damn robot would ever make the same fuckass grammatical error as a 20 year old with an obsession of a fictional man.

Summer Lovin’ (pt. 2)

Robert "Bob" Floyd x fem!Reader

(No use of y/n, reader is a SoCal native & Bob is from Montana, language, reader has an annoying but loving uncle, Jake "Hangman" Seresin is a jackass, & Natasha "Phoenix" Trace is amazing and I love her, the Mickey-Rooster-Reuben department of shits and giggles is my new favorite thing)

Part 1, Part 2 [Word Count: 2.6k]

Until now, you’d only seen Lt. Robert Floyd from across the room, sitting or standing to the side with his shoulders pulled inwards like he was worried about taking up too much space. The distance between the two of you only made him look smaller, more like a “little nerd” according to your uncle.

But now that you have him all up close and personal, you realize just how big this man actually is. He's at least six feet tall with broad shoulders which only seem to add to his height. He practically towers over you, and when he stands too close you have to tilt your head back just to meet his eyes.

You realize you fucked up as he began to set up the pool balls into a diamond shape. You had asked him to play 9-ball but you've only ever played 8-ball, where the balls are set up in a triangle and you have to pocket all the stripes or solids before you go for the 8-ball. You couldn't even last 5 minutes without making a complete fool of yourself.

"You wanna break?" he asked, holding out the cue ball.

You laid your cue stick to rest against the table before making your way over to him, you took the ball from him and laughed at yourself before he could,

"I'm sorry I meant to say 8-ball instead of 9, but I got them mixed up in my head. I actually have no idea how to play 9-ball."

But he didn't laugh at you. He just smiled, grabbed the rack from another table, and started pulling six more balls from the pockets to rearrange them into a triangle.

"I'm really sorry about that, I should've said something before you'd finished setting up." you looked down and began to roll the cue ball in your hands.

He paused from lining up the rack with the foot of the table to look up at you, "It's okay, I don't mind."

When you still didn't look at him he made his way over to you, leaning down to get you to meet his eyes,

"Hey, it's alright. I figured I could show you how to play 9-ball after our bet." then he added "As long as you're okay with that."

You couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, that sounds good. But only after you've bought me a drink 'cause I'm about to destroy you."

"Oh someone's feeling confident all of a sudden." he smirked at you.

You smiled as you rolled your eyes at him.

"I'm still breaking," you said as you grabbed your cue stick and placed the ball on the table.

The two of you probably spent more time chatting than actually playing pool. The initial trash talk quickly blended into full-blown conversations that ended up with both of you forgetting whose turn it was (you ended up using rock-paper-scissors to decide who would go). At one point, you got so distracted that you forgot you were solids, accidentally sinking one of Bob's stripes into a pocket.

"You from around here?" he asked before taking a shot, the cue ball hitting a red one with a satisfying click, it rolled towards a corner pocket but bounced off the rails.

"No, I'm actually from OC," you said looking for an easy shot.

"OC?" he tilted his head.

"Orange County," you lined up for a pocket shot, "I live in Anaheim, it's about a two-hour drive from here." You hit the cue ball and watched as it rolled straight past your target and into the pocket. You sighed and lightly slapped your forehead, this was probably the fifth time you'd scratched. "What about you?" you asked as he reached into the pocket and pulled out the cue ball.

"I'm born and raised in Montana, my family owns a cattle ranch in Whitehall." he placed the ball on the table and leaned over to take a shot.

"Robbie, are you telling me that you're a cowboy?"

"No ma'am," he chuckled and shook his head, "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just a Weapons System Officer."

"Yeah I have no idea what that means, you mind explaining?"

It's like you just triggered a sleeper agent, Bob immediately stood up, completely forgetting about his shot, and started to explain every last detail about what he did as a WSO. He talked with his hands and the pitch of his voice raised when he got excited.

"So, the pilot flies and you shoot, but you're also like the pilot's second set of eyes and ears?" you asked.

"Yep that's pretty much it," he nodded.

"That sounds... intense." You couldn't imagine being in charge of all of that, not to mention being responsible for someone else's life. "Have you always wanted to do something like this?"

"Well, my mom says I always really liked planes and jets." He made his way back to the table and lined up for one of the side pockets, "When I was a kid I told her 'One day, I'm gonna fly one of those things' and I figured the Navy was the best way to do that." He took the shot and the target ball rolled straight into the side pocket.

"It's really impressive." You started, he just shrugged and smiled to himself, he's too humble. "So is this your first time in Cali?"

"Actually, I was stationed in Lemoore for a bit before I got transferred here."

"San Joaquin Valley area?" That area is mostly farmland, so you can't help but ask, "Is it true that it smells like shit all the time?"

He smiled, "You get used to it."

He took another shot and sunk the ball into a corner pocket.

"You're pretty good at this," you said looking down at the table. He only had one ball left and you had five, at this rate you should just go buy his drink already.

A quiet "Thank you" slipped out as he leaned down over the table and lined up to knock his last ball into a corner pocket. He paused for a second, then hit the cue. He scratched.

He just looked at you and shrugged, trying to hide a small grin.

You raised an eyebrow at him, "Lt. Robert Floyd, are you letting me win to make me like you more?" You asked, hand on your hip.

You expected him to look down or maybe blush, instead, he held your gaze and tilted his head. That stupid grin showing up again,

"Is it working?"

Now you were the one blushing.

"Maybe." You said, brushing past him to grab the cue ball from the pocket.

This went on for a bit, you miss your shot and then Bob misses his (but on purpose), the cycle continued until some of his fellow pilots made their way back towards the pool tables, putting a pause on your game. It was a woman you recognized from earlier, two men who always seemed to trail behind her, and Mr. Mustache aka Rooster. Bob introduced you, and you shake their hands and learn that Natasha, Reuben, and Rooster are all F/A-18 pilots and Mickey is Reuben's WSO. You ask Natasha if Bob is a good back-seater and she laughs,

"I sure hope so, I haven't gotten the chance to fly with him yet. Most of us just got in today."

"Ooo something important about to happen?" You asked

"Well, I'd tell you if I knew." She smiled, and holy shit she's pretty, actually forget pretty, Natasha Trace is drop-dead gorgeous. Maybe the Navy is only taking hot pilots or something?

As if to prove your point, Rooster, who is tall and ridiculously good-looking, decided to make his way into the conversation,

"Nah you wouldn't, 'c'mon we all know you're a goody two shoes." Rooster pipes up and without missing a beat, she reaches up and slaps him up the back of his head.

"Don't mind him, he's an idiot," she says, "So what brings you around here? Family? Maybe a boyfriend?"

"No, no boyfriend," you say, trying not to look at Bob, but you can see Mickey out of the corner of your eye nudging him with his elbow. "I'm here with my uncle, he just retired from the Navy, today actually."

"Oh good for him, you guys here to celebrate?"

"Well he's definitely here to celebrate, I'm sure he just brought me along to be his designated drive-home." It was a good cover story, there is no fucking way you are about to tell these people that you were brought here to find yourself a husband.

"That's sweet," she starts "I love your dress, by the way, does it have pockets?"

You reach down and fluff out the skirt a little, "Thank you so much! I wish it had pockets, then it would be perfect."

You got to know the group better after just minutes of chatting apparently Natasha and Rooster go way back, Mickey is a chatterbox once he starts talking and won't shut up unless he's either eating or asleep, and Reuben's had his (albeit less dramatic than Rooster's) mustache since high school.

While listening to Rooster, Reuben, and Mickey get into it about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza. You subconsciously start drifting towards Bob, who is standing off to the side and silently observing the heated debate. Once you were side to side you gently bumped him with your shoulder, and he smiled before leaning over to whisper,

"I think it's your turn."

He was so close now and you could feel his breath against your neck, your heart decided to skip a beat and you figured if you didn't move soon this man was gonna give you a heart attack. So you quickly shuffled closer to the table and you locked eyes with Natasha, who saw the whole interaction, she gave you a knowing smirk and you felt the flush spreading further up your cheeks. You look down and try to focus on your next shot, but before you can pick which ball to go for you hear a new voice coming from the bar.

"Would you look at that, 'Baby on Board' actually has some game."

The man standing across from you is tall and blonde, he's got a set of perfect teeth that he flashes with a shit-eating grin, you notice the way Natasha looks at him as if she's fantasizing about punching him in the face or setting him on fire, or maybe both.

"Excuse me?" You tried to sound as polite as possible.

"You know B-O-B, 'Baby on Board'. I'm starting to think that's what his callsign actually stands for"

"Bob is just his nickname," you started, "It's short for Robert."

"No sweetheart, see 'callsigns' are what we fighter pilots use for communication and identification." he explained.

"So like a nickname." you replied with a flat tone.

You can hear Rooster and Mickey snickering, Natasha is still standing with her arms crossed but at least now she's smirking.

You decided to press your luck, thinking maybe if you annoyed him enough, Mr. Pearly Whites would just go away.

"What's your nickname?" you quickly corrected yourself "I mean, what's your callsign?"

More laughter came from the Mickey-Rooster-Reuben department but Mr. Pearly Whites just stood there and grinned.

"I'm Hangman, this here is Coyote." he nodded to the man next to him.

"Hangman?" You asked, you saw a slight crack in his smile and decided to go in for the kill.

"Do you just really like kid's word puzzles or something?"

At this, the Mickey-Rooster-Reuben department fucking lost it, cackling as they leaned on each other for support, Natasha was laughing too but at least she was still standing up on her own.

To your disappointment, Hangman just kept on smiling.

"At least someone's got a sense of humor, isn't that right Bob."

When you turned to glance at Bob, his mouth was pressed in a thin line, he nodded politely but his shoulders were hunched inwards again.

"Listen, it was great to meet you Hangman, and you too Coyote, but if you don't mind I'm gonna go back to playing 8-ball." you said turning back towards the table.

Before you could register it, you felt the pool cue being snatched from your hands and suddenly Hangman was in your place, shooting the cue ball perfectly to sink a ball into a corner pocket.

"I'm really good at this kind of stuff so let me give you some pointers," He started.

"No thank you." You reply immediately, but still polite.

"Aww c'mon I'm just trying to be nice, besides, it looks like you could use the help." He pressed on.

Before you can repeat yourself, Bob made his way around the table and he stood right next to Hangman, bringing his hand down onto his shoulder with a bit more force than necessary.

"You having some trouble with your hearing, Hangman?" He asks.

"Pardon?"

"I guess you are because I just heard her say 'No thank you' loud and clear. Maybe you oughta get your ears checked." He said, smiling sweetly, feigning concern.

Oh shit, he's hot.

Now Rooster got in on the action, "Nah, with that level of hearing loss I say we just let him get discharged."

"It's a shame, I was really looking forward to working with you, Bagman." Natasha chimed in.

And Hangman, the smooth son of a bitch just chuckled and patted Bob on the back, "Looks like we're all a bunch of comedians now." And he turned to you.

He held out the pool cue but when you took it in your hand, he held on, looking straight into your eyes.

"I apologize," he said with his other hand on his chest, it almost sounded genuine. "You have a good night, sweetheart." He flashed his pearly whites again, still holding on.

"Thank you." You replied, not breaking his gaze, not backing down.

He nodded and finally let go, making his way towards the dartboard on the other side of the bar. Before following him, Coyote nodded to you saying "Take care." You nodded back and said, "Thank you, you too."

The second the two men were out of earshot you whipped around to the group, "Oh my god, how do you guys put up with that?!"

Natasha lets out a groan, "He's the worst."

"Tell me about it." Rooster said leaning against a wall.

"You guys deserve a fucking medal of honor or something, I mean he is just such a..." You trailed off while trying to fish out the ball that he sunk.

"Jackass?"

"Dipshit?"

"Asshole?"

You placed the ball down on the table with a thud, "Yes, yes, and yes."

You made your way to Bob and placed your hand on his arm,

"Thank you for sticking up for me, I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome." Is all he gets out, looking down to where your palm rests on his arm, smiling softly.

When you pull your hand away, you barely see the way he leans towards it, as if his body is trying to chase your touch.

Natasha grabs the boys and makes a half-assed excuse about going for another round of drinks, winking at you as she gives you and Bob some privacy. No surprise, Natasha Trace is a solid wingman.

You let out a small laugh, "So, where were we?"

"I think you're about to win."

"Ha ha very funny," you said, aiming for one of your remaining balls. You took the shot and missed with flying colors. "Alright, Robbie go ahead." You said with a defeated sigh.

He sunk his last striped ball then picked a corner pocket for the 8-ball. He lined up his shot, looked at you, and hit the cue ball. It knocked the 8-ball into its pocket before rolling straight across the table and into the other pocket. Scratch on the 8-ball, he lost.

He turned to you and grinned.

"Oops."

Divider by @bernardsbendystraws

(Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Part 3 is in the works. This is still my first ever fic so let me know if you have any writing tips or suggestions!)

[fairydustttx]

Undressed.

Bob Floyd x reader

“I'm lookin' at you, and you're lookin' at me, but the glimmer in your eyes is sayin' you wanna leave”

Warnings: Hangman being a dickhead as usual.

Wc: 1860

Summary: Not everything begins in life with fireworks. Sometimes it starts with quiet looks, a shared silence, and the slow unraveling of something real. Two people, a little worn down by life, learning how to show up—for themselves and maybe… each other.

Bob Floyd notices things. He always has. He notices the way people tap their fingers when they lie, or how they glance down and to the left when they're trying to pretend everything's fine. He notices the way you laugh just a little too loudly when Jake’s around. How your eyes never quite reach his anymore.

Hangman is all swagger and shine, perfect smile, perfect posture. He kisses you like he’s performing, and sometimes it feels like he loves the idea of being your boyfriend more than he loves you.

Bob never says any of that. Of course he doesn’t. You're still with Jake, after all and nothing he could ever say would change that

And Bob? Well he’s just friend. The quiet one. The one you sit next to when Jake’s late (again) for drinks. The one who brings you an extra granola bar on long flights because he knows you forget to eat when you're stressed out. The one who listens, really listens when you talk.

Tonight, it’s the Hard Deck. Hangman’s flirting across the bar with someone he probably shouldn’t be. Again. You're trying not to look. Again.

Bob’s sitting beside you in that too-large hoodie and those wire-framed glasses, hands folded, beer untouched. You’re swirling your drink, eyes distant.

“Rough night?” he asks, low and careful.

You exhale a laugh, humorless. “Jake’s being Jake.”

Bob doesn’t say I told you so. Instead, he says, “You okay?”

You blink at him. No one's asked you that in weeks.

“I don’t know,” you admit with a sigh.

And there it is, Bob’s eyes soften, not with pity, but with that kind of steady presence that tells you he’s right here. That he’s always been right here.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you guess how they feel.” he says, quiet enough that only you can hear it.

You look at him. Really look. The air between you feels different now. But nothing happens. He doesn’t lean in and you don’t reach out for him.

Jake calls your name from across the room, and you flinch. Bob sees that too.

And even as you stand, grabbing your bag, offering Bob a soft “thank you,” part of you stays behind with him. He just gives you the smallest nod. He doesn’t say, “I’d never make you flinch.”

But you hear it anyway.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The breakup doesn’t explode. It fizzles.

No slammed doors, no sharp words slicing through a crowded bar. Just silence. A slow suffocation of intimacy. Texts left unanswered. Glances that stopped lingering. The weight of everything unsaid pressing so heavily between you that it became easier to say nothing at all.

Jake moved on the way Jake always did, head high, heart low, already scanning the room for someone who didn’t look like you. He was all charm and polish, the golden boy turned ghost before the sheets cooled.

You didn’t cry. Not really. Just folded up the little parts of yourself that had bent to fit around him and put them away like a worn-out flight suit.

You still showed up. To flight drills, to the Hard Deck, to squad briefings with a practiced smile and dry jokes that tasted bitter at the back of your tongue. It worked mostly. Everyone bought the version of you that was doing fine.

Everyone except Bob. He saw through it. He always had.

Not that he ever said anything directly. That wasn’t his way. Bob Floyd was subtle the way gravity was constant, invisible, inevitable.

You noticed him more after Jake. Maybe not more, but clearer. The way he always gave you the better chair. How he’d tilt his head when you talked, like he was tuning into a frequency only you emitted. The way he said your name soft, full of care, never casual.

You’d always known he was kind. Gentle. Solid. But there was something else too—something just beneath the surface. A steadiness that didn’t come from pretending things were okay, but from surviving the times they weren’t.

You were sitting on the wing of your jet when he found you again still half-suited, fingers threaded through your gloves, just watching the light spill across the hangar floor like it might tell you what to do next.

“Didn’t see you at debrief,” he said quietly.

His voice cut through the silence like the first breath after surfacing.

You looked over. His hair was mussed, and his helmet hung from one hand. The collar of his suit was loose, revealing the strong lines of his neck. He looked tired. Or maybe that was just the way Bob always looked like he carried the weight of other people’s burdens even when they weren’t his.

“I didn’t feel like hearing about how I flared too early,” you muttered.

He gave you a soft half-smile, the kind that barely reached his eyes. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“Thanks for lying.”

“I’m not.” A beat. “Not this time.”

You let that sit between you. The quiet wasn’t awkward, it never was with him. He had a way of making silence feel like a choice instead of a void.

“You haven’t said anything,” you said eventually, eyes flicking to his face. “About me and Jake. About the end.”

Bob shifted his stance, his boot scuffing lightly on the concrete floor. “Didn’t think it was my place to.”

You nodded slowly. “It’s not. Or—it wasn’t.”

He looked at you then. And whatever he saw made his brows knit together slightly, like he wasn’t sure if what was happening was real.

“You’ve always had a place, Bob.”

The words felt heavier than they should’ve. But they were true. He had always been there on the edge, just close enough to reach if you ever turned around.

Bob hesitated for a moment. Then spoke.

“I hated watching you hurt,” he said, voice low. “But I knew if I said anything back then, it would’ve been about me. Not about helping you. And that felt wrong.”

You blinked. Something sharp caught behind your ribs.

“You were right. I wouldn’t have heard it. I didn’t want to see what he was doing to me. Not then.”

Bob nodded once, slowly. “People don’t always choose what’s good for them. Sometimes they choose what makes them feel less alone.”

You didn’t respond right away. The truth of it burned too close.

Then: “And what do you think I’m choosing now?”

He looked startled. “I—what?”

You slid down from the wing. Your boots landed with a thud, and you stood in front of him, closer than you probably should have been. His eyes searched yours, cautious. Kind.

“You’ve always seen me, Bob. Not the idea of me. Not the version Jake made me into.”

“I never wanted anything from you,” he said. “Just to be near you. That was enough.”

You shook your head slowly. “That’s the thing. It’s not enough anymore.”

Bob didn’t move, but his whole body went still, like you’d pulled the pin out of something buried inside him.

“I don’t want you to keep watching me from across the bar, or giving me quiet coffee and excuses not to talk about it. I don’t want you to keep being the one who waits.”

He swallowed hard. “And if I said I’ve stopped waiting?”

Your breath caught. “I’d say you’re lying.”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with this openness, this shift in gravity. But he didn’t step back. He leaned in.

“I don’t want to be your rebound,” Bob said, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not,” you said simply. “You’re my after.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, deliberately, Bob reached up. His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His palm hovered near your cheek, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth.

When you finally kissed, it was slow. Not tentative—just full of meaning. Full of everything that had gone unsaid.

It wasn’t about possession. It wasn’t about fixing. It was about being seen.

And this time, being chosen.

When you pulled apart, you stayed close. Breathing in the same space.

“I’m not perfect,” you said. “I’m still figuring this out.”

Bob smiled small, shy, and sincere. “Good. Me too.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

There was no restaurant with dim lighting and overpriced cocktails. No rooftop views or curated playlists. When Bob asked what you wanted to do, you told him: “Something that doesn’t feel like I’m pretending.”

So, he took you to the beach. Not the tourist kind. The one tucked behind the base, quiet and mostly forgotten except by the occasional jogger or off-duty pilot who needed to scream into the sea. Which was pretty valid.

It was late afternoon when he picked you up. The sun slouched low on the horizon, spilling gold across the dashboard of his truck. The windows were rolled down, wind threading through your hair. Bob didn’t say much, but his thumb tapped lightly against the steering wheel to the beat of the radio. Something soft, something from a playlist you suspected he’d made just for this.

You didn’t ask. But you smiled.

The beach was empty except for a weathered picnic table and some sun-bleached driftwood. He’d brought sandwiches from a deli he swore made “the best turkey in the county” and two cans of ginger ale, still cold from a little cooler in the backseat.

It was easy. Ridiculously easy.

You sat barefoot on the sand, shoes forgotten, your knees brushing as the conversation wound from base gossip to childhood memories. You told him about your sisters, about sneaking wine coolers into high school dances and falling out of love with the idea of perfection. He told you about growing up quiet in a loud family, how he used to feel invisible until he met flying.

“But you were always there,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “I mean, I don’t remember a time I didn’t know who you were.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s kind of how I felt about you, too.”

The sun dipped lower. Orange bled into violet. The light hit his profile just right, and for the first time, you noticed how his lashes were unfairly long. His hands were strong but relaxed—like he’d finally unclenched something he’d been holding for years.

At one point, you stood up and wandered down the shore. Bob followed without question. The water was cold but refreshing. You didn’t talk, just walked close enough that your hands brushed occasionally, then lingered.

Finally, you stopped. Looked out at the wide-open horizon.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” you admitted quietly. “But I want to know. I want to see where it goes.”

Bob didn’t hesitate. “Me too.”

He reached for your hand. Not possessively. Just steady. Honest.

And it was enough.

Later, when the sun was gone and the stars began pricking the sky with silver, you sat beside him in the bed of his truck. Wrapped in a blanket he’d pulled from behind the seat. You rested your head on his shoulder and Bob leaned his against yours.