The Ghost I Left Behind - II
The ghost I left behind - II
Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader
Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?
Words: 7,03k
Chapter I , III
--
18 months ago
The dinner rush had slowed to a crawl.
It was one of those mid-week slumps where time dragged its feet, and the only people who came in were either regulars who knew the staff by name or wanderers with nowhere better to be. Y/N moved between tables with practiced rhythm, balancing plates and coffee refills like second nature, her back sore and her feet aching in shoes she’d long worn past comfort.
The little bell above the entrance jingled.
A man walked in—mid-fifties, pinched face, suit slightly wrinkled like it had seen better years. He looked around with thinly veiled disgust before huffing and plopping himself into the booth by the window—Table 9. The corner one. The one nobody liked serving because the light always flickered overhead and the booth’s cushion was partially split.
Y/N forced a smile and approached, flipping open her notepad.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Cluckin’ Bucket. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
He didn’t look up. Just waved his hand in the air like she was a gnat.
“Coffee. Black. And make sure it’s fresh.”
“Of course,” she said gently, tucking the pen behind her ear.
A few minutes later, she returned with a mug, carefully setting it in front of him.
“I’ll give you a moment with the menu—”
He cut her off without lifting his eyes. “Jesus, you’re slow. Do you people even train here, or just pick up anyone who needs cigarette money?”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“I… I’m sorry?”
He finally looked at her, and his smile wasn’t kind. “You should be. You’re lucky anyone even eats here with the way this place is run. What are you, twenty? You going to be slinging grease until you hit thirty? Classy.”
She stiffened, drawing a steadying breath. Her fingers clenched slightly around her notepad.
“Sir, I’m doing my best. If there’s something wrong with the service, I can ask someone else to take your—”
“Don’t get huffy with me, sweetheart. Just bring me a two-piece meal. And none of that soggy crap you people usually serve. If I find a hair in it again like last time, I swear to God…”
Y/N’s jaw tightened, and something heavy pulled at her chest.
“I’ll put in your order,” she said, voice quiet, calm—but the burn in her throat was rising fast.
As she turned, he muttered just loud enough to hear, “No wonder your kind ends up in jobs like this.”
She froze, mid-step.
No scene. No yelling. Just a single breath, then another. Her hands were shaking now, and she didn’t want to let them see.
“I’m taking five,” she murmured to the shift manager, barely audible as she walked past the kitchen.
She pushed through the back door that led into the alley behind the restaurant, where the dumpster smell mixed with exhaust and the quiet hum of city traffic. The cold air hit her like a slap. She pressed her back to the brick wall, closed her eyes, and finally let out the breath she’d been holding.
The burn in her chest wouldn’t go away.
She hated how easily people like that could unravel you. How fast kindness could be swallowed up by cruelty. She’d been so tired lately. Not just in her body but deep in her bones.
She wiped her eyes quickly. No tears, not here, not for that man. Just five minutes. That’s all she needed.
Then, just as she stepped away from the wall, she heard movement.
Around the corner of the building—behind the employee entrance—was a dim alcove where the employees usually went to smoke or cool off in costume. She walked quietly toward the sound, expecting maybe someone to be hiding out like her.
Then she saw him.
Bobby.
Still half in his chicken suit, the headpiece sitting on the crate beside him. His back was to her, hunched over something in his hands. The foil glinted faintly. A tiny click. The smell hit her first, acrid and chemical and sharp. The pipe. The lighter. The slow drag.
She stopped cold.
He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch her from the corner of his eye.
And froze.
They didn’t speak.
He looked at her like a child caught red-handed—eyes wide, mouth parting with some silent, unspoken apology already dying in his throat. His shoulders drooped, the weight of shame dragging him down like a stone.
Y/N didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at him. Everything in her face was quiet—but inside, it cracked.
She had always known, somewhere. The strange mood swings. The occasional vacant look in his eyes. The way he’d sometimes vanish after work and come back different.
But she told herself it wasn’t often. That he was better now. That he was trying.
And now, here it was. Not suspicion. Not a maybe. A truth, in sharp relief.
She blinked slowly. Her chest rising and falling like she’d just been punched there.
Bob didn’t speak. He didn’t run. He didn’t even look away.
She did.
Y/N turned and walked back inside without a word, the door swinging shut behind her.
She didn’t cry. She didn't say anything. Not yet.
She had a shift to finish.
The conversation would come later.
But in that moment, something inside her was already breaking.
--
The walk back to her place was drowned in silence.
The city buzzed around them — car horns, laughter, the occasional bark of a street vendor — but between Y/N and Bob, there was a vacuum. Her steps were steady, controlled, but her jaw was tight, eyes forward. Bob trailed a little behind, hands buried in his jacket pockets, shrinking into himself like a child expecting punishment. Shame clung to him like smoke.
They reached her apartment. It had become a second home to him — familiar, warm, soft in the corners where his own life was harsh. He’d left extra clothes in her drawers, knew how her kitchen light flickered when the microwave was running, had memorized the scent of her shampoo from the pillowcases.
He watched her unlock the door. She didn’t speak, just moved to the bathroom, turned the shower on. Steam soon crept under the crack in the door.
Bob stood there, frozen. A picture frame on the wall caught his eye — the two of them at the park, that first sunny date. She was kissing his cheek, laughing. He looked dazed, goofy, stunned by her affection. He still felt like that. Always stunned.
The door to the bathroom opened a while later. She came out in clean clothes, her damp hair pulled back in a loose bun. Wordlessly, she moved to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients like muscle memory. The rhythm of chopping vegetables, setting the water to boil, flipping something in a pan — it was too normal. Too quiet. It was the kind of silence that screamed.
Bob sat on the couch. His leg bounced. His palms were sweaty. The sound of a spoon clinking against a pan made his chest tighten.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
"Y/N," he croaked.
She didn’t turn.
He stood up slowly, walked a few steps toward the kitchen. "Please. Just say something."
The chopping stopped. She placed the knife down and leaned her hands on the counter, head bowed.
“Why?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Why do you do it?”
Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusing. It was sad. It was tired.
Bob swallowed hard. His throat burned. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out.
Then he spoke, slowly, quietly. A confession years in the making.
“I was sixteen the first time I tried it,” he said. “It was just supposed to be for fun. Some kids in my neighborhood — we were bored, angry, messed up. I didn’t think it’d be a thing. But it stuck.”
He looked down at his hands like they weren’t his own.
“My brain… it’s not right. Hasn’t been for a long time. There’s this weight I carry every day. Like the world is pressing down on my chest, and everyone’s expecting me to breathe like it’s nothing. Some mornings I don’t even want to get up. Some nights I wish I wouldn’t wake up.”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.
“The meth — it made it quiet. Just for a while. It made me feel like I could do things. Like I wasn’t a loser, a disappointment. It tricked me into thinking I was normal.”
He stopped and turned to face her. His eyes were glassy, his voice breaking.
“But then I met you. And for the first time, I didn’t need it to feel okay. You made me want to stay clean. You made me believe I could. And I was trying, I swear, I was trying so fucking hard.”
He stepped closer, his voice desperate.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want to lose this — lose you. You’re the only good thing that’s ever really been mine.”
His knees buckled slightly as he dropped down to them in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I messed this up. I hate that I let you down. Please… please don’t give up on me. I swear I’ll get clean. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll go to meetings, therapy, rehab — anything. Just don’t walk away.”
Tears streamed down his face now, dripping onto the floor.
“I know I’ve got a thousand reasons to hate myself. I know I’m broken and messy and hard to love. But you… you make me want to be better. And I will. I promise. Just… don’t let this be the end.”
Y/N stood still for a moment, frozen, her hands still gripping the counter behind her.
And the only sound in the room was his quiet, wracked sobbing, and the distant clatter of boiling water on the stove, as dinner burned, untouched.
Bob stayed on his knees, eyes red and rimmed with shame, when his voice returned — quieter now, like a wound being exposed.
“My dad used to hit me,” he said. “Not just when he was mad — sometimes, I think, just because he didn’t know how else to talk. Or maybe he did, and he just liked watching me flinch.”
His eyes weren’t focused on her now. They stared past her, through her, into a corner of memory he rarely let himself go back to.
“He was a drunk. A real mean one. He’d come home and if the dishes weren’t done, or the TV was too loud, or I looked at him the wrong way — that was it. And my mom… she didn’t stop him. She just… endured. Like it was normal. Like it was just what families were.”
Y/N’s hands had gone still behind her on the countertop.
“I used to hide under my bed, back when I was little. I’d count the cracks in the floorboards, try to breathe as quietly as I could so he wouldn’t hear me. I remember thinking if I could just disappear for long enough, maybe he’d forget I existed.”
He laughed once — a low, broken sound that barely resembled laughter. “I used to wish I could disappear entirely.”
A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek, but she said nothing yet. Let him speak.
“When I got older, I fought back. Not well. But I tried. And when I was seventeen, I left. Packed a trash bag with clothes and took a bus out. Thought I’d figure it out. Be free.”
He looked up at her then — just barely.
“But the thing is… when someone teaches you your whole life that you’re worthless, it doesn’t go away just because you leave the house. It follows you. It lives in you.”
His hands shook now, resting on his knees.
“I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I’m seconds away from falling apart. Like no matter how good something feels, I’m gonna ruin it. And I thought— I thought maybe if I numbed it, if I buried it, I could be normal.”
He exhaled, tears slipping freely now.
“But then you showed up. You, with your stupid coffee orders and your sweet laugh and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t a fucking disaster.”
His voice cracked, almost too much to continue.
“And now you know. Everything. The drugs. The lies. The damage. You know it all. So if you want me to leave, I will. I won’t fight it.”
Y/N moved then, slowly, quietly kneeling down in front of him. She reached for his face — her touch soft, careful — and wiped the tears from his cheeks, her own still silently falling.
“You’re not leaving,” she whispered, her voice firm despite its softness. “You don’t get to push me away, Bobby. Not tonight.”
He blinked at her like he couldn’t believe she was real.
“I’m gonna help you,” she said. “Not because I think I can fix you, or save you, or any of that hero complex bullshit. But because I see you. I see who you really are underneath all of it.”
She gave him a small, fragile smile. “And I know what it’s like. To fight temptation. To almost fall. You think I don’t get it? That I didn’t come close to things I don’t even like to think about now?”
Her thumb stroked his cheekbone, gently.
“The only difference is, I didn’t fall. Not back then. But you— Bobby, you got up. You got up today. You came home. That counts for something.”
She leaned in and kissed him, soft, slow — not fiery or frantic, but grounding. A tether to the world he was convinced he didn’t deserve.
And when she pulled back, his arms wrapped around her like a man clinging to the last piece of a life raft. His grip was tight, desperate. His body trembled against hers.
“Why…” he whispered, breath shaky against her shoulder. “Why do you love me?”
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. Her own were glassy, full of heartbreak and something stronger — belief.
“Because I see the man you’re trying to be,” she said. “Because even when you’re at your lowest, you still try to protect me. Because you never looked at me like I was broken, even when I told you all the reasons I could be.”
He shook his head slightly, disbelief etched across every inch of his face.
“How…” he whispered. “How can someone have so much love for me?”
And she didn’t answer right away. She just kissed his forehead, brushing the damp hair from his face, and pulled him close again.
In the quiet of that little apartment — with the burnt dinner on the stove, with their photograph still crooked on the wall — Bob let himself cry like a child for the first time in years.
They forgot about their surroundings and just laid against the couch, and Y/N held him through it all, her love a quiet, unshakeable force wrapped around him like armor.
Still. Steady. Like she wasn’t afraid of what he’d just shown her.
He couldn’t even look at her when she said, softly, “You’re not the only one with ghosts, Bobby.”
He glanced at her. She wasn’t looking for sympathy — just understanding. Her voice didn’t shake. It was tired, but honest. Worn down from years of holding things in.
“I’ve never told anyone everything. Not like this,” she said. “But… did I ever mentioned to you about Jordan? He was my first love.”
Bob turned toward her, the lump in his throat tightening again.
“I wasn’t always like this. Quiet. Careful,” she said, a hollow laugh passing her lips. “I used to be… wild. Not in the good way.”
She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were shaking.
“My mom — she’s the kind of woman who never wanted a daughter. Especially not one who reminded her how much time she’d lost. She was beautiful once. And she hated that I got told the same thing. She treated me like I was competition in her own house. Constantly picking at me. My clothes. My body. My laugh. Everything I was, she hated. It’s like I walked into a room and reminded her of all the choices she didn’t make.”
Bob’s brows drew in, his mouth a tight line of hurt on her behalf.
“And my dad?” she scoffed. “He was a college professor. Brilliant. Poised. Married to appearances. When I turned twelve, he started spending more nights in his office than at home. Eventually, he ran off with one of his grad students. Left a sticky note on the fridge. ‘Don’t let your mother go crazy.’ That was it.”
She blinked hard, not wanting to cry again. Not for them.
“I became the adult in the house before I hit puberty. My mom drank. Screamed. Slept through entire weekends. I cleaned. I cooked. I learned how to smile and make it look real. I still loved her tho, I never really blamed her for being the way she was, maybe she had reasons and I just… came in the wrong timing.”
She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might hold something safer than the past.
“By the time I was sixteen, I was going out every night with older friends. We used fake IDs, got into clubs. I was… reckless. Desperate to feel like someone wanted me. Like I wasn’t invisible unless I was being yelled at.”
She turned to Bob, finally, her eyes watery.
“That’s how I met Jordan.”
Even saying his name made her stomach twist.
“He owned the club. Rich. Handsome. Wore these stupid expensive suits like he was always playing dress-up for some fantasy life. And he noticed me. Like… noticed me.”
She laughed bitterly. “I thought I’d won the lottery. I was seventeen, and he was thirty-two, and I felt like I was starring in some tragic love song. He gave me everything. Drove me around in his sports car. Bought me designer dresses. Called me ‘his girl’ in front of everyone.”
Bob stayed completely still, listening with his whole soul.
“But it wasn’t love,” she said. “It was manipulation. Control. He liked that I was pretty and broken. Liked that I thought being chosen by him meant I was worth something.”
Her hands tightened in her lap.
“Then one night… he took me home after a club party. I’d said no. I remember saying it. I was tired. I didn’t want to stay over. He gave me a drink, just so “ we could relax”— I didn’t know something was in it. I passed out in his bed.”
Her voice cracked then, finally.
“When I woke up, I wasn’t wearing my dress anymore. Just a sheet. He was in the kitchen making coffee like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”
She looked at Bob, her voice hoarse.
“I didn’t do anything. I just… laid there. Crying. Because I realized right then — I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for someone to lie to me sweetly enough that I could pretend it was real.”
A long pause followed. Bob’s hand found hers, trembling but firm.
“He never went to jail. Of course not. I didn’t tell anyone. Who was gonna believe me? I was just some ‘party girl’ sneaking into clubs with an older man.”
Tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
“So I went numb. For a time, I just thought that dating would lead me to the same path my mother went into. I told myself I deserved it for being stupid. For needing love too much. Life stopped being colorfull, and just went with the whatever the wind took me, and it was not far. I got out of the house, never truly cared to repair the relationship with my parents, but going with no money wasn't very smart, didn't even got the education I desired, got away from my friends. And when I realized I was stuck in a loop, always stagnant, never really improving, and I just accepted it.”
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt, breath shaky.
“But then… you.”
Bob’s eyes locked with hers, wide and wet and full of disbelief.
“You came into that stupid fast food place in a chicken suit. Nervous. Sad. So fucking awkward. But you were kind. And you made me feel… safe.”
She smiled through the tears.
“And every day, even on your worst days, you looked at me like I was something worth staying sober for. And that meant everything, Bobby. It still does.”
She moved closer to him, took his face gently in her hands.
“I know what it’s like to carry pain that eats at you. I know what it’s like to feel like your story’s already been written — and it ends with you broken. I don’t judge for the path you took, sometimes I…I thought about it, I hang out with the wrong people, of course I have done it before, I didn’t rely on it but…I just I don’t know, I was lucky I guess.”
Bob was crying now, hard, his face buried against her shoulder.
“But it’s not over,” she whispered. “We’re not done.”
He looked up, shaking.
She brushed a tear from his cheek and smiled through her own.
"I see you. Not the addiction. Not the mistakes. You. And I love you… even the parts you hide.”
Bob let out a trembling breath and held her tighter, like he’d never let go again.
And in that moment — surrounded by all the wreckage, the shadows of what they'd both survived — two broken souls found something whole.
--
Present day
The days bled into each other now.
She moved like a shadow through the fluorescent-lit diner, apron tied tight around her waist, sneakers dragging just a little more than usual. The name tag still read Y/N, though the letters were beginning to smudge. No one commented. No one really looked.
“Welcome to Cluckin’ Bucket. What can I get you?” “Refill’s free. I’ll be right back.” “Fries come with that. You want ranch or ketchup?”
Her voice didn’t change. Not cheerful, not cold—just flat. A practiced cadence with just enough inflection to pass as human. The kind of tone that no one questioned. That no one cared enough to dig beneath.
Her coworkers passed by in a quiet shuffle. No jokes. No checking in. Just nods and tray exchanges. Maybe they could sense it—the weight around her like a storm cloud that never lifted. Or maybe they were used to it by now.
She stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom during her ten-minute break and didn’t recognize her own face. The bump beneath her uniform was unmistakable now. She didn’t bother trying to hide it anymore. There was nothing left to hide behind. No more stories. No more pretending that he might show up mid-shift and scoop her into his arms like it was all some misunderstanding.
The clock ticked by. Her shift ended without fanfare.
She changed in the back room, put on her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck. No goodbyes. Just the squeak of the door as it closed behind her.
The night was cold but clear. A rare calm in the chaos of the city.
She walked with her earbuds in, phone buried deep in her coat pocket, letting the random shuffle take over. Whatever came on, came on. She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t have preferences. She just needed something to drown out the silence.
Halfway home, her feet started to ache. She spotted a bench tucked beside an empty bus stop, under a flickering streetlight. It wasn’t much, but it was empty. And it was still.
She sat down slowly, one hand instinctively resting on her stomach.
The music kept playing.
And then, like fate—like punishment—their song came on. That stupid song, that she could not stop listenning. "Yours" - maye.
That one he used to hum under his breath while frying chicken in the kitchen. The one they danced to once in the middle of their living room at midnight, barefoot and grinning, cheap wine on the counter and nothing but love between them.
Her throat tightened.
She stared down at the cracked pavement beneath her feet, the light above humming faintly as it flickered.
He loved me, she thought. He really did.
That was the cruelest part. He hadn’t been faking it. She’d felt it in his touch, in the way he held her in the mornings, the way he kissed her forehead when she cried after a long shift. It wasn’t pretend. He loved her.
But he left anyway.
He loved her, and he left.
The thought came like a stormcloud, suffocating the warmth before it could grow.
He had made a choice. She knew that now. The police confirmed it. He had planned it. Saved up. Booked a ticket. Crossed oceans not to be found. She spent her free time removing the flyers she had put up for him.
She wanted to scream at him. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t the baby enough? But screaming wouldn't help. It never did. It only made her feel hollow afterward.
Still, her mind wandered—always back to him.
Maybe he regrets it, she thought. Maybe he’s out there, wishing he could come back. Maybe he thinks about her. About this child.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Every hopeful thought fought against the brutal weight of reality like a war inside her skull.
She was tired of the battle. Hope hurt almost as much as the truth.
She lowered her head into her hands and let the music keep playing. The baby shifted inside her, a small, fluttering reminder that she wasn’t completely alone.
But she felt like she was.
She lived in limbo now. Between memory and disappointment. Between what they had and what was left behind.
The bench was cold. The city was loud. But she stayed there for a long time, because going home meant facing the silence of their apartment again.
And she wasn’t ready for that yet.
--
Meanwhile, in Malaysia- 2 months ago
The air in Malaysia was thick — not just with humidity, but with something heavier. Guilt didn’t have a scent, but if it did, Bob imagined it would smell like the sweat-drenched room he was holed up in. Ceiling fan rattling overhead. One bare light bulb swaying from a cracked ceiling. A single mattress on the floor. A half-empty bottle of water at his feet.
He hadn't spoken more than a few words to anyone in days.
The job they’d given him was temporary, meaningless. He moved crates from one side of a warehouse to the other. A ghost with hands. No one asked his name. He didn’t offer it.
Every night, he collapsed onto the mattress like a dying star — heavy, slow, and silent. And every night, her face found him again.
Y/N.
He could still see the way her hair fell across her face in the morning when she leaned over the stove, cooking eggs in his worn-out T-shirt. The way she would hum softly under her breath while drying dishes. The way her fingers curled instinctively over the swell of her belly the day she told him they were going to be parents.
He had kissed that hand.
And then he left.
Because he was a coward. Because the drugs were easier. Because he’d convinced himself she was better off without him.
But the truth was uglier than that.
He missed her so much it made him physically ache. Not just her body, her warmth — but the space she created around him. Safe, forgiving, real. She was the first person in his life who hadn’t looked at him like a lost cause.
And he’d proven them all right.
He rubbed at his face, scrubbing tears away before they could fall. But it was useless. They came anyway.
He reached under the mattress and pulled out the photo.
It was wrinkled, faded from being handled so many times. It showed the two of them sitting in the park on their first date — the one where she packed the entire meal and insisted he try her potato salad. He hated eggs, but he ate it anyway because she’d made it with so much love.
She was laughing in the photo. He remembered that moment. He'd just made some dumb joke about the squirrel trying to steal her sandwich. She had leaned into him, eyes crinkling, and he thought, I’m never letting go of this.
He traced the edge of her face with his finger.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He’d whispered it every night since he left. Sometimes louder. Sometimes choked out between sobs. But she couldn’t hear him. She would never hear him.
He imagined her now — back in that little apartment. Alone. Tired. Maybe crying. Maybe angry. Maybe both. Maybe she hated him. He wouldn’t blame her.
But maybe… just maybe, some part of her still believed in him.
And that was the cruelest hope of all.
Because he didn’t deserve it.
He stared at the ceiling, hands trembling. The meth wasn’t hitting like it used to. The numbness didn’t come fast enough anymore.
And still, in his mind, her voice lingered.
"You’re stronger than this, Bobby. You’re not your worst day."
He closed his eyes and clutched the photo to his chest.
But in this place, across oceans and guilt, those words felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone better than him.
Still, he held onto them.
Because it was all he had left.
--
Night came early in this part of the city.
Not because the sun set any quicker — but because the shadows here swallowed light before it could settle. The alleyways twisted like veins, pulsing with neon flickers and muffled shouting from nearby vendors. The street smelled like oil and rot and burning sugar. Bob barely noticed anymore.
He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just nodded off in strange places — under stairwells, on benches, wherever his body finally gave in. He was five days clean and forty-eight hours high. Maybe more. Time didn't work right anymore.
His hands shook as he walked. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. His mouth was dry. Eyes too wide. He was running low — the last dose hadn’t been enough. Not by a long shot. The pain crept in again. The ache behind his eyes, the guilt in his ribs. Her voice in his head.
"Bobby, don’t lie to me." "We can get through this." "I love you, even when you don’t love yourself."
He gritted his teeth and shoved her voice aside.
She wasn’t here. She wasn’t real anymore.
He needed to make her go away.
He ducked down a narrow side street, where dealers sometimes drifted like ghosts, offering plastic baggies with eyes too old for their faces. But tonight, no one was there. Just the hum of faulty streetlights and the sting of desperation in his chest.
“Looking for something?”
Bob stopped.
The voice was smooth — too smooth. Like glass over ice. It came from a man leaning against a rusted metal door, half-shrouded in shadow. White shirt, dark blazer, not a bead of sweat on him despite the thick air. He looked out of place here. Clean. Controlled. Dangerous.
Bob didn’t answer. Just stared with hollow, half-blown pupils.
The man stepped forward slowly, like he already knew the answer.
“You’re not from here. You don’t belong. You’re just trying to disappear, aren’t you?” His smile was thin. “I know that look. Like you’re trying to burn every part of yourself out so there’s nothing left.”
Bob blinked, confused. Agitated. “You got something or not?”
“I have something,” the man said. “But it’s not what you’re expecting.”
That should’ve been a red flag. Maybe it was. But Bob had walked past every red flag he’d ever seen without blinking. His curiosity was frayed, his caution dulled. The man held out a card.
“Come with me. Right now. We’re looking for volunteers. People like you — no strings, no questions. You let us do what we need, and in return...you won’t feel a thing ever again.”
Bob stared at the card. It was black. No writing. Just a silver symbol — something sharp and angular, like a thunderbolt wrapped in a serpent. "O.X.E"
“What is this?”
“A way out,” the man said simply. “You’ve tried everything else. Let this be your last door.”
Bob hesitated.
His skin itched. His teeth clenched. His knees ached. His chest hurt. Not from withdrawal — but from remembering her. From remembering what he left behind. The girl with stars in her eyes who made him believe, for a little while, that he could be worth something. That he could be whole.
He swallowed hard.
“Will it make me better? Like... a better person? Useful?” he whispered.
The man’s smile didn’t change. “Eventually.”
Bob nodded once.
That’s all it took.
And just like that, he followed the man into the dark, down a corridor lined with flickering lights and metal doors — unaware that the choice he just made wouldn’t numb his pain.
It would unleash it.
--
Present day, 7a.m- New York
The weak morning sun slanted through the café windows in narrow ribbons, cutting through the steam rising from two mismatched coffee mugs. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast and the overworked espresso machine. It was too early for the place to be busy, and too quiet for comfort. A tiny bell chimed each time the door opened, but no one came in. Not yet.
Y/N sat across from Officer Cooper, her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug like it was the only thing anchoring her in place. Her eyes were tired. Dark crescents hung beneath them, untouched by makeup. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose across her face. She looked thin — too thin — except for the roundness of her belly, which pushed gently against the edge of the table.
She stirred her coffee slowly, even though she hadn’t added sugar. Or cream. Just for something to do with her hands.
“I’m sorry I called,” she said, her voice quiet. “I just didn’t know who else…”
Cooper, across from her, shook his head. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I told you before — if you need something, you call. That wasn’t just some empty promise.”
She offered him a small, broken smile. It didn’t last.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Been thinking about things I shouldn’t. Options.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of options?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers moved to the base of her belly, holding it gently, protectively. Her gaze dropped to the table, then shifted to the window. She didn’t want to see his face when she said it.
“I’ve been looking into adoption,” she said finally. “Private. Families who… who can’t have kids. People who want this. Who have homes. Stability. Money. Things I don’t.”
Cooper leaned back, visibly stunned. His coffee mug clinked softly against the table as he set it down, forgotten. “That’s a serious thing to say, Y/N.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
He studied her. The deep-set sadness in her eyes. The stiffness in her shoulders. The fragility in her voice that she was trying so hard to hide.
“Do you want to give the baby up,” he asked gently, “or is this the last thing on a long list of desperate maybes?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Her lips trembled, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop it. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. She turned her face toward the window, where early morning joggers passed by, carefree. Laughing. Living.
“I love this baby,” she said, her voice breaking. “So much it makes me sick. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even have enough money for rent next month. My job’s cutting my hours ‘cause I’m showing too much. I can't stand on my feet that long anymore. I’ve sold half our stuff just to make it through. And every time I think I’m crawling forward, I just— I slide back.”
Cooper reached across the table and placed a weathered hand over hers. It was warm. Solid. Like a rock in a storm.
“You’re not alone,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”
She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Feels like I am.”
“You don’t have to make this decision today. Or alone. There’s help out there. I can pull some strings — get you in touch with someone who can offer a better job. Something safer, something that won’t drain the life out of you. Hell, I’ll drive you myself if I have to. In the meantime, I can help, I told you I'm a grandfather, I can give you stuff for the baby, stuff that my granddaughter outgrown, I don't know, I can give you some money, help you get on you feet.”
She finally looked at him, eyes shimmering.
“You’d do that?”
He nodded, serious. “I would. I told you I have a daughter like you, I know my help would be for a good outcome.” He let out a deep breath. "I know you're just a good person with unresolved past damaged, and I could I look at someone who resembles my babygirl and let them suffer the consequences of other people's actions Y/N."
Y/N looked back out the window, her shoulders shaking slightly as the tears finally came. But she didn’t sob. She cried quietly, like she’d gotten good at it. Like it was part of her morning routine.
“I keep thinking about him,” she whispered. “Not the one that left. The one before. The one who came home with flowers after a long shift. The one who said I made him feel like maybe he wasn’t broken.”
She wiped her cheeks, her hand trembling.
“I have the photos. And this baby. And some dumb song we used to play every Sunday morning while cooking pancakes. That’s all I have left of him.”
She exhaled shakily, resting a hand over her bump again.
Cooper was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but firm.
“What was it about him, Y/N?” he asked. “What made him worth all this pain?”
She looked at him, startled.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re holding onto something that’s dragging you down so far, I’m afraid you’ll never come back up. What was so special about Bob Reynolds that even your love for this baby’s not enough to let him go? You spent months knocking at my door every single day, demading those lazy bastards to do something, persisting, looking for him. Losing yourself for a guy who planned leaving while sleeping by your side.”
Y/N didn’t answer, not right away.
Y/N didn’t look at Cooper when she spoke.
Her gaze stayed pinned to the window, as if the right answer might walk by, wearing Bobby’s face.
“I know him,” she said quietly. “That’s why I can’t let go. Not because I’m stupid or weak or in denial. I know Bobby.”
Cooper leaned forward slightly, listening.
“I know how dark his thoughts can get. How he used to wake up some mornings and just… sit there. Quiet. Staring at the floor like the weight of being alive was too much. And he’d smile at me, pretend everything was okay, but I could see it. That hollow look in his eyes. I know how much he hated himself for the things he did. How ashamed he was of the drugs. Of needing them.”
Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.
“He thought I didn’t know how deep it went. But I did. I always did. And I never once judged him. I just wanted him to stop because I loved him. Not because I was angry. Not because I wanted to fix him. Because I wanted him alive. And he tried, God, he tried. Even when he failed, he tried again.”
She paused, drawing a shaky breath.
“You’re asking me why I can’t let him go?” she said, finally turning to Cooper, eyes brimming with exhausted pain. “Because he never let go of me. Even when he was breaking, even when the drugs were louder than my voice — he’d still look at me like I was the only good thing he had left. He knew everything about me, Cooper. The ugly things. The things I never told anyone.”
She looked down at her hands, as if the secrets were written in her palms.
“I told him how I used to be, I was really a bad person for myself, specially in my teeangers years. God... So much shit that I don't even understand how I let all of it happen, but you know what?”
Her voice softened to a whisper.
“He kissed me. Just kissed me, and said, ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’ Like none of it made me less. And I know it did, that's how I ended up here, not pregnant and alone, but here. And was doomed before him, anyway, we were eachothers only light.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks now, freely, silently.
“I didn’t have to pretend with him. I didn’t have to be strong every second of the day. He’d remind me — every single day — how far I’d come. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when he couldn’t see it in himself.”
She pressed a hand to her belly, as if grounding herself.
“That’s why I can’t stop loving him. That’s why I keep hoping. Because the man I knew wasn’t just an addict. He was kind. And scared. And trying. And maybe… maybe he left because he thought I deserved better. Maybe he thought disappearing was mercy.”
Her voice was almost gone now. Just a whisper, like she was talking more to herself than to Cooper.
“But I didn’t need better. I just needed him.”
The silence between them settled like dust.
Cooper said nothing. What could he say? There was no law or logic that could dismantle the truth of what she'd just laid bare. No policy, no report, no advice to hold against the unshakable bond she'd painted with her words.
So he just sat there, eyes on her, while she stared through the glass at a world that kept moving without her.
More Posts from Starfulhabitz and Others
Heavily recommended writer 🧎
Ereardon Masterlist
Masterlist
Jake “Hangman” Seresin
You Again [Miniseries]
It’s been five years since you last saw your childhood best friend and first love Jake Seresin. But fate, or coincidence, has you back in Jake’s life and he’s desperate not to lose you again.
Slow Burn [Full length series]
After a one night stand with Hangman disrupts the fresh start you were looking for when moving to San Diego, the unexpected pregnancy forces you and Jake learn how to live with each other and tolerate one another. As the months go by, you slowly get to know the real Jake beneath the facade he puts on, but when old flames and work obstacles threaten to topple everything, your new relationship is put to the test.
As It Was [Full length series]
When Jake Seresin calls to tell you he’s accepted a permanent position at Top Gun, you’re elated to finally be living in the same city as your best friend. But everything changes when Jake tells you his news — he has a new girlfriend, and he’s serious about her. And while you want to like her, for Jake’s sake, something about her feels wrong. Jake’s arrival in San Diego also puts you in the direct path of Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, who has set his sights on you despite being Jake’s sworn enemy. Every move Rooster makes, Jake intercepts. What game are these two playing, and why is Jake more concerned about you moving on with Rooster than he is about his own relationship?
He’d Let Her Go [One-shot]
Jake meets the love of his life in college, but after years together he realizes the best thing he can do if he really loves her is to let her go.
My Girl [Full length series]
Jake Seresin could be the answer to all of your dating woes. He’s the full package: steady job, mature, dependable, attractive to a fault. The polar opposite of every guy your age and he’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. But there’s one roadblock: he’s a single father to four-year-old Ellie. Jake is looking for a level of commitment you’re not quite sure you’re ready to give, and he’s not willing to bring someone into his daughter’s life who isn’t there for the long haul. And even if you are stepmom material, is Jake ready to let someone back in his life while still mourning the recent loss of his late wife?
Robert “Bob” Floyd
One Night [One-shot]
You have your eyes on Bob at the Hard Deck, but have to shoot down Jake Seresin first.
Gas Station Tears [One-shot]
After your boyfriend dumps you, your car stalls out in a gas station parking lot. Luckily, Bob Floyd happens to be there to fix your car. Can he fix your heart, too?
It Was Never Him [One-shot]
You catch your boyfriend Rooster making out with a girl at the Hard Deck and only one person can comfort you in the aftermath: Bob Floyd.
What Are You Thinking? [One-shot]
Bob Floyd is a quiet man. Sometimes you have to ask him what he’s thinking just to know what wheels are turning inside of his head. He always gives you a response, until one day, years into your marriage, he turns the question on you.
Friends Don’t [Full length series]
Bob has been your best friend for almost a decade, ever since he quietly volunteered to tutor you in college. The two of you have spent years chasing each other around the globe – Bob as a WSO, you as a travel blogger. You’ve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, and he’s been your rock. But when a surprise diagnosis threatens to crumble your picture-perfect life, you’re on the first flight back to San Diego, desperate to put down roots for the first time. Will Bob finally have it in him to admit that you could be the love of his life? What will he say when he finds out the secret you’ve been skillfully hiding from him? Or worse, what if he doesn’t find out until it’s too late?
Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw
Come Back [Full length series]
Eight years ago, Bradley Bradshaw was just a college boyfriend who broke your heart. Now, he’s back in your life after a coincidental reunion, and he’s adamant about starting up a friendship. Will it be possible to be just friends with Bradley, or is he inevitably going to end up ruining everything you’ve spent the better part of a decade rebuilding?
Too Far Gone [One-shot]
Your life changed forever the moment you fell for Bradley Bradshaw. But his life wasn’t an easy one to fit into. He had more baggage than lost and found at JFK airport. You were always one for a fixer upper. Bradley could be your ultimate passion project. But was he too far gone for you to save him?
His Best Friend’s Wedding [Two-part series]
Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw has been your best friend for a decade. He’s also your fiancé’s best man. So when he shows up at your hotel room the night before your wedding, it’s just because he’s your friend, right?
Rhett Abbott
A Place Like This [Full length series]
Rhett Abbott has never met a girl like you. You’re a corporate city girl in Wabang on borrowed company time — he thinks there’s no way you would waste it on him. So when you fall for the local bull rider, you’re both a little surprised. What will it take to get Rhett to realize he can give you everything you’re looking for? And will Rhett be able to reconcile the fact that your job is literally to dismantle Wabang and break apart the only place his family has ever known?
Other writing
I ask him for stories
Heat
me, a supposed writer, when i can’t find the very specific scenario i made up in my head in any fanfic: am i- am i supposed to write it myself??
This is your boyfriend, Mom? | Beefy!Bucky Barnes x f!reader.
Pairings: Beefy Bucky Barnes x Single Mom reader. Themes: Bucky getting absolutely roasted by a six and half year old baby boy. Summary: Bucky comes over and meets your very protective son for the very first time. A/N: I'm in a phase where I like Bucky interacting with kids. . .🥲
The doorbell chimes, and you pull open the door, coming face to face with a broad-shouldered figure that fills the entire doorway. Bucky’s piercing blue eyes twinkle with humor, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his posture, as if he’s unsure whether to step inside or bolt.
“You’re here!” you exclaim with a warm smile, stepping aside to let him in.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bucky murmurs, leaning in for a brief kiss before glancing around your living room nervously. “So, where’s the little guy?”
A shuffle of small feet behind you catches your attention. You turn to see your son peeking out from behind the couch, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he sizes up the man who just entered his territory.
“There he is!” You wave your hand toward your son encouragingly. “Come say hi.”
Your son doesn’t budge, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Bucky like a miniature security guard. “So, this is your boyfriend?”
You can hear the disdain dripping from each word, and Bucky’s lips twitch into an amused smile. “I guess I am.”
“Mom,” your son deadpans, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s. “This is what you’ve been hyping up? He looks like he just rolled out of bed.”
“Hey, kid, I put in a lot of effort today.” Bucky gestures to his dark leather jacket, perfectly disheveled hair, and rugged stubble. “This is my ‘I’m totally put together but still approachable’ look.”
“Approachable?” your son snorts. “With that hair? You look like a drowned dog who’s been through a tornado and then zapped by lightning.”
Bucky blinks, surprised. He looks at you, then back at your son, and his mouth quirks up in a grin. “A drowned dog, huh? That’s original. So, what’s your excuse for your hair?”
Your son’s small hands shoot up defensively to his carefully combed locks. “My hair looks great, thank you very much. I didn’t put all this mousse in for you.”
You bite your lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Be nice,” you whisper to your son, who rolls his eyes dramatically before turning his attention back to Bucky.
“Alright, old man—”
“Old?” Bucky interjects, eyebrows lifting. “I’m still in my prime, kid. What are you, five?”
“I’m six and a half.” Your son’s voice drips with indignation, as if Bucky has committed an unforgivable crime by getting his age wrong. “And you’re still old. You probably creak when you sit down.”
Bucky shakes his head, chuckling. “I don’t creak, but your mom might tell you I’ve got a few squeaky joints, yeah.”
“Ew, don’t—don’t tell me stuff like that.” Your son makes a gagging noise and then glares up at you. “Why is he even here, Mom? You know I’m supposed to have final say.”
“You have final say?” Bucky repeats, clearly intrigued. He shifts his weight, giving the boy a once-over. “What’s your name, anyway, kid?”
“Lucas.” He squares his shoulders, a defiant lift to his chin. “Got it memorized, old man?”
Bucky nods slowly, a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Lucas, huh? Alright, Lucas, I’ll try not to forget it.”
“You better not.” Lucas looks Bucky up and down, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Mom, this guy looks like one of those 90s action figures. You know, the kind where the legs don’t bend, and they’re so top-heavy they keep falling over.”
You snort loudly, unable to hold it in, and Bucky shoots you a betrayed look.
“Kid’s got a point,” you manage to say between laughs, and Bucky shakes his head, feigning exasperation.
“Oh, really?” Bucky folds his arms across his chest, staring down at Lucas. “Well, you look like a baby duck that wandered into a windstorm. All fluffed up and ready to pick a fight, huh?”
Lucas blinks, startled for a moment before narrowing his eyes, a grin forming on his face. “Better than looking like a grumpy cat that hasn’t had its coffee yet.”
You cough to hide your laughter, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Grumpy cat?”
“Yeah, with all those lines between your eyebrows.” Lucas steps closer, squinting as if he’s examining a rare species. “I bet you frown at the sun, too.”
You stifle a giggle, and Bucky sighs dramatically, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me, Lucas.”
“Starting?” Lucas tilts his head mockingly. “I’m basically giving you a head start, ‘cause if I really didn’t like you, you’d know.”
Bucky chuckles, glancing at you. “I like him. He’s got guts.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfy, Gramps.” Lucas gestures to the couch with a flourish. “The only reason you’re even here is ‘cause Mom seems to think you’re ‘cute’ or whatever.”
“I am cute,” Bucky agrees seriously, causing Lucas’s mouth to drop open in disbelief.
“No. Way. You’ve got metal bits, and your beard is all scratchy, and—” Lucas cuts himself off, his gaze dropping to Bucky’s stomach. “And a jelly belly! Mom, did you know your boyfriend has a jelly belly?”
“What?” Bucky sputters, glancing down at himself with wide eyes. “I don’t have a jelly belly—Also this beard?” He strokes it like he’s pondering life’s great mysteries. “Your mom likes it.”
“Yes, you do!” Lucas insists, poking at Bucky’s midsection with a tiny finger. “Superheroes are supposed to be all muscle, but you’re hiding a squishy balloon in there.”
“Squishy balloon?” Bucky repeats, looking thoroughly betrayed as he turns to you.
“Lucas,” you chide gently, but your son’s eyes are wide and innocent. “Don’t be mean,” you add, fighting back laughter.
Bucky sighs and looks down at Lucas with a mock serious expression. “You know, I’m part super-soldier, part robot, and part… dad bod. It’s a package deal, kid.”
Lucas narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Bucky’s face. “I guess that makes you a little cooler, but you’re still a metal-armed grumpy pants.”
“Metal-armed grumpy pants?” Bucky echoes, eyebrows lifting. “Wow, we’re just racking up the nicknames today, huh?”
“Yup.” Lucas grins, then frowns again, cocking his head thoughtfully. “You’re also kinda like a… metal mop. All hair up top and a shiny stick arm.”
“A metal mop?” Bucky asks, his voice filled with mock offense as he raises his eyebrows. “You’re really on a roll.”
Lucas shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I think it suits you.”
“Well, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Bucky says with a chuckle.
Lucas scowls, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re lucky, you know.”
“Oh?” Bucky leans down, hands on his knees to get on eye level with Lucas. “And why’s that?”
“‘Cause Mom likes you,” Lucas mutters, eyes flickering to you and back to Bucky, a hint of protectiveness in his tone. “But if you hurt her, I’ll tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight.”
Bucky’s eyes widen in shock. “What? I don’t—”
“Yeah, okay,” Lucas interrupts, holding up a finger. “But I’ll tell everyone you do. Including all the Avengers.”
Bucky’s mouth opens, and then he shuts it, clearly struggling for a response. “You wouldn’t.”
Lucas just stares at him, completely unblinking. “You wanna test me, Mr. Metal Mop?”
Bucky glances at you, looking for support, but you just raise your hands innocently. “He’s tougher than he looks.”
After a long pause, Bucky leans down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Alright, kid, name your terms.”
Lucas pretends to think for a moment, tapping his chin. “You have to play video games with me… three times. No complaints. And no quitting when I beat you.”
Bucky looks horrified. “I—”
“Deal?” Lucas extends his tiny hand with a sly grin.
Bucky glances between you and Lucas, then sighs dramatically. “Deal.”
Lucas’s grin widens. “Oh, and one more thing—if I catch you throwing the controller in frustration, I’ll know you can’t handle losing.”
Bucky stares at him, completely lost for words.
“Just a fair warning.” Lucas pats Bucky’s arm as if he’s the one doing Bucky a favor. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Jelly Belly who’s gonna get his butt kicked at Mario Kart.”
You burst out laughing, and Bucky groans, running a hand down his face. “You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope.” Lucas shakes his head with a grin. “Better practice up, Grumpy Pants.”
“Practice? Against you?” Bucky scoffs, but the smile pulling at his lips betrays him. “Kid, I’m gonna wipe the floor with you.”
“Sure, Mr. Nightlight,” Lucas replies smoothly. “Sure.”
Bucky glances at you and then back at Lucas, a mischievous look in his eye. “You know, at this rate, you’re gonna start calling me Dad.”
Lucas pauses, then tilts his head with a confused look. “Why would I call you Dad?”
Bucky smirks. “Because you know I’ll beat you so bad at those video games, you’re gonna need a parental figure to console you.”
“Right, I can call you Dad,” Lucas’s eyes light up, and he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Only if you pay me twenty bucks a week, Dad.”
Bucky’s jaw drops. “Twenty bucks?!”
“Yeah,” Lucas shrugs nonchalantly. “Think of it as a ‘dad fee.’ I’m expensive. Mom’s got good taste.”
Bucky looks at you, baffled. “Did he just—?”
“Oh, and I’ll need a ride to school every morning,” Lucas continues, holding up his fingers as he lists his demands. “And ice cream. Twice a week. But no toppings. I’m not greedy.”
Bucky bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “You really thought this through, huh?”
“Business is business,” Lucas says with a serious nod. “So, what’s it gonna be, Dad?”
Bucky blinks, then leans back and sighs dramatically. “Sorry, buddy, but I think I’ll just stick with Mr. Metal Mop.”
Lucas crosses his arms, a sly grin forming on his lips. “Your loss. Could’ve been Dad. Now you’re just gonna be the guy who cried during Shrek.”
Bucky’s shoulders slump as he glances at you, utterly defeated. “I’m doomed.”
“Yup,” you say with a grin. “But hey, at least you didn’t agree to the ‘dad fee.’”
“True,” Bucky mutters, then he turns back to Lucas, raising an eyebrow. “But for the record, I did not cry during Shrek.”
“Sure, Mr. Nightlight,” Lucas deadpans. “Sure.”
The youngest Palestinian journalist is a 9 year old girl.
Her name Lama Jamous.
Lama has been reporting on tik tok what has been happening in Gaza. Her father is a journalist working for Al Jazeera and is trying to get her out of Rafah.
Link to the gofundme from the video
Please share her story.
Actual footage of me patently waiting for my favorite author to upload😫😫😫
Thinking about this cod fanfic and I need help finding it 💀💀
I think it was either soap or ghost?? Maybe even Konig??? Or price??? And like, they have a wife reader who takes care of 1-2 kids. And like, the fathers at the school thinks she's a single mom and always flirt with her. Because they never see Soap/Ghost/Konig around. And mom/wife reader is friendly cause she's like,"it's the right thing to do right??"
And so once Soap/Ghost/Konig are home for a bit, the kids tell them and attends the kids/school event going on dressed in their military gear or smth. And like, the dads are shocked and the moms flirt over him n stuff.
Idk it's been on my mind 💀💀 por favor I need that fic found LMAO
Little life
Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin has always been the centre of attention, but behind the cocky aviator façade, he cherishes quiet nights at home with his pregnant wife, Y/N, as they navigate love, routine, and a life the squad knows nothing about.
Warning: This fic contains fluff, pregnancy themes, and light teasing romance.
Word count: 1068 words
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader
English is not my first language so I apologies for mistakes
Part 2 Part 3
Jake Seresin was a man who always seemed to attract attention. With his easy charm and cocky grin, women flocked to him the moment they laid eyes on him. It happened every time—at the bar, after missions, during social events. The second a woman saw him, they’d saunter over, usually with a flirtatious smile, batting their lashes, asking him to buy them a drink.
And every time, without fail, Jake turned them down.
It confused the entire Dagger squad. They’d tease him relentlessly about it, nudging him with raised brows and playful smirks, wondering why someone like him—someone who had the looks, the swagger, the perfect call sign—never took the bait. They couldn’t figure him out. To them, Jake seemed like the type to indulge in a little fun, to soak up the attention and enjoy the benefits of being the golden boy.
But Jake wasn’t interested.
Not anymore.
Because the truth was, when Jake wasn’t flying missions or teasing his teammates, he was at home in Texas, living a life no one suspected. He had a routine, a life outside of the cocky, brash aviator persona he wore like a second skin.
That life began with you.
You sat at your desk, soft lighting casting a warm glow over your latest manuscript. The smell of ink and freshly brewed tea hung in the air, and the quiet hum of a summer night filtered through the open window. You were three months pregnant now, the couple married for a month now, and the bump had just started to show beneath your oversized sweater, a fact Jake never missed when he was home.
He sat nearby, like always, in his favourite armchair. His legs stretched out casually, one arm slung over the back, while the other held a half-empty glass of whiskey. His eyes weren’t on the drink, though—they were on you, as they always were.
You highlighted another line in your manuscript, frowning a little as you moved the neon marker across the page. The ruler in your hand—one you used to make sure your lines were perfectly straight—had gotten a little too stained with colour, and without thinking, you reached out and wiped the edge of the ruler off on Jake’s hand.
He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head in amusement. “You know, sweetheart, there are other ways to clean that thing. Ever heard of tissues?”
You glanced at him, giving a half-smile as you continued working. “Maybe. But I prefer you.”
That made him grin wider. “Lucky me, then.”
It had become a sort of routine for the two of you, especially now that you were pregnant and he was often gone on missions. When he was home, though, there was no place Jake would rather be than right here, with you, basking in the quiet moments. To anyone else, he was “Hangman”—the sharp-tongued aviator with an ego the size of Texas itself. But with you, he was just Jake, the man who found peace in the most mundane of moments.
He loved watching you work. The way your brow would furrow in concentration, how you’d absentmindedly tuck your hair behind your ear, or bite your lip when you were thinking through a tricky plot point. Jake would tease you for your little quirks, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on the top of your head when he couldn’t resist anymore.
“Need any help there, author of mine?” he’d ask, his voice teasing but soft.
You’d roll your eyes in response, but your smile always gave you away. “I think I’ve got it covered, flyboy.”
Jake would laugh and go back to his drink, but you knew he liked being part of your world like this. When you’d first met, you had been a rising star in the literary world, already on your way to becoming a bestselling author. You were about to turn 20 in a couple weeks just before you wandered into 27 year old Jakes life. Jake never made a big deal about it, though he’d brag quietly to himself every time he saw one of your books displayed in airport bookstores. No one in the squad had any idea who you were, much less that you and Jake were married. And he liked it that way. He liked keeping this part of his life private, away from the chaos of the outside world.
With you, everything was simpler. Real.
Jake loved you in ways no one ever saw. He loved you in the stolen kisses between your sentences, in the lazy mornings in bed when you pressed your nose against his chest, in the quiet I love you’s whispered as he pulled you close late at night. You were his world—everything else was just noise.
As you finished another page, you sighed softly, stretching your arms above your head. Jake’s gaze was on you in an instant, taking in the slight curve of your stomach, his eyes filled with warmth and pride. He got up from his chair and moved behind you, his large hands coming to rest on your shoulders, gently kneading away the tension that had built up from hours of working.
“Time to take a break, darlin’,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.
You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment. “Just a little longer. I’m almost done.”
Jake let out a soft laugh, low and teasing. “That’s what you said an hour ago.”
You smiled, but your body relaxed under his hands. You couldn’t deny that the warmth of his touch and the quiet affection in his voice had a way of making you forget the world for a while.
“Alright, alright,” you relented, setting your highlighter down. “But only because you’re so persuasive.”
Jake grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck before straightening up. He turned your chair around so you were facing him, his hands on either side of the armrests, caging you in. His eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint he always had when he was about to say something that would make your heart race.
“Darlin’, I don’t need to be persuasive,” he drawled, his Southern accent thick and smooth. “I’m your favourite distraction, remember?”
You laughed, shaking your head as he leaned in closer. “You’re impossible, Jake.”
“And you love me for it,” he said, his lips brushing against yours before kissing you softly, his hand resting on your belly, feeling the life growing inside you.
And he was right, even though he was nearly seven years older—you did love him for it.
I may or may not have made this into a mini series so let me know if you'd like to be tagged
Part 2 Part 3
me: i love reading angst
me reading angst:
The ghost I left behind- III
Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader
Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?
Note: I kinda wanted to make this more of a filler chapter, because I didn't want to write the whole movie when it doesn't really make sense for this idea, I promise you a more fullfilling chapter next, and the emotions and action will be there!
Word count: 6.3k
Chapter II
--
O.X.E Research Lab. - Malaysia
The hum of fluorescent lights was constant — like static pressed against Bob’s skull. The air was cold, colder than it should’ve been for a place buried under the jungle. Concrete walls closed in around him like a tomb.
He sat alone on the cot in the corner of his cell — no, not a cell, they called it a room. White-walled, sterile, like something out of a hospital, only there was no comfort here. Just observation windows and cameras that never blinked. On the wall across from him, a single metal shelf held the only thing they’d let him keep — a small, worn photograph of Y/N, curled slightly at the corners. She was smiling in the picture, standing barefoot in their kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. Her hair was messy, her eyes tired but warm.
Bob stared at that picture like it was oxygen.
He hadn’t seen her in months. He hadn’t heard her voice, hadn’t felt her hand on his back when the nightmares got bad. But he remembered everything — the sound of her laugh when she teased him about the chicken suit, the way she’d breathe when she fell asleep next to him. The feel of her lips against his shoulder. The way she’d told him she was pregnant — shaking, terrified, and hopeful all at once.
He remembered what he’d said to her that night.
“I’ll get clean. I’ll be better. I want to be the kind of man our kid looks up to.”
And then he left.
He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t said goodbye. He boarded a plane with a one-way ticket and a pocket full of cash he’d scraped together, believing that leaving would present her with a greater good. They promised change. Power. Control. All the things he’d never had. All the things he thought he needed to deserve her.
And now?
Now the power was eating him alive.
The door to the room opened with a hiss. Two armed guards stepped aside as Dr. Lenhart entered, clipboard in hand, eyes cold behind her glasses.
“Subject 44. The team is ready.”
Bob didn’t look at her. His fingers grazed the edge of the photograph once more before standing. He didn’t resist as the guards strapped a control collar around his neck and led him down the corridor.
The room he entered was massive. Sterile. Circular. Glass walls separated the observation deck from the inner chamber. Bob stood in the center, machines humming to life around him, sensors pulsing against his skin.
“Begin neurological synchronization,” a voice echoed overhead.
Bob closed his eyes.
At first, there was silence.
Then came the whispering.
Not in words — not exactly — but in feelings. Rage. Hunger. Emptiness.
He clenched his fists, his breath growing erratic. The air around him shimmered, warped. Lights above flickered, then dimmed to nothing. A black mist seeped from beneath his feet like smoke rising in reverse.
“Restrain output—he’s losing control!” came a panicked voice behind the glass.
But it was too late.
The shadow lashed out like lightning — instinctive, desperate, alive. It slammed against the walls, shrieking with a sound that wasn’t made by any throat. Two technicians in hazmat suits tried to flee, but the black tendrils struck faster than thought. One hit the floor, his body shriveling in seconds. The other screamed — then there was only silence.
And in the middle of it all stood Bob, hovering inches above the ground, his eyes pitch-black, veins glowing faint blue beneath his skin.
Then — darkness.
Bob woke up on the floor, shivering.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours?
He pulled himself to his knees, the collar around his neck heavy like guilt. His head pounded, his limbs ached, but worse was the silence in his mind — not peace, but absence. Like something had used him, then left.
He looked up and saw the bloodstains. The security footage, replaying silently through the tinted glass window. Two lives lost. His hands.
“No,” he whispered, scrambling back, pressing his back to the wall.
His breath hitched as he fumbled for the shelf — for the photo.
There she was.
Still smiling. Still beautiful.
Still waiting.
“I didn’t mean to…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this, Y/N. I just wanted to be enough.”
He buried his face in his hands, shaking.
“I miss you,” he whispered into the silence.
A sob broke loose. He clutched the photo against his chest like it could stitch his soul back together.
“I’m trying to fix this. I swear I’m trying. I just… I thought that I would be dead by now.”
No answer. Only the sound of the distant hum of machines and the slow drip of water somewhere in the corner of the room.
He leaned his head back against the cold wall, eyes glassy, voice no louder than a prayer.
“Please… wait for me.”
--
2 months after
The corridor had no way out, and the new team was looking for an exit, Bob just stays put.
“Bob,” Yelena snaps over her shoulder, pausing. “You’re falling behind.”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are hollow, shoulders hunched under the weight of guilt and grief. The ground beneath them trembles—security drones are drawing near.
“I'll stay” he finally says, voice like crushed gravel. “I’ll just slow you down. It's better for everyone if a just...stay put.”
Yelena walks back toward him. “No, Bob, if you stay you will die.”
“Well it's...whatever” he breathes out. His jaw is tight, his fists clenched. “I don't deserve people saving me, I'm just being a burden to you guys, it's ok, go.”
Yelena’s expression softens, barely perceptible beneath her hardened demeanor. She steps closer.
“Hey, hey, wow, ok, I get it, we all have a void inside of us, we all feel like shit, and alone, but don't let that consume you, you are someone. You just have to control it.”
Bob doesn’t answer. His jaw trembles.
“What do you do to control it?”
Yelena gives him a small smile. "You push it down, like down, you push it."
Walker turns, a huge hole he punched in the wall. “Hey! If the therapy session is over, we have to go.”
She walks ahead without waiting for a response.
He starts walking behind her.
--
Back in New York
Across from her, Mr. Cooper grunted as he settled onto the floor with a sigh of relief, one leg stretched out, the other bent to cradle his back.
Sunlight poured through the open windows, warming the small apartment with its soft, golden glow. The living room was a mess of wooden planks, screws, and folded instructions spread across the floor like a chaotic puzzle. In the center of it all, Y/N sat cross-legged, squinting at the manual with a furrowed brow and a pencil tucked behind her ear, like that somehow made her more capable of interpreting the impossible hieroglyphs IKEA had decided passed for “assembly instructions.”
“I think I pulled something just by looking at that Allen wrench,” he muttered, rubbing his hip.
Y/N giggled softly, setting down the manual. Her belly, now visibly showing as she reached five months, shifted with the movement, and she instinctively rested her hand on it. “We’re not even halfway done. Are you telling me you’re tapping out already?”
“I’m old, sweetheart,” he said with a gruff smile. “I tap out every time the weather drops below seventy.”
She shook her head with a grin and leaned over to pick up a wooden side panel of the crib. It was pale honey-colored oak, sanded smooth, gentle with age. It had once belonged to Cooper’s granddaughter, and now it would belong to her baby.
“You really didn’t have to give me this,” she said, her voice softening.
“Yes, I did,” he replied without missing a beat. “No child deserves to sleep in one of those plastic nightmares. And no mother should go through this alone.”
That word — mother — still settled strangely on her shoulders. Like a coat she was trying on, not quite fitted yet.
She glanced at him, her smile more subdued now, thoughtful. “Thank you.”
He waved it off, leaning back against the wall. “Enough of that. Tell me how the new job’s going. Still wrangling tiny lunatics all day?”
Y/N laughed, genuinely this time, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room. “Yeah. It’s chaos, but kind of... perfect chaos. I mostly work with toddlers. I feed them, change them, read stories. Try to keep them from painting on the walls or eating glue. It’s exhausting sometimes, but... I really love it.”
Cooper watched her closely as she spoke, the weariness on her face dulled slightly by something new—something lighter. Peace, maybe. Or the distant shape of it.
She picked up a small wooden bar and held it like a sword. “Today one of them tried to put mashed peas in my shoes. Another fell asleep on my lap mid-story and started snoring like a little old man. And during snack time, this one girl kept hugging my belly like she knew. Like she knew, you know?”
Her voice softened. “And every day I’m there, I realize more and more... I want this. I want to do all those things with my baby. The feeding, the stories, the naps. I want to see them take their first steps. Hear their first words. I don’t want to miss that.”
She paused, tears stinging lightly at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I stopped looking for couples. I think I knew deep down I couldn’t go through with it. I was just scared... not of the baby. Of doing it alone.”
Mr. Cooper didn’t speak right away. He reached over and gently patted her hand. His weathered fingers were rough but warm.
“You’ve been through hell and back, Y/N. And you’re still here. That baby’s lucky already.”
She gave a teary smile. “Sometimes I still hope he’ll come back. That Bobby will just... walk through the door one day, stupid grin on his face like nothing happened.”
“That kind of love,” Cooper said, after a long moment, “is the kind people go their whole lives never finding. But love’s only half the battle. Raising a child, choosing to stay... that’s the rest. That’s the hard part.”
Y/N nodded, looking down at the crib pieces. Her fingers grazed over the smooth wood, the future taking shape beneath her hands. She felt a soft flutter inside her, the baby moving, stretching gently like they knew she was talking about them.
“I just want to give them a better start,” she whispered. “Better than what I had.”
“You already are,” Cooper said.
They sat in quiet for a while, sunlight casting long shadows on the floor. The crib still unfinished, the future still uncertain—but for the first time in a long while, the air felt different.
A thought crossed her mind. "You think he's okay Mr. Cooper?"
He looked at her, a sad smile in his face, "I hope so sweetheart, I really do."
--
Bob was indeed not okay
The room was colder than he remembered.
There were no windows. No clocks. No reflections. Only the hum of warm orange lights above. He was laying on a bed, rather confortable if he's allowed to say.
The door creaked open, slow and theatrical, and in walked Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, a ghost in high heels and silk. She didn't sit immediately. She liked to hover, to stalk, her movements measured and deliberate.
“Hi Bob! How are you? <Are you confortable?” she said casually, as if they were old friends catching up over coffee.
Bob didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on the floor. The room felt like a trap, but he was too tired to pretend he wasn’t already caught.
“I imagine you’re wondering why you’re still alive,” she continued, circling him. “I thought you were another failure, turns out here you are.”
His breath hitched. “Where am I?”
“Home, for now” she said sweetly.
She finally took the seat across from him, folding her arms on the table like a therapist in disguise.
“You’re a miracle, Bob. My miracle. A walking success story. Do you know how many billions were poured into the O.X.E. Project before we got it right? You’re the first. You’re what we’ve been trying to make for years. You’re the product of patience. Genius. Sacrifice.”
“Don’t,” he muttered.
Valentina’s voice sharpened. “I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to offer you purpose.”
“You signed up for a medical study, which was, as advertised, at the cutting edge of human improvement. But not everybody could handle the amount of greatness that we had in mind—”
His gaze flickered up to her, hazy and wet. “You used me.”
“We made you,” she snapped, then caught herself, letting the corners of her mouth twitch back into a smile. “And you’re more than even you realize. You just need someone who believes in you. Someone who knows what you’re capable of.”
Bob swallowed, teeth gritted. “Where's Yelena ?..., they’re good people. They don’t deserve whatever you’re planning.”
Valentina tilted her head. “They’re weapons, Bob. Trained killers. Criminals really. You think they’ll stop if I tell them to go after someone? You think they won’t? That’s the kind of world you’re in. And that’s the kind of world she’s in, too.”
She slid a photograph across the table.
His heart stopped.
It was her.
The same photo he almost forgot he had on his room in the facility he went to for the experiment.
Bob reached for the photo like it might disappear if he blinked. His fingers trembled as they hovered over it, then finally closed around the edge.
“She’s okay,” Valentina said, almost kindly. “Five months now. Still looking for you. Still crying over you. Still believing in you. Kinda of a bummer that she's alone isn't it?”
A tear slipped down Bob’s cheek as he stared at the image. “I never wanted to leave her. I—I thought if I got better, if I could just fix myself, I could come back. I wanted to come back.”
Valentina leaned in, voice low. “You can.”
He looked up at her. "Where is she? How did you find her?"
“I know a lot about you. I know about your mom’s mental illness, I know about your addiction,your fathe. But does that matter? You can come back stronger. Better. As someone who can protect her. Provide for her. Be a real father. A real partner. But you have to work for me, Bob. You have to give me loyalty. Just a little time. Just a few assignments. And then, I promise—on my name—she’s yours again.”
Bob shook his head slowly, horror creeping in. “You’re threatening her.”
“I’m protecting her,” Valentina said calmly. “From you. From the others. From this world that doesn’t care who she is or what she’s been through. You want to keep her safe? You work with me. You do what I say. Because if you don’t... there are people out there who won’t hesitate to use her against you.”
Bob’s hand clenched around the photo, crumpling the edge.
“You don’t understand my love,” he said, voice cracking.
“I don’t have to,” she replied. “But I can use it.”
He looked at her then, really looked. The truth was a blade in his chest. He was powerful, but powerless. Strong enough to rip holes in the sky, but too broken to say no.
“She’ll hate me.” he whispered.
Valentina stood, brushing invisible dust from her lapel. “Maybe. But hate is a lot like love, Bob. It sticks. It burns. It means you still matter.”
She walked to the door, heels clicking.
“I'll be back when you're feeling better, it's your best interest to control yourself and all your powers.”
The door closed behind her with a final click.
And Bob sat there in silence, holding the photo of the only person who ever saw him as more than his darkness.
His fingers trembled as he whispered her name.
“How did I ended up here baby...”
--
Y/N's pov
The lights were dimmed in the small examination room, a soft hum of fluorescent bulbs vibrating overhead. Y/N lay back on the cold, paper-covered chair, the crinkling noise far too loud in the silence. Her shirt was rolled up, exposing the gentle curve of her belly. She was twenty weeks now, and this was her first real appointment.
She hadn't meant to wait this long, but money and despair had a cruel way of making even basic things feel unreachable. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Cooper, gently reminding her, pushing through her deflection, she might’ve kept pushing it off until she gave birth alone.
The doctor entered with a warm smile, her presence calm and kind, a middle-aged woman with soft eyes and a practiced touch.
"Hi, sweetheart. I’m Dr. Hale. Let’s have a look at this little one, okay?"
Y/N nodded, her throat too tight for words. She tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to relax. She hated that her hands trembled.
Dr. Hale squirted the cold gel onto her stomach, and Y/N winced. "Sorry about the chill. It’ll warm up in just a second," the doctor said, already moving the wand across her skin.
The screen flickered to life beside her. Grainy black-and-white shapes slowly came into focus — shifting, fluttering motion, something alive. Her baby.
Y/N stared. She forgot to breathe.
"There we are," Dr. Hale whispered, smiling at the screen. "Look at that heartbeat. Strong little one, isn’t he?"
Y/N blinked. “He?”
"It’s a boy," Dr. Hale said gently. “Congratulations, mama.”
Y/N’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Her eyes welled up fast, tears rising before she had time to prepare for them. Her lips trembled and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth, the other resting gently over her belly.
A boy. She was having a son.
“He’s measuring well, right on time,” the doctor continued, her voice soft, respectful of the emotion clouding the room. “You’ve done a good job, keeping him strong.”
But Y/N was crying now — quiet, broken sobs — as she stared at the screen. Her baby. Bobby’s baby. And she was seeing him for the first time. A little fluttering shape that would one day have Bobby’s eyes. Maybe even his shy smile.
Dr. Hale handed her a tissue. “It’s okay. First appointments can be overwhelming.”
Y/N laughed softly through the tears, nodding. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
“Your partner must be so happy too,” the doctor added casually, glancing at the monitor. “First-time dads are always in awe during these appointments.”
Y/N’s face froze. She didn’t correct her. She just offered a small, practiced smile. “He is. He… just couldn’t be here today. But he..he's really happy.”
Dr. Hale nodded, not pressing. “Well, this little boy is lucky. You clearly love him very much.”
Y/N looked back to the screen, to the blurry shape moving softly on it, and swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around the paper sheet beneath her.
“He’s everything.” she whispered.
--
2 years ago
The scent of warm fries lingered in the car, mingling with the soft hum of the engine and the quiet tune playing from the radio—something 90s, something nostalgic. Rain tapped gently on the windshield, coating the windows in glistening beads that shimmered under the glow of the streetlight outside the McDonald’s parking lot. The inside of her old sedan was cozy and dim, fogging slightly from their breath and the comfort of shared laughter.
Bob was in the passenger seat, slightly turned toward her, his long legs awkwardly folded into the too-small space. A crumpled paper bag sat between them, half-spilled fries poking out. He held a burger in both hands, but he hadn’t taken a bite in at least a minute—too caught up in the way she was telling her story, animated and full of wild hand gestures, her eyes lit with mischief.
“No, no, wait,” Y/N laughed, nearly choking on her own drink as she swatted his arm. “You have to picture it—this man, right? Full suit. Hair greased back like he’s somebody’s boss. He’s barking at me because his order had pickles when he said no pickles—like it was a personal betrayal. So I’m standing there, biting my tongue, trying not to say ‘Sir, I don’t make the sandwiches, I’m just handing them to you.’”
Bob chuckled, already smiling because he could hear how this story ended. “And then?”
She grinned, pausing for dramatic effect, fries in hand like a microphone.
“He turns too fast, slips on his own spilled soda, and I swear to God, it was like a slow-motion movie scene. Both arms flail, legs go out, and bam—on his ass. The sandwich goes flying. The drink lands on his lap. And everyone just… stares.”
Bob was wheezing, struggling not to spit his drink out. “You’re lying.”
“I swear,” she said, holding up two fingers in mock oath. “The ketchup packet even exploded. Right on his white shirt. Like something out of a damn Tarantino film.”
They both laughed so hard it hurt, leaning toward each other in the cramped space of the car. Bob wiped a tear from his eye and looked at her, still giggling with her hand pressed to her chest, eyes watery from the laughter.
He couldn’t stop looking at her.
He’d never met anyone like her before—someone so unapologetically alive. She wasn’t like the people from his past, people who only spoke in hushed tones and looked at him like he might break. She was loud and kind and brilliant and chaotic in the most mesmerizing way. And somehow, for reasons he still didn’t understand, she liked him.
Y/N caught him staring, mid-fry. She tilted her head. “What?”
Bob blinked, startled. “Nothing. You’re just…”
“What?”
He gave a shy shrug, reaching down for the last fry in the bag. “You’re just…funny.”
“Funny?” she repeated with a smirk. “That’s it?”
“And cool,” he added quickly. “And smart. And, uh—” he hesitated. “Your storytelling is…top-tier.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes playfully and leaned back in her seat. “You’re weird, Bob.”
He smiled at the dashboard, face warming. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
She nudged his arm with hers, shoulder to shoulder. The warmth of her touch buzzed through him. “Wanna come back to my place?”
His eyes snapped to hers.
“I mean,” she added, lifting an eyebrow. “We could watch something. A movie or whatever.”
Bob turned red instantly, so red it almost glowed through his hoodie. “Uh…”
“Oh my God,” she laughed, leaning toward him with her lips curled in amusement. “What were you thinking I meant?”
“N-Nothing!” he stammered, though his voice cracked. “Just—just a movie. Yep.”
She tilted her head and smiled wider, teasing. “You totally thought I was seducing you.”
“No, I didn’t!” he said, his voice too high, too defensive.
“You absolutely did.” She laughed again, softer this time. “I could see it in your eyes. You went all deer-in-headlights, Bobby.”
He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… It’s our third date…”
“And we haven’t even kissed,” she said, more gently this time. She was looking at him, really looking. “That’s okay, you know.”
Bob nodded slowly, still not meeting her eyes. “Yeah. I know.”
The car grew quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward—just full of unspoken things. The rain was heavier now, soft and steady, a lullaby on the roof.
Then Y/N leaned over slightly, not enough to make it too serious, just enough that her shoulder brushed his again. “So… you wanna come over or not?”
He turned toward her again, finally smiling that crooked, shy smile of his. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
She winked and started the car.
--
Y/N unlocked the door with one hand and flicked on the hallway light with the other, her apartment filling with a warm, amber glow. It was a small space—cozy more than cramped, cluttered with personal touches: a stack of books that lived on the coffee table, mismatched throw pillows that had clearly been collected over time, a framed Polaroid of her and some friends stuck to the fridge with a glittery magnet shaped like a donut. It smelled faintly like vanilla and old incense.
“Home sweet home,” she said, kicking off her sneakers and tossing her keys into a little ceramic bowl by the door.
Bob stepped in behind her, moving like he didn’t want to disturb the air. His eyes flicked around the space, taking in everything, silently noting how her this place felt. It was lived in. Warm. Safe.
“Nice,” he said with a shy smile. “It’s… you.”
She grinned. “That better not be your way of calling it messy.”
“Messy’s charming,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh… where’s the TV?”
She pointed to the living room. “Couch is yours. I’ll get the snacks. No movie night without popcorn, it’s illegal.”
Bob shuffled into the living room and plopped onto the couch, sinking slightly into the cushions. A large fuzzy blanket was already thrown over one armrest, and the TV remote rested on the other, just waiting for someone to grab it. He picked it up and started scrolling through her cable channels—no Netflix login anywhere in sight.
From the kitchen, she called out, “Don’t bother looking for Netflix, by the way. I refuse to pay for it on principle.”
Bob blinked. “Wait, what principle?”
“The principle that I already pay for internet, rent, utilities, and my crippling caffeine addiction. Something’s gotta give.”
He laughed, glancing toward the kitchen where she was pouring kernels into an old stovetop popper like a professional. “So, no Netflix. What are our options then?”
She popped her head out from behind the doorframe, holding up a giant metal bowl with flair. “Cable roulette, baby. Let the gods decide.”
Bob chuckled as he continued to flip through. A couple of random sitcoms, a rerun of a baking competition, something that looked like a low-budget horror movie.
Then he paused.
“Oh—this one,” he said, perking up. “It’s just starting.”
It was one of those timeless adventure films—part comedy, part heart, with a little magic thrown in. The kind of movie people quote years later like it shaped their childhoods.
She returned a minute later, carrying the giant bowl of buttery, still-warm popcorn, and proudly presented it to him.
“Tada.”
Bob looked up at her, eyes soft. “Is it bad that all your surprises are food-related?”
She gave him an offended gasp. “Food is a great love language.”
He took a handful of popcorn and grinned. “I’m just saying—at this rate, our next date’s gonna have to be a jog.”
“You calling me out on my snack habits, Reynolds?”
“Just looking out for future me,” he joked. “Don’t want to get fat and slow while trying to impress you.”
They both laughed as she curled up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over their legs without even asking. She sat close, the bowl between them, legs pressed lightly against his. He tried not to think about how good that felt—how even the slightest brush of her thigh against his sent a heat curling into his chest.
The movie played on, and they made the occasional sarcastic comment under their breath, snickering over cheesy dialogue or pointing out ridiculous plot holes. Bob tried to focus on the screen, but every so often, his eyes drifted to her. The flicker of the TV cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the way her mouth twitched when she was trying not to smile. She didn’t know she did that. He found it endlessly fascinating.
And then, their knees bumped again—just slightly—and she turned her head, catching him.
He froze, mid-popcorn bite, like a raccoon in a trash can caught with a flashlight.
She raised an eyebrow. “Something you like ?”
He flushed instantly, face going pink. “Wasn’t— I wasn’t—”
“I’m gorgeous, I know,” she said with a grin, bumping his leg. “You’re so lucky.”
He let out a small, bashful laugh, looking down at his lap, embarrassed beyond belief.
But then, she shifted.
Her teasing smile softened into something quieter. She reached out, gently brushing her hand against his arm, and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, then slowly, against his chest. She tucked herself under his arm like she belonged there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I really do like you, Bobby,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Like, a lot.”
Bob didn’t breathe for a second. He just stared down at the top of her head, her hair catching the light. He felt her heartbeat, steady and close, against his ribs.
And he knew.
He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, letting himself melt into the moment he didn’t think he’d ever deserve.
“Guess I was the one who got the lottery ticket in the end,” he whispered.
--
The soft flicker of the television still lit the room, casting warm shadows over the now half-empty popcorn bowl that had long gone cold on the coffee table. The movie had played on quietly in the background, its third act slowly winding into an emotional crescendo neither of them saw coming—because somewhere between one of her whispered jokes and his quiet chuckles, they had both drifted off to sleep.
Y/N stirred first.
A sudden loud crash from the film’s climax jolted her upright, eyes wide and heart pounding. She blinked a few times, trying to process where she was. The room was dim now, just the blue glow from the credits rolling across the screen. Bob, still curled up beside her with his head resting slightly back against the couch cushion, blinked awake seconds later, startled.
“Wha—what happened?” he mumbled groggily, sitting up, his voice rough with sleep. “Did something explode?”
Y/N grabbed her phone from the armrest and squinted at the screen, the harsh light making her wince. “Shit—it’s past 1 a.m.”
Bob straightened up quickly, suddenly aware of the late hour. “1 a.m.?” he echoed, rubbing at his face with both hands before reaching for his jacket on the couch arm. “I should get going then. Damn, I didn’t mean to pass out.”
She sat up beside him, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Wait—are you seriously going to walk home right now?”
He was already halfway standing, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I mean... yeah? I live like forty minutes away, but it’s not that bad—”
“Bob,” she said, more firmly now, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “It’s freezing outside, it’s stupid late, and you’re literally half-asleep. I’m not letting you walk home like that. Stay.”
He looked at her, hesitating, his hand resting awkwardly on the back of his neck.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, uncertain. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” she said without missing a beat. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want you to.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, but she was already grabbing the blanket from the couch.
“You can take the bed,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s comfier. I’ll grab some blankets and crash here.”
Bob's eyebrows shot up. “Wait—what? No, no way. You’re not giving up your bed for me.”
“Bob—”
“I’ll take the couch. Seriously. You already cooked the popcorn and laughed at all my dumb jokes. I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”
Y/N stopped mid-step, holding a pillow against her chest.
She looked at him, a little sheepish now, something almost shy in the way she bit her lip.
“Well…” she started slowly, “the couch isn’t exactly five-star hotel material. Springs kinda poke you if you sit the wrong way.”
Bob blinked.
She hesitated, clearly fighting her own nervousness, and then said it:
“We could just… share the bed?”
Bob froze.
It wasn’t a suggestive offer—it was soft, hesitant, spoken with a touch of nervous laughter that told him she wasn’t trying to rush anything or make it weird. Her cheeks were pink, and she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“I mean,” she continued quickly, “we could do the whole back-to-back thing, or throw a pillow wall in the middle. Just sleep. It’s really not that big of a deal, right?”
He could feel the heat rising in his face, all the way to the tips of his ears.
“I—uh…” He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Okay. That makes sense.”
She looked up at him now, really looked at him, and smiled—gentle, reassuring.
“We’re comfortable with each other, right?”
Bob nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
A few minutes later, they were both in her bedroom.
It was small and soft, the kind of room that smelled like lavender detergent and something warm and feminine. There were string lights hanging above the bed, giving off a golden glow, and the sheets were already turned down from earlier.
Y/N had quickly slipped into a pair of pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt in her bathroom, her hair tied up messily. Bob stood at the edge of the bed looking impossibly awkward, holding a folded blanket in his arms like it was a shield.
“I promise not to snore,” she teased lightly, climbing into her side of the bed and fluffing her pillow.
“I make no promises,” he mumbled, still blushing, as he awkwardly lowered himself onto the other side of the bed, fully clothed, stiff as a board.
They lay there for a moment in silence.
Then she turned to him slightly. “You okay?”
He exhaled. “Yeah. Just, you know… never done this before. Like this. Not with someone who—” he paused, “—who makes it feel like something more.”
She smiled faintly, turning her face toward him in the dark.
“Good. Me neither.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other—barely visible under the soft fairy lights, but everything was clear in their expressions. They were still new, still learning, but something about it already felt like home.
Bob shifted slightly, adjusting to face her fully. His arm folded beneath his head, and hers rested lightly on her pillow, fingers curled near her chin.
“That movie sucked,” Y/N whispered with a grin.
Bob laughed under his breath. “You were the one who picked it.”
“Excuse you, you said it looked ‘promising.’ I distinctly remember that.”
“Only because the poster had, like, three explosions and a dramatic tagline,” he teased.
She snorted. “Yeah, and it delivered… exactly none of that.”
They giggled together quietly, their voices softened by the late hour and the closeness of the room.
Bob let the laughter fade into a quieter breath, and for a beat, he just watched her.
She noticed.
“What?” she asked softly, her lips curving gently.
He hesitated, visibly battling the nerves crawling under his skin. His fingers twitched slightly on the sheets between them.
“I…” he started, voice quiet but sincere, “Can I kiss you?”
Her breath caught slightly, a small smile forming — but not a teasing one this time. It was soft, touched with warmth and surprise.
“Yes,” she said, her voice just as quiet. “Yeah. Please.”
He moved closer, slow like he was approaching something sacred. Their noses brushed, and he hesitated one last second—then kissed her.
It was gentle. Soft. The kind of first kiss that made the world feel like it shifted ever so slightly beneath you.
She responded immediately, her fingers lifting to gently brush his jaw, encouraging him, guiding him. The kiss deepened slowly, breath mingling, hands finding each other. It was warm, explorative, delicate — but full of something real.
Bob’s hand slid around her waist, his thumb stroking just under the hem of her shirt. Her own hand, featherlight, slipped under his t-shirt, her fingers skimming across his chest. The touch made him gasp softly against her mouth, his heart racing.
Then he froze.
Just for a second.
He pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes searching hers with something between awe and panic. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to—was that too fast? I didn’t want to mess anything up, I—”
She only looked at him, calm and radiant in the glow of the lights, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”
His eyes blinked up at her in awe, lost for words.
Then she shifted, slowly, confidently — straddling him with ease and grace, the quiet rustle of the sheets following her movement.
She pulled her shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor beside the bed, the strands of her hair falling loose around her shoulders. There was no nervousness in her gaze—only love. Trust. And a bit of playful spark.
Bob's breath hitched, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch something so precious.
She leaned down and kissed him softly, her lips brushing his cheek before she whispered close to his ear:
“Do you want me, Bobby?”
His voice came out in a breathless rush. “Yes. Yes.”
She smiled at his answer, biting her lip. “Then you’ve got too many clothes on, Bobby.”
He looked up at her, stunned and overwhelmed in the best way, his heart thudding so hard it echoed in his ears.
Stop for a while. do not cross . My name is Amna from Gaza. We lost everything, home, dreams, and everything that gives life. My children are living in bad conditions. I ask you to help me for the sake of my children, for the sake of humanity. Those who cannot donate can share the post and link
@occupationsurfer @northgazaupdates @nabulsi @elierlick @evelyn-art-05 @soon-palestine @fairuzfan @bibyebae @riding-with-the-wild-hunt
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