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seoafin · 2 months

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everything eats and is eaten

pairing: fushiguro toji x fem!reader warnings/tags: smut, extremely loose prior teacher x student relationship except toji was a bad teacher and nobody respected him that much, background stsg x reader (i guess), cucking (i guess) word count: ~5.7k title from ingydar by adrianne lenker

this is a fic that was commissioned by @stainedglassvariations if you enjoyed the fic please please please take a second to thank them for their generosity and kindness!

You’ll regret this, Toji thinks. Maybe tomorrow, or the next week. Maybe in the far future.

Or maybe you won’t. He never really knows with you.

It’s not like he knows you, really. Not like Ieiri, not like Gojo or Geto. He knows that you faced him with a blade and lost. He knows that you have lived a distinctly miserable life (he is intimately acquainted with misery). He knows that prying teeth is an easier job than getting you to talk about yourself (it is, admittedly, amusing, to see Gojo’s clenched jaw and Geto’s locked, displeased smile when you, once again, tell them that you don’t mind whatever movie they want to watch, as long as they want to, when you shoot down a question about your childhood that you’ve already marked as negligible) (he is half convinced, that everything the three closest to you know about you came from a particularly nosy foray into your personal file, stolen from Yaga’s office when Gojo’s intentions straddled the line between nosy and curiosity).

It’s better like this. He doesn’t need to know you for this.

Your chest heaves, perspiration gathering in places he shouldn’t observe too closely (the junction where your neck meets shoulder, your temple, your thighs). Your expression is somewhat placid as you stare blankly at the ceiling. Who knows what you’re thinking at this moment, as you come down from the shock of your very first orgasm.

A lesser man would be offended. You had been mostly quiet while he had licked and sucked until you came with a keening, choked noise that had his cock swelling in his pants. He had seen teeth digging into your bottom lip as you struggled not to let anything more escape, the inky depths of your eyes before you closed them.

He meets your gaze from where he rests, in between your legs, and lets his tongue run over his lips, wet from your slick. He has half a mind to spend the rest of the night eating you out, to let him show you just how much he can do with his tongue.

You blink, lips pressing together, as you look at him discerningly, as if you’re not sure what to do next. It shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, and he’s once more reminded of the hardness pressing against the confines of his pants. Shit, it’s been a while hasn’t it?

Toji clears his throat to speak, before you can do something ridiculous like thank him for the orgasm.

“What are you into?”

You stare at him.

He figures now is as good a time as any to ask. It’s a conversation that probably should have come sooner, but you shrugged off your clothes before he could even say a word, and when his gaze had dropped to the mess of scar tissue at your side, you had stared at him blankly.

Then you put your hand on his clothed thigh in an invitation.

He’s never been that good of a man.

“What gets you all hot and bothered? Gets your rocks off?” His voice is husky. Have you ever touched yourself? He wants to ask. A finger idly runs down your inner thigh. You don’t seem to mind.

“I’ve never thought about it,” you say slowly, composure returning.

He quirks an eyebrow. He’s heard what the visiting Kyoto girls have to say about Gojo or Geto, or both. But you’re being truthful. He can feel the steady thrum of your pulse, the honesty telling.

He’s sure there are devout Christian nuns less repressed than you.

“Everyone has something,” Toji replies easily, eyes never leaving yours. He’s long learned one truth of the world: there are some kinky motherfuckers out there. “Handcuffs, bondage—” he grins, the curve of it a little too sharp, “—teacher-student roleplay?”

You refuse to give into his goading, despite the slight curl of your lips. A grimace. “You’ll make me sick,” you reply tonelessly, slightly rising on your elbows. “Take off your shirt already.” You pause. “Please.”

Toji snorts. It’s not a nice sound.

In a single, fluid movement, his shirt is off. Your gaze goes from his chest, his torso, the tent of his jeans. It settles on his chest.

Appreciation, he thinks. This is new.

“I’m not blind,” you say plainly, lips verging on a frown, as if you can read his disbelief. “You’re very attractive.”

He raises an eyebrow, stifling a chortle. “You know how to get a man going, alright.”

And then he lowers himself down, and kisses you.

You’re not used to it, he gathers, but you try anyway. You meet his lips the best you can, let his tongue run over yours, and try not to be overwhelmed despite the fact that this is most likely the most human contact you’ve ever had in your life.

(He’s read your file too.)

Your legs tighten around his waist, the breaths leaving your mouth are a bit more heavier. He’s rewarded when a hand sneaks down to your wet hole and slowly presses a finger into you, and fuck you’re tight, clamping down on his finger like you want him to stay. He’s careful not to imagine too long how tight you’ll feel around his cock when he’s fucking you into your mattress.

Your breath catches as your lips tear apart, teeth making a reappearance in your bottom lip. His thumb circles the swollen nub between your legs, as he adds a second. You moan, body growing pliant, and Toji thinks, right now, as you look up at him, eyes wide eyed and misty, lips swollen, you’d do anything for him.

Instead, he unclips your bra.

It doesn’t take long. You’re almost embarrassingly easy. You come as soon as he finds your lips once more, and sucks on your tongue in a manner reminiscent of how he had you coming all over his mouth. Combined with the curl of his fingers stretching out your walls, and you’re done for, shuddering with a small whimper. Toji likes his women loud, likes his fucking crude and messy, likes it when he can feel the indent of nails pressing into flesh, raking down his biceps, shoulders, chest.

Toji likes—

Your eyes go unclear. For a second you look out of it, until the cognizance returns.

He doesn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t be interested in the usual false platitudes. He settles on: “You’ve got nice tits.”

You stare at him through heavy lidded eyes once more. It’s almost unsettling, the lack of emotion on your face, despite the rise and fall of your chest as you struggle to regain your breath. He’s too old to care, too unbothered to give you anything but a grin in return.

He’s never been with a woman who looks at him the way you do. He doesn’t know what those two loverboys see in you. You’re not exactly what every teenage boy dreams of but he doubts it matters. He’s seen the way they look at you, no matter how odd in the head you seem. No matter how much he tries to forget. Once, he had looked at someone else that same exact way.

You’ve got nice tits and an even nicer, tight pussy. Right. You’re a virgin. He hasn’t taken a virgin since he was fully moonlighting as a gigolo, and even then he preferred not to. Clingy, prone to tears and romanticization. They always wanted him to stay the night, and when he obliged (for the free bed more than anything), it became a day, and then a week. And then it was the constant pleas for updates, the jealousy, as if he cared for anything but the yen they had to spend on him.

Rich widows. That’s where the real fun was.

Your cunt pulses around his fingers in the wake of your second orgasm. His dick is rock hard, too insistent in his pants to focus on anything else. He’s going to have you past tears by the time the night is over. You have no idea what you’ve given him permission to do to you.

Toji brings his fingers to his mouth, licks your wetness from his fingers. He’s not expecting you to ask him to eat your sweet little pussy out again, so he’ll force the words out of you. Make you say ‘please’ real sweetly.

An arm is thrown over your eyes. You’re not sleeping. More like recovering.

“Done for already?”

You look at him blearily. “There’s more?”

“I didn’t do all that prep just to not fuck you,” he replies dryly, easily freeing his cock from his pants. You go still, eyeing his dripping cock with trepidation. “Help a guy out.”

“Right,” you breathe out, like you’re doing him a favor. “Okay.”

In Toji’s opinion you’re already taking the appearance of his dick better than some other girls he’s had. He knows he’s big. Probably not a virgin’s first choice. Not a virgin like you, who’d be more than fine with some fingers, a toy if you’re feeling brave. A good time for the more experienced girls he’s taken, but you look a minute away from the guillotine. He swipes a condom from the nightstand, rips it open, and rolls it down his cock in one smooth movement. You watch him, almost curiously.

“First time seeing a condom?” He can’t resist the urge to poke the hornet’s nest. He’s always been somewhat of an instigator. Just like you.

You shrug. You’d probably never see one, if it were up to those two. Safe sex is never the first thing on a hormonal teenage boy’s mind. Especially when they’ve been blueballed to hell and back. “Pregnancy’s a bitch.”

You give him a look that clearly says: So is fatherhood, apparently.

He almost winces.

“I’m on birth control,” you reply. “You’re clean. Either way, I don’t really care.”

Of course you’re prepared. Gojo and Geto would have a field day with you. He nudges your thighs open, letting the long hard length of him slap against your stomach right above the thatch of hairs at the junction of your thighs. He likes an unwaxed woman.

You stare at it leerily. His dick twitches at the attention, precum spreading everywhere. He’s always liked his women a little mean. “It won’t fit.”

He laughs at that, deep and just as mean. “It’ll fit.”

His thumb roughly catches on your swollen clit, and he’s rewarded with a hitch of your breath, a reflexive roll of your hips at the pressure. The first sign of anxiety crosses your face, teeth biting at your lower lip.

He could reassure you with practiced words, but you wouldn’t appreciate any of it. He wonders what the Gojo brat would do. What words that ever-smiling Geto would reassuringly murmur in your ear if he was the one about to fuck you. They’d hold your hands at the very least. Those two prodigies, gifted at everything, given all they could ever want. Two boys, born to be at the pinnacle, in love with a girl about to be ruined by Zenin trash.

He likes the thought more than he should. Trash like him touching a girl he has no business descrating. Ruining her in ways they can only dream of. You’ll keep this part of him with you forever, despite your feelings towards him. Despite what’ll happen if they find out.

Let them, he thinks. The boy-god can do many things, but this, this is permanent.

Things would be different. If he were a man that loved you.

But that’s something neither he nor you wants. If anything, it’s the one thing he can respect.

Toji lines himself up at your entrance, and without further fanfare, begins to stretch you open.

He almost winces at how tight you are. A virgin through and through. Your eyes are wide, almost comically frozen. Your teeth tears into your lip, drawing blood.

You make a noise in your throat. It sounds like a whimper. It’s muted, like you don’t want to make too much noise. He’ll have to rectify that. He likes noise. But right now your cunt is struggling to fit him, caught between pushing him out and squeezing him in, and all he can think about is how it’s been forever since a pussy felt this good.

“Shit,” he mutters. You’re warm, wet, and tight. He almost wishes he were bare just to feel you even closer. Almost. He could ruin you. Mess you up so well you wouldn’t be able to do anything but take him. It makes him think he hasn’t changed one bit. He’s always liked ruining things. “Gotta go easy on me sweetheart,” you slightly relax as he plays with the swollen bundle of nerves between your legs, “we’ve got all night.”

You make a choked noise, tears springing at your eyes. Fingernails dig into his forearms, and a rush of heat envelopes him. He keeps a steady hand on your scarred side. You don’t notice.

He’s already marked you once. What’s a second time?

A full body shudder wracks you when he fully sheathes himself inside of you. Your eyes are unfocused, glossy, already a little empty headed, and he hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

“You…”

“All me,” he says. “How’re you feeling?”

A slight frown. “It feels…weird. I feel…” you slightly raise your hips as if to gauge him inside of you, walls pressing tight. The pressure makes his cock ache. A lesser man would’ve blown his load already. He’s got the patience of a saint to be this still while he’s inside your pussy. Your eyebrows furrow. “Full. This is supposed to feel good?”

“That’s the idea,” he replies, looking down at you, the way your chest heaves up and down, swaying. You do have nice tits, for what it matters. Gojo and Geto really are missing out.

Your arms come to close around your chest, blocking his nice view.

So you do get embarrassed. It’s almost cute.

“You can move,” you say pointedly, despite your voice being a whisper. “I’m okay.”

“Wasn’t waiting,” he lies. Well, your funeral.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, moving his hips in a way that has you becoming increasingly flustered. You make a protesting noise, but he’s watching the way his cock sinks into you as he tests you with a shallow roll of his hips.

He’ll have you bouncing on his cock next. Or squirming on his face. So many possibilities.

He begins to thrust in earnest. You cry out as he fucks you, one hand encircling your thigh, the other on your hip, bringing you down on him. The room swells with heat, and every single thrust is accompanied by the sound of his balls slapping into your cunt. You can’t help the noises now. You grow louder and louder with the growing mess forming on the sheets underneath you.

Your hips are struggling to match his thrusts, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of every movement. He’s never known anybody so bad at taking cock. It’d almost be funny if his balls weren’t about to burst. He decides he’ll turn you over on your knees, mount you like a mutt next, as soon as you finish.

“I—” your bottom lip trembles, and Toji wants to bite it. Hard. You almost look like you’re in pain.“It’s—”

You don’t need to say a thing, Toji can feel you squeezing around him. He lifts your leg up, higher, hikes them up on his shoulders. A hand encircles your left ankle, brushing his lips over skin, right before his teeth sink into the fleshy part. You yelp.

“‘Atta girl,” he murmurs as you squirm underneath him, single minded rhythm keeping you pinned underneath him. “Gonna cum on my cock sweetheart?”

Without really thinking about it, he leans down and kisses you. He feels the weak push of your tongue against his. Toji licks the blood from your mouth, and swallows.

You’re gushing around his dick, crying out for anybody and nobody, as your body arches high with the force of it all, the violence of it. A milestone, he thinks. You barely have time to come down from the high before he’s flipping you.

On your knees, a choked squeal tears from your throat as he continues. Hands on your waist, there’s that heat in his abdomen, that tightness. He feels electric. You’re crying now, he can hear you, unsteady breathing peppered with short strangled sobs. Toji should know better. You’re a virgin. You’ve never taken cock before. You used to be his student despite the fact that it didn’t really mean anything. You knew what you were getting into. If anything, he’s going easy on you. This is nothing compared to what Gojo and Geto will do to you when they find out Toji’s cock was anywhere near your cunt.

They’ll tie you up, have their way with you while ingraining the dangers of fucking dangerous men that aren’t them into your body. No condom. Geto looks like he’d be into that kind of freaky shit and more behind that smile of his. Toji almost feels bad for you.

Might as well build up your stamina while you can. He’s practically doing you a favor.

He slightly lifts your hips, pushing into you at an angle that his cock pressing into you, in a spot that makes your toes curl.

“Oh,” you whimper into the pillow. “Again?”

A grin cracks his face despite himself. You always were a funny one. He wishes he could see your face.

Hips pistoning into you at a rhythm far too fast for you to keep up with, it’s not long until you’re trembling again, walls growing tight around him. But all he can think of is how warm and wet your pussy is, how long it’s been since he’s come in something other than his hand. A thought nudges at his head, about how you’re not some fuckin’ fleshlight to be used for his pleasure, he’s supposed to be making you feel good, but he’s too lost, reaching for his release with a vengeance that’ll have you sore for weeks.

Your arms are barely holding on. Toji takes your wrists behind your back, and you nearly fall face first into the bed with nothing but a hiccup. He doesn’t stop. Instead he drives into you at a punishing pace, using your arms to bring you back into him like a ragdoll. Your face barely hovers above the sheets.

“Look at you,” he whistles through his teeth, focused on the small of your back, the sheen of sweat covering your body, “milkin’ my cock like a champ.” Your thighs are wet, slick dropping onto the sheets with every thrust, and he can almost see the frothy white of the rings around his dick had he not been practicing safe sex.

He almost feels at home with the sound and scent of sex in the air. You cum again, and cry out, in alarm or panic, as your body tenses.

“Toji,” you say weakly. It almost sounds like you’re pleading. “Toji.”

It tips him over the edge. After a few more thrusts, he buries himself deep inside you, and his cock twitches with his release. White hot pleasure behind the darkness of his vision. He exhales roughly, shifting his hips to nudge himself deeper inside of your walls. If he had came inside, you would be dripping white. A shame. A good creampie always hits the spot.

He drops your wrists, and you topple on top of the bed, face first, uncaring of the way the pillow smothers you.

Ah, shit.

He’d think you were dead if you weren’t still twitching from the aftershocks of your orgasms. It’s not a bad sight. Your pussy is swollen and glistening, thighs trembling, and a part of him can’t help but think the sight would look better painted white.

“You alright?” He asks gruffly, reluctantly turning you over. You look disheveled, bruises marking your neck, chest, thighs. Ring of teeth marks around your ankle. Your bruised hips darken with every passing second, turning that scar that runs up your side a dark ugly color.

Now that you’ve been fucked to oblivion, trying to wrangle your thoughts back into something coherent, he can properly observe the mark he left on you years ago without your side eye. You had shrugged at it before, but Toji knows the significance of scars. There’s little that separates a scar from a brand.

Unconsciously, he rubs at the cut at his lips. It burns.

Trash, trash, trash a voice cloaked in venom spits out.

“I’m fine,” your voice is hoarse as you limply observe the ceiling. “I’m fine.” Your gaze slides to him. You tilt your head at him, but your eyes are curious. You know something’s wrong. “Toji?”

First name basis now, he supposes. No more Fushiguro-sensei this, Fushiguro-sensei that. He’ll probably miss it when he’s fisting his cock a week later.

He looks away, picking himself up to the bathroom to rid himself of his uncomfortably full condom.

“So tell me,” he says as he reclines on your bed, tossing you a towel dampened with warm water. You had been lying down, curled into a near fetal position, blankly gazing at the wall. You straighten as you accept it. “Honest. How was it?”

You think about it seriously. “Are you always that rough with virgins?”

Ouch.

“It’s fine.” A ghost of a smile touches your lips. Almost teasing. “I don’t mind rough.” He thinks you don’t quite remember what it means for someone to be gentle either. The thought makes him unsettled.

Your fingers flit to your wrist absently, brushing over where he had been gripping you. Something in his mouth turns bitter. He doesn’t remember what it means to be gentle, but maybe he should’ve tried.

“Thank you for your help,” you add unhelpfully. Unhelpful in the way that you sound sincere in a way that you shouldn’t be.

The two of you go silent. He’s usually somewhat of a decent conversationalist when push comes to shove. He’s also been with enough women to know that a good orgasm can make a woman everything from weepy to sleepy to talkative.

Like always, you throw everything he knows out the window.

“It was good. Better than I thought it’d be.” Very seriously, you tell him, “You’re very good at sex. Are you sure you don’t want me to pay you?”

He scoffs, despite the fact that there was once a time he would’ve taken advantage of your offer. His lips curl. “You callin’ me broke?”

“I think you could use the money,” you say without missing a beat, looking him square in the face.

He could always use some money, but no way in hell is he admitting that.

Toji narrows his eyes, swallowing his retort of occupying your mouth with something else than snarky replies. Then he briefly contemplates laying you flat out and making you squeal for that comment. It’s a pretty picture, but he decides against it. If he gets going now, there’s no knowing when he’ll finish.

“Are you going to spend the night?”

He imperceptibly freezes. He hadn’t thought that far into it. The original plan was to give you a couple of O’s and slink out after, but then you started talking. And for what it’s worth, he’s always somewhat enjoyed talking to you. You make an interesting conversation partner. When he can follow along, anyway. (Sometimes, he can’t). Hours have passed. The night is dark outside your windows. Shadows blanket your body. He thinks about it.

Your bed is pretty comfortable. Some expensive ass luxury mattress Gojo bought for you when he found out you were originally sleeping with a blanket on the floor, according to you. In your words (and defense), it was just until you bought a mattress. But then you had gotten rather complacent with the floor. Gojo, offended, had bought you a dog bed in some sort of crass gesture to convey his dismay. (Toji bets he had wanted to get a rise out of you). You took no offense to it, and left it in the corner. Geto intervened. A bed was bought.

A fine, expensive ass, luxury mattress that you would’ve never bought for yourself.

A sharp smile cuts across his face in dry amusement. To think, he’d be the one christening your bed.

Besides, he’ll be gone for a couple of months at the very least when Gojo and Geto find out what he’s done. Before they find out. Maybe it’ll be Okinawa for the year. Yaga is going to bitch a fit when he finds out Toji up and left again. The man’ll have to understand. Toji’s always played fast and loose with death, but you are something he should’ve left alone for his own good. He’s always wanted more than he’s deserved.

Trash, he thinks. He touched something he shouldn’t have. He put his filthy fingers all over you, and you enjoyed it.

They deity-fied the Gojo brat when he was younger. Put him in the finest silks like a doll and obeyed his every whim and pleasure. Gojo had seen him once, when the two of them were child and adult. There was something in his gaze, even back then, that peeved Toji, the beaten dog he used to be. It was a gaze that promised mutual destruction.

He sees it now, more or less. Geto’s done the impossible: civilized the godboy. Despite painting his own pretty picture of respect and deference, Toji knows Geto couldn’t care less about it all.

Once, the two of them would have disgusted him.

He’s never seen any man want anything as much as the two of them want you. They’ll have you, but Toji had you first.

Toji stretches, putting on airs by settling yourself into your bed as if it’s his own. He’ll leave if you want him to. If even the slightest indication of discomfort mars your face. “Gotta problem?”

The kids will be fine. Megumi’s always liked you more than the sperm donor who only came back because he had to. And it’s not like he’s leaving permanently. Probably, anyway.

“Not really,” you say, meaning it. “It’s just…” you glance at him, unsure. “I thought you’d leave. Sleeping together is…”

He raises an eyebrow. “I just emptied my balls in ya sweetheart, that’s about as intimate as it gets.”

You blink, as if you had forgotten just where his cock had been an hour prior. If anything, you know how to bruise a man’s ego. No wonder Gojo and Geto are desperate to get your full undivided attention before you flit off to some space in your head reserved for something purely nonsensical.

“Then…I suppose they wouldn’t…want to stay the night either…right?”

How you managed to twist his words like that is simply beyond him. He doesn’t think he could survive one miserable day with the mental gymnastics it takes for you to contextualize yourself as desirable. He doesn’t have the brains for it.

You look a little embarrassed, as if berating yourself for having even thought about it. It strikes him once again that the only reason you had even asked him to fuck you in the first place was because of some misplaced insecurity. And you were lonely. The lonely ones always seek comfort and you are the loneliest person he’s ever met.

Geto and Gojo thought you’d wait for them, even if they didn’t. It’s a mistake that will haunt them for the rest of your lives.

Now you look like a kicked dog, even more than you usually do.

“You could ask,” he says lamely. He doesn’t really know what else to say.

You look vaguely sick at that, for reasons he cannot, once again, fathom. You are a being of endless possibilities. So instead he decides to be amused.

You quickly change the topic. “Do you think I can make them happy?” Your voice is touched by an unusual smallness. You fidget with the sheets, not looking at him.

Toji thinks you could kick Gojo in the balls, and he’d be just as enamored with you, if not more. (He knows a masochist when he sees one.) As for Geto, he’s never seen anyone who could be so effortlessly charming one second, and utterly exasperating the next. (He’s seen the chilling tightlipped smiles given to interlopers who encroach on his time together with you.)

“Men are easy,” he says lazily, “especially when they’re thinking with their cocks. Keep your legs open and they’ll do the rest.”

Instead of shying away from his words, you look relieved. “I can do that.”

He snorts.

You fall silent once more, comforter pulled up to your neck.

“Sometimes,” you say quietly, forlornly, “I think Suguru and Satoru forget I’m not like them.”

He doesn’t know if you think he’s asleep. He doesn’t know if you expect a response. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a noise. It’s the first time you’ve breathed their names into existence since the evening started.

It doesn’t matter, because after a few minutes you curl, making yourself smaller. Your breathing slows, and in the dark of the night you almost look like a corpse. It would terrify anyone who has held your hand, searching for a heartbeat in the pulse of your wrist.

He closes his eyes.

——

You wake up much earlier than you usually do. Morning has only begun to peek through your curtains. You stare at your ceiling for a couple of minutes, gauging every part of your body, from your shoulders to your toes. There’s a throbbing in your thighs and side, a persistent ache that flares even stronger when you try to move.

You aren’t quite sure what you expected. There’s a weight next to you. You look at the ceiling some more, before sliding your gaze next to you.

A lazy eye cracks open. The two of you stare at each other. You aren’t sure if you’re breathing, in the seconds it takes for you to blink. You had always thought the resemblance between him and Megumi was uncanny. Megumi has Toji’s eyes, both the shade of green and the slightly down tilted shape that lends severity to a glare.

Then he rises, without bothering to put on his clothes. You watch him retreat to the bathroom, and then hear the start of water. He comes back, towel low on his hips, water trailing down his neck.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you tell him. It’s the first words you’ve spoken to each other since last night. It might be an invitation, in the way the set of his eyes narrow. Just like that, things are back to normal.

Heat unfurls in your stomach.

You trudge to the bathroom and turn on the water. It doesn’t take long for the water to get hot, or for Toji to come. He fucks you over the counter, and when you step into the water, it’s a near boil. You leave the bathroom, legs still trembling.

You’re drying your hair with a towel when your phone rings.

Your phone is about to die, but it’s Satoru, and by extension, Suguru, calling, so you answer it anyway.

“Morning,” you say lightly, settling back on the bed, next to a reclining Toji. The two of you keep a respectable space between yourselves. Your thighs ache.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be up,” Suguru says through your phone. His voice is soft, so close to your ear, that you almost close your eyes.

“—SPEAKER!” Satoru’s voice. You wince, spell broken, as you are, presumably, put on speaker as Suguru sighs and mutters something about broken eardrums.

Rustling. Movement. And then a loud grunt. Your lips twitch into a grin. You can almost see them rolling around on the bed, fighting over the phone.

“How’s Hokkaido?” You ask.

“Cold,” comes Satoru’s voice.

“We’ll be back in the evening.” You can hear the smile in Suguru’s voice.

Satoru’s voice is fainter, evident of distance. He must have gotten up. “Bakery first!”

Suguru’s answering silence is an eye roll.

“Should we get dinner all together then?” You ask, eager. “Shoko’s finishing up early today.”

There's another silence. A pause. You blink, wondering if you’ve accidentally overstepped somehow. You quickly rescind your offer. “Unless you two already have plans. In that case—”

“No,” Suguru’s voice drops an octave. “I was thinking we could order in tonight.”

The implication in his sentence isn’t lost on you. Your face warms. “Oh,” you say, suddenly overcome by a restlessness. Next to you, Toji raises an eyebrow. You ignore him, forcing yourself to swallow, chest tightening. “Okay.” Then. “Tonight?”

You had been planning on asking Toji if he could teach you how to give a blowjob first, but you suppose that’s out of the question now.

“If that’s what you want,” Suguru murmurs.

The panic on your face must be alarming, because Toji snorts.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “That’s fine. Tonight…works.”

“...Is someone there?”

You blink. “Yeah,” you reply, without really thinking about it. “Fushiguro-sensei.”

Toji’s head is cocked to the side, silent, in a way that tells you he must have overheard everything. It’s not as if you have anything to hide.

Suguru’s voice is measured. The tone he takes on when his face goes eerily blank, perfunctorily pleasant. Something in your chest tugs. “And what, is Toji doing there so early in the morning?”

It’s your turn to go silent. Maybe tonight isn’t the best night after all. You’re a bit tired, and sore all over. They won’t want you, not like this, and the fear or rejection is a sobering thought. You aren’t confident in yourself enough yet.

The phone is snatched out of your hands. Toji gives you a look, meeting your gaze. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and it gives you the vaguest sense of a ticking time bomb.

He speaks into the phone, eyes never once leaving yours. “What do you think?”

The phone clicks off as he tosses it to the floor.

He meets your confusion with an easy shrug of his shoulders. “Turns out you’ll be seeing them sooner than you thought.”

#you don't really need context to read this but ifkyk #fushiguro toji x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #jjk x reader

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yandere-daydreams · 8 months

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Title: To Mark.

A Grab-Bag Commission For The Very Lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Wanderer x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Biting/Marking, Set Before Wanderer Regains His Memories, Unhealthy Relationships, and Slight Manipulation.

You’d almost gotten used to the feeling of your husband’s teeth sinking into your shoulder.

A sharp sting, a tight stretch, then finally, the burning relief of his dull canines drawing back and warm blood washing over your skin. His chest was pressed against yours, your legs tangled loosely around his waist, but the closeness brought little comfort when his skin seemed to sap the heat from your own and his hands were wrapped so tightly around your hips. There’d be bruises tomorrow – pinpricks of discolored skin that he’d want to strip bare and examine as soon as they were visible, but you tried not to think about that. His little fixation was one of the more unfortunate parts of your relationship, and you did your best to keep it out of your mind whenever you could.

This, unfortunately, was not one of those times. He found a new spot – the tender junction between your throat and your shoulder – and latched on. Rather than pierce, he chose to suckle, catching your skin between the flat edges of his teeth and sucking gently until his chosen patch was irritated and reddened, until he could be sure there’d be a mark to match the collection he’d already painted across your collarbones, up the curve of your throat, at each corner of your jaw. Most of them were fresh, others older, allowed to fade before your husband remembered to revisit them. None would be allowed to disappear completely, and if they managed the impossible, he’d be sure to lay you down and spend the better half of a day making up for his negligence. Your husband had always been attentive, like that.

His teeth sunk into your jugular and you shrunk into him, an airy whimper escaping your sealed lips. Immediately, he detached from you, raising his head and bringing his stare up to meet your own. You’d never been able to say ‘no’ to him, not when he looked at you with those big, pleading eyes. “Did I…” A slight pause, his tongue darting out to swipe a dot of your blood off his bottom lip. “Did I hurt you?”

Obviously. You had to remind yourself that he wasn’t like you, that pain wasn’t something he had experience with. His porcelain skin would never bruise, and in as much time as you’d spent together, you’d never seen him bleeding or burnt. You had to be empathetic. You had to be patient.

Unfortunately, patience wasn’t a skill both of you saw the value of. When you failed to answer immediately, he took your silence as affirmation and frowned, leaning towards you. “I’m sorry.” It was a familiar apology, but no less sincere than it’d been the first half-dozen times he’d used it. Hesitantly, he brought a hand up to your forehead before remembering that the gesture was meant for a different type of pain and letting it fall back to your waist. “Is it bad? I can get the bandages, if you need them. Or, there’s a pharmacy on the other side of the city—”

“I’m fine, I swear.” You forced out an airy laugh, letting your lips brush against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a lie. You’d be nearly too sore to move in the morning, but for now, you were fine. “But, I think it might be time to stop. I don’t want the innkeeper to think that you, I don’t know, mauled me in my sleep or something.”

Immediately, his expression turned from worried to panicky. “But we just started,” he whined, his tone childish, desperate. You hadn’t – you’d been in his lap of just over an hour, now – but he’d always been prone to losing track of time. “I’ll be gentle, and.. and I can move to your chest, if you don’t want anyone to see! I don’t have to—”

“My love,” you cut in, sighing as you cupped his face in your hands. Reflexively, he nuzzled into your palm, melting into your affection far easier than you’d ever be able to melt into his. “I hate having to stop as much as you do, but I’m tired. I might not be hurt now, but I will be if we keep going for any longer.” You smiled, bringing him close enough to kiss properly. It was shallow, fleeting, but you could taste metal on his lips. You tried not to feel sick. “I want to get some sleep. I promise, you can dig your teeth into whatever you—”

It was his turn to interrupt you, this time, his request more simple than yours. "Just a little more?" And then, when your smile wavered, “Please?”

You started to sigh, to shake your head, but against your better judgement, you met those awful, saccharine eyes and…

And, it was over in an instant.

“Fine,” you muttered, dread and self-loathing already welling up in the back of your throat. “Just a few more minutes, the—"

He didn’t wait for you to finish. Your body was wretched away from his in a moment, thrown onto the downy futon below you in another. He was buried between your legs and attacking the vulnerable flesh between your thighs before you could so much as think about asking him to try to hold himself back. His teeth sunk into your flesh, but you didn’t scream, didn’t whimper.

You just let your head roll back, shut your eyes, and tried to pretend you didn’t feel a thing.

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scotianostra · 4 months

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On January 14th 1872 Edinburgh’s world famous dog, Greyfriars Bobby died.

For many visitors to Edinburgh, a must-see is the statue of Greyfriar's Bobby on George IV Bridge and, although it's officially frowned upon, rubbing Bobby's nose for luck. The true story of Greyfriar's Bobby is so enchanting that even Walt Disney decided to make a movie about him.

Greyfriars Bobby was a Skye Terrier who became famous in the 19th century for his unwavering loyalty to his owner. In 1850 John Gray, his wife, Jess and their son John arrived in Edinburgh. John was a gardener but could not find employment in his new hometown, so he worked as a night watchman for the Edinburgh Police Force.

It was a lonely job, so to keep him company, he bought a wee Skye Terrier, who he called Bobby. Soon John and Bobby became inseparable through the long winter nights they maintained a watch over their charges.

Edinburgh's damp and murky weather eventually took its toll on John, who was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Despite treatment from the Police Surgeon, John died on 15th February 1858 and was buried in Greyfriar's Kirkyard.

Bobby, who had never been apart from John, refused to leave the cemetery and stayed by his owner's grave. Despite the efforts of the graveyard staff to evict Bobby, he always returned and eventually, they gave up and provided little Bobby with shelter beside John's Grave.

Word of Bobby's loyalty quickly spread, and he became a local sensation. It is said that crowds would gather outside the graveyard at one o'clock each day. When Edinburgh's famous one o'clock gun was fired, Bobby would leave the grave and join local joiner William Dow for a walk to a local coffee shop.

John and Bobby visited Traill’s Temperance Coffee House on their rounds, and Bobby was always given something to eat by the owner John Traill. This tradition continued after John's passing, thanks to the generosity of the owner.

A new by-law was passed by the Edinburgh Council in 1867, making it mandatory that all dogs had a licence and a collar. The Lord Provost of Edinburgh, Sir William Chalmers, undertook to pay for Bobby's licence, and he received a collar with the inscription "Greyfriar's Bobby from the Lord Provost 1867 Licensed".

If you visit the Museum of Edinburgh on the Royal Mile, you can see Bobby's collar and drinking bowl. as seen in the pics, that I took in 2016/.

Bobby stayed by John's grave for 14 years until he passed in 1872. He was buried in the same cemetery, just a few feet away from his beloved owner.

Greyfriars Bobby's story is one of the most enduring tales of loyalty and devotion. It serves as a reminder of the special bond between humans and animals.

In 1981 a new headstone at Bobby's Grave was unveiled by the Duke of Gloucester. The inscription reads, "Greyfriars Bobby – Died 14 January 1872 – Aged 16 years – Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all".

The legend of Bobby touched the heart of Baroness Angelia Georgina Burdett-Coutts. She was the daughter of the banker Thomas Coutts (of Coutts Bank fame) and inherited £1.8 million on her grandfather's death, making her one of the wealthiest women in England.

Burdett-Coutts spent most of her wealth on philanthropic causes. She co-founded the Urania Cottage for "fallen young women" with Charles Dickens and became a social housing pioneer.

The Baroness got permission from Edinburgh Council to erect a statue of Bobby at the junction of Candlemakers Row and George IV Bridge, just outside Greyfriars Kirkyard. The artist William Brodie was commissioned to create the statue in 1872.

Since its unveiling, the statue of Bobby has become an important Edinburgh landmark.

#scotland #scottish #history #dog #loyalty #edinburgh

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valiantstarlights · 10 months

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[Urban Fantasy Spy AU] Try to Hide Your Hand

Agent Hob Gadling and Tech Officer Dream Endless go on a mission together to extract Agent Ethel Cripps from Fawney Rig.

This is a @dreamlingforukraine fic commission for @seiya-starsniper. ✨️ Thank you for your generosity and your patience 🙇‍♀️ Sorry I went kinda crazy with this. But I had a lot of fun worldbuilding, so 😂

The title is from the song, "You Know My Name" by Chris Cornell, which is the theme song for the James Bond (Craig) film, Casino Royale.

CW: Dark themes because the Burgesses and their goons are the scum of the earth. There will be murder and noncon pet play, but the noncon is only on Burgess and Co.'s part. Dream and Hob are communicating with each other all the time and everything is consensual between the two of them. I promise there's gonna be fluffy fluff in the end. 🙏

Hob sits with his legs spread open, Dream kneeling between them, his dark head of hair resting against the junction of Hob's pelvis and thigh, and he hates it.

To be clear, he doesn't hate Dream. Not right now, anyway.

No, it's the situation they're in that he hates in particular right now.

Agent Ethel Cripps, The Agency's undercover spy assigned to monitor and report on the Burgesses, reached out to Head Office less than a month ago and said she wanted out. She has requested that she be extracted ASAP.

'I'm pregnant,' she said in her encrypted voice mail. She sounded so near to tears that it moved Hob's heart when he first heard her message. 'I want to get out of here.'

According to her file, Agent Cripps has demon blood. It's weak enough that she doesn't have the same strengths and weaknesses as her ancestors, but she still retained the classic half-demon appearance. Her file included a photo of her: a young blonde woman with delicate curving white horns complementing her short bob. She had been smiling in her picture.

Hob hasn't gone on to a mission with her yet since she's only been with The Agency for less than a century, but he heard that she was good at her job, feeding The Agency rare but important information about the Burgesses' human and creature trafficking schedules, resulting in many successful rescue operations.

Thus, her case was deemed urgent and important enough for The Agency to send in two of their best to extract her: a field agent to be the face and the muscle, and a tech officer to make sure the three of them get in and out safely without setting off any alarms, potentially leave listening bugs behind or retrieve important documents, and arrange for transportation, accommodations, and other essential minutiae.

Unfortunately, the two people assigned to take on the mission are Hob Gadling and Dream Endless, and everyone who has been in The Agency for more than a couple of years know that the two of them do not exactly get along.

More unfortunately, they have to pose as a human master and their half-other pet, because it's the standard within the Burgess family. Roderick has his own pet, and so does his remaining son. And so does everyone who is anyone within their ranks.

All half-other pets have either been trafficked from somewhere or were born in captivity. They're effectively modern day slaves.

Hob (a full human with an immortality mutation) has been working for The Agency for around 600 years now. But he remembers the day that certain bombshell was dropped on him and Dream.

Dream (a half-eldritch being along with his siblings, and who has been working for The Agency for longer than Hob has been alive) had sat so still on his side of the table that he could have been mistaken for a statue.

Hob had immediately protested. Slavery of all kinds repulses him, and though he dislikes Dream's guts, he would not have him act as someone lesser than him. Having had to go undercover as a slaver in the 1700s had been his worst mission, and he would rather not repeat the experience.

Death, Dream's older sister and their direct superior, listened to his tirade patiently, before telling him that other avenues have been considered; of course they have. But going undercover as a human master and his half-other pet is the one avenue that guarantees the highest chance of success.

All they had to do is show up at one of the Burgesses' casinos, have Hob win enough rounds with Dream as his 'companion,' commit enough violence where cameras are located, and they would soon be invited to Fawney Rig. Once there, Hob will be invited to play against the captains and the lieutenants. He'll have to win until they get into the same game as Agent Cripps and her human master.

Agent Cripps had not disclosed just who her human master is, which leads The Agency to believe that it might be either Roderick or Randall Burgess. Hob is going to have to win a bazillion games.

"If it's the games you are worried about," Dream said, speaking to him for the first time since they entered the room, "you need not worry. I can count cards, and have quite the skill for card games. We will, of course, have to devise a reliable method of nonverbal signals between the two of us so we can communicate with each other without saying a word; but it shouldn't be too difficult."

"Yeah," Hob spat at him. "Because that's the thing I'm most worried about."

Dream had frowned at him and said, quite stupidly, in Hob's opinion, "What else are you worried about, then?"

Hob had scoffed in disbelief, stood up, excused himself, and headed straight to The Agency's training salles to let out some steam. He imagined he was punching Roderick and Randall Burgess's faces, all the while cursing the day Dream was dropped on his head as a baby because that is the only reasonable explanation why he can be so fucking stupid.

He must have been at it for an hour when he realized that Dream was in the same room as him. He wondered how long the man had been standing there.

"What do you want?" he snapped. He didn't mean to. He's just so, so mad. At Lord Time and Lady Night. Who must have dropped Dream as a child for a minimum of fifty times. "You here to tell me the mission is important? Because yeah, I know."

"I'm here to remind you of your duty to The Agency," Dream told him. "I was under the impression that you didn't need any reminding, and yet, here we are."

Hob snorted and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "Yeah, right." Like Dream would stoop so low as to take time out of his day to find where Hob is just to insult him. "What's the real reason you're here?"

Dream fidgeted minutely. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed, but Hob did. "I have agreed to go on this mission," he said, "and I would like for you to be my partner."

For a moment, it was so silent in the salles that a pin drop would have sounded like a gunshot.

"You fucking what?" Hob demanded. "Why the fuck would you agree? And why in god's name do you want me to be your partner?"

'You hate my guts,' he didn't say. 'You'd rather go down ten flights of stairs than share an elevator ride with me.'

Dream let out a laborious sigh, like Hob is being the stupid one here. "The mission will require my partner to be indifferent and occasionally cruel to me. I had thought that it would be an easy task for you."

Hob was actually getting a headache from this. "You thought it would be easy-- Dream. You know that kind of play has to be consensual, right? And maybe that's not how Burgess and his goons do it, but it's how it's done, normally. Please tell me you know that."

Dream pursed his lips, no doubt offended by Hob's perceived slight to his intelligence. Whatever. Hob was already so fucking tired. "Would you rather another tech officer accompany you on this mission, then?"

Hob immediately thought of Eleanor, but just as quickly dismissed it. He and Eleanor dated a while back in the 1500s, but she was married now, and going on this mission would be weird for them both. But he's not going to tell Dream all of that, so instead he asked a question of his own. "What about you? Wouldn't you rather go on this mission with another field agent you actually get along with?"

Specifically, Hob was thinking of Corinthian (who is a vampire? Hob isn't sure), who oozes sex appeal every second of his life, and was Dream's favorite field agent for always returning tech in repairable conditions, even if he has to lose an occasional eye for it.

Or heck, maybe even Shaxberd, that stuck-up, mousy-looking simp (who is definitely a were-sewer rat). Hob didn't think he'd do a good job playing as Dream's human master believably, though.

"No," Dream said to his shoes. "You are...adequately competent in what you do, and data shows that the two of us working on this mission together would result in a higher chance of success. It is why my sister called for us in the first place."

Hob mouthed 'adequately competent' to himself and incredulously shook his head. "That might be the nicest thing you ever said to me in 600 years, and I still feel insulted."

"Good," Dream quipped. "You should be grateful I didn't give you any more praise than that, else your head become too big to fit through The Agency's doors."

Christ. Hob could already see how many headache pills he's going to have to take if he goes on this mission with Dream.

Not that he has already decided to go.

"Fine," Hob said, and turned his back on Dream to face the training dummy again. Time to wallop Dream's parents for child abuse once more. "I'll think about it."

"Think quickly," Dream said, and also turned to leave. "That is, if you can manage to do so without hurting yourself."

Just to spite him, Hob immediately called Death and agreed to be Dream's partner as soon as Dream left the salles.

And now, a couple of weeks later, in the dungeon below Fawney Rig, Dream is on his knees between Hob's legs, wearing only a black diaphanous robe and bejewelled chains, both functional and decorative, breathing on Hob's (still) clothed dick (thank god), while Hob plays with Roderick and Randall Burgess, along with five of their most trusted advisors. Two have already lost, and they have gone up to their rooms to lick their wounds and perhaps take their anger out on their pets.

Everyone had laughed when Randall shared that thought, and Hob did too, even if he felt sick to his stomach while doing so.

Hob takes a deep breath as subtly as he can. Roderick Burgess is sitting on his immediate right, and he supposes it means that he's sitting in a place of honor, regardless of how dubious that honor is. Next to Roderick is his son Randall, next to Randall is an empty seat where one of the advisors who lost had been sitting, and next to the empty chair is the machine that serves as the croupier.

Hob is surprised the croupier is not a sentient being, but he supposes that even advisors cannot be trusted not to cheat. The game, really, is how best to cheat without seeming to, and so far, Hob thinks he's winning.

Because Hob, personally? He's not that good at cards.

But Dream? Dream is a goddamn shark, and it is only thanks to him that Hob even got this far.

On the other side of the croupier sits an elegant old East Asian woman named Mrs. Chu, to her right is an empty chair where another advisor who lost had been sitting, next to that is a large bruiser of a man named Mr. Melendez, next to him is a walrus-looking guy named Mr. Wallace, and on his right is Hob, who had been going by Mr. Rupert Gadlen for the past couple of weeks.

And of course, all the pets are either on their knees on the floor, or on their master's lap. Dream had signalled to Hob that he'd rather be kneeling on the floor, and Hob signalled an 'okay' back, even as he made a lewd comment to get Dream to drop on his knees.

The group had laughed warmly at him, thinking that he really is one of them. Hob had immediately signalled his apology to Dream right after he sat down.

Also, it turns out, Agent Cripps is posing as the pet of Roderick Burgess himself. So that's fun. She's sitting on his lap with her back towards them, and Hob doesn't know how they're going to signal each other what the plan is, but Dream signalled him to leave it up to him, and so Hob did.

He trusts Dream.

They might dislike each other for a multitude of reasons going back 600 years, but he trusts him when it comes down to it. And he has trusted Dream to win all his games for the past couple of weeks, so he'll trust him this final night.

And then they'll finally be able to go back home and put this entire mess of a mission behind them.

Hob almost shot an entire room full of Fawney Rig security personnel the moment one of the guards clapped a power suppressing shackle around Dream's neck, and he's been gritting his teeth for what seems like two entire weeks straight, thinking about Dream shivering and cold and being treated poorly since this mission has started, so yeah. He's so fucking ready to complete this mission.

Preferably by shooting everyone in sight as a parting gift and burning Fawney Rig to the ground.

But he will not shoot until Dream signals him to.

And Dream has been feeding him information about the other people in the room via Morse Code to his leg during lulls in the game, so Hob knows who the biggest threats are, who is doing poorly financially and can't afford to be reckless and lose, and in what order he should shoot when Dream gives the signal.

Hob replies to Dream with a pat on the head for 'I understand,' a gentle tug on Dream's ear for 'Repeat,' and a firm squeeze on his shoulder for 'Continue?'

The 'continue' sign is mostly for the games. Hob would caress Dream's cheek and press Morse Code on his skin telling him the cards on his hand as well as the cards in the middle of the table, and Dream would squeeze his ankle once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'

And then there's an entire separate system on just how much money Hob should bet and how he should come off as: cocky or unsure, neutral or reckless.

Hob may be a little in love with Dream's brain as he had Hob learn all these signals before the mission. Just his brain though. Because Dream as a teacher has a lot of room for improvement. Like, an entire ballroom's worth of room.

Hob places the blame, once again, at Lord and Lady Endless's feet.

"Mr. Gadlen?"

Hob's gaze snaps to Mr. Wallace, the walrus-looking guy to his left, as the man waits for his response.

A quick glance around the table shows that no one has folded yet.

'Yes,' Dream signs. 'Raise.'

"Raise," Hob says obediently, and slides a couple more stacks of chips to the middle of the table after Dream taps out how much he should raise.

"You're pretty ballsy for a newcomer," Randall Burgess says, and pinches his pet's nipple, making them cry out in pain.

His pet is a twenty-something brown-skinned man wearing the same kind of robes as Dream, but in green. He looks miserable and drugged out of his mind, arms chained behind him, his balance on Randall's lap precarious.

Hob bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. "Well, you know what they say: no guts, no glory."

"Indeed," Roderick Burgess says to Hob's right. For now, he seems content in ignoring Agent Cripps on his lap, and Hob hates that he's thankful for even that small mercy. "I built this family's fearsome reputation with my own two hands from the ground up, and doing so got me covered in guts."

The remaining advisors chuckles at that, and so Hob does as well.

"That sure would explain your vigor, sir," Hob dares to say. He knows beforehand that Roderick favored boldness and praise from his underlings, and Hob has met a lot of people like him in his previous missions to know just how to play him. Because Roderick might be old for a human, but Hob is many times his elder.

Roderick stares him down for a moment before laughing. Right on cue, his advisors laugh along. "I think you would do well within my ranks, Mr. Gadlen," Roderick says. "Lord knows I need more bold and competent people around me."

Hob has heard the rumors about Roderick killing his other son a couple of years prior for being 'too weak.' He doesn't wonder if it's true. He knows it is.

"I'm flattered," Hob says. "Truly, I am. But I hope you still think well of me after I steal everyone's money tonight."

This time, there were no laugh cues, because everyone genuinely laughed at his audacity.

"Oh, yeah, I like him," Randall tells his father. "I think he'd do well managing the casino in Vegas or our chop shops in Leipzig. Whip the guys into shape and possibly bring in new customers."

Roderick hums and studies Hob over Agent Cripps's shoulder. "What say you, Mr. Gadlen? Joining the Burgess family is one of the best decisions you will ever make in your life, and we don't often ask people to join."

"Why invite me, then, if you don't mind me asking?" Hob asks. "I only wanted to win some cash a couple of weeks ago, and now here I am."

"Talent," Roderick says simply. "I've learned to recognize it over the years, and you have it in spades. And other than that, we can see that your morals align with ours, and that is a rarer thing nowadays. Tell me, have you ever killed a man?"

"Yeah," Hob says. He puts a hand on Dream's shoulder, just as Dream puts one hand around his ankle. Hob ready to ask, and Dream ready to give the signal, if need be. "Brief boxing stint in my twenties. A couple of thugs tried to rob me on my way home. Showed them what they were looking for."

Randall, to Hob's disgust, had dragged his pet to sit over his crotch area and was grinding against the man's ass. "How did you kill them?" he asks breathlessly.

Hob looks straight into Randall's eyes as he says his next words. "One of them got his head bashed against a wall. The other's head I cut off using the door of a closet that someone had thrown away."

Randall moans and continues dry humping his pet. Hob does not look away or make a face, but he makes a note to make the fucker's death slow and painful. Have him bleed for hours, maybe.

"Creative," Mrs. Chu says. Her dress made her look like a glittering red insect. "And have you ever went to jail?"

Hob smiles at her. "No, ma'am. And I never sent anyone to jail either. Why let them live for years when you can take their lives away yourself? I'm not one to deprive myself of the thrill of killing."

"Good," Roderick says approvingly. "Very good. I think you're exactly what we're looking for, Mr. Gadlen." Then, unexpectedly, "All in favor of him joining us?"

As it turns out, not everyone was on board. Mr. Melendez, the bruiser type, sitting on Mr. Wallace's left and partially covered by the man's bulk, and who has mostly been keeping silent this whole time, is very much against Hob joining the Burgess family right this second.

He threw his cards on the table, slammed his fist against the table's surface, and made the chips rattle and neatly stacked chip columns fall.

Roderick looks impassively at the man, visibly angered by his previously perfectly arranged chips now a disorganized mess in front of him. "Is there a problem, Federico?"

"A problem?" Federico Melendez repeats. "The problem, Mr. Burgess, is you letting a whelp join the family out of the blue when I had to wait for years to be given an invitation. And have I not proven myself to be better than him? Am I to be replaced?"

"I remember your initiation," Randall sneers at him. "The fact that you took too long to finish only means that you are, deep down, just another weak-willed piece of trash."

This is new information, evidenced by how Dream frantically taps, 'Initiation?' against Hob's thigh.

'IDK,' Hob taps quickly. Hopefully Dream knows what that means.

"Why you snivelling brat--"

"Enough," Roderick says, and looks to Hob. "Mr. Gadlen. Kill this man and you will be considered for our initiation."

As Mr. Melendez rages at Roderick's words this time, Hob squeezes Dream's shoulder. 'Continue?'

Dream hesitates, then squeezes Hob's ankle once. 'Yes.'

Hob smiles grimly, but gamely stands up. "Sure," he says. "I don't know what initiation you're all talking about, but I'm always down to fight someone to the death." To Mr. Melendez, whose first name Hob just learned a minute ago, he says, "Sorry, man, but you heard the boss."

Hob makes quick work of it, and was nauseated to see that, upon turning away from the bloody pulp that had been Mr. Melendez, he is greeted with the sight of everyone at the table in various states of undress, all of them in compromising positions with their pets.

Thankfully, Dream is left to sit and wait for him. If anyone had tried to touch him, Hob knows he'd start shooting every sick bastard in the room regardless of Dream's lack of command.

"Excellent job, Mr. Gadlen," Roderick says from his seat, which has been pushed back to allow Agent Cripps to service him. Hob's trigger finger twitches, but he does not look away. "And what artistry. We've never seen a man so beautifully murdered."

"Never," Mr. Wallace agrees. His pet, an androgynous smoke being, is facing Hob enough that he can see their dark misty tears falling down their face.

"Now he has to go through the initiation, Father," Randall begs. His own pet is bent over, head low on the ground but fists clenched.

"Please, Roderick," Mrs. Chu says. "He will make a good replacement for Federico." Hob cannot see her pet, which he had noticed earlier was some type of dragonoid being, but that's probably for the better.

Mr. Melendez's pet, meanwhile, is currently cowering in the corner of the room. They look to be an anemone-like creature, and had curled in on themselves every time Hob landed a hit on their now deceased owner, implying that Mr. Melendez had been physically hurting them when he was still alive.

Hob bites the insides of his cheek to keep from screaming.

Soon, he tells himself. Soon, I'll rid the world of their slavers.

"Everyone in agreement?" Roderick asks the room at large.

A chorus of 'aye's were heard, and Roderick inclines his head like a benevolent god. "Then we shall commence the initiation."

"What about the game?" Hob asks as he sits back on his chair. What? He's really looking forward to stealing everyone's money (with Dream's help), and using it to fund the therapy bills of every half-other currently in Fawney Rig.

"We can continue after," Roderick assures him. "Now. The initiation."

Hob waits. He could feel Dream put his hands back on him again, ready to signal him. He places his own hand on Dream's shoulder.

"It's nothing nefarious," Roderick says, which just makes Hob certain that it absolutely is. "You need only to fornicate with your pet in front of us, orgasm, and you will be considered as one of us."

Hob stops breathing.

He's pretty sure Dream has stopped breathing as well.

But everyone was looking at him, and not at Dream at the moment, and he has to focus. "What's the catch?" he asks, feeling his heart beating against his throat. He cannot. He will not take Dream against his will.

"No catch," Mrs. Chu tells him. "But we do want a show."

"It's been a while since we've seen a good show," Mr. Wallace agrees. "Not since Randall, I believe?"

Randall laughs. "Yeah. Alex was so pathetic I had to take his pet from him." He shakes his pet's shoulder roughly. "Isn't that right, Paul?"

His pet, Paul, starts crying, and on the ground below him where his tears fell, flowers start to bloom.

Jesus Christ. Hob really is looking forward to killing every single one of them.

"Well, Mr. Gadlen?" Roderick says. "Will you give us a show?"

Hob is sure they'll kill him if he says no. He doesn't need Dream squeezing his ankle once for 'yes' to know that. But still.

'Continue?' he asks Dream.

A harder single squeeze, and he can almost hear the accompanying thought that goes with it. 'Yes, you bloody idiot!'

"Yeah, alright," Hob says. He sure fucking hope Dream knows what he's doing. "Up you get, baby."

Unbeknownst to Hob, Dream had secretly been communicating with Agent Cripps throughout the night. Ethel's long forked tail had been tapping Morse Code against Dream's foot under the table the entire time, and most of the information she gave him he had relayed to Hob.

Dream glances at Ethel now, and sees the fiery determination in her eyes. As Hob lifts him up on the table, Ethel gives him the tiniest of nods, and Dream immediately pinches Hob's arm hard.

The signal to wreak havoc.

A split second later, Dream has dived under the table as both Ethel and Hob draw their guns and kill the most important members of the Burgess family.

It barely lasted a minute.

"Thank you," Ethel says, as the three of them stand in front of the towering inferno that used to be Fawney Rig.

As soon as the last body hit the ground, Ethel had told the androgynous smoke being to teleport Hob into the remaining advisors' rooms, and Hob had done his duty and helped free those two advisors' pets as well.

And when every innocent party is safely outside, Mrs. Chu's half-dragon pet had set the mansion ablaze.

"Don't mention it," Hob tells her. Dream was a little off to the side, making phone calls to rescue personnel, while a group of a dozen or more half-other beings watch as Fawney Rig burns. Most of them were crying and holding on to each other. Hob was glad he managed to get a bunch of blankets so they could wrap themselves in it.

"No, seriously, thank you," Ethel insists. "I felt like I was going insane back there, and I hated every second that I exposed the two of you to their vile world."

"You can say that again," Hob mutters. "Christ. So Randall killed his own brother?"

Ethel looks around and steps closer to Hob. "No," she says in a low voice. "He made Paul do it. He used to be Alex's companion, but...well... It's one thing to dote on a pet and another to love them."

From within the group of half-others, Hob could see Paul with tear streaks on his face and flowers at his feet, holding onto Mrs. Chu's half-dragonoid who, Hob can see now, has a large acid burn on one side of his face.

Now, Hob never goes back to saying old curse words, but he feels like this is an appropriate time for one. "God's fucking wounds."

At this point, Dream joins them. For some reason, he steps closer to Hob than he normally would. When Hob steps back, Dream steps even closer, and gives Hob the stink-eye while doing it.

Hob doesn't know what the fuck his problem is, but he's too tired to think right now. Let Dream be weird. All he wants is to get back to headquarters and maybe eat some fries and drink a chocolate milkshake.

"Thank you for the rescue, Mr. Endless," Ethel tells Dream. For some reason, she has stepped back from Hob.

Great. Two half-others being weird.

"You are welcome," Dream says. Then, in a more gentle voice, "Will you be keeping the baby?"

"Oh, yes," Ethel says, determined. "I really want to have a baby, but I was told decades ago by The Agency doctors that I would have a hard time getting pregnant. Now that it happened, though..." She laughs, and it only sounds a little bit broken. "My child will know exactly what their father was, but I will teach them to be better. I might have hated everything I witnessed while being the elder Burgess's pet, but I'm proud of myself for managing to survive."

"Are you kidding?" Hob says incredulously. "Agent Cripps, you're a fucking badass. I was in there for six hours tops and I want to drink a gallon of brain bleach. And you lasted for years? Comic book superheroes have nothing on you. You're an actual goddess. I present thee pregnant people food at the foot of your temple."

"Stop flirting with a pregnant woman," Dream snipes beside him as Ethel laughs. It sounded lighter than her previous laugh, though, which had been Hob's goal all along.

"He wouldn't," Ethel tells Dream, her eyes twinkling. "Not when he has you."

"We're not together," Hob says, at the same time Dream says, "He does not have me."

Ethel just smiles at them. "Alright," she says, just as they spot The Agency's helicopters in the distance. "If you say so."

As soon as they drop Ethel and the rest of the half-others who had been kept as pets at Fawney Rig in Medical, Hob and Dream, without a single word, walk together towards Death's office.

Her half-phantasm secretary told them she was in, but that she is currently taking a conference call and would therefore be unavailable for at least another half hour. The secretary then told them that she was going to grab a quick midnight lunch from the cafeteria, and if they want, they could wait.

They nodded tiredly at her as she phased through a wall, and immediately slump on the long couch outside Death's office.

Or, to be more accurate, Dream goes to get a couple of hot bottled tea drinks from a nearby vending machine, bonks Hob's head with one of the bottles to make him take it, and drops gracefully beside him.

Hob, on the other hand, just straight up sits down, exhausted, and slouches like a drunk starfish, his head resting on the wall behind the couch.

As soon as he felt the warm bottle hit him gently on the forehead, he automatically grabs it, then turns his head a little to look at Dream sitting beside him.

He looks tired as well. It had been a draining, two-week long mission, and Hob doesn't think he looks any better himself.

"Do you need aftercare or something?" he asks, because they still may not like each other, but Hob has always been a caring person. And if Dream doesn't like it, then he can suck his dick. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Why, are you offering?" Dream asks. It's a testament to how tired he was that his words don't hold the usual sting in them.

Hob grins, unable to stop the fond feelings blooming in his gut and equally unable to stop the fondness from showing on his face. Fawney Rig must have truly driven him nuts. Did he really just think that Dream looks so cute when he's being bitchy?

"Maybe," he says, and Dream catches him with a smile on his face. Dammit. "Why, you wanna cuddle?"

Jesus, Gadling. Get a grip and stop running your mouth.

Dream wheezes. He sounds like a dying goat. "Perhaps," he says. His eyes are twinkling. Hob knows he shouldn't find his laugh endearing, but he does. He probably needs to go to Medical to get his head checked out. Dream gestures to Hob's lap. "May I?"

Hob knows, intellectually, that this is a very dangerous game of chicken they're playing. If they don't stop, Hob is gonna wake up one day with Dream Endless on his bed, lovely in his half-asleep state, Hob with two cups of coffee in his hands (and maybe even an entire breakfast tray heaped with food), and both of them will be wearing wedding rings.

"Sure, go ahead," Hob says, trying to look inviting and possibly only succeeding in looking like a beached jellyfish. "That is, if you're capable of not falling off on your ass."

"You will find," Dream says, as he stands up more elegantly than Hob will ever do in his life, "that I am capable of a great many things." He then plops down unceremoniously on Hob's lap and immediately cuddles up to him.

Despite his words, Hob's arms automatically hold Dream in place to prevent him from falling off. He knows he still smells like blood and gunpowder from earlier, but Dream doesn't seem to mind. "Don't fall asleep on me," he warns Dream.

"Zzzzz," Dream says, like a goddamn bee.

Hob barks out a laugh at that. He's so ridiculous, honestly. Why doesn't he know that? It has literally been centuries since they started working together. He feels like he should know that.

"I hate you," Hob tells him, but his tone is enamored and, strangely enough, having Dream on his lap like this is serving to be a great aftercare for him as well.

"You love me," Dream mumbles, already sounding half-asleep. His knees must be hurting from kneeling most of the night. Hob starts rubbing them gently, but scoffs at Dream's words.

His other hand cards gently through Dream's hair, the motion lulling them both to a deeper, more relaxed state. They're going to have to wake up before Death's secretary comes back, and then debrief with Death. But having Dream in his lap, warm and pliant, feels so good that Hob finds himself closing his eyes as well. "You wish."

'I do,' Dream thinks, before he falls asleep completely, feeling safer than he's ever felt in eons.

Death finds the two of them curled up together on the couch thirty minutes later, and discreetly takes a picture of the two before gently waking them up.

It's regrettable that they have to debrief when they are obviously exhausted, but the earlier it's done, the clearer their memory is.

Dream and Hob peaceably goes into her office and gives their report, but she does not fail to notice how Hob has yet to let go of Dream's hand upon waking. And more than that, Dream is holding Hob's hand with both of his in his own lap. Both of them seem unaware of this new development between them.

Death hides her smile behind her teacup as she sips some calming tea and allows them to continue giving their report.

Bonus:

"Agent Gadling! Do not-- oh, for goodness's sake. If you are incapacitated and captured, I will not hesitate to bench you for a century."

"A century, huh?" Hob's unfairly seductive voice says through the comms. Dream hates it. He always have. And now that Hob knows why he does, he's exploiting Dream's weakness. "You gonna tie me up in bed, too?"

A couple of other tech officers giggle at that. Dream sends a scathing glare towards them, and they quickly scurry away.

"I will tie you next to an anthill."

"Yikes," Hob says cheerfully and ducks behind a wall. "Still not sorry, though. I know you've been wanting to have a petrified pseudodragon egg, so I got you two."

Dream does not swoon. Because that would be undignified.

"You risked capture to get me a couple of petrified pseudodragon eggs," he says in his sternest voice. Not the sexy stern voice that Hob likes, but the I'm-gonna-beat-your-ass-and-send-your-soul-straight-to-Hell voice. He shakes his head. His boyfriend is just so fucking stupid sometimes. "You are aware I cannot simply sit on them to get them to hatch?"

A hail of gunfire interrupts Hob's laughter. Dream watches on the screen, heart in his throat, how Hob evades his pursuers, runs down a garbage-strewn alley, and hitches a ride on a passing delivery truck.

He lets out a breath he doesn't know he's been holding. "I hate you," Dream tells him, so he knows. He must always be reminded.

Hob, through the hidden camera pinned on his lapel, shows Dream the two jet black pseudodragon eggs he got from the villain of the week's evil lair. One of them is pure black, and the other has a line of white running down the middle of its shell. "You love me."

#urban fantasy spy AU #this is a 6k words fic (!!!)#which is definitely more than the required 2k words #dreamling #the sandman #my writing #dreamlingforukraine #good job my thumbs #the rest of my fingers also contributed so 👏👏👏#i'm very normal about this AU obviously 😂

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bradshawsbaby · 1 year

Text

Letters to My Love // Part I

The Night We Met

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 20k

Author’s Note: This story feels like it’s been living in my head for so long, and I’m so excited to finally have Part I up and ready! It’s a long one, I admit. The majority of the story is going to be told through letters, so I wanted to take the time early on to set up the narrative and introduce you to the major characters. I suggest curling up with a nice cup of tea and a cozy blanket. I hope you enjoy!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!

Songs specifically featured in this chapter: Sandman // Tuxedo Junction // The Way You Look Tonight // Someone to Watch Over Me // Moonglow // A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square

Dedication: This story is dedicated to my sweet friend, Clara, also known as @luminousnotmatter! Her support and input have been invaluable, and she’s a big reason why this story got off the ground. Thank you, Clara! Love you!

Warnings: Alternating POV, allusions to social anxiety, references to war, extremely subtle innuendos brought up in conversations between friends, fluff.

May 9, 1942

Bob’s POV

Naval Air Station Charleston

Goose Creek, South Carolina

“Come on, Floyd, it’s our last night stateside!”

“Don’t be a killjoy!”

“Come with us to the dance!”

“There’ll be lots of pretty girls!”

Sighing softly, Bob lifted his head and lowered the pen he’d been using to compose a letter to his parents back home in Iowa. He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to send another one, so he’d been trying to concentrate on getting everything down on paper that he wanted to tell them. But his fellow officers were evidently determined to distract him.

Sliding his glasses up his nose, Bob’s gaze shifted from face to face, taking in the group of men who had stealthily surrounded his bunk while he’d been focused on assuring his mother he would keep safe and see her soon. They were all dressed to the nines, decked in their dress blues and looking as eager as anything to get off base.

He couldn’t say he blamed them. Tonight was their last night stateside, as Andrews had pointed out, and who knew when the next time they’d have an opportunity to go to a dance or talk to a pretty girl would be? Of course, based on the conversations he’d heard buzzing around base all day, talking wasn’t the only thing the boys had on their minds for tonight.

He couldn’t say he blamed them for that either. Most of the guys in his squadron were young officers like him, recent graduates of Annapolis who’d finished school just in time for the United States to plunge itself into another world war. They’d barely had a moment to celebrate their commissioning into the United States Navy before Uncle Sam was calling them up to the frontlines. Some of the boys had sweethearts back home, pretty young things whose pictures served as talismans and whose letters promised that they’d be faithful and true. But most of them, like Bob, had no one but Mom and Pop to write letters to. And they were more than happy to seek out a little bit of tender loving care, if only for a night, in the arms of pretty volunteers at the USO dances.

Well, they were. Bob wasn’t. Sure, he’d gone to plenty of dances the USO had graciously hosted in an attempt to boost the morale of boys who were shipping out, knowing in the back of their minds that there was a good chance they’d never be coming home again. And he’d even danced with a few lovely girls. But he found that he always got tongue tied around them, always said the wrong thing or got too flustered to be smooth and suave the way his fellow officers were. He also wasn’t one for dancing, as many an unfortunate partner had learned.

So even though tonight was his last night on American soil, and the USO was hosting a dance just thirty minutes away in Charleston, Bob had made the decision to stay behind. He’d finish his letter to his parents and try to get some shuteye so that he’d be well rested for their deployment come tomorrow morning.

The thought was apparently inconceivable to the rest of his squadron.

“What are you gonna do? Stay here by yourself and rot?” Andrews demanded, flicking a bit of lint off the sleeve of his uniform. Thomas Andrews, or Tommy Boy as everyone referred to him, was the sort of good-natured guy who always had a beautiful woman on his arm, but wanted to make sure that all his buddies did, too.

“I don’t think I’d rot in just a few hours,” Bob replied, shaking his head as he turned over the page of the letter he’d been writing, not necessarily needing all the guys to see the message he’d been penning for his mother.

“That’s Floyd for you. Always taking things too literally,” Johnston grinned, plopping down beside Bob on his bunk and slinging an arm around him. Benjamin Johnston—Benny, as he preferred to be called—had been one of Bob’s roommates at Annapolis. He was as good a guy and dependable a friend as you could come by, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love to rib Bob, and anybody else, whenever he got the opportunity.

“We leave tomorrow, boys. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up here, letters to write and things to see to before we leave. You go have fun at the dance. You won’t even notice I’m not there,” Bob insisted, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses once more.

“Trace, would you come talk some sense into your rear-seater?” Tommy Boy scoffed, hooking his thumb in Bob’s direction with a shake of his head.

A familiar chuckle rippled across the space between them as Paul made his way into the room, clearly wondering where everyone had gone, considering they were supposed to be leaving soon for the dance.

Paul Trace was not only a fellow Annapolis graduate and Bob’s front seat pilot, but his best friend. The two of them had grown up together in Linn County, just outside Cedar Rapids. With both their fathers being officers in the Navy, and veterans of the Great War to boot, it hadn’t exactly come as a surprise to anyone when the two of them had ended up at the Naval Academy.

“Come on, fellas, leave Bob alone,” Paul said, smirking knowingly in Bob’s direction as he approached the group of them.

The rest of the guys shifted instantly, making room for him. Paul had always had that way about him, that quality that made everyone else in the room pay attention to him and listen to whatever he had to say. Bob had always admired that about him. He knew it was certainly a quality he didn’t possess. Even on his best days, he never seemed to be able to do more than fade into the background, unnoticed by almost everyone around him. But Paul never made him feel small for that, and that was something for which Bob had always been grateful. He was a good friend, and an even better pilot, and Bob thanked his lucky stars every day that they’d managed to be paired together.

“It’s hopeless, Trace. We’ve tried everything. Talk some sense into this best buddy of yours and convince him to come to the dance with us tonight,” Benny begged, clasping his hands in a pleading fashion and shooting Paul his best wounded puppy expression.

“And convince him soon,” Tommy Boy added, glancing down at his watch. “We’ve got to get a move on soon if we want to make it to Charleston in time for the dance.”

“Gotta get there early if you want to dance with the prettiest girls,” Benny added with a wink, rising from Bob’s bunk and straightening out his uniform. “We’ll wait for you outside, Trace,” he said, lightly slapping Paul’s arm. “And you better be with him, Floyd!” he called out as the group of them started to walk away, pointing at Bob before ducking out of the room.

Bob chuckled softly, shaking his head once again and rubbing the back of his neck.

Paul sat down at the end of the bed, clasping his hands in his lap and lounging comfortably. “You know you’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t come with us, right?” he grinned.

“I really am busy,” Bob told him, gesturing at the papers he had scattered across his bed and picking his pen up once more.

“One last letter home?” Paul asked, peering over at the papers without prying.

“One last letter home,” Bob nodded, sighing softly as his eyes quickly skimmed what he’d already written. “I’m just not sure when I’ll get an opportunity to write to them again. They know we’re shipping out tomorrow, but I just want to give them a few more updates before we leave.”

“I understand, Robby,” he replied, using the nickname he’d had for him since childhood. And he did. That was the great thing about Paul. He was the kind of guy who meant what he said. And Bob knew that he understood better than most.

“Did you write any last letters home for Natasha and the kids?” Bob asked, lowering his pen to focus on his friend.

Paul smiled, a touch of sadness in his eyes as he nodded. “Just yesterday. Promised them I’d write as often as I’m able. Nat gave me this before I left,” he murmured, reaching into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulling out a small photograph. It looked to be new, though the edges were already starting to fade from where Paul had obviously been clutching it tightly. He handed it off to Bob with a proud grin.

Taking the photo from Paul’s grasp, Bob smiled at the sight. It was taken at Christmas, Paul and Natasha smiling brightly for the camera, their three-year-old daughter, Clara holding up her baby doll proudly, while their newborn son, Paul, Jr. lay nestled in his mother’s arms.

“It’s a beautiful picture, Paul,” Bob said sincerely, handing it back to him.

“That’s all Natasha and the kids,” Paul beamed, pressing a kiss to the photograph before slipping it back into the pocket right above his heart, patting it as if for security. “Certainly doesn’t have anything to do with this ugly mug,” he laughed self-deprecatingly.

Bob laughed as well, knowing from the way girls had always ogled his best friend that that couldn’t be further from the truth. “Speaking of Natasha, how’s she going to feel about you going to this USO dance tonight, huh?” he teased, lifting an eyebrow.

Natasha and Paul were childhood sweethearts. Bob couldn’t recall a single memory growing up that didn’t involve both of them. He��d been proud to stand beside Paul as his best man when the two of them had gotten hitched the summer before they left for Annapolis, and even prouder when his friends had asked him to be their daughter’s godfather.

“Nat knows she’s the only one for me,” Paul replied with a wave of his hand, as if the thought of him having eyes for any woman but his wife was preposterous. And that’s because it was. “She told me she’s more concerned with finding you a nice girl, and she’s tasked me with making it happen,” he went on, waggling his eyebrows.

Bob groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Not you, too, Paul. Weren’t you just telling the other guys to leave me alone about the dance tonight?”

“That was the other guys,” Paul smirked, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Now this is me asking. Your very best friend in the whole world. You’re not gonna let me down, are you, Robby?”

Bob groaned again in response, pulling his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know how I get at these things, Paul. I can’t get through a dance without stomping all over some poor girl’s feet, and I can’t flirt worth a lick. What’s the point?”

“The point is that this is your last night stateside, buddy o’ mine. You’re about to get shipped off halfway around the world, risking your neck to defend your country and all those pretty girls you’re so convinced you can’t talk to. You deserve one last night of fun,” Paul insisted, his expression serious even as his lips turned up in a cajoling smile. “Who cares if you can’t dance? Just come and have some drinks with me and the fellas. Let’s celebrate our last night together in the land of the free, home of the brave,” he grinned.

Bob’s eyes flickered down to his unfinished letter, hesitation written all over his face as he mentally debated what to do.

“Come on, Robby, do it for me! And for Natasha! She’ll never let me hear the end of it if I let you stay in tonight,” Paul pleaded, nudging him teasingly.

How could he argue with that? Shoulders slumping in defeat, Bob felt his resolve crumble as he mumbled. “Alright, fine. I’ll come with you.”

Paul let out a whoop of victory. “Break out those dress blues, pal. What girl in her right mind will be able to resist?”

Bob chuckled softly at that, organizing the pages of his letter and slipping them into his trunk before moving to get changed. “You better not make me regret this decision,” he joked.

Paul just smirked, leaning against the wall as he waited for Bob to get ready. “Nah, you won’t regret it. I have a good feeling about tonight.”

Your POV

Charleston, South Carolina

“Stop fidgeting,” Dottie chided, poking you playfully in the side. “I’m nearly done,” she hummed, applying a light coating of rouge to the apples of your cheeks and then brushing it up along your cheekbones with a practiced hand.

“I can’t help but fidget. It feels like we’ve been at this for hours,” you laughed softly, dutifully keeping your eyes closed and your chin tilted upward as your older sister finished up her careful ministrations.

“Well, perfection takes time,” came Dottie’s quick retort. Even with your eyes closed, you could hear the smile in her voice. “And perfect you look, my darling,” she added gleefully, tapping the tip of your nose with affection. “Open your eyes and take a look.”

Slowly opening your eyes, you swiveled on the vanity chair in your sister’s bedroom and faced the mirror. Your breath caught slightly in your throat and your eyes widened, something that Dottie didn’t fail to notice.

“You look stunning, sweetheart,” she grinned, wrapping her arms around you and bringing her face down to your level, beaming at your dual reflections.

Normally, you would have shyly brushed off the compliment, deflecting by pointing out something lovelier about Dottie or changing the subject altogether. But gazing at your reflection in the mirror tonight, you found it hard to deny that your sister had certainly worked wonders. You felt like a movie star. Between the victory rolls that Dottie had spent hours setting, ensuring your hair fell in the softest, sleekest ringlets imaginable, the light pink rouge that accentuated your cheeks, and the dark black mascara that framed your eyes, you had never felt more beautiful or grown up in all your life.

“Oh, Sissy,” you breathed out, unconsciously reverting to the affectionate childhood nickname you’d had for your older sister when the two of you were growing up.

“You’re gonna knock ’em dead tonight, kid! The boys are going to be lining up for the chance at a dance with you,” Dottie told you, with that air of cool confidence that she had always seemed to possess, even when you were little girls.

“Oh, no, I don’t think—”

“Hush,” Dottie silenced you immediately with a finger to your lips. “None of that now. You’re going to be the prettiest girl in the room, I just know it. Not to mention the sweetest,” she smiled with a wink, chucking you under the chin.

You knew there was no point in arguing with her, so you just smiled and kept your mouth shut. You did look pretty. You felt pretty, too. But you knew that would only get you so far when your own painful shyness kept you from being able to string two sentences together.

Dottie was the social butterfly. She was the one who could carry on a conversation with anyone about anything. You’d always admired that about her, and looked up to her in every way imaginable. But you’d also come to accept long ago that you were never going to be like your big sister. You panicked at the mere thought of holding a conversation with someone you’d just met, and when you threw handsome men into the mix, it turned you into an awkward fool who fumbled over the few words you managed to squeak out.

Yet, despite all that, you’d somehow allowed your very persuasive older sister to talk you into volunteering with the USO.

“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to get out of your shell a little bit! Meet new people. Including handsome men,” Dottie had told you with a wink and a playful nudge. “Plus you’ll be doing your part for the war effort!”

You knew Dottie would never let you hear the end of it if you didn’t agree, so you had. And the truth was that you did enjoy helping out at events, offering refreshments and kind smiles to the men who were leaving everything behind to serve on the frontlines of the war. But there had been no love connections, much to your sister’s chagrin.

Dottie was certain that the dance tonight was going to change that.

“Here, sweetheart, can’t forget this,” she told you, holding out a gold tube of red lipstick. “It’ll match your nails perfectly.”

“You’ve really thought of every detail, hm?” you asked teasingly, smiling as you leaned in closer to the mirror to carefully apply the lipstick. It was bright and flashy, just like the polish that Dottie had insisted on painting your nails with yesterday.

“Of course,” Dottie giggled, disappearing into her spacious closet for a moment. “Including this!” she exclaimed a moment later, reappearing with her most stunning party dress in hand. It was cream-colored and covered in a design of delicate pink flowers, with pearl buttons adorning the back.

“Oh, Dottie, I couldn’t!” you gasped, nearly dropping the tube of lipstick in your rush to rise from the vanity seat.

“You absolutely could,” your sister insisted, laying the dress out on her bed and smoothing it with gentle fingers. “It doesn’t even fit me anymore after the baby. My hips are stretched beyond repair,” she laughed, sliding her hands down her curvy figure. “You’ll be doing me a favor by wearing it. At least then I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing it’s being enjoyed by someone.”

“You’re too good to me, you know that?” you murmured, stepping beside your sister and wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Says the angel who dropped everything back home to come to Charleston and help me keep my head on straight,” Dottie smiled, hugging you back and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I love being here with you and Paddy and Frankie,” you told her, taking her hand in yours and giving it a light squeeze.

“Not as much as we love having you,” Dottie replied, cupping your face in her hands and smiling warmly. “Oh, but look at me! I’m going to muss your makeup! And we have to finish getting you ready!”

Five minutes later, you were twirling dutifully in front of the mirror in the prettiest dress you’d ever worn, Dottie eyeing you carefully from every angle to make sure everything was perfect.

“Oh, I’m just sad I’m going to miss you being the belle of the ball tonight!” she sighed dramatically, eyes twinkling with humor when you rolled your eyes at her. “Come on, let’s show you off to the boys,” she beamed, taking your hand and practically dragging you out of her bedroom and down the stairs.

“Dottie, I’m going to twist my ankle and then I won’t be able to go to the dance at all,” you laughed breathlessly, straightening out the dress as the two of you bounded into the living room.

“Paddy, look!” Dottie announced, holding out her arms to show you off as if you were one of Hollywood’s newest starlets.

Your brother-in-law let out a loud whistle, grinning jovially as he looked you up and down. “Hey, look at you, kid! I think you might be a little lost. The MGM lot is over in Hollywood,” he teased.

Blushing slightly at the compliment, you waved it off. “Oh, stop,” you smiled, walking over to him and lifting your soon-to-be five month old nephew out of his arms, nuzzling his soft head.

Frankie babbled happily in your arms, reaching up to tug at the pearl necklace you were wearing, the one your parents had bought you for your sixteenth birthday.

“Oh no you don’t, little monster,” Dottie laughed, taking her son out of your arms and pressing an affectionate kiss to the top of his head. “Auntie’s going out tonight, so there will be no pulling on her jewelry or tugging on her hair.”

“Or spitting up on her dress,” Paddy sighed, indicating a large stain on his shirt.

“Yes, none of that either,” Dottie gasped, looking horrified at the prospect.

You laughed, gazing with love at your family. “You act as if I’m off to be crowned Queen of England. It’s hardly so serious as all that, Sissy,” you winked.

Dottie just shook her head, bouncing her baby boy in her arms. “You’re going to break so many hearts tonight, baby doll. Don’t you agree, Paddy?”

“Don’t indulge her,” you laughed, reaching for your purse and making sure that your wallet and house keys were inside.

“Listen to me, kiddo,” Paddy said, moving beside you and wrapping a brotherly arm around your shoulders. “None of these lugheads are worthy of you, you hear me? And if even one of them looks at you the wrong way, or hurts you, I’ll give him a knuckle sandwich, okay?”

“Oh, Paddy!” Dottie huffed in exasperation, lowering Frankie into his bassinet and crossing her arms over her chest. “Shush! Don’t listen to him!”

You just laughed softly, shaking your head. “Thank you, Paddy, I appreciate it,” you grinned, pressing a kiss to your brother-in-law’s cheek.

“You sure you don’t need me to give you a ride over to the dance, kid?” Paddy asked, resting his hands on his hips. He was in a jolly mood, like he always was, but you could tell from the pinched look around his eyes that he was exhausted from a long day of work.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about me,” you insisted, reaching for the white sweater you’d left sitting on the back of the armchair. “I’m walking over with some of the other girls. And the community center isn’t far. Plus, it’s a nice night.”

“Mhm, it is. A perfect night, in fact,” Dottie nodded innocently, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist. “Perfect for a little evening stroll with a handsome fella, wouldn’t you say so, Paddy?”

“Why, Dot, are you proposing to take me on an evening stroll? Or are you just hoping your baby sister comes home with a marriage proposal tonight?” Paddy smirked, loud laughter booming from his chest when his wife smacked his arm.

“Oh, shut up, you idiot,” Dottie laughed as well, a huge smile breaking out across her face as Paddy bent his head to press a kiss to her cheek.

Even as you smiled, you felt that familiar ache bloom in your chest as you witnessed the easy affection and love that your sister and her husband shared with one another. You’d always desired a relationship like that, a marriage like that. You’d just never seemed to find the right man.

Maybe Dottie was right. Maybe he would be at the dance tonight. As improbable as it felt, crazier things had surely happened. And evidently your sister had given you permission to stay out as long as you wanted, taking moonlit strolls with perfect strangers.

“We’ll be here, kid, if you need anything,” Paddy told you, resting a protective hand on your shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to call.”

“But also don’t hesitate to spend all the time you need with whatever handsome man happens to catch your eye,” Dottie winked, shooting both you and Paddy an impish grin.

“Okay, on that note, I think it’s time I took my leave,” you giggled, draping your sweater over your arm and checking your purse one more time as you headed towards the front door, Paddy and Dottie following behind you.

“Have fun, kiddo. Be safe,” Paddy murmured as you turned to give him a hug goodbye.

“I will,” you promised, moving to wrap your sister in a tight hug. “Thanks for everything, Sissy,” you whispered to her, squeezing her hand before slipping out the front door.

“Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Dottie called after you with a laugh, waving you off excitedly.

A block away from your sister’s house, you met up with a few of the other girls who were volunteering with the USO, including your friend, Emily. The two of you met at the first USO event you’d volunteered at, and had become fast friends.

“You look beautiful!” Emily exclaimed brightly, slipping her arm through yours as your group began strolling in the direction of the community center, all the other girls chirping and babbling excitedly.

“So do you,” you smiled, knowing the boys wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes off your friend. She never had a shortage of dance partners at these sorts of events.

“Oh, I’m so excited!” she giggled, beaming up at you. “Tonight is going to be special. I can just feel it.”

You hoped Emily and Dottie were right.

Bob’s POV

“Here we are, boys!” Tommy Boy grinned as the squadron pulled up in front of the Charleston Community Center, the red, white, and blue balloons and streamers floating in the warm spring breeze a good sign that they were in the right place. “Our last night stateside,” he announced loudly, rubbing his hands together with a cheeky smirk. “Better make it count!”

The rest of the guys let out a loud whoop of agreement, laughing and shoving each other as they each hurried up the stairs, hoping to be the first inside and the first in the arms of the prettiest volunteers.

“What do you say, Bobby Boy?” Benny beamed, squeezing Bob’s shoulders as he came up behind him. “Gonna get yourself a girl tonight?”

“Oh, I just—I don’t think that I—” Bob stuttered, his ears burning red as he adjusted his glasses, pushing them up firmly onto the bridge of his nose.

Benny guffawed amicably, not actually possessing a mean bone in his body. “Aw, c’mon, Floyd,” he coaxed, slinging a friendly arm around his shoulders. “Think of it as a little ‘going away’ present for yourself. Lots of pretty girls who can’t resist a man in uniform—especially an officer’s uniform,” he winked, nudging Bob with a devilish expression.

When Bob just continued to stammer and blush, Paul stepped in smoothly, giving Benny a teasing punch to the arm. “C’mon, Benny, leave him alone. He’s here, isn’t he? Let the man have a drink in peace. We haven’t even gotten inside yet.”

“Trace here is the perfect wingman, Bob,” Benny went on, clearly determined to get his old classmate a girl before the night was through. “He’s already got himself a pretty girl—”

“The prettiest,” Paul cut in, grinning.

“Alright, the prettiest girl,” Benny amended, smirking. “So he’s not on the prowl like the rest of us lugheads. Let him help you find a nice girl to give you a proper sendoff.”

“If I say I will, will you let us go inside?” Bob asked, smiling ruefully.

Benny laughed at that, smacking Bob on the back. “You crack me up, Floyd. You really do. Fine, fine. Let’s go inside. I’m getting myself a girl, even if you aren’t,” he insisted, waggling his eyebrows suggestively before hurrying up the stairs with a shameless grin.

“Just have fun tonight, pal,” Paul smiled, patting Bob on the back. “Our last night stateside. Let’s make it one to remember, huh?” He held out his hand for Bob to shake, the way they’d always done as kids before embarking on some grand adventure.

“Yeah,” Bob grinned, nodding as he reached out and clasped Paul’s hand, shaking firmly. “Let’s make it count.”

Chuckling, the two friends shook their heads in amusement and followed the path their fellow officers had already disappeared along, their long legs carrying them up the stairs and into the central foyer, the sound of music and raucous laughter drawing them in the right direction.

Pushing open the doors to the main hall, Bob and Paul were instantly met by a sea of uniformed men from all branches of the service and pretty girls in all their finery whirling across the dance floor. The band was enthusiastically giving their best rendition of Benny Goodman’s “Sandman,” the music reverberating throughout the room and setting a jovial atmosphere that almost made them forget they were shipping off to war tomorrow morning.

“At least we know the men we’re flying with are true to their word,” Paul called out over the din, grinning as he pointed in the direction of Tommy Boy, Benny, and the rest of their friends, who were already chatting away with a group of giggling girls, each one more dolled up than the last.

Bob grinned as well, shoving his hands into his pockets nervously. “I never doubted for a minute they’d find the girls they were after,” he shouted back, finding it difficult to make himself heard over the music and loud conversations buzzing around them.

“C’mon, let’s go grab a drink,” Paul suggested, nodding his head in the direction of the punch table that was situated across the room.

Bob trailed behind his best friend, keeping his head down as he passed by flirtatious couples and older volunteers who were trying to maintain an ounce of decorum in the dance hall. It was a difficult job that he didn’t envy. With the war on, and the majority of the men in the room tonight deploying within the next few days, there was a sense of urgency pulsating in the air—a desperate, hungry need to cling to anything and anyone that reminded them, if only for this moment, that they were alive. Lingering glances from across the room, longing touches on the dance floor, stolen kisses in the shadows—they would all be traded soon for bitter nights in the trenches and the deafening boom of gunfire and the stench of death. So tonight, they had to squeeze every last drop out of life. Because who knew when it would be their last?

Bob was jolted out of his silent musings when he realized that Paul had come to a halt in front of him, joining the ring of men waiting for a glass of punch. Clearing his throat and trying to shake all dire thoughts from his mind, Bob raised his head and fixed his gaze straight ahead.

And suddenly he forgot how to breathe.

There, standing behind the punch table with a couple other volunteers, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in all his life. Hollywood could keep their Judy Garland, Rita Hayworth, Joan Fontaine, and all the rest—she outshone them all. She wasn’t looking in his direction, but he couldn’t help but stare as she handed a small glass of punch to a young sailor, her lips curving in the sweetest smile and her eyes sparkling brightly in the loveliest face he had ever beheld. The pink flowers on her dress brought out the rosiness in her cheeks, and Bob was certain that she had to be an angel sent down from heaven. She just had to be.

He only became aware of the sound of Paul loudly clearing his throat when his friend nudged him sharply in the ribcage, bringing him back down to earth. He tore his gaze away from the lovely angel hesitantly, half afraid she’d disappear forever if he lost sight of her.

“Welcome back to earth, pal,” Paul laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “See something you like? Or, should I say, someone?” he winked, craning his neck to seek out the object of Bob’s intense focus. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, nodding sagely. “A very pretty someone. I think Nat would approve of her for you.”

“Paul, no,” Bob stammered, his cheeks flaming red in embarrassment as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I—I was just—”

“You were just what? Hm?” Paul demanded, smiling knowingly. “Are you really going to stand here and tell me—me—that you weren’t just looking at that girl like she hung the moon and stars?”

“Well—I just—I mean—” Bob fumbled hopelessly, scuffing one of his newly polished shoes across the hardwood floor.

“Robby,” Paul cut him off, grinning as he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him once for good measure. “Go talk to her.”

“Me? T-talk to her? Oh no, I couldn’t,” Bob insisted, shaking his head determinedly.

“It’s the perfect opportunity! She’s handing out punch to all the guys,” Paul said, indicating the table just a few feet away from them. “Just say something nice to her—compliment her dress or her hair or that string of pearls around her neck. Anything. C’mon, Robby, you can do it. I have faith in you,” he encouraged.

“I—I—” Bob turned his head to look at her again. Maybe he’d just been feeling lightheaded and she wouldn’t have so much of an effect on him this time. But as soon as he caught sight of her once more, his stomach promptly performed an Olympic-style somersault, his mouth suddenly feeling as dry as Iowa farmland in the middle of a summer drought.

She was so beautiful. A girl that beautiful would never want to talk to him. Not when she could have any man in the room that she wanted.

“I—I’m actually not thirsty,” Bob declared, turning quickly on his heel and making a beeline as far away from the punch table as possible.

“Bob!”

He could hear Paul calling after him, but he had to get as far away from the angel in the dress with the pink flowers as possible.

God, he was a coward. He could ship off halfway across the world to face the Nazis in Europe, but he couldn’t talk to a girl at a dance? Pathetic.

Why had he let the guys talk him into coming tonight?

Your POV

“Emily, why don’t you go dance? I can handle things here,” you offered, not failing to notice the wistful glances your friend kept tossing towards the center of the room—most notably in the direction of a cluster of handsome officers.

“Oh, no!” Emily exclaimed, pulling her attention back round towards the task at hand and shaking her head. “I wouldn’t leave you and Marilyn all alone,” she insisted, referring to the bubbly redhead who’d been put on punch table duty with the two of you this evening.

“It’s not such a hard job,” you laughed softly, ladling some of the fruity drink into a set of fresh glasses. “And I don’t mind. Really. I can tell how much you’re itching to get out there,” you smiled, shooting her a knowing look.

Emily bit her lip, seemingly contemplating your offer for a moment, but then shook her head once, firmly. “No, I’ll stay here. Some of the other volunteers will rotate in soon, and then we’ll both get a chance to dance,” she chittered brightly.

Your smile waned somewhat at that, and it was your turn to shake your head. “Oh, I don’t think so. I’m not much for dancing,” you admitted quietly, chewing on your lower lip. It took you a moment to recall the red lipstick Dottie had given you, and you flushed, hoping you hadn’t gotten it all over your teeth.

“Oh, don’t be silly! You volunteered for a dance and you don’t want to dance?” Emily teased gently, nudging your arm as she handed a glass of punch to a soldier who looked like he couldn’t possibly be a day older than eighteen. “I’m sure the fellas will be lining up to dance with you!”

Emily was so sweet and earnest that you didn’t have the heart to tell her that the boys would be lining up to dance with her, not with you. So you just smiled tightly and offered her a small nod in response, handing off a couple glasses of punch to a young couple who looked wholly out of breath after a few turns on the dance floor.

“The men look so handsome, don’t you think so?” Emily chattered excitedly, carefully setting out a new stack of napkins on the table. “And so many officers are here tonight!” she giggled, blushing prettily.

Marilyn suddenly leaned over at that, lowering her voice conspiratorially. She always was one to know the latest gossip. “I heard there’s a whole squadron of naval officers here tonight who are shipping out first thing tomorrow morning. It’s their last night in town, so you know what that means,” she finished with a wink.

You just blushed furiously at her innuendo, but Emily’s eyes widened innocently.

“No,” she murmured, admitting to her naivete. “What does that mean?”

Marilyn giggled in a way that indicated she had rather intimate experience with servicemen who were spending their last night stateside. Covering her mouth with her hand, she leaned in closer and whispered, “They’re looking for girls to give them a fun sendoff, if you catch my meaning.” She winked, flipping her red curls over her shoulder.

If possible, Emily’s eyes widened even further, looking like a pair of light blue china saucers. “Oh,” was all she managed to squeak out, her cheeks turning bright red.

Giggling some more, Marilyn turned away to resume her punch table duties, while Emily turned to gape at you.

“I never—well, I mean, I’ve flirted with a few boys and even kissed one or two,” Emily confessed, her blush extending down her throat and up to the tips of her ears. “But I never—did you know that? About their last night in town, I mean?”

You shrugged a little bit in embarrassment, thinking of the things you’d heard from Dottie and Paddy. “Well, I’ve heard. But I wouldn’t know from personal experience,” you hastily amended, clearing your throat shyly.

“Hm,” Emily murmured, more to herself than anybody else, turning to look out at the sea of eligible men with fresh eyes. “Well a dance and maybe a kiss is all they’re getting from me,” she announced firmly, her expression so serious that you couldn’t help but giggle slightly.

“I mean it!” she laughed, playfully slapping you on the arm. “Oh, there are a lot of cute ones out there though, aren’t there?” she simpered, her eyes turning big and doe-like once more. “Do you have your eye on any of them?” she asked curiously.

“Me? Oh, no,” you replied, shaking your head. “I’ve found that I’m much better off keeping to myself and doing my job at events like these,” you explained, biting down on your lower lip again.

“That’s nonsense!” Emily scoffed, almost looking offended on your behalf. “You’re beautiful! The boys here can’t stop looking at you!”

You grimaced slightly at that, face flushing in awkward embarrassment. The boys might be looking, but as soon as any of them tried to strike up a conversation, they quickly discovered what a shy, nervous little churchmouse you were, and their interest quickly faded.

You’d already fumbled clumsily over three flirtatious interactions with a sailor, a soldier, and a pilot. One poor Marine had even ended up with bright red punch spilled down the front of his uniform. You’d been mortified, and he’d been gracious, but you could tell he planned to stay as far away from you as possible for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to meet somebody. In fact, you wanted that more than anything. Living with your sister and brother-in-law for these past few months had only solidified the yearning that had long since taken up residence in your heart, the aching desire to find someone to love and cherish—someone who would love and cherish you in return. But as soon as any nice, handsome, eligible man approached you, you suddenly found yourself wishing the earth would swallow you whole. Dottie was always telling you how smart and funny and sweet you were, but you never seemed to be able to show that to any man who talked to you. Instead, you clammed up like an oyster and stammered and stuttered over all your words. It was humiliating.

You’d learned to accept long ago that you weren’t the kind of girl who got asked to dance. You were the girl who handed out punch and offered kind smiles and volunteered to man the table alone so that the other girls could dance. Even your big sister’s prettiest party dress wouldn’t change that.

But you didn’t mind. It made you smile to see how excited all the other girls, like Emily and Marilyn, got when they were pulled out onto the dance floor, swept up in the arms of handsome strangers. You might not get to experience it yourself, but you enjoyed living vicariously through them.

Lost in your private reverie, you almost didn’t notice the handsome gentleman who approached you, his dark gaze fixed on you as opposed to Marilyn or Emily.

“Evenin’,” he smiled, tipping his hat respectfully. He looked to be an officer in the Navy, judging by his uniform.

“H-hello,” you stuttered shyly, mentally kicking yourself. All he’d done was wish you a good evening. There was no need to be nervous about that.

Your nervousness didn’t seem to be off-putting to him, however. In fact, he smiled even wider.

“Ensign Paul Trace,” he introduced himself, offering you his hand in a gentlemanly manner. Again, he didn’t seem to be disconcerted by the fact that you just stared dumbly at him for a moment.

Coming to your senses, you reached out and slipped your hand into his, shaking gently and telling him your name.

“A very pretty name,” he told you with a smile, which had you staring at your shoes and avoiding all eye contact. “And that’s a very pretty necklace you’ve got there,” he added. You could tell from your peripheral vision that he was indicating the pearls strung around your neck.

“Oh, th-thank you,” you murmured, tripping slightly over your words. You wanted to mention that they were a gift from your parents—anything to keep the conversation moving forward, as Dottie often reminded you—but the words got stuck in your throat.

“I’ve been meaning to buy my wife a necklace like that,” Ensign Trace said kindly, his smile friendly and warm.

Oh, thank goodness, you thought to yourself. He’s married. Strangely enough, the revelation was a relief. Knowing that he was a married man instantly put you at ease. He wasn’t trying to flirt or make time with you. He was just being nice. And that you could handle much more easily.

“I’m sure she would love that very much,” you smiled, lifting your chin slightly so that you could meet his gaze once more.

He grinned in a way that seemed to indicate that he was aware the pronouncement of his marital status had made you more comfortable. “I think she would, too. Maybe for her birthday,” he mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully and shooting you another good-natured grin.

“That sounds nice,” you nodded, feeling the familiar tug of anxiety that the conversation would lag. “Oh, would you like some punch?” you asked. As you reached out to grab him a glass, however, you accidentally tipped one over with your hand, spilling the sticky liquid across the table.

Ensign Trace immediately jumped to grab some napkins as you gasped, cheeks flaming as you rushed to fix the mess you’d made.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed, soaking up the punch with a handful of napkins. You felt the tips of your ears burning and you wanted nothing more than to flee the dance hall at that moment. “Did any of it get on you? I can go get some more napkins,” you stammered, trying to look anywhere but directly at him.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he insisted, shaking his head as he helped you sop up the juice. “I’m right as rain. Accidents happen,” he told you with a comforting smile.

“They should probably take me off punch duty,” you mumbled, tossing the soaked napkins into a garbage pail. “That’s the second glass I’ve spilled tonight.”

Ensign Trace just chuckled at that, gazing at you thoughtfully.

You grew even more self-conscious under his scrutiny, brushing your hair behind your ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. He seemed to become aware of this, and held up a hand in atonement.

“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he apologized, taking a step back to put you more at ease. “I just—I just can’t help but think how perfect you’d be for a buddy of mine,” he laughed, grinning again. The man seemed incapable of going more than a few seconds without smiling.

Your heart plummeted at his comment, however. After your foolish display, you couldn’t help but suddenly feel like the butt of a joke. Why would this handsome officer’s friend have any interest in a klutz like you?

Your face must have given away your inner turmoil because Ensign Trace’s grin suddenly faltered and his eyes filled with a glow of compassionate awareness. “Oh, I’m not trying to make a joke, miss,” he told you earnestly, placing his hand over his heart. “I would never insult a lady like that.” His expression was open and sincere. “I really do have a friend who I think you’d get on with real well. He’s here tonight, too! He just—” He turned at that moment, peering around the room. “Well, he’s here somewhere!”

“It’s alright, Ensign Trace,” you told him with a small smile, holding out a fresh cup of punch for him.

“No, no, he really is here. Darn fool’s just gone off and—”

“If you find him, you can send him over for a glass of punch,” you suggested, having a feeling his friend would probably be much more interested in Emily or Marilyn anyway.

The naval officer looked at you seriously, nodding his head. “I’ll do that, miss. Have a nice night,” he said, tipping his hat once more before taking his punch and walking away, a rather determined look in his gait.

Sighing softly to yourself, you turned and went back to replenishing the glasses of punch, putting all thoughts of Ensign Trace’s mysterious buddy out of your mind.

Bob’s POV

“Where the hell did you go?” Paul demanded, punching Bob in the arm when he finally found him in the main foyer, near the front doors of the community center.

“Ow,” Bob frowned, rubbing his arm with a slight scowl. For all his congeniality, Paul also had one hell of a right hook and he wasn’t afraid to use it. “What was that for?”

“For being an idiot!” Paul exclaimed, shaking his head. The severity of his words was softened by the reluctant grin that slowly spread across his face. Natasha had always joked that Paul couldn’t stay mad at anyone for longer than the span of two breaths.

“I was just…getting some air,” Bob said lamely, giving his sore bicep one last quick rub and adjusting his glasses. Though he’d worn them for most of his life, the darn things never seemed to want to sit correctly on his face.

“Sure,” Paul shot back skeptically. He was the best, most supportive buddy a guy could ask for, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t quick to call Bob out when he felt he needed a swift kick in the pants.

“I—I was just—I said I’m not thirsty,” Bob explained, knowing before the words even left his mouth that it was a paltry excuse. “What does it matter?” he asked, trying hard not to conjure up in his mind’s eye the image of that vision of loveliness standing behind the punch table.

“What does it matter? I’ll tell you what it matters,” Paul declared, shoving his untouched glass of punch into Bob’s hand. “The girl who gave me that may very well be your future wife, Robert Floyd. And as your best friend and wingman, I’m not going to stand by and let you throw an opportunity like that away!”

Bob’s blue eyes widened at his friend’s impassioned speech and he stood silent for a moment or two, too dumbfounded to speak. Gazing down at the glass of punch in his hand, he cleared his throat and stammered, “You—you talked to her?”

“Yes, I talked to her,” Paul nodded emphatically. “Since you were too scared to do it,” he added with a teasing grin, nudging Bob’s other arm—the one he hadn’t punched. “Aw, she’s a doll, Robby. A real doll. Sweet as apple pie and timid as a rabbit. I know you’re scared to talk to her, but you’ve got no reason to be. Trust me when I say she’s probably more scared to talk to you,” he said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Bob’s jaw fell open at that, flabbergasted. “She’s more—are you sure you talked to the right girl? The one in the dress with the pink flowers?” he questioned, hardly daring to believe a girl that beautiful would be scared to talk to anyone, least of all him.

“The very one,” Paul beamed. “You’ve got a good eye, Bobby Boy, because I’ve never met a girl more perfect for you in all my life,” he insisted, slapping Bob on the chest for good measure. “Go talk to her! Ask her to dance!”

“Aw, gosh, I don’t know, Paul,” Bob faltered, shaking his head and staring down at his feet. “She’s just so—and I’m so—and, well, we leave tomorrow,” he reminded him plaintively, as if it wasn’t something his best friend was already keenly aware of. “What’s the point in trying to get tangled up in something when we ship out in less than twelve hours?” He deflated slightly, tugging nervously on the cuff of his uniform jacket.

Paul sighed softly, nodding his head in understanding. “I get where you’re coming from, pal. I really do,” he said sincerely, lowering his voice as their conversation took a more serious turn. “Look, I don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna bring. I don’t know what the weeks and months and—hell—years ahead are gonna bring. And I’m not telling you to walk back in there and marry the girl. But if there’s anything we’ve learned these past few months, Robby, it’s that life turns on a damn dime. Not one of us knows when everything will go to hell. So we might as well enjoy the bits of heaven while we’ve got ’em, huh? Who’s to say that girl in there isn’t your little slice of heaven?”

Bob looked up and met his best friend’s dark gaze, seeing the sincerity shining there. Paul truly believed every word he said. And Bob couldn’t deny the way his words had stirred something deep inside his heart, a desire to make this night count—to make his life count—before he lost the chance forever.

“Go talk to her, Robby,” Paul told him encouragingly, patting his back with a firm hand. “At the very least, she’ll be a nice girl to dance with the night before we ship off. And who knows? At most, maybe she’s the girl who’ll turn your world upside down,” he grinned, winking pointedly.

“Well…” Bob stammered, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Paul chuckled, taking the glass of punch out of his hand. “Go,” he said again, lightly pushing his best friend in the direction of the dance hall.

Doing his very best not to stumble over his own two feet, Bob adjusted his uniform and straightened his tie, clearing his throat once, twice, three times before pushing open the doors, the brassy instruments of the band slamming him in the face once more as he reentered the hall. The notes blended together in a familiar fashion as Bob nervously crossed the room—he recognized it as ”Tuxedo Junction.” He’d always liked that one. His mother was a big fan of Glenn Miller and played his records all the time back home. Maybe he should take that as a good sign.

“Hello,” he murmured softly under his breath, ducking as he moved across the dance floor to avoid bumping into twirling couples. “My name’s Robert Floyd. Would you like to dance with me?” He scoffed at himself in frustration. “No, too stiff,” he decided. “Hiya, my name’s Bob. Care to dance?” he tried again. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Too…stupid. Oh, God, I can’t do this,” he moaned, nearly turning on his heel right then and hightailing it out of there.

He was halted in his second attempt to flee, however, when he thought once more of Paul’s words.

“Gotta enjoy the bits of heaven while we’ve got ’em,” Bob echoed, taking a deep breath. “You can do this, Floyd. Quit being such a coward,” he chastised himself. He blushed crimson when he realized a couple of the older volunteers were staring at him, obviously having overheard his one-sided argument “Uh, ’scuse me,” he mumbled, hurrying off.

Craning his neck, he tried to scan the crowd, wondering if maybe the angel from the punch table had been relieved of her shift in the time he’d been hiding out like a scared little boy. But as his eyes alighted on the refreshment table, his heart squeezed painfully inside his chest.

There she was.

He wanted so badly to ask her to dance.

He was going to ask her to dance.

Oh, God, no. He couldn’t.

No, he could.

He couldn’t.

He stood there like a fool, floundering as he frantically went back and forth in his mind, wanting so desperately to overcome his fears and go talk to her.

She was right there.

If he could only muster up the nerve…

Your POV

“That Navy man you were chatting with was a real looker,” Marilyn grinned, sidling up beside you and nudging you surreptitiously as you fanned out a new stack of napkins on the refreshment table with nimble fingers.

“Yes, I suppose he was,” you nodded in agreement, cheeks warming slightly, as they were wont to do whenever discussions of attractive men took place.

“You suppose?” Marilyn teased, smirking salaciously. “He was gorgeous. I couldn’t take my eyes off him! Lucky you. I wish he’d asked me for some punch,” she pouted, fluffing her red locks.

“He’s married,” you clarified, feeling strangely defensive of the kind naval officer you’d just met, even after you’d made a fool of yourself in front of him.

“So?” the redhead asked, her eyes twinkling wickedly.

“Marilyn!” you gasped, horrified at her implication.

Marilyn threw back her head, laughing. “Oh, don’t get your nylons in a twist, I’m just teasing,” she told you, resting a hand on her slender waist. “Besides, there’s plenty of unmarried fish in this sea,” she dimpled, nodding towards the massive congregation of servicemen. “And I think it’s time I found myself one! You and Emily don’t mind keeping an eye on the table without me, do you?” she asked expectantly.

“Um, well, I don’t, but—”

“Great! Thanks, doll!” Marilyn beamed, blowing a kiss in your general direction and flouncing off towards the dance floor without a backwards glance.

“Where’s she going?” Emily asked, reappearing at your elbow with a new stack of punch glasses.

“Off to dance, it would seem,” you sighed softly, sharing a knowing glance with your friend. “I told her that I didn’t mind, but I’m sorry if you—”

“Don’t apologize,” Emily said, waving off your concern. “I don’t think anyone can stop Marilyn once she has her mind made up about something,” she added with a giggle.

“No, that’s true,” you agreed, smiling ruefully. Helping your friend fill the new glasses, you glanced over at her. “You can go dance, too. Emily. Really. It’s like I told you before—I don’t mind.”

“I’m not going to leave you here all by yourself!” Emily exclaimed, relentless in her determination not to abandon you. She was a good friend.

The crowd around the refreshment table slowly began to thin out as more and more couples made their way onto the dance floor, allured by the heady beat of the music and the intoxicating possibilities of what they might discover in one another’s arms.

Emily sighed softly as she tapped her feet along to the swing music. You were tempted to try to nudge her towards the dance floor for the third time, but you knew she’d just refuse, so you kept quiet. The two of you chatted softly, handing out glasses of punch to anyone who walked by and offering sweet words of thanks to the men.

“Oh, I love this song!” Emily cried out, clapping her hands excitedly as a young singer stepped up to the microphone and began crooning “The Way You Look Tonight,” wrapping her hands around the mic stand and accentuating each word.

The couples that had been kicking their feet frenetically and swinging their arms wildly on the dance floor gradually shifted into a slower, gentler rhythm, hands pressing against waists and cheeks resting upon shoulders as their bodies intertwined, allowing the romantic lyrics to wrap around them like a cozy shawl.

Emily began softly singing along, caught up in a dreamy haze as she watched the couples dancing with a gentle grin curving her lips.

You just smiled at how much your friend seemed to be enjoying herself, wiping up a small spill as you hummed quietly under your breath. You also loved this song.

“Excuse me, miss?” a masculine voice cut through the hazy silence, catching you off guard. Your head snapped up in surprise, and you found yourself looking into the eyes of a young Army corporal. He looked a little nervous, which only ratcheted up your own anxious feelings.

“Yes?” you murmured softly, cheeks growing warm despite yourself.

“I—” He cleared his throat slightly, shifting from foot to foot. “Well, um, I was just wondering if—”

Oh my goodness, you thought to yourself, butterflies batting their wings violently in your stomach. Is he going to ask me to dance?

The thought terrified you, but also filled you with a kind of giddy excitement. You’d never been asked to dance at any of the USO events. Was this finally your chance? Maybe Dottie had been right about tonight.

The soldier rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. He looked so nervous, and you couldn’t help but find it endearing. “I was wondering if—do you think your friend would like to dance with me?” he finally asked, his gaze moving away from your face and landing on Emily.

You felt your heart sink like a stone.

Turning slightly, you caught sight of your friend, who was still swaying to the music, lost in her own little world. Of course this handsome soldier wanted to dance with Emily, your sweet, bubbly, extroverted friend. It shouldn’t have necessarily come as a surprise that he saw you as more of a gatekeeper than a viable dancer partner, but that didn’t make the reality of it hurt any less.

Pasting a bright smile on your face, you nodded your head, not missing the way the young man’s eyes lit up excitedly. “I’m sure she would love to,” you assured him, swallowing past the lump that had suddenly formed in your throat. “Her name is Emily,” you told him, fisting your hands in the folds of your dress and watching as he shyly approached her.

Emily looked surprised when the corporal tapped her on the shoulder, but she beamed immediately, offering him one of her megawatt smiles. You couldn’t hear their conversation from the angle where you were standing, but you saw him offer his hand to her, which she eagerly accepted. Seconds later, however, she tilted her head to catch your eye, a questioning look on her face.

“Go have fun,” you told her, waving her off with a delicate hand.

“Thank you!” she mouthed back, grinning happily as her new partner whisked her off onto the dance floor.

Lifting your chin and straightening your back, you did your best to focus on the tasks that were in front of you—rearranging the napkins, replenishing the punch bowl, filling the glasses. Never mind the fact that you were crumbling inside, feeling near tears.

Dottie was going to be so disappointed. The thought made you sad. Despite your big sister’s best efforts with your hair and make-up—even lending you her prettiest dress—it didn’t change the fact that her baby sister was a wilting wallflower, too shy to earn anyone’s attention.

It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You were used to remaining on the sidelines during dances. You always told everyone you were more comfortable that way.

You had just hoped tonight would be different.

Bob’s POV

Bob generally considered himself to be a pretty mild-mannered, level-headed guy. There wasn’t much that got his temper flaring, but as he watched that corporal waltz off towards the dance floor with one of the other girls who’d been working behind the punch table, he felt his hand instinctively curl into an angry fist, his nails biting sharply into his palm.

He’d been pacing back and forth a few feet away from the refreshment table, anxiously trying to work up the nerve to finally approach the angel in the pink and white dress, when he spotted the Army officer making his way straight towards her.

That’s what you get, Floyd, he thought to himself. You waited too long, like a coward, and now someone else is seizing the opportunity you missed.

Shoulders sagging in disappointment, Bob was about to turn and go find Paul to tell him that he was heading out early. There didn’t seem any point in staying any longer. He’d just return to base and finish the letter he’d been writing for his parents, then get some sleep and try to avoid dreaming about the reality that he’d be on his way to Europe tomorrow morning—and not for the Grand Tour, either.

Just as he’d determined to walk away without a backwards glance, however, a lull in the music allowed him to catch a snatch of the conversation happening behind him. He froze. He couldn’t have heard that right.

“I was wondering if—do you think your friend would like to dance with me?”

Bob’s mouth hung agape as he swung back around, certain he would find the soldier talking to some other girl. But no! He was talking to her!

He was talking to her and asking if he could dance with some other girl? What was wrong with him?!

“I’m sure she would love to,” came the soft reply, so soft, in fact, that Bob was surprised he could hear it at all. It was the first time he’d heard her speak—God, she even had a beautiful voice.

A beautiful voice that was very clearly trying to hold back tears.

Bob’s eyes narrowed behind his square, wire-framed glasses and he felt his pulse begin racing in his veins, a dark flush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. How big of an idiot could one guy be? How could that corporal see the stunning treasure that was standing before him and just toss her aside like yesterday’s newspaper? How could he be so unfeeling, to get a girl’s hopes up like that, only to choose her friend over her?

Taking a deep breath, Bob unclenched his fist and tore his gaze away from the moronic Army officer, turning his attention back to the one person who really deserved it.

He felt his heart sink like a stone.

She looked so sad. So crushed and defeated. He ached as he watched her put on a brave face and attend to the tasks set before her. Anyone else might have walked right by her and not even realized that anything was wrong, but not Bob. He knew. He could see it in her eyes, read it in her body language—the woundedness of being overlooked. Disregarded. Forgotten.

He knew what that felt like, and he hated to think that she did, too. He hated to think that she had spent one moment wondering what she could have done differently to make people take notice of her; that she had spent even a fraction of a second thinking that there was something wrong with her, something she needed to change. He hated to think that anyone had failed to make her feel as beautiful and special as he knew she was.

Maybe Paul had been right. Maybe she really was the one for him—his little slice of heaven right in the middle of hell.

Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he became aware of the fact that the band was striking up another song. Keeping his blue gaze fixed on the beauty before him, he observed her lift her head and stare out at the dance floor, an honest and painful expression of yearning crossing her lovely features.

Bob actually had to look away in that moment, feeling like he was intruding upon her in her most private, intimate moment. Obviously she believed herself to be alone, he was sure of it. When he looked up again a few seconds later, too weak to tear his eyes away for long, he caught her brushing at one of her eyes.

He couldn’t stand there and let her hurt like that.

As nervous as he was to approach her, as terrified as he was to ask her to dance, Robert Floyd would never leave a lady all alone on the sidelines. No one deserved that, least of all her.

Breathing in a lungful of air, Bob started moving before his brain could try to stop him again, placing one foot in front of the other until he was finally standing right in front of the refreshment table.

She lifted her head in surprise and he cleared his throat nervously, trying not to get thrown by those gorgeous eyes staring up at him.

“Hello,” he smiled shyly.

Some opening, Floyd.

Your POV

You wanted to go home.

As much as you were trying not to let your interaction with the corporal get to you, the truth was that your feelings had been hurt and you weren’t sure how much more your battered pride could take. At the same time, however, you knew you were being ridiculous.

You came here tonight to volunteer, not to meet a husband, you mentally chided yourself. You can’t just up and leave now because your ego was wounded.

Clenching your jaw determinedly, you doubled down on your efforts to continue performing the duty you’d been tasked with for the night. As you wiped away sticky stains, straightened the tablecloth, and set out fresh glasses of punch, you forcibly quashed any feelings of self-pity that threatened to bubble to the surface against your will.

You were here in a strictly professional capacity. You were a volunteer, not some serviceman’s date.

So why had you allowed your hopes to peak when it seemed as though you might finally receive an invitation to dance? That had been a foolish mistake on your part.

Sighing softly under your breath, you nervously fidgeted with your hands, realizing there wasn’t much more you could do at the refreshment table until someone actually approached in search of some punch. Lifting your head, you took in the sight of all the happy couples on the dance floor with a broken smile. You didn’t begrudge a single one of them their excitement and joy, but oh, how you wished you could be out there among them, twirling around in the arms of a man who thought you were the bee’s knees.

Your heart yearned so acutely in that moment that it was almost a palpable ache, your body practically vibrating with a need that you couldn’t quite put into words. You pressed your hands to your chest, as if that could somehow stanch the desire that was throbbing in your heart—the desire to be seen, known, and loved exactly as you were.

Oh, stop it, you scolded yourself when you felt one fat, hot tear roll down your cheek unbidden. There’s certainly no need for tears.

Reaching up with delicate fingers, you carefully brushed away the tears that were pooling against your bottom lashes, not wanting to make a mess of the make-up Dottie had worked so diligently on.

So caught up in your own thoughts were you that you didn’t even notice the man who was approaching the table until he was suddenly standing before you, clearing his throat and smiling shyly.

A little startled, you looked up at him and felt your heart flutter softly against your ribcage. For some reason, the feeling reminded you of the pretty yellow canary that your family had kept when you were a little girl, its soft, delicate wings flapping gently within the confines of its gilded cage.

“Hello,” the young man—another officer in the Navy from the looks of it—greeted you. Was it your imagination that his voice trembled slightly? Even if it had, it didn’t matter. He had a nice voice, one that somehow managed to make you feel comfortable and at ease, even though he had only uttered one word.

“Hello,” you smiled back, your cheeks growing warm when you realized you were staring at him. You couldn’t help it. He had the most breathtaking blue eyes you had ever seen. It wasn’t just the color of his eyes that drew you in, however. It was the kindness and gentleness that you saw residing there, something that struck you as so utterly paradoxical in a man about to ship out to war. They were the most captivating eyes you had ever seen.

He just stood there for a moment, not saying anything, and you felt yourself start to grow nervous once more. You realized, at that moment, that he’d probably just come over to the table because he was thirsty. Not wanting to make the same mistake you’d made with the corporal in getting your hopes up, you quickly reached for a glass of punch and held it out to him, expecting him to thank you and be on his way.

“Oh,” he murmured, those blue eyes widening slightly behind his glasses. He shook his head, removing his hat and playing with it in his hands. “Oh, no, I didn’t—I mean to say that I wasn’t—I mean, I’m not thirsty,” he stammered, sounding a bit unsure of himself.

Not quite knowing what to say in response to that, you lowered the cup of punch back to the table, unable to tear your eyes away from him for more than a few seconds at a time. You noticed, as you gazed at him, that the tips of his ears were turning pink, as were his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Your heart did that strange little flutter once again, and you felt yourself drawn to him in the most inexplicable of ways.

You didn’t even know his name, and yet you knew this man was different from all the rest.

“I–I’m sorry, that must have sounded terribly rude,” he apologized, clearing his throat and putting his hat back on. “What I meant to say was—well, the reason I came over here was—would you, um, like to dance with me?”

It was your eyes that widened now, your heart fluttering more rapidly in your chest. You were reminded again of that tiny yellow canary, the one that had seemed to yearn so ardently for freedom from its little gilded cage.

“M-me?” you asked softly, pointing to yourself as if there was anyone else around for him to be talking about instead. “You want to dance with me?”

“I do,” he nodded, his cheeks growing even more pink, which you found incredibly endearing. “Very much so. I mean—um—only if you want to, that is,” he added hastily, seeming even more unsure of himself than before.

Never in your life had you ever seen your own shy heart so clearly reflected in the heart of another.

“I—I want to,” you told him with a little nod, a soft smile curving your lips. You couldn’t help but notice the look of relief that washed over his face, and it almost made you want to giggle with giddiness. But you didn’t want him to think you were laughing at him, so you swallowed it down. You hesitated for a moment, then shyly asked, “May I ask who’s asking?”

The young officer nearly smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry, miss, where have my manners gone?” he asked, his voice lilting in a sweet midwestern accent. “I’m Robert Floyd. Um, Ensign Robert Floyd,” he amended, seeming to remember his rank at the last second. He held out his hand to you and you couldn’t help but notice how large and well-shaped it was. Was it odd to admire how lovely a man’s hands were? You’d have to ask Dottie about that.

Ensign. The same rank as the kindhearted Paul Trace. You suddenly recalled Ensign Trace’s comments about his friend who’d slipped away, the one he claimed you would be perfect for. This couldn’t possibly be—could it?

You told him your name as you slipped your hand into his warm, surprisingly soft palm, and shook gently. He echoed it, almost reverently, and it made you shiver in delight and feel your skin grow warm.

“I’m not normally one for dancing,” he confessed sheepishly, looking a bit embarrassed.

Feeling an almost instantaneous urge to comfort him, you hurried to reassure him. “Don’t worry. That makes two of us then,” you confided, offering him a bashful smile.

His face lit up at your words in one of the most beautiful, charming smiles you’d ever seen. “Should we give it a try then? They do say practice makes perfect,” he murmured with a soft chuckle, holding out his hand to you, this time with his palm upturned in an invitation to lead you out onto the dance floor.

Your heart fluttered in your chest for the third time, reminding you once again of the precious little canary from your girlhood—the canary that had wanted nothing more than to be free. One night, watching the pretty yellow bird flap its wings desperately against the bars of its cage, you made the choice to grant it the freedom it so desired, carrying it outside into the backyard and opening the cage, allowing it to spread its wings and soar.

Maybe tonight, you could let your heart be just as free as that yellow canary.

Lightly resting your hand in Ensign Floyd’s, you let out a hushed laugh and nodded shyly.

“Yes. Let’s give it a try.”

Bob’s POV

She said yes!

He could scarcely believe it, the whole thing feeling like a dream. It couldn’t possibly be real.

And yet, when she placed her hand in his, her hand so delicate and soft and solid against his palm, it dawned on him that their conversation had not just been a figment of his fantasy after all. This beautiful girl—sweet as apple pie and timid as a rabbit, just as Paul had described her—had really agreed to dance with him.

He felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Fingers closing gently over hers, he held her hand as she made her away around the refreshment table, the manicured fingers of her other hand brushing at an invisible wrinkle in her dress. He recognized it as a nervous tick. He did the same thing all the time when he was feeling shy or anxious—picking at an imaginary piece of lint or rubbing at a stain that wasn’t there; anything to make himself small and avoid feeling like people’s eyes were on him.

In that instant, he felt a deep sense of kindred connectedness to her. He’d met her only moments before, but he felt he knew her better than some people he’d known his whole life. Paul had seen it, too, and Bob was immediately flooded with a sense of gratitude that he’d listened to his bullheaded best friend.

Suddenly remembering Paul’s advice from earlier in the evening, he looked down at the lovely young woman whose fingers were intertwined with his and opened his mouth to say something, just as his glasses started to slide down his nose.

She looked up at that moment, and he could swear that the smile that lit up her face could stop traffic. Maybe if the War Department had used her likeness instead of Uncle Sam’s on their recruitment posters, more men would have been lining up to serve.

“You have a beautiful smile,” he told her, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Blushing, he pushed his glasses back up his nose, shoving them firmly against his face. The darn things refused to stay in place.

He heard her slight intake of breath, saw the way she ducked her head at his words, and for a moment he panicked that he’d said the wrong thing and turned her off. But then he spotted the shy, almost tentative smile touching her lips and he relaxed slightly. His words seemed to have more of an impact on her than he could have imagined.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice so sweet and light. It reminded him of the soft summer breezes back home. “So do you,” she added, blurting the words out just as he had done and then looking flustered.

Bob chuckled at that, pleasantly surprised by the compliment. He squeezed her hand ever so slightly, wordlessly letting her know that she had no reason to be embarrassed about what she’d said.

Just as they made their way onto the dance floor, Bob making sure to find them a spot that wasn’t too crowded, the singer in the blue gown made her way back up to the microphone, smiling out at the sea of couples as the band struck up a familiar Gershwin tune.

“Oh, I love this song,” she breathed out, looking up at him with bright eyes. She had the most gorgeous eyes he had ever seen, rimmed in dark lashes that kissed the tops of her cheeks whenever she blinked or lowered her gaze.

“I’m glad,” Bob murmured softly in response, his voice almost a whisper as he drank in the sight of her, standing so close to him that he thought his heart might jump straight out of his chest.

“There’s a saying old, says that love is blind,” the singer crooned, closing her eyes as she began warbling “Someone to Watch Over Me,” a song that Bob had heard many times without ever really listening to. After tonight, he thought it might just be his new favorite song.

She fidgeted subtly as she stood before him, twisting her hands in the folds of her dress, and it struck him that she was just as nervous as he was. She had, after all, admitted that she wasn’t much for dancing herself.

“Still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find. So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind…”

Clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses for what felt like the millionth time, Bob held out a hand to her, wanting to make her feel comfortable and at ease. His pulse hammered as she smiled at him again and gratefully slipped her hand into his, lifting her chin and meeting his eye.

“Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet. He's the big affair I cannot forget. Only man I ever think of with regret…”

Trying to quell the butterflies exploding in his stomach, Bob slowly reached out and placed his other hand on her waist, keeping his touch light and almost stiff. He didn’t want to presume any intimacies with her or scare her off.

“I'd like to add his initial to my monogram. Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she raised her free hand and rested it on his shoulder, her touch just as sheepish and reticent as his. Anyone looking on might think that they looked tense and even a tad bit uncomfortable, their body language stiff and fumbling. But they were each dipping a toe into the water, trying to wade across the chasm and safely find a way to one another.

“There's a somebody I'm longin' to see. I hope that he turns out to be…someone who'll watch over me…”

As the chorus of the song reverberated throughout the room, they began slowly moving in rhythm with the music, swaying side to side as they gazed silently at one another. It wasn’t the anxious silence Bob so often experienced when he was trying to talk to someone new—it was the comfortable silence of two people who knew that words weren’t always what was most important.

“I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood. I know I could always be good…to one who'll watch over me…”

It took him a second to realize that she was softly humming underneath her breath, her body relaxing in increments as the song went on. His was, too, he realized with some surprise. And he hadn’t stepped on her foot once. As he felt her hand start to melt into his shoulder, becoming almost an extension of his own body, his hand slowly slid around to her lower back, instinctively pulling her closer.

She followed his lead without hesitation.

“Although he may not be the man some girls think of as handsome, to my heart, he carries the key…”

“You have a real pretty voice,” he said softly, gazing down at her with a look of awe etched into his features.

Her eyes widened and she grinned sheepishly, as if a little embarrassed to have been caught humming. “How can you be sure? I wasn’t even singing,” she giggled, a sound that would be seared into his brain and his heart for the rest of his days, he was sure of it.

“Oh, I can tell,” Bob nodded sagely, grinning in return. “It’s lovely.” Just like you.

“Thank you,” she murmured, beaming. He felt a rush of pride that he’d been the one to put that smile on her face.

“Won't you tell him please to put on some speed. Follow my lead. Oh, how I need…someone to watch over me…”

As the song reached a crescendo, she suddenly leaned closer and rested her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes closing as they continued to sway to the beat of the music.

Bob had never wished for anything in his life the way he suddenly wished that time could stand still, his pulse stuttering in his veins as he held her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head as they moved almost in slow motion.

“Someone to watch over me.”

The music came to an end and the crowd burst into applause, but neither of them moved, holding onto one another even as the band struck up a new song.

Bob never wanted to let her go.

Your POV

You never wanted to let him go.

You had always considered “Someone to Watch Over Me” to be a perfect song, but now you realized it had one flaw—it was too short.

Though you’d admittedly been filled with trepidation when Ensign Floyd had first led you out onto the dance floor, you’d been shocked at the speed in which you found yourself growing more relaxed in his arms. The chivalry of his gestures, the gentleness of his touch, the kindness in his eyes and smile—you’d never felt more at ease with a man in your life, especially one you’d just met. Towards the end of the song, you’d even felt brave enough to rest against his chest, which somehow felt warm and comforting, even within the confines of his austere officer’s uniform.

So when the song sadly reached its conclusion, you found that you weren’t quite ready to let him go.

Much to your pleasant surprise, he seemed to feel the same way. Even as the band struck up a rendition of “Moonglow,” his hand remained resting firmly against the small of your back, holding you close to his chest in a way that set your heart racing faster than a freight train.

“I’ve always liked this song,” he murmured quietly as the two of you swayed from side to side, hardly moving at all as the music washed over you.

“Me, too,” you nodded with a smile, lifting your head off his shoulder so that you could gaze up into his piercing cerulean eyes once more. “My sister has a Jack Teagarden record, and this one has always been one of my favorites.”

“I had a feeling you were a girl with good taste,” he replied with a grin that made your stomach do a couple quick flips.

You giggled shyly at that, biting down on your lower lip. You’d always been terrible at flirting. Dottie always tried to give you tips, but you never knew what coquettish, cute things to say to gain and keep a man’s attention. If you were as witty as girls like Marilyn or Emily, you might be able to come up with some little quip to volley back at him, but as it was, you just smiled and rested your head on his shoulder once more.

Thankfully, Ensign Robert Floyd didn’t seem to be a man who minded. In fact, he didn’t seem to be a man who needed many words at all. The two of you were perfectly content to dance in companionable silence for the rest of “Moonglow,” and then for the next couple songs after that.

You knew the room was packed to the rafters with couples, but for a while, it felt like it was only the two of you, lost in your own blissful bubble. It was only when you felt someone bumping into you from behind that you were startled back to reality, turning your head to see another naval officer grinning at you. You instantly recognized the redhead in his arms. It looked like Marilyn had found herself one of those unmarried fish after all.

“Hey, buddy boy! Looks like you did find yourself a pretty girl after all,” the officer guffawed, winking at Robert and then smiling at you. “Has Floyd here been treating you well?” he asked teasingly. “I’ll have to report him to our superiors otherwise.”

Obviously the men were friends, but you still felt your cheeks growing warm as you lowered your gaze and stammered softly, “Oh, yes, very well.”

At the feel of Robert squeezing your hand gently, you looked up and caught his eye. He was smiling at you warmly, comfortingly.

“Good, good,” the other man went on, his expression open and friendly. “You know, this guy—”

“Okay, Benny,” Robert cut his fellow officer off, smiling sheepishly. “Good to see you. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Okay, pal, okay. I can take a hint,” the man—Benny—nodded, winking over at Marilyn. “Come on, doll, we’ll give the kids some privacy,” he chuckled, twirling her away from you and your dance partner.

“Sorry about that,” Robert chuckled, shaking his head and flushing slightly. His glasses started to slide down his nose, and he quickly pushed them back up. You noticed that it was something that seemed to keep happening, and you thought it was adorable.

“I don’t mind,” you told him, smiling. “Friend of yours, obviously?”

“Yes,” he nodded, grinning fondly. “Former classmate, too. We went to Annapolis together. Commissioned at the same time,” he explained, spinning you gently in time with the music.

“Ah,” you nodded in understanding, glancing down at his uniform jacket before looking back up at his face again. “So you always wanted to be in the Navy then?” you asked curiously.

“Oh, yes,” he replied without missing a beat, the tilt of his head confident and firm. It was clear that this was something that meant a great deal to him. “My father is a captain in the Navy. He went to Annapolis, too, and served during the Great War. Or, I suppose I should call it the first world war now,” he said with a grimace. He cleared his throat slightly before continuing. “Anyway, I’ve always been proud of my father. He was awarded the Navy Cross for his service in the war, and he’s always been the most stand-up guy that I know. I guess I always just wanted to follow in his footsteps.”

You smiled warmly at that, touched by the obvious love that he felt for his father. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you,” you told him.

“I think so. I hope so, at least,” he laughed softly, his blue eyes settling on your face in an expression so soft that it made your heart ache slightly.

“My father served in the Army during the first world war,” you said, finding it easier and easier to make conversation as the moments slipped by. “He doesn’t like to talk about it much.”

“That’s fair,” Robert replied solemnly, his eyes glowing with understanding. “I don’t think it’s an easy thing for anyone to talk about.” A pregnant silence fell between the two of you for a few moments, unspoken words hanging delicately in the air. He finally broke the silence with a bashful grin. “Army, huh? Maybe we shouldn’t be seen together then. The Army and the Navy are notorious rivals,” he joked.

A surprised laugh burst from your mouth at his words, your eyes crinkling in the corners as you smiled wide. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” you teased in return.

The two of you stood there, no longer swaying with the music, but simply smiling at one another, still wrapped together in each other’s arms.

A thought seemed to strike him as he gazed down at you, but whatever it was must have made him nervous, because he suddenly averted his eyes and started clearing his throat again, looking as shy as he had when he first approached you.

“Um, say,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at a point just over your shoulder, as if too afraid to look directly in your eyes. “I hope this doesn’t seem too forward or anything, but I was just wondering—do you think you’d maybe like to take a walk with me?”

“Tonight?” you asked, raising your eyebrows as you looked up at him. Your pulse quickened at the notion.

“Um, well, yes,” he nodded, his cheeks turning a dark shade of red. His glasses even seemed to be fogging up slightly.

You bit your lower lip, glancing around the room. “Well, it’s just that I’m a volunteer with the USO. I don’t think I can leave until my shift is over,” you explained, stepping back and twisting your fingers together.

“Oh, of course,” Robert mumbled, deflating slightly. You hated the look of defeat in his expression. “I understand. Thank you for the dances. I’m sorry if I—”

“My shift is over at ten o’ clock,” you hastened to interject, not wanting him to get the impression that you weren’t interested. You had never been more interested in your life. “I know you’ll have to be getting back to your base, but maybe—”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” he cut in, the two of you pausing and laughing bashfully at his enthusiasm. “Ten o’clock works just fine,” he grinned.

“Okay,” you beamed, feeling your own cheeks grow warm as he smiled at you. “I’ll just go help clean up a little bit. Should I meet you by the front doors at ten?”

“That sounds perfect,” he agreed, his expression bright and uplifted once more.

“Okay,” you said again, finding it hard to get your feet to move in the direction you needed them to.

“Okay,” he echoed, continuing to stand there as well, a foot or two away from you.

The both of you laughed sheepishly when you realized neither of you had moved, each of you looking away shyly.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon then, Ensign Floyd,” you murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Please, it’s Robert. Or Bob. Lots of people call me Bob,” he amended.

“What about Bobby?” The question popped out of your mouth before the thought had even been fully formed in your mind. You had no idea what on earth had possessed you to ask it.

He smiled at your question. “No, no one really calls me that. It’s usually either Bob or Robby, depending on who it is,” he explained. He paused for a moment, thoughtful, then added, “But you can call me Bobby.”

Your cheeks, which had just been starting to cool down, grew instantly hot at his words, which gave you more of a rush than they had any right to.

“Okay,” you nodded, the tiniest of smiles curving your lips. “I’ll see you soon then, Bobby.”

Bob’s POV

Bob felt like he was floating on air as he made his way across the dance floor, spotting his friends near the doors through which they’d entered the large hall.

She was without a doubt the most extraordinary woman he had ever met. Beautiful, sweet, kind, thoughtful—an angel, just as he had thought from the very beginning. And she actually seemed to like him! What kind of lucky star had he fallen under tonight? Whatever it was, he hoped that the pixie dust from it didn’t wear off anytime soon.

As he got closer to the gathered members of his squadron, he noticed that the redhead Benny had been dancing with was still firmly attached to his side. Tommy Boy had a stunning blonde on his arm—though Bob would argue she was nowhere near as gorgeous as his girl—and most of the other guys had pretty young things draped around them as well.

The only member of the group, in fact, who was standing on his own was Paul. Bob could tell that behind his best friend’s happy-go-lucky smile, there was a tinge of sadness. He knew that Paul wished more than anything that he could be holding Natasha right now. That was, Bob realized with painful clarity, the cost of loving someone so much.

“Hey, there he is!” Benny exclaimed with a cheerful grin when he turned and caught sight of Bob. “Floyd! The man of the hour! Where’s your pretty date?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows and ignoring the way the redhead smacked his chest with a huff.

Bob blushed at Benny’s choice of words, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger.

He was saved from answering Benny’s question directly when Tommy Boy cut in, grinning smugly. “See? I told you it was a good idea for you to come to the dance with us tonight, didn’t I?” He chuckled, slapping Bob good-naturedly on the arm. “We’re all getting ready to head out to The Tropicana Room,” he went on, referring to a nightclub downtown that their squadron had frequented a couple times in the past. “You’ll come with us, won’t you? Bring your pretty date,” he added with a knowing smirk.

“Oh, well, um, actually I was just coming to let you guys know that I’m going to be going for a walk with, um—with my—”

“Your date?” Benny drawled slowly, grinning impishly. “A walk, huh? Is that what they’re calling it now?” he teased with a mischievous laugh.

“Oh, shut up, Benny,” Paul interjected, his tone friendly, but firm enough to let Benny know that he meant it. Their fellow officer put a lid on it immediately.

“That sounds real nice, Bob,” Tommy Boy jumped back in, nodding at him with an encouraging smile. For a guy as popular and handsome as Tom, a guy who could have any woman he wanted without lifting a finger, he really was one of the nicest and most supportive friends a guy like Bob could ask for. “So we’ll see you back at base then?”

Bob nodded, having a feeling some of his friends would be out much later than he expected to be. “I’ll see you back at base. Have fun at The Tropicana Room,” he told them all with a little wave.

Paul hung back as the rest of their group began making their way out of the dance hall, loudly laughing and letting out whoops of excitement as they headed into the final stretch of their last night stateside. At his knowing smile, which teetered right on the edge of being smug, Bob chuckled and held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright. I can admit when you’re right,” Bob said, shaking his head with a good-humored smile. “Thank you for pushing me to go talk to her. She’s—she’s amazing, Paul,” he gushed, still in awe. “What you said—you know, about her maybe being the girl for me? I—I don’t know, Paul. I think you might have actually been right.”

“When am I not right?” Paul smirked, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Ah, I’m just kidding. But I am happy for you, Robby,” he told him sincerely. “You deserve a nice girl. And wait until I write and tell Nat that it was me who helped you find her,” he grinned.

Bob laughed, jokingly pushing his friend away from him. “Okay, sure, take all the credit. I am the one who asked her to dance, you know,” he playfully shot back.

“At my insistence,” Paul emphasized, winking. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, then asked, “Leaving soon then?”

“At ten, when her volunteer shift ends,” Bob explained, glancing across the room and spotting her helping to clean up at the refreshment table where he’d first spotted her. His heart warmed at the sight.

“Have fun, buddy. I mean it. You really do deserve it,” Paul said, more seriously this time.

“Thank you, Paul,” Bob replied. “Are you going to The Tropicana Room with the others?”

“I’ll probably swing by for a quick drink,” Paul told him with a shrug. “Maybe it’ll take my mind off how much I miss Nat and the kids, at least for a little while,” he added, a touch of melancholy in his voice.

“You’ll see them again soon,” Bob said quietly, patting his friend’s shoulder. “And they’re always with you,” he added comfortingly, tapping the pocket where he knew Paul was carrying his family photograph.

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, forcing himself to smile once more. “You’re right. Have fun, Robby. I’ll see you back at base,” he said, holding his hand out to give Bob a quick shake.

“See you later,” Bob nodded, firmly shaking Paul’s hand before he, too, slipped out of the dance hall.

Figuring a little fresh air would do him some good, and since there had been an arrangement to meet by the front doors anyway, Bob slipped out of the dance hall and made his way through the foyer of the community center. Evidently some of the USO volunteers had also determined that some fresh spring air would do everyone some good, for some of them had propped the front doors open, revealing an inky black Charleston sky peppered with stars.

Stepping up to the doorway, Bob dragged in a lungful of the balmy air, grinning up at the sky. Not for the first time in the past hour or so, he found himself eternally grateful that he’d listened to his friends, particularly Paul, and come to the dance tonight. The reality of his deployment still hung heavy in the back of his mind, but for this brief, blissful moment in time, he was giving himself over to the joy he felt bubbling up inside his chest.

So enamored was he of the warm southern air and the happy thoughts filling his mind that he lost all sense of time until he felt a gentle finger tapping him on the shoulder. Turning around, he felt his heart squeeze inside his chest when he took in the sight of her standing before him, a sweater draped over her arm and her purse in her hand.

“Ready, Bobby?” she asked with a shy grin.

With her, he felt ready for anything.

Your POV

When Bob informed you that he was originally from Iowa and that this was his first time being in Charleston, you immediately suggested taking your stroll down King Street, one of the most historic and lively streets in the whole city.

The street was bustling and busy almost every night of the week, but this Saturday night in particular, it was practically bursting at the seams. Servicemen from all branches of the military took to the streets in droves, most with a girl or two on each arm, all of them looking for a good time as the reality of a global war loomed heavily over everyone.

Robert—or Bobby, as you were giddily becoming accustomed to calling him—had been a perfect gentleman when you’d left the community center, carefully draping your sweater over your shoulders and offering you his arm, which you’d happily accepted. As the two of you walked along, you pointed out different sites and interesting spots to him, all of which he drank in eagerly, as if every word that fell from your lips was a fascinating treasure. No one had ever made you feel that way before—it was a heady sensation.

“So you’ve lived in Charleston all your life then?” Bobby asked interestedly, his warm fingers coming to rest over yours where they lay in the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, no,” you told him, shaking your head with a smile. “I’ve actually only been living here for the last five months,” you confessed, which seemed to surprise him. “I’m originally from Georgia.”

“You don’t say!” he exclaimed, smiling down at you. “They’re known for their peaches down in Georgia, aren’t they?”

“They are,” you giggled, nodding your head. “We have very sweet peaches back home.”

“Makes sense that you’d be from there then” he mused softly. When you looked up at him with a curious expression, he explained, “You’re as sweet and pretty as a Georgia peach.” He blushed at his own words, perhaps worried that you’d find his comment too hokey.

You thought it was wonderful. Just like him.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you smiled, lowering your eyes demurely.

He smiled in return, and you heard the soft sigh of relief he let out under his breath. “So what brought you to Charleston from Georgia then? If you don’t mind me asking,” he added quickly.

“My sister,” you replied with a smile. “Her name is Dorothy, but everyone calls her Dottie. She and her husband moved to Charleston after they got married, and she just had her first baby back in December. My nephew,” you added with a proud and affectionate grin. “His name is Frankie—well, Francis, but we call him Frankie. He’ll be five months old in just a few days.” You could scarcely believe it. “To answer your question, I moved to Charleston not long after Frankie was born. He came just a week after the attack at Pearl Harbor,” you explained, sobering slightly.

Bobby let out a soft hum in response to your words, his eyes flickering with emotion. Pearl Harbor had been a naval base, which must have made the attack feel all the more personal to him.

“My brother-in-law is a naval engineer,” you went on, eyes twinkling softly. “So I do have a connection to the Navy after all,” you told him teasingly. “When we entered the war, his work hours doubled overnight, and it became really tough for Dottie, trying to care for Frankie and the house all on her own. So I offered to come stay with her to help out.”

“I’m not surprised by that at all,” Bobby said with a tender smile, squeezing your fingers lightly. “You seem to be a very good volunteer.”

You flushed at his compliment, sheepishly trying to brush off his words of praise. “I’m afraid it was purely selfish on my part. I missed my sister terribly, and was desperate to spend time with my new nephew,” you laughed.

“Sounds like it was a win-win for all of you,” Bobby chuckled. He gazed down at you curiously. “Where does your brother-in-law work?”

“He works mainly at the naval air station in Goose Creek. It’s only about thirty minutes away from here,” you replied.

“That’s where I’ve been stationed!” Bobby said brightly. “What’s his name? Not to say that I know him, but it’s always possible.”

“What a small world!” you noted. It made sense that Bobby would be stationed in Goose Creek, so you weren’t sure why you were so surprised, but it was a funny coincidence all the same. “His name is Patrick Sheridan, but everyone calls him Paddy.”

“No kidding!” Bobby gaped, eyes wide. “You’re Paddy Sheridan’s sister-in-law?”

“You do know him?” you gasped, your eyes widening as well. Then you laughed. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knows Paddy,” you grinned, your heart warming at the thought of your jovial brother-in-law, who had become more like a big brother to you over the years.

“Aw, he’s a great guy,” Bobby insisted, smiling from ear to ear. “He’s played cards with us fellas a few times on our lunch breaks. What a personality. Your sister must be some firecracker to put up with him,” he joked. Then his smile faltered slightly. “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend—”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand, laughing. “No, you’re right. Trust me, if you think Paddy is a handful, your head would spin if you met Dottie. They’re quite the pair,” you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand.

Bobby laughed, grinning thoughtfully down at you. He was quiet for a moment before saying, “I can tell how much you love them from the way you talk about them. Your whole face lights up.”

You smiled warmly at that, your eyes meeting his. “I do love them. Very much. I’m glad to have this time with them.”

“I’m glad for you. Family is important,” Bobby nodded, pressing himself a little bit closer to you as a cool evening breeze passed by.

“Would you tell me about your family?” you asked shyly, not wanting to press him.

He did. As you continued your peaceful stroll down King Street, he told you all about his life back in Iowa, about his family’s farm and his hardworking parents and his two little brothers who were still in grade school. He told you about all the things he missed from home—home cooked meals with his family around the dinner table his great-grandfather had made, his mother’s sweet tea, long chats with his father on the porch in the evening, playing with his brothers and their family dog.

“I can tell you love your family, too,” you told him, echoing his words from earlier. “They sound very special.”

“They are,” Bobby nodded, a soft, almost faraway smile on his face. “It’s nice having Paul with me at least. Feels like a little piece of home,” he said.

“Paul?” you asked curiously.

“Paul Trace,” he explained. “He and I have been best friends since we were kids. We went to the Naval Academy together, and now we’re flying together, too.”

“Oh!” you gasped, eyes sparking in remembrance. So you had been right about his connection to Ensign Paul Trace! “I met him earlier tonight. He seems very kind. He was talking to me about buying his wife a set of pearls like mine,” you said, fingering your necklace.

Bobby grinned at that. “Sounds about right. He adores his wife, Natasha. She grew up with us, too. They’re childhood sweethearts.”

“How romantic,” you sighed softly, smiling at the thought.

“They have two children. Clara is three and Paul, Jr. is only about a month older than your nephew, Frankie,” he told you.

“Oh, I’m sure he must miss them all terribly,” you murmured sympathetically.

“He does,” Bobby nodded, his smile slipping. “I try to remind him that it’ll all be alright in the end. That he’ll see them again soon. But I know I’m one to talk. No wife, no kids.”

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t have people you love. People you’ll miss,” you assured him, squeezing his arm gently. “I’m sure he appreciates you very much, and is just as grateful to be stationed with you as you are to be stationed with him.”

“Thank you,” Bobby whispered, looking touched by your words. “I know he’ll always have my back, and I’ll always have his. Literally. I’m his rear-seater,” he chuckled.

You grinned. “And what does that mean exactly, in layman’s terms?” you asked with a giggle.

Bobby laughed sheepishly. “Of course. I’m sorry. We’re fighter pilots for the Navy. Paul and I fly together in a double-seat aircraft—he sits up front and I sit in the rear, handling the radio and the guns.”

“Sounds dangerous,” you murmured, suddenly feeling frightened for him. You’d known since you met him that he was going off to war, but somehow hearing a description of what his job actually entailed had your stomach turning sour.

“It is,” Bobby admitted, the smile gone from his face as he looked down at you. “But we’ve been well-trained. And I trust Paul with my life.”

You nodded, not saying anything as you lowered your head.

“Hey,” Bobby said suddenly, drawing your attention upwards once more as he pointed to a storefront across the street. “What do you say to some ice cream?”

Smiling slowly, you nodded in response.

Ten minutes later, the two of you resumed your stroll down King Street, two large ice cream cones in hand. Bobby had opted for classic vanilla with chocolate sprinkles, while you’d gone with chocolate ice cream and rainbow sprinkles.

“Wait, wait, so why do you all call him Tommy Boy?” you asked with a laugh. Bobby had started telling you about his other friends from his squadron while you were in the ice cream parlor, and you were still seeking some clarification.

Bobby laughed as well, licking up the ice cream that was starting to melt down the side of his cone. “Honestly? I can’t even remember. His name is Thomas, so we all naturally started calling him Tom. Then Tom turned into Tommy. And somewhere along the line it transformed into Tommy Boy. Now that’s what everyone calls him, and I guess we’ve never thought much of it,” he admitted with a grin.

“And Benny is the one we bumped into on the dance floor?” you questioned, licking your ice cream quickly so that it wouldn’t drip onto Dottie’s dress.

“Yes. Loudmouth Benny. One of my roommates at Annapolis,” Bobby chortled, shaking his head with obvious affection for his friend.

“I know the girl he was dancing with,” you said, glancing up at him. “She’s a talker, too, so they’re very well matched,” you giggled.

“Oh, good,” Bobby grinned. “A perfect way for Benny to spend his last night stateside.”

“Last night?” you repeated, startled. Suddenly, in the back of your mind, you recalled something Marilyn had been saying about a squadron of officers who were spending their last night on American soil at the USO dance. You felt your stomach drop.

Bobby sobered immediately, realizing what he’d said. “I–I’m sorry,” he apologized instantaneously, lowering his ice cream cone. “I should have said something earlier. I just—would you like to sit down for a minute?” he asked, indicating an open bench just a few feet away.

Nodding wordlessly, you followed him over to the wrought iron bench and took a seat, the blood rushing in your ears and your heart suddenly pounding painfully in your chest.

He said your name softly, waiting until you turned your head and looked up at him. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you tonight was my last night in town. I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess I just…didn’t know how,” he admitted slowly. “We’ve been having such a wonderful time—or at least, I have—and I guess I didn’t want to ruin that. But that was selfish of me. I’m sorry.”

You were quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. “You don’t have to be sorry, Bobby,” you said softly, staring down at your lap. “I’m not upset that you didn’t say anything about it. I just—I wasn’t expecting you to have to leave already,” you murmured, feeling tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

Oh, how embarrassing. You couldn’t cry in front of him. You’d just met him! He’d think you were insane if you started crying over losing him already.

But you were losing him. The first man you’d ever met who made you feel safe enough to come out of your shell, and he would be gone by morning light. Fate could be so unkind sometimes.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he said again, reaching out with a tentative hand and lightly brushing his thumb across your cheek. His touch was so gentle that it made you want to weep. “I’ve been preparing to ship out for weeks now. And I thought I was ready. I really did. But now—meeting you tonight—now I wish I didn’t have to go,” he whispered, leaning in closer to you.

A soft sob caught in your throat at his words. “I know it sounds so silly, but I feel as if I’ve known you for longer than just one night,” you confessed, biting down on your lower lip.

“I feel the same way,” Bobby breathed out, making your heart ache all the more. “I—I don’t want to presume anything, and I probably don’t deserve it after not even telling you the whole truth, but do you think—would it be alright if I wrote to you?”

You let out a soft little gasp at his words, eyes widening. He wanted to write to you? You?

“You don’t have to say yes,” Bobby stammered, blushing furiously. “I understand if you don’t want me to. I just—I’ve enjoyed getting to know you so much, and I hate thinking that I’ll never get to talk to you again after tonight and I was just hoping that maybe, if you don’t mind, we could maybe write to each other sometimes while I’m away,” he rambled, growing breathless.

“Yes,” you told him, nodding your head vigorously.

“Y-yes?” he asked, blue eyes widening behind his square glasses.

“Yes,” you repeated, laughing softly. “Yes, I would like that very much, Bobby.”

He looked as if he might fall over, his eyes as wide as saucers and his mouth hanging open. You had to bite back a laugh as the butterflies danced in your stomach.

“I’ll be staying with Dottie and Paddy for the foreseeable future, so I’ll give you their address, if that’s alright?” you asked, biting your lip.

“Of course! Of course that’s alright,” Bob agreed enthusiastically. “I just need to get you some—oh, gosh, I need some paper,” he scrambled, searching in his pockets with the hand that wasn’t holding his ice cream cone. The look on his face told you that he was coming up empty.

“Wait a second,” you told him, an idea suddenly sparking in your mind. You carefully tore off the paper that was wrapped around your ice cream cone, spreading it out on your lap. “Would you mind holding this for a moment?” you asked, holding your cone up to him. He took it instantly without complaint.

Reaching into your purse, you found the short little pencil stub that you thankfully hadn’t taken out. Flattening out the ice cream cone wrapper with your fingertips, you carefully wrote out your full name, as well as your sister’s address, in a clear hand.

“Here you go,” you told him with a smile, holding out the paper and taking your ice cream cone back from him.

Bobby looked down at that little piece of paper as if it was a priceless treasure map, carefully slipping it into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. “Thank you,” he murmured, putting his hand over it. “As soon as I get to where I’m going, I’ll write you and let you know how you can get in touch with me. If you still want to, that is,” he hastily added.

“I’ll want to,” you assured him with a smile, scooting a little closer to him on the bench.

The two of you sat side by side, eating the rest of your ice cream in comfortable silence. You rested your free hand down on the edge of the bench between the two of you, your manicured fingers curling around the wrought iron. A few seconds later, Bobby’s hand was resting next to yours, his pinky finger brushing lightly against yours, which caused goosebumps to rise on your skin.

Suddenly, the sound of either a radio or someone’s record player began trickling down onto the street from one of the open windows above. You recognized the tune almost instantly as Glenn Miller and his orchestra’s version of “A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square.”

“I love Glenn Miller,” you said aloud, smiling.

Bobby smiled, turning his head to look at you. “So does my mom. She plays his records all the time.” At that, he stood from his spot on the bench, brushing the remnants of crumbs from his ice cream cone off his hands and pants. Then he held his hand out to you. “Would you like to dance?”

You looked up in surprise, your heart fluttering. “I thought you said you weren’t much for dancing,” you smiled.

“I’m not,” Bobby shrugged. “But for you, I’m happy to make an exception,” he beamed brightly.

With a bashful giggle, you rose and accepted his proffered hand, allowing him to hold you close as the two of you finished your evening together the same way you’d begun it—dancing in each other’s arms. It didn’t matter to you that you were swaying in the middle of the sidewalk to the muted sound of someone’s record player as opposed to on the dance floor to the accompaniment of a big band. All that mattered was the way he made you feel and the way you felt your heart blazing to life inside your chest.

All too soon, the song came to an end and Bobby pulled back slightly, gazing down at you.

“I should get you home,” he whispered, a tinge of regret coloring his voice.

You nodded, biting back a sigh as you slipped your arm through his once more, pointing him in the direction of your sister’s house.

There was still so much more to be said, so much more to be learned, but you and Bobby opted for a peaceful silence instead. You knew he wouldn’t have much peace and quiet in the weeks and months ahead, so you wanted to give that to him on his last night.

All too soon, you were standing outside Dottie and Paddy’s house, the lights still on in the front room. Your sister had given you full license to stay out, but you knew that didn’t mean that she and Paddy weren’t going to be sitting up waiting for you.

“This is me,” you murmured, a little sadly. You looked up at him, wanting to get to memorize his face one last time, especially those beautiful blue eyes. “I had such a wonderful time tonight. Thank you, Bobby.”

“No, thank you,” he replied, reaching out and taking one of your hands in his. “Thank you for everything. This was the best last night I ever could have hoped for.”

You smiled wistfully at that, wanting to hug him or give him some proper goodbye, but not wanting to come across as too forward. The two of you just stood staring at each other for a few minutes, both of you too shy to move or say anything.

“I promise I’ll write,” he finally told you, patting the pocket where he’d slipped your address.

“And I promise I’ll write back,” you vowed, twisting your hand in the pleats of your dress.

“Good night” he breathed softly, reaching out to lightly touch your cheek.

“Good night, Bobby,” you whispered back, feeling a small crack form in the crevice of your heart.

He hesitated a moment, looking as if there was something more he wanted to say—or do. “Can—c-can I kiss you?” he asked shyly, his blush evident even in the moonlight.

When you nodded slowly, he leaned in close and brushed his lips against your cheek in a kiss so soft and chaste that you felt tears forming against your lashes. “Goodbye,” he murmured against your ear, pulling back respectfully.

Thinking of the words he said he often shared with Paul, you smiled at him. “We’ll see each other again, Bobby.”

He smiled at that. “I certainly hope so.”

Bobby watched as you made your way to the front of the house, pulling your keys out of your purse and unlocking the door. You turned and waved. He waved back.

Stepping inside and closing the door behind you suddenly felt like the hardest thing you’d ever had to do.

Before you even had time to process any of what had just happened, Dottie suddenly came bounding in from the family room, looking like a cat who got the cream.

“Who was that?” she demanded eagerly, wrapping her arms around you and squeezing tightly.

“Dottie! Were you spying on me?” you gaped, your cheeks growing hot in embarrassment.

Your older sister threw back her head, laughing. “Of course I was!” she told you. “Paddy!” she called over her shoulder. “Put on a kettle for some tea!” Turning back to you, she grinned excitedly and cupped your face in her hands. “I want to hear all about your night!”

For once, you finally had a story to tell.

Bob’s POV

Bob had never quite known what it was to both ache and rejoice in equal measure, but now he did. As he strolled away from the Sheridan residence, hands in his pockets, his heart ached at the possibility of never getting to see that beautiful face again. Yet at the same time, he rejoiced at the wonder of getting to meet her, of getting to hear her laugh and make her smile.

Even more, he rejoiced at the little scrap of paper pressed against his heart, the paper that reminded him of the endless possibilities that lay ahead. He was leaving her, that was true, but maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that he could carry her with him through it all—a little slice of heaven in the midst of hell.

Smiling brightly as he strolled the streets of Charleston for the last time, Bob began penning his first letter to her in his heart.

#robert bob floyd #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #x reader #x female reader #top gun #top gun: maverick #lewis pullman #WWII AU #1940s AU

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