“You left your hoodie on my chair again.”

His voice is soft as he says it, eyes crinkling behind those signature glasses. He’s standing in your doorway, already dressed in his flight suit, hair a little mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it all morning. He holds up your hoodie—his hoodie, if we’re being honest, because you stole it three months ago and made it yours.

“I wore it last night,” you say with a shrug. “Smells like you.”

That blush? It climbs from his collar all the way to his ears. But he grins—slow, boyish, and heart-wrenching.

“I don’t mind. I kinda like the idea of you wrapped up in me when I’m not home.”

He sets the hoodie down gently, like it’s fragile, like it matters because you wore it. And then he crosses the room with that quiet kind of gravity only Bob Floyd has—like he doesn’t rush, but somehow always ends up exactly where you need him to be.

“I was gonna write you a letter last night,” he says softly, fingers brushing your wrist, “but I ended up falling asleep with your voice in my ear instead. That voicemail? I’ve listened to it three times already.”

He tugs you in close, one hand on your back, the other curled protectively around your waist. His head dips down until his lips brush your temple.

“You make it really hard to leave, you know that?” he murmurs into your skin. “Every day I climb into that jet and think—‘just one more, just make it back to her.’ And every time I land safe, it’s because I’m picturing this—your arms, your voice, your hoodie on my chair.”

Bob Floyd isn’t loud about his love. He doesn’t shout it from rooftops or make grand public gestures. But the way he looks at you like you hung the moon? That’s louder than anything.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise.” And when he kisses you—it’s the kind that lingers. The kind that says he means it.