It’s the softest kind of ambush.

He’s not ready for it—wasn’t expecting it today, of all days—but it’s sitting there on his bed like it’s always belonged there. Bear number eleven. Light brown fur, a ribbon tied around its neck, stitched with clumsy little hearts on its paws. And a note, this time.

He stops in the doorway and just breathes for a second.

It smells like her room again—vanilla, linen, something sharp and subtle underneath. She always carries that scent, no matter where she’s been. He doesn’t think she knows it clings to the bears too. Or maybe she does. Maybe she does everything on purpose.

His chest does this dumb little flutter when he picks the bear up. It’s so soft it barely weighs anything. But the note tucked under its ribbon feels heavier than lead.

“Have I told you lately I’m glad that you’re mine?”

He stares at it for a full minute. Rereads it once. Then again. The handwriting’s hers, messy and slanted from a quick hand—one that spent a lifetime learning how to shoot before it ever held a pen. And still somehow, the loops are careful. The ink slightly smudged.

Mine. Not "if you were mine." Not "I wish you were mine."

Just—mine.

His stomach flips, and it’s humiliating how quickly his face starts to heat. God, he’s such a dork about her. Always has been. From the first time she shoulder-checked him during training like it was nothing, to the way she muttered “not bad” after his fifth win at cards, to that time she leaned over him during recon prep and he forgot how words worked.

She never pushes. Not with him. Never demands anything, never teases past the line. But she sees him—when he’s too tired to act normal, when the Soldat threatens to rattle his bones loose, when he’s caught in the kind of silence that hurts.

That’s when the bears show up.

The first few came with simple notes. “You’re not alone.” “Go easy on yourself.” “I made this one when I couldn’t sleep—he’s lopsided, but he’s loyal.” He kept them all. Every single one. They live in the drawer next to his socks now, except for the smallest—she sewed a dumb star on its belly—he keeps that one in his go-bag. It’s probably ridiculous.

But this one—

This note—

It’s new.

Bob runs a hand down his face, then presses the bear to his chest. Like it’ll tell him what to do next. Like it’ll let him figure out how to talk to her without combusting. She’s not even his. Not officially. Not technically. But god, doesn’t it feel like she already is?

She acts like she is. Every look, every quirked smile, every hand on his shoulder when she can tell he’s slipping. She’s always been subtle with affection, but never stingy. Never with him.

He wonders if this is her way of saying she wants more.

He wants to find her. Right now. Wants to tell her how he thinks about her whenever he ties his boots. How he catches himself humming when she’s around, even when he’s having the worst week of his damn life. How the sound of her laugh once pulled him out of a near-panic spiral.

How he’s hers, if she still wants that.

Instead, he presses his forehead to the bear and exhales slow. Lets himself feel soft. Just for a second. Just long enough to picture the way she probably snuck in—silent as ever—and set this little gift down like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t going to wreck him.

He sets the bear carefully on the pillow beside his. Picks up the note again. Folds it twice, neatly, and tucks it into his wallet.

She doesn’t know it yet, but one day—maybe not now, maybe not even soon—he’s going to tell her he’s known for a long time.

He’s always been hers.