The Hard Deck was alive, crackling with music, laughter, and the sharp clack of pool balls colliding. Pilots clustered around the bar, trading stories louder than the last, and you were nestled between Phoenix and Payback, nodding along as they reenacted a maneuver with their hands like fighter jet puppets.

You laughed on cue, but your eyes kept drifting—to the corner booth.

There sat Bob.

Alone, as usual.

He wasn’t unhappy. Not exactly. Just… still. A quiet drink in front of him, fingers absently tracing the rim of the glass. His eyes followed the crowd the way a scientist might watch a galaxy through glass—interested, amused, but always from just outside the orbit.

You were in the middle of it all—Rooster doing an off-key rendition of Great Balls of Fire, Hangman tossing popcorn at anyone within range, Coyote spinning a barstool like it was his mission objective. You were in it, laughing and smiling and playing along, but your heart…?

Your heart was with the quiet boy in the corner.

Bob wasn’t flashy. He didn’t fill the room when he walked in. He didn’t compete for attention or raise his voice to be heard. He just… existed. Fully, softly, and completely himself. And that, somehow, made him more magnetic than any flyboy strut or leather jacket ever could.

Phoenix nudged you. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah, just… a little spacey.”

She smirked. “Staring at Floyd again?”

Your face went warm. “No.”

“Mmhmm.”

You looked over at Bob again—he was watching the jukebox now, as if the gears and lights were more interesting than any of the people dancing around it. Maybe, to him, they were.

Maybe you liked that about him.

You slipped away while the others got distracted by another round. You walked slowly, pretending to check your phone, like you hadn’t spent the last hour rehearsing this in your head.

Bob glanced up when you reached the table.