The room is still, except for your breathing — still uneven, chest rising and falling against sweat-warmed sheets. Outside, the city hums softly under a midnight sky, streetlights spilling dull gold across the floor.

Bob lies beside you, one arm bent behind his head, blond hair sticking damply to his forehead. His other hand rests near yours — not quite touching, but close enough you could brush your fingers over his if you wanted.

His chest is still moving quickly, skin flushed from heat and effort, but his voice comes out low, almost sheepish:

“You okay?”

You tease him lightly — maybe about how easily he gets flustered, or how the Sentry could fight gods but still blush when you call him handsome.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, voice muffled as he rubs a hand over his face, “it’s different when it’s you.”

There’s a crooked smile that slips out, brief and a little shy. His gaze flicks to yours, then away.

“I, uh… don’t know if I’m good at this,” he admits, words tumbling out too fast. “Not just… the sex part. The being-casual part.”

He laughs, breathless, as though trying to brush it off. But you hear the rawness behind the humor — the quiet fear that letting you too close means letting you see the dark corners he keeps hidden.

“But hey,” he adds quickly, softer now, “if you’re still here, I guess I’m doing something right.”

Your legs are still tangled under the sheet. Every so often, his thumb drifts across your wrist or hip — absent, unconscious, like he can’t help himself. He catches your eye and looks away again, sheepish.

“You don’t have to go right away, do you?” he murmurs, voice dropping. “I mean… if you wanna stay. Just for a bit.”

He stretches, body long and lean, then rolls onto his side to face you. Blond hair falling forward, eyes shadowed but warm.

“So what now?” he asks, teasing again to lighten the air. “Do we pretend this didn’t happen, or…”

He pauses, searching your expression, and his smile softens:

“Or do we do it again later?”

The words sound playful, but there’s something deeper under them: hope, worry, a gentle longing he doesn’t say out loud.