Always Almost

***Sorry for the delay, was having a hard time getting things just right. I hope its worth the wait. Comments and feedback are always welcomed. Enjoy***

The ride back was different.

It's not awkward, not exactly. Bobby's still cracking jokes, still dipping fries into his shake like it's a perfectly normal thing to do. I still laugh, still roll my eyes when he nudges me and says, "You're just jealous of my refined palate."

But something is different. I feel it in the quiet moments. In the way his knee bounces a little too much. In the way I keep drumming my fingers on the wheel, like I'm trying to shake something loose. In the way we keep stealing glances at each other, only to look away just as fast.

Bobby doesn't bring it up. And I sure as hell don't.

By the time I pull into his hotel parking lot, the tension is buried under layers of forced normalcy. We sit there for a second, the engine still running, the radio humming low.

"Thanks for the binder," Bobby finally says, stretching like this drive didn't just warp something between us.

"Anytime."

He lingers. His fingers tap against the door handle, but he doesn't open it.

I force a chuckle. "What, do you need me to walk you to the door? Tuck you in?"

Bobby smirks. "Well, if you're offering."

"Goodnight, Bobby."

He sighs dramatically, finally stepping out. "Fine, fine. See you later, wife."

I shake my head, watching him jog up the steps. He pauses at the door, glancing back like he wants to say something. But he doesn't. He just grins. That look of daring in his eyes.

Then he's inside, and I'm alone in the car, gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me grounded.

...

The next few days pass in a blur of routine. Work. Errands. Late-night gaming sessions where Bobby acts like nothing ever happened. Like he didn't lean in. Like I didn't pull away.

Maybe that's for the best.

Then, Friday rolls around, and Bobby texts me.

Bobby: "Yo. Wanna crash at my place tonight? We can order food and marathon those old alien movies you love so much."

Me: "Love is a strong word."

Bobby: "So that's why you refuse to say it back."

I roll my eyes, but I'm already grabbing my keys.

...

Bobby answers the door in sweats and a hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. The smell of takeout fills the air. It's easy, familiar. Like all the weirdness from the other night never existed.

We settle in. Movies play, conversations flow. At some point, I end up with my head against the armrest, Bobby sprawled out on the other end of the couch, feet pressed against my thigh like it's second nature.

It should feel normal. It almost does. But then, somewhere between explosions on-screen and the warmth of his presence sinking in, Bobby shifts.

"You talk in your sleep, you know," he says casually.

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"Yeah." He smirks. "Couple weeks ago, when you passed out on my couch? You were full-on mumbling."

I groan. "Please tell me I didn't say anything embarrassing."

Bobby hums like he's considering. "I wouldn't say embarrassing... just unexpected."

I narrow my eyes. "Bobby..."

"You said my name."

My stomach flips.

He doesn't make it a thing, though. Just grins as he grabs a handful of chips. "Didn't realize I was on your mind even when you're unconscious. Kinda flattering."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Yeah, sure. I was probably having a nightmare."

"Mm-hmm," Bobby hums, eyes twinkling. "I'd bet it was a sex dream."

I shove his foot off me, and he laughs, easy and unbothered, turning back to the screen like he hasn't completely thrown me off balance.

For a few minutes, I focus on the movie, trying to pretend that didn't just happen. But my mind keeps circling back. To what I might have said. To what Bobby thinks it means.

Then, Bobby stretches, shifting his weight. "Anyway, if I beat you to the top of the next hike, I'll make you moan my name when you're awake."

I roll my eyes. "Shut up."

Bobby laughs. "You love me."

I shake my head. "Love is a strong word."

But later, when I'm lying awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling, I realize maybe there is something there.

...

Saturday afternoon, Bobby and I hit up the card shop. He's been going on and on about some new set coming out, and I pretend I'm not just here because he insisted.

We're halfway through a match when a girl from another table comes over, leaning against the divider between us. She's got that confident, easy-going presence that makes people take notice.

"Hey, Bobby, right?" she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I saw you at the last tournament. You wiped the floor with those guys. Impressive."

Bobby grins, leaning back in his chair. "What can I say? I have a gift."

I roll my eyes and focus on my cards. "A gift for running his mouth, maybe."

The girl laughs, but her attention doesn't stray from Bobby. "You gonna be at the next event? Would be fun to go up against you. Or, you know, be on your team instead."

Bobby hums like he's thinking it over, smirking. "Depends. You any good?"

She smirks back. "Only one way to find out. Maybe we could... get some practice rounds in?"

I don't know why my jaw tightens. Why my fingers press against my deck a little too hard. It's normal. People flirt. Bobby's the kind of guy people flirt with. It's fine.

So why do I suddenly feel like my throat is dry?

Bobby laughs, glancing at me like he's expecting a reaction. Like this is just another game and I'm supposed to make some snarky comment.

I don't.

"Sounds fun," he finally says, tossing a wink. "Maybe I'll take you up on that."

The girl grins and walks off, leaving a lingering air of something unspoken between us.

I don't look at him. Just shuffle my cards, focusing on the game.

"You okay over there?" Bobby asks after a beat.

"Yeah," I say, too quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He leans his chin on his hand, watching me too closely. "No reason."

But there is a reason. And I don't know what to do with it.

...

I play a card without thinking. It's a mistake. A stupid one. The kind I never make.

Bobby catches it immediately. His eyes flick from the card to my face, one brow raising in amusement. "Really, Cal?"

I glance at the board and realize what I've done. I just left my strongest unit wide open. Bobby doesn't even have to think, he plays his move, takes it out, and grins.

"Man, I thought you were supposed to be the good one."

"Shut up," I mutter, reaching for my deck to draw again.

Bobby leans back, tapping his fingers against the table. He's watching me too closely, like he's seeing something I don't want him to.

We play a few more rounds, but I'm off my game. Every time I try to focus, I hear the girl's voice in my head. Maybe we could get some practice rounds in? I can still picture the way she smiled at Bobby, that playful tilt of her head, like she already knew he'd say yes.

It's fine. It's normal. So why can't I shake it?

The match ends with Bobby winning...again. I barely even put up a fight. He stretches, arms behind his head, and gives me a look. "You sure you're good? You've been weird all afternoon."

"I said I'm fine," I reply, a little too quickly.

His grin twitches, almost like he's about to tease me, but then he just hums. "Alright, if you say so."

We start packing up. The girl is still in the shop, chatting with a group near the register. I don't look at her. For good measure I don't look at Bobby, either.

But I can feel him watching me.

...

The bell above the door jingles as we step out of the shop. The late afternoon sun is low, casting long shadows over the pavement. It should be cooling off by now, but the warmth lingers, heavy and unmoving.

Bobby walks ahead, stretching his arms behind his head like he doesn't have a care in the world. "Man, I smoked you today," he says, shooting me a sideways grin. "Should I start going easy on you?"

I roll my eyes. "You wish."

I should be bantering back like usual. I want to. But my head's still back in the shop, stuck on something I don't have a name for.

I barely notice when Bobby suddenly stops short. "Aw, crap."

I look up. "What?"

He checks his backpack, then groans. "Left my deck box on the table. Be right back."

Before I can say anything, he's already turning on his heel, heading back inside.

The bell chimes again as he disappears through the door.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. Get a grip, Cal. I'm being ridiculous. Bobby flirts with everyone. He's always been that guy. He's charming, confident, the kind of person people are drawn to. It doesn't mean anything.

And yet, my fingers drum anxiously against my side as I glance toward the window.

Through the glass, I see him make a beeline for our table. But before he can grab his deck box, she's there. The girl.

She leans against the table, all effortless confidence, like she'd been waiting for the chance.

I can't hear the words, but I see the way she tilts her head, the way Bobby pauses, his posture shifting slightly. Then she pulls out her phone.

My stomach twists.

She's asking for his number.

Bobby laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. He says something, I can't tell if it's a yes or a no. But I hate that I care.

I force myself to look away, fixing my gaze on the street. It shouldn't bother me. It doesn't bother me. And yet, my jaw is tight, my hands stuffed too deep into my pockets. I don't know why it feels like I just lost a match I didn't even know I was playing.

...

The bell jingles as Bobby steps back outside, tossing his deck box from one hand to the other. He's got that easy, self-satisfied grin on his face. The one that means he either just won a game, made a new friend, or pulled off some kind of stupid stunt.

I don't look at him. I can't.

"So," he says, stretching the word out like he's about to say something stupid.

"Guess who just got asked for his number?"

I force a chuckle. "Wow. Shocking."

He nudges my shoulder. "C'mon, Cal. You're supposed to at least pretend to be happy for me."

I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. "Yeah, yeah. Good for you, man."

Bobby squints at me, like he's trying to figure out if I'm actually annoyed or just being a sore loser from earlier. Then he smirks. "Don't sound so thrilled, husband."

I nearly trip over my own feet. "What?"

He laughs, clearly pleased with himself. "What? You're acting like a jealous wife. I tell you one girl hits on me and suddenly you're all broody?"

My ears burn. "I'm not broody."

"Right, right." He hums, as if considering. "You're just mad I got asked for my number and not you."

"Exactly," I deadpan. "I'm crushed."

Bobby grins, bumping me with his shoulder as we walk. It's stupid, but the easy contact loosens something in my chest.

For a second, I let myself believe it doesn't matter. That the twist in my gut wasn't anything real.

But then he spins on his heel, walking backward in front of me, still grinning like he's got something up his sleeve. "If it makes you feel better, she wasn't really my type."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, please. You don't have a type."

He clicks his tongue. "That's where you're wrong. See, my type is someone who can actually put up a fight in a match, wife."

I groan. "Stop calling me that."

"Can't help it," he says, laughing. "You get all sulky and it just fits, y'know? Like I'm the cool, handsome husband and you're the grumpy little..."

I shove him harder this time, and he stumbles, still laughing.

He's an idiot. But he's my idiot.

And somehow, even with that girl's number in his phone, nothing between us really feels different. At least, that's what I tell myself.

...

Saturday evening, Bobby and I grab food after the card shop. Nothing fancy, just burgers at some dive we've been going to for a while now. Our usual routine feels comfortable.

But something's off.

Bobby's grinning like he's got something up his sleeve, and I know that look. It's the same one he gets when he's about to drop some dumb joke on me, only this time, I can tell there's something else behind it.

I take a bite of my burger and wait. He's dying to say whatever it is.

And, right on cue, he leans back in his chair, stretching like he's settling in. "So," he drawls. "Guess who has a date tomorrow?"

I pause mid-chew. Not because I'm shocked. Bobby always has someone interested in him. But because I already know exactly who he's talking about. That Rebecca girl. I guess she didn't give up. I knew when he told me she wasn't his type he was lying.

I swallow, grab my drink, and play it cool. "Wow. Shocking. Finally something more than flirting."

Bobby laughs. "Right? Who would've thought being devastatingly handsome and talented would pay off?"

"Yeah, real mystery," I say dryly, taking a sip.

He kicks me lightly under the table. "You're supposed to be happy for me, husband."

I nearly choke. "Stop calling me that."

I throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth and winks. I should be rolling my eyes. Instead, I stare down at my tray, suddenly feeling like my appetite is gone.

"So," I say, keeping my voice even. "Where's the date?"

"Some restaurant downtown." He shrugs. "She picked it."

Of course, she did. She seems like the type to have a favorite spot, a whole list of go-to places. The kind of girl who makes plans and expects people to show up for her.

And Bobby is showing up. I don't know why that thought sticks in my ribs.

I clear my throat. "Sounds... nice."

Bobby tilts his head, watching me a little too closely. "Yeah? You think so?"

I keep my eyes on my drink. "Why wouldn't I?"

There's a pause. Then he hums, like he's thinking it over.

"You know," he says casually, "if this goes well, maybe I'll have to start calling her wife instead."

Something tightens in my chest. It's stupid, and I shove it down before I can figure out what it is.

I panic and sarcasm comes dripping out of my mouth. "Please. No one would put up with you the way I do."

Bobby grins, like I just proved a point he wasn't even making. "Guess you'll have to keep me, then."

It's a joke. It's always a joke. So why does it feel like something else? Something new.

I shake my head and finish my drink, ignoring the way my throat suddenly feels dry.

It doesn't matter. It's just a date.

And it's none of my business.

Right?

...

I don't even realize I'm gripping the wheel too tight until the impact rattles through me.

One second, I'm driving home, lost in my head. The next, the car in front of me brakes too hard, too suddenly. I react on instinct, jerking the wheel, tires screeching against pavement as I swerve. The world tilts, my gut lurches.

Bang.

The force knocks me forward. My seatbelt locks hard against my chest. My brain slams against the inside of my skull.

And then stillness.

For a second, all I hear is my own pulse, hammering in my ears.

I blink, trying to catch up with reality. The front of my car is crumpled against a light pole. The hood is bent inward, steam hissing faintly from under it. The headlights cast a weak, crooked glow against the curb.

I suck in a breath, testing my limbs. No stabbing pain. No blood. My ribs ache, but nothing feels broken.

Still, my head pounds.

I rub a hand over my face, fingers dragging through my hair. "Great," I mutter, voice rough. At least I didn't hit that other car.

I reach for my phone, scrolling to call roadside assistance. The tow truck gets there faster than I expect. The driver is a stocky guy, mid-50s, with a beer belly and a clipboard. He gives a low whistle when he steps out.

"Well," he says, eyeing my car. "That's one way to park."

I huff, shaking my head. "Yeah, yeah. Can we just get it hooked up?"

He waves a hand. "Sure son."

I stagger a little as he gets my car connected.

He looks at me, "hold on, son, you alright?"

I nod. "Fine."

"You hit your head?"

I almost say no. But my skull does ache.

"Just a little," I admit.

The guy frowns, walking closer. "You should get that checked."

"I'm good."

"You sure? You're looking kinda pale. Might have a concussion."

I force a laugh. "I always look like this."

The guy doesn't look convinced. "Uh-huh. Look, I can tow your car, but if you start puking or get dizzy, you need to see a doctor. You got someone to call?"

I shake my head. "I'll handle it."

He gives me a long look, then shrugs. "Alright. Your call."

I shove my hands in my pockets and exhale slowly as he goes to work.

I am fine. My head hurts, but it's nothing serious. I don't need to call anyone.

I can handle this.

...

The tow truck driver's words won't leave my head. I might have a concussion.

I try to shake it off. I'm fine. My ribs are sore, my head aches a little, but I didn't black out. No nausea. No dizziness...not really anyway. I can get home, ice my head, and sleep it off.

But when I rub my temple, a dull ache pulses deeper than before, and for a second, my vision wobbles just enough to make me second-guess everything.

I mutter a curse under my breath.

I hate hospitals. I hate dealing with stuff like this. But I also hate the idea of waking up tomorrow with my brain bleeding because I was too stubborn to get checked.

So I sigh, pull out my phone, and order a ride to the ER.

...

I check in at the front desk, ignoring the awful fluorescent lighting and the too-loud hum of people waiting around me.

The nurse runs through the concussion checklist, her voice clipped and professional.

"Any dizziness?"

"No." Lie. It was just for a second.

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Did you lose consciousness at any point?"

"No."

She types something into the system. "Do you have an emergency contact on file? Oh yes I see it now, Bobby Harris."

My stomach twists. Bobby? I guess I scribbled it down a few months back when I needed to get some antibiotics.

She glances up at me when I hesitate. "Do you want us to contact him?"

I should say no. It's not necessary. I don't need anyone here. It would be nice though to have him here. But he's got that big date.

"No," I blurt out, "it's fine I'm ok."

She gives me a blank look.

She nods, finishing up. "Alright. Only if needed, will we give him a call."

I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes. I don't expect them to actually need to call him.

But two hours later, I hear a commotion at the front desk.

"Wait hold on, what happened? Is he okay?"

I crack one eye open just in time to see Bobby storm through the ER doors, looking wildly out of place in a nice button-down and jeans...his date outfit. His hair is a little mussed, like he left in a hurry.

My stomach drops.

Oh, no.

His gaze locks onto me, and his whole face twists in concern.

"Cal," he breathes, crossing the room fast.

I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. "I swear I didn't tell them to call you."

He stops in front of me, eyes scanning me like he's trying to make sure I still have all my limbs.

"You hit your head," he says, not a question.

I sigh. "I'm fine."

"You're in a hospital."

"It's just a precaution."

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. Then he laughs, quiet and

relieved.

"You dumbass," he mutters. "You scared the hell out of me."

I shift, suddenly feeling like I need to do something with my hands. "Didn't mean to."

Bobby just shakes his head, then drags a chair over and sits next to me.

I raise an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Staying."

I blink. "You don't have to."

"Shut up, you're my husband," he says, voice softer than usual.

I roll my eyes. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." He grins, leaning back. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be your emergency contact."