in bocca al lupo

You hadn’t been expecting anyone to be there. Everyone else was down at the beach. You thought you’d have some time alone to lick your wounds and cover your bruises and emotionally recover from what had happened that morning. Penny was too busy watching Maverick. The aviators were too engrossed in a new game Maverick had invented called dogfight volleyball, and the bar was technically closed at this hour. You thought you could slip by and start your shift sight unseen. 

“Hurricane,” The voice was firm, but not demanding. Underwritten with a tone of concern that was very uncommon to that particular voice. “Hurricane,” it repeated. 

You opened your eyes and rolled your head to lay facing the voice’s direction and made eye contact with Hangman. 

You knew it was him before you turned, but for some reason you still did. 

Backlit by the sun’s rays bouncing off his perfect golden hair with an open button-up billowing in the sea breeze, he stood in sharp contrast to your current state. Like an angel stepping out of heaven and into hell. 

In some ways, this was your worst case scenario. Hangman was definitely not your favorite pilot and was very close to your least, and he was certainly not your friend. You were at best frenemies and even that was a stretch. The pair of you had been constantly bickering and making snide comments behind the other’s backs since practically the moment you made eye contact with each other. He intentionally made your life difficult behind the bar, and you rang the bell on him on multiple occasions. 

He was responsible for everyone calling you Hurricane. You’d come crashing through the doors on your first day working at the Hard Deck with a torrential downpour following you in from outside. A drowned cat would’ve looked less soaked through and pathetic than you, and the moment Penny introduced you to the squad, he’d made a snide remark about the Hurricane you brought with you. The rest was history. It became like a callsign to them; your name long forgotten by most. The only pilot who didn’t call you Hurricane now was Bob, and it ground your gears just a little bit more every time you heard it. 

On the other hand, this might’ve been the best case scenario. Hangman wasn’t someone who was going to make a big show of this. He wouldn’t rush down to the beach and ask for help. He wouldn’t fawn over you or ask you if you were okay a million times. He wouldn’t expect you to cry on his shoulder and incessantly pick at you until you broke down. 

“Who did this to you?” Hangman took a step in from where he’d frozen in the door out to the patio.

His expression was like his voice, hard and firm with undertones of the worry that anyone would be feeling in this situation. Hangman wasn’t the nicest guy you knew, but you knew from the other pilots stories of the many times he’d saved their lives that he wasn’t evil, and you didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d at least be somewhat concerned even if he didn’t care particularly for you. 

“You already know who.”

It was true. Devin had been in the bar about once a week for the last six months that you’d been dating. He’d made the rounds through the aviators, none of whom particularly liked him but all of whom had been polite enough not to say anything… except Hangman. 

The second Devin left after his first introductions, Hangman had made his distaste known. ‘Something’s off about that guy,’ he’d said before the door even closed. Phoenix had teased him about being jealous that his snarky banter was no longer the center of your world, but you’d seen it for what it was. A combination of being angry he wasn’t the center of attention and looking to defy you at every turn that was a uniquely Hangman blend. 

Hangman approached you slowly, taking one deliberate step at a time. Every step with such obvious forethought that it gave you the time and the option to back away. A detail you wouldn’t have expected from such an ego-centric man. 

You didn’t back away. Hangman was a lot of things, most of them negative, but you could say with absolute certainty that you weren’t afraid of him. For all the times you’d yelled at him, you’d never been scared of his physicality, and for all the times he'd yelled at you, his hand had never so much as twitched. 

Standing beside you, under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights that threw your skin into sharp relief, Hangman had a full view of the damage. 

“That fucker,” his voice was a harsh, raspy whisper, “I’m gonna kill him.” His hand seemed to lift of its own accord. Flat, open palmed and always within your line of sight, he reached up and stroked his fingers along your cheekbone with a feather-light touch. 

“I already dumped him.” You don’t know why you felt like explaining yourself to Hangman of all people, but maybe it was the determination in his eyes. The way he stared down at your cheek like his eyes could will the twing of pain away. 

Hangman gave a half-hearted, inattentive nod. “That’s certainly a start.” He looked like gears were turning in his head, like he hadn’t given up on his first idea. 

A flood of memories came back to you. 

‘The only active duty pilot with a confirmed air-to-air kill.’ Coyote, introducing Hangman.

‘We call him Bagman, cause he’ll kill anyone and get anyone killed. He doesn’t seem to mind.’ Omaha commenting on Hangman’s aim at the dartboard. 

‘That’s his second air-to-air kill.’ Bob, telling you what he could about the mission they’d just come back from. 

‘Hangman’s deadly in the sky. I wouldn’t wanna cross him.’ Rooster, finally being honest about what he thought of Hangman, after the blonde saved his life. 

Hangman had killed before, and in his line of work, with his level of skill, likely would again. He definitely didn’t mean what he said, certainly not literally. He wasn’t about to rush out to his truck and go hunting Devin in the streets, but it wasn’t something he of all people would say entirely jokingly either. 

You slowly sat up in your chair. The world was spinning less now. Whether that was because the nausea was finally passing or because Hangman’s hand stayed on your cheek, grounding you in the moment, it was unclear. “I appreciate your concern,” you hedged, “but really, I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

Hangman snorted and let his hand fall away. “Obviously you can; you already kicked his ass to the curb on your own. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna kill him for good measure.” Hangman hopped up on the bar and swung his legs over. 

You probably should’ve objected to his comfort level invading your workspace. Penny was very explicit that no one was allowed behind the bar who didn’t work there and even more explicit that that applied to all naval aviators. Somehow, though, you doubted Hangman would rat you out, at least not today. 

“Are you going to tell Penny?” Hangman mozied around behind the bar, picking up a rag and tossing it over his shoulder. He was looking for something, but he didn’t seem inclined to ask. You weren’t any more inclined to offer. 

It would’ve broken whatever moment was passing between you. Caring? Camaraderie? You weren’t sure, but there was certainly some level of understanding that remained largely unspoken. 

Hangman found what he was looking for in short order anyway. He flipped open the ice cooler and pulled the rag off his shoulder, filling it with a scoop of ice and tying the ends. 

“Not now,” you were disinclined to bring it up to Penny. 

The Hard Deck was a Navy bar, and Penny had made a lot of powerful friends. Hell, you had a lot of powerful friends if you were willing to use them; one of them, or at least a powerful person who was willing to help you, was standing right in front of you. You could only imagine what would happen to Devin if you told anyone. All of it would be deserved of course, but you doubted most of it would be legal. And that really wasn’t what you needed right now, and you weren’t ready to have that conversation anyway. 

“Hold this to your cheek. You wanna get the swelling down,” In a reversal of roles, he leaned against the bar in the place that was normally yours and offered you his makeshift ice pack. 

You took it with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Hangman nodded with a thoughtful expression, watching your hand raise it to your cheek, “I’ll let you tell them in your own time, but you’re going to go to someone to help you through this until then… professionally.” 

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t leaving room for debate. It was an order as plain as any he got in the Navy. 

You nodded wordlessly against the ice pressed to your face. It was a reasonable expectation, a reasonable request. You weren’t sure if you needed it or not, but you supposed that was the point. You weren’t sure. Better to go too soon than too late. 

“Good,” Hangman sighed, seeming relieved, and pushed off the bar. His muscles flexed with the motion, bulging against the short sleeves of his open button-up shirt. They remained tense as he crossed his arms over his chest. His teeth gritted behind his closed lips. “I’ll keep him out of the bar.”

“Hangman, you really don’t have to-” 

“He hurt you.” Hangman cut you off with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked serious, deadly serious. “That’s all I need to know. He’s not welcome here anymore.”

Before you had the chance to respond, not that you were entirely sure how you would, Hangman’s eyes left yours, staring at something over your shoulder out towards the beach.

“Do you have any makeup for that cheek?”

Your head turned, and you saw the outlines of Penny and Mav, arm in arm, making their way back to the bar. “Yeah,” you replied, “But my shoulder is a different story. I need to go find…”

Hangman jerked his button up off his shoulders and balled it up, tossing it across the bar to you. “Go quick. Put this on.”

“Hangman, I-”

“Go.” Hangman urged, and you ran off before Penny could see the two of you.

—------------------------------------------------

Your phone kept buzzing in your pocket, but you didn’t have time to check it.

You thought you knew what it was. Phoenix demanding to know why one of Jake Seresin’s shirts was wrapped around your shoulders. Hangman’s weren’t as distinctive as Bradley’s, usually solid colors with a barely-there logo on the pocket. None of the guys had noticed you were wearing it, but you knew Phoenix had the moment she came back in from the beach. She’d shot you a disappointed, skeptical look and immediately begun whispering to Bob as they walked away with their drinks. 

Penny hadn’t been much better. She hadn’t identified which pilots’ shirt it was like Phoenix clearly had, but she was two steps away from asking when the evening rush began to pour in without any sign of slowing down. 

The Hard Deck was slam-packed, and none of the bartenders had a second to spare. The newest class of TopGun recruits were graduating within a week, and it seemed that everyone had turned out for the upcoming occasion.

The bar was crowded with faces new and old. All of the graduating pilots were scattered around, and most of their instructors had made their way in at some point. Some of the pilots had families, wives and girlfriends, who had flown in and accompanied them to the bar that night. There were more than a few old friends in town to visit or siblings using the graduation as an excuse to get away. 

Even most of Mav’s squadron was there. Penny’s old flame had claimed a spot by one of the dart boards, and his lieutenants were all taking turns trying to dethrone Hangman as the king of darts. Normally, they would have migrated to the pool tables by now, but the bar was too crowded for even TopGun’s finest to leverage their way into skipping the line to have a game. 

One of the soon-to-be graduates hunkered down at the bar, some asshole who was billing himself as the new and improved Hangman, kept snapping his fingers at you to try to get your attention from behind the bar. You were dangerously close to ringing the bell on him the next time he did it, and Penny’s fingers were clearly itching to do the same. Tragically, neither of you thought that was a very good idea. Tonight might’ve been the one night where it was simply too busy to ring the bell.

There were so many people you couldn’t see past the sea of bodies pressing in around you, and it was a miracle that you didn’t bolt from the claustrophobia.

Marg after marg. Old fashioned after old fashioned. Beer after beer. The line never seemed to stop, and it was taking its toll on you. Tonight was simply not your night.

“Go,” Penny’s hand touched your shoulder and made you jump, spilling some of the tequila shot you were trying to hand off. “I’ll clean that. You look like you need a break. Take five.”

Normally on a busy night, you would’ve protested, insisted you could hold down the fort and done your best to help Penny push through the rush, but not that night.

Your shoulders slumped in relief, and you ducked under the gap in the bar without much of a second thought, pushing your way through the people towards the door to the kitchen. There was a ‘broken’ stool by the door to the kitchen that was in fact not broken at all but had a sign taped to it that said it was specifically so it was open for when workers were on break. The seat provided some much needed relief for your aching feet and even more aching shoulders.

Shaking cocktails was really aggravating the bruises just beneath the button up wrapped around your shoulders, and you found yourself hurting almost twice as much as normal this shift. That might’ve been why you felt like you were moving in slow motion the whole time. That or the sheer number of people had simply made the task seem insurmountable.

You were just closing your eyes and leaning back against the wall when your phone in your pocket buzzed again.

It wasn’t really a conscious decision to check it, more habit than anything else. And really, you hadn’t expected it to be anything that bad. You hadn’t heard from him all day. 

But there it was. His name. His name a half a dozen times over the course of your shift. Each text progressively more urgent and pressing than the last.

‘I’m  still coming to pick you up from work.’

Bile rose up in your throat, and you suppressed the overwhelming urge to bolt. The room was suddenly too hot and too crowded, and there were too many faces. Faces you recognized and faces you didn’t. A wash of faces that was the perfect place for him to hide, to wait, to lurk around for the opportune moment to reveal himself.

You couldn’t do this, couldn’t deal with this. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people. Not alone. 

You did the first thing that came to mind. 

It was stupid really. You couldn’t explain why it occurred to you, why you acted on it so immediately, why you thought it was a good idea at all. It probably wasn’t; it could just as easily have backfired in your face as anything else. But your gut told you it was what you should do. Really, your gut didn’t so much tell you as wrench you in that direction with an undeniable force. 

“Hey can I talk to you for a sec?” 

Hangman was an easy man to find, even despite the crowd, strutting around the dart boards like he owned the place, which he very nearly did, rubbing the other pilots noses in his shots that were somehow better blindfolded than theirs were with sight.

You interrupted him boasting loudly to Fanboy and Payback about how he didn’t even need to practice. Perfect marksmanship just came naturally to him. The rest of the pilots were all gathered at the high tops near the darts boards, mostly rolling their eyes. They were having some kind of tournament, or rather a competition to see if anyone could take Hangman down. 

Payback seemed almost too happy for the interruption, but Fanboy was a bit more perceptive, at least at the moment. Fanboy’s eyes darted away to Phoenix’s table, and you saw the jerk of his head when he caught her eye. Funneling the female aviator’s attention in the direction of what was unfolding. 

You, wearing Hangman’s shirt since he disappeared for half an hour earlier that day, asking to talk to him alone near the end of your shift. You knew exactly what it looked like. 

“Sure.” Hangman’s tone was completely casual, not giving anything away, but when his back turned on his companions, his eyes were burning. You quickly looked away from his gaze and led him from the group.

“I wasn’t checking my phone.” The words were tumbling out of your mouth the moment he was out of the others’ earshot. You didn’t even bite your tongue long enough to turn around. “He’s been texting me my entire shift. He was supposed to be my ride home tonight, and I think he might show up soon.”

When you faced Hangman, you knew the panic in your voice and in your eyes was painfully obvious. Now that you were semi-alone with him, with someone who knew, there was no hiding how much it jarred you. Your hands fumbled with your phone trying to show him the flood of texts you’d gotten, unnoticed, over the last two hours. 

Hangman didn’t look down even as you turned the phone to show him. His jaw was already clenched; his expression was agitated, visibly angry. His eyes weren’t looking at you or the phone. They were searching the faces in the crowd similar to the way yours had only moments before though far more thorough. The honed, trained eye of a military fighter pilot meticulously picked through the crowd for its target, finding nothing. 

“Could you…” You hesitated to ask. It was such a ridiculous request. Just yesterday, Hangman would’ve been your absolute last choice to be in this position with; you would’ve risked handling it alone before asking for his help. But here he was. The only one who knew. The first one you asked. “I’ll give you a round on the house for it. I just… Would you mind giving me a ride home? I don’t want to stumble on him alone.”

Hangman didn’t hesitate or pull his eyes from where they continuously scanned the crowd, as if his gaze alone was enough to keep a threat at bay. “No beers required, Hurricane.” The words seemed to be coming out of his mouth even as you offered. Like he’d already decided what he was going to do the minute you told him the problem. “Wait here a sec? I’ll handle it.”

Hangman walked the short distance over to the bar, glancing back over his shoulder at you every few steps like he was making sure you hadn’t disappeared, and flagged down Penny. Something on his face must’ve told her it was urgent because she forwent several regulars and big tippers demanding drinks to beeline towards him. He leaned over the bar and whispered something in her ear, gesturing back in your direction. 

Penny looked concerned, and she nodded along with what Hangman was saying until he turned to leave. 

“If Penny asks,” Hangman put a hand on your shoulder, a firm grip holding you to his side as he led you through the throng of people towards the exit, “a guy was bothering you, and I drove you home cause you were scared of him.”

“Not entirely a lie,” You mumbled, shifting closer into Hangman’s side.

No one tried to stop you. No hands reached out for you. No one called out your name. You made it through entirely unscathed. You could feel eyes on you, but they didn’t raise the hairs on the back of your neck. You doubted, highly, that they were Devin’s. More likely, Hangman’s squadron were watching him retreat from the bar with you under his arm without so much as a goodbye. More likely, they were plotting and planning the questions they were going to hound the two of you with the next time they saw you. More likely, Phoenix was pointing out to everyone that you were wearing Hangman’s shirt.

—------

“Does he have a key?” Hangman didn’t break the silence until he’d turned onto your block, until he’d brought his truck to a slow crawl, looking for your tiny, inconsequential cookie cutter house in a row of tiny, inconsequential cookie cutter houses. 

Yours was pretty much the only house without a Navy flag or Navy paraphernalia of some description sitting in the yard or stuck to a car in the driveway. The neighborhood was not far from the Hard Deck which was not far from the base, and the tiny houses geared towards first-time-buyers were crawling with Navy pilots and newlywed military couples who wanted to live offbase.

You were on the second sidestreet, the third house on the left. Hangman already knew the way without instruction. Penny had conned every Top Gun pilot with a car into driving you home at least a couple times. And while Hangman was usually the pilot she was least willing to ask, he was also the only one who was guaranteed to always be sober. 

His question came out very sober. His usual lilting, teasing tone had dropped off somewhere today and never fully returned. 

“He did. He… he told me he lost it, but…” You both knew better than to believe that.

Hangman pulled into your driveway and flicked the truck into park and turned it off. “Tomorrow I’ll drive you to the hardware store, and we’ll change the locks.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Do you feel safe with him having a key?” Hangman cut you off. He was looking down at you with just a touch of condescension, so classically Hangman. Like he knew the answer already, like he knew you knew the answer already, and that you were silly if you pretended not to or refused him. 

You knew where this was going, and you thought about lying, just to relieve Hangman of whatever false sense of duty or obligation he had imposed on himself by being the one to find you at the Hard Deck. But it was way too late. Hangman wasn’t stupid, but he was incredibly, irritatingly stubborn. And he’d already set his mind to helping you through this. “No.”

“Then tomorrow morning I’ll change the locks.” Hangman threw his door open and hopped out of the truck. It slammed closed behind him as he circled around to your side. You made to open your door, but Hangman beat you to it. “Alarm services are expensive,” He continued, offering you a hand, “but they make door jammers that have sound alarms on them at least, and my sister bought some cheap window versions a while back that I could help install.” 

You took Hangman’s hand and dumbly followed him up to your door as he rambled on about extra door locks and doorbell cameras. All options that you could pick up tomorrow for him to put in. 

“That’s too much effort,” You halfheartedly protested as you spun your keys around trying to find the one to your front door. 

There really weren’t that many keys. There were a couple to the Hard Deck, one to the shed where Penny kept beach supplies, and one to Devin’s place that you hadn’t returned. They were all distinct shapes and colors, but you couldn’t seem to focus long enough to find the plain silver key to your own door. Maybe because you knew there was another one, exactly like it, somewhere across town at that moment.   

“Not if it makes you feel safe.” Hangman leaned back against your door frame, his eyes skimming up and down your block as if he was still on alert in the crowded bar, still looking for signs of trouble, signs of him. 

“Would you…” Your words trailed off as you watched his darting eyes. The question came bubbling up before you could stop it, before you even really thought of it. It was less a question and more a response to his vigilance, to the thought that his vigilance might be warranted and necessary. 

“Would I…?” Hangman didn’t let it go. His eyes turned to look at you.

You chewed at your bottom lip, debating if it was worth asking, debating if it was necessary. 

He probably thought it was, if his mannerisms were any indication, if his talk about alarms was any indication, if walking you to your door and watching your back were any indication. 

“Would you come in?”

Hangman raised a doubtful eyebrow, sure you didn’t mean what those words usually meant.

“Not like that, it’s just… You’re right. He probably still has a key, and if we can’t fix it till the morning…”

Understanding seemed to wash over his face, and Hangman kicked himself up off the door jam. “If it’ll help,” he immediately conceded. “I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“It…” You hesitated, but only for a moment. “I think it would.”

The silence inside your home was almost palpable. It was late enough that going to bed wouldn’t have been awkward for either of you, but neither of you were tired. And neither of you seemed up to faking being tired just to get away. 

Hangman sat on one end of the couch, and you sat on the other. At some point, you mustered the effort to turn on the tv. The local news was a quiet, bland drone of background noise cutting through the still air around the two of you.

You felt like you should say something. Maybe ‘should’ wasn’t the right word; maybe you wanted to say something. But either way you didn’t know where to begin.

You had only ever been alone with Hangman when he was dropping you off as a favor to Penny, times that were filled with snarky jokes and constant nagging from both of you, and earlier that day in the bar. You weren’t close. You weren’t friends. You were barely acquaintances. He was only here because he was in the right (or wrong, depending how you looked at it) place at the right time.

“Thank you,” That seemed like a good place to start. “For today, thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” Hangman countered quickly. His eyes stayed on the tv, though they were clearly out of focus staring at the screen. 

“I do though. You could’ve told everyone.”

“You weren’t ready for that.” He added it under his breath, countering without cutting you off.

“You could’ve left me to finish out my shift.”

“Not with him coming to the bar.”

“You could’ve left after you dropped me off.”

“He has a key.”

“You could’ve turned and walked out the door when you first saw me at the bar.”

Hangman let out a heavy sigh, not of annoyance or exasperation but a sigh weighed down with duty and concern. “No, I couldn’t.” 

Your eyes met his over the center of the couch, and a breath rushed out of your lungs under the intensity in his gaze.

—-------------------------------------

You woke up in your bed, mouth open, with more than a little drool pooling on your pillow. 

You had no memory of falling asleep there, of getting into bed, of going to your room at all. 

You remember being on the couch, talking to Hangman. You remembered the way his eyes, intense, open, and honest, compelled you to speak. The way you couldn’t bite back the story pouring from your lips. The story of Devin asking you out, of falling for him in those early weeks, of how he changed after you committed to him. The story of what he did that night, of his buddies who sat back and did nothing, of the jokes you heard the three of them cracking as you ran from the room.

You remembered Hangman crossing the space between you and putting a hand on your arm, how cautious he was touching you, how much time he left you to pull away, how gentle his touch was against your skin. You remembered throwing yourself into his lap, sobbing into his shoulder as he held you against his chest and rubbed soothingly up and down your back, whispering promises that that asshole would never hurt you again. 

You didn’t remember anything after that. You must’ve fallen asleep in his lap.

Sitting up, you found the answer to your unasked question.

A folded piece of notebook paper sitting on the pillow next to you:

‘Thought the bed would be preferable to sharing the couch with me. If I’m wrong and you wake up in the middle of the night and don’t want to be alone, you can always wake me up. If not, I’ll have coffee ready for you in the morning. - Jake.’

As you read, his words the night before echoed in your head to the beat of a nonexistent drum as you read the note once, then twice, then a third time.

‘No, I couldn’t.’

You carefully folded the paper up and tucked it in the top drawer of your bedside table. 

True to his word, Hangman was wide awake, standing in your kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee when you walked out of your room. 

“H-Hi,” you stuttered.

Last night, in the comfort of darkness, with exhaustion clouding over your mind and his arms holding you close, it had seemed the most logical thing in the world to open up to Hangman. And with the light of day glinting through the windows, with him dressed in the button up he’d wrapped around you the day before, with him lounging back against your counter as he sipped from your favorite mug, with an overconfident air that was too comfortable for any normal person’s first time in your home… It was odd to think that feeling hadn’t changed, that you still felt able to bare your soul to him, that you didn’t feel a need to run back into your room and get changed or freshen up, that you were perfectly comfortable being seen by him like this, a tired quaking  mess with puffy red eyes.

Part of you expected to walk out into your kitchen to an epiphany that you’d made a horrible mistake, that Hangman was exactly as much of a cocky asshole as you thought he was two days ago. But the epiphany never came.

“Morning,” Hangman took a sip of coffee and set the mug aside. He looked casual, at peace, like this was just another day, like he’d done this a million times. “I’m ready to go whenever you are. I found the toolbox in the bottom of your coat closet. Hope you don’t mind. We’ll probably need a few things if we’re gonna do anything more than replace the locks.”

“Y-Yeah,” You grabbed a mug off the drying rack and crossed the room to pour yourself a cup of coffee from the pot beside him, your shoulder brushing passed his as you poured. “Sounds good.”

“Hey.” Hangman seemed to immediately pick up that something was plaguing your mind. He didn’t reach out for you like last night, quite the opposite. He took a step away and turned to face you, crossin his arms over his chest, “If you want to be alone, I’ll head out. I’ll go to the store, pick up the locks, and change them myself. You can have time to yourself if you need it.” 

“No,” You immediately countered his obvious misinterpretation of your mood. “I-I don’t think I want to be alone. I’m just… antsy I guess.” 

He didn’t seem to fully buy it, but he let your excuse hang. “Okay then, we’ll head out when you’re ready.”

—----------------------

All day, as Hangman worked around your house first changing the locks then installing alarms then fixing a window that wouldn’t lock and then righting a wobbly chair leg that had absolutely nothing to do with your safety, neither of you mentioned the note he left or you crying in his arms or falling asleep on his lap or his quiet ‘No, I couldn’t’.

—--------------------------

You made a vow to yourself when Hangman finally left your house late Saturday afternoon. You were never going to ring up his card at the Hard Deck again. It couldn’t really repay what he’d done for you, the feeling of safety he’d brought to you in what was probably your most vulnerable moment so far on this earth, but you knew he wouldn’t want anything more showy. Hangman loved being the center of attention, but somehow you knew he wouldn’t want attention for this. 

True to your vow, the next Saturday evening, Hangman was on his third beer and had, unwittingly on his part, not paid a dime.

The Hard Deck was far less crowded that night. The graduating Top Gun candidates had all flown away, and only those currently stationed at the base, mostly Maverick’s squad, and some locals remained. A few dozen patrons milled around a room far larger than they needed with maybe a dozen pressed up to the bar. Most of the dozen fell under your responsibilities at the moment. Penny had, unintentionally, abandoned you not long before when Maverick had wandered in and taken up his usual stool. 

Omaha and Halo, the first aviators to arrive, had claimed one of the pool tables early in the night, and the rest of the squad had started rotating through matchups. It appeared Fritz was on a hot streak, one that was no doubt about to end as his next opponent in line was Hangman. 

All seemed right with the world. The constant buzz of voices, the crooning of the Goo Goo Dolls song that Bob had selected on the jukebox, the ready flow of beer to your usual patrons. Everything was fine.

Until the door opened one last time. Not that places of business ever ‘expected’ anyone because they hardly sent out invitations to come buy beer, but you really weren’t expecting anyone else that night. All the regulars were already inside.

The door banging against the wall as it was flung open was enough to draw your surprised eyes up to the entryway. 

Face lit by the sun setting over the beach through the windows on the opposite wall, he was unmistakable as he marched into view flanked by his two buddies. They immediately began scanning the room. 

Your breath rushed out of your lungs, exhaling in a gust that you couldn’t hold back any more than the wind. 

No, no, no. He wasn’t here. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t confront you here. He couldn’t corner you alone.

There was no time to think, no time to check with Penny if it was ok to leave your station, no time to get to the door or bolt out the back. 

‘I’ll keep him out of the bar.’

It was your first instinct when you saw the text the weekend before, and it was your first instinct when you saw him that night.

“Hurricane?” Penny called after you as, without so much as a word in her direction, you ducked under the gap in the bar and made a beeline for the pool tables. 

You barely heard her, and if you did, it didn’t register. 

“Jake,” his real name leaving your lips was enough to draw most of his coworkers’ attention, all those in earshot at least. You grabbed his arm the second he was within reach, inadvertently clawing his skin with your nails as you pulled him up from where he was hunched over the pool table lining up a shot. 

Jake laughed and shrugged off your arm before he even turned around and saw who it was. “Hey,” he rubbed at the red marks in his skin, “I was just…” 

The words died on his lips when he turned and saw the panic in your eyes. It was brimming up inside you, overflowing and choking you off from every other sensation except the desperation for Jake to understand.

He knew better than anyone that there was only one thing that could make you look like that, feel like that. His head jerked up immediately in the direction of the door, as if he could sense the direction of the impending doom.

You watched the lighthearted smirk that constantly plagued his lips fall away. You watched the light in his eyes cloud over in darkness. As his gaze went up over your shoulder to the door, where one of the three men with angry expressions and dark eyes spotted your back amongst the khaki uniforms and began moving. 

Jake’s arm twisted in your grip and grabbed you by the elbow, jerking you unceremoniously behind his back. There was no time for pleasantries, no time to be nice about whatever he was about to do.

“Fanboy, stay with her.” Jake ordered over his shoulder to the nearest aviator. His gaze didn’t waiver from the three men approaching, even as he issued commands.  

Most of the aviators in Mav’s squad were scattered around the room. Mav was at the bar talking with Penny and Halo. Fanboy and Coyote had been watching Hangman school Fritz, who was being hyped up by Payback. Rooster was at a table not far from the pool game talking to a pretty girl. And Phoenix and Bob were half spectating from their perch by the jukebox discussing something that had gone wrong in a training run that afternoon. 

Fanboy caught you and held you up as Jake pushed you in his direction. “What’s going on?”

Jake didn’t answer. He side-stepped in front of you, half blocking you from view, and walked to the edge of the pool area. There was a buffer zone between himself and you. He was the first line of defense, and he was giving the second, Fanboy, room to react. 

“You fucking bitch!” If Fanboy didn’t know what was going on before, he instantly caught on. 

Fanboy’s arms tensed around yours. His back went rigged, as if a commanding officer had just called him to attention, and he curled away, pulling you back behind him and putting his body in front of you as a shield. Even with Fanboy hovering in the way, his body didn’t hide Devin’s eyes. They sought you out around Jake’s frame and over Fanboy’s shoulder; they found you huddled up behind the Navy uniforms and the fancy stars pinned to the pilots chests. No number of medals pinned to Jake’s chest could stop the chill that ran down your spine in response to the venom in Devin’s tone. You wanted to look away, but the daggers in his gaze skewered you in place, held you hostage. 

You wanted to curl up and hide, preferably behind Jake... Well, preferably in a home far away from there wrapped in heavy blankets with many deadbolts between you and Devin with Jake vigilantly standing guard at the door. 

Devin tried to walk straight past Jake, like he didn’t even see him. Jake wasn’t having any of it. 

A thick, muscular arm stuck out across the length of Devin’s shoulders as he tried to pass, holding him back.

Devin wasn’t a very big guy. He was well toned, but he was no naval aviator. He was no Jake Seresin. Jake had about an inch on Devin, but his well built frame made up for their near identical height. Devin had never been one to hit the gym hard while Jake certainly was, and it showed. It showed in the way a single arm without so much as a brace didn’t move even as Devin walked straight into it. 

If the rest of the bar weren’t looking when Devin shouted that you were a bitch, they certainly were when he glared up at Jake. “Out of the way you fucker!” 

Jake getting out of the way was about the last thing you wanted to happen, and Jake seemed disinclined to oblige either. His arm didn’t move from where it blocked Devin’s path, even as Devin glowered up at him.

The staring match lasted only a moment before Devin, impatient as always, gave up and turned back to glaring at you. He shouted, unnecessarily loudly, across the minimal distance between the two of you, “You changed the locks on me?” 

There was shuffling behind you and the sound of something clanging onto the pool table. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn your head away from Devin, couldn’t look away, couldn’t let him out of your sight. But there was the sound of footsteps as first Coyote, then Fritz, then Payback came into range in your peripheral vision. 

None of them knew what this was about, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where this was going. And any idiot could tell whose side they would be on in a fight between Jake and Devin. 

“She didn’t. I did.” Jake declared at a similarly loud volume, pulling Devin’s attention back on him, demanding Devin shift his focus off of you. “You got a problem with that, you take it up with me.”

Devin took a step back, finally abandoning his futile attempt to confront you in favor of squaring up to Jake. 

As Devin stepped back, the trio of pilots stepped forward. Fritz approached first, joining Fanboy in front of you. Payback followed after Fritz, lingering halfway between him and Jake, a bystander ready to step in if things got out of hand.

Coyote, however, had no questions about how any altercation would go down. His hand came down as he walked up behind Jake, slapping down reassuringly on Jake's shoulder to let him know he wasn’t alone. Coyote flanked Jake at such a close distance that it made it impossibly clear that, if this turned into a fight, it would not be three on one. 

It wouldn’t even be three on two for that matter. Devin’s buddies, who had crossed the bar with him had hung back a few feet, giving Devin the space he wanted to scream at you or confront you or whatever else he had been planning before Jake intercepted. The duo found themselves with two bar tables between them and Devin. One of which was, ever so unfortunately for them, occupied by none other than Bradley Bradshaw and his drinking companion. 

Devin’s friends would be forgiven for not realizing that they were offering up the chance to divide the group in half. Bradley, per usual, wasn’t in his Navy uniform, and a guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt didn’t exactly look intimidating. At least not while he was sitting down chatting up a pretty girl.

Seeing the escalation Coyote invited, and flashing his eyes to where you cowered behind his squadmates, Rooster got to his feet with a slow, lithe push off the table in front of him and turned his back on Devin. Not even bothering to give the belligerent asshole, currently one on two against Hangman and Coyote, the time of day, he turned his entire attention to the backup Devin brought with him. 

Never in your life had you been scared of any of the naval aviators, but there was something especially intimidating about the incredibly casual way Bradley put himself alone in a fight against two men. His relaxed stance, completely unbothered by the numbers game he was playing. His head, cocking to one side to crack his neck, and then the other. 

“You the latest pilot she’s spreading her legs for?” Devin snarled up at Jake, completely oblivious to what was going on behind him and unconcerned by Coyote’s presence. 

Jake was entirely unphased. His voice was calm and steady even as Devin’s got more and more red with each passing moment. “No, but I am a friend. And if you have a problem with her you’re gonna have to go through me…” Jake added as an afterthought, “And him,” jerking his head to Coyote.

“You think she’ll fuck you if you play hero?” Devin spat out the word fuck as if the thought of you and sex in the same sentence disgusted him. “You don’t gotta try that hard to get her to spread.”

Jake shrugged and casually dismissed the comment. “That’s really not my business or yours.” 

“She is my business; that’s my girl.” 

Devin jabbed a finger over Jake’s shoulder in your direction without looking away from Jake, and you instinctively shrunk further back behind Fanboy. Until you felt the material between your fingers, you didn’t even realize that your hand had reached up to fist the back of Fanboy’s uniform. 

You didn’t know, logically, why you were afraid. Whatever Jake was doing, he was doing a marvelous job of keeping Devin’s eyes off of you. You were absolutely certain that Devin would have to knock Jake out to get to you, not that he could even manage that. You were also absolutely certain that even if he did, he’d still have to make it through Rooster, Fanboy, Fritz, Payback, and Coyote, not to mention the dozen Navy guys from other squads currently spectating who would jump in to assist, or Penny or Mav. There was just something about his finger pointing at you, accusing you, that made that feeling of helplessness bubble up inside you again, that made you feel pinned, trapped under his hand.

“I’ll do whatever I want with her.”

It was like Jake knew or could sense your growing bubble of fear. He leaned ever so slightly to one side, like he was simply shifting his weight from foot to foot, before standing back up straight in between Devin’s finger and you.  

“Not anymore.” Jake declared firmly. “You’re already about a mile closer to her than I want you to be.”

That declaration made Devin’s lips twist up into something akin to a smirk. “I’ve been a lot closer to her than this.”

Jake’s shoulders tensed, and for the first time it seemed like Devin got to him. “I know exactly how close you got.” His voice darkened, and you could practically picture the look in his eyes, practically knew it by heart from the night you told him what Devin had done. “Where I’m from, we don’t treat women like that.”

Devin laughed humorously, heading tilting back to let the single tone ring out in the air. “Well we aren’t where you’re from. That’s my girl, and I’ll do what I want with her.”

You shivered involuntarily, like someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of your shirt. It sent a chill through you to think of Devin alone with you, doing what he wanted with you. You remembered what he did the last time he had that power over you. You couldn’t let it happen again.

“No,” It took a moment to register that Jake was the one snarling, not Devin, not even you. The word came out in a hiss between his teeth. “You’ll do what she wants. And right now she doesn’t want you here.” 

For whatever reason, Devin was getting to Jake. The unshakeable, unflappable Jake Seresin was rising to a rolling boil under the surface of his skin, and there was nothing he could do to hide it. From the tone of his voice to the tension in his shoulders, to the way his fingers twitched in and out of a fist, Devin and what he was saying was under Jake’s skin.

Devin saw it; you could tell. You couldn’t see his eyes around the bodies between the two of you, but you saw his posture change, his stance open up and his chest puff out. He leaned in and sneered, “She needed to be put in her place. She looks better roughed up anyway.”

You felt their eyes on you. The squad. The whole bar. None of them were actually looking at you. None of their heads turned, but you knew every one of them was staring at an image of you in their minds. Maybe they all figured it out before. Maybe they knew when Devin walked in or when Jake escorted you home. Or maybe they didn’t know anything at all, but either way Devin just gave them confirmation.

Payback was no longer content to play the bystander. His shoes clicked on the floor, echoing in the silence that existed throughout the bar as Jake and Devin sparred. He flanked Jake’s other side, shoulder to shoulder with him as Coyote had been since the confrontation began. 

Coyote didn’t move an inch except for the hand at his side that clenched into a fist. 

Jake took a step closer. But for the inch of height difference, he stood nose to nose with Devin as he said, “Where I’m from, a man lays his hands on a woman, and you take him out back and put one between his eyes.”

Devin pushed up, must’ve stood on his tiptoes to do it, to close the gap with Jake, to put himself on the same level as the pilot. “She’s mine, you fucker.” Flecks of spit, visible even at your distance, splattered against Jake’s cheek. “Get the fuck out of the way.” 

Devin’s hands came up and shoved Jake in both shoulders, hard.

Jake’s shoulders didn’t give an inch. His feet didn’t budge. His posture didn’t change. 

Jake’s voice dropped low, so low you barely heard it. If a single soul in the bar had been focused on anything other than the confrontation at hand, if the jukebox hadn’t run to the end of its queue of songs and left the bar in silence, if any more distance had been between the two of you, you wouldn’t have heard the rough, guttural retort from somewhere deep inside Jake’s chest, “You’re really, really gonna have to make me.”

Without warning, Devin swung.

He was standing too close to Jake, almost chest to chest with the taller aviator. There was no good angle from which to strike, and his arm took a wide arc away from his body to get the necessary momentum and distance to hit at Jake with any force.

It was like it moved in slow motion, Jake’s head turned, his eyes following the direction of the swing as it approached his face.

You gasped and clung tighter to Fanboy, who blindly reached back to clutch your arm, pulling you in closer to him.

The fear, entirely for Jake, was also entirely unnecessary.

Jake’s head leaned to one side and effortlessly avoided the blow. Devin stumbled a couple steps to the side as his momentum carried him past Jake.

It gave Jake the space he needed to counter, not with a wide, slow hook around to the side of Devin’s face, but with a swift, firm uppercut to his jaw.

The connection sent a crack echoing through the bar, and Devin’s entire body went slack before he even hit the floor.

Coyote caught his arm before he could collapse, not that it did Devin any good to be under Coyote’s care instead of Jake’s. Coyote’s grip was so tight on Devin’s upper arm that you were sure it would bruise not just the skin but the muscles underneath.

Jake bent down over the other man and bent a finger up under his jaw. Devin’s head tipped up into Jake’s face without any protest and fell back to bob loosely to one side the moment Jake wasn’t supporting him any more.

“He’ll be out cold for a while.” Jake declared, glancing up to give Coyote a nod.

Coyote dropped his grip on Devin and let him crumple unceremoniously to the floor.

“Now,” Jake left Coyote to deal with Devin, stepping over the unconscious body on the floor as one might step over a puddle in the street. He ambled over to Rooster, whose presence had been more than enough to hold off Devin’s two buddies for the brief ten seconds of fighting, if it could even be categorized as a fight.

“Are you two,” Jake wagged a finger between Devin’s two friends as he came shoulder to shoulder with Rooster, “the ones she told me helped him out last week? Cause I gotta bone to pick with them too?”

“No, we didn’t!” The shorter of the two declared loudly. “Look, we don’t want any trouble.”

Jake’s head turned to glance back over his shoulder, and for the first time since Devin confronted you, you made eye contact with Jake.

His eyes were hard, cold, unfeeling. He wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t upset or worried or fearful or any of the other emotions you felt warring inside of you. The mask was back on, the unflappable exterior that only you had seen beneath before tonight. He wasn’t waiting for them; he was waiting for you. A good soldier, waiting for his orders.

Imperceptibly to everyone but Jake who was watching you like a hawk, you shook your head. This had gone on long enough already tonight. You just wanted it to be over.

“Well then,” Jake turned back to the two friends in tow. “Why don’t you take your buddy and get out of here?” Jake stepped close, towering over the shorter one as he added, “Tell him if he comes back round here to bother her again; I will spend the rest of my life making sure he’s too afraid to even look at another woman.”

Beside Jake, Rooster began casually cracking the knuckles of his fist one by one, presumably for emphasis.

There was a dull thud that drew the quad of men’s attention back towards Devin.

Payback was squatting over the unconscious man. He’d seemingly been rooting through the other man’s pockets. The sound of his wallet dropping back onto Devin’s back was the noise that drew the men’s eyes and everyone else’s watching as a result.

Payback was waving a credit card in the air in Jake’s general direction.

“Good idea,” Jake wandered over and snatched up the card. “Call it payback for disturbing the bar tonight.” Jake’s teasing smirk was back as he used Payback’s callsign. He abandoned the group to amble back towards Penny at the bar, and his absence seemed to break the tension.

The patrons, scattered around, all began slowly turning back to their tables. The conversation was quieter, hushed whispers that were no doubt mostly about the fight they’d just watched ensue, but their eyes seemed to have drank in their fill of the scene.

Under the watchful eye of Rooster, with Coyote and Payback standing by, Devin’s two friends draped their friend unceremoniously across their shoulders. Despite the struggle they were clearly having, not a soul offered to help as they stumbled under his weight out of the bar.

“I hope they have to drag him to the car.”

You jumped and turned your head to find that at some point in the chaos Phoenix and Bob had come up on the other side of the pool table as a last line of defense.

“Please, I hope they faceplant in the gravel.”

You let out a humorous laugh at Phoenix’s comment as your body finally slumped under the weight of the evening, resting back against the pool table with a huff of air.

“Are you…”

“Fritz, if you ask me if I’m okay, I will walk out of this bar right now.” You held up a finger to silence him.

You were not okay. You would be okay, one day; you knew that much. But that day was not today.

In the distance, like you were hearing an echo from the other end of a long tunnel, you registered the bell ringing for a free round. Your vision was tunneling too, but you could make out Jake was leaning across the bar, ringing the bell himself as he slammed Devin’s card on the bar in front of Penny.

Maverick, always present in front of Penny’s bar, slapped him on the back and whispered something in his ear, but Jake seemed, for once, thoroughly uninterested in his commanding officer.

His eyes, you thought, appeared to be focused on you. He left the bar before he even got his own free drink and headed straight back towards the pool tables.

Coyote and Rooster tried to talk to him, but he brushed him off. By the time he reached Fanboy, still awkwardly hovering in front of you, his destination was clear, and Fanboy slid right out of his way.

“Come on,” Jake held out a hand to you. “Penny won’t mind if you don’t finish out your shift.”

It wasn’t a tunnel you were looking through now so much as a camera, the lens zooming in and zooming out, narrowing and expanding your field of vision around Jake.

Jake, the only thing in the world right now that felt safe, that felt ok.

You numbly, clumsily, flung your hand out to grasp his, and as his fingers laced through yours you thought you might have a different answer to Fritz’s question, not that you’d ever voice it.

—————————————

“Thank you.”

It was about an hour after you and Jake had left the bar.

He’d walked you out the back door of the Hard Deck and down the beach for the better part of half an hour before the two of you wordlessly agreed to find a comfortable spot to sit down in the sand.

The silence had been more comfortable than you ever thought silence with Jake could be. Every time he’d driven you home from the Hard Deck, he’d felt the need to fill every available moment with some kind of noise, compulsively turning up the volume on the radio or making snarky, sarcastic commentary about anything that passed by the window. Silence was not Jake Seresin’s forte.

Yet the silence between the two of you had felt like a comforting blanket, wrapping you in understanding. He already knew what happened between you and Devin; the hard part of that explanation was over. He already knew why Devin was there that night, what must have prompted him to show up, what he was hinting at in front of the whole bar. He knew nothing else about you, but he knew this, knew every detail of the most painful moment of your life, and he accepted it without question, gave you what you needed without question, helped you without question.

“You don’t have to thank me for doing the right thing for once in my life, Hurricane.” Jake murmured. “It’s a nice change of pace.”

You wished you could deny that, say that Jake was a great guy, say that he always did the right thing or that he was a good man. But the truth was he often wasn’t. He was flawed, deeply so, rude when it was uncalled for, inappropriate when the moment was serious, lewd when he should have been respectful, confrontational when he should have been kind. He was as flawed as any other human being, maybe more so.

But when you needed him he was there. When no one else was there, he was there. And that, to you, forgave any multitude of sins.

“What did Mav say to you when you left?”

“What?” Jake did a quick double take, looking down at you beside him. “Oh,” He chuckled to himself. “He said, ‘Good man, no push-ups tomorrow when I shoot you down.’”

“Well,” you smiled, “I owe you a lot more than a few push ups.”

“You owe me nothing.”

You squeezed his hand, his fingers which had been laced in yours since he led you out of the Hard Deck, “How about a second chance? If I remember correctly we didn’t get off to the best start.”

"I can fix that," Mickey jokes and pretends to go in for a hug. But Javy playfully pushes him away.

"I kinda miss holding hands with someone," Bob pipes up, and Jake rolls his eyes.

"I'm a big fan of cuddling," Bradley admits.

Jake isn't sure what he's listening to. "What the hell is this? Some kind of pity fest. Ya'll sound like a bunch of whiny teenage boys who can't get any action," Jake cuts in.

Natasha throws a pen at his head. "No one asked for your unwanted opinion. Besides, they're just touched starved. No big deal."

"Touch what?" He asks with a slight, curious expression, then he smirks at Bradley. "I didn't think you had any problem in that department, Rooster."

Natasha sighs. "Not everything is about sex, Hangman."

"I beg to differ," he counters, and before Natasha can start an argument with him, Bob jumps in.

"Just a friendly reminder that my housewarming party is this weekend. You're all still coming, right?" Bob asks, looking around at everyone.

"We wouldn't miss it," Natasha reassures.

"I'm more interested in this roommate of his," Mickey says.

Jake smirks. "If they're living with Bob, they're probably just as-"

Natasha shoots him a glare.

"Just as interesting as he is," Jake finishes.

A hug

Jake almost blew off Bob's housewarming party for a date, but she got sick at the last second. And of course, Jake promised her he would call her and reschedule for another time. That is, if he remembered. By the time he pulls up to Bob's new place, he sees that everyone is there. He didn't realize how close Bob's new place was to his apartment. Since Bob doesn't drink, Jake brought a case of Coke and a case of beer for his roommate.

He's balancing both cases in one arm when he rings the doorbell. He can already hear Mickey and Reuben's loud voices. He's about to ring the doorbell again when the door flies open. He comes face to face with you, and the first impression he gets is your bright smile before you're tugging him in and slamming the door shut behind him.

"Hi, you must be Jake, right?" You ask him, and he just stands there, a bit thrown off guard. You're Bob's roommate? Girlfriend slash roommate?

He turns on the charm, a dazzling smile crossing his face. "That's right."

Your smile doesn't falter, and before he knows it, you're leaning in and giving him a hug. The top of your head brushes against his jaw as you pull away almost just as fast. He's a bit taken aback, but in a good way. His free hand goes to your lower back.

"Sorry, I'm a hugger," you say, not sounding a bit ashamed, and then you're introducing yourself to him. He's mentally saying your name as he follows you further into the house, and you lead him to the living room, where everyone else is. You wander off, back to Bob and Natasha, and Jake watches you.

Bradley walks up to him, drink in hand. Jake continues to watch as you chat with Natasha, sitting on the armrest of Bob's seat. Your hand rests on his shoulder as he continues to talk with Javy.

"That's Floyd's roommate?"

"Yep," Bradley says, "she's nice."

Jake hums in thought. Nice is one way of putting it. He's more interested in your relationship with Bob, more specifically, if you're single.

That hug you gave Jake was the first of many. Not just him, but with the whole dagger squad. Jake thought at first that he was your favorite, but he was disappointed when he heard you say how Mickey and Javy give the best hugs besides Bob.

Who knew a simple gesture like a hug could bother Jake so much? Maybe it's his competitiveness, or perhaps he wants to change your mind. So anytime he ran into you or anytime you met up with the rest of the group, he made sure to hug you first. Wrapping you up in a big bear hug or a dramatic hug where your feet left the ground, and he spun you around in a hug.

It hit him how much he enjoys your hugs. The feeling of your arms wrapping around his waist. How the top of your head rests just under his chin. He loves all of it.

And the one time you didn't hug him was when you were sick. He ran into you at the grocery store, and he was all ready to wrap you up in a hug when you quickly stepped back. His face must've shown shock or worry because you quickly said you were sick and didn't want to pass your germs to him.

Jake wanted to say, "Who cares?" But when he saw how you kept your distance, he relented. Jake moped about it, and he thought he did a good job at hiding it until Bradley asked him why he was pouting during Maverick's briefing.

A high-five

Jake honestly doesn't remember the last time someone high-fived him, maybe during his early days in the Navy, hell, maybe even in college. Most of the time, the dagger squad slaps each other's backs or does the classic fist bump.

The first time you high-fived him was when he went to game night at yours and Bob's place. It was Bob's turn to pick, and of course, he chose trivia. It was a random draw, and you got teamed up, and Jake must have done something right this week to get paired up with you.

"If we lose, I'll never forgive you." That's the first thing you say to him, and he laughs at how serious you are. It's kinda adorable.

"She's not joking around," Bob says as he teams up with Mickey.

"Yeah, remember the one and only time we went bowling," Natasha adds, and Bradley groans at the memory.

"Wait, when did you go bowling with Phoenix and Rooster?" Jake asks, nudging you.

You shrug. "After the housewarming party."

"And you didn't think to invite me?" He teases, but part of him is a little hurt.

"Trust me. You didn't want to be there," Bradley says.

"Yeah, because you suck," you reply.

"Rooster was trying to put the moves on her, but failed miserably when she wasn't taking the bait and was basically yelling at him the whole time," Natasha adds in, a slight smile on her face.

"Not gonna lie. I wish I were there for that," Reuben says.

Jake soon realizes how competitive you are, and he can just picture you yelling at Bradley at the bowling alley. It's a good thing he's just as competitive, and soon you're neck and neck with Bob and Mickey.

Everyone else is so far behind in points that they've given up and are just enjoying the trash talk you and Bob are dishing out to each other. Jake didn't think Bob had a mouth on him, and he's a little impressed.

During the final round, Jake notices you holding your hand out to him, palm up. He thinks you want to hold his hand, and he's not mad about it.

Until you give him an amused look. "What are you doing, you werido?" You teasingly ask.

"Uh, holding your hand," he replies.

You grin. "I'm trying to high-five you. Because we're absolutely demolishing Bob and Mickey."

"Oh," Jake says, and he hears Natasha try to choke back a laugh.

This time, he does a high-five with your hand. Each time you or he gets a point, he's holding his hand out for a high-five, and you eagerly reciprocate.

"It's kinda like watching an owner give their dog a treat," Reuben whispers to Bradley, who smirks.

"Something like that," he mutters back and watches Jake's face light up when you get the following trivia question right. At the end of the game night, you and Jake are the champions.

And ever since that game night, Jake has been thinking about that simple gesture. One day, He tries to high-five Mickey nonchalantly, and Mickey gives him a weird look.

"Are you okay?" Mickey asks, staring at Jake.

"I won't be, if you leave me hangin'."

"Are you hungover?"

Jake groans. "No. Just do me a solid and high-five me."

Mickey shrugs and high-fives him, and Jake is disappointed. He walks off, leaving a confused Fanboy behind. Jake doesn't understand why he doesn't have the same feeling when Mickey high-fived him as opposed to you.

Maybe he is hungover.

Hand holding

Jake holds hands with women all the time. On dates, with his mom or with his sisters. It's a casual gesture, one he does without thinking. So he shouldn't be thrown off when you grab hold of his hand for the first time, but it does.

It was an extra crowded night at The Hard Deck, and of course, this is the night Bob invited you to join him and the rest of the dagger squad. At the mention of your name, Jake unknowingly keeps an eye out for you. He's only half listening to everyone's mindless chatter. He even brushes off Rooster's attempt to get him to play the first round of pool with him. Bradley just gives him a knowing look before taking Natasha with him instead.

A little while later, Jake spots the top of your head somewhere near the front door. He's standing, already moving, pushing his way through the crowd to get to you. Jake spots your slightly anxious expression as you're looking around, probably looking for Bob or Natasha. But the moment you catch his eyes, he sees relief wash over your face. He not so politely shoves some random man out of the way, and he's suddenly right in front of you.

"Looks like you need an escort," he says, holding his arm out for you to take, and you do. The feeling of your hand wrapped around his biceps grounds him, and he looks back to make sure you're okay. The closer he gets to the bar, the more rowdier it is. He panics for a moment when he feels your hand slip away from his arm. He's about to turn back to you when he feels your hand slip into his, giving it a slight squeeze. There's a slight tingling sensation going up his arm, and he tries to brush it off.

He interwines your fingers with his and pulls you to the end of the bar. Where it's slightly less crowded, and he manages to catch Penny's attention. She just gives him a nod as she grabs two beers. He pulls you so you're against his side.

You lean in a little closer and start to say something to him. He leans down so he can hear you better.

"You can let go of my hand." He hears you say. He looks down and sees he's still holding your hand.

He meets your eye. "And if I don't want to?" He counters, and you just stare at him. Penny is back in a flash, placing two bottles in front of him. He thanks her before grabbing them with his free hand, and then he's pulling you back through the crowd to the back corner. Bob and Mickey are still there. The moment you see Bob, you pull your hand out of his, go over to hug Bob and Mickey in greeting, then sit down next to Bob.

Jake clenches his jaw when he sees you wrapping an arm around Bob's arm as you lean into his side and tell him something that happened at work. Mickey catches Jake's slight glare directed towards Bob.

Without thinking, Jake is squeezing next to you, and you just shoot him a small smile before turning back to Bob. Jake nonchalantly tries to get your attention, but you don't seem to be getting the hint. A little while later, Bradley and Natasha return. Soon, your attention is directed towards Natasha as she tells you how she beat Bradley at pool.

"Is there anything you're good at?" You tease him.

"Oh, there's plenty I'm good at," Bradley shoots back, with a slight smirk.

"Like what?"

Bradley leans forward. "Why tell you when I can show you?"

"I've seen your moves, Bradshaw, and I wasn't too impressed."

Jake relaxes at your words. So, you weren't interested in Rooster, good to know. As the night drags on, Jake notices you're getting a little tipsier. He feels you place your head on his shoulder, and he leans down a bit.

"You doin' okay, sweetheart?"

"I'm tired." He hears you murmur back. He looks up and over to where Bob, Natasha, and Javy are. They're at the bar, and there's a long queue all waiting to pay out their tabs for the night. Jake glances back down and sees you're about to nod off. He's getting up, gently helping you stand, and grabbing your purse. He wraps an arm around your waist as you lean into his side.

"Hey, where are you two going?" Reuben asks.

"Tell Bob I'm taking her back home," Jake tells him, and he's leading out towards the door. The moment you're outside, the slight chill wakes you up a bit.

You surprise Jake when you suddenly tear yourself away from him and run out into the middle of the street.

He rushes after you. "Hey, what the hell do you think you-"

"Look at the moon!" You yell, pointing up at the night sky. Jake is more concerned about your safety and is trying to get you out of the middle of the street.

"Yeah, yeah. It's real, pretty."

You huff when you see he's not even looking at the sky. You reach up, grab his jaw, and turn his head towards the sky. That gesture alone has his heart skipping a beat.

"See. Isn't it pretty?" You ask, in awe of the Harvest moon.

Yeah, the moon is pretty, he thinks, and glances back at you. "Mhmm, really pretty," he replies and quickly looks away when you look at him. Jake manages to get you inside his truck without too much fuss from you.

After the excitement of seeing the moon, you're back to being a little sleepy. Jake thinks you've fallen asleep when you don't respond to his last question. You surprise him again when you reach out and grab his right hand that's on the steering wheel.

Every now and then, he glances at you and sees you're holding his hand close to your face, inspecting it.

"You have nice hands," you say out of the blue, and he tries not to smile. Too soon for his liking, he's pulling into the driveway and helping you out of the truck. Your hand finds its way into his as he walks you to the front door. The same warm feeling goes up his arm at your touch.

He hesitates as he watches you try to find your key. For some reason, he's feeling a little anxious, maybe a bit shy. It feels like the end of a date, even though it's not.

"Um, do you want me to wait with you until Bob gets back?" He offers. A part of him is hoping you'll say yes.

You shake your head. "Thanks, but I'm good. I think I'm going to go straight to bed. Jake gives a slight nod and an awkward wave before turning back around.

"Jake?" You call out, and he turns back. He watches as you stand in the doorway, and it looks like you're debating whether or not to say something. "Get home safe." Are your parting words.

Jake finds himself on a date a few days later, and it's fine. But he keeps getting distracted on the date. All he can think about is you and what you were going to say to him the other night. He also can't stop thinking about the feeling of your hand in his. Maybe it was the alcohol that was making him feel that way the other night.

To test his theory, he reaches out and grabs his date's hand as they're walking down the boardwalk. She beams and swings their hands back and forth. Jake fakes a smile back, and all he can think is that it's not the same.

Now he's trying to think of a way to get you to hold his hand again without scaring you off.

Caressing the face

If a present Jake told a Jake several years ago that he would be jealous of Bob Floyd, past Jake would probably die of laughter. But here he is seething with jealousy, all because of Bob.

It's another unforgiving hot day on base, and Jake is positive it's illegal to be outside during this heatwave. Halfway through their drills, Bob passes out from the heat and is rushed to the infirmary. About an hour later, Jake finds out from Rooster that you're here, here.

"Wait, what?" He asks, again.

"Yeah, she's Bob's emergency contact. Nat called her the moment Bob was brought into the infirmary," Bradley barely finishes, and Jake is rushing off in the direction of the infirmary.

"When the hell does he care about Floyd?" Javy asks.

"He doesn't," Bradley says.

Jake finds you and Natasha at Bob's side. Natasha is standing at the end of Bob's bed with a look of concern as she watches you fret over Bob. You're sitting right next to Bob, who's propped against pillows.

Jake notices how your hands are cradling Bob's face. Bob's ears are a bit red from all the fussing on your end.

"It's okay, I'm fine," Bob tells you again as you continue to inspect him.

"What were you thinking?" The moment you got the call, you thought Bob was on his deathbed.

"I'm thinking I need to drink more water," he jokes, and you give him a slight glare.

Jake watches as you continue to caress Bob's face. And then a wild and crazy thought enters his mind. I want her to touch my face like that. He quietly slips away and finds the one person who he knows will indulge him with his request.

"You've lost your fucking mind," Bradley says once he stops laughing at Jake.

"What's the problem? You didn't seem to have an issue punching me in the face before."

Bradley scoffs. "Yeah, cause you were pissing me off and you deserved a good punch to the face.

Jake throws his arms up. "Well, here's your free pass."

Bradley just stares at him as if he's grown a third head. "Yeah, and get in trouble with Mav and Cyclone? No thanks. Go find someone else."

"Aw, c'mon, Rooster. No one will have to know. I'll make up an excuse like I got hurt at the gym," Jake pleads, trying to reason with Rooster, even if his request sounds crazy.

"You haven't left base all day," Rooster reminds.

"So, I'll just say-"

"Seriously, what's this about?"

"It's about...nothing," Jake quickly replies.

"You're a terrible liar. Just tell her you like her," Bradley sighs.

"Who?"

"You really are hopeless," Bradley says, walking off.

Luck must be on Jake's side because he does get hit in the face. Only it's not a fist, but a door, and it's not Bradley, but Javy. Plus, Jake wasn't really watching where he was going, which is unheard of.

Safe to say Javy starts freaking out, thinking he broke Jake's nose. By some miracle, you and Bob are still in the infirmary. And it looks like, thanks to Jake's "happy accident," he made it just in time, since you and Bob are about to leave.

"Oh my god!" You exclaim the moment you see Jake wander in with a bloody nose and a slightly frantic Javy at his side. You rush over to them. "What happened?" You ask, and Jake is secretly pleased at how worried you sound.

"This moron-"

"Rooster punched me in the face," Jake cuts in, and everyone gapes at him.

"He what?" You gasp.

"Again?" Bob questions, trying to fight back a smile, and it's not working. Javy just stares blankly at him. Once Jake is sitting down, you're at his side. Your hands are hovering, unsure whether to touch him.

"Did Bradley seriously punch you?" You ask again. He can't picture Bradley punching Jake in the face.

Jake just shrugs, still holding tissues to his nose. "How does it look?" He asks, turning to you.

"I dunno. Stop moving around so much," you reply, reaching out to hold the side of his face. He leans into your touch. "I think it's stopped bleeding," you murmur.

You sit back and watch as the nurse examines him, and once she's sure it's not a break or a fracture, she leaves to get an ice pack. The whole time the nurse is examining him, you're holding his hand. Once the nurse returns with the ice pack, you take it from her with a thanks.

Jake smiles, even if it hurts a little. "You gonna be my personal nurse?" He lightly teases as you roll your eyes at him.

"Dream on, Seresin," you reply as you gently place the ice pack on his nose.

"He's so hopeless," Bob says to Javy. The pair of them have been watching you and Jake the whole time, and you two seem oblivious to their presence.

"They both are," Javy replies.

Who knew a simple gesture like a hug could bother Jake so much? Maybe it's his competitiveness, or perhaps he wants to change your mind. So anytime he ran into you or anytime you met up with the rest of the group, he made sure to hug you first. Wrapping you up in a big bear hug or a dramatic hug where your feet left the ground, and he spun you around in a hug.

Jake making sure to hug her first 🥺!! Now I want a hug from Jake 🥺

This time, he does a high-five with your hand. Each time you or he gets a point, he's holding his hand out for a high-five, and you eagerly reciprocate.

This is so sweet

"It's kinda like watching an owner give their dog a treat," Reuben whispers to Bradley, who smirks.

This made me chuckle 😂

You huff when you see he's not even looking at the sky. You reach up, grab his jaw, and turn his head towards the sky. That gesture alone has his heart skipping a beat.

Yeah, the moon is pretty, he thinks, and glances back at you. "Mhmm, really pretty," he replies and quickly looks away when you look at him.

Omg

"He's so hopeless," Bob says to Javy. The pair of them have been watching you and Jake the whole time, and you two seem oblivious to their presence.

It’s been two weeks since you and Bob decided the best way to survive this wedding was to pretend the breakup never happened. Your mom wasn’t kidding when she said the save-the-dates were last-minute. If you had to guess, the rushed ceremony was probably to prevent the groom from backing out.

You haven’t spoken to Bob since the initial phone call. The only texts exchanged were: Bob: "Flight’s Wednesday at 10am. Pick you up at 6." You: "k. pack ur green tie." And your address. That's it. So no, you’re not exactly prepared to spend 3 and a half days pretending to be a couple who’s totally been together this whole time. Definitely not a decade long relationship in shambles.

Now it’s 5:43 a.m. on Wednesday, and you’re brainstorming fake-couple small talk while frantically packing a carry-on, because Bob is exactly the ‘suburban-dad’ type who must arrive at the airport at least seven years early. And definitely not because you spent last night watching Peacemaker instead of finishing your packing. Naturally, Bob’s already knocking. You groan. You're mid-squat on your suitcase, trying to zip it shut with the weight of your soul. “Uh, it’s gonna be a minute! Just come in!” Why would you say that? Your apartment is a disaster: unpacked boxes still in the living room, a clothing tornado on your bed. It screams post-breakup chaos, not thriving independent adult.

The door shuts. You catch Bob’s silhouette in the bedroom doorway just as you abandon your concentration face for a dopey-eyed stare. Moving on from the only man you’ve ever loved was relatively easy when you had forgotten how hot he was.

His hair’s longer – only noticeable to you – but what is noticeable to anyone with eyes is that Bob Floyd now has muscles. Not just “toned Bob” muscles. Gym-rat-hangs-out-with-Hangman muscles. Your stomach drops. Where else has he been going with Jake fucking Seresin? You don’t get long to spiral over this observation – Bob clears his throat, pulling you back. Thankfully, he looks just as awestruck over you.

“You really shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.” You scoff. First words in months and he’s lecturing you?

“Any murderer would have to hike up four flights of stairs to kill me.”

“Yeah, unless it’s your neighbor.”

“Miss Jenkins is 78. I’d like to see her try.”

“You know what I meant.”

He looks slightly frustrated that you’re not taking this seriously, but his expression shifts. “Wait – why does your 78-year-old neighbor live on the fourth floor with no elevator?”

“She’s very able-bodied, plus she says the stairs keep her young.” He thinks on that. “So technically, she could murder you if she wanted to.”

“I said she’s able-bodied, not a geriatric assassin.” He grins. You do too.

Then reality kicks in – you’re still awkwardly perched on your suitcase. He seems to notice at the same time you do. “Do you… want help with that?”

Your cheeks are quick to heat up. “I’ve very much got this handled, can’t you tell?” He rolls his eyes, kneels, presses down with one hand, zips with the other. Of course, he makes it look easy. And of course, he’s suddenly way too close. He still wears that same cologne he bought at 16 with his first ‘big boy’ paycheck because it was your favorite. You also catch the smell of your old laundry detergent that was never his favorite but he used it because you did. The one you took when you left. Did he… buy more? And holy shit, that shirt is tight. You bought that shirt. It did not used to fit like that.

Snapping you out of your thoughts just before you start to drool like a cartoon dog, Bob zips the suitcase, stands, and immediately steps back like your personal space is lava. Suddenly, you’re self-conscious in a way you’ve never been. He’s clearly got reservations against you that have never crossed your mind as an obstacle for this façade. “We should go. Traffic.”

“Traffic? At 6 a.m.? Bob, this is Orange County, not LAX.” He fumbles. He just wants out. You try not to let that sting. You hop off your suitcase and start gathering your things.

The first half of the drive is mostly silent – minus your quiet "thanks" as he loads your luggage and opens your door. He’s still the polite guy his mom raised, even if he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. So, it’s a surprise when he finally speaks. “So… how’ve you been?”

You glance over. He’s antsy, his left leg bouncing and fingers tapping against the wheel. Obviously, you understand that being stuck side-by-side with your ex for a weekend is not the ideal situation, of course, you do because you’re also living it. But apparently, Bob can barely even stand to speak to you without almost drilling his foot through the car floor.

“Fine,” you manage, now opting to stare out the window. He sneaks a look. Furrowed brows. “Fine. Okay…” He inhales. “You working?”

“Last I checked, apartments aren’t free.”

“Right. Obviously. Forget it.”

You give an indignant sigh. After deciding that you’d rather not spend the entire drive in an awkwardly charged silence, you were left to humor him. “I’m an assistant to a magazine editor. You know that lady who went viral for screaming at a kid in a supermarket over a jar of pickles?”

“You work for Picklegate lady?”

“Yep. Pickles are now and forever banned from the office. A temp got fired because his lunch came with a spear.”

“No.”

“She slapped him with it. I had to rinse vinegar out of his eye in the break room sink.”

Bob laughs – hard. “You quit, right? And left a jar of pickles on her desk?”

“Oh, sure. And got brained with a jar of baby gherkins? No thanks.” You bite back a grin when he snorts. That snort used to be your favorite. “Believe it or not, I actually like it. She’s a nightmare, but I think she likes me? A box of dinosaur-shaped erasers showed up on my desk. No note. I know it was her.”

You keep going – about the erasers, the office politics, whatever comes to mind. You always did this: latch onto a topic and spiral. And Bob never stopped you. If anything, he used to ask for more. If you’d looked over, you would’ve seen his smile – the one you always loved. The one that said he could listen to you forever, even if it was about corporate pickle trauma. But the warmth fades as fast as it came. He tries to remember the last time you talked to him like this. When did you stop? When did he stop asking?

You sense the shift before he says a word. The energy shifts from light to heavy in an instant. And just like that, you shut down. Embarrassed. You rambled and forgot he was just being polite. Silence returns like an old friend.

From the airport parking, through security, and to Gate 3, neither of you says much. And because Bob just had to leave four hours early, you’ve got two more hours of awkward silence to look forward to.

Your phone is at 12%, and of course you didn’t pack an extra charger in your carry-on, because you were too busy panic-rolling clothes and talking yourself out of a breakdown. So now you’re conserving battery like you’re in a bunker. Pretending to scroll. Pretending not to spiral. Bob, naturally, remembered his charger. He’s sitting one chair over, flipping through a National Geographic like this is just another normal Wednesday. Like you’re not about to fake three days of emotional intimacy for a crowd of small-town gossips and your two very overbearing mothers who all still think you’re going to name your first child after his grandfather.

You try hard not to stare, but you’re realizing how much you missed those stupid navy-issued glasses. They sit low on his nose, like they’re trying to escape from being too close to someone that pretty. You hated those glasses when he first got them. Said they made him look like a middle school science teacher. You were wrong.

It’s been thirty-two minutes since either of you spoke. You know because you keep checking the time every four. You briefly consider asking him something. Anything. Weather. Travel time. Maybe if he remembered to pack the green tie like you texted him. But every topic feels radioactive. So instead, you sip lukewarm airport water and pretend you don’t notice his breathing, or the way his hand flexes when he turns the page. You’ve finally had enough so you blurt out the first stupid thought to come to mind. “So… you think we’ll be seated together?”

He blinks. “I booked the flights, so… yeah. I put us together.”

“Right. Makes sense.” You nod slowly, while imagining throwing yourself through one of these large glass panels. He clears his throat and shifts a little in his seat. “You remember the last time we flew home together?”

You do. Painfully well. Thanksgiving. He held your hand the whole flight because you always claimed not to be scared of turbulence but visibly tensed every time the plane so much as shivered. You’d landed to freezing wind and a backseat full of blankets his mom had packed for the drive from the airport. It had been kind, and quiet, and the kind of easy you didn’t realize you were about to lose.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think that was the year my mom made that disgusting casserole.”

“With the cornflakes on top,” he confirms. You shudder. “She tried to pass it off as potatoes. It was not potatoes.”

“She thought you’d be impressed.”

“I was horrified.”

“You made a face like you’d just watched a baby deer get hit by a truck.”

“It had a crust, Bob. A sugary crust.”

He’s smiling now – really smiling – and for a second, it’s like nothing broke between you. Like he’s not afraid to breathe in your direction anymore. For a second, you forget you’re sitting at an airport gate pretending not to be exes. You could be on any trip, heading home for any reason. Still his. Still yours. Then he shifts again, and the moment cracks.

Except you cannot deal with the silence again. “You bring snacks?”

He blinks again, then rustles through his backpack. You expect a sad little bag of trail mix, maybe a protein bar. He pulls out a gallon-sized Ziploc bag packed with granola bars, snack mix, and what looks like homemade cookies.

“Seriously?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Airport snacks are a scam.” You peer at the bag. “Are those oatmeal chocolate chip?” He holds one up. “You want one?”

“No, I’m judging. You brought homemade cookies to a fake couple weekend. That’s – what is that?”

“Prepared.”

“That’s psychotic.”

“You’re welcome.”

You take the cookie anyway. There’s another lull in conversation, but this one feels less like suffocation and more like… rest. Like a beat you can both breathe in. You let the cookie distract you. He peels the wrapper off a granola bar with the kind of care that suggests he’s avoiding looking at you.

You tuck your legs underneath you and sigh. “Can’t wait to get home and see everyone who still thinks I peaked in high school.” Bob smirks. “You did have a lot of pep rally spirit.” You whip your head around to glare at him. “You take that back.”

“Never.”

“You realize I was emotionally manipulated into cheerleading, right? That wasn’t spirit. That was social survival.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, leaning back smugly. “I was there when you cried in the Taco Bell parking lot because Nancy ‘borrowed’ your stunt shoes and returned them full of glitter.”

Realization and dread slap you across the face, “Nancy’s getting married.”

“I know.”

You look over. His face doesn’t portray much, but you can tell. He’s bracing himself for the same storm you are. Because while Nancy-from-high-school has somehow snagged a doctor for a fiancé, a white gazebo, and a wedding hashtag, you’ve got an ex-boyfriend and a hastily packed carry-on full of secrets.

“Do you think anyone’s gonna believe this?” you ask eventually. He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “That we’re still together?” he says. You nod. He leans back in the chair and folds his arms. “Let’s hope Nancy will. God, forbid she finds out you’re single at her wedding. She might start foaming at the mouth.” You groan and flip him off just as the intercom crackles to life, the sharp squawk of a boarding announcement pulling you back to the present. “Final boarding call for Flight 268 to Belgrade, Montana – Groups 4 and 5, you are now welcome to board.” Bob stands first – of course he does – and grabs both your carry-ons like it’s second nature. You hesitate. Just long enough to realize this is actually happening. “You ready?” he asks. You meet his eyes.

“As I’ll ever be.”

And together, you walk toward the gate – back to the town you both grew up in, back to the girl you couldn’t stand in high school, and back into the performance of a relationship that you’re not entirely convinced ever stopped being real.

You and Bob Floyd were the definition of “high school sweethearts”. Kids forced to be best friends since birth because their mothers were inseparable – turned teenagers forced to take each other to every school dance so that said mothers had the “perfect pictures for the wedding slideshow”.

You kissed for the first time at your sophomore year Homecoming dance. Well, not quite at the dance. The two of you had spent about 5 minutes inside the actual venue, filled with cheap tinsel decorations and half-inflated balloons covering the floor because helium wasn’t in the budget. Just long enough for every teacher and escort to see you two huddled with your friends by the photo booth – that’s the worst thing about small towns like the one where you two grew up: your history teacher is the first boy your mom kissed, the custodian played basketball with Bob’s dad in college, and so on. After you had gotten at least two decent strips from the photo booth and a few very posed, very awkward photos in front of the velvet curtain that you guessed was at least 100 years old, the group had decided that enough “life-altering memories” had been made. The county fair was a whopping 5-minute walk from the dance, and as lively as it could be for an old parking lot packed full of rust, neon, and the ever-so-charming results of kids eating 3 bags of cotton candy before getting on the tilt-a-whirl.

“What’s our first stop – cheesecake on a stick or that game with the water guns?” Bob grins down at you with those braces that are ever-so-slightly too big for his mouth – the ones with black bands this time, after you told him the green kind of looked like spinach. You immediately returned the smile before rolling your eyes at him, “I think your mom would murder me if she found out I stood there and watched while you spent your entire allowance on a rigged carnival game.”

“I won’t spend my whole allowance because it’s not rigged, and I will win. First try.”

“I call bullshit.”

“Not bullshit. Do you want the bear or the dinosaur?”

You giggled up at him before debating your options. “Obviously the dinosaur.” As soon as you had gotten the words out, Bob was jogging up to the stand with a thumbs-up thrown behind his back to you.

And you should have known better than to doubt him – because one thing about Bob Floyd is that he has freakishly steady hands and impeccable aim. So now you're carrying around a 3-foot-tall, blue T. rex plushie, and Bob is carrying around a smug grin. The rest of your friends had rejoined you after spending all their allowances on the ring toss, trying to win a goldfish. After an hour of barreling through the kiddie rides with the shortest lines and eating every type of food on a stick that should not be on a stick, the last stop of the night was the Ferris wheel. Of course, you were sat next to Bob, with your new dinosaur, Alan, occupying the third seat. And as if the Ferris wheel itself wasn’t cheesy enough for your first kiss story, the ride got stuck just as your booth had reached the very top – obviously. You know the drill after that.

The two of you were able to hide your little blossoming relationship from your parents for 3 weeks, which was a miracle in and of itself, before Bob’s mom caught him grinning ear-to-ear while reading a note you had written him in class – signed with a kiss-shaped stain from your watermelon lip gloss. So, of course, the next few days were full of interrogations, wedding plans, and more than a few tears of joy from Bob’s mom. After the initial shock that lasted through your first few months of dating, they managed to settle down quite a bit. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t planning your entire future behind the scenes at brunches and girls' nights.

Your relationship had lasted through all of high school, even through that evil phase you had in junior year, which he now tells people that the devil must have possessed you – if he can even do that sort of thing. You stayed with Bob all through flight school. Every time he was reassigned, you followed. At some point, your life began to revolve completely around Bob and hiswork. Which was fine, at the beginning. Bob had always known what he’d wanted; therefore, you had always known what he’d wanted. Because there was always a chance of Bob being stationed somewhere else, you had to work from home. So, any time he had an extra-long day at work, had to come in on an off day, or God forbid, got deployed, you were completely alone. The two of you made this routine work for a long time, but slowly and very subtly, something had started to change. He would come home exhausted and stressed, and you would be home, lonely and stressed. And then suddenly, it felt like every second spent together was an argument. Long gone were date nights or weekend getaways, and though you both still loved each other, your life together had turned into a routine without any of the spark you had once had. You were the one to end it. And Bob didn’t argue. That was probably the worst part for you, and maybe even the push you needed to really leave, when he didn’t fight.

And now you’re sitting in an apartment with minimal furniture and still far too many unpacked boxes, considering you have been here for months. Because obviously, the best corrective action to take when you are feeling utterly and completely alone is to break up with your boyfriend, who happened to have been your best friend for your entire life. Not to mention the only man you've ever been with, or better yet, the only man you've ever even kissed. Yes, you’re happy with your new job, which is a very low-level executive assistant job for the editor of a huge magazine publication, and generally speaking, is a job that you should hate for every reason, but it just feels like such a rite of passage that you can’t help but love it. It’s just kind of jarring to have such a major change in your life and not be able to share it with Bob. You thought it would get easier, but every night you just want to call him and tell him to come over and bring pizza so you can tell him every detail about your day and every day before that that he’s missed. He’s not even that far – you had decided against moving all the way back home and had only moved a little over half an hour away from him. This was for two reasons: one, as much as you needed to learn to be on your own, you really couldn’t fathom being in an entirely different state than your Bob – and two, there was no way in hell you were ready to move home and confront your mother with the sins you committed against her by breaking up with Robert Floyd. Obviously, Bob was just as afraid to tell his mom, given that it had been months since you moved out and you have yet to receive any violent phone calls from your mother or his. Maybe you guys can somehow fake this relationship for the rest of your lives without them finding out. That’s probably the easiest solution for everyone.

Speaking of the devil, your phone rings from the kitchen counter with your mom's very annoying custom ringtone. She always has perfect timing, because of course, you’re nearly elbow deep in soapy dishwater when she decides to call. Quickly drying off, you grab your phone and jump to sit on the counter as you answer. “Hey, Mom – “

“Did you see it yet?” You scoff lightly at her interruption; with a small smile she can’t see. “I’m afraid I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“The save the date! Did you see it?”

“Whose save the date?”

“Nancy Davis! She’s engaged to that doctor; can you believe it?” This earns a real scoff from you. Nancy Davis thought that she had everything that you didn’t, and that she was better than you in every way. The only thing you had that she didn’t was B–

“That’s odd, honey, you really should’ve gotten it in the mail by now. Nancy said the out-of-state letters should’ve all been delivered by yesterday.” Shit. You’re sure it has come by now; except it’s at Bob’s house. Yours and Bob’s house. “Oh, you know what? Bobby must have accidentally left it in his truck when he checked it yesterday,” you fight against the way your throat aches when you say Bobby, “so I haven’t even had the chance to look through it. I’m sure it’s in there and he just forgot to mention it!”

“Well, I’ll assume the two of you are going then – I know that it’s awfully last-minute, so don’t worry about finding a place to stay, I’ve already started clearing out all the junk I have stored in your old room.” Your heart sinks at that. There’s no way you can go to this wedding without Bob, especially not to Nancy Davis’s wedding without Bob. “I don’t know, Mom. I doubt Bobby will be able to get time off for it.”

“I can tell when you’re lying to me…” Suddenly, your heart is pounding, and you feel that familiar heat creep up your neck. How could she possibly know–

“I know you hate Nancy, but just this once, I need you to suck it up! And don’t bring Bobby into this. I bet he is thrilled to have an excuse to take some time off and come home! So, you just call me when you book your flight – Love you!” And she hangs up abruptly. So now you’re stuck going to this wedding alone and having to explain to everyone that their favorite high school sweethearts are broken up. Not just that, but you don’t even have the save the date. You don’t know the date, the location, the dress code –

Just as you start to really spiral, your phone – still in your hand – rings again. Except it’s not your mother’s ringtone, it’s the Jurassic Park theme, which you had set for Bob in high school. As if there wasn’t enough panic flowing through you as is, this is the worst possible thing that could happen, maybe ever. You come to your senses and realize you’ve just been watching the phone ring for at least 10 seconds. So, you hesitantly decide to answer, and are met with that soft drawl that you know all too well. “Um. Hey.”

You blink, still taken aback and not quite sure how to act. “Hey… Bob.”

“Sorry, for – um… I probably shouldn't have called, I just… We – You got a save the date for Nancy Davis. Just thought you might… You know, need the details probably…”

“Oh, right, yeah. My mom just called… And asked about that, so, um. Yeah. That’d be great.” You pause for a brief second to debate if you even want to ask him this. “Are you, uh… Going?”

“I don’t think I could get out of it if I tried,” he huffs out what you think is supposed to be a laugh, “you know how my mom is. Especially when it involves weddings and marriage and – well, yeah, you know.” Yeah, you do know.

 “God, I don’t know if I actually have it in me to look her in the eye after she finds out. She might kill me… Or just drop dead at the sight of me.” You admit.

“Probably both. She’s definitely the murder-suicide type, always likes to add that dramatic flair.” A small giggle escapes you, and you can hear Bob release another, much more convincing, huff of laughter.

“At this point, we should just fake it till we make it and show up together anyway. Save everyone else the trauma. God forbid she decides on a mass murder-suicide. Nobody’s making it out of this wedding.”

“With our luck, everybody dies except Nancy, and then she goes on Oprah to share her traumatic experience and gets like, crazy famous off of our death story.” This time, you actually cackle. “Oh my God. You’re so right, and then she writes like a memoir, but the whole book is just about how pissed she was that her perfect wedding with her perfect husband was ruined. Not even that she was traumatized by the mass casualty.”

“Don’t even get me started on her perfect husband. ‘Did you know she’s marrying a DOCTOR?’ He’s a podiatrist, by the way. A fucking foot doctor.” You let out a dramatic gasp that breaks up your fits of giggles. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Nope. Foot doctor.”

“I think you have to ask him about that weird, crooked toe you have. Mid-reception, preferably.”

“I was actually thinking of just going fully barefoot. You know, to show support and all that.”

The conversation suddenly starts to feel way too casual. Way too much like you haven’t gone months without speaking to each other. Bob can feel it too; you can hear it in the way his laugh dies down from that light chuckle that always sounds just a little wheezy, into that grovelly hum that he does when he’s being shy – like when he’s talking to someone other than you. At one point, you almost feel like you can hear him thinking, like you can hear him hesitating to say something that he wants to get off his chest so badly. And then he does.

“I mean, it’s not the worst idea in the world…” And you fight back a laugh because he’s doing that thing he does, where he just had a whole conversation in his head, yet speaks to you like you were part of it somehow. “Elaborate, please.” You can tell he’s blushing as soon as he realizes what he did. “Sorry, I just meant… Showing up together – So that we don’t have to tell them…” Before you can ever get a word out, he starts to backtrack. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have even said that. I know it’s a stupid idea and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable and – “

“Bobby!” You manage to halt his word vomiting, temporarily, at least. Which gives you a moment to think over what he’s implied. Honestly, it’s a stupidly bad idea. There’s no way either of you is capable of being around each other for that long, while still pretending to be a couple, without some sort of catastrophic emotional damage being dealt. And you know this. You should be logical about this. Except for some reason –

Leaning forward in a plastic chair that looks two sizes too small for him, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less there. His uniform jacket hangs off the back of the chair; he’s in a plain white T-shirt now, the sleeves tight around his arms, a faint tan line visible at his throat.

For a second, you think you’re dreaming. You haven’t seen him in over a year — hadn’t planned to. The two of you had done the mature thing, the reasonable thing: you let go before resentment could take root. You’d even convinced yourself you were fine.

“Jake?” Your voice comes out hoarse, cracked around the edges.

His head lifts instantly. Relief flashes across his face before he schools it into something more neutral — that calm, measured expression you used to tease him for. “Hey,” he says softly, standing. “You’re awake.”

You blink again, confusion mixing with the remnants of anesthesia. “What are you doing here?”

He hesitates — and it’s strange, seeing him hesitate. “They called me,” he says finally. “The hospital. I’m still your emergency contact, apparently.”

You frown, trying to piece that together. “That can’t be right. I—” But you stop when the memory hits: you never changed it. You meant to, somewhere between deleting pictures and packing boxes, but then life moved on and you forgot.

Jake gives a small shrug, like he can read the realization on your face. “Guess I’m still first on the list.”

A pause stretches between you — the air thick with everything that was never said when you ended things.

“Sorry,” you mumble, heat creeping up your neck. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

He shakes his head quickly. “Don’t apologize. I’m just glad you’re okay.” His eyes flick to your leg — now encased in a heavy cast — and back to your face.

There’s a faint crease between his brows, the kind that only appears when he’s worried. You remember it too well.

“Thanks for… being here,” you say quietly, though you’re not sure what else to say.

Jake gives a small smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Would’ve been here sooner if they’d let me back earlier.”

You shift slightly, wincing as the movement sends a sharp ache up your leg. “They said I’ll heal?”

Jake nods, hands tucked into his pockets now, the picture of casual — except for the stiffness in his shoulders. “Yeah. Clean break. You’ll need crutches and probably some help getting around for a while.”

You glance toward the window, squinting at the slice of pale morning light filtering through the blinds. “That’s… great,” you murmur. “Guess I should’ve been more careful.”

“What happened, exactly?” he asks, stepping closer, but still keeping a polite distance. “They didn’t tell me much. Just said you came in with a fracture and a mild concussion.”

You sigh, the memory flickering back in pieces. “I was working. Got up to grab more coffee, tripped over my charger cord. It’s stupid — I fell weird and hit the floor before I could catch myself.”

Jake’s lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smile. “That sounds about right.”

You raise a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the smirk is definitely there now. “Just—nurses said you were giving them hell before they got you under.”

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles, that familiar low sound that used to live in your apartment. “Apparently, you don’t handle pain well. They said you were pretty panicked when they tried to move your leg. I told them that sounded about right, too.”

You gape at him. “I was in shock, Jake. There was a bone sticking out!”

He lifts his hands in mock defense, but his grin softens the jab. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just confirming what I already knew.”

You try to glare, but it’s hard to hold when his eyes crinkle like that. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, and for the first time, the tension between you eases — just barely.

After a beat, you clear your throat. “You really don’t have to stay. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do on your leave than hang around a hospital.”

Jake glances toward the door, then back at you, and the hesitation is gone this time. “I’m not going anywhere until they release you.”

You blink. “Jake—”

He shakes his head. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, darlin’. Someone’s gotta make sure they don’t let you trip over any more cords.”

The pet name slips out before he can stop it — you can tell by the way his jaw tightens right after. For a heartbeat, neither of you says anything.

“Old habits,” he mutters finally, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your throat suddenly dry. “Old habits.”

Silence settles between you again, heavy but not unpleasant — just thick with everything neither of you knows how to say. The hum of the monitor fills the space where words should be.

Jake shifts his weight, glancing toward the foot of the bed. You can tell he wants to say something — you can feel it — but before he can, the door swings open with a soft squeak.

“Well, look who’s finally awake,” comes a warm, lilting voice.

An older nurse steps in, gray hair neatly pinned under her cap, her smile kind but knowing — the kind of woman who’s seen everything and isn’t shy about saying it. She’s carrying a clipboard, her badge glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“How are we feeling, sweetheart?” she asks, coming to check your IV.

“Embarrassed,” you admit. “And a little sore.”

The nurse chuckles. “I’ll bet. You gave us quite the workout earlier. Poor Dr. Ramos almost lost a shoe trying to keep you still.”

Your mouth drops open. “I did what?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, waving a hand, amused. “We’ve seen worse. But you were not a happy camper, honey. Had to put you under before you took a swing at one of my techs.”

Jake lets out a quiet snort beside you. You shoot him a look that promises retaliation, but it only makes his grin widen.

“Guess that part checks out, too,” he murmurs.

You resist the urge to throw your pillow at him. “Unbelievable.”

The nurse eyes the two of you with a spark of interest, clearly catching on to something between you but too professional to ask. “Well,” she says, moving on, “you’ve got a clean break — tibia, right leg. We’ve given you something mild for the pain for now, but the doctor will prescribe a stronger one when he comes in to discharge you.”

You nod, listening carefully even though your head’s still a little fuzzy.

“He’ll be here shortly,” she continues, jotting something down on her chart. “We’ll need to get you fitted with crutches before you go, and someone should stay with you for the next couple of days while the anesthesia wears off.”

Then she glances between you and Jake with a polite, expectant smile. “Who’s taking you home, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth, but before you can get a word out, Jake answers smoothly, “I am.”

The nurse’s eyes brighten. “Good. She shouldn’t be alone, not for a little while. You’ll want to make sure she’s got someone to help her get around, especially on stairs.”

You give him a look, equal parts surprised and wary. Jake just shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Appreciate it, ma’am,” he says, that easy Southern charm slipping into his tone.

The nurse smiles, satisfied. “You’re a good man. Keep an eye on her, will you? She’s got a stubborn streak.”

“Oh, I know,” Jake says before he can stop himself, and the nurse laughs as she heads for the door.

Once it clicks shut, you let out a breath. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Jake leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “Do what?”

“Play nurse. Or chauffeur. Or whatever that was.”

He shrugs again, too casual to be casual. “You heard her. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t try to hop up the stairs on one leg.”

“Jake—”

“Relax,” he cuts in, softer this time. “I’m on leave for the next few weeks anyway. You need help. I can help.”

It’s the steadiness in his voice that gets you — that simple certainty you’d forgotten how much you missed.

You look down at your cast, then back up at him. “You really think this is a good idea?”

Jake meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering in those green eyes. “Maybe not,” he admits quietly. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”

The door opens again a few minutes later, and the doctor steps in — middle-aged, calm, clipboard in hand. Jake straightens instinctively, hands slipping from his pockets.

“Good to see you awake,” the doctor says, glancing between the two of you with a professional smile. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” you say, though the dull ache in your leg begs to differ.

“Good. We’re going to get you discharged now. You’ll be on crutches for at least six weeks. No driving, no stairs if you can help it. Keep the leg elevated, ice for swelling, and call us if anything feels off.”

He runs through the rest of the instructions, and you try to focus, but you’re acutely aware of Jake hovering nearby — steady, silent, too solid to ignore.

When the nurse returns with paperwork and a wheelchair, Jake moves before anyone else can. “I’ve got her,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You want to protest — you should protest — but when he slips an arm around your back to help you sit up, his touch is careful, gentle in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Easy,” he murmurs as you shift your weight. “Don’t rush it.”

You don’t look at him, afraid of what he might see in your face.

Once you’re settled in the wheelchair, the nurse hands him a bag with your prescriptions and a set of papers. “You’re responsible for her until further notice, Lieutenant,” she teases.

Jake gives her a faint smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The nurse chuckles, and you roll your eyes — mostly to hide the flush creeping up your neck.

—

The drive home is quiet.

Jake insists on pushing your wheelchair out of the hospital himself, helping you into his truck like he’s done it a hundred times. The silence between you hums — not angry, just full of words neither of you is ready to say. The rhythmic sound of the turn signal fills the small space between you as the city blurs past outside the window.

When he finally pulls into your driveway, you’re equal parts relieved and exhausted.

Jake’s out of the truck before you can even reach for the door handle. He circles around, opens your door, and offers a hand. You hesitate, then take it. His grip is warm, steady, achingly familiar.

He helps you inside, his arm still hovering near your waist as if afraid you’ll fall again. When you reach the couch, he lowers you gently onto the cushions and sets your crutches within reach.

“There,” he says, stepping back. “Home sweet home.”

You look up at him, managing a small smile. “Thanks. Really. For everything.”

He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets again — that nervous tell you’d know anywhere.

“I’m sorry,” you add, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “For the trouble. You’ve already done more than enough. I’ll be fine now, so you can—”

Jake tilts his head, brows lifting. “You kicking me out already?”

You blink. “I just don’t want to take up your time. You don’t have to—”

“Who’s gonna take care of you then?” he cuts in, that hint of drawl sharpening around the edges.

You frown. “Jake, it’s a broken leg, not a life sentence. I can manage.”

He crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Really? You couldn’t even make it across your living room without tripping over a charger.”

You glare. “That was one time.”

He takes a slow step closer, voice calm but stubborn. “Yeah, and look where that one time got you.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue — but he beats you to it.

“Unless your boyfriend walks in right now,” he says evenly, “I’m taking care of you until that cast’s off.”

The words hang there, heavier than they should be.

Your breath catches. “I don’t—there’s no boyfriend.”

Jake’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t smile. “Didn’t think so.”

Silence falls again, thicker this time, until you finally look away. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “But I’m still staying.”

—

Jake insists on making dinner.

You try to argue, but he’s already rolling up his sleeves in your kitchen, rummaging through your cabinets like he still lives here. It’s disorienting — how natural he looks standing there, shoulders broad under the soft kitchen light, moving with the same confidence he used to have when he’d cook after long flights.

You watch from the couch, leg propped up on a pillow, the faint hum of the TV filling the silence. The smell of something familiar drifts from the stove — sautéed onions, maybe garlic.

“You still put too much butter in everything,” you call out.

He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “And you still think olive oil can fix everything.”

“Olive oil does fix everything.”

Jake snorts, shaking his head. “Guess some things don’t change.”

You don’t answer — mostly because you’re not sure what to say to that. Some things did change. You just can’t tell yet if it’s for better or worse.

When he finally brings over two plates — grilled chicken, rice, and something that looks like a half-hearted attempt at vegetables — you’re half expecting him to sit at the kitchen counter. Instead, he lowers himself onto the armchair across from you.

He takes a bite, eyes flicking to you briefly. “Still drink your coffee black?”

You nod. “Still take yours with too much sugar?”

He grins, and for a second, the tension thins — just a little.

Conversation trickles in awkward bursts, the kind that fills the space without really saying anything. Work. Weather. How you’ve been keeping busy.

Then Jake leans back, twirling his fork. “It’s been a little hard to keep up, you know. Considering someone blocked me on everything.”

You nearly choke on your rice. “I—what?”

He raises a brow. “Instagram. Twitter. Even Facebook, which I didn’t even know I still had.”

You blink, mortified. “I didn’t block you, I just… unfollowed.”

Jake hums, unconvinced. “Pretty sure it said ‘this user cannot be found,’ darlin’.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Okay, maybe I blocked you for, like, a week.”

He laughs softly — the first real laugh of the day — and it makes something warm stir in your chest. “A week, huh? Guess that explains why I had to hear from Javy that you cut your hair.”

You glance self-consciously at your shorter curls. “You asked about me?”

He hesitates just long enough for the silence to answer for him. Then, quietly: “Maybe once or twice.”

You look down at your plate, suddenly finding the food very interesting. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t mean I didn’t want to,” he says, his voice low but even.

That silences you both again. The tension isn’t sharp — it’s softer now, like the hum of something waiting to unfold.

When you finish eating, Jake takes the plates to the sink before you can argue. You hear the soft clatter of dishes, the faint sound of running water. By the time he comes back, you’re already fighting the drowsy pull of the pain meds.

“Hey,” he says gently, crouching beside the couch. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m fine here,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

Jake shakes his head, grabbing a folded blanket from the armrest. He adjusts the pillow under your cast and drapes the blanket over you with the kind of quiet care that used to undo you — small, thoughtful gestures that never made noise but said everything.

You blink up at him sleepily. “You’re being nice. It’s weird.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your lips curve into a faint smile. “You could’ve just dropped me off and left.”

“I could’ve,” he agrees softly. “But I didn’t.”

There’s nothing to say after that. You’re too tired to try.

As your eyes drift shut, you hear him move around — turning off lights, locking the door. The faint scrape of a chair follows, and you realize he’s settling into the recliner across from you.

“Jake?” you mumble, already half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“You can still go home.”

You hear him smile in his voice. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

—

It’s somewhere around four in the morning when the pain starts to gnaw at the edges of your sleep.

You try to ignore it at first — shifting a little, adjusting the pillow under your leg — but the dull ache sharpens, spreading upward until every small movement makes you wince.

You blink in the dark, eyes blurry from exhaustion. The pain meds they gave you at the hospital have long since worn off, and the bottle sits mocking you on the coffee table just out of reach.

Jake’s soft, steady breathing fills the room from the recliner across the way. You can just make out the shape of him in the dim light — head tilted back, arms crossed, chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

You don’t want to wake him. He’s already done too much.

You reach for the bottle anyway, stretching carefully, biting back a hiss as the motion pulls at your leg. Your fingers brush the edge of the table, but it’s no use — it’s too far.

Frustration wells in your throat, and before you can stop it, your eyes sting. It’s stupid — you know it’s stupid — but the pain and the helplessness twist together until you feel tears start to spill down your cheeks. You press the heel of your hand against your eyes, willing yourself to stop.

The quiet shuffle of movement cuts through the dark.

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is low, rough from sleep. You hear the creak of the recliner, then the sound of bare feet against the floor. “What’s wrong?”

You sniff, embarrassed. “Nothing. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah,” he says gently, crouching beside the couch, “see, I don’t believe that.”

You turn your face away, but he’s already close enough to see the sheen of tears on your cheeks. His brows draw together instantly. “Pain’s back?”

You nod, hating how small your voice sounds. “I couldn’t reach the bottle. It’s fine, I just—”

Before you can finish, he’s already reaching for it. “Shh, I got you.”

He grabs the meds and a glass of water from the table, setting them within easy reach. You sit up slowly, wincing again, and he steadies you with a hand at your shoulder.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the word more instinct than thought. “Don’t rush it.”

He helps you take the pill, holding the glass steady while you swallow. When you hand it back, your fingers brush his — warm, calloused, familiar — and it sends a small ache through your chest that has nothing to do with your leg.

“Good,” he says softly once you’re settled again. “There you go. It’ll kick in soon.”

You try to nod, but your throat tightens instead. You hate that he’s seeing you like this — weak, teary, undone — but Jake doesn’t look away.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his thumb brushing gently under your eye to catch a tear. “Don’t do that. You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to say.

Jake shakes his head, eyes steady on yours. “Nothing to be sorry for. You’re hurting. That’s all.”

You sniff, and he exhales slowly, the sound almost a sigh. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter — not quite a whisper, but close.

“Always been bad with pain,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Used to act the same way when you got paper cuts.”

You huff out a laugh that’s half a sob, and it makes his smile soften even more.

“There she is,” he murmurs, thumb tracing another tear from your cheek. “Knew I’d get you to smile.”

He stays like that for a while — close, steady, murmuring little reassurances you barely register but feel anyway. When the meds finally start to work, your eyelids grow heavy, the ache dulling to something distant.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

You nod, already half-asleep. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder, his hand lingering there just a second too long. “Get some rest. I’m right here.”

—

You woke up to the sound of something clattering in the kitchen — metal against ceramic, the faint hiss of a pan, and a low hum that made you blink blearily.

The morning light was soft, slipping through your curtains in uneven stripes. Your head felt heavy, still fogged from the medication, and for a moment your mind couldn’t quite stitch the details together. The faint smell of coffee and toast didn’t help much either.

You groaned, turning your head on the pillow. “Jake?”

He was standing by the stove — loose gray t-shirt, sweatpants that definitely weren’t yours, spatula in hand like he’d been doing this every morning for years. He turned at the sound of your voice, a smile tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You blinked, disoriented. “Why are you—” You stopped mid-sentence when you tried to move and your leg protested sharply beneath the weight of the cast. “Oh. Right. I broke my leg.”

Jake chuckled softly, setting down the spatula. “Yeah, that happened.”

You rubbed your eyes, feeling your cheeks warm. “You didn’t have to—”

“Already heard that speech last night,” he said, cutting you off gently as he walked over. “Breakfast is ready. You’re supposed to eat before taking your meds.”

He helped you sit up against the pillows, careful not to jostle your leg, and set the tray on your lap. Scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice. It smelled simple, homey — like the kind of breakfast you used to make together on lazy Sundays when things were easy.

You hesitated with the fork in your hand, watching him sit down in the chair beside the couch. “You really don’t have to do this, Jake.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like I’m not already here.”

You gave him a small look — equal parts resigned and amused. “I haven’t seen you for over a year, and suddenly you’re… making me breakfast.”

He smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Guess I’m just making up for lost time.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that crept up. The silence between you felt less heavy than last night, but it was still there — a quiet thrum beneath the surface.

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at you. “I’m gonna head out for a bit once you’re done. Need to grab some stuff for you — waterproof cover for that cast, tape, your prescription.”

You frowned, pausing mid-bite. “Jake, you really don’t have to—”

“—and I’m grabbing some clothes from my place,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard you. “Toiletries, too. I figure if I’m sticking around, I might as well not smell like jet fuel and hotel soap.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he gave you that look — the same one that used to end every small disagreement between you, firm but fond, patient but unyielding.

“You’re stubborn,” you muttered, more to your eggs than to him.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice warm with quiet amusement. “But you already knew that before you put my name down as your emergency contact.”

That made you look up. He was smirking again, but his eyes — green, clear, still familiar — softened just a little.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I forgot to change it. It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Sure,” he said, standing and picking up your empty glass. “You keep telling yourself that.”

You watched him disappear into the kitchen, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but think how strange it was — having Jake Seresin moving around your home again, casual and confident, like he’d never left.

And maybe it was just the meds still fogging your brain, but it felt almost… normal.

By the time Jake came back, the afternoon sun had shifted low enough to pour honey-colored light across your living room. You were half-dozing on the couch, the TV murmuring quietly in the background, when the sound of a key turning in the lock startled you.

He stepped inside, arms full — a paper bag balanced on one forearm, a small pharmacy bag in the other, and a reusable tote slung over his shoulder.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, setting everything down on the coffee table.

You blinked sleepily. “You got a key?”

He looked at you like that was the least important detail in the world. “Spare one was in the bowl by the door. You really shouldn’t keep it there, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ll make sure to hide it from you next time.”

Jake grinned, crouching to unpack everything. “Got your refills, waterproof cover for your leg, tape, snacks, and—” He held up a small bouquet of daisies, shrugging one shoulder. “Thought your place could use a little cheer.”

You blinked at the flowers, momentarily thrown. “You got me flowers?”

He smirked. “Don’t read too much into it. They were by the register.”

You didn’t miss the way his ears turned faintly pink, though.

He helped you up carefully, his hands gentle but firm. “All right, sunshine, before you take a shower, I want you to try using the crutches a bit.”

“Jake, I can manage—”

“Humor me,” he said, already handing them over.

You grumbled but did as told. The first few steps were clumsy — your balance off, arms awkward — and Jake hovered close behind you like a human safety net.

“Slow down,” he said, one hand hovering near your back. “You’re walking like a baby deer on ice.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You hovering isn’t helping, Lieutenant Mother Hen.”

His mouth quirked up. “You can call me that again when you don’t almost face-plant into your coffee table.”

You bit back a laugh, partly because he was right. The domestic absurdity of it all — Jake Seresin following you around your own house with his hand half-outstretched like you were made of glass — wasn’t lost on you.

Eventually, he nodded approvingly. “All right, you’ve proven you can hobble around. Now, let’s get you upstairs for a shower.”

You blinked. “Upstairs? Jake, that’s—”

“—where your bathroom is,” he finished for you, already bending a little like he was preparing to scoop you up.

Your eyes widened. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll use the crutches.”

He gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “If you use the crutches, we’ll make it to the top by next Thursday.”

“Jake!”

But he didn’t give you a chance to argue further. One strong arm hooked under your knees, the other behind your back, and suddenly you were in the air, pressed against his chest. You squeaked — an embarrassingly undignified sound — as he carried you up the stairs with ease.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, crossing your arms as best you could.

“You say that like you didn’t secretly miss this,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t reply, mostly because your heart was hammering a little too fast for someone being carried up twelve steps.

When he finally set you down in the bathroom, Jake looked around like he was preparing for a mission briefing. “Okay, so the internet said to put the cast protector on first, then seal it with tape so no water gets in.”

You blinked, amused. “You watched a tutorial?”

“Two,” he said, dead serious, as he unrolled the plastic sleeve and unwrapped the tape. “I’m a professional now.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing as he knelt in front of you, gently guiding the plastic over your leg. His brows furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out just slightly at the corner of his mouth as he smoothed the tape over the edge.

“There,” he said finally, sitting back on his heels to inspect his work. “Waterproof and ready for battle.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You really went all out, huh?”

He looked up at you, eyes warm. “Told you I was gonna take care of you, didn’t I?” Jake straightened, brushing his hands on his jeans. “All right,” he said, glancing toward the shower. “Next step is getting you undressed.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, voice maddeningly calm. “You can’t exactly shower in jeans and a t-shirt, sweetheart.”

You stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Jake, I’m not— you’re not— absolutely not. You can wait outside.”

One corner of his mouth curved, all teasing charm and infuriating confidence. “While it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, gorgeous, I’m afraid you’ll face-plant if I leave you to it.”

You gave him a sharp look. “That’s not the point.”

“I’m being practical,” he said, taking a small step closer — careful, measured. “You can lean on me while you change. Promise I’ll keep my eyes where they should be.”

You wanted to argue, really, but the dull throb in your leg reminded you how little balance you actually had. With a huff, you crossed your arms. “This is mortifying.”

“Not for me,” he said under his breath, and when you shot him a glare, he added quickly, “Kidding. Mostly.”

True to his word, he kept it professional — or as close to professional as Jake Seresin was capable of being. He steadied you with a firm hand at your elbow, helped you tug your shirt over your head without jostling your cast, and handed you a towel when you were down to your underwear, eyes politely averted. The air between you buzzed with the kind of tension that came from pretending something didn’t feel like what it was.

“Okay,” you said finally, cheeks warm. “You can go now.”

“Right,” he said, stepping back. “Don’t drown.”

“Very comforting, thank you.”

He chuckled, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

After the most awkward shower of your life, Jake helped you back to bed, moving with the same steady, unbothered ease that made it worse somehow. He fussed with your pillows, adjusted your cast, and then turned toward your closet like he’d never left this house, rifling through hangers until he found something soft.

“This work?” he asked, holding up an old t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts.

You nodded, still a little pink. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He handed them over, his expression unreadable, and you wondered if his heart was beating as fast as yours — or if he’d just gotten better at hiding it.

Jake was quiet as he helped you into the clean clothes, careful not to pull too hard or jostle your leg. His hands were steady — maddeningly gentle, like he was afraid you’d break apart if he moved too fast. When you were finally dressed, he eased you back against the pillows and reached for the towel still draped over your shoulders.

“Hold still,” he murmured, moving behind you on the bed.

You froze when you felt the towel slide through your damp hair, his fingers following after it — slow, methodical, tender in a way that made your throat go tight. The faint scrape of his hand against your shoulder sent a quiet shiver down your spine.

Jake was quiet as he helped you into the clean clothes, careful not to pull too hard or jostle your leg. His hands were steady — maddeningly gentle, like he was afraid you’d break apart if he moved too fast. When you were finally dressed, he eased you back against the pillows and reached for the towel still draped over your shoulders.

“Hold still,” he murmured, moving behind you on the bed.

You froze when you felt the towel slide through your damp hair, his fingers following after it — slow, methodical, tender in a way that made your throat go tight. The faint scrape of his wedding-bandless hand against your shoulder sent a quiet shiver down your spine.

He worked in silence for a moment, untangling knots and brushing through the strands with careful fingers. Every now and then, his breath would fan lightly against your neck as he leaned forward, and it made your pulse stutter embarrassingly fast.

Finally, he set the brush aside and asked, “You wanna head back downstairs, or get settled up here?”

You sighed, glancing at the bed. “Might as well stay up here. Easier than moving around.”

He nodded, pushing himself up. “All right. I’ll grab your meds and—”

“Wait,” you said, catching his sleeve before he could move away. “Where are you going to sleep?”

He turned, brow lifting. “There’s an armchair right here.”

You frowned, glancing at it. “That’s not exactly a bed, Jake. You can take the couch downstairs.”

“Yeah, but what if you need me?” he countered easily.

You gave him a look. “I’ll text you. Or call. Like normal people do.”

He grinned. “You’re assuming I’ll hear my phone in time to stop you from trying to hop to the kitchen on one leg.”

You scoffed. “I’m not that helpless.”

His grin softened, eyes warm. “You’re also the woman who panicked so hard at the hospital they had to sedate her, remember?”

Your mouth fell open. “That was a medical situation.”

“Sure it was,” he said, teasing lilt back in his voice.

You threw him a pillow — it landed somewhere near his shoulder — and he caught it with a laugh before setting it back at the head of the bed. “Face it, sunshine. You’re stuck with me.”

You sighed but couldn’t quite hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “You always were impossible to argue with.”

He just smiled, adjusting the blanket over your leg with one last careful tug. “Get some rest. I’ll make lunch. Wake you up when it’s ready.”

You sank back against the pillows, suddenly aware of how exhausted you were — the warmth of the room, the soft rhythm of his voice, and the faint scent of soap clinging to him from earlier all tugging at your drowsiness.

As he left the room, you heard him mutter something about “chicken soup and maybe some grilled cheese,” and the sound of his footsteps down the hall made the house feel different.

Less empty.

—

You woke up to the sound of a door creaking open and the faint, comforting smell of something warm and buttery. Blinking against the soft afternoon light filtering through your curtains, you lifted your head just enough to see Jake coming in — balancing a tray with both hands.

He gave you a crooked smile when he caught your bleary gaze. “Perfect timing, sleeping beauty.”

“Smells good,” you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

“Tomato soup and grilled cheese,” he said, setting the tray on your lap with practiced care. “Doctor Seresin’s orders — you need something solid in your stomach before your next dose of meds.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re bossier than the actual doctor.”

“I’m more charming, though,” he said easily, sitting down in the armchair beside the bed with his own plate. He balanced the bowl and sandwich precariously on his knees and took a sip of soup. “At least I like to think so.”

You couldn’t help but laugh — soft, genuine, the sound surprising even yourself. The tension between you wasn’t gone, but it had loosened a little, like a door cracked open to let the air in.

For a few quiet minutes, you both ate in companionable silence. The soup was perfectly warm, the grilled cheese crisp and buttery — simple, comforting. Jake had always been good at that kind of thing: taking care of people without making a big deal out of it.

“So,” you said finally, glancing at him. “Why are you on leave? Did the Navy finally kick you out?”

He smirked over the rim of his bowl. “Funny. No. I hadn’t taken any of my mandatory free days in over a year, so they told me I either used them or lost them.”

You blinked. “You hadn’t used any?”

He shrugged, tearing off a piece of sandwich with his hands. “Didn’t really need to.”

“Didn’t need to,” you repeated, brow furrowing. “Jake, that’s— you used to jump at the chance for time off. You’d plan road trips, visit your folks in Texas—”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to his bowl. “That was before.”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, exactly. It was soft and heavy, like the air just changed shape. You looked at him — the familiar slope of his shoulders, the light stubble along his jaw, the way he avoided your eyes like the truth might spill out if he met them too long.

“Before what?” you asked, even though you knew.

He didn’t look up. “Before we broke up.”

Your heart gave a small, painful tug. “Jake—”

He cut in before you could say more, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway. A month off. Guess the universe decided I needed a reason to slow down.”

You stared at him for a beat, something caught in your throat. Then, softly: “Guess it did.”

He looked up finally, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I was thinking I’d get bored.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else entirely. “Careful what you wish for, Seresin. Taking care of me for a month might make you wish you were back in the air.”

He grinned, that old, familiar spark flickering in his expression. “Not a chance, sunshine.”

After lunch, you settled back against the pillows, your leg carefully propped up on a couple of cushions. Jake cleared away the dishes, and before you could protest, he returned with a glass of water and your pain meds. He handed them to you like he’d been doing this for years instead of just a day.

“Take these,” he said softly, watching until you did.

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re really leaning into the caretaker role, huh?”

He gave a half-smile. “I take orders well when it comes to people I actually care about.”

That earned him a quiet look — one you weren’t sure how to respond to — so you just turned on the TV instead.

There was an old Modern Family marathon running, and the familiar laughter filled the quiet room. It was easy background noise, something that didn’t demand attention. Jake dragged the armchair a little closer to the bed, the legs scraping softly against the floor.

“What are you doing?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“Trying not to throw out my back,” he said, grunting as he positioned the chair at an angle beside the bed. He sat down, stretching his legs until his feet rested on the far edge of the mattress — the side you weren’t using.

You watched him settle in, the chair creaking under his weight, his broad shoulders shifting as he tried to find a comfortable position. “You look ridiculous,” you said, biting back a smile.

“Yeah, well, this ridiculous setup’s home for the next few weeks,” he said, resting his arms on his stomach. “Don’t worry, I won’t snore too loud.”

You hesitated, looking at him — really looking. The way his long frame looked cramped in that chair, his neck awkwardly tilted against the cushion. It made your chest ache a little, somewhere between guilt and something softer.

“Jake,” you said quietly.

He hummed without opening his eyes. “Hmm?”

“You can…” You hesitated, fingers twisting in the blanket. “You can sleep on the bed, if you want. There’s room.”

His eyes opened slowly, green and steady, searching your face. “You sure?”

You nodded, trying for casual even though your heart had picked up speed. “Yeah. I mean, it’s a king-sized bed, and that chair looks like a chiropractor’s nightmare. You’ll end up needing your own caretaker if you sleep there all week.”

He smiled, that small, warm one that always managed to reach his eyes. “You don’t have to offer.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But I am.”

Jake watched you for a moment longer, as if weighing something unspoken between you. Then he nodded once. “All right,” he said finally, his tone gentle. “Scoot over a bit, sunshine.”

You rolled your eyes to hide the flutter in your chest but did as told, sliding carefully toward the middle of the bed while he moved the chair back. When he climbed in beside you — still fully dressed, careful not to bump your cast — the mattress dipped under his weight.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Modern Family played softly in the background, the faint blue light flickering over his profile.

“Better?” you asked, voice quiet.

He exhaled, the sound low and content. “A hell of a lot better.”

And as ridiculous as it was, lying there with your ex-boyfriend again after more than a year apart — it didn’t feel wrong. Just strange. Familiar. Like a memory you weren’t quite ready to let go of.

It used to be like this, once. Evenings spent tangled up in the same quiet comfort, his heartbeat steady against your back, the kind of peace that only ever came when you stopped talking about the future and just let yourselves exist in the present. Back then, it had been easy to believe that love was enough to make everything else fall into place.

But it hadn’t been.

Jake had never hurt you — not in the ways that leave bruises or raise voices. He just couldn’t give you the part of himself you needed most. You’d been ready to build something solid, to stop living out of bags and waiting for the next deployment, the next set of orders that would take him halfway across the world. You’d wanted permanence, something that wasn’t subject to the Navy’s schedule.

And he’d loved you — God, you never doubted that — but when you brought up the idea of settling down, of maybe finding a way to make the long-distance, the uncertainty, all of it mean something… his expression had changed. You still remembered the exact look on his face, the flicker of hesitation that had told you the truth before he even spoke.

He wasn’t ready.

Not because he didn’t want you — but because he wanted everything else too. The Navy, the adrenaline, the pride of being the best at what he did. Jake Seresin didn’t know how to give anything less than his whole heart to the things he loved, and at the time, that meant the cockpit came first.

You’d tried to understand. Tried to wait. But the longer you did, the more it felt like you were standing still while he was flying further away. Loving him had started to feel like trying to hold on to something built to leave.

So you’d let him go.

It had been quiet, almost gentle — no accusations, no anger. Just two people sitting on opposite ends of a couch, realizing they wanted different futures. He’d kissed your forehead, told you that you deserved more than waiting for someone who couldn’t promise when he’d be ready. You’d nodded, even though your throat had burned with the weight of everything you didn’t say.

Now, watching the soft light of the TV flicker across his face, you wondered if he ever regretted it. If maybe, somewhere between the flights and the missions, he’d ever thought about what you could’ve been.

Jake shifted beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, rough with sleep.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Just thinking.”

He nodded, eyes closing again. “Don’t hurt yourself doing that.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. The easy banter fell into place like it had never left — proof that maybe time hadn’t managed to undo everything.

Still, as you turned your gaze back to the TV, you couldn’t shake the ache beneath it all — the quiet truth that for all the comfort of this moment, it was built on something that had already come apart once.

—

Two weeks slipped by in a blur of quiet routines and small compromises.

Jake had fallen into a rhythm — up before you were, making coffee and breakfast, fussing over your pain schedule like he’d been doing it for years. He was annoyingly good at it too. You’d long stopped trying to shoo him away when he offered to help, stopped insisting you could manage on your own. Somewhere along the way, you’d learned to let him baby you, to let his steady presence fill the silence that used to echo through your house.

And yet, for all the comfort he brought, there was always something in the air between you — a thin thread of tension that never seemed to snap or fade.

It lived in the little things. In the way his hand sometimes lingered when he helped you off the couch. In the way your breath caught when he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. In the way you still said his name a little too softly when you needed him.

You never talked about what you’d been before. Jake never brought it up — not once after that first night in your bedroom. He’d thrown himself into taking care of you like it was a mission, like focusing on your recovery was easier than acknowledging the history that hummed quietly underneath it all.

You told yourself you didn’t mind. That it was better this way. That the past could stay folded neatly in the corners of your mind, right alongside everything you hadn’t let yourself miss about him.

But at night — when the house was still and the TV glow had faded, when you felt the mattress dip under his weight — it was harder to pretend.

He always left a careful space between you, enough that his warmth didn’t touch yours, but not enough that you could forget he was there. You could hear the even sound of his breathing, the faint rustle of fabric when he shifted, the quiet sigh he sometimes let slip just before sleep.

You wondered what he thought about in those moments. If he ever lay awake like you did, tracing the edges of what used to be — the laughter, the fights, the slow unraveling of something that had once felt unshakable.

It was a strange kind of peace, this not-talking. Comfortable in its own way, but fragile. Like both of you knew that one wrong word could shatter it.

So you didn’t speak of it. You let him make your coffee, bring your meds, fluff your pillows. You let him sleep beside you but not with you. You let him care for you without asking why he still wanted to.

And every time your fingers brushed his by accident, every time your eyes met for a little too long, you felt the quiet ache of everything left unsaid.

It was late afternoon when Jake found you on the back porch. The sunlight had started to dip low, soft and golden, the kind that made everything look gentler than it really was. You’d managed to hobble your way out there with your crutches, a throw blanket over your lap and a mug of lukewarm tea beside you.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you. You were scrolling absently on your phone, lost in whatever corner of the internet could distract you from another long, quiet day. There was something in the set of your shoulders that tugged at him — a weariness that wasn’t about pain, or the cast, or the crutches.

Jake cleared his throat lightly before stepping outside. “You planning on running off somewhere, darlin’? You’re supposed to stay off that leg.”

You didn’t look up. “I made it all of ten feet from the couch, Jake. I think I’m safe.”

He smiled, moving closer, setting down the grocery bag in his hand. “Still. Ten feet’s a long way for someone who almost fainted putting on socks this morning.”

That got a small laugh out of you — a quiet, breathy sound that made his chest ache in that familiar, dangerous way.

He pulled a chair beside you and sat down, stretching his legs out. For a while, you both just sat there, the only sounds the soft rustle of leaves and the far-off hum of traffic.

“Feels weird,” you said finally. “Having someone here all the time.”

“Good weird or bad weird?” he asked, voice mild.

You thought about it. “Both, I think.”

Jake nodded, eyes on the horizon. “Guess I know what you mean.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant — maybe because you already knew. You could feel the weight of everything unspoken pressing between you, filling the space where real conversation used to be.

After a while, he turned to look at you. “You hungry? I was thinking about making dinner. Something easy tonight. Maybe that pasta you like.”

“You remember what I like?” You frowned faintly.

He hesitated, just long enough for it to mean something. “I remember a lot of things.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared out at the fading light, pretending the tightness in your throat was from the evening chill.

Jake stood, stretching a little before reaching for your mug. “You want a refill?”

You nodded, grateful for the excuse not to meet his eyes.

As he disappeared inside, you exhaled slowly, pressing your hand over your chest. The porch suddenly felt too quiet. Too full of ghosts.

When Jake came back, he didn’t say anything about the way your eyes looked a little red or how you pretended to yawn as he handed you the fresh tea. He just set the blanket more securely around your shoulders, careful not to touch too much, and sat beside you again until the last of the light disappeared.

He didn’t leave your side until you started to nod off, head tilted slightly toward him.

And when he carried you back inside, he was as gentle as he’d been that first night at the hospital — steady, silent, his jaw set like someone trying not to think too much.

—

The house was quiet, washed in the pale light of the moon slipping through your curtains.

You couldn’t sleep. You’d been lying there for almost an hour, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, counting the rise and fall of Jake’s breathing beside you. He hadn’t moved in a while — maybe asleep, maybe pretending to be.

You shifted slightly, careful not to jostle your leg, and the sheets whispered around you. “Jake?” you murmured.

He made a low sound, halfway between a hum and a sigh. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Your throat tightened. “Do you ever…” You hesitated, unsure if you wanted to open this door. But the words were already pushing their way out. “Do you ever wonder what we’d be — where we’d be — if we hadn’t broken up?”

There was a long pause. You could almost hear him thinking.

Finally, his voice came, quiet and rough around the edges. “All the time.”

You turned your head then, finding him in the dim light. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. His hand rested on his chest, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You do?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think about it more than I probably should.” He huffed a small, humorless laugh. “Guess some things stick whether you want ’em to or not.”

You swallowed hard. “Is that why you stayed? Why you insisted on taking care of me? Because you felt guilty?”

His eyes finally met yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. Then he shook his head. “No.”

“Then why, Jake?” you whispered.

He exhaled, long and shaky, like the truth had been sitting heavy in his lungs for too long. “Because I love you,” he said simply. “Always have. Always will. Doesn’t matter what happened or how much time’s gone by. You’re it for me.”

The words hit like a heartbeat — quiet but absolute.

You blinked, and tears slipped down before you could stop them. “You can’t just say that, Jake,” you said softly, voice trembling. “Not after all this time.”

“I’m not saying it to change anything,” he murmured. “I just… need you to know. You asked why I stayed. That’s your answer.”

You stared at him, at the faint moonlight catching the curve of his jaw, the softness in his eyes that had always undone you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without quite realizing it, you reached for him — a quiet, instinctive motion. Your fingers brushed his, and he turned his hand to lace them together.

His thumb traced small, slow circles on your skin, just like it used to when he was trying to calm you down.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full — thick with everything that had gone unsaid for far too long.

Jake shifted a little closer, not enough to touch you fully, but enough that you could feel the heat of him, could smell the faint scent of soap and coffee clinging to his skin.

“I used to think,” he said quietly, “that loving you meant giving you space to find what you wanted — even if it wasn’t me. But every day since, I’ve wondered if I got that wrong.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to steady the tremor in your chest. “Maybe we both did.”

He smiled then — small, sad, and so full of longing it made your heart ache.

You stayed quiet for a long moment after his confession, your hand still wrapped loosely in his. The air felt heavier now, thick with everything that had been buried for over a year.

When Jake spoke again, his voice was low, almost hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked, turning your head toward him. “For what?”

He took a slow breath, like he was steadying himself. “For putting my job above you. For not being brave enough to be the man you needed me to be.”

Your heart twisted. He wasn’t looking at you, not quite — just staring somewhere past you, like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I kept tellin’ myself I had time,” he continued quietly. “That once I hit this rank, or finished that tour, I’d finally be ready. But I wasn’t chasing a timeline, I was runnin’ from it. From what it meant to actually choose you. To say, ‘this is where I stop.’”

He huffed a soft, bitter laugh. “And hell, I knew that’s what you wanted. A home. A future. Something solid. And I wanted it too — just not then. I thought I could have both. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to slow down.”

You swallowed hard, your throat aching. “Jake…”

He finally looked at you then — really looked. His eyes were glassy, the green dulled by something like regret. “The only person who could’ve made me want to slow down was you,” he said softly. “But I guess I figured that out too damn late.”

You couldn’t find words for a moment. Your chest felt tight, your pulse unsteady. “I never wanted you to give up everything for me,” you whispered. “I just… I wanted to know there was a place for me in your life. That I wasn’t always going to be waiting for you to come home.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And you deserved that. You deserved better than the half-version of me you got.”

You shook your head faintly. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he said. “You were all in. I was halfway out the door — not ‘cause I didn’t love you, but because I didn’t think I could love you and do the job the way I thought I had to. Turns out I lost the best damn thing I ever had tryin’ to prove that.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting back tears. “You didn’t lose me, Jake,” you said quietly. “Not really. You just… let me go.”

That made him smile, small and broken. “Yeah,” he whispered. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was soft — heavy with the sound of two people remembering what it felt like to be seen, to be loved.

He shifted then, his hand brushing your cheek, thumb catching a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “You know, you were right back then,” he murmured. “About all of it. I just wish I’d been man enough to admit it before I let you walk away.”

You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself. “And what about now?” you asked quietly.

He hesitated — just a heartbeat — then said, “Now, I just want to make it right, however I can. Even if it’s just bein’ here when you need me.”

Something inside you cracked at that — the gentleness of it, the honesty.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just lay there, close enough to feel his warmth, far enough that you both knew crossing that invisible line would change everything.

And then Jake’s hand slid down, finding yours again under the covers, his fingers tangling through yours with quiet certainty.

No more words. Just the soft, unspoken truth hanging in the air — that maybe, somehow, love had never really left at all.

—

The morning came slow and golden, sunlight spilling through the curtains and pooling across the sheets.

For the first time in a while, you woke before Jake. He was still beside you, one arm draped loosely over his stomach, the other stretched out toward the empty space between you — like maybe, even in sleep, he’d reached for you and stopped himself halfway.

You watched him for a long moment, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows that never seemed to smooth, even now. He looked softer in the daylight, younger somehow — not the sharp-edged man the world saw, but the one you used to know in quiet Sunday mornings like this.

When he stirred, his eyes opened slowly, hazy with sleep. “Hey,” he murmured, voice rough.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

There was a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. You didn’t talk about last night. Not yet. You both seemed to know the words were still too fragile to touch.

Jake sat up after a moment, rubbing a hand over his face. “You hungry?” You nodded, and he smiled faintly. “Good. I’ll make something.”

Breakfast was quiet, but different than usual. Softer. Every glance, every half-smile carried a weight that wasn’t there before. After you finished eating, Jake leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward his watch. He sighed. “I’ve gotta head over to base for a bit,” he said reluctantly. “Just a check-in with my CO. Won’t be long — a few hours, tops.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but something in your chest tightened anyway. “Oh. Right, of course.”

He caught the flicker of disappointment in your face and softened. “Hey.” His tone was gentle now, coaxing. “I’ll be back before dinner, okay? We’ll… talk more then. If you want.”

You looked up at him. “You mean about last night?”

Jake’s gaze held yours, steady and sincere. “Yeah. About all of it.”

Something in his voice — quiet, certain — made your throat go tight. You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He smiled, just a little, then pushed back his chair and stood. “You got everything you need while I’m gone? Meds, water, all that?”

“Yes, Jake,” you said, a faint laugh breaking through.

“Good.” He hesitated then, like there was more he wanted to say but couldn’t find the right words. Finally, he leaned down and brushed a hand over your hair, his fingers ghosting along your temple. “Get some rest, darlin’. I’ll be back soon.”

And then he was gone — leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the sound of his truck pulling out of the driveway, and the quiet echo of everything that had finally begun to surface between you.

You sat there for a while after he left, staring at your half-empty mug, feeling the house return to silence.

For the first time since your accident, you realized you didn’t just want him to come back. You needed him to.

The hours crawled by.

You did everything you could to keep your mind off the inevitable — scrolled on your phone until your thumb ached, half-watched an old rom-com you’d seen a dozen times, tried to nap and couldn’t. Every sound outside made your heart lurch, every passing minute tightening the knot in your stomach.

When Jake’s truck finally pulled into the driveway, your pulse jumped. You heard the door open, his boots on the floorboards, the familiar weight of his presence filling the house again like he’d never left.

He appeared in the doorway to the living room, still in his base khakis, sleeves rolled up, a faint sheen of sweat along his temples. His gaze softened when it landed on you.

“Hey,” he said gently.

“Hey.”

There was a small pause — both of you standing in the same room, pretending the air wasn’t heavy with everything that hadn’t been said yet.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just… watched TV. Didn’t do much.”

“Good,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t be movin’ around too much anyway.”

You nodded, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I can—”

“I’ve got it,” he cut in gently. “You sit.”

It was easier, maybe, to move around each other like this — to fill the silence with small, practical gestures. Jake fixed dinner, you watched him. You ate, talked about nothing. He cleared the plates, you thanked him. Every glance felt weighted. Every brush of his hand near yours made your breath catch.

By the time the dishes were done and the house had gone quiet again, you both knew there was no avoiding it anymore.

Jake sat across from you at the table, elbows resting on his knees, eyes down for a long moment before he finally looked up.

“You’ve been thinkin’ about last night,” he said softly.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

You hesitated, fingers worrying at the edge of your blanket. “Did you mean it? What you said?”

There wasn’t a pause. Not even a heartbeat. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Every word.”

You swallowed hard. “Even the part where you said you still love me?”

“Especially that part,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because that’s the one thing that’s never changed.”

Something in your chest clenched, sharp and aching. “Then why didn’t you ever call me?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Because I thought I’d already said everything I could. You wanted a future I couldn’t give you back then. And I figured the kindest thing I could do was stay gone so you could find it somewhere else.”

You stared at him, blinking through the sting in your eyes. “And did you ever think maybe I didn’t want to find it somewhere else?”

His head lifted, eyes locking on yours — green and full of quiet regret. “I think I knew that deep down,” he admitted. “But I was too damn proud to believe I deserved another chance.”

You sat in silence for a beat, heart hammering. “And now? If we tried again… would I still come second to the Navy?”

That question hung in the air like a test — gentle, but unflinching.

Jake’s jaw tightened, his breath leaving him in a slow exhale. “I can’t pretend it’s not a part of me,” he said honestly. “It’s in my blood, sweetheart. Always will be. But I can tell you this — I’m not the same man I was when you walked away.”

You said nothing, so he kept going, voice low, steady.

“I spent a long time chasing the next mission, the next promotion, thinking that was what would make me feel whole. But it didn’t. None of it did. I’d come home to an empty place and think about you — about the way you’d look when I walked through the door, the way you’d make me forget that everything outside those walls even mattered. And it hit me one day — that all the things I thought made me who I am don’t mean a damn thing if I don’t have someone to share them with.”

Your eyes burned. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, searching your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “If there’s still a chance for us,” he said quietly, “then I swear to you, I’ll do it right this time. I’ll still love what I do, but it won’t come at your expense. You’ll never be second again.”

The tears slipped free before you could stop them. “I don’t want to make you choose between me and your career,” you whispered.

His smile was small, sad, and so full of love it hurt to look at. “You’re not makin’ me choose,” he said softly. “You’re givin’ me somethin’ to come home to. That’s the difference.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Jake rose quietly from his chair and came to sit beside you.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until his hands came up to cradle your face — warm, steady, reverent. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, catching a few stray tears that had escaped before you could hide them.

“Hey,” he murmured softly. “Look at me.”

You did, eyes glistening. “I never wanted anyone else, Jake,” you said, voice trembling. “It’s always been you.”

Something in him broke then — not painfully, but in that tender, freeing way that comes with finally hearing what you’ve been aching to believe.

He leaned in closer, his forehead pressing gently to yours. “I’d give you everything,” he whispered. “The ring, the house with the white picket fence, the kids running in the yard, a cat if you want one. Hell, even a damn golden retriever if that’s part of the deal. I’d give you all of it. Anything, sweetheart.”

A watery laugh slipped from you, soft and disbelieving, and you pressed your palm against his jaw. “We’re gonna figure it out, right?” you asked, almost like a promise.

Jake nodded, eyes glinting with something that looked like peace. “Just like we always did.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate — it was slow, careful, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that spoke every word you hadn’t said aloud, the kind that felt like coming home. You could taste the salt of your tears between you, could feel his breath stutter against your lips like he was trying not to fall apart.

When he finally pulled back, neither of you went far. Jake kept his forehead against yours, breathing you in, his thumbs still tracing the lines of your face. Then he pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth. And another. And another — small, scattered pecks across your cheeks, your nose, your brow — each one gentler than the last.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, voice rough with feeling. “God, I love you so much. You have no idea how many nights I’ve wished for this.”

You smiled through your tears, and Jake laughed quietly — that low, breathless sound that only came out when he was too full of emotion to hold it back.

He pressed one last kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. “And for the record,” he said against your skin, voice low and warm, “I’m real glad you tripped over that damn cord and broke your leg.”

You laughed, a real one this time, half through a sniffle, and Jake’s grin widened as he kissed the sound right off your lips again — slower, surer this time. Like he had all the time in the world to do so.

Like you were his again.

Because you were. You always were.

The idea of sitting in that room, hearing that heartbeat, seeing something on a screen that made it all real, alone, didn’t sit right. It wasn’t wrong, exactly. And going with Bradley didn’t feel right either. 

He had offered, more than once, in that calm, steady way he always did when he was trying not to push too hard, but you brushed it off each time, changed the subject, pretended not to hear him. Sweet, overbearing, impossibly patient man that he was, he didn’t press. Not really. He just kept showing up anyway.

Meanwhile, you had been trying, really trying, to find the right moment to tell Jake the truth. The truth about the child growing inside you.

The truth about that one reckless night you had sex with him, when both of you were too drunk to think straight and even more foolish for believing it wouldn’t come back to haunt you. But somehow, every single time the opportunity showed up, Jake would open his mouth and ruin it. 

He’d glance your way and say something like, “God, you look like you haven’t slept since Vietnam,” or he’d flash you that smug little grin, wink like it meant something, and toss out some unprompted comment about how lucky the guy must be who gets to see you naked.

And just like that, every time you built up the nerve to finally say it, he gave you a new reason to keep your mouth shut.

You had gone over it a thousand times in your head, trying to land on a version that didn’t sound like it would end in disaster. In the mirror, in the shower, during briefings, brushing your teeth, staring at the ceiling at two in the morning.

You’d run through lines like, Hey, remember when we had sex and it was awkward and I told you to shut up? Well, it turns out I’m pregnant. With your demon spawn.

But nothing ever felt right. Nothing came out sounding even remotely survivable. It all felt too messy, too loud, too final. And the longer you waited, the worse it got, like the silence was growing legs and walking beside you wherever you went.

Bradley, in the meantime, had made it his personal mission to keep you fed, hydrated, and emotionally intact. Which, in theory, would have been helpful if he wasn’t also one of the main reasons your stress levels were constantly on the verge of combustion.

He had been following you around like a golden retriever with a clipboard, always hovering just close enough to be helpful, and just constant enough to make you want to scream. 

Every day, it was the same: Are you okay? Do you need anything? Want me to carry your gear? Did you eat? How’s your hydration? 

You loved Bradley, you really did, but if he asked about your energy levels one more time, you were going to start throwing objects. Maybe even him.

You hadn’t realized just how obvious it had all become until the squad started commenting. At first, it was subtle. 

Phoenix giving you a look when the two of you showed up together for the third morning in a row. 

Bob blinking at a glacial pace every time Rooster handed you a coffee before you could even ask. 

Fanboy loudly wondering how come you and Bradshaw always ended up paired together, like fate had a weird sense of humor. 

It was manageable, mostly. You could brush it off, pretend not to notice. 

But then, there was Jake.

Of course there was Jake. He took one glance at the two of you walking in one morning, Bradley’s hand resting casually on your shoulder, your face already over it before the day had even started, and said, loud enough for the room to hear, “Wow. You two are like, married-married now, huh?” 

And naturally, Bradley said nothing. Didn’t flinch, didn’t rise to it, just kept walking, which somehow made it worse. You rolled your eyes so hard it felt like a full-body workout, and you were half convinced your unborn child saw temporary darkness.

So now, a week after your locker room meltdown and at least a hundred private, silent ones in the days since, you were sitting stiffly at the long table in the briefing room. You sipped water slowly, trying to convince your stomach to behave, trying not to think about the way your head was spinning. 

Jake sat across from you, elbow on the table, chin in his hand, eyes locked on you like he knew something was up but hadn’t quite figured out what yet.

Not in a normal way, but in a Hangman way. Like he was watching a soap opera you hadn’t realized you were starring in, and he was absolutely living for it. Jake was still staring. 

Not discreetly, not politely, but just full-on, lazy-eyed focus like he was waiting for you to break character.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. You ignored him, and the way his brows pulled together slightly like he was trying to make sense of a puzzle where none of the pieces matched.

You ignored the slow tilt of his head, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that said he knew something you didn’t and was just waiting for the right moment to weaponize it. 

You had bigger problems than whatever rerun of stand-up comedy was currently playing inside his brain. Like the constant wave of nausea sitting at the base of your throat. Like the mountain of paperwork waiting on your desk. Like the very real possibility that you were going to cry in public over a breakfast sandwich if your hormones didn’t even out soon.

One by one, the rest of the Dagger Squad filtered into the room, dragging their boots, clutching cups of caffeine in varying states of desperation. Phoenix dropped into her usual seat beside Bob, already halfway through a massive iced coffee that looked more like jet fuel than anything drinkable. 

Bob looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and was still somehow functioning, holding a thick folder that he studied with quiet intensity. Harvard came in last, late as always, and flopped into his chair like the walk from the hallway had drained every ounce of energy he had, despite him clearly doing absolutely nothing.

Maverick arrived not long after, holding a tablet and wearing the kind of expression that sat somewhere between tired and already done with all of you.

He swept the room with his eyes as he made his way to the front, gaze flicking over each face in turn before landing on you and Bradley. Still sitting together. Still angled toward each other like you were preparing for turbulence. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“Morning, aviators,” he said instead, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze hanging over the room. “Hope everyone’s still alive after the week we just had.”

There was a low rumble of responses around the room, mostly tired grunts and vague murmurs that didn’t qualify as real engagement. Bob gave a small nod without looking up from his folder. Phoenix mumbled something under her breath about needing a vacation, already leaning her cheek into one hand like she was seconds from dozing off.

You didn’t say anything and just stared blankly at your water bottle, willing your stomach to settle, and tried not to think about how you’d gagged over toothpaste that morning like it had personally wronged you.

“Alright,” Maverick said, tapping at his tablet with the energy of someone barely holding on to his patience. “Couple things. First off, we’ve got some reviews coming up with Command, so part of this week is going to be spent on base maintenance duties. That means inventory checks, paperwork, file audits, tech diagnostics. And if I hear one complaint about it, I’m assigning you to mop the flight deck by hand.”

The squad groaned in unison, the sound dragging across the room like a collective curse.

“No one wants to do it,” Maverick said, not bothering to hide how little he cared. “That’s the point. Consider it character building.”

Jake raised a hand, expression carefully blank except for the spark of mischief flickering behind his eyes. “Sir, can I volunteer to not be part of the character building?”

Phoenix let out a sharp snort without looking at him. Harvard leaned sideways and whispered something under his breath to Bob, who didn’t react beyond a long, slow blink like he was quietly regretting every life choice that had brought him to this moment. 

Bradley, seated beside you, gave you a sidelong glance, quick but familiar. Checking, again. Seeing if you were okay, if the color in your face had changed, if you needed anything. You didn’t bother meeting his eyes this time. He’d handed you a protein bar earlier without asking. That had already cost all the energy you had left to acknowledge.

Maverick didn’t so much as glance at Jake’s raised hand and just kept going, steamrolling through the agenda like he hadn’t heard a word. “I’ll be assigning people later today. That’ll be staggered with regular sim rotations and ground prep. Flying schedules stay mostly the same. Rant, Rooster, you’re paired again. Phoenix, you’re flying with Hangman.”

You blinked, your brain catching on that last part like a nail snagging fabric.

“Of course I am,” Phoenix muttered, pressing her fingers into her temples. “God is testing me.”

“I’m delighted,” Jake replied, voice bright and entirely too pleased with himself.

You said nothing. Just kept sipping your water like it was the only thing holding you together. You weren’t looking at him, weren’t acknowledging anything, but still, your body betrayed you. Your stomach turned with a slow, rolling flip that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with memory. Tequila. Heat. Tangled limbs. His voice in the dark. That dumb laugh. And then, a few days later, that second pink line. You could still see it, clear as anything. The one that dragged your entire life sideways before you could even sit down.

You were not going to vomit in the briefing room. You were not going to vomit in the briefing room. You were not—

“Everything good?” Bradley whispered, voice low and steady, just for you.

You nodded, a quick motion that barely passed as convincing. Lie number fifty-four of the day. Thank God you weren’t Pinocchio, because your nose would’ve already knocked your water bottle clean off the table.

Across from you, Jake leaned back in his chair, eyes still pinned to you like you were some complicated equation he couldn’t solve. That same calculating look had been growing more frequent lately, and something in your gut told you he was about to get curious. Really curious. 

The kind of curiosity that made you want to climb out of your own skin. You shot him a glare, subtle but sharp, and rolled your eyes for good measure.

Jake just kept watching you with that hawk-eyed focus and a face so smug it should’ve come with a warning label. It was starting to make your skin itch.

Maverick kept talking, moving on to something about the updated training schedule and a potential inspection next week, his tone clipped and practiced, like he’d delivered this same speech five hundred times. 

You kept your eyes on your water bottle, nodding occasionally just to look engaged, but your brain was somewhere else entirely. Mostly focused on keeping yourself upright and breathing through the slow, creeping nausea that had been stalking you since you woke up. It was low and constant now, curling beneath your ribs like a warning siren.

The room felt more packed than usual, not that it helped. Coyote was slouched beside Jake, legs stretched out like he hadn’t seen a bed in forty-eight hours.

Honestly, that was probably true. Payback and Fanboy were in the back, whispering too intently for it to be anything related to mission protocol. 

Omaha had his feet kicked up on the chair in front of him, right up until Halo smacked them down with her clipboard without even looking.

Fritz yawned wide enough to dislocate his jaw, probably still running on three hours of sleep and a Red Bull-fueled game night. And Yale, God bless him, was still flipping through a notepad like this was a lecture and not a glorified to-do list.

Phoenix glanced over at you, then at Bradley, then back at you again. Her brow twitched just slightly, a small tell, like she was mentally piecing something together, running quiet calculations behind her eyes. You didn’t meet her look. 

You just kept your attention fixed on Maverick, on the tablet in his hand, on the lines of text you weren’t reading. Pretending not to notice had become your default setting lately. Full-time job. No days off.

From the other side of the table, Jake stretched in his seat, arms folding behind his head, voice loud and casual like he was genuinely just making conversation. “So… Rooster’s been looking extra nurturing lately. Does anyone else notice that, or is it just me?”

Bradley exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, like he was actively deciding not to respond. You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. You were too busy counting the holes in the ceiling tile above Maverick’s head and debating whether it would be less humiliating to vomit quietly into your lap or right onto Jake’s boots.

“I think it’s sweet,” Fanboy chimed in, his grin wide and unbothered. “Like a very emotionally repressed husband caring for his fragile wife.”

“Why is she the fragile wife?” Payback asked, elbowing him. “She’s clearly the one holding it all together. She’s the emotional backbone.”

“I’m going to murder all of you,” you said calmly, voice flat, eyes still forward.

“See?” Jake added with zero hesitation. “Exactly what a fragile wife would say. I rest my case.”

Coyote let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t notice it first,” Jake shot back, still lounging like he had nowhere better to be.

“I did notice, dude,” Coyote said, his tone dry. “I just have tact.”

Halo leaned in a little from her spot down the table, resting her chin on her hand. “So are you two, like… a thing now?” she asked, not accusatory, just casually curious. “Because it’s giving cohabitation. Not judging, though.”

Phoenix tilted her head, eyes flicking to Maverick. “Mav’s not gonna say anything about this vibe shift?”

Maverick didn’t even look up right away. When he did, it was with the flat expression of a man who had stopped fighting a battle he never signed up for. “I stopped asking questions two days ago.”

Your jaw locked tight. You didn’t respond. You didn’t breathe. Bradley didn’t offer anything either. Just looked at you, barely a glance, like a quiet check-in. You met it with a single blink, a one-second exchange that apparently translated to I am dangerously close to flipping this entire table but I’ve got it handled.

Maverick cleared his throat, mercifully pulling the room back on track. “Alright. If we’re done with the social hour, I’ll send the new duty rotations to your inboxes this afternoon. Until then, sim pairs start in twenty. Try not to kill each other in the hallway.”

Chairs scraped. People stood. The usual shuffle began as everyone filed out, grabbing gear, exchanging jokes, bumping into each other like half-functioning caffeine zombies. You stayed seated for a second longer, letting the room thin out.

Rooster was already up, standing quietly nearby, waiting for you with that calm, patient energy he never seemed to lose. And, of course, Jake wasn’t moving. Still slouched in his chair like he had all the time in the world, arms now crossed over his chest, eyes locked on you like he could peel back your skin and read what was written underneath.

“Must be nice,” he said, low and lazy but loud enough for you to hear. “Getting special treatment.”

You turned your head slowly, leveled him with a look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Jake smiled, that kind of smile that was all teeth and no warmth, the kind that always meant trouble. “You and Rooster. Always partnered. Always showing up together. He’s suddenly very invested in your hydration. Makes a guy curious.”

You stood, slow and deliberate, not bothering to hide the look you gave him. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you had emotional depth, someone would care about your hydration too.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and amused. “Touché, Rant.”

Coyote glanced between the two of you and sighed like he was already tired of the entire conversation, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “This again.”

You didn’t give either of them a second glance as you walked out, footsteps steady even though your stomach was louder now, twisting and churning like it was trying to climb its way up your throat. Rooster followed close behind, quiet, steady as ever. 

But your mind was already spinning, even as you tried to keep your expression neutral, your steps controlled. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the nausea and the burn in your chest, a voice you didn’t want to hear started to push through. He knows, or he’s about to.

After the sim, you didn’t wait.

Your boots hit the tarmac, the canopy barely unlatched, and you were already moving. Rooster’s voice crackled faintly over the comms, asking if you were good, but you didn’t answer. You weren’t. Not even close.

The nausea had crept in sometime during the climb, but it was the familiar maneuvers, ones you could practically fly in your sleep, that finally sent your stomach into full-blown rebellion. Harvard had barely finished his post-landing checks when you were already sprinting off the flight line, helmet under your arm, vision tunneling.

You made it to the women’s bathroom just in time.

Thankfully, it was empty. No other pilots, no squadmates, no one to witness you absolutely fall apart in a stall while still half in your flight suit.

You dropped to your knees with all the grace of a dying animal and emptied everything that had made the grave mistake of existing inside you.

Water, the protein bar Bradley had forced into your hand that morning, even the mint gum you chewed to distract from your gag reflex, gone. Your body wasn’t interested in subtlety anymore.

You leaned over the toilet, breathing hard, knuckles white against the stall wall. This wasn’t new. This had been happening for a week straight. Some mornings were worse than others. Today, though, your stomach went feral the second the Gs hit your body like a memory.

Seriously, what was wrong with you?

You had Googled everything. You knew nausea was common. You knew vomiting was too. You knew “morning sickness” was a lie, because your sickness had no concept of time. 

You had even flipped through Carole’s First Trimester book, Bradley’s ancient, yellowed guide with outdated fonts and weird bolded sections, but nothing explained why your nervous system felt like it was short-circuiting.

The internet didn’t say anything about flying jets while your unborn child kicked your ass from the inside. It also didn’t mention the part where you couldn’t tell if you were panicking from hormones or guilt, or if your baby was already a Seresin-level drama queen, pissed you hadn’t told their father yet.

You flushed the toilet, still shaking, and unzipped the top half of your flight suit, tying the sleeves around your waist before heading to the sink.

The mirror was unforgiving.

Your face was a little paler than usual. Your lips were dry. There were faint shadows under your eyes, not bad enough to concern anyone, but definitely there if you knew where to look. You turned sideways, adjusting your undershirt, and stared at your stomach. 

It looked the same, maybe even smaller now after losing weight from everything you had thrown up in the last week.

But then your hand settled against your lower belly. It wasn’t deliberate at first, just an idle gesture, something absentminded, like pressing at a bruise to check if it still hurt. Your fingers paused, lingered, as if your body had registered something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

 It was barely anything. Just a gentle curve beneath the skin, not quite foreign but not familiar either. You’d told yourself it was nothing. Bloating. Muscle. Something you imagined.

You’d lost weight recently anyway. That part wasn’t new. The stress had carved it out of you bit by bit: long days, longer nights, skipped meals, throwing up what you could manage to eat. Pretending to be fine was more exhausting than the actual sickness. 

Your clothes hung differently now, your pants loose around the waist, but that wasn’t the part that caught you off guard. It was the way your palm settled over that slight rise, how something about it felt steady.

Grounded. Not like a symptom, not like a fluke. Then the silence in the room began to feel louder, like your body had just told you something it had been holding onto for weeks.

You swallowed, throat burning. Your hand lingered a second longer, thumb brushing gently over nothing in particular, like you could send a message through skin and bone.

Like maybe they would hear you. Maybe they were the reason you were feeling worse today. Maybe they were trying to tell you something. Like, hi, I’m in here. You don’t have to be alone. Also, maybe tell my dad before I develop a grudge and start biting people in kindergarten.

Your eyes stung before you could stop them.

You turned your face away, blinking hard, one hand braced against the sink. Your breath caught, and then again, and then the tears started. Not loud. Just quiet and steady, like your body had decided it was tired of pretending too. One hand still pressed to the faintest beginnings of a bump that only you could feel, and there it was. The breaking point.

You were so tired. So tired of hiding, and lying, and acting like this wasn’t real when it very much was. You had no idea how to do this. No idea how to be a mother. No idea how to tell Jake Seresin he got you pregnant after one aggressively stupid night of drunken sex that was supposed to mean nothing.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, grabbed a paper towel, and dabbed under your eyes. You still had a job to do. You still had to walk out there and act normal.

Outside, everyone thought you were still just you.

But in the mirror, you barely recognized the person staring back.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in there. Just crouched over the sink like it owed you answers, flight suit hanging around your hips, undershirt sticking to your back.

You weren’t crying anymore, not technically, but your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and your throat still felt raw like you’d swallowed a scream.

Breathe. That was all you could focus on. Just breathe. Pull it together. You had to. You always did.

This wasn’t you. You didn’t fall apart. Not where anyone could see.

Then the door creaked open behind you.

Shit.

You froze. For half a second, you thought maybe you could fake it. Splash your face, shake it off, walk out with some half-assed joke like, “Ugh, chow hit back,” and call it a day. But the second you looked up, and there she was. Phoenix. Reflected in the mirror, standing just behind you like she'd been there all along.

She didn’t speak and ask. She just looked at you and waited.

That almost broke you more than anything else.

You quickly turned your face away, wiping under your eyes again. “I’m fine,” you muttered, even though your voice cracked halfway through.

Phoenix didn’t step closer. She didn’t say anything. She just stayed where she was, quiet, letting the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t awkward, and it didn’t feel like she was waiting for you to explain yourself. It just felt steady, like she was giving you space to breathe, to come back to yourself, without asking for anything in return.

And you hated it.

Not her. Not the quiet. Just being like this; exposed, shaken, raw in a way you’d spent years learning how to hide. You hated how your body refused to listen to you, how your face was warm and your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. You weren’t supposed to be this version of yourself anymore.

You had spent so long building up the opposite. You’d made yourself into someone who didn’t cry, who didn’t ask for help, who rolled her eyes at softness and told people off before they could get too close. You became sharp on purpose. You learned how to stay in control, even when it hurts.

Because growing up, crying made you a target.

And you used to cry all the time. You were soft, and you felt everything, like when your goldfish died, when someone teased the way you dressed, when a teacher raised their voice. You cried in hallways, in classrooms, on the school bus home, and it didn’t take long for people to notice. You were the crybaby. 

The dramatic one. Too much. Too sensitive. Too weak.

So, you changed. You got louder, you got meaner, and you made sure people thought twice before messing with you. You taught yourself not to cry, no matter what. Not at school, not at home, not in front of anyone.

And for the most part, it worked.

Until now.

You blinked hard, too fast, trying to force it all back down before it could spill over. Something had caught in your throat again, thick and sharp, and the rise and fall of your chest wasn’t syncing up with your breath the way it should. You stayed still, hoping the silence might settle you, but even that wasn’t working. 

And before you could get your bearings, the door flew open with a sharp crack against the wall. It startled you enough to flinch, the sound echoing too loudly in the small space, and when you turned around, Bradley was already inside.

He didn’t slow down, and didn’t hesitate. His eyes found you instantly, scanning quickly, like he’d been expecting something worse. He was across the room in a blink, steps steady and sure, like whatever was happening in here didn’t surprise him, like he knew what he was walking into.

“Rooster—” Phoenix’s voice cut through behind him, somewhere between surprised and annoyed. “This is the women’s bathroom.”

He didn’t so much as look her way. His arms found you like they always knew where to go, pulling you close with a grip that didn’t leave room for second-guessing. And without thinking, you melted into it. 

Your hands immediately grabbed onto his shirt like muscle memory, and your face tucked into his shoulder like that’s where it had always meant to land. You weren’t thinking, not really. It just happened. It was the first thing that made sense in hours.

Phoenix stayed where she was, her expression shifting as she took it in. Her posture stiffened like she meant to say something else, maybe scold him again, maybe pull you both apart. But something about the way you clung to him stopped her. 

You weren’t just holding him. You were gripping him, like your fingers didn’t trust the world around you enough to let go. Your body leaned into his like your own weight had started to betray you, and all you could do was fold into the steadiness of his. That was enough to keep her quiet. For now.

After a while, she sighed, gave Bradley a pat on the shoulder, and stroked your hair gently. It was soft and brief. Then, she decided to walk out of the comfort, no pun intended, room, leaving you and Bradley alone as she shut the door behind her.

Bradley didn’t move, didn’t shift away, even when the worst of it passed. His arms stayed around you, steady as ever, holding you like nothing else mattered, like there was nowhere else he needed to be. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t forced. Just quiet and solid, the way people rarely are when everything feels like it’s slipping. 

You couldn’t remember the last time someone let you come undone without trying to fix it, without trying to shrink it down into something more manageable. There was no attempt to steer you toward optimism, no rushed assurances or well-meaning advice. Just the kind of silence that lets you exist without apology.

Eventually, your breathing started to even out, slow and shaky but no longer on the edge of breaking. And when he felt your weight begin to soften in his arms, he shifted carefully, guiding both of you to the floor. His back found the wall, and he eased you down with him, pulling you into his side like you belonged there. 

You let it happen without a second thought. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, and the cold of the tile barely registered. Your face stayed buried in his chest, your cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt, and even though your eyes still burned, your chest didn’t feel as tight anymore. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you could actually breathe.

His voice broke through after a while, low and quiet, careful in the way he always was when he didn’t want to push. “You okay?”

You let out a laugh that cracked at the edges, muffled into his shirt. “What do you think?”

He smiled against your hair, barely a curve of his mouth, and rubbed slow circles along your back with the heel of his palm. “Fair.”

It stayed still for a little while longer, just the two of you pressed side by side against the wall. You didn’t rush to speak again, and he didn’t seem to need you to. 

But eventually, you pulled back enough to sit up properly. Your shoulders slumped, and your head thudded against the wall as you exhaled. The movement was small, but it felt like letting go of something you’d been gripping too tightly. 

You dragged both hands down your face and sat there for a second, raw and hollow. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Roo.”

He watched you closely, eyes narrowing with something that looked like worry, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“About the baby?” he asked, finally.

You nodded, still catching your breath, still reeling in pieces you hadn’t realized had scattered. “About everything,” you said, voice low and hoarse. “I feel like I’m losing it. I’m throwing up every other hour, I can’t think straight, and I swear this baby is already trying to tank every sim I touch. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days, and this morning I cried over my toothbrush because it fell on the floor.” 

Your voice wavered, and you paused, looking down at your lap. It took you a second to say the last part. “And I still haven’t told him.”

─────── After what felt like hours but was probably twenty or thirty minutes, you finally managed to calm down. Your breathing had returned to something almost normal, and your hands had stopped shaking. You splashed cold water on your face one more time, patted it dry with some rough paper towels, and tried not to wince at the sight of your reflection. 

Your eyes were still a little red, your cheeks blotchy, but at least you didn’t look like someone who had just sobbed into Bradley Bradshaw’s shirt in the middle of the women's bathroom. Well, not completely.

Bradley had done his best too, dampening the wet spot on his shirt with more paper towels and drying it under the hand dryer like someone fighting for his life. You watched him with something close to amusement, even though your chest still ached.

He caught your expression and just shrugged. “It’s not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me in a bathroom.”

You snorted and grabbed the door handle. “That’s deeply concerning.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

As you stepped out into the hallway, you stretched your arms overhead and let out a long yawn, the kind that took over your entire body. A second later, Bradley yawned too, completely unprompted. You shot him a glare. “Are you serious right now?”

“Contagious,” he said, eyes squinting through his own yawn. “Not my fault.”

You were both still blinking off the daze when a voice interrupted.

“Well, well, well,” said Halo, standing just a few meters away.

You froze mid-step.

She raised her brows slowly, glancing between you, Bradley, and the very obvious “WOMEN” sign over the bathroom door behind you. Her eyes widened just a little, and then she smiled like she’d just stumbled into the punchline of a joke.

“You know,” she said, stepping past you with a wink, “I better not find any mess in there.”

She disappeared into the bathroom before you could even open your mouth to explain.

You stood there, stunned for half a second, then turned to Bradley. “I should go in there and clarify that we were not doing the nasty.”

Bradley held up a hand. “She’s not gonna believe you anyway. No one will.”

And honestly? That was fair.

Because, unfortunately, it wasn’t a secret that you and Bradley had slept together. Not once. Not twice. And not just that third time after New Year’s when everyone got blackout drunk, cried over champagne, and hugged like it was the end of the world. 

No, it was an actual, recurring thing. You’d had sex with Bradley Bradshaw in at least three states, four hotels, one supply closet, and during a power outage in Fallon that left absolutely nothing to do except fuck on top of a blanket of flight jackets.

At this point, everyone in the squad had either walked in on a post-mission cuddle, overheard something through the paper-thin walls, or been forced to rearrange hotel rooms because you and Bradley had “accidentally” booked the same suite with one bed. No one believed it was an accident. Honestly, not even you.

So Halo thinking you two had just defiled a government-funded women's restroom? Not exactly shocking.

Still, it wasn’t fucking fair.

Because somehow, despite all that, the universe had spared you. You and Bradley could get tangled in bedsheets and feelings and unresolved tension, and the only consequences you’d ever suffered were fogged-up car windows and some deeply humiliating flashbacks. Nothing stuck. Nothing serious.

But one night. One goddamn night with Jake Seresin. One stupid, drunken, gloriously hot, way-too-loud, swear-to-God-the-headboard-cracked night with your lifelong nemesis, and now there was a baby. A baby. A whole miniature Seresin kicking around in your uterus like they had a mortgage and a grudge.

You could still hear the way he’d said your name that night, slurred and cocky and out of breath, hands gripping your thighs like he was trying to make a point.

You hadn’t even liked him. You had hated him. You still hated him.

But your body apparently had different plans, and now, ten weeks later, you were throwing up in bathrooms and looking at your barely-there bump like it personally betrayed you.

You glared at the ceiling as you walked, muttering, “I should’ve just stayed celibate.”

Bradley glanced sideways. “What?”

You sighed. “Nothing. Let’s just get to the ready room before Halo starts spreading rumors about sink sex.”

“Too late,” he said under his breath.

Because knowing Halo, she was already halfway through the retelling with hand gestures and dramatic reenactments.

After the bathroom breakdown and the whole Halo-just-witnessed-us-exit-the-same-stall disaster, lunch felt like a reward. A medal of honor. A small, edible miracle.

You and Bradley made your way toward the galley, both of you dragging a little. The sims had been brutal, your stomach was still mildly pissed, and you were riding that post-cry fatigue like a wave.

The galley wasn’t packed, thankfully. A few tables were scattered with sleepy pilots, most hunched over food and coffee like they hadn’t slept since 2003. The far corner had an empty table that looked like it hadn’t seen drama in the last thirty minutes. That would do.

Bradley led the way toward the food line like a man on a mission, grabbing a tray for you before you could even reach for one.

“What about this?” he asked, picking up some grilled chicken and placing it halfway on your tray. You scrunched your nose.

“No,” you muttered, backing away from the steam rising off the metal tray like it personally offended you.

“Okay,” he said, unfazed, sliding it back. “What about… this?” He pointed to green beans.

Your entire soul recoiled. “Get those away from me.”

Bradley blinked. “You liked these last week.”

“Well, that was before the demon possessing me decided it wasn’t having any of it.”

“I thought it was a baby.”

You glared.

Bradley kept walking, passing dish after dish as you winced at almost all of them, until he stopped suddenly. “Okay. What if we… got you this,” he said, pointing to the grilled cheese, “and… dipped it in mashed potatoes?”

You blinked at him.

“Too weird?” he asked, hesitating.

“No,” you said quickly. “That sounds amazing.”

He blinked back at you. “Seriously?”

“I want it. Right now. Like. Immediately.”

So he assembled your Frankenstein meal with the focus of a surgeon. Grilled cheese. Mashed potatoes. Pickles. And one side of plain pasta. Not pasta with sauce. Just… pasta. He also grabbed you a water and himself a sports drink, along with his usual lunch that consisted of food that actually made sense.

The two of you sat down at the table in the corner, and for the first few moments, you just stared at your food in awe. It was like your brain finally clicked into place. This was exactly what you wanted. Your stomach made a little happy flip that for once didn’t feel like vomit was on the way.

Meanwhile, Bradley started digging into his food like he hadn’t eaten since dawn. You turned to look at him with an expression that could only be described as disturbed.

He noticed. “What?” he asked, mouth half-full.

You wrinkled your nose. “That’s disgusting.”

He gave you an offended look. “I’m eating chicken and rice.”

“And yet you’re chewing it like a gremlin.”

He huffed, stabbing at his food, then gestured with his fork at your plate. “You’re literally about to dip a grilled cheese into mashed potatoes. Who gave you the right to judge?”

You narrowed your eyes at him like he’d just insulted your unborn child. Which he kind of had. “Watch it, Bradshaw.”

Then, very deliberately, you dipped your grilled cheese into the potatoes and took a huge bite.

Bradley stared, probably expecting you to gag.

Instead, you lit up like Christmas. “Oh my God,” you mumbled through the mouthful. “This is so good.”

“You’re beaming,” he said flatly.

“I’m glowing,” you corrected, waving your sandwich like a holy artifact. “This is my Roman Empire.”

Bradley rolled his eyes and went back to eating. “You’re such a freak.”

You took another bite and smiled wider. “And yet, you love me.”

The moment did not even last five seconds.

“Aw, look at you two. Lovebirds in the galley,” Jake’s voice cut through the air like a fart during the wedding vows. “What’s next? Feeding each other Jell-O? Writing your vows over mashed potatoes?”

You did not even look up, but your eye twitched. Because of course he was here. Of course he was talking. You could have been in the middle of a eulogy, reciting the last words of a fallen comrade with a single tear rolling down your cheek, and Jake Seresin would still find a way to interrupt it all with a smug comment and a wink. 

It was practically a biological function for him at this point. He thrived on being the loudest voice in the room and the first to ruin a perfectly tolerable silence.

You swallowed your bite, slow and steady, mostly to keep yourself from lunging at him with your fork. There was no way you were going to let the father of your unborn child ruin this strangely beautiful moment of peace. Yes, your child. Yes, his child. 

The unfortunate result of one night that started with whiskey, ended in regret, and apparently led to the microscopic formation of a very opinionated fetus now renting space in your uterus.

And today was the first day in weeks that your stomach had not declared war on your insides. For once, you had managed to eat without gagging. No tears over toast. No crying at scrambled eggs. No throwing up at the scent of a fresh lemon. 

You had found something that worked, a weird grilled cheese dipped in mashed potatoes, and it had brought you actual, legitimate joy. You had nearly cried again, but this time for good reasons. You were not about to let Jake take that from you.

You looked up slowly, set your fork down with the quiet threat of someone barely holding it together, and smiled. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, I don’t know,  a mirror to make out with?”

Jake lit up like a Christmas tree. “Missed me, huh?”

“Like I miss kidney stones.”

That one hit just right. Even Bradley choked a little, probably trying not to laugh.

Jake laughed anyway. “You’re cute when you’re in denial.”

You stared at him, thinking about how much prison time you might serve if you launched your tray at his face.

Unfortunately, you were pregnant now, and everyone seemed to have strong opinions about what you were allowed to do. Things like not getting arrested. Not headbutting Navy pilots. Not going viral on base security footage.

Before you could risk saying something you would regret, Bradley calmly wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Shut it, Bagman.”

His tone was not angry. Just tired. Like a teacher who had spent too many hours with a classroom full of hyper kids and had given up on pretending to care.

Jake opened his mouth, probably with another sarcastic jab ready, but he never got to use it. A loud smack landed against the back of his head.

You blinked.

Jake blinked.

The entire table blinked.

Because Bob Floyd, sweet cardigan-wearing Bob, had just slapped Jake Seresin like it was a regular part of his schedule.

Bob dropped into the seat beside you without hesitation. “Don’t be a high school bully in the cafeteria,” he said, calm as anything. “This isn’t Mean Girls.”

You turned to look at him. “Did you just quote Mean Girls?”

Bob gave you a tiny, innocent smile and picked up his sandwich. “Tuesdays, we wear flight suits.”

You stared at him in admiration. Bob might have just become your new favorite person. Hormones or not, that was well earned.

Phoenix appeared beside you next, dropping her tray like she had been summoned. She gave you a knowing look. “You good?”

You nodded. “Good.” You were surprisingly okay. You were surviving. Sure, you were carrying your mortal enemy’s child, but for now, everything was quiet. That counted for something.

Then the rest of the squad began to arrive like they had been waiting in the wings for their cue. Payback and Fanboy were already arguing over some bet you had missed, and Coyote gave you a grin as he passed, stealing a fry off Jake’s tray without missing a beat.

No one said anything about the situation. No one acted like any of it was strange. This was just what lunch looked like now.

Omaha, Fritz, Harvard, Yale were nowhere to be seen. More importantly, neither was Halo. You had no idea where they were, and frankly, you did not care. You had gotten through the first half of the day without puking or crying in public, and that was more than you could ask for.

You and Bradley exchanged a flat look across the table.

This was your life now.

Jake, completely unbothered, dropped into the seat next to Bradley and settled in like he was royalty returning to his throne. His tray hit the table with a soft clatter, and just as he leaned back, he turned his head toward you and winked.

You wanted to commit a crime.

But then, you saw his tray.

There was a burger. Not just a burger. A golden, greasy, perfect burger with melted cheese and a toasted bun. Next to it, a pile of fries so crisp they looked like they would crunch in the best possible way. There was mac and cheese that still steamed slightly. And worst of all, the chocolate chip cookie, thick and soft in the center, still warm enough to be gooey.

Your stomach growled so loudly that even Coyote looked up from his stolen fry.

You froze.

No. Absolutely not. You were not going to crave something Jake Seresin had touched. You were not going to be swayed by fries and cheese and cookies. You had already made the mistake of letting him into your body once. That was plenty. You were not about to let his lunch seduce you too.

But still.

That burger.

That mac and cheese.

That cookie.

You stared at his tray like it was mocking you. It looked like something out of a food commercial. You could feel it happening. Your unborn child was choosing sides. And somehow, they had chosen Jake.

You could feel it in your stomach. In your bones. In your very soul. The baby wanted that burger. And that was just perfect. Your child had inherited Jake’s flair for dramatics.

Still, you said nothing. You stared at your tray like it had betrayed you. You took another bite of your mashed potato grilled cheese and chewed like everything was fine.

Because of course the baby wanted what their father had.

Of course they did. Traitor.

You kept eating, quietly and steadily, like if you just focused hard enough on your food, the entire world would fade into the background. The mashed potato grilled cheese combo still hit just right, and despite how awful you felt earlier, this little moment of peace was starting to mend your sanity in slow, cautious pieces. 

Bradley was unbothered beside you, sipping on his drink, content that you were finally getting something into your system.

Then Jake opened his mouth again.

He took another exaggerated bite of his burger, wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin like he was on a cooking show, and said, “Still can’t believe you’re actually eating that. Looks like something a six-year-old makes when they’re home alone and unsupervised.”

The words hit a little too sharp. You swallowed your bite and felt the mood shift slightly around the table. It wasn’t just the words, it was the tone, the casual judgment he always had loaded into his voice when it came to you. Like your existence was one big inside joke he never let you in on.

You didn’t even look up, just kept chewing, but you felt it.

Eyes.

Coyote raised a brow as he looked between you and the food. “She’s been acting weird lately, man. Like, extra weird.”

“Maybe she’s on some new cleanse,” Payback added, squinting at your plate like it personally offended him.

Fanboy chuckled and shrugged. “Or maybe she’s just pregnant or something, ha!”

The silence that followed that was loud.

Phoenix’s head snapped toward the three of them so fast it was practically a threat. She didn’t even speak. She just looked at them, one by one, like she could end bloodlines with her stare alone. That was enough. The three men immediately fell silent, all pretending to be deeply invested in their trays. Fanboy even took a loud sip of his drink to hide behind it.

Jake, of course, hadn’t gotten the memo. “I mean, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing she’s done. Maybe she finally got knocked—”

“Actually,” Bob cut in, quiet but firm, as he set his fork down with the kind of precision that made everyone look up, “there’s a book I read once. Meathooked, by Marta Zaraska. It talks about how people’s food preferences are shaped by more than just taste. Psychology, biology, culture. Even hormones and environmental triggers.”

He looked straight at Jake, not blinking. “It said women tend to crave things that match what their body thinks it needs. Sometimes it’s protein. Sometimes carbs. Sometimes it’s grilled cheese and mashed potatoes. You wouldn’t get it. It’s science.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he added, “So maybe don’t mock someone’s lunch just because you don’t understand it.”

He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either. He just... looked awfully calm, like he was saying it for you, not for effect, like maybe he understood more than he let on. Not everything, but maybe that's enough.

You froze.

Bob turned back to his food, picked up his fork again, and resumed eating like he hadn’t just delivered the most casually devastating mic drop of the day. Meanwhile, your stomach twisted and you looked away, pretending none of it meant anything.

The twist in your gut had nothing to do with food.

You dropped your gaze and focused on your plate again. You didn’t want to think about what that look had meant. You didn’t want to deal with the way your heart had kicked up, or how it suddenly felt like someone had yanked the rug out from under your moment of peace without even trying. You just wanted to eat. You just wanted five more minutes of comfort, untouched and quiet.

Bradley must have noticed the shift immediately. He glanced over, gave you a subtle, tight-lipped smile, then turned smoothly toward Jake. His voice was light, but there was intention behind it. “Hey, Bagman, did you see Yale nearly crash the sim earlier? Thing looked like a carnival ride.”

Jake, as expected, latched onto the distraction. “Yeah, man, I thought he was doing a barrel roll for fun.”

As they started laughing about it, Bradley steered the conversation further away, guiding Jake with the practiced ease of someone who had done this more than once. You didn’t say anything, but you took another small bite of your sandwich and silently thanked him. The buzz under your skin from Bob’s words was still there, stubborn and warm, and you didn’t know what to do with it.

You were not going to cry again. Not here, not in the galley, and certainly not while your food was still warm.

───────

Lunch ended peacefully enough. Or at least as peaceful as it could get with Jake tossing passive-aggressive comments between bites and Bob somehow knowing everything except how to stay in his own lane.

You ate slower than usual, letting your stomach settle for once in its miserable existence. Bradley stayed nearby the entire time, only stepping away once to refill your drink, and you tried not to think about how quietly nice that was.

The calm shattered the moment you stepped out of the galley.

Jake’s voice rang down the hallway like he was announcing a national emergency. “Alright, children,” he called out, already positioned in front of the squad with the smugness of someone who had just been named prom king. 

“Seeing as Mav got called into some high-level meeting, or possibly a cosmic summit with other flight gods, he’s left yours truly in charge.”

The squad reacted instantly.

“What?!” Coyote nearly choked on his gum.

“You’re joking,” Phoenix said without emotion.

Payback threw both hands into the air. “We’re all gonna die.”

Jake ignored them entirely and lifted a clipboard that clearly did not belong to him. “Nope. Captain Mitchell gave me the list of sim reports and full authority to assign remedial action for today’s... underperformers.”

That last word made your stomach clench.

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “Maverick actually said that?”

Jake smiled. “Well, not in those exact words, but I got the message. Anyway. Let’s begin with some of our favorites, shall we?”

He started reading off names like he was announcing superlatives in a yearbook. Fanboy and Payback were called out for nearly colliding midair.

Fritz got flagged for a slow pitch adjustment. Omaha forgot comms protocol and made the entire squad sound like they were in a group chat with poor reception. And many others as well.

Then, far too casually, Jake said your name.

Your eyebrows shot up. Around you, everyone turned to look. You didn’t even try to hide how confused you were.

Bradley leaned forward immediately. “She didn’t fail. She and Harvard were one of the first to finish the run.”

Jake raised one hand and theatrically flipped to another page. “According to Mav’s notes, she broke formation protocol after landing. Left the tarmac. Skipped debrief. That’s a breach, folks.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” Jake replied, looking way too pleased with himself. “You ran off the second your boots hit concrete. There’s a procedure for reentry and debrief, and you skipped all of it.”

“She was sick,” Bradley said sharply. “You know that.”

Jake shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Rules are rules.”

There was a pause around the group. Nobody liked how smug he sounded, but technically, he wasn’t wrong. There was a rule about post-flight protocol, buried deep in the handbook, and you just never thought anyone would actually bother to enforce it.

Bradley took a step forward. “Then I’ll take her punishment.”

Jake’s grin faltered. “You’re serious?”

“She wasn’t feeling well. She shouldn’t even have been flying. I’ll take her slot.”

Jake rubbed his face like this was giving him a headache. “Bradshaw, you’ve really got to stop with this overprotective thing. At this point I’m starting to think you two are codependent.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped forward before Bradley could respond again. “Enough. I’ll do it.”

Jake looked like someone had just handed him an early Christmas bonus.

Bradley gave you a look, somewhere between disbelief and worry, but you held up a hand. You were not in the mood to drag this out any longer.

“I broke protocol. Fine. Whatever,” you said, your voice flat. “Let’s get it over with.”

Jake clapped his hands together, the grin back in full force. “Perfect. I’ve got something real special lined up. And don’t worry, it’s not just paperwork. That would be too easy.”

He leaned in, a smile full of teeth and trouble. “We’re talking old-school, Navy-approved physical conditioning. Think laps. Think drills. Think sweat.”

You blinked, already regretting every choice you had ever made that led to this moment. A small part of you wished you had faked passing out when you had the chance.

"Hangman, just stop this, dude, please..."

"What? No way!"

Bradley could barely believe what he was seeing. He stood at the edge of the tarmac, arms crossed, jaw tight as he watched you jog another miserable lap under the brutal midday sun. 

You were running alongside Omaha, Fritz, Payback, Fanboy, Harvard, and Yale, all of you in full flight suits, soaked with sweat and barely holding yourselves together. Jake, naturally, was standing in the shade like a smug golden retriever who had just discovered he could wield power over the entire squad.

And he was thriving.

Jake had taken his role far too seriously. The punishments weren’t just a quick jog or some push-ups.

No, he had orchestrated a full-fledged boot camp. Sprints, crawling drills, burpees, yes, burpees, cross the tarmac, high knees around cones he’d made someone fetch from the equipment room, and a very specific punishment for anyone who tried to complain: planking while holding a full flight helmet over their head. It was chaos.

Every few minutes, he blew a whistle he found from God knows where and shouted, “Faster! I want to feel the regret in your footsteps!”

Bradley was seconds from losing his mind. “Jake,” he tried again, exasperated. “You’ve made your point. They get it.”

Jake tossed him a grin like he was doing the squad a favor. “This is discipline, Bradshaw. You should be thanking me.”

Bradley opened his mouth to say something, but then you stumbled during a turn, catching yourself on your knees before springing back up with a tired groan. His entire body tensed.

You were trying to play it off, like you weren’t about to throw up or pass out or both, but he saw it. You weren’t okay. Not even close.

“Are we really pretending this is about discipline?” Bradley muttered under his breath.

Jake crossed his arms, still unbothered. “You had your chance to switch with her, man. She insisted. That’s on her.”

“She’s ten seconds away from face-planting.”

“She’s ten seconds away from character growth.”

Meanwhile, across the tarmac, you were starting to see colors that probably weren’t part of the visible spectrum. Your hair clung to your forehead, your suit was sticking to places it had no business sticking, and every single one of your teammates looked like they were regretting every life decision that had led them here. 

Payback was wheezing beside you. Fritz looked like he was about to cry. Yale, your sweet Yale, had already cursed Jake’s entire bloodline in two different languages.

At your other side, Harvard was surprisingly steady, but the way he kept glancing at you made it clear he was worried.

“I’m fine,” you muttered to him, absolutely not fine.

“Sure,” he replied, not buying it. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

You would’ve laughed, but your lungs had moved past humor. All you could focus on was the boiling heat radiating off the pavement, the sour taste in your mouth, and the absolutely demonic voice of Jake yelling, “Only three more laps! Push through the pain!”

Three.

You were going to kill him. After you threw up and cried and maybe slept for fourteen hours, you were going to kill Jake Seresin.

Another lap passed, and then you stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch your breath, to keep yourself upright, to stop your body from completely falling apart in the middle of the track. Your lungs burned, your legs trembled, and your vision swam, but you didn’t sit down. 

You didn’t puke, either, which felt like a miracle in itself. That single pause was all it took for the others to get ahead. The gap between you and the rest of the squad grew with every second, and still, you stayed rooted in place, trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t punching its way out of your chest.

Jake, of course, noticed immediately.

“Rant,” he barked from the shade, like he hadn’t personally sentenced everyone to slow-cooked suffering under the sun. “Clock’s still running. You think war stops because your legs hurt?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even glance in his direction.

“Get moving!”

Coyote, jogging across the track, slowed a little and lifted a hand. “Hey, maybe chill out?”

“She’s pale,” Phoenix added, keeping her eyes on you. She had dropped back beside Bob, who didn’t say anything right away, just frowned harder.

Then Bob muttered, “Maybe stop yelling for five seconds.”

Jake ignored all of them, sticking two fingers in his mouth and whistling like he was trying to call a dog. “We’re not done. That’s the point of punishment. It’s supposed to suck.”

Your head pounded harder with every word. The heat pressed down on you like a weighted blanket, thick and suffocating. Your uniform clung to your skin, sweat soaked through every seam, and you couldn’t tell if you were dizzy from the running, the sun, or the full-body nausea that had started creeping up from your stomach. 

But you pushed off your knees, straightened up, and ran. Not because you wanted to, and not because you had anything left, but because stopping completely felt worse. So you kept going.

Somehow, you dragged your body through the final stretch. When you and the others crossed the line, everyone practically dropped right there on the pavement. Shirts were soaked. Hands grabbed knees.

Someone mumbled that death sounded like a better option than another sprint, and no one disagreed. The air felt like it had weight to it, pressing down on every inch of exposed skin.

Jake stood at the edge of it all, hands on his hips, surveying the group like he was evaluating a job interview. Then his eyes landed on you.

You were bent forward, hands on your thighs, trying not to black out.

He tilted his head and called, “You’ve got one more.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jake pointed toward the far corner of the track. “Your second lap was short. You cut the corner by the cones. Mav wouldn’t approve.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“I didn’t cut anything,” you said, slowly straightening, though your body immediately regretted it.

Jake shrugged like it didn’t matter either way. “That’s not what I saw. Go again, sweetheart.”

Your fists curled at your sides. You could already picture it, your fist connecting with his stupid face, the sharp sting across your knuckles, the moment of complete silence right after. You were ready. You wanted to do it. It would have felt incredible.

But then Bradley stepped forward, planting himself between you and Jake like a brick wall.

“Jake, that’s enough,” he said, calm but firm. “She’s done.”

Jake didn’t blink. “She still has one more.”

“She’s not doing another lap.”

Jake stepped in closer, not quite touching him, but clearly pushing. “You going to fight me every time she’s held accountable?”

Bradley didn’t flinch. “You want to lead? Fine, but being in charge doesn’t mean being cruel.”

The tension hit a new level. Their shoulders squared. Their jaws were tight. The squad had stopped pretending to catch their breath and now just watched, silent, waiting.

You didn’t wait.

You turned away. Your legs were shaking, your arms felt weightless, your head throbbed, but you started moving anyway. Because if you stayed, you were going to swing.

And if you swung, things would get ugly fast.

So you ran.

Not because Jake was right, not because you owed him anything, but because you needed to choose something that didn’t end with your fist in his face.

So you ran, and for now, that was enough.

It wasn’t until Bob looked around that he realized something was wrong. His brows pulled together behind his sunglasses as he counted again. One, two, three... five... ten…eleven…twelve?. He frowned and glanced across the tarmac, his voice uncertain but firm.

“Wait,” he said, scanning the space. “Where’s Rant?”

The squad paused, still catching their breath, sweat dripping from brows and necks. Coyote turned instinctively. “She was just here.”

“No, she’s not,” Phoenix said sharply, already moving her gaze across the open stretch of concrete, her tone clipped with worry.

Bradley’s head snapped toward her. “Wait, what do you mean she’s not?”

“I saw her run off,” Harvard said, lifting a hand to point somewhere beyond the parked jets. “I figured she was cooling down or something.”

The moment he said it, everyone shifted. Your name started echoing across the base, rising fast and scattered in panic.

“Rant!”

“Rant, you good?”

“Where the hell did she go?”

Then someone saw it. Past the aircraft, beyond the hangar wall, closer to the fence line. A figure on the pavement, collapsed and still.

Too still.

“Shit,” Bradley breathed, already moving. His legs launched him forward before anyone else could react. Fear shot through him like a live wire, fast and hot. His chest burned, not from the run, but from the terror twisting deep in his gut. “No!”

Jake didn’t hesitate. He took off after him, his longer strides catching up almost instantly. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his boots slamming against the concrete and the image ahead of you crumpled on the ground.

When they reached you, Jake was the first to drop. He hit his knees beside you without slowing, his hands already reaching out.

“Rant,” he said quickly, breath tight. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

“Sweetheart?” He tapped your cheek with trembling fingers, just once, then steadied his hand against your jaw.

You didn’t respond. Your skin was too hot. Your breathing came shallow and uneven. Your lips looked dry, your color washed out, and your body had gone slack in a way that made his stomach turn.

There was no blood, thank God, but that hardly brought comfort. Not when you looked like your body had simply given up.

Jake didn’t think. He didn’t ask for help. He slid one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you carefully against his chest. Your head fell against his shoulder, and for a second, he froze, jaw tightening as the full weight of your limp body registered against him.

Then, he ran. He fucking ran.

Jake Seresin, all swagger and charm, didn’t wait for anyone. He didn’t check who was behind him. He didn’t bother explaining. He just sprinted toward the clinic with his grip locked tight and his eyes set ahead.

His flight suit burned against his knees, his boots pounded against the pavement, but nothing slowed him down. He ran like his life depended on it.

Behind him, the rest of the squad scrambled.

Bradley chased after him, heart racing, his mind spinning in every direction. He could barely see straight through the panic. Phoenix and Coyote shouted behind him, their voices distant and desperate.

Bob kept pace, silent but stricken, while Harvard and the others moved instinctively, everyone following Jake’s path like it was the only thing that made sense.

But Jake didn’t stop. Not once. Not until he got you where you needed to be.

The second Jake pushed through the glass doors of the clinic, the nurses snapped into motion. He didn’t have to say a single word.

Someone stepped forward with sharp authority and said, “Get her on the gurney,” and just like that, your weight was being lifted from his arms. 

The hands that took you were quick and careful, practiced in emergencies, and Jake let them take over. He didn’t argue. He just stepped back automatically, his chest rising and falling too fast, and his arms still curled as if they didn’t realize you were gone.

His hands hovered for a moment, empty now, damp with sweat that clung to his palms and dripped from his brow. Some of it came from the run, but most of it didn’t. Most of it came from the panic still stuck in his bloodstream. 

He watched in a daze as they rolled you down the hallway, moving fast, already rattling off numbers and instructions. Someone shouted for vitals.

Another called out for blood pressure and oxygen. Their words echoed sharply off the walls, bouncing between the glass and tile until the sound of it all felt like static.

You disappeared through a doorway, and the door slammed shut behind you. The hall quieted in an instant, leaving him staring at the red sign on the door that read No Unauthorized Personnel Beyond This Point.

The words seemed louder than anything else. For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving, breathing like he had just finished a ten-mile sprint.

Technically, he had. His legs still felt like they were made of concrete. His chest ached. His throat burned. But none of it compared to the feeling twisting in his stomach. Because you had passed out.

And not because of the heat or bad luck or pushing yourself too hard all on your own. You had passed out because he pushed you.

He dragged both hands down his face, fingers catching on the rough stubble along his jaw, and let out a slow breath. His shoulders dropped slightly, but the weight didn’t leave.

It only shifted lower, settling into something heavier and harder to ignore. He felt it everywhere now. In the way his body still buzzed from adrenaline, in the heat stuck under his collar, in the sharp memory of your face going slack in his arms.

Then he looked around and noticed where he had brought you. This was not the main clinic. Not the building where the rest of the squad would have gone. This one was smaller, older, quieter.

The paint on the walls was a little faded, and the plastic chairs along the hallway hadn’t been touched in weeks. Most people barely remembered this place existed, but Jake had known it was here, and apparently, in the middle of the chaos, some part of him had decided this was the better option.

It was closer. Easier to reach. Fewer people. Less attention. He hadn’t wanted the crowd. Not with you like that. Not with the squad yelling or panicking or trying to crowd in close. He had just wanted to get you somewhere safe.

Now he was here, alone, standing in the silence that followed a crisis. His heart still beat too hard. His fists stayed curled at his sides, not from anger anymore, but from helplessness. The weight of what just happened pressed against his spine like it had settled there for good.

And all he could do was wait.

“Goddamn it,” Jake muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the buzzing in his ears. His hands dropped to his hips, head tilted back against the wall as if that alone could push the sick twist out of his chest.

He didn’t even hear the doctor approach until the man was standing right in front of him. Jake straightened instinctively, posture snapping into place the way it always did under authority.

The doctor’s arms were crossed, his expression unreadable but tight, the kind of look that didn’t need to say much to get the message across.

“You’re the one who brought her in?” he asked.

Jake nodded, jaw tightening. “Yeah. I carried her here.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes slightly, as if weighing every word. “Are you part of her squad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Her superior?”

Jake hesitated, just long enough for the air between them to change. “Temporarily,” he answered.

That was clearly the wrong answer. The doctor looked like he was one bad excuse away from smacking him with the nearest clipboard.

“She’s stable,” he said sharply. “We got fluids in her, checked vitals, ran a full assessment. She’s going to wake up soon.”

Jake released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, but it didn’t bring much relief.

“She’s lucky,” the doctor continued, his voice clipped and brisk. “Because that kind of overexertion, with her levels that low? Dehydration that severe? It’s not just dangerous. It’s reckless. Seriously, what were you guys thinking?”

Jake’s throat tightened. “I didn’t know she was that bad.”

“Well, you should have,” the doctor shot back, his tone rising without yelling. “She should’ve never been out there running laps in this heat.”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but the man cut him off before he got a word in.

“You pushed her too far. And I don’t know what kind of setup you’re running out there, but this level of strain?” He paused, eyes sharp. “It’s not just about her anymore.”

Jake blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

The doctor’s expression shifted, just slightly. His mouth pressed into a hard line, and his silence lasted just a little too long.

“You want to be responsible for a complication?” he asked, quiet but pointed.

Jake froze.

The word hit wrong. It didn’t make sense at first. Complication? What complication? His thoughts scrambled to catch up, but nothing fit.

“What complication?” he asked slowly, the words thick in his mouth.

The doctor just looked at him. No more pretense now, just irritation and something else underneath. When he spoke again, it was quieter, heavier.

“You didn’t know.”

Jake stared at him.

“You didn’t know,” the doctor repeated, mostly to himself now. “Jesus Christ.”

The floor dropped out from under him. Jake felt it in the base of his spine, in the space behind his ribs, in the tight grip of dread that curled around his lungs.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a breath through his teeth before continuing.

“You’re lucky she’s okay,” he said, voice firm. “But that kind of heat exhaustion? That much stress? It’s not good for the baby.”

Jake didn’t move. His voice came out low, rough, barely more than a whisper. “What?”

Jake breezed through with a crooked grin and a wink at the instructors and still somehow landed on top. And when he didn’t, when you beat him, he just smiled like it didn’t matter, like losing to you wasn’t even worth reacting to.

That lit the fuse. The fact that he never fought back. Never bit down the way you did. You came at him with clipped words and cold stares and not-so-subtle digs during squad briefings, and he just absorbed it. Let it roll off him like water, like he had already decided you weren’t a threat, just entertainment.

It made you hate him more.

And it didn’t help that everyone else seemed to like him. Jake had that draw, that ease, the kind of natural charm that people don’t even realize is manipulation until it’s too late. He was all Southern drawl and confident swagger, just enough vulnerability behind the bravado to keep people curious. 

He knew how to win a room, but you knew how to win a fight. There’s a difference.

It wasn’t just professional, either. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about scores or performance reviews or whose name was called first. It got personal. He found ways to needle at you in casual conversation, subtle enough to fly under the radar but deliberate enough that you felt them every time.

He’d mention your missed landing like it was a joke.  Ask if you needed help with your checklist in front of the others, like you hadn’t done it a hundred times. He once called you sweetheart during a debrief, knowing exactly how it would land. You had to excuse yourself before you said something that would have gotten you written up.

You weren’t innocent in it, either. You gave as good as you got. You corrected him when it wasn’t necessary. You rolled your eyes when he spoke, even when he made valid points. You knew how to press right where it would hurt, just enough that he’d go quiet and clench his jaw, but never retaliate directly.

That was the game. You poked, he smirked. He provoked, you snapped. Everyone around you either ignored it or tiptoed past it.

It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t even interesting anymore. It was exhausting, and it didn’t let up. No matter how many months passed between squadrons or how far you were stationed apart, somehow, you always ended up back in the same airspace. And every time, the tension picked up like it had never stopped. No reset, no grace period, just the same old, familiar contempt.

There were times when you thought maybe it would fizzle out. Maybe you’d both grow up, or move on, or get reassigned far enough apart that it wouldn't matter, but then something would happen. A look, a comment, a competitive streak that flared up without warning, and suddenly it was back, fully alive. 

A living thing between you, feeding on proximity and history and whatever it was neither of you were willing to let go of.

You couldn’t imagine a version of your career without him in it, if only because he was always there. Not in a constant way, but in the way oil is always in water. Separate, but impossible to fully remove.

And then there was that night. The one you weren’t supposed to talk about. The one neither of you could take back.

It happened on a night you were already six drinks past your limit and one snide comment away from throat-punching someone. That someone, of course, turned out to be Jake Seresin. You hadn’t seen him when you walked into the bar, or maybe you had and just subconsciously repressed it.

Either way, it was too late. He was already halfway through a bottle of something overpriced and grinning like sin itself, surrounded by people who should’ve known better than to laugh at his jokes.

You did your best to ignore him, genuinely. You ordered your drink, found a corner, and avoided eye contact like your life depended on it. It didn’t work. It never worked with Jake.

Not when he spotted you halfway across the room and lifted his glass like it was some royal challenge, then shouted something about your flying like a stormtrooper. You didn’t even hear the full insult over the music, but you caught your name in it and that was enough.

You took your shot, walked right over to him, and said something absolutely awful about his callsign that made the people around him go silent. He laughed, you rolled your eyes, then he said something back.

You called him a name that may or may not have included the phrase “walking concussion.” He leaned in, all smug and unbothered, and said, “You think about me this much sober, or just when you're desperate?”

You kissed him just to shut him up.

But was that the actual events, though? You couldn't really remember.

Or maybe you wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, or maybe you were just drunk and angry and his mouth was right there. Honestly, it didn’t matter, because suddenly you were both teeth and hands, and next thing you knew, you were shoving each other into the back of a rideshare with the sexual tension of a bar brawl.

Neither of you remembered whose place you ended up in. You didn’t even remember unlocking the door. One second you were arguing about who had the worst taste in music, the next you were tearing each other’s clothes off like two people possessed.

He fumbled with your bra like it personally offended him. You bit his shoulder because he laughed when you tripped over your own pants. He called you a menace. You moaned when he said your name with that stupid drawl.

The sex was, well, it was good. Annoyingly good. Loud, messy, absolutely not romantic. You knocked over a lamp. He broke the zipper on your skirt. At one point you both fell off the bed and just stayed on the floor like animals, laughing into each other’s mouths and still too stubborn to stop. It was the kind of sex that felt like a war being fought with body heat and bad decisions.

You didn’t use protection. That thought never even made it to the table. You were too drunk and too busy trying to win at whatever this was. There was no tenderness, no morning-after cuddle. You passed out naked, limbs tangled, both of you snoring like people who had truly earned the deepest sleep of their lives.

When you woke up the next morning with a hangover from hell and his leg flopped across your stomach, the first thing you said was, “Oh, my God, NO!”

Jake groaned into the pillow, hair a mess and voice rough. “I don’t even remember how we got here. Did I lose a bet?”

You shoved his leg off you and sat up, head pounding. “I feel like I committed a crime. Against myself.”

He blinked up at you. “Wanna do it again and ruin your life a little more?”

You stared at him. “I hate you.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice slow and raspy, “but you hate me so good.”

You left before your brain could process what you’d just done.

It was supposed to be a disaster you never spoke about again. A one-time, whiskey-fueled lapse in judgment.

And then a few weeks later, your period ghosted you.

Now here you were, nearly seven weeks later, in your bathroom, on the toilet, wearing nothing but a pair of questionably clean black underwear and an oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Jake after a beach day and just… never gave back.

You had meant to. You had even folded it once, but now it was yours, and now it was cursed, because you were wearing it while staring at a pregnancy test that said the absolute worst thing it could possibly say.

Two pink lines.

Solid. Confident. Smug little bastards.

You hadn’t expected it to hit you this hard, but your vision actually blurred for a second. You squinted. Blinked, then ooked again. No change. You even tilted the test like maybe it would reveal a different answer if you caught it in a different light. Nope. Still there. Still glowing with that horrible, undeniable truth.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

With Jake Seresin’s child.

You sat there for a full minute in complete silence, then slowly reached for the instructions like maybe you’d somehow read the test wrong. Maybe two lines meant you’re fine, and one line meant you’re doomed, but no. 

The instructions were unflinching. “Two lines = pregnant.” No metaphors, no wiggle room, and no mercy.

You dropped the test on the counter with a clatter that echoed too loud in the tiny bathroom. Your heart was thudding. Your brain was somewhere else entirely. Probably trying to detach itself from your body and make a run for it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. That night was supposed to be a mistake you forgot about. A one-time, tequila-fueled lapse in judgment that got lost in the noise of everything else. You hadn’t even spoken to Jake since.

Neither of you had reached out, probably out of mutual agreement to never acknowledge what you had done. Or maybe just mutual denial. Either way, there had been silence.

And now? Now you are pregnant.

Your body had taken one look at that situation and said, “Let’s make this permanent.”

You pushed off the toilet, legs unsteady, and shuffled to the mirror like you were expecting to look different. You didn’t. You looked like someone in the middle of a slow-moving panic attack, hair sticking up in six directions, shirt halfway twisted around your torso, face pale and vaguely betrayed. You looked like someone who had just found out she was carrying the child of the man she hated more than early morning PT.

“Okay,” you said to your reflection, voice shaking slightly. “We’re gonna take this well. We’re gonna be calm, logical, and grown-up.”

You immediately burst into nervous laughter, then covered your mouth and nearly cried.

This couldn’t be real. You checked the test again, but it’s still real.

You opened your phone, typed “can stress delay your period,” and then immediately followed it with “what if you’re not stressed and just deeply, profoundly stupid.”

You started pacing. The test clattered to the floor. You didn’t pick it up.

You were not ready for this. You were barely ready to share a cockpit with someone without snapping. You hadn’t bought groceries in two weeks. You still owed your landlord an email about that weird buzzing noise in the walls. You were, by all definitions, a functioning adult, just not one who should be producing more adults.

And Jake? He had never even pretended to be responsible. This was a man who once poured whiskey into his protein shake and called it "balancing the macros." A man who ironed his uniform collar but still managed to fly with mustard on his sleeve. A man who could, and did, make everything worse just by opening his mouth.

You pressed both hands to your stomach and whispered, horrified, “You have his genes.”

The silence that followed was both sacred and deeply cursed.

You sat down on the floor and let your head fall back against the wall, eyes wide, chest tight. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor sneezed. You barely heard it over the sound of your entire life falling apart.

You were pregnant, and Jake Seresin was the father.

You sat down on the cold tile floor like your legs had officially given up. The test was still lying a few feet away, perfectly intact, perfectly damning, like it had been waiting its whole life to ruin yours. You stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sure if you were going to pass out, cry, or throw up.

And then, without thinking, you whispered, “Oh, my God. I’m going to have a Seresin.”

The words echoed back at you like a threat.

You blinked once. Slowly. The room was spinning just a little.

A Seresin.

You said it again, this time out loud, like saying it twice would make it sound less horrifying. “I’m going to have a Seresin.”

Nope. Still bad. You rubbed your face with both hands and let out a dry, humorless laugh. Then, another. Then, the kind of laugh that turns into wheezing, then full-on concern.

This was how people lost their minds. This was the start of a Netflix documentary.

Your child was going to come out blonde, cocky, and fully capable of getting out of speeding tickets just by smiling. They were going to have that same easy, insufferable grin Jake wore when he knew he was right, even when he wasn’t. They were going to talk back in full sentences before they could walk. 

They were going to flirt with waiters at age five and get free dessert for it. You could already picture it: them swinging their legs under a restaurant booth, charming some poor twenty-year-old into bringing extra whipped cream like it was nothing. They were going to win arguments they had no business winning. 

Teachers were going to call you and say things like, “Well, technically they weren’t wrong,” and you were going to have to sit in those parent-teacher conferences pretending you were proud when really you were just barely holding onto your last nerve.

They were going to be a menace. A tiny, dangerous, fully-weaponized Seresin, tearing through life with perfect hair and no sense of boundaries. They’d be the kind of kid who pulled fire alarms just to “see what would happen,” and then somehow talk their way out of detention with a charming little shrug and a “Didn’t mean to cause a whole scene, ma’am.”

They’d have Jake’s confidence and your sarcasm. Which meant you were going to be raising someone who never backed down, never shut up, and probably had zero regard for their own safety. Flight school by seventeen, and court-mandated therapy by twenty.

You were going to have to buy baby aviators. You were going to be that mom. The one everyone side-eyed at the daycare because your child insisted on giving motivational speeches before recess. Your toddler would high-five strangers and wink at their pediatrician.

You could already hear it: “It’s not a phase, Mom, I was born for this.”

You stared at the ceiling and whispered, “I’m going to have a Seresin.”

Then, after a long, shaky breath, you added, “This kid is going to come out fist-bumping the doctor and quoting Top Gun.”

You closed your eyes. “They’re going to have a goddamn call sign before they have teeth.”

The silence settled again. Then, barely audible, with the fragile conviction of someone trying not to sob-laugh:

“I’m not built for this. I eat Hot Cheetos for dinner. I once cried because my laundry ate a sock. I cannot raise a tiny Jake Seresin. I’ll die. I’ll actually die.”

You weren’t just pregnant, you were fucking doomed.

You drove to the base pretending you hadn’t thrown up your entire soul into the bushes behind a gas station halfway there. You told yourself it was just a stomach bug. Just anxiety. Just, something that wasn’t what it obviously was.

You also told yourself you were going to be on time. That was adorable.

In reality, you had to pull over into the parking lot of a family-run grocery store, stumble into their bathroom, and dry heave into a toilet next to a toddler singing the PAW Patrol theme song. 

You’d brushed your teeth in their cracked mirror using a sad travel brush you found at the bottom of your emergency bag, and when you caught a glimpse of yourself afterward; greenish skin, trembling hands, hair in a situation you could only describe as “hostile”, you had to sit on the closed toilet lid for a full three minutes and give yourself a TED Talk just to get back in the car.

And you were late, of course you were.

How many minutes did you spend in your bathroom this morning, just staring at that aggressively positive pregnancy test like it might change if you glared hard enough?

Oh, right. An hour and thirty-nine minutes.

You remembered the exact time because your phone screen had gone dark at 7:06 a.m. and you didn’t look away from that stick until 8:45, when your stomach made a noise that could only be described as prehistoric and you barely made it to the sink in time.

And now here you were, somehow in uniform, walking across the tarmac like a normal, functioning adult, like you weren’t actively housing the spawn of your most hated rival, like your nipples didn’t hurt just from the wind, like you didn’t cry in a Sprouts parking lot forty-five minutes ago because a little old lady asked if you were having a nice morning and you physically couldn’t lie.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, inhaled like oxygen might fix everything, and said out loud, “Just don’t throw up on anyone and you’ll be fine.”

You walked five steps. And then Jake Seresin turned the corner, in full gear, holding a cup of coffee and talking to someone who laughed too loud at whatever stupid thing he was saying.

You stopped in your tracks, your soul briefly left your body, and your uterus did something deeply traitorous.

Great.

You kept walking like you didn’t just see Jake Seresin existing in your immediate vicinity. Like your stomach didn’t churn violently at the smell of his goddamn cologne mixed with coffee.

You plastered on what you hoped was a passable expression, somewhere between “focused and professional” and “not housing a human life in secret.” You kept your shoulders back. Chin up. Military posture. No eye contact.

You passed right by him. You didn’t even flinch. Gold star for you.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said behind you, in that smug voice that always sounded like it belonged on a warning label.

You smiled. It was more like baring teeth, but technically it counted.

You made it all the way to the debriefing room, slid into a seat at the back like nothing was wrong, and tried to breathe through the nausea as everyone settled in.

You hadn’t even fully sat down before the door creaked open and in came Maverick, chin raised, brows set in that unreadable I-have-seen-some-shit way. His eyes scanned the room. Then, stopped on you.

Shit.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said. Loud. Way too loud.

The entire squad turned to look at you.

You forced a thin smile. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

He stared at you. “You’re late.”

“I’m aware.”

“How late?”

You blinked. “Eighty-nine minutes, sir.”

Someone snorted, but you didn’t look to see who.

Maverick raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for you to offer a better excuse than I was on the bathroom floor having a mental and gastrointestinal crisis over an unplanned pregnancy by the man I hate most in the world. You offered him nothing, though.

“I don’t care what your morning looked like,” he said. “You don’t stroll into my debrief like it’s a goddamn brunch. You want to be treated like a pilot, you show up like one.”

And just like that, your body betrayed you.

You felt it rising in your chest. That awful, shaky warmth that started behind your eyes and built until your throat got tight. You swallowed hard. Your hands were trembling. You could feel them. You could feel everyone watching. Your face twitched once.

A single, humiliating blink too long. You turned toward the screen in a panic, like if you just focused on the map layout, you could pretend this wasn’t happening.

But you weren’t fine, and you didn’t look fine.

You looked like someone had just tased you. Full-body, high-voltage panic, lip wobbling, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff like maybe if you held your breath long enough, the emotion would disappear, and your eyes fucking burned. You could actually hear your heartbeat in your ears.

Maverick paused. His expression shifted for half a second, enough to register confusion, and then something quieter. He squinted at you. Then, calmly, he said, “Outside. Now.”

You nodded, snapped to your feet, and walked behind him so fast you nearly knocked over your chair. You didn’t look at anyone. Not at Bradley, not Phoenix, not Bob who looked deeply alarmed. You heard someone mutter something teasing under their breath, and someone else elbowed them quietly. It didn’t matter.

Your face was burning.

Your throat was a war zone.

You had one goal now: do not cry in front of your entire squad.

Maverick didn’t say a word as you followed him down the hall, past the break room, past the locker bays, all the way to one of the smaller briefing rooms no one really used unless someone was getting reamed out in private.

The second the door shut behind you with a soft click, the silence hit hard. You stood there, stiff and frozen, willing yourself to just hold it together long enough to fake your way through a bullshit excuse.

He turned to face you. Quiet. Calm. Still unreadable.

And then he asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

That was it.

That one simple, unthreatening question was the exact combination of syllables that made your nervous system crash.

Your lips parted, and you nodded. Then, you shook your head. And then, without any warning whatsoever, you absolutely fell apart.

It started with a sharp inhale, a blink that turned into a blink-blink-blink, and then your whole face crumpled like a paper bag. You slapped both hands over your mouth like you could catch the sobs before they escaped, but nope.

It was happening. A full-on breakdown. No warning, no grace. You were sobbing. Actually sobbing.

“Okay, okay,” Maverick said, eyebrows flying up like he’d just been handed a live grenade. “Hey, hey—uh—take a seat. Sit down. You’re good, just breathe.”

You collapsed into the nearest chair like gravity had been waiting for this moment. Your elbows hit your knees, your hands stayed clamped over your face, and you just cried. Not a cute cry. Not a single tear sliding down your cheek. This was a full-body meltdown, complete with snot, stuttering breaths, and the horrible realization that you had definitely ruined your mascara.

Maverick hovered. He looked like he wanted to help but didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

“I, uh… hold on.”

He turned, rummaged through a cabinet, and returned with what could only be described as the saddest offering known to mankind.

Toothpaste.

He held it out in front of you like it might fix your soul.

You looked at it through blurry eyes and let out a confused wheeze between sobs.

“I didn’t—there’s no tissues,” he said quickly. “I just—I panicked.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob and wiped your nose with your sleeve like a feral raccoon.

“Do you want, like, water?” he asked. “A blanket? A granola bar? I think there’s a stress ball in the drawer?”

You just shook your head, sniffling so hard it sounded like a car trying to start in cold weather. You sat there for another full minute, crying into your palms while Maverick stood awkwardly nearby, holding the toothpaste like it was a sacred offering.

Finally, when you could string words together again, you dropped your hands, looked up at him with red, blotchy eyes, and said quietly, “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Maverick blinked. “Oh.” Then again, slower. “Oh.”

Maverick stood there for a moment, toothpaste still in hand, as the word hung in the air like it was echoing off the walls. You were suddenly hyper-aware of how loud your breathing was, how red your face must’ve looked, how much your nose was running, and how much worse this was about to get. He blinked a few times like maybe his brain was buffering.

Then, finally, he asked, “Do you know who the father is?”

You groaned softly into your sleeve, dragging it across your nose again before shaking your head and waving your hand. “Yes. Yeah, I mean, yes, I know who it is. It’s not—it’s definitely not Bradley.”

He tilted his head slightly, brows drawing in. “I didn’t say it was.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “But just in case your brain went there, I’m shutting that down right now. No offense to him, he’s like family, but ew. That would be like if I slept with my brother. That’s not even a situation. We share sunscreen. We’ve seen each other cry over the same movie. I once held his hair back when he threw up vodka and Sour Patch Kids. He texts me about his poop color. That’s twin behavior.”

Maverick blinked again, a little thrown, and slowly nodded.

Meanwhile, you kept talking, hands gesturing in sharp, chaotic motions as you spiraled. “It was one night. Just one. And I didn’t plan it. I was drunk, like, stupid drunk, and he was there, and I was mad, and we hate each other, and I swear to God I don’t even like him. We just argue all the time and something just... happened. Not a good thing, not a romantic thing, just this horrible, chaotic...sexy thing. And I didn’t even mean for it to happen, and I haven’t even told him, and I wasn’t even going to, but now I’m sitting here holding toothpaste like it’s a damn therapy dog, and—”

“Is it Seresin’s?” Maverick asked, cutting you off gently.

You froze mid-gesture, mid-sentence, mouth still half-open. Then, very quietly, you said, “Yes.”

As soon as the word left your mouth, your throat closed again. Your hands dropped to your lap and your face crumpled like paper. You didn’t mean to start crying again, but it happened fast, like someone hit replay on your breakdown. You folded forward with your elbows on your knees, pressing your palms into your eyes, and let out a sound that was mostly muffled despair.

Maverick took a slow breath, carefully set the toothpaste on the table like it might explode if dropped, and sat down across from you, his expression unreadable but still somehow kind.

He didn’t say anything right away, and that somehow made it worse.

Maverick stayed quiet for a long moment, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes steady on you but never too sharp. He wasn’t judging you, that much you could tell. If anything, he looked like he was flipping through a mental instruction manual that didn’t exist, trying to figure out what page this kind of situation was supposed to be on. 

After another beat of silence, he leaned forward just slightly, like he didn’t want to crowd you, and let out a breath through his nose.

“I know I’m not exactly the guy people come to for… parenting advice,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging like he was halfway between a grimace and a smile. “But I did watch Bradley grow up. I was there for most of it, even when I shouldn’t have been, and I saw what it did to Carole and Nick, how hard it was, how scary it looked, but also how… possible it became. Even when it felt impossible.”

You sniffled hard and wiped your eyes again, nodding without really knowing what you were agreeing to. He wasn’t rushing you. That helped. If he’d said something like you’ll figure it out, or you’re strong enough, you might’ve cried harder, but he didn’t say any of that. He just let it hang there, honest and steady, like he was giving you space to breathe.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked, voice quiet.

You shook your head immediately. “No. No one. I just… I found out this morning, like literally this morning. I sat in my bathroom for over an hour trying to figure out if I was hallucinating, and then I threw up behind a gasoline station. So no, I haven’t had time to do anything except… completely fall apart.”

His brows knit together, but his voice stayed gentle. “Okay. Okay. That’s fine. You’re allowed to fall apart, just don’t do it alone, kid.”

You looked at him, throat aching. “Please don’t tell anyone, Mav.”

He nodded once, firm. “I won’t.”

You believed him. You hadn’t expected to, but you did.

You sat back in the chair and let the silence settle for a moment. It wasn’t heavy this time. Just real. Then he asked the question you’d been waiting for since the second that test turned pink.

“Do you think… you’ll keep it?”

You looked down at your hands. Your fingers were tangled, nails digging into your palms, and you had no idea how long you’d been clenching them like that. You swallowed hard. The answer was sitting in your mouth, heavy and hard to admit.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t even remember if I did laundry this week. I ate string cheese for dinner last night and called it a win. I have a plant that’s literally rotting in my kitchen and I’ve just been… ignoring it. Like maybe it’ll fix itself if I don’t look at it too long. That’s how I’ve been functioning.”

Maverick didn’t flinch. He just listened.

“I don’t even know how to properly take care of myself,” you went on, the words spilling faster now, your voice catching at the edges. “I’m barely staying upright most days. And now I’m supposed to be… a parent? To a Seresin? I mean, I’m one stress dream away from lighting my apartment on fire.”

He smiled softly at that, just a flicker, then leaned back in his chair like he was letting it all settle. “You don’t have to make that decision today,” he said. “Or tomorrow. You’re allowed to figure it out as you go. No one has the perfect answer. Not even the people who plan for it.”

You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then, barely above a whisper, you said, “I wish this was just a nightmare.”

Maverick looked at you for a long, careful second. He didn’t soften the truth, but he didn’t drop it on you like a weight either. Instead, he said, “You know you're going to have to tell Seresin, right?”

You took a shaky breath and immediately shook your head. “I know. I do. I'm not trying to hide it forever. I'm not trying to keep it from him or anything like that. I just...” You paused, pressing your fingers to your temple as if that might help untangle the mess in your brain.

“I just found out this morning. I haven't even had time to wrap my own head around it. I sat on my bathroom floor for almost two hours staring at the test like it was a bomb. I threw up in a gasoline station's bushes. I brushed my teeth next to a toddler in a Paw Patrol hoodie. I haven’t even eaten.”

Maverick didn’t move, just watched you with that same steady expression.

“I’m not ready to tell him,” you said. “Because once I do, it’s real, and I don’t know what he’s going to do with it. I don’t even know what I want. It’s not that I think he’ll be awful about it. He might not be, but what if he is? What if he says the exact wrong thing and it makes all of this worse? Or what if he wants to step up and suddenly I have to see him all the time and pretend like I’m okay when I’m not?”

You ran your hand through your hair, frustrated and exhausted and still somehow trying to keep your voice steady.

“I just need time,” you said. “A little space to figure this out before I bring him into it. I can’t take on his reaction when I haven’t even dealt with my own.”

Maverick gave a small, understanding nod. “Then take that time. Just don’t wait so long that the truth gets heavier than it needs to be.”

You looked at him, your eyes tired and red. Then you nodded once, more to yourself than to him, and whispered, “Okay.”

After a few more minutes of quiet, when the tears had finally stopped and your breathing no longer hitched with every inhale, you wiped your face one last time and stood.

Maverick didn’t rush you. He waited until you gave a small nod, then opened the door and stepped out beside you, walking you back toward the debriefing room like nothing had happened. He didn’t touch your shoulder or say anything dramatic. He just kept pace with you, quietly steady, like someone who knew not to push when the ground under your feet was already cracking.

When the two of you walked in, the room went still.

Conversations that had been going just moments earlier cut off mid-word. Heads turned. Every eye landed on you. You didn’t flinch, didn’t give them a smile or a wave or any sign of apology.

You just raised your chin, dropped your usual frown into place, and rolled your eyes with a loud sigh like you were the one suffering from their drama. Then, you walked over to Bradley’s seat, dropped into the chair beside him, and immediately rested your head on his shoulder like this morning hadn’t completely wrecked you.

He didn’t say anything, just glanced at you sideways and adjusted slightly so your head didn’t fall off.

Maverick cleared his throat and stepped to the front of the room again.

“Good morning,” he said, like the last ten minutes hadn’t involved a full-blown emotional breakdown and an impromptu counseling session. “Let’s get back on track.”

He turned toward the screen, clicked the remote, and a training schedule lit up behind him.

“Today’s focus is on endurance tracking and low-visibility runs. You’ll be working in pairs, switching lead positions every five minutes. The course has been adjusted to simulate unpredictable cloud banks, so watch your altitude. No shortcuts. I want clean turns, no hero passes, and no one trying to break last week’s time record. That means you, Seresin.”

Jake leaned back in his seat and smirked. “You wound me, sir. I’m a picture of restraint.”

You didn’t even lift your head. “Only because no one wants to see that picture.”

The room let out a low ooooh.

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “You say that, but you looked last time.”

You raised your head, gave him a dry look, and said, “Yeah, right before I immediately wished for blindness.”

The squad laughed again, louder this time, but Maverick didn’t even blink.

“Both of you, shut up,” he said, eyes still on the screen.

You leaned back in your chair, Bradley shaking silently beside you.

Business as usual. Almost.

Maverick moved through the rest of the briefing like nothing was unusual, flipping through the slides with clipped efficiency while the squad slowly settled into their usual rhythm again.

You stayed quiet, arms folded, head tipped lazily toward Bradley’s shoulder, doing your best to ignore the way your stomach still occasionally rolled like it hadn’t made up its mind yet. The nausea hadn’t fully gone, but it was manageable now. At least for the moment.

“Pairings for today,” Maverick said, clicking to the next screen. “Rant, you’re with Rooster.”

You sat up a little straighter. Bradley raised an eyebrow but gave you a quick nod, already half-grinning.

Thank God.

Maverick continued without pause. “Harvard is your WSO. Yale got called up for deployment yesterday, so get briefed on the switch before you’re in the air.”

You glanced back at Harvard, who lifted a hand with a thumbs up like he’d just been handed an extra credit assignment. You returned a faint nod, already doing the math in your head about how much you’d have to catch him up before takeoff.

Then Maverick turned to the next pair. “Phoenix, you’re running opposite. Bob’s your WSO, Hangman’s your wing.”

You didn’t even hide your groan. Phoenix turned in her seat to give you the fakest sweet smile she could manage, while Jake leaned back with his arms stretched wide, like he was being honored with a title.

“Looks like we’re going head-to-head, sweetheart,” he said, full of smug confidence.

You blinked slowly at him. “The only thing you’re flying headfirst into is the side of a mountain.”

Bradley gave a soft cough that might have been a laugh. You could tell he was trying not to enjoy this too much.

“Try not to crash, Rant,” Phoenix added with a pointed look. “I don’t feel like fishing your ass out of the water today.”

You gave her a tight smile. “Try not to lose. Again.”

It was automatic, the way you all fell into it. The rhythm of it. The teasing, the insults, the low hum of competition threading through every interaction. Even when it was exhausting, even when you had a secret sitting like a stone in your stomach, it felt easier than silence.

Maverick gave you all a look, that familiar mix of exasperation and long-suffering patience. “Unless one of you has something useful to say about the actual flight plan, I suggest you keep it quiet until you’re in the air.”

The room stilled, a few shoulders straightened. No one spoke.

Then, Maverick turned back to the map. “You launch at thirty. Gear up.”

You stood, eyes flicking to the others out of habit more than anything else. Bradley bumped your arm lightly with his as he passed, just enough pressure to say you good? without asking the question out loud. You nodded once, followed him out, and did your best not to think about the person who’d just been assigned as your direct opponent in the sky.

Because if Jake Seresin was annoying on the ground, he was ten times worse in the air.

The moment you stepped into the hallway, the energy shifted. The debriefing room door clicked shut behind you, and the low buzz of pre-flight chatter started to build around the squad.

You stuck close to Bradley, not so much out of dependence but out of habit. You always did. Rooster was on steady ground, and you needed something solid beneath you.

As you both rounded the corner toward the locker bays, he leaned slightly toward you without slowing down. “You okay?” he asked, soft and quiet like he was trying not to scare you off.

You nodded. Then, you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip before you said, “I’ll tell you after the run.”

Bradley gave you a long look. Not suspicious, just thoughtful. Like he already knew something wasn’t sitting right and was waiting for you to trust him enough to say it.

You lifted your chin and gave him your best not now stare, and after a second, he sighed and gave you a matching fine, but I’m not dropping this kind of look.

There it was. The language of silent communication you’d both perfected over years of flying together. The only real difference between you and Rooster was that he raised his brows when he was worried, and you narrowed your eyes when you were pretending not to be.

Then, like some kind of Labrador retriever with a headset, Harvard popped out of nowhere, full of energy and confusion. “Are you two having a full conversation with your eyeballs again?” he asked, already pulling on his flight vest. “Like, what even was that? You blinked, she flared her nostrils, and suddenly no one’s talking.”

Bradley just shook his head, mildly amused. “You get used to it.”

“No, you don’t,” you said under your breath, reaching for your gear. “It’s a learned trauma response.”

Harvard gasped. “Wow! That’s so toxic. Should I start blinking in Morse code too, or is this a special thing?”

“It’s classified, dude,” Bradley replied, grabbing his helmet.

You just smirked. “Yeah, need-to-know basis.”

Harvard groaned like he’d just been excluded from the world's coolest secret club and sulked a little, but you knew he didn’t mean it. He was all bark, zero ego. A good guy.

Still, as you suited up and your fingers found their way around the familiar buckles and straps, you could feel Bradley’s eyes drifting back to you every so often. 

You were going to tell him. You just needed to get through the sky first.

The moment your jet broke through the clouds, everything else dropped away. The world below became distant, flattened out by altitude and engine noise, and all that remained was the mission ahead of you.

Harvard stayed sharp in the backseat, already running comms and monitoring enemy pings without needing to be asked. You could tell he’d taken the switch seriously. He knew the angles, read the field fast, and didn’t waste words. It was easy, falling into sync with him. Easier than you’d expected.

Meanwhile, you locked eyes on the targets ahead; Phoenix and Bob were already in motion, banking hard toward the north sector. Their formation was tight, clean.

You hated how well they worked together. Not because it made them unbeatable, but because it made them annoying. Phoenix flew like she had something to prove and Bob backed her with that steady, ghost-quiet confidence that made him impossible to shake.

They made it personal without ever saying a word, and you weren’t about to let them win today.

Then, Harvard’s voice came in again, calm but clipped. “They’re shifting altitude, high left. You’ve got a window if you punch the throttle now.”

“Copy,” you said, already tilting the nose up and angling for the break. The jet responded smoothly and clean, your fingers moving by memory as you cut across their line and pushed the throttle just enough to make them flinch. You didn’t score a hit, but you clipped their path and made Phoenix swerve wide, which felt like a moral victory.

While you circled for another pass, you caught sight of Rooster and Hangman splitting off to the west, already tangled in their own skirmish. From what you could hear on comms, Jake was laying it on thick, talking fast between maneuvers like he wasn’t actively trying to shoot Bradley out of the sky. 

Rooster, to his credit, didn’t rise to it. He never did, he let his flying do the talking, and from the way his jet cut through the clouds without losing position, you knew he was pressing Jake harder than expected.

Then, Phoenix came roaring back into view, and Harvard barely had time to finish his warning before you rolled left and dropped elevation, avoiding a lock that would’ve put you out of the round. The G’s hit hard, but you held steady, exhaling through your teeth and leveling out low. Your hands didn’t shake. Not yet.

“You’re good,” Harvard said, voice steady in your ear. “We can box her in if you bring her toward the ridge.”

“Already on it,” you replied, pulling tight around a curve and adjusting just enough to bait her into following. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was grinning. She lived for this kind of chase.

Above you, Bob was staying wide, keeping distance, probably marking every movement and waiting for the chance to call a hit. It was smart. Annoying, but smart.

You cut back toward the ridge, letting the jet drop low enough to hug the terrain but fast enough to keep Phoenix guessing. Harvard was already rattling off distance checks behind you, staying calm even when her shadow skimmed across your wing.

“She’s closing at two o’clock, low,” he said. “Bob’s feeding her new intercept. You’ve got ten seconds, max.”

“Then let’s ruin their morning,” you muttered.

You pitched the jet upward without warning, pulling into a tight climb that made your stomach flip and your harness bite into your shoulders. The ridge dropped away beneath you, and you caught a glimpse of Phoenix overshooting below as she tried to correct. Bob probably warned her half a second too late. That gave you the opening.

Harvard was already counting it off. “You’re above them. Rotate left now and get behind.”

You twisted hard, banking in a tight arc and swinging back across their line. Your fingers moved before your brain had a chance to catch up, locking in on their tail and chasing through a narrow gap between cloud banks. For a second, all you could see was sky and sunlight and the silhouette of their jet ahead.

“Locking in three,” Harvard said.

You gritted your teeth and held the line. “Keep it steady.”

“Two…”

You knew Phoenix was going to make a move. She never let a shot go without scrambling the play. Just as he said one, she juked sideways with a dive so sharp it almost worked. Almost.

“Splash,” Harvard confirmed. “You got it.”

You let out a breath and leaned back in the seat, just for a second. It didn’t last.

“Rant, watch it, Seresin’s on your nine.”

Of course he was.

You didn’t even look. You rolled right, cutting down and twisting into a descent that threw your stomach somewhere back at 8,000 feet. Hangman’s voice crackled over comms, far too pleased with himself.

“Come on, Rant, don’t make this easy.”

You pressed your mic. “If I wanted to make it easy, I’d stand on the runway and let you fly into me.”

Harvard exhaled like he was trying not to laugh. “He’s fast, but you’re lighter. We can lose him in the turns.”

“I’ve been trying to lose him since I was twenty-three,” you muttered.

Then you dipped low again, weaving through the cloud layer as Jake stayed glued to your tail. You could feel the pressure even without seeing him. He always flew like he had something to prove, and somehow, it was always you he wanted to prove it to.

Below, the ocean started to stretch wide again as you dropped altitude, chasing the edge of the designated training zone. The whole team was up now, scattered through sectors, switching leads and trying to one-up each other.

Rooster was still out west, locked in with a stubborn Jake-shaped problem of his own, probably ignoring every smug comment thrown his way.

Meanwhile, you let yourself fall into the rhythm. Turn, correct, adjust, climb. Harvard kept feeding you clean data, and for once, your mind wasn’t spiraling with everything waiting back on the ground. Up here, with the sky beneath your wings and just enough chaos to feel alive, it was almost quiet.

Almost.

Somewhere between the last turn and the climb, your stomach started to flip in a way that had nothing to do with G-forces. You’d flown sick before. You’d flown exhausted, bruised, pissed off, and running on stale coffee and half a granola bar, but this was different. 

This was full-body fog. Your head spun just enough to blur the edges of the sky, and a sudden heat flushed through your neck and into your ears. You blinked hard, jaw tight, and tried to focus on the radar, the sound of Harvard in your ear, the way the jet felt beneath your hands.

But it was slipping.

Not now, you thought. Not now, not in the middle of a dogfight. You swallowed against the wave of nausea rising sharp and hot in your throat.

You could practically picture the tiny speck of human potential nestled deep in your gut, lounging like royalty and wreaking havoc on your equilibrium. Okay, listen, you thought, eyes flicking to your altitude. I am literally fighting for our lives right now, so maybe, just maybe, this is not the time to launch a mutiny inside my body.

Meanwhile, Hangman was still behind you somewhere, probably chasing your trail and smirking like the smug bastard he was, but for a few long seconds, you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t hear much of anything except the thump of your heartbeat and the dull roar of blood in your ears.

Then Maverick’s voice cracked through the radio, sharper than before. “Rant, check your level. You’re flying low.”

Your eyes snapped to the altimeter. Too low. Far too low. The ridgeline was suddenly much closer than it should’ve been.

In the same instant, Harvard’s voice broke in, more urgent now. “Hey. Pull up. Come on, breathe, and pull up.”

Maybe he couldn’t reach you physically, but it felt like he was right there behind you, pushing every word into your spine.

So, you didn’t waste time. You yanked back on the stick, gritting your teeth through the Gs as the jet surged upward in a sharp climb. Your stomach lurched again, and you had to swallow twice before you were sure you weren’t about to puke into your oxygen mask.

You leveled out just above the ridge, engine growling as you pulled the jet back into a steady course. For a moment, there was silence in your headset.

Then, Maverick again, this time quieter. “Rant, copy?”

You exhaled shakily and pressed your mic. “Copy, I’m good. Got it now.”

Harvard didn’t say anything right away, but you could hear the sigh of relief through his breathing.

You didn’t add anything else. You couldn’t. Not without letting something else slip out.

Back on the ground, the silence hit you like a wall. The adrenaline was gone, wrung out of you somewhere between the ridge and the landing strip, and now all you had left was a headache behind your eyes and a stomach that refused to settle.

Harvard walked beside you as you headed back toward the hangar, saying nothing until you reached the edge of the locker hall.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, slowing your steps. “That was on me.”

He shook his head without hesitation. “You corrected it in time. That’s what matters.”

You gave him a weak nod, not quite ready to believe him. Then he gave your shoulder a quick pat, no questions asked, and headed down the opposite hallway to debrief. You stood there for a second, watching him go, then turned and pushed open the door to the locker room.

The air inside was still and cool, humming faintly with the old fluorescent lights overhead. You made your way to your locker, pulled off your boots, and sat down on the bench with your back to the metal, flight suit half unzipped. For a moment, you didn’t move. 

You just sat there, elbows on your knees, head down. The crash from the flight hit hard. Your limbs were buzzing, your breathing felt shallow again, and the thought you had been avoiding since this morning came back all at once.

You didn’t even hear the door open until it clicked shut again. You looked up just in time to see Bradley locking it behind him.

He walked in slowly, brows drawn tight with concern, but not angry. Just tired. He didn’t speak until he stopped a few feet in front of you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, voice low. “What happened up there?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a half-mumble, “I know, I’m sorry.”

He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying not to lose patience. “You went silent. You dropped altitude without calling it. Harvard was on comms like he didn’t know what was going on. Mav was two seconds from ordering you grounded. What’s going on with you?”

You didn’t look at him. You stared at the floor like maybe it would open up and swallow you.

Then, without a word, he knelt down in front of you and took your hands in his. You didn’t even realize you were trembling until he touched you. His grip was gentle but solid, and it made your breath catch in your throat.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Come on, sweetheart, talk to me.”

You blinked fast, trying to focus, but your eyes were stinging again and your heart was beating too loud in your chest. You swallowed and looked down at him, and for the first time all day, your voice broke completely.

“I’m pregnant.”

Bradley didn’t speak right away. He stayed perfectly still, kneeling in front of you, his thumbs gently brushing over your knuckles like he hadn’t heard you correctly.

His eyes searched your face, not with doubt exactly, but with that kind of quiet disbelief that people get when something impossible has just dropped out of the sky.

You couldn’t look at him. Your hands were still shaking in his, and your chest was too tight to breathe properly. The silence dragged, thick and unbearable, until finally he said, “You’re what?”

You swallowed hard. “Pregnant.”

Another beat of silence passed, and for a moment you thought he was going to laugh, or joke, or say something like is this one of your pranks, because your coping mechanism had always been sarcasm and chaos and he knew that better than anyone, but he didn’t. He didn’t let go, and he didn’t move.

Then his brows pulled together just a little tighter, and he asked slowly, “Are you sure?”

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor behind him. “Took three tests. This morning. One of them was pink glittery plastic, and one of them sang a jingle when the plus sign popped up, but yeah. Pretty sure.”

He exhaled like the air had just punched its way out of his lungs, then looked down briefly and ran a hand over his mouth. You saw it hit him in real time, the reality of what you’d just said settling into his shoulders. When he looked back up at you, there was no judgment in his face, just a stunned kind of concern.

“Okay,” he said finally, the word slow and uneven. “Okay. So... is it…”

You answered before he finished, your voice hoarse. “It’s not yours. Come on. You and I are basically siblings. That would be—no. No.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to make a comment but thought better of it. Then he asked, more gently this time, “So who...?”

You closed your eyes for a second and took a breath through your nose, but it didn’t steady you at all. Then you said it, quiet and miserable.

“Jake.”

Bradley blinked.

Then, blinked again.

He let go of your hands, only to stand up and back away slowly like he needed to physically distance himself from the words you’d just said. One hand was on his hip, the other dragging down his face as he muttered, “Jake Seresin? Hangman? That Jake Seresin?”

You nodded with all the dread of someone admitting to a federal crime.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, turning in a slow circle like maybe spinning would help this make sense. “You had sex with Jake Seresin?”

You winced. “It wasn’t planned.”

He pointed at you like you had just confessed to robbing a bank. “Clearly.”

“It was after Coyote’s birthday, I think,” you went on, and his eyes got wide immediately. “We were all drunk. I mean, drunk. The kind of drunk where the sidewalk moves and you have deep conversations with the vending machine. And we started arguing, like usual, and then one thing led to another—”

Bradley threw up his hands. “Stop. Nope. Don’t want to hear the details.”

“Okay, but I was winning the argument, and then he said something about me being mouthy and then I said something about him being all bark and no bite, and then—”

He literally stuck his fingers in his ears. “I said stop! I’m not your priest, I’m not your gynecologist, and I am definitely not emotionally equipped to hear about your enemies-to-lust pipeline with Hangman.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the locker, groaning into your hands. “It wasn’t lust, it was more like... like rage-fueled, half-dressed combat with bonus moaning.”

“Why are you like this,” Bradley asked the ceiling, like God was personally responsible.

You shrugged helplessly. “I blacked out a little. My bra was on the ceiling fan. I woke up hungover and had to army crawl out of his apartment because my dignity had left the building.”

Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose and sat heavily beside you. “Jesus, okay, okay, I’m... trying to catch up here. So, you just found out this morning?”

You nodded again. “Bathroom. Oversized shirt. Positive test glowing like a lightsaber. It was magical but cursed, Brad.”

He looked at you, baffled and exhausted. “And, you haven’t told him?”

“I haven’t even told myself, Bradley.”

For a while, you didn’t speak. You just sat there, elbows on your knees, staring at the concrete floor like it could give you answers.

Every second stretched a little too long, and the space between your shoulders tightened until you felt like your own skin didn’t fit right.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because you were cold, but because it was the only way to feel contained. Everything in you felt like it was about to slip loose.

Bradley watched you, quiet now, all the humor drained from his face. He nudged his knee against yours lightly, not pushing, just grounding you.

You finally whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

His voice was gentler now. “You don’t have to have it figured out yet.”

“I don’t even know how to take care of myself,” you said, your voice cracking. “I almost threw up in the jet. I can’t stop thinking. I was flying like I was outside my own body, and if Harvard hadn’t said something, I might’ve clipped the ridge. I’m barely holding it together and now there’s... this. There’s a person. A very small, very inconvenient person in my body and I don’t know if I can do this, Bradley.”

He didn’t try to interrupt. He just let you say it. Let it all spill out like the words had been waiting to burst through your teeth.

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry. You were already past crying. It felt bigger than that now. It felt like the edge of a cliff. You looked at him, barely able to hold his gaze.

“I don’t want to be a bad mom,” you said. “I don’t want to screw up a kid who never asked for any of this.”

He looked down, his mouth pressing into a line. “You’re not a bad person,” he said finally. “You’re scared. That’s not the same thing.”

You nodded, but you didn’t believe him. Then, his tone shifted slightly. Still soft, but different. Careful.

“So... I assume you told Mav?”

You blinked. “What?”

Bradley gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You told Mav before me.”

You paused, realizing the weight behind it. “It wasn’t— I didn’t plan that. I didn’t tell him because he’s... him. I was falling apart and he pulled me out of the briefing room before I started crying in front of everyone. It just... came out.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood, but the disappointment lingered anyway. Not in a dramatic way. Just in the way someone feels when they realize they weren’t the first person you ran to.

“I get it,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

You reached out, rested your hand over his. “You were always going to be the first person I really talked to. You know that, right?”

He gave your fingers a squeeze. “Yeah, I know.”

Bradley stayed quiet for another few seconds, looking at your hand in his like he was working his way through a hundred thoughts and trying to pick the right one. Then, he asked, careful but steady, “Are you going to keep it?”

You didn’t answer right away. The question hit hard in your chest, even though you knew it was coming. You weren’t ready. You had thought about it, of course. It was the only thing your brain had been circling since this morning, but that didn’t mean you had an answer.

You didn’t even have a maybe.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice barely holding. “I really don’t. I haven’t even wrapped my head around the fact that I’m pregnant. My body doesn’t feel like mine right now, and every five minutes I flip between total panic and just pretending none of this is happening.”

Bradley nodded once, slow and thoughtful, like he was giving you room. You could tell he wanted to say more, but he waited.

“And Jake?” he asked after a moment, quieter now. “When are you going to tell him?”

Your stomach flipped again. You pulled your hand away and stood up like your body needed to move or you were going to start spiraling.

“I don’t know,” you said again, rubbing your forehead. “I keep thinking about it, but I have no idea what to even say. ‘Hey, remember that time we got blackout drunk and hate-banged our way through an industrial-sized condom box? Surprise! You’re going to be a dad!’”

Bradley gave a slow blink. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“I don’t know how to say it,” you shot back. “I mean... this is Jake Seresin. He doesn't even remember people’s birthdays. What if he laughs? What if he thinks I’m joking? What if he gets weird and says something awful and I end up dropkicking him into the ocean before I can even finish the sentence?”

Bradley let out a sigh and leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. “Okay, yes, he might absolutely say something awful, but you have to tell him. You can’t sit on this forever.”

“I know,” you said again, and this time it came out smaller. You sat back down beside him and didn’t say anything for a long minute. “I just need a little more time,” you added. “That’s all.”

Bradley nodded. “I’m here. You know that, right?”

You nodded without looking at him. “I know.”

There was a small pause, the kind that usually meant something was settling. Then, just as you were starting to breathe a little easier, he gave a low laugh under his breath and shook his head.

“What?” you asked warily.

He smirked. “Nothing. Just... wow. I knew I was right when I gave you that callsign. You really do love to rant.”

You groaned and smacked his arm, but he just laughed harder. “Shut up, Bradley.”

“Never,” he said, still grinning. “This is the most unhinged monologue I’ve heard since you yelled at the vending machine for stealing your Funyuns.”

You let your head drop back against the locker. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Again?” he asked.

You pointed at him without lifting your head. “I will vomit on your boots.”