Miles Teller 💚

The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.

But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.

It just showed that it worked.

Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.

“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”

You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.

Cyclone didn’t make them wait.

“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”

The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.

Cyclone turned slightly.

“Bradshaw.”

Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.

“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.

And didn’t look at you.

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.

You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.

“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”

The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.

Cyclone looked like he might say something.

He didn’t.

Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.

Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.

“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”

Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t. 

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.

“Hell of a move.”

That was it. No smirk. No punchline.

The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.

Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.

You both moved toward the exit at the same time.

And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.

He didn’t react.

But you felt him turn.

Not a full look. Not dramatic.

Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.

And chose not to say a damn thing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.

Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.

Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.

“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.

“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”

Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.

Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She disappeared around the corner.

Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.

Three long seconds passed.

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.

Behind him, Phoenix slowed.

Turned her head.

Heard the door close quietly behind him.

She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.

You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.

Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”

Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.

He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”

You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.

“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”

You took a step toward him, not away.

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.

“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.

“Say that again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Your hands hit his chest. Hard.

He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.

You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.

Your breath was short. So was his.

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”

It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.

“You tell me.”

And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.

You didn’t care.

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.

He groaned.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.

The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.

This wasn’t control.

This was surrender.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.

You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.

You grabbed them. Yanked.

He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.

He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.

You reached for his belt.

His hand covered yours.

Eyes locked.

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just urgent.

You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.

“You never shut up, do you?”

You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.

“Make me.”

He did.

His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.

You arched against him.

His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.

“You started it.”

His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.

You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.

You wanted this.

You wanted to win.

So did he.

You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned.

His voice was dark, torn at the edges.

You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer.

He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.

You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”

You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.

“Then do it, Bradshaw.”

He froze for half a second.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.

You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”

He didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.

Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.

His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”

He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.

Not pushing in.

Just there.

Teasing.

Taunting.

His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck. You.”

Close enough.

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.

You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.

You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.

His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.

You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.

“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”

You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.

The bench creaked beneath you.

Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—

You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.

Your voice broke.

“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.

You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Jesus fuck—”

His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.

“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.

You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”

His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.

Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”

His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”

You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.

“We’re both so fucked.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.

“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”

You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.

Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”

He blinked. Once.

You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.

When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.

“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”

He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.

He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.

“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

“Not my fault you finished too fast.”

He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.

“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”

“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even pretend to give you space.

His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.

“You smell like me.”

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.

You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”

You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.

His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.

“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.

“Mmhm.”

You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”

“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”

His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.

“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”

“That’s the idea.”

You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.

And it was working.

He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.

You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.

You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”

“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.

You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.

“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”

“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.

Then, softer: “You good?”

That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.

The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.

That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.

The part where he didn’t pull away.

You swallowed.

The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.

You cleared your throat. “This…”

He stilled. Just slightly.

You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.

You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.

Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:

“But it does.”

Your heart kicked.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.

So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.

You didn’t look back as you walked.

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.

He caught it one-handed.

Didn’t say a word.

You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.

You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.

Didn’t need to.

You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.

You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.

Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.

You didn’t look. But you felt him.

You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.

Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.

Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.

You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.

You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.

When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.

You looked at him—just briefly.

Eyes met.

Held.

Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.

You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.

Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.

So you braved to break the silence.

“You heading over to Penny’s?”

Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.

“I was planning on it.”

You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.

“No point in going in separate cars, right?”

His mouth curved. Barely.

“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”

You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.

“Think we’re a little past whispers.”

He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”

The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.

Because maybe it had.

And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.

No hesitation.

No need to ask.

Just there. Still with him.

Still in it.

The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.

He smelled like your soap.

And that was a problem.

You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.

You didn’t move.

Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.

You knew it without looking.

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.

He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”

He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Easier to lie?”

“Easier to not make it a thing.”

There it was.

You saw his jaw tick.

“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.

You met his eyes.

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.

“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”

That landed.

He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.

Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

“You don’t regret it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."

It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.

Then he nodded again.

“Okay.”

He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”

You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.

“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.

You stepped out.

Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.

The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.

Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Just contact.

It wasn’t a move.

It was steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.

The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.

You stepped through it first.

Rooster followed you in.

And the noise swallowed you both.

The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.

One look at you. Then Rooster.

Then back again.

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.

She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.

“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”

Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”

You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.

Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”

Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”

“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”

“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”

“Zero cockpit visibility.”

“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.

They high-fived behind her anyway.

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.

“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”

The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

Rooster didn’t flinch.

He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.

A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.

A low, subtle pull.

He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”

Rooster didn’t blink.

“Nope.”

She sighed and shook her head once.

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”

He looked back toward the bar—toward you.

His voice stayed even.

“She always does.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

You were moving quickly, boots crunching through the dirt as you cut behind the building, hoping maybe he’d circled around. That maybe he was leaning somewhere, cigarette lit, with that infuriating half-smile like the day hadn’t nearly ended in blood.

Instead, you heard your name—low and steady.

“Hey.”

You stopped short. Turned.

Wyatt stood just beyond the edge of the alley, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He looked rough—his usual crisp lines undone, hat crooked, dust clinging to every part of him. There was blood on his shirt, high on the shoulder, but it didn’t seem to be his. A dark smear ran across his jaw like someone had tried to grab him mid-fight. His holster was still unbuckled, gun half-loose at his side.

But it was his eyes that made your stomach twist. Wyatt Earp always looked ready for a fight, whether he wanted to be in it or not. But right now, he looked… tired.

“Got a minute?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before turning and nodding toward the alley.

You followed in silence. The light was dimmer there, the buildings blocking the last rays of sun. The sound of the street faded behind you until all you could hear was the quiet scuff of boots, the soft creak of wood, a few flies buzzing lazily near an overturned crate.

Wyatt didn’t speak right away. He came to a stop by the back wall of the saloon, hands resting on his belt like he was weighing the next few seconds in his head. He didn’t look at you—just stared out toward nothing.

You crossed your arms, heartbeat already picking up. Something about the way he held himself—the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw—it put you on edge.

Then he said it.

“Doc’s been tryin’ to get himself killed.”

It was flat. Not dramatic. No buildup. Like it hurt less if he just ripped the damn thing open.

You blinked a few times.

“What?”

Wyatt glanced at you, then looked away just as fast.

“I finally saw it for what it was today. Clear as anything. He stepped right into the open in the middle of the shootout. No cover. Nothin’.”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, like saying it left a taste he didn’t want.

“Didn’t duck. Didn’t even flinch when bullets started hittin’ the walls around him. Just… stood there. Took his shot at a man with his gun already drawn, like it was just another hand of cards to play.”

You felt your body tense, muscles coiling so tight it made your ribs ache.

“He’s been doin’ it more and more lately,” Wyatt continued. “Starting fights with men twice his size. Drunk half the damn time. And he doesn't wait for backup—hell, sometimes he doesn’t even tell us he’s goin’.”

He shook his head, voice low.

“It’s not just recklessness anymore. It’s suicide.”

You stared at him, throat dry, chest tight. Your mind tried to argue—tried to reach for some rational excuse—but it landed on nothing.

Doc hadn’t told you any of this.

And that silence suddenly meant more than anything he could’ve said.

Wyatt shifted again, his expression cracking under the weight of it.

“I tried talkin’ to him,” he said. “He just laughed. Told me if death was comin’, he’d rather it take him sooner than later. Said at least out there, he gets to choose the time and place.”

You swallowed hard. It felt like your body had turned to stone.

“I ain’t tryin’ to guilt you or anythin’,” Wyatt added after a beat, more gently. “But I’ve seen you be the only person in this whole damn town he listens to. Even when he pretends not to.”

He paused. Let it hang.

“I don’t want to have to drag his body out of the street. And I certainly don’t want you to have to see it.”

The words hit you low. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. You just kept staring ahead—past Wyatt, past the alley, past the part of you that wanted to crumple where you stood.

You felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the wind that had picked up between the buildings.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

You turned without a word.

Didn’t wait for Wyatt to say anything else. Didn’t let him see what was happening behind your eyes.

You walked back toward the saloon with fire building in your chest. Every step felt heavier than the last. Like the truth he’d handed you was too big to carry—but you’d carry it anyway.

Because if Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it.

The noise hit you before the doors even opened.

Laughter, clinking glasses, the clatter of poker chips on oak, boots on floorboards, and someone hammering out a tune on the piano that had long since fallen off-key. The room pulsed with heat and whiskey sweat, and under it all, that constant hum of men who thought they were untouchable—full of guns and bravado and cheap beer. Even after the happenings of the day.

You pushed the saloon doors open with a little more force than necessary.

For a moment, no one noticed. You were just another body walking in off the street, swallowed by cigar smoke and dim light.

But then you stepped in fully, boots echoing sharp against the floor, and the crowd seemed to shift. Not with words. Just a subtle awareness—like animals catching the scent of something coming that wasn’t good.

And then you saw him.

Doc Holliday sat like a goddamn centerpiece at the farthest poker table, sprawled in a chair like it was a throne. One hand held a fan of cards, the other rested casually on a half-empty glass of bourbon, the deep amber catching fire in the low lamplight. His hat was tipped back, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and he was smiling—that slow, lazy, devastating smile that could smooth over murder if he wanted it to.

He looked relaxed. Smug. Untouched.

He looked like he hadn’t almost died.

And something inside you snapped.

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was laughing at something someone said—low and smooth, smoke curling from between his teeth, eyes shining with the thrill of the game. A few men groaned and tossed in their cards. One cursed and leaned back, scowling.

And then he spotted you.

His gaze cut through the room like a blade, and that smile—God, that smile—grew just a fraction wider. He stood up in one fluid motion, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, cigarette perched between two fingers like a punctuation mark.

“Well now,” he drawled, like you were a pleasant surprise. “Ain’t you a—”

Your hand moved before your mind could catch up.

SMACK

The slap rang out like a gunshot. Loud, sharp, final.

His head turned with the force of it. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, still lit. His whole body froze—so did the rest of the saloon.

Silence bloomed in an instant. The kind that feels like thunder in reverse. Someone coughed, somewhere near the bar. The piano keys fell quiet mid-note. The dealer’s hand hung in the air above a split pot. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Doc didn’t look at you. Not at first.

He just stood there, jaw tight, cheek blooming red beneath your handprint, eyes cast downward like he was running through a thousand possible reactions and finding none that fit.

You were shaking.

Not with regret. Not with fear. With fury. With heartbreak so sharp it made your bones feel like glass.

You stared at him like he was a stranger.

“You selfish son of a bitch,” you said, voice low, steady, but trembling at the edges.

He finally lifted his gaze to you—slow, searching. And maybe, just for a second, the smugness fell. Not gone, but hollowed out at the center.

You didn’t wait for a response.

You turned and walked out.

Each step felt louder than it should’ve. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed through the saloon doors and into the cold night air, where the dust had started to rise again with the wind.

Behind you, the crowd stayed frozen in that stunned silence. Somewhere, someone whispered your name. Another voice said “Holy hell.” You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. You shoved the swinging doors wide and stepped into the cool night air.

You were halfway down the steps when you heard the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a glass hitting wood, and boots—heavy, purposeful—coming after you.

You didn’t have to look back to know it was him.

You could feel it, like a storm at your heels.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the hinges, slamming into the wall with a bang that shook dust from the beams overhead. After the door steadied from the prior abuse, Doc slammed it closed back behind him, unceremoniously.

You didn’t flinch.

You were standing near the dresser, back to the door, staring down at your hands. They were still shaking. You hated that.

“You got a hell of a lotta nerve.”

His voice was sharp, low, laced with the kind of fury that didn’t come from pain—it came from pride. From being caught off-guard. From being made a fool.

You turned slowly. Not with fear—with purpose.

Doc stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his face still flushed from the slap. The print of your hand burned red across his cheek. He hadn’t wiped it away. Maybe he hadn’t had time. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

His hat was gone now. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, shoulders tense, boots hitting the floor like gunshots.

His face was still flushed. The red mark on his cheek stood out, stark against his pale skin, and his jaw was locked so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped. “Or should I guess?”

He laughed—once. Harsh. Hollow.

“Whole goddamn saloon starin’ at me like I’d said somethin’ vile. Like I deserved it. You blindside me in front of half the town and walk out like you’re the one wronged?”

He stepped closer, gesturing vaguely with one hand, the other curled into a tight fist at his side.

“Did I cheat you? Did I lie? Did I forget your damn birthday?” His tone was mocking now, but the edge behind it was real. “Or was that just for show? You get somethin’ outta that?”

Now he was pacing, boots scraping the floor, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to pull his hair or punch the wall.

“You think that’s what this is about?” you said, low and sharp. “You think I walked in there just to bruise your pride?”

Doc didn’t back down. He turned to meet your gaze head-on, but there was something unsettled in the way his fingers twitched at his side.

“Well I certainly think I deserve to know why I got blindsided in the middle of a damn good poker hand.”

You stared at him, then laughed. Not with humor. It came out raw. Broken.

“You deserve to know?” you echoed. “You want to talk about what you deserve?”

You closed the distance between you in two furious steps and shoved him—not hard, but enough to make his boots scrape against the floorboards.

“You think I wouldn’t find out?” you hissed. “That you could just keep throwing yourself in front of bullets like it’s nothing and no one would notice?”

His brows pulled together.

“Wyatt told me,” you spat before he could speak. “He told me everything.”

Doc froze. You saw the mask start to slip.

“He told me how you walked straight into open fire,” you continued, stepping closer. “Told me you went after a man already drawin' on you. Like you didn’t give a damn whether you made it out.”

You were inches from him now, breathing hard, staring up into those pale eyes that always held a joke—but not tonight.

“I’ve seen you drunk. I’ve seen you bleeding. I’ve seen you cough your lungs up and spit red into a handkerchief like it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. But this?” Your voice cracked. “This is you giving up.”

He looked down at you, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. But he didn’t answer.

So you hit him with the one thing he couldn’t dodge.

“You were ready to up and die,” you whispered. “And you didn’t even think I deserved to know.”

That landed.

He stepped back half a pace, like you’d struck him again.

His mouth opened, then closed. His tongue wet his lips, slow. You saw it all happen in real time—his ego folding in on itself, that anger unraveling into something thinner, sadder. Guilt. Shame.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said finally, voice hoarse, “because I didn’t want you lookin’ at me the way everybody else does.”

You swallowed hard.

“And how’s that?”

“Like I’m already in the ground.”

Silence filled the space between you like smoke—thick, choking, unspoken things hanging in the air.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said. “The way people look at me when I cough. Like they’re just waitin’ on me to drop.”

He took another step forward, slower this time, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“But you didn’t look at me like that,” he said. “Not once.”

You wanted to scream. Cry. Shake him.

“I still don’t,” you whispered. “Yet you still chose to keep me in the dark. You didn’t even give me the chance to fight for you.”

Doc’s breath caught. His hands twitched at his sides, then slowly came up—reaching for you like a man touching water in a desert.

“You’re the only thing I got left that makes me feel like I’m still here,” he said stepping toward you, holding a sincere eye-contact.

Your chest cracked open.

You didn’t move when his hands cupped your face. Didn’t flinch when he brushed his thumbs under your jaw, tilting your head back like he needed to see all of you. His touch was trembling. He was trembling.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Mouth crashing into yours, breath hot, hands threading into your hair like he was trying to memorize the way you felt before death took him away from you. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to you like you could break the habit of death with your body alone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he kissed you like he was trying to live.

The kiss slammed into you like a wave breaking a dam.

There was no warning—just hands, heat, and the raw sound of breath catching in the back of his throat as his mouth crushed into yours. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent in its urgency, desperate in a way that bordered on collapse.

You tasted smoke and bourbon on his tongue, tasted the fear he refused to speak out loud.

And you gave it right back.

Your hands slid into his hair. His fingers dropped to your waist, gripping the layers of fabric at your hips in frustration.

“Too many goddamn clothes,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-growl. “You tryna drive me insane, sweetheart?”

“You first,” you gasped, stepping back from him.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—like you’d just dared him—and the look he gave you was half fire, half challenge.

Then his hands went to his waistcoat.

He didn’t waste time. The buttons came undone fast under his fingers, and he flung the thing off like it had no right to be between the two of you. His gunbelt and holster followed with a dull thud on the floor, then he was at the buttons of his shirt—no finesse now, just a frenzy of motion. He popped them open down his chest, and when one stuck, he tore the fabric loose, baring pale skin and a body cut hard by illness and held together by sheer will.

He returned to you and spun you gently—urgently—until your chest pressed to the wall, your hands bracing yourself against the wood. You felt him behind you, breath hot at your shoulder, hands already at the back of your corset.

“You wear this thing like a goddamn suit of armor,” he muttered. “What’s it protecting you from?”

“Men like you.”

He made a low, breathless sound—almost a laugh—and then you felt the tug of his fingers against the laces.

They didn’t come easily. Corset laces never did. But he worked fast, muttering curses under his breath as he loosened them enough to let you breathe. The pressure in your ribs eased. His fingers slid up your back, slipping beneath the loosened stays, tugging the entire thing over your head without ceremony.

The shift underneath clung to your skin, sweat-slick and thin. He spun you back toward him, ran his palms down your sides, up under your arms, then cupped your breasts through the damp linen. His mouth found yours once again for a kiss almost as desperate as the first.

“Still mad?” he panted, voice hoarse against your lips.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Furious.”

“Good.” His teeth scraped against your jaw, dragging down to the hinge of your throat where he bit—not hard, but enough to make you gasp again. “Don’t want you soft. Not for this.”

You barely had time to take in the sight of him—long lines, lean muscle, sharp hips, and heat in every breath—before his fingers were at his belt buckle, pulling it loose in a swift, practiced motion. His trousers hit the floor with a low rustle, and then he was stepping forward again, stripped to skin, eyes locked on you like he was starving and you were the last thing left worth tasting.

His hands slid to your waist—not rough, but insistent—guiding you backward through the glow and stillness, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back with a soft laugh of breath, landing on the mattress in a rush of tangled skirts and flushed skin.

He followed you down immediately—slow, controlled, lowering himself over you like gravity was finally on his side. One arm braced beside your head, the other still dragging your shift higher, fingers shaking with need.

You looked up at him, every inch of your body already singing for more, and the words tumbled out like a secret slipping past your lips.

“God,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the stars. “I love you.”

He went still—not in surprise, but in triumph.

His grin was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Oh, you do, do you?” he drawled, eyes gleaming even as his breath still came in short, ragged bursts.

Your face flushed hotter. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut you off with a kiss that tasted like sin and smoke.

“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth, like he was trying the words on for size. “Say it again. I want to hear it when you're lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I love you, Doc.” You cupped his face with both hands, even as your hips ground against him. “I love you, you reckless, brilliant bastard. Even when you scare the hell out of me.”

He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring. “I ain’t worth that kind of love.”

“Tough,” you said. “You’ve got it anyway.”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you—something wrecked and reverent flickering behind his eyes—and then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less hungry. Like the words you’d just spoken had knocked the wind out of him, and now he was using your mouth to pull breath back into his lungs.

His hand slid lower, under your shift and over the bare skin of your thigh, fingers slipping between your legs like he’d been there a thousand times in his mind. When he found how wet you were, he groaned low in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “That all for me?”

You couldn’t speak—just nodded, breath catching as his fingers stroked through the slick heat of you.

He kissed you again, open-mouthed and aching, while his hand worked slow, steady circles against your clit. Every flick of his fingers made your hips rise, your legs tighten. The warmth coiled sharp and fast, your body already trembling from the tension that had now broken since the moment you slapped him in that saloon.

His mouth moved to your throat, lips dragging down to your collarbone. “Let me hear you,” he whispered. “Let me feel it.”

You moaned as he slid a finger inside you—then another—stretching you just enough to make your back arch, your breath stutter. His fingers curled, searching, teasing. His thumb circled with steady pressure, pulling you closer, closer—

But before the wave could crash, he stopped.

You whimpered.

He pulled his fingers free, eyes locked on yours, and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean.

Then he rose to his knees between your thighs, gripping your hips as he shifted you towards the center of the bed, moving with you. Your skirts were still rucked around your waist, drawers shoved aside, shift hanging loose over your breasts. You were a mess of fabric and sweat and need.

He looked down at you like a man who’d finally found something to live for.

And then he lined himself up and pushed into you with one long, devastating stroke.

Not gentle—but not brutal either. It was pure need, sharpened to the bone. You gasped, one arm wrapped tight around his back, the other tangled in the sheets, your body clenching around him like it already knew he wouldn’t last long like this.

He pulled back and drove into you again—rough, deep, each thrust a little more ragged, a little less controlled. He groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking harder now, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

But he was breathing too hard.

You felt it—heard it—in the way his rhythm started to falter, his weight sagging more into your body. A soft cough rattled from his chest, one that he tried to swallow, but it pushed out between clenched teeth as he rocked forward again, slower now, less force behind it.

He kept going—God, he tried—but his arms were shaking, his breath was stuttering, and after one more broken thrust, he dropped down beside you, chest heaving, one arm slung across your stomach.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry. I can’t—I want to—just can’t keep it up.”

He turned his face into the pillow, coughing softly, wet and low in his lungs.

“I want to fuck you through the damn floor,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “But I’m so goddamn tired already.”

You looked over at him—his hair damp with sweat, his skin pale and burning, the fever hiding just beneath the surface—and something inside you melted. Not out of pity.

Out of need.

Because he was still trying.

Because he hadn’t given up.

You reached out and touched his face, fingertips trailing along his cheek, then his throat. His eyes opened—barely—and when he looked at you, something in them flickered like he didn’t know what to expect.

So you straddled him.

Slow. Sure. A deliberate climb over his hips as he blinked up at you in open surprise.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, hands finding your thighs instinctively, voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Then let me do it for you.”

And before he could stop you, before he could find the strength to argue, you reached between your bodies and guided him back inside you—slow, deep, all the way down with a breathless moan that made his hands grip tighter.

His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bobbing with a swallowed groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled your hips, slow and controlled, pressing your palms to his chest as he gasped beneath you.

“No,” you said, eyes locked to his. “It’s my intention to keep you here as long as I can.”

A beat passed, heavy with anticipation. His breath hitched, he stifled a cough, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, as if overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, his head fell back, mouth slack.

“Fuck,” he rasped, head falling back, mouth slack. “Jesus. Goddamn.”

You were shaking already. From the stretch, the pressure, the sight of him undone beneath you. He was so deep, your thighs already trembling from how tightly your body gripped him.

You started to move—slow, steady rolls of your hips, every grind dragging another sound out of him that made you throb around him.

But Doc wasn’t going to just lie still. Not even broken, not even panting beneath you like the breath kept slipping away faster than he could drag it in.

His hands yanked you down harder.

“Faster,” he growled, voice dark and ragged. “Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You gasped, hands braced on his chest. “I don’t want to break you.”

He let out a low, vicious sound—half laugh, half threat.

“Too late for that.”

He bucked up beneath you the best he could, hips snapping with sudden force, catching you mid-thrust and driving himself deeper, harder than you were ready for.

You cried out, full-body shudder, your hands scrambling for balance as he kept thrusting up into you, every motion fueled by something furious and raw.

“You think I’m just gonna lie here?” he bit out, voice hoarse, sweat slicking his chest. “Think you can get on top and make me behave? You know I'm not one to behave darlin'.”

His mouth was at your breast before you could answer—teeth scraping over your nipple, tongue hot, hands bruising your ass as he shoved you down, used you to do what he couldn’t do himself.

“Ride me,” he growled against your skin. “Come on, darlin’. Give it to me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You moved—hard and fast—grinding down with a gasp as he met you halfway, every thrust of his hips sloppy now, but still fierce, still intentional, like he was fighting the weakness in his limbs with everything he had.

Your forehead dropped to his as you bounced in his lap, both of you slick and shaking, skin slapping hard with every ragged thrust. He was breathing like he was about to collapse, but his hands were still firm, still dragging you down onto his cock like he couldn’t stand the thought of you pulling away.

“God, you feel so good,” he panted. “Like heaven. Like fucking heaven.”

His voice was breaking. So was his body. But his eyes—his eyes were locked on you, wide and hungry and alive, like this was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, half-wrecked. “Don’t stop, darlin'. Not yet.”

You didn’t.

You drove down like it was the last thing either of you would ever do—hard, fast, your nails digging into his chest, your hips stuttering as the pressure built fast and furious.

“Doc—” you gasped, head falling forward. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come.”

His hand shot up to the back of your neck, pulling you down, foreheads pressed, sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. His eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, desperate.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not yet. Hold on for me, darlin’.”

Your whole body seized, trembling from the effort to stop the climb. Your thighs burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your cunt clenched around him like your body didn’t care what your mind was trying to do—it wanted release. But you obeyed. You stayed right there—balanced on the edge, muscles coiled, every nerve frayed, every breath a battle.

“I wanna feel you break with me,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Don’t let go without me. Not yet. I need—” His voice cracked. “I need this right now.”

You nodded—barely, shakily. “Okay. Okay, baby.”

You rocked your hips slower now, grinding down onto him with control you barely had. Every drag of him inside you made you shake, made your breath falter, made your walls twitch around him in desperate, pulsing waves.

He felt it. He groaned—deep and ruined.

“You’re so close,” he said, almost to himself. “I can feel it. Fuck, you’re… you’re shaking.”

“I have to come,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please—please, Doc—”

“Not yet,” he said again, rasping like it cost him to say it. “Almost, darlin’. Just—almost—”

His hands were all over you now, frantic. One gripped your waist, trying to guide your rhythm, even though his muscles trembled with the effort. The other slid up to your breast, squeezing rough and clumsy, thumb flicking over your nipple like he was trying to coax you into holding out just a little longer. His mouth dragged up to your throat, kissing, biting, panting.

You buried your face in his neck, moaning, biting down to keep yourself from breaking. You could feel your orgasm right there, clawing at the edge of your spine, demanding release.

He bucked up into you again—sloppy but deep—and choked on a groan. “Just a little more, sweetheart. Stay with me. Please. Fuck—I’m so close.”

And you did.

You held out for him.

You held it until your muscles locked, until your legs were shaking and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his chest and shoulder. You held it until your body screamed, until you thought you’d explode just from the tension.

“Now,” he whispered. “Come now.”

Your body obeyed like it had just been waiting for the command.

The second the words left his mouth, everything inside you snapped. Your hips slammed down on him one final time as the tension that had been coiled like wire through your spine exploded—hot and all-consuming.

Pleasure ripped through you so hard it hurt. You clamped down around him, pulsing in sharp, rhythmic waves that left you gasping, keening, grinding against him like you couldn’t get close enough. Your fingers scrambled for purchase—his chest, his shoulders, the slick heat of his skin under your palms—anything to anchor yourself while the world dropped out from under you.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips. Your mouth opened but no words came out, just ragged moans and desperate little sounds you couldn’t hold back.

The pleasure hit you like a storm—sharp, shaking, so big it felt like grief and joy all at once. You weren’t just coming—you were coming undone.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, in his hair, in his shoulders—anything to keep yourself grounded now. But there was nothing solid. Just him. Just Doc. Just the sound of your name falling from his mouth like a prayer as he gripped your hips, holding you flush to him, thrusting up into you with the last of his strength.

Doc cursed—loud, broken—his hands flexing hard on your hips as your release hit him, too. He came with you, gasping your name as his head fell back, voice ragged and ruined.

“God—fuck—yes,” he groaned, hips jerking once, twice, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled everything he had into you.

He held you down, buried deep, and you felt him throb inside you as he came—red-hot and thick, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like it cost him everything. His head dropped back, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body taut with the effort of staying in it until the end.

You rode it out together, bodies shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. You collapsed onto his chest, limp and shaking, your heartbeat crashing in your ears. Sweat soaked the hollow of your back. You could feel his own heart thundering beneath your cheek—wild, irregular, but alive.

His arms slid around you—not tight, not strong—but present. Warm. His chest rose under you, then hitched once. A dry cough broke out, muffled against your temple.

He stayed there, head bowed against you, breath shallow.

And after a long moment, voice worn thin as paper, he said,

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.”

He didn’t say it like a gift. He said it like a confession.

Like it scared him more than the dying ever did.

You tipped your head closer, your voice steady when everything else felt like shaking.

“Then stay alive. For me. For as long as you can”

He didn’t answer. Just tightened his arms around you, fingers trembling where they held on.

And for a while, that was enough.

Seven months along, and you could still feel the weight of his hand on your belly like it had only just left.

Most nights, that memory was the only thing that kept you steady.

You'd learned how to move with the weight of him still inside you—not just the child, but the memory. The ghost of his voice, the echo of his laughter, the shape of his hands cupped over your belly like he could protect it, and you, from what was coming.

You knew the exact night the baby had happened.

Not just because of timing—but because everything about it had been different. No distance, no jokes, no walls between them. Just truth. Desperation. Love, raw and terrifying. He’d held you like he was trying to memorize you, whispered things he’d never dared say before.

You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.

And you’d told him to stay alive for you.

That was the night you'd made the baby. You were sure of it. The way he’d looked at you—like you were the only thing left in the world he couldn’t let go of.

He’d softened in a way you hadn’t thought possible, even as the light behind his eyes began to fade. At first, he’d joked—called you Mama, teased the child to come, offered names both ridiculous and oddly sentimental. But the jokes didn’t last. The coughing got worse. He slept more, ate less. You grew rounder, fuller with life, while he shrank into the bed like the world was letting go of him one piece at a time.

Still, he tried. He rubbed your back when the morning sickness took you under, kissed your neck with lips gone dry, told you you were brave even when he couldn’t lift his head. Once, in the dead of night, fever burning through him, he told you he wished he’d met you when he still had time to become the man you deserved. You held him through that too.

Near the end, words and wit came less often. But when you pressed his hand to your belly, he smiled—small and tired—and closed his eyes like he could feel the future.

“You’ll tell ‘em about me?” he’d rasped one evening.

You'd nodded, kissing his hand and blinking tears into his palm. “Every day.”

He left not but a few days later. No drama. No last gasp. Just a breath that didn’t return, and the sound of the wind outside like it was bowing its head.

The shame came soon after.

Unmarried. Alone. A woman with a swollen belly and no ring, no name but your own, and the memory of a dying man, whispered in your bones. They watched you pass in town—some with pity, others with tight-mouthed judgment. A gambler’s bastard, they said. A disgrace. A foolish girl who’d let love make you reckless.

Some nodded stiffly when you passed, like it pained them to acknowledge you at all. Others looked straight through you, eyes fixed ahead like you weren't even there. A few murmured your name in church, always just loud enough to be heard but never loud enough to offer comfort. No one said his name. Not in public. Not where it might stick to them. As if mourning a drunk gambler made you foolish.

But you kept walking. Chin up. Spine straight. Hand resting on the life inside you like it was the holiest thing you'd ever carried.

He’d asked you to live. To carry on.

And so you would.

You talked to the baby when it kicked, when it quieted. Told stories—about his sharp tongue and wicked grin, the way he held a pistol, the way he’d held you. You told it about the night the baby came to be. How he’d fallen apart in your arms and found something worth holding on to, if only for a little while.

Your house was quieter now. Lonelier. But when the wind rustled the curtains and the floor creaked just so, you liked to believe he was still here. Watching you. Walking beside you. Waiting for the child you made between heartbreak and hope.

You would see it through. For him. For what you’d made with him in the space between living and dying.