Sammy

"Why does Santa have an airplane?" she asked. "And where are his reindeer? And why are the elves getting in airplanes, too?"

You were saved from having to answer her questions as the aircraft engines fired to life for the finale of the show, and you put her ear protection back in place before putting your own earplugs back in. Honestly, you didn't know how to explain to your child who still believed in the magic of Christmas why Santa was taking off in a jet that said ROOSTER on the side of it. Frankly there were a lot of things you didn't know how to explain to her.

She clapped her hands when the jets swooped overhead in an impossible looking formation before looping back around and doing it again. Your heart melted as you watched her wave to the lead jet and shout, "Hi, Santa!" The planes roared overhead and shot upwards before coming back one by one to the land on the runway with such incredible looking ease.

When she whipped her headphones off herself this time, your daughter jumped to her feet with a huge smile on her face. "Let's go talk to Santa," she said, reaching back for your hand. 

But you already had your eyes glued on the pilot who quickly replaced his helmet with a white beard and Saint Nick hat. You couldn't help but watch him, enjoying that distant glimpse of him before he went into full Santa character again. He looked tall and strong as he climbed down the ladder in his bright red flight suit, and you had to look away as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks. He waved to everyone in the crowd, and it felt like he was waving right at the two of you.

"Mommy!"

You knew she wasn't going to be deterred from this mission, so you got to your feet and let her tug you along as you tried to fold the towel one handed. "Sweetheart, Santa and his elves might be too busy to talk to us right now," you warned her as the group of six elves in bright green flight suits started fist bumping Santa Claus. And your steps faltered, because Santa somehow just got more attractive the closer you got.

------------------------

"Who let you be Santa anyway?" Jake asked, tugging on his red and green striped hat with enormous elf ears attached to the sides. "This elf bullshit is a damn disgrace."

"I volunteered to be Santa before the rest of you got a chance. Do I look like I'd make a good elf?" Bradley asked, and Jake rolled his eyes. "No. I do not." He was the tallest one in the group, and luckily he was able to sweet talk Maverick into letting him be the one to don the beard and the red flight suit for today's Miramar for the Holidays event they all volunteered to fly for. 

"Maverick should have mixed things up and made me Santa," Nat said with her chin in the air. 

"But you're the cutest little elf I've ever seen," Bradley told her, earning a smack on the back of his arm from her helmet. "Ow!"

"Wait, are we complaining?" Mickey asked. "I like being an elf. And apparently we get free food and hot cocoa in the volunteers tent."

"Oh, shit. Really?" Reuben asked, craning his neck to look toward the tent in question.

Bradley was about to remind everyone that they were obligated to pose for photos with kids when he heard a voice calling out, "Santa! Hey, Santa!" He turned toward the four foot tall chain link fence as an adorable little girl dragged a grown woman in his direction. 

"Hey guys, we got company," he told the others as he adjusted his white beard and red hat. When he waved toward the child, she squealed in delight, and Bradley couldn't help but laugh. As she and the woman he assumed was her mom approached the fence, Bradley leaned on the top of it. 

"Ho, Ho, Ho! What's your name, Kiddo?" he asked her with a bright smile. But his gaze inadvertently shifted to how gorgeous you looked as you held her hand, and he gave you a wink. He wouldn't mind learning your name, too.

But the little girl was eyeing him skeptically. "Shouldn't you already know my name? My mom said I'm on the nice list!" she exclaimed, gesturing up toward you.

Oh. Shit. "Uh, well, you see..."

Luckily you bailed him out with an apologetic look. "Ellie, don't be rude to Santa. He probably didn't update our names to our new address yet."

"Oh. Yeah," Bradley said, nodding in agreement and smiling. "Of course now I recognize you, Ellie. And your mom, too. Rest assured, you're both on the nice list."

But the girl wasn't convinced. "Why aren't you fatter?"

You brought your hand up to cover your face and groaned as Bradley laughed. "I needed to be able to fit in my jet."

"Why do you have a jet? Where's your sleigh?"

Bradley jerked his thumb toward the others milling around behind him. "My elves and I are trying out our jets this year. Something new."

"What about your reindeer?" she asked, undeterred. You were looking at Bradley and half smiling, half grimacing as you mouthed I'm sorry. But he didn't mind at all. Ellie was keeping him on his toes. 

"Uh... they have the year off, per their union contracts. You certainly have a lot of questions, Ellie."

She nodded up at him with her hands on her hips. "I just want to make sure you're the real Santa. I've seen a lot of impostors at the mall."

Bradley had to stifle his laughter as you said, "I had no idea she was going to be like this. I'm so sorry, Santa."

"It's fine," he reassured you, noting that you weren't wearing any rings before he returned his attention to your daughter. "Okay, Ellie. What's it going to take for you to believe I'm really Santa?"

Her brow scrunched as she contemplated his question, and Bradley used the time to check you out. It was useless, he knew that, since he looked like an idiot in his fake beard at the moment. But damn, you were pretty. And your daughter was like a tiny, inquisitive version of you.

"Well," Ellie said with a little smirk, "you should know how old I am if you're the real Santa."

You quickly held your hand up over her head to help him out, and he counted your fingers. "Of course I know that you're five years old."

Ellie's eyes softened a bit as she said, "That's right! And what's my favorite color?"

This time you juggled the items you were holding and lifted up a set of noise canceling headphones. "That's easy," Bradley replied. "I know you love pink." 

Now Ellie was smiling up at Bradley as she said, "And if you still need to update our new address, then you must know where we moved here from."

Bradley glanced up to see you pretending to shiver and rub your hands along your arms. "You moved here from somewhere cold."

"That's right!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "It's you! You're Santa!"

"It's really me," Bradley said, sending her a wink and nodding at you as you bit your lip and grinned. "And don't you worry, I'll have my elves take care of getting your new address straightened out. But first, I need you to prove that you're the real Ellie."

She nodded in excitement. "Ask me anything!"

"What grade are you in?"

"Kindergarten," she said, eyes filled with joy.

"Yep, that's right. Only the real Ellie would know that." You were laughing now, and Bradley loved the way it sounded. "And what's your favorite animal?"

"Pandas!" 

"Mmhmm," he hummed, pretending he was impressed that she was passing this quiz with flying colors. "I'm almost convinced it's really you."

"Seriously," she told him. "Ask me anything, because I'm sure I'm not an impostor."

Bradley glanced up at you and smirked before leaning on the fence again, and then asked Ellie, "Tell me, Kiddo. What's your mom's name?"

She blurted it out immediately, and Bradley committed it to memory. When he looked up at you again, your gaze was focused on the ground, but you looked pleased if not a little sad. He wanted to know why. 

"Would the two of you like to come in here and look at the North Pole jets?" he asked, and Ellie started bouncing up and down immediately. 

"We don't want to waste any more of your time, Santa," you told him with an apologetic look. 

"You wouldn't be," he promised, and when he said your name, you smiled and looked off to the side like you were embarrassed. "Come around the fence. You can meet my elves." He pointed to the gate a ways down where a security guard was standing. Bradley waved to him and gave him a thumbs up which the guard returned. "Santa gets special privileges."

"Fine," you said softly. "We'll just come around and meet you then?"

"Looking forward to it," he replied, and then Ellie was taking off for the fence opening with you right behind her. Bradley turned toward the others and clapped his hands. "Listen up. This little girl, Ellie, thinks I'm really Santa," he informed them. "And she thinks you're all my elves."

"Fuck," Jake groaned. 

"I'm really hungry," Bob whispered. 

"I refuse to be nice to you, even in front of a child," Nat said blandly.

"Whatever," Reuben and Javy said in unison.

"I'm so excited!" Mickey giggled, adjusting his elf ears. 

"Just be nice, okay? Here she comes... with her mom," Bradley said, really enjoying the sight of you headed his way. He cleared his throat and knelt down as Ellie streaked toward him. 

"Can I sit in one of the North Pole jets?" Ellie asked while you shook your head apologetically. 

"Really, feel free to tell her no."

But Bradley just smiled and adjusted his white beard before he scooped the child up and stood. You looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and intrigue as he said, "Sure, Kiddo, if you think you can climb that ladder? It's really tall."

"Yeah, I can do it!" Ellie said, looking past him at his F/A-18 and clapping.

"Sound okay, Mom?" he asked you, and you bit your lip and smiled. 

"Great. While Ellie and I are up there talking about what's on her Christmas list, why don't you give your information to my sweetest and most loyal elf, Phoenix."

Nat rolled her eyes at him so hard before she turned to you with a smile, and Bradley had to walk away before he started laughing too hard to stay in character. 

"Your elf is named Phoenix?" Ellie asked as he carried her toward the ladder. "What are the other ones named?"

Bradley chuckled. "They're all pretty silly sounding," he said as he set her down a few rungs from the bottom. "The big one is Payback. The one who can't stop smiling is Fanboy. The one that's yawning is Coyote. Bob is the one with glasses. And the cranky one is Hangman."

"He looks like he could use a candy cane," she said as she started to climb. 

"I think you're probably right. I should feed all of them more sweets." 

Once they reached the top, he hoisted her over the edge and climbed onto the seat behind her. "Do you want to talk about what's on your Christmas list?"

"Yeah," she said with a sigh as she plopped down on his knee and looked at him with concern. "We didn't bring most of our decorations and stuff when we moved, because there were already too many boxes."

"Oh," Bradley grunted, patting her on the shoulder. Now he was even more curious than before about where the two of you had moved from and why as his gaze met yours where you stood below with Phoenix. "Well you'll need a Christmas tree for your presents to go under."

She nodded and finally smiled when Bradley looked at her again. "The only thing I really want is a pink one!"

He blinked at her a few times. "A pink tree?"

"Yeah!  A pink Christmas tree! And an art set with pink paint."

Bradley nodded, figuring he could probably make that happen. "Sounds monochromatic but fun. Anything else?"

Ellie looked down at you and waved. Your brilliant smile for your daughter was so lovely, Bradley found himself waving too, which made you laugh. "Nothing else for me," Ellie whispered. "But something for my mom."

"Oh yeah?" he grunted when you blew a kiss up to them. Damn. He knew it was for your daughter, but he kind of wanted one of his own. "What do you think Santa should bring for your mom?"

"A boyfriend."

His gaze jerked back to Ellie's, but she looked completely serious. "You want me to get your mom a boyfriend?"

She nodded and said, "One that's tall and will play dolls with me sometimes and eat dinner at our new house. And he has to be really nice. Just like my dad was."

Bradley leaned in a little closer and wrapped his arm around her narrow shoulders. "What happened to your dad?"

"He died last year," she said matter-of-factly. "But I'm sure you knew him, because he was definitely on the nice list."s

------------------------------

You watched as your daughter gave the naval aviator she was convinced was Santa Claus a big hug. He actually looked a bit ridiculous in the bright red flight suit and hat with the white beard, but Ellie seemed to have bonded with him in some way. They were laughing together about something she whispered to him, and then he was patting her head. 

"I'll see what I can do for you, okay Ellie?" he told her, and you wondered if his voice really was that deep all the time. 

"Thanks, Santa!" She came trotting over to you and took you by the hand. "I'm ready to go home now," she told you with a smile as the 'elves' waved goodbye. A startled laugh escaped you, because the entire afternoon felt very surreal. You just gave your phone number and your new address to someone named Phoenix who was dressed as an elf even though she was definitely also a naval pilot. And now you were waving to Santa Claus who you were left to assume was named Bradley Bradshaw based on what was painted on the side of his jet. 

"Did you have a fun time with Santa?" you asked as you walked back toward the opening in the gate, chuckling at your own words. 

"Yeah. He's really nice. I could have probably stayed and talked to him all night," she replied, and when you turned back he was still looking at you. The casual wave of his hand made your heart skip a beat. You really wanted this again. That familiarity with another person. The ease. The perpetually happy child next to you.

"Yeah... he seems pretty great."

But you were really annoyed with yourself when you spent nearly a full hour after you got Ellie in bed imagining what his face might look like without the fake beard. It had barely been three months since you stopped wearing your wedding rings. It was just over a year ago that your husband died unexpectedly. You were decidedly not in the market for dating anyone while Ellie was this young, because she deserved all of your attention. So why were you thinking about this Bradley guy and how sweet he was with your daughter?

You collapsed onto your bed and grabbed your phone from the nightstand. You didn't do the wordle yet for today, and you still needed to check the weather for tomorrow. But you got distracted by a text from a number you didn't recognize. 

Hey, it's Bradley Bradshaw. I mean Santa. I hope you don't mind me texting you.

You sat up in your bed so quickly. Your stomach lurched as butterflies took up residence, and your fingers quivered a little bit as you gripped your phone. What were you supposed to do? "Text him back," you muttered to yourself. "Get a grip." 

You looked across the room at your wedding photo on your dresser. It had been in one of the few moving boxes you managed to unpack already, and it made you smile every time you looked at it. Right now was no exception; that was one of the best days of your life. But when you looked back down at your phone, you didn't feel a pang of sadness or regret. You felt intrigued. So you saved Bradley's number and then texted him back.

I don't mind one bit. I'm happy to have the chance to thank you again for earlier. You made Ellie's day! Mine, too!

And then you waited with your phone in your hand, half embarrassed and half excited by the idea of getting another text from him.

Bradley 'Santa' Bradshaw: Your daughter is a bit of a spitfire. I was very entertained by her. And there's no need to thank me. It was the highlight of my day.

Dealing with your sassy five year old was the highlight of his day? You squealed and had to set your phone down while you walked around your room for a few minutes. The highlight of his day? He was a fighter pilot! He flew a jet around at the air show!

"Oh god," you groaned, crawling back across your bed to your phone. You were already a lost cause. Over a man who had been dressed as Santa Claus? Ridiculous.

But now you were scrambling over what to type back to him. Send him a Santa emoji? No. You were flustered as you sent him the first random thing that came to your mind.

You make a great Santa. You know, in case you ever contemplate a career change.

You looked at the words on your phone screen and cringed. You glanced back at your wedding photo and sighed. If that was your best attempt at flirting, then it was amazing you'd ever been married at all. And this man you met today didn't even seem bothered that you had a kid. That was a miracle in itself. You got ready to toss your phone aside for the night when he sent back a smiling emoji and another text.

Bradley 'Santa' Bradshaw: I'll keep that in mind as a potential retirement gig. 

You wanted to tell him he looked pretty good in a fake beard. You wanted to tell him you were curious what he looked like without it. You wanted to keep him talking a little bit longer, because you could feel the adrenaline fueled blood pumping through your body, and it felt exciting. But before you could even say anything else, Bradley had you burying your face in your pillow so you could scream without waking Ellie up.

Bradley 'Santa' Bradshaw: But here's the thing. I'm an absolute sucker for cute girls. When can I see the two of you again?

------------------------

Bradley had to wait a little bit for a response from you, and he was sweating. He didn't want to push too hard, especially after Ellie told him her dad died, but he was intrigued. Plus, he was already googling pink Christmas trees. 

Ellie's Mom: Ellie and I are kind of suckers for sweet Santas. What did you have in mind?

He lounged back in his bed with a smile on his face. Was he about to drop five hundred bucks on an eight foot tall pink tree? Hell yes. Especially since you just called him sweet. 

Ellie asked Santa for a pink Christmas tree. I want to order it tonight if you can confirm it will fit in your house. And then I'd love to come by and set it up one day.

You wrote back almost immediately after he sent the link to the tree. 

Ellie's Mom: You don't have to buy that for her! It's so expensive! Honestly, you don't need to buy her anything!

Bradley sighed. The kid thought he was really Santa Claus, so there was no way she wasn't getting a pink tree and a pink art kit. It was the boyfriend request that made him chuckle, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't interested in the idea of seeing you again. 

But I want to. Any chance you can measure the space for me?

He had to wait a little bit longer again for you to answer, but this time he was rewarded with photos that had him sitting up in bed and staring at his phone. 

Ellie's Mom: I can't find a measuring tape in all these moving boxes, but here's the spot where a tree could go. And here I am for reference.

You were smiling in the selfies, looking a little shy but just as pretty as earlier today, and you had on a shirt that looked so soft, he wanted to touch it. "God damn it," he grunted, already tapping out a response. 

I think Santa should stop by in person and check the measurements, just to be on the safe side. Also, you're gorgeous.

"Oh fuck," groaned after he hit send. He really didn't mean to come on so strong, especially since he just met you. He busied himself with ordering the pink tree that he was sure would fit in that spot along with some colorful ornaments and tried not to count the minutes until you wrote back.

Ellie's Mom: We'll be home on Monday evening. I'm sure Ellie would love another visit from Santa. And so would I.

Bradley wrote back letting you know roughly what time he could stop by, and then he started to formulate a plan. 

On Monday, in the locker room after work, he changed out of his regular flight suit and showered before zipping himself into his bright red one. His measuring tape, beard and Santa hat were already waiting in the Bronco, and he swung by his favorite bakeshop on his way out of Coronado. The place was packed with customers placing orders for Christmas goodies, so he was happy he decided to call ahead. He grabbed the box he already paid for and got back on the road, following his GPS across the city to the outskirts of town.

Your place was a cute town home with a pink Christmas wreath on the door and the windows lit with a warm glow as the sun set. Bradley got his Santa beard and hat situated using his rearview mirror, and then he grabbed the box and the measuring tape and made his way up to the front porch. As soon as he knocked, his heart beat a little faster, and a few seconds later, you were opening the door for him with a smile. 

"Hey, Santa," you said softly with a crooked little smile. Bradley took you in from head to toe, his eyes catching on your lips and your pink sweater as he heard Ellie come bounding down the stairs. 

"Santa!"

He looked past you just in time to see your daughter come streaking toward him wearing a pink dress and launching herself into his arms. He bent and caught her a little awkwardly as he laughed. "What are you doing here?" she asked as she hugged him. 

"Came to make sure you're still on the good list." Bradley grinned up at you where you stood biting your lip. "Well, Mom? Has she been listening and behaving?"

You nodded. "Yes, Santa. She's been very well behaved."

"Excellent," he replied, releasing Ellie and handing her the box which she opened right away.

She gasped and looked up at him. "Pink Christmas cookies?"

"Yeah, I just thought the two of you might like something sweet."

You were looking at him with softly parted lips, and then you said, "Aren't we supposed to be leaving cookies out for you later this month?"

"I wouldn't complain if you did," he replied as Ellie handed you a pink snowflake cookie. He watched you bite into it, and he realized he was staring. 

"Want one?" Ellie asked, tugging on his hand. 

"No, those are for the two of you, Kiddo. I'm really here to measure the room for your pink tree. I want to drop it off before Christmas so there's something for your presents to go under."

Ellie screeched and nearly dropped the cookies all over the floor as you took the box from her. She pulled Bradley into the living room and showed him where she wanted her tree to go, and then she helped him measure the space while she asked him what he wanted for Christmas.

"Does Mrs. Claus get you something every year?" she asked, eyes wide and focused on him. 

He wasn't sure how to answer her as he knelt on the floor with the measuring tape in his hand. So he decided to just be honest. "I actually don't have a Mrs. Claus yet."

When Ellie's eyes drifted from him up to you where you stood a few feet away, Bradley couldn't help but follow suit. "Mommy," she whispered. "We need to get something for Santa."

"Okay," you whispered back, barely glancing at Bradley before looking back at your daughter. "We can do that."

Ellie turned back to him and asked, "If I leave a present under the tree on Christmas Eve, will you know it's for you when you get here?"

"Of course. Just write my name on it so I know it's mine." Then she kissed him on his cheek right above his white beard, and Bradley melted a little bit inside. 

--------------------------

You and your daughter waved from your front door as Santa left with his tape measure and one of the pink cookies. Ellie insisted he take the one that was decorated like a reindeer with him, and you watched as he ate it while he started up his vintage blue Bronco. When he honked and waved goodbye, Ellie jumped up and down. 

"Santa's bringing me a pink tree!" she gushed, and honestly, you were feeling a little silly over that man, too. Your skin tingled as you closed the door and looked at the rest of the cookies. You felt like he was spoiling the two of you even though you barely knew him. 

"Let's go get ready for bed," you whispered, ushering her toward the stairs before you took the cookies to your kitchen to have a moment to yourself. Last Christmas had been a nightmare as it was just a few weeks after you lost your husband, and now you'd moved to San Diego to have a fresh start with a new job and a new school and a new city. You couldn't handle another holiday in the house that the three of you had shared. 

California was warm and welcoming, but the last thing you had expected to find here right away was a man that made your heart skip a beat. You knew your husband wouldn't want you to give up the idea of dating someone else, but you'd convinced yourself that nobody would want the two of you even though Ellie was a sweet kid. 

You set the pretty cookies down on the counter and sighed. Bradley didn't seem to mind that Ellie was around. If anything, he seemed to really like her. He was buying her a tree even though you told him he didn't have to do that. You were more than capable of getting one, but he wasn't going to be deterred. 

And Ellie definitely liked him, helped in part by the fact that she seemed completely convinced he was actually Santa. 

"You don't even really know what his face looks like," you groaned as you closed the box and headed upstairs. It didn't even matter though, because you could still tell he was handsome with the kind of brown eyes you just wanted to keep looking at. But how embarrassing were you? Crushing on him like this.

After you got Ellie in bed, you texted Bradley to say thank you, and he wrote back immediately. 

Bradley 'Santa' Bradshaw: It was my pleasure.

You imagined him saying those words in his deep voice in person, and you were still thinking about him the next morning when you woke up. You picked up your framed wedding photo and sighed in exasperation. "He reminds me a bit of you, honestly," you told your deceased husband who smiled back from the frame. "He's funny and kind of sweet. Maybe I just miss you. I don't know."

But you found yourself unable to get much work done from your home office while Ellie was at school. You kept sneaking down to the kitchen to get pink cookies, and by late afternoon, you caved like a house of cards and texted Bradley.

I can't stop thinking about what you might look like without your Santa beard and hat.

You set your phone down on your desk and stared at it. What were you, fucking insane or something? You must be. After twenty minutes with no response, you grabbed a sweatshirt and went for a walk around the block without your phone. You had forgotten how to flirt. That had to be what was going on here. You no longer knew how to be normal or subtle in any way, because it had been so long since you needed to be. When you moved to San Diego to start over again, you must have forgotten to pack your ability to act chill in front of men you were attracted to. 

You stood on your front porch and took a deep breath before heading back inside. You needed to stop this. After Bradley came back with the pink tree for Ellie, he wasn't going to want to keep hanging out anyway. It was better to just stop this thing in its tracks right now. You ran back upstairs to your desk and grabbed your phone. He probably hadn't responded yet, which was great, because you could text him again and tell him you were just joking.

"Haha," you muttered as you sat down. "Just kidding, Santa."

But he had already replied. Oh. And he sent a selfie. Oh my. "Oh my god." He was even hotter than you imagined. He had a mustache. A real one, not the white one. He wasn't wearing the red hat either, and as a result, you got to see how soft his light brown curls looked. And he was smiling, his lips and his eyes already familiar to you. Then you made a small, strangled sound as you read the accompanying text.

Bradley 'Santa' Bradshaw: Greetings from North Island... I mean, the North Pole. And by the way, I can't stop thinking about you either.

You literally melted out of your chair and onto the spare bedroom floor. You thought about reaching for your computer to put up your out of office message, but you couldn't stop looking at the photo long enough to focus on anything else. You were laying on your back looking at your phone, and you nearly dropped it on your face when he wrote back again.

Bradley 'Santa' Bradshaw: The tree should arrive on Thursday. I was thinking I could take a half day at work and come over to set it up on Friday afternoon while Ellie is at school? Then I could see you again, too...

You rolled onto your front and started typing. Of course you wanted him to come back on Friday. You hit send before you realized that you'd be here alone with him. You'd have no five year old to buffer yourself from almost certain embarrassment.

-------------------------

Everyone else was picking out poinsettias or red and green blooms, but when Bradley got to the florist, he asked for a big bouquet of pink flowers as well as a smaller one. Just pink flowers. Nothing else. He paid and left with both of them in one hand and ran back across the street to his Bronco. 

He was running late. He told you he'd be there around one o'clock, but it was already half past. Of course he needed to shower before he left work at noon, since he smelled like jet fuel, and then he had to stop back at home and load the tree and everything else into the Bronco before he could head to your place. 

The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn't want to spend as much time with you and Ellie as possible right now. Frankly he was looking forward to spending a little time alone with you, even if it was just while he was putting the tree up. When he finally made it across town, he checked the time and winced before running up the sidewalk and knocking. And if he was already a little bit out of breath, it only got worse when you opened the door and smiled at him. 

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I realized on my way here that I must have been overzealous when I told you I would be here by one."

You grinned and shrugged. "It's okay. Come on in." You closed the door behind him and asked, "Are those for Ellie?" You were gesturing at the flowers he forgot he was holding. 

"Oh," he said, pulling the bouquets apart. "One's for you." Your eyes went wide as he held the bigger bunch out, and your fingers brushed his when you took it. "The little one's for Ellie."

You were looking up at him in surprise and your voice was soft as you said, "Thank you." 

"Yeah, well, I didn't know what your favorite color was, so I went all in on the pink."

You were grinning again as you buried your nose in one of the fuchsia colored roses. "It's pink. Good job, Santa."

Bradley laughed. "I should have known. The two of you have me seeing pink everywhere now."

"I'm not sorry about that," you said, reaching for the other bouquet. "I'll put these in the kitchen."

He handed it over and said, "And I'll bring the tree inside." He watched you turn away from him, and he kept his eyes on you until you were almost out of sight which resulted in you turning around and catching him staring. He didn't mind. 

Bradley made two trips inside with the tree and all of the lights and ornaments, but you must have still been in the kitchen. Or maybe you went upstairs or something. He'd been hoping you wanted to hang out a little bit and chat, but he already had the enormous tree box open with pink branches spilling out of it when you returned with two mugs. 

"I made you some hot chocolate." 

Nobody had made him a mug of hot chocolate since he was a kid himself. "You did?"

"Yeah. But if you don't want it, that's fine." You looked a little shy now, so he stood and reached for the pink mug you were offering to him. 

"I love hot chocolate. I just don't drink it much now that I live where it's usually warm."

"Where are you from?" you asked before you pursed your pretty lips and blew on your drink.

Bradley smirked. "Would I be remiss if I told you I'm actually from Virginia and not the North Pole?"

Your bright laughter had him taking a step closer to you. "Not at all. Just don't tell Ellie that. She's already working on a Christmas present for you. I mean for Santa."

"Is she really?" he asked, suddenly unable to stop smiling. When you nodded, he asked, "What is it?

"I can't tell you! That would ruin the surprise."

"Yeah... don't tell me. I wouldn't want to disappoint her." Bradley took a sip before setting his mug down on a coaster and kneeling in front of the tree box. 

You cleared your throat as he started pulling branches out. "How long have you been living in San Diego?"

"About six years. I finally got a permanent station at North Island after moving around. A lot." He lined all of the pieces up on the floor as you took a few steps closer. 

"How old are you?" you asked him. When he glanced up, you added, "If you don't mind me asking."

He smiled. "I don't mind you asking me anything you want to ask me. I'm thirty seven."

"How are you possibly single?" you blurted out before hiding your mug in front of your mouth. "I'm sorry." You paced back and forth across the living room a few times as you said, "I'm so bad at this. Like epically bad at it. Because I haven't had to do it in so long."

"Do what?" he asked, trying not to laugh as you came to a stop right in front of him. 

You made a cute little sound before you whispered, "I have forgotten how to even attempt to flirt with a man."

He had to press his lips together to hold his laughter in. You were actually serious right now. "I thought you were doing alright."

"You did?" you asked, gaping up at him. 

"Yeah. I mean, you sent me those cute selfies when you didn't have a measuring tape."

You licked your lips and took a step away from him. "No one has called me cute since my husband died."

Bradley could feel his lungs deflating. He hated that you had to live through that. He was also selfishly a little afraid you were going to tell him you weren't looking to date again. This was really the only reason he hadn't asked you out already. Well, that and the fact that your daughter was currently convinced he was Santa Claus. 

But he thought he should try his luck. "Someone should be calling you cute every day. You and Ellie both. Like I said, I'm a complete sucker for cute girls."

You looked a little flustered now as you sipped your hot chocolate, so Bradley returned to his mission of putting the massive tree together in the corner of your living room. When he paused to drink from his own mug, you came over to help him. Wordlessly, the two of you assembled it until it was too tall for you to reach. 

When you handed the top part of the tree to him, he whispered, "Thanks." Your hand seemed to linger on his. Or maybe he imagined it. 

"It's nice having someone so tall around," you said. "You must have no problems putting your own tree up."

"Nah," he said, sliding the last piece into place. "I don't even put one up at home. Seems like a waste when it's just for me."

"You don't have a tree?" you asked, and your hand came to rest on his forearm. Bradley's eyes snapped to yours as you said, "If you can continue to handle all the pink... maybe you'd want to come back over and enjoy this one with us?"

"As Santa?" he asked. "I really got myself into a mess with Ellie, didn't I?"

You bit your lip as you looked up at him. "Yeah... she's kind of attached to Santa now."

Bradley was fighting the urge to just kiss you, because you were right there. And you probably tasted like hot chocolate. And the closer you got, the prettier you looked. 

"Should we add the lights?" you asked softly, your hand still on his left arm. "Before Ellie gets home?"

Very slowly, he raised his right hand so there would be no doubt in your mind what was coming. He traced your cheek with his fingertips as your eyes fluttered closed. "Yeah. Let's do the lights and the decorations before she gets back. I didn't bring my beard and my hat today."

"Okay," you breathed, leaning into his touch for a beat before you released his arm and pulled away. "I'll... get the lights ready." You turned and started to open some of the boxes of white twinkle lights while Bradley got the ornaments opened up.

He took out the pink and silver star, and when he reached up toward the top branches, you wrapped the lights around him and the tree at the same time. "If you want to keep me here with you, just say so. You don't need to tie me up."

You laughed. "I couldn't keep you even if I wanted to. You're Santa Claus, remember? You have a million toys to deliver next week."

Bradley caught you gently by the arm as you looped the lights around his back again. "To be crystal clear, I'm only doing this for you and Ellie. Nobody else."

You wrapped the lights a little tighter and said, "To be crystal clear, I like the way that sounds."

Bradley smirked as you finally loosened the strand and freed him. "Listen," he said as he followed you slowly around the tree as you put the lights on correctly this time. "Santa doesn't have time to play games before Christmas. He's very busy."

"Really?" you asked, looking back at him as you strung the lights higher and higher on the pink tree. "This kind of feels like a game to me, Santa."

He took over with the strand once it got too high for you to reach, and when he was done, he watched you pick up one of the boxes of ornaments. There were a bunch of pink and blue hearts and stars, and you smiled up at him. So he decided to go for it. Because he knew this was a rare opportunity he'd been given. "Santa is actually pretty serious right now. About you."

When you immediately returned your gaze to the box in your hands, Bradley ran his hands through his hair. You looked a little flustered again, just like you had when you claimed you forgot how to flirt. Whatever you were doing to him, he liked it. He liked how it felt to be around you and Ellie, too. He ducked behind the tree to plug the lights in, illuminating everything in a soft, pink glow, and then he tried to find the energy to help you finish the tree without pushing this any further.

"Hey, Santa?"

"Yeah?" he replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached for an ornament from the box you were holding. 

You seemed to weigh your words before you said them which had Bradley's heart beating a little faster before you even spoke. "I wasn't planning on anything serious. Not really ever again."

"Oh." Serious was the kind of thing he was looking for now. Serious was actually what he wanted. He hung the pretty blue heart shaped ornament and then let his hand fall to his side. His heart felt heavy like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake as you reached up in front of his face to hang a pink and white heart next to his blue one.

"At least that's what I thought before we moved here," you added.

He looked at you with one raised eyebrow. "Something changed your mind?"

"More like someone," you whispered, handing him another pink heart ornament which he carefully hung just above the other two. He wanted to know for sure if he was the one that changed your mind, but you pulled your phone out of your pocket and gasped. 

"Ellie's bus should be here in a couple minutes."

"Right," he said softly. You and he finished decorating the tree, not so subtly stealing glances at each other the whole time. If there was even a chance with you, he wanted to take it, but he didn't want to press any harder today. 

When he reached for his empty mug, you shook your head and said, "You can leave it. I'll clean up later."

"Okay." With nothing else keeping him at your house he started to head for the front door, but you caught his hand in yours. 

"Wait." Your eyes were wide and a little hesitant, but when you tugged gently, he went willingly, slowly closing the distance between you body and his. "Thank you. For the tree and the ornaments. And the cookies. And the flowers."

He shook his head. "It's my pleasure. You don't have to thank me again."

"But I want to," you whispered, running your thumb along the back of his hand. "I want to do a lot of things. But they feel a little scary." When you paused, he didn't rush you. Your eyes were taking in every detail of his face, and you were smiling softly. "Things I haven't done in a long time. Things I never anticipated I'd be doing again. At least not while Ellie is so young."

Bradley opened his mouth, intending to tell you he could wait a few weeks or months to ask you out if that would make things easier for you, but you tugged gently on his hand again, rendering him silent. When your other hand came to rest on his chest, he held his breath. Your gaze stayed locked on your hand as you slowly guided it up along his shoulder and collarbone until it came to rest gently on the scars on the side of his neck. 

The soft stroke of your thumb and even the gentle flex of your fingers could have brought him to his knees. And then you finally met his eyes. "I really want to," you murmured as you stood on tiptoes, your chest brushing his. Bradley's brain took a beat longer to respond than his heart did, but when you tilted your face up to his and let your eyes flutter shut, he closed the distance to your lips with his. 

And it was perfect. The softest kiss of his life, but he could feel his entire body responding to you. With a soft gasp, you released his lips, but you didn't go far. When you met his eyes, you must have liked what you saw there, because you kissed him again. And again. And when Bradley guided your other hand around his neck, you kissed him a little deeper. 

"Oh," you gasped, running your nose along his cheek as your fingers teased the back of his neck. When your lips met his again, he held you close with his hands on your lower back, and Bradley decided he could do this forever. All of it. The pink flowers and decorating the tree and the perfect kisses. 

Then the front door knob rattled, and you broke away from his lips. Your eyes looked hazy at first, and you had the prettiest smile on your face before you pulled yourself out of his grasp as Ellie came inside. Your daughter looked back and forth between the two of you as you pressed your fingertips to your lips, and Bradley winced as Ellie asked him, "Who are you?"

-----------------------------

Bradley! I mean, Santa! Where is your beard?! I hope you loved part one! Part two is coming soon. This one took a village so thank you to @mak-32 @beyondthesefourwalls @thedroneranger and @cherrycola27

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He sighed and glanced between you and the enormous pool behind the house you grew up in just outside San Diego. "Tomorrow morning. We will talk about it at breakfast," he said sternly. But then you watched his features crack into that soft smile he only ever shared with you. "I'm really proud of you, Sweetheart. You'll do big things."

Your annoyance with him melted away. "Thanks, Daddy." Most of your motivation to succeed came from him and his own personal success, but he worked nearly all the time. You would find a way to balance out a summer internship along with hanging by the pool and partying with your friends. You'd spent years perfecting this routine in college so that you graduated first in your class while still devoting your weekends to your sorority sisters and fraternizing with the fraternity boys.

Your father kissed the top of your head, and once he was gone, you rolled onto your belly. You wanted to feel the glorious heat from the California sun on every bit of your skin. While you enjoyed the different seasons on the east coast and the beautiful Ivy League campus, you certainly missed this weather. You were half tempted to untie your bikini top now that you were alone, but your father always had a parade of his colleagues and employees coming through the house to talk shop. And a lot of them were older and ex-military, and your dad would have a fit. You smiled, because that made you want to do it even more.

You spent all morning and most of the afternoon laying out by the pool with a book that wasn't holding your interest and your enormous water cup. You only ventured inside to get lunch where you waved off your father's chef when she tried to make something for you. It was her job, but you were twenty four and far less helpless than your father when it came to most things around the house. You made a sandwich and took it back out to the pool where the groundskeeper was testing the water. 

Everyone here was calling you 'Miss' which was already getting on your nerves. Nobody cared who you were when you were strolling through campus at the University of Pennsylvania, because their mommys and daddys were even wealthier and more famous than your dad. They just called you by your first name and let you blend in. 

"Miss, the pool chemicals look good," the groundskeeper told you. "Enjoy your swim."

Before he wandered off to work on his next chore, you called out, "Thank you." The funny thing was, your dad never used the pool. All he did was work. He probably only kept it open for the past six years while you were away in Philadelphia just in case you wanted to use it when you were home on breaks. 

And that's what had you walking over to the edge and dipping your toes in the water. There was a bit of a chill to it, probably because the sun had warmed you to your bones. Goosebumps ripped along your skin, and your nipples furled softly in your bikini top. You were suddenly very aware of your body as you heard your dad's booming laughter coming from inside the house along with dress shoes on the Calacatta marble floor. 

You swirled your toes around again as you turned to look through the open French doors at the group of men and women all in black suits. Most of them were as old as your dad with graying hair and scowling faces that conveyed how little they appreciated having their time wasted. All except for one. He was younger and taller than the rest, and he was the only person you knew by name. You hadn't seen him since you were home in December, but Bradley Bradshaw looked just as good now in his navy blue suit as he had with a glass of champagne and pink cheeks in his silk Fair Isle sweater at your father's holiday party. Maybe even better.

Now that he was a mere fifty feet away from you, it surprised you a bit that you hadn't really thought about him in months. His brown eyes met yours and he took a few steps to separate himself from the group. He shot a crooked little grin your way, and you smiled back before your eyes shifted to the pristine pool water. 

That night had been fun, even though your dad insisted you wear a modest forest green dress instead of the black one you brought home from Philadelphia. The champagne and mulled wine made it almost entertaining for you to drift from one of his geriatric colleagues to the next, intentionally asking them almost bizarre questions just to see how they would react. But Bradley had been there, and when you asked him if he'd ever had wine from Domaine Tropez in the south of France, he responded in a deep rumble of a voice saying, "I have a box of wine in my refrigerator that just says White Wine on the side of it. Does that answer your question?" 

You couldn't remember the last time someone made you laugh so hard, and he didn't look at you like the spoiled brat you almost enjoyed playing the part of.

"The vineyard sent me a bottle of rouge for my birthday. Want to try it?" you had asked him, feeling a little drunk and silly as he set his empty champagne flute on a passing tray. 

"You want to waste it on a guy who drinks boxed wine?" he asked, his voice impossibly deep and his mustache twitching with amusement. "I thought you were supposed to be smart. Your father talks about you all the time."

You had been about to take him by the hand and lead him to the kitchen where you'd stashed the wine so your dad wouldn't drink it, but then Bradley got pulled into a conversation with someone else. But you felt his eyes on you frequently throughout the night. And he did make it a point to say goodbye to you, letting you see those rosy cheeks up close one more time.

Just then you were jolted back to the present as you nearly toppled into the pool. Your father's voice carried outside, inflection full of pride as you heard him say, "My daughter flew back last night. Graduated top of her class with the same degree I earned. Following right in my footsteps, if you can believe it. Higher marks than I ever had."

There was some soft laughter and words of congratulations aimed at him, even though you were the one who had worked so hard. You rolled your eyes and planted both feet on the edge before diving as gracefully as you could into the pool. You swam nearly all the way across underwater, grateful for the bit of silence as you collected your thoughts. The water cooled you without being cold enough that you wanted to get out, and when you surfaced, you took a deep breath. 

Everyone seemed to have moved along from the open French doors, probably heading deeper into the house toward your dad's study or his conference room. You swam off toward the pool float that was drifting along in the shallow end, and you pulled yourself gracelessly up onto it. Just as you were fixing your bathing suit, about to settle in for another hour of sunbathing, a shadow crossed your face, and you nearly landed back in the water as you jumped.

"Congratulations."

It was Bradley Bradshaw standing over you with his hands on his narrow hips and his tie loosened in a way that you couldn't stop looking at. You desperately wished you had your sunglasses to help shield your eyes from the bright light as well as the fact that you were on the verge of checking him out. 

"Heard you graduated with a splash," he added, smiling as you dipped your foot in the water.

You rolled your eyes and settled back against the raft. "Crazy, isn't it? There's almost nothing you can't accomplish when you set your mind to it and have a billion dollar bankroll behind you, just helping you along the way."

His laughter made you feel warmer than the sunshine. "Are you daring to call yourself privileged?" He kept his eyes on yours, and you were impressed that they weren't straying south.

"Are you daring to say you aren't, Mr. Bradshaw?" you asked him with a smirk. "I didn't know you could buy Armani suits at JCPenney. I guess even an Ivy League valedictorian can learn something new every day."

He rubbed his hand over his lips and mustache to try to hide his amusement, and you wiggled back against the raft with a smile of your own. You weren't sure what possessed you to talk to him like this; he was your father's colleague after all. But you felt validated as he squatted down in his three thousand dollar suit to test the water temperature with his hand, because he shook his head slowly at you and said, "I'm impressed you even know what a JCPenney is. You're a bit of a brat, aren't you?"

Now you were the one trying to hide your smile behind your hand. "Don't get it twisted. I've never actually been to one. But all the prep school kids used to talk about shopping for suits off the rack along with knockoff handbags just to rile up our parents."

You thought you heard him mutter the word brat again as he stood. "Well, as much fun as this has been, I'm not dressed for swimming, so I guess I'll go find the other Armani suits and get back to work instead."

"Shame, that," you replied, clicking your tongue. "Bring your Armani swim trunks next time and stay a while."

Now that he was standing at his full height, his gaze slowly drifted down your body, and his cheeks turned ruddy just like they had after an evening of indulging in champagne last December.

"Maybe I will."

------------------------

Stay tuned for chapter one. We're about to go on an adventure. Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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“I loved that apartment and it was dirt cheap,” Jake argued. “Besides, you’re not much better. Remember when you thought guys actually liked girls who wore Birkenstocks?” 

“They’re comfortable!” 

“You looked like you were going to yell at me for not using a reusable jar to grind my own peanut butter at Whole Foods for twenty dollars an ounce. It was heinous. Also they smelled like ass.” Hence, the nickname that you hoped would die but never did. 

“You’re just saying that because your type is girls who stomp around in size five Aquazzura heels on Market Street and have their daddy’s Amex card numbers memorized.” 

“Better than your type. Mr. Couch potato, looks practically homeless and asks you to split the check at dinner because he’s too cheap to pay for your baked potato.” 

“That happened twice, that’s not a pattern.” 

“More than once is concerning.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re good in bed because I can’t fucking stand you.” 

“Stop stroking my ego.” 

“Goodnight, Seresin,” you said, walking toward the kitchen, your back to him. “Slam the door on your face on your way out, won’t you?” 

“Night Stinky,” he said and you could hear his footsteps trailing down the hallway. “See you next weekend!” 

You grabbed a half-empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge door and slammed it, a little too hard, the sound of bottles inside rattling as you unscrewed the cap and chugged directly from the bottle. It was acidic, probably too old, but it would do the trick. Anything to block out Jake’s words that haunted the quiet air of your apartment even after he was gone.

He was right. Somehow the two of you always fell into bed together. The dates always went belly up. Hinge, Raya, Bumble, League. No app worked. No blind set up. It was like clockwork: you’d spend an hour getting ready for a date, and within five minutes you’d know that at the end you’d call an Uber to take you to Jake’s. Or vice versa: he’d show up at your door with a pocketful of condoms and a smirk. It always ended the same way. For almost a year, you and Jake had been filling the gaps of your dating life with each other. Friends with benefits. No strings. 

And, of course, you made a point to keep it from the friend group. Coyote would throw an absolute fit if he found out. He had made a point the first time he introduced you to his friend group, which had later adopted you as one of their own, to steer clear of Jake. 

“Before we go in, there’s one rule.” 

You frowned, looking up at him. His face, normally so relaxed and chill, was creased in concern. The two of you had known each other for more than half of your lives, growing up in houses across the street from each other. At night, sometimes you would flick the lamp on your desk off and on as a kid to get his attention. He would do the same, powering up the old Walkie Talkies your mom had given the two of you one summer so you could whisper to each other in the darkness, your own secret club. This was all before cell phones were stapled to every kid’s ear, even before AIM or Facebook. Javy had been your friend for what felt like every minute of your life. 

“Don’t fall for Jake’s bullshit, OK?” Coyote said. “He’s suave and shit, but he’s going to hurt you if you let him.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

He shook his head. “I mean it, Y/N. I don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

Coyote had seen you at every low point in your life. When your prom date stood you up and he stepped in. When you almost failed out of sophomore year because your math professor had a chip against you. When your dad died after freshman year of college and the two of you stood side by side in your backyard in the rain, not speaking, but you knew he was there and that was enough. 

Coyote had been there for all of it. You knew, deep down, that he had your best interests in mind. 

But then you had walked into the bar on 22nd Street and Jake’s golden head had been thrown back in a laugh and you felt your heartbeat speed up in your chest. The way he looked at you that first night — it was like you were a prize and he was operating the claw machine with an endless supply of quarters. You flirted with him, to Javy’s disdain, but at the end of the night when he slipped his hand onto your bare knee you pulled away with a grin. 

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. 

At first that’s all it was. A chase, flirtation. Coyote’s eyes darting angrily between you and Jake as the two of you argued over the pool table or in a game of darts. The time all six of you — Jake, Coyote, Phoenix, Bob and Bradley — rented bikes in Golden Gate Park and the last mile was just you and Jake, ahead of everyone else, racing as fast as you could until your lungs threatened to give out and the greenery of the park opened up onto Ocean Beach. 

The two of you had ditched your bikes, plopping down into the sand, gasping for breath, the waves slapping softly along the shore. 

“You win,” Jake said. 

“I know, I got here a solid ten seconds before you.” 

He looked over with a grin. “No, I mean you win, Y/N. I’m not going to try and sleep with you. We can be friends, or whatever the hell it is that girls want.” 

You shook your head, laughing. “All it took was getting beat in a physical competition and you’re giving up? Jake Seresin, I’m appalled.” 

He laid back against the sand and you did the same, heads only a foot or so apart. 

“What girls want,” you added, “is to be pursued not chased. Is to feel wanted but not smothered. Sexy but still intelligent.”

“That’s too much to ask for.” 

“You asked what we want, not what’s attainable.” 

“Is that what you want, Y/N?” 

In that moment, you wanted him. You wanted to feel his hard, sweaty muscles pressed against your body. Feel his silky golden hair beneath your fingertips. His rough voice in your ear. 

You rolled over on top of Jake, surprise lacing his face, your hands digging into the sand on either side of his head. Your hips grazed over his, just a hint, and Jake reached up one hand, brushing the hair out of your face where it had fallen from your ponytail. 

“I’m not going to tell you what I want,” you whispered, smirking. “More fun this way.” 

“Oh you’re evil,” Jake grinned, rolling the two of you over until you were pressed against the sand, his much larger body pinning you down, this time his hips grinding you down against the soft beach. You could feel him everywhere and it took everything in your body not to moan out into the open air for all the families and tourists to hear. The rush knowing that any minute the rest of the group could catch up and find the two of you only made your heart beat faster in your chest. “I’m up for the challenge.” 

“You better be.” 

The two of you laid there, Jake’s arms boxing you in, his chest lifting against yours. If you reached up a few inches you would be able to slide your lips against his. 

But instead, you shoved him off and he landed in the sand as you laughed. You saw it in his eyes at that moment. 

You had Jake Seresin’s interest. For now. 

***

“Hey, you’re early for once.” Coyote leaned in, kissing your cheek gently. 

You grinned. “Snagged a front row parking spot.” 

“Grab a table, I’ll get us some coffees.” 

“Flat white?” 

He nodded, heading off toward the counter. You picked a spot in the corner, a big round table. The door swung open and Bob and Bradley walked in. You waved, Bradley sliding into the booth with a grin. “Hey Stink,” he said and you rolled your eyes. The nickname had stuck, despite your best effort to shake it over the last few years. 

“Bradshaw. What did y’all get up to last night?” 

“The usual,” he said as Bob sat down with two black coffees and slid one to Bradley. “Started out at the bars in Richmond.” 

“And ended up in some twentysomething’s bed in the Marina,” Bob finished. 

You shot him a smile which he returned with a shy grin. “Just you two idiots out on the town.” 

“Phoenix was there, and Jake.” 

His ears must have been burning, because the moment his name was said, Jake sauntered through the door, looking far too fresh for nine in the morning after a night of drinking and debauchery. 

You should know. The two of you had, predictably, landed in bed together after your blind date. Just like Jake said you would. Just like you had hoped you wouldn’t. He spotted the three of you in the corner and smirked, lifting a pair of sunglasses onto the top of his head and heading toward the counter. 

Coyote slid into the spot next to you. “Flat white. And I got you a croissant. You look hungover.” 

“You’re a dick.” 

“Just smile and look pretty,” he replied and you grunted, ripping off a piece of croissant and stuffing it into your mouth. “Where’s Nat?” 

“Running late,” Bob said, checking his phone. 

Jake took a seat across the table from you, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, a donut in the other. He took a bite, powdered sugar coating his upper lip in a faux mustache. “So everyone here got some last night?” 

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed over your chest. Bob’s face glowed pink. Coyote dragged a wet tea bag out of his cup. “Could you be cruder?” 

“Yes.” It rolled off of his tongue effortlessly. 

You scowled and took a sip of coffee. Phoenix crashed through the cafe doors, flinging herself into the remaining chair and swiping the last of your croissant, shoving it in her mouth. “Hey.” 

“Morning Princess,” Bradley said. “Long night? We lost you after the second bar.” 

She shrugged and leaned over, taking a sip of his coffee. “Ew, no cream, really Bradshaw? Anyways, I ran into Nina.” 

The group groaned. Nina was Phoenix’s ex-girlfriend and it was communally agreed that she should stay an ex. If Natasha’s belongings on a curb and her box of coats on literal fire weren’t proof enough, Nina had also stolen from her once and racked up a monumental credit card bill that Phoenix later managed with the bank. 

“She’s changed!” 

“Nobody changes,” you replied. 

“Well how was your night, Stink?” she asked. “That blind date work out?” 

“He smelled like Fritos and told me his goal in life was to quit insurance sales and start a Lord of the Rings themed coffee bar.” 

“That’s lowkey kind of cool,” Bob replied. 

“Let’s just say it didn’t work out.” 

“So you went home alone?” 

Across the table, Jake smirked. You hid your face in your coffee mug. “Yeah. Alone.” 

***

“So you work at a bank. That’s cool.” 

You sighed, taking a sip of wine. “I’m actually a hedge fund analyst.” 

Bill, your date for the night, frowned. “Bob told me you worked at a bank. I thought you were a teller or something. So you work.” 

You were going to kill Floyd. Bill was tall, you’d give him that. But this was the third hint he’d dropped that screamed of misogyny. The first was when you ordered a steak and a glass of red and he asked why you weren’t getting a salad. The second was when you ordered a second glass of wine and he frowned, saying wasn’t it bad for your fertility to be drinking so much? “Yes, I work,” you replied. “And do you work?” 

He puffed out his chest. “Of course. I’m a real estate agent.” 

“And does that pay well?” 

He went ashen and then a bright fiery red. You tried to hide your grin behind your wine glass. 

“I’m going to use the restroom.” You slid out from your chair, grabbing your purse and heading toward the front of the restaurant. When Bill looked away, you darted right, out the front doors, practically jogging around the corner. “I’m going to murder Floyd,” you said into the phone. 

Jake’s laugh on the other end was warm. “Again? I thought you were still mad at him for that sous chef-turned yoga instructor who tried to crack your back in the middle of the restaurant.” 

“Just come pick me up?” you begged, looking around. “I’m at some place in the Mission, I’ll send you my location. And hurry, before my date comes out here and tries to get me to put on a costume from Little House on the Prairie.” 

Five minutes later, you were stretching out in the passenger seat of Jake’s car. He had one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, cruising down Van Ness toward the Marina. You resisted the urge to study him: his golden hair illuminated by the headlights of oncoming traffic, the way he smelled like pine and fresh laundry and the smirk that you knew was practically tattooed on his lips. 

Those lips that, try as you might, you couldn’t stop aching for. 

It always ended the same. You and Jake in a pile of tangled limbs in crisp white sheets, sweat pricking at your skin, hair a mess, a soreness already starting to form between your legs. And you’d do it again and again, even if it was wrong. Even if hiding things from Coyote and the rest of the group was becoming next to impossible. Because ending the night with Jake was a hell of a lot better than being alone in your apartment. 

“Stay,” Jake said as you pulled on your jeans, buttoning the top button and turning around in your lacy bra, searching for your shirt that had somehow been flung onto the coffee table. 

You yanked it over your head. “What? No, that’s rule number three.” The two of you had started a list of informal rules for your friends with benefits situation. Rule number one: no getting attached. Rule number two: keep it a secret. Rule number three: no sleepovers. 

“Rules are made to be broken, babe.” 

“Don’t babe me, Seresin,” you grunted, slipping on one stiletto and then the other, examining your hair in the mirror above the dresser. 

“For once, what if you just pretended to like me for more than five seconds when we’re not horizontal.” 

“It’s not an act, Jake,” you replied, whipping around to look at him. He was sitting up in bed, sheet covering his lower half, top half ridiculously muscular and drenched in a thin layer of sweat that only made him glisten in the dull light from the lamp. “You and I? We’re two totally different people. We have good sex and we have the same friends but the similarities stop there. I want someone to actually be in a relationship with. Not just a booty call.” 

“Feeling pretty used over here.” 

“You use me and I use you,” you replied, “that’s how this works. Two-way street.” 

“For a girl who claims to want more than this, you seem to be jumping into my bed a lot.” 

“Fuck you,” you said, but it was lighthearted. 

“I mean it, Y/N,” Jake replied and there was something serious in his tone. “You say you want a real relationship but you don’t even give guys a chance. You find something wrong with them, every single time.” 

“You literally said not two weeks ago that everyone in this city is insane and that’s why none of our dates ever work out.” 

Jake stood up, slipping on a pair of boxers. “That’s true, too. But you’re part of the problem, Stinky. And I think you know it.” 

“I’m leaving,” you said, stomping down the hallway toward the front door. 

“You'll be back here in a few days,” Jake called out. 

You slammed the door behind you. There was nothing but silence on the other side of the door. Jake wasn’t the type of guy to rush after you, say he was wrong. 

And why would he? Because the truth was, he was right. And you both knew it. 

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…

“Rooster, those bandits are closing. We can’t go back.”

“Rooster, he’s gone. Maverick’s gone.”

It’s a stomach-sick, sweat inducing kind of fever that lingers now on this mild morning. Breeze blowing across his skin, patterned and rhythmic, reminding him every now and again to breathe.

It has been exactly six days since Pete Mitchell was declared missing in action. Six days since a missile meant for Bradley hit Pete’s plane and sent the sixty-five million dollar aircraft spiraling into miles and miles of desolate, freezing forest. Bradley has slept four times in those six days, and each time he has, his subconscious reminds him of exactly what he is responsible for

Today is a relatively chilly morning in May, and Bradley is sitting on the front step of a cottage near Bird Rock in northern San Diego. Today is the first day since he got home three and a half days ago that he has left his apartment. Natasha stayed over last night. She has stayed over every night. She slept by his side, on top of his covers, just holding his hand. When he was in the shower this morning, she laid out his clothes for him. She hasn’t ever known him to be this quiet. Ever.

He hasn’t said much at all since they got back. Natasha knows that he’s picturing himself alone in that forest. Dead, or worse.

Now, she sits at his side and rubs soft circles on his shoulder over the black fabric of his t-shirt. He would do it for her, if she was the one going through this. She would be too stubborn to listen to him too. They have known each other since flight school. Natasha got so drunk the first Friday that Bradley spent his entire first Friday holding her hair back while she threw up.

The next day, Bradley embarrassed himself so badly in front of a girl he liked that he almost quit just so that they wouldn't have to see each other again. After that, they have remained pretty close. Especially now, when they need each other.

“Rooster, no one expects you to be here right now — you went through something awful out there.” She says it one last time anyway, even though she knows that it won’t change a single thing.

That’s one of the reasons that their friendship is so strong — sometimes a person just has to do what they have to do, Bradley and Natasha respect that sentiment. Even if it means texting back a no-good ex, or staying out a little too late on a work night now and again. Each other’s best interests are always at heart, but it’s human to not put yourself first now and again.

Bradley hasn’t sat on the steps of Maverick’s two bedroom beach cottage since he was thirteen. Right before Maverick pissed off an admiral and got shipped out somewhere crazy, somewhere cold — he can’t remember exactly where anymore, he never wrote a letter there. Right before he started only seeing Maverick on holidays and special occasions, the occasional baseball game.

Pete bought this place back in the eighties. He got it for a steal. A craftsman bungalow three blocks from the beach, with two bedrooms and a small yard. He had wanted to be close to Carole, and he had just gotten married. Bradley’s memories of Charlie are faint, but he knows that her father helped Pete with the down payment. Maverick hated him for that. His first and, as it happened, only marriage hadn’t lasted very long. Two or three years, maximum. She was gone before Bradley finished second grade, anyway.

The spare room here used to be Bradley’s. Back when his mom worked weekends at a hotel in La Jolla, and he and Pete would take Friday night trips to Blockbuster every week. He hasn’t even been inside yet. He can’t imagine how much the interior would have changed since those weekends back in the nineties.

Glancing down at the IWC clock face on his wrist, the big hand has been creeping up on ten o’ clock for what feels like hours by now. Breeze sweeps a strand of Natasha’s hair off of her face. She leans against her best friend, her palm trailing to the middle of his back.

Natasha has two parents. They definitely don’t see eye-to-eye often, but she knows where they are. It’s a Sunday, they’ll be at Costco. She has a sister who gets on her nerves but adores her nonetheless, Leona will be at a spin class this morning. None of the people she loves are missing. If one of them were, she would have others to lean on.

For Bradley, it’s just her now.

“I can’t let her turn up to an empty house.” Bradley’s voice comes out more hoarse than either of them is expecting it to. He hasn’t cried yet. He keeps thinking he might, the urge is there, but the tears just don’t come.

Bradley doesn’t even know you. Not really. Not even when he was a kid. It’s been sixteen years since Bradley was even on speaking terms with Maverick. But now, everything’s different. He has a debt that he’ll never repay.

It has been six days. If Maverick survived the initial hit, and the ejection, then he has still been out in the snow for six days. Probably injured. Alone. Being hunted. He’s gone. And yet, Bradley just can’t — or won’t — grieve him. Moving on isn’t an option.

The person that they are waiting for is yourself. Pete Mitchell’s only child. Bradley doesn’t even know who he’s looking for. The last time he saw you was when you were three years old, staring at him from the backseat of your mother’s blue ford escort with a pacifier in your mouth while your parents argued a few feet away.

Penny Benjamin is the one that contacted you after the initial Navy correspondence. Bradley wouldn’t have even known how. He doesn’t have Maverick’s number any more, much less yours. Back when he knew you, you didn’t even know your numbers. Really he only saw you a handful of times. You hadn’t crossed paths much. Your mother lived up near Oregon. She was a waitress. Most of the time Pete drove up to see you, or the weekends that you visited him, Bradley would stay with a neighbour.

He bows his head just slightly, elbows rested on his parted knees. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn sweats. He hasn’t ever let Natasha dress him before. Today wasn’t a good day to start. Meeting Mav’s kid wouldn’t be a formal occasion, but under the circumstances.

His ears perk up at the sound of a misfire. Natasha flinches against him. She’s not been feeling that great since they got home either. Her dreams are like his too. It doesn’t matter. The car squeals around the corner at the far end of the street like its driver is trying to get it onto just two wheels. He lifts his head in time to see a steel blue ford escort hit the curb on the street just past Maverick’s property line.

Instantly, he pushes himself onto his feet. That kind of maniacal attitude to manning a vehicle must be hereditary.

Both he and Natasha watch as the driver slams their fists into the wheel in frustration. Then, you, the driver, notice them for the first time.

You’ve seen Bradley Bradshaw periodically throughout your life. There is no escaping his image when Maverick’s around. But, none of those photos are recent. They’re all from at least twelve years ago now. The only information you had been given was that Bradley looked kind of like Goose now.

And you — are not a little kid anymore. Natasha pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dust from her palms onto her jeans. A brief look is sent towards her best friend, but he doesn’t reciprocate. He’s staring straight ahead as you twist open the door handle and kick.

It complies with a groan and you start off with one foot on the pavement. High top black converse. The other foot follows next. Jeans. Normal, appropriate for the early May weather before the heat really picks up.

Then, as you push yourself to stand, Bradley can see the rest of you. You exhale and your hand flies to the back of your neck instantly.

“Hi,” You force out. “Bradley, right?”

That’s stupid. You know who he is. He knows who you are. You both know why you’re here. Natasha watches as you cringe into yourself, not necessarily physically, but it’s plastered all over your worried little face anyway.

“Yeah.” Bradley agrees without a nod. His hands are neither in his pockets nor doing anything else that might be productive. He tells himself that he should maybe shake your hand, but he doesn’t. He tells himself that maybe he should say something more, but he doesn’t.

Towering over the pretty brunette at his side, Bradley doesn’t look anything like he had in his photos at high school graduation. His face is longer and wider at the same time, his cheeks have lost some of their roundness but they still have a youthful pink flush. His hair is shorter, auburn and tidy around the back and sides. Still trying to be curly on top.

He grew up near the beach and his skin tells the tale. Freckles and a golden glow to his skin that you just know is an all year round kind of thing by now. Slight redness across his collarbones, the high points of his body where the sun hits most when he’s drying off after a swim.

In his eyes, you were hoping to find the boy from the pictures. The grinning blond in the baseball uniform. Instead, there’s something else.

Whatever it is, you hope it isn’t pity. Just because his dad — no, you shouldn’t think that. It shouldn’t start out like this.

“How was the drive? — Not too bad, I hope?” The tiny brunette finally bursts through the wall of silence that you and Bradley have been competitively building up since your sneaker touched the pavement two minutes ago. “I’m Natasha. I work with… — I — I’m Bradley’s friend.”

“Hi. It wasn’t too bad. I need to see a mechanic while I’m here, but — I don’t know. I’ll find time.” Just from watching you, Natasha can see that you’re all over the place. Neither here nor there. You don’t look like you’ve been crying either. Mascara intact, your makeup looks pretty.

Bradley knows that it has been a long time since he and Maverick were on speaking terms. He knows that even before that, they didn’t talk much about you. But, shit — he wishes now that he had at least seen a picture first so that he could prepare himself.

He remembers footie pajamas and drool and chubby, perpetually sticky cheeks.

Now, the belt looped through your blue jeans makes sure that the denim hugs you in all of the right places and that tank top is confirming to him that you’re no longer anything like the faint image he has in some of his oldest memories.

There’s got to be something wrong with him — that that’s the first thing that sprung to his mind. That Mav’s kid got hot in the twenty years since he saw her last. He shakes it from his head. Physically. He shakes his head and finally springs into action.

“What’s the matter with it?”

For the first time in five days, it’s the first time that someone hasn’t started a conversation by asking how you’re holding up. It catches you totally unprepared, and your knowledge of cars leaves you under qualified to answer anyway.

Bradley Bradshaw takes three long strides along the stone garden path and he has reached you already. He’s on a course right for you, and he’s big when he’s not squished into one of those photo frames in Maverick’s house. You lean back slightly, starting to brace for the impact of him hitting you.

He’s aware of his size and has learned to grow careful with it, stepping around you narrowly and heading straight for your old shitbox of a car.

“I don’t know. The steering is loose and the engine is making a weird noise.”

Bradley twists his neck and shoots an incredulous look at you, back over one of his wide shoulders. It’s a fourteen hour drive down from the Oregon coast, on a good day, and this car ran like shit when your mother bought it twenty something years ago.

Popping the hood, Bradley finds himself thinking of something other than those snowy peaks for the first time all week.

Ahead of you, you’re confronted with Mav’s place. The cottage you were forced to spend the occasional weekend or weeks in during the summer a couple of times through your childhood. Most of the times that you saw Pete were in your hometown. He was always the one who travelled. It seemed fair. His job meant that it didn’t happen often.

Your memories of this house are faint, but the same uncomfortable restless feeling it gives you remains. You remember quiet days sitting on the couch with your hands in your lap, waiting for that court-mandated forty-eight hours to be up.

Natasha is facing the other way. She watches Bradley step off of the curb and pop your hood. Bradley has a technical knowledge of engineering from his career, and a slightly broader scope from his interest in vintage cars — but he’s not a mechanic.

A quick glance to her right and she takes note of the way you’re frowning at the weeds poking through the stone path pavers.

Like watching a storm roll in before a big surf, Natasha has a bad feeling about this arrangement. Two people who should be coming to terms with their grief, and it's clear to her that you’re both planning on ignoring this problem by busying yourself for as long as you can.

“You can’t drive this piece of shit.” Bradley decides from the street. You turn slowly on the balls of your feet and push your hands into the pockets of your jeans. He doesn’t even look up.

Crowding over the hood of your car, glaring down at it. Thick shoulders filling out a plain black t-shirt and long legs hidden under loose fitting grey sweats. An auburn curl dangles over his forehead.

You twist and shoot a look back at Natasha.

“I… Kinda have to.” You point out. A recent graduate with no immediate career plans, who just quit their waitressing job to pick up the pieces of their presumably dead, semi-estranged father’s life. Buying a new car isn’t exactly in the budget right now.

Bradley opens his palms and braces them against the open hood. He turns his head and looks first at Natasha. His best friend. Then, the house. He learned to ride his bike on this street. Maverick lived on this street. Finally, his attention turns to you. He watches you watch him.

Leaning against your shitty, old car like it’s the only thing keeping him on his feet. Squinting at you because he left his sunglasses in work and the doctors won’t let him go back there for another couple weeks.

You’re staring back at him, wondering why he’s looking at you like that. Like he’s looking for something.

He pushes off of the car and stands, wiping his hands on his sweats. “I’ll take care of it. Whatever you need. I can drive you for a bit.”

As Bradley walks around to the back of the car and pops open the trunk to grab your bags, Natasha is struck with a numbing realization.

Maverick put himself in an early grave trying to make up for a mistake he made when he was young, and Bradley won’t stop until he does the same.

…

"That's easy," Bradley mumbled. "Nolan Ryan." And then he realized that it was 5:30 in the morning and perhaps nobody else who was listening knew that fact. "Huh," he grunted, reaching for his phone at a red light. He dialed the number and was shocked when he got through to the host. 

"Good morning, caller! What's your name? Where are you from?"

"I'm Bradley. From Coronado."

"Do you have an answer for me, Bradley? Which major league player was the first to pitch over 100 miles per hour?"

"That would be Nolan Ryan."

"You sound confident in your baseball knowledge," the host replied. "Double or nothing? I'll upgrade your ticket to a seat in a box suite if you can tell me which team Ryan was pitching against."

Bradley smiled to himself as he pictured the boxes of his dad's old baseball cards that he still had in his garage. "He was pitching against the Chicago White Sox."

And just like that, Bradley was the proud owner of a suite ticket for game one of the World Series at Petco Park later that night. 

---------------------------

Your flight from New York to San Diego had been delayed so many times, you were a little surprised you managed to get to your hotel in your rental car and then make it to the game on time. At least you'd been able to start writing your article on the flight. Unless the game went into extra innings, you should be able to finish by your midnight deadline. Because if there was one thing the New York Times didn't mess around with, it was the hard cutoff for your submissions. 

As you made your way to the media entrance at Petco Park, you pulled out your lanyard with your credentials and looped it around your neck. As soon as someone learned that you were a sports writer for the most prestigious newspaper in the country, they were either impressed or they did a double take. You were a freshly thirty year old female with a ten year career in sports journalism, and you didn't take shit from any guys about it. 

In fact, you loved it when men tried to one up you. Because they never could. You knew more than they did about sports, you were an amazing writer, and you found pleasure in shutting them down. Preferably in front of their friends. And then they would inevitably try to ask you out. And you would shut that down, too. It was a game that you were very good at now. 

As you were scanned into the ballpark by a security officer, you quickly made your way up to your assigned press box. You expected the heavy hitters to be there. And of course you'd be the youngest, and probably one of just a few women in attendance. As you climbed the narrow stairs and swiped your badge one last time, you opened the door and strolled past a table filled with food and drinks. And then you saw them: Carl from ESPN, Jack from The Chicago Tribune, Harold from the Los Angeles Times, and Quincy from the Philadelphia Inquirer. You would keep your guard up, because it was just a matter of time before one of them made some sort of comment about your ability to do your job. 

The room was already filling up as you claimed a spot on one of the narrow counters where you could set up your computer and get to work. You removed your lanyard and tossed it next to your stuff, and then you waved to Raya from MSN Sports, the only other female in the room. When you turned to grab a drink and some food, you noticed the flash of a handsome face and a mustache. And then you stifled a scream as you saw and felt a plastic cup of cold beer meet your chest before soaking the front of you completely. 

"Oh, fuck!" came the deep, raspy voice of the most handsome man you could remember seeing in recent history as he stared at your chest. You supposed it was a fair trade, because you couldn't look away from his face no matter what you did. He was hot; all tan skin, brown eyes, and wavy, brown hair. And the blush that crept in and colored his cheeks made him look boyish as he glanced up to meet your eyes. "I'm so sorry!"

When he swallowed hard, and his eyes drifted down to your chest again, you looked down as well. Great. Your light blue lace bra was plainly visible through your white blouse, and the beer was even dripping onto your jeans and your new, white Chucks. 

You just shook your head and shrugged. "It's okay. Shit happens. But why did you bring a beer in here?" you asked. But he still looked so embarrassed and flustered, you decided to mess with him. "Who do you write for? I'll send them my laundry bill."

"Write?" he asked, and yep, that was confirmation that he had the sexiest voice you had ever heard. 

"Yeah," you said, feeling a little flustered yourself as you reached for some napkins to dab your shirt dry. "Tampa Bay Times? Boston Globe? Oh Lord, don't tell me you're from Barstool Sports. I don't recognize you, and I'm pretty sure I'd remember you." That was a lie; you would definitely have remembered him.

"No," he said, watching your every move. "I don't write."

You laughed as his gaze flicked up from your chest to your eyes when you looked up at him. "That explains the alcohol, then. But why are you in the press box? Did you get lost up here?"

He smirked at that. "No. I won a radio contest and got a seat in a box suite. But somehow my ticket got mixed up, and they sent me a media pass instead."

"Really?" you asked, eyeing him up and down now. "I had to pay for a four year journalism degree for my media pass, and you're going to tell me I could have just listened to the radio?"

His laugh was infectious and his smile made you a little giddy as he held out his hand to you. "I'm Bradley. I don't think I could manage to write an article about sports, even if I was getting paid to do it. You must be very talented." You preened a bit at his words as you shook his hand. "And I'm really sorry about the beer," he added, gesturing to your shirt. "I'd offer to get you a drink or dinner, but the food in here is free, and you're actually working. So, I'll just stand here like an idiot and keep shaking your hand and apologizing until you tell me your name and tell me to stop. I'm really sorry about your shirt." He was still shaking your hand, and now you couldn't stop smiling.

You told him your first name and then you said, "You can stop shaking my hand now, Bradley." 

"Let me grab you some water?" he asked, and when you nodded, he turned toward the bar in the far corner. And you took in his tall frame, broad shoulders and massive biceps which were highlighted by his Padres shirt. 

"Oh no," you whispered to yourself, still mindlessly dabbing your wet blouse with some napkins.

--------------------------

Bradley turned toward you with two water bottles, and thankfully this time he managed to keep the drinks in his hands. You were so fucking cute, and your wet shirt was doing crazy things to him. He couldn't stop smiling, and when you looked up at him and cautiously accepted your drink, you were smiling too. 

"Thanks for not drenching me again," you said, tapping your drink to his. And then Bradley heard an older guy call your name, and you turned in his direction. 

"Nice shirt," he shouted so everyone was suddenly looking your way. "That how you plan on getting an exclusive with one of the players? Sex sells now? I thought this was about the game."

Bradley was appalled that another journalist was talking to you like that, but before he could say that your wet shirt was actually his fault, you were shouting back at the guy.

"Harold, you couldn't even drag your sorry, old ass down to the field fast enough to get an exclusive with the mascot. I don't know how you're not retired or dead yet. Didn't you cover the 1922 World Series?"

Bradley watched Harold purse his lips at you before he turned away and took a seat. And when Bradley glanced down at you as you sipped your water, you looked completely unfazed. And he was ridiculously turned on.

"Damn, nobody should be messing with you," he said, thoroughly impressed. "You're an Ace."

You just rolled your eyes, but you looked very pleased by his words. He already knew he wanted to talk to you all night, but now you were setting your drink down next to your computer and opening it as you sat. "This is a boys club. Just a dick measuring contest. I can't let up for a second or I'll get steamrolled."

Bradley let his eyes dip down to your damp shirt as he asked, "I don't want to commit another beer related crime. You seem to know how this press box stuff works. Mind if I sit with you?"

"Not at all," you told him as you licked your lips. "As long as you don't spill anything else on me."

Bradley eased himself down on the stool next to yours, and his knee brushed your thigh. He watched you filling out a baseball stat sheet while you opened up a document on your computer. 

"So what was the trivia question?" you asked as you sipped your water again.

"Trivia question?" he murmured, watching your lips wrap around the rim of the bottle before you took a drink. 

"Yeah, isn't that how you won the pass? For the box seat? Even though you're slumming it with the journalists now?"

"I wouldn't call this slumming it," he said, eyeing your pretty face. "But yeah, they asked who was the first pitcher to throw a ball over 100 miles per hour."

"Oh. Nolan Ryan. Angels versus the White Sox. Nice," you said as you smiled at him. Fuck. You liked sports. You wrote about sports. You were gorgeous, and you knew more about sports than he did. Bradley let his mind drift to peeling off your damp, white shirt and licking the taste of beer off your chest while you moaned baseball stats and ran your fingers through his hair. He could definitely get into that. He briefly wondered if you were going to be at the next game here on Sunday.

And then you were keeping the game stats in your notebook at the same time you typed up notes, and Bradley realized he had missed the first few pitches. "Oof, that was a sloppy curveball," you muttered as you peered down at the field before checking the overhead screen. "He's supposed to be their Ace."

"Nah, you're the Ace," Bradley said, and you turned to grin at him as your fingers brushed against his. There was not a lot of room at this little countertop, and when you tried to nudge his arm out of the way, he wrapped it around the back of your stool. 

"How am I supposed to keep my stats with you taking up so much space?" you asked, but your tone sounded playful, and you leaned a little closer to him. "You're massive."

Those words spoken in your voice had his cock stirring. "Yeah well, not a lot I can do about that, Ace."

That grin was back as you tapped the end of your pencil against your lips, and his gaze followed the motion. "So what do you do, Bradley? I'm going to guess you're not a waiter since you can't walk without spilling drinks. And you're definitely not a writer."

"I'm a pilot. A naval aviator," he told you softly, running his thumb along your back and watching you bite your lip. 

"Fascinating," you told him before returning your attention back to the game and scribbling down the pitch count. And that's when Bradley's gaze landed on your badge which was sitting next to your computer. 

He recognized your full name immediately. "Holy shit. You write for the New York Times."

"Yeah," you replied, turning to look at him before pulling your lip between your teeth again.

"Ace. I recognize your name. You're the best sports writer in the country."

Bradley was blushing, he knew he must be, but your bright smile was focused on him, and he couldn't keep his fingertips from drawing lazy shapes along your back where his hand rested. 

"You know me?"

He nodded and raised an eyebrow at you. "You're famous. I read your articles all the time. I downloaded the New Your Times app solely for you."

When you laughed and gently bit the eraser end of your pencil, Bradley groaned. "You're funny," you told him.

"You're gorgeous." The words were out his mouth before he could stop himself. He thought about apologizing, but then you leaned in a little closer and ran your pencil eraser up his thigh along his jeans.

"Stop distracting me," you whispered, kissing his cheek before returning your attention to your computer. Your lips had brushed the end of his mustache, and he could still feel the soft sensation there as you gazed at him from the corner of your eyes. This was going to be a long night for Bradley.

--------------------------

Bradley had called you gorgeous. He was playful, and he kept a smile on your lips. When he made a comment about the Angels' catcher, you told him, "You're completely right. I'm adding that to my piece." And he blushed that deep shade of pink again. 

"Damn, Ace. I'll be thinking about your voice when I read your article tomorrow morning." 

"Mm," you hummed, marking down another strikeout. "It would be fun to read it to you. I think you'd blush. The whole time." 

His lips were parted, and he looked a little surprised. "It would be the filthiest of dirty talk," he muttered, and when you giggled, he grinned. 

You had to bite your lip against the desire to kiss his cheek again. "World Series articles and pitching stats? That's what's gonna do it for you, Bradley?"

"Shit, how dirty can you make those pitching stats?" he whispered, thumb still skimming along the back of your shirt.

"You'd be surprised," you told him, shooting him an innocent look as he nodded at you.

"I'm sure I would."

The more you scribbled down in your notebook as the game progressed, the closer Bradley got to you. His big palm was warm on your back and you found yourself leaning into him more and more. By the eighth inning, his leg was pressed up against yours and he just kept getting closer. 

"Ace, you're killing me," he murmured, taking your pencil and erasing the sloppy note you had written about the Padres relief pitcher. "Let me help."

You laughed as he rewrote your note very neatly followed by what you assumed was his phone number. Oh, he was a bold one. Very handsome, very funny and very bold. 

Without a word, he handed your pencil back to you. "What am I supposed to do with that?" you asked, tapping his phone number with the pencil.

His breath was warm on your cheek as he said, "Save it in your phone. Call it. Text it. Let it know when you're in San Diego. I don't know, Ace. I just like you."

Your lips parted right as the Padres catcher hit a home run, and as everyone else in the ballpark erupted in cheers or groans, Bradley pressed his lips softly to yours. And then you tossed your pencil aside and ran your hand up along his neck. His lips were soft, but damn, his mustache was rough and you liked it. 

You pulled back a few inches. "And if I text you, you're going to write back?" you asked. 

"Immediately," he promised. 

"Well then maybe I'll save your number."

He groaned softly as you marked down the home run. "Are you covering game two on Sunday?" he asked as the ninth inning started.

"I'm covering every game," you told him, letting your hand rest on his thigh. The soft noise he made had you scraping your fingernails softly along his jeans as he watched your hand instead of the game. "I'll be back and forth between San Diego and Los Angeles for the next two weeks or so, if they go to seven games. Which, in my professional opinion, they will." 

After your fingers grazed his zipper, you watched his head tip back, the veins in his neck working as he swallowed. You were pretty turned on now, too. And the way he was responding to you was making things worse by the minute. 

"I'm gonna have to drop a grand on a ticket to see you back here on Sunday, aren't I?" he asked as you shrugged and ran your finger along his belt loop. Then you released him and turned back to type a few sentences for your article. 

"Listen," you told him without looking at him. "There's no guarantee I'm even going to let you have my number, so I wouldn't worry about that just yet."

He was quiet for a beat as you typed away, and then he said, "How about you let me buy you a drink for real? Right after the game tonight?"

"I have a deadline to meet," you told him, and he looked disappointed as he nodded. "But my article is almost done. And my hotel is right across the street. We could go to the bar there?"

"Absolutely," he murmured, his fingers still at your back. "Anywhere you want."

As soon as the game ended with a Padres victory, you tossed your computer and notebook into your bag, and you were on your feet next to Bradley. "Let's get out of here." 

You took his big hand in yours, glancing up at him occasionally as you tried to beat most of the crowd to the exit. And each time, he was looking back at you, smiling. You led him across the parking lot, and your hotel was in sight when you pushed him up against the brick wall outside of the ballpark. Bradley welcomed your body against his, and he looked at you like he couldn't believe this was happening just before you kissed him.

It was dark over here, even the streetlights were dim. His hands were on your back as your fingers tangled in his hair, and you were rubbing yourself gently against him. 

"Ace," he grunted against your lips. "You gotta let me buy you that drink." 

You could feel him growing harder for you as you kissed him and tasted his tongue. Suddenly the hotel bar was the farthest thing from your mind. It had been replaced by thoughts of your hotel room bed instead. 

"Come on, Bradley," you whispered, linking your fingers with his and leading him further down the sidewalk. He went with you willingly, leaning down to kiss your cheek and your neck as you waited in a crowd of people for the light to change at the crosswalk. 

"You smell good. Like the beer I spilled on you," he groaned, holding you close. The movement of his lips had his mustache prickling your neck. You wanted to feel it on all your sensitive skin. You wanted to see if you could make him blush in bed. 

You and he stumbled across the street and into the hotel lobby where you eyed the bar as he wrapped his big hand around your waist. You looked up at him and asked, "Wanna skip the bar and go up to my room? Find out if I taste good like the beer, too?" 

The sound of Bradley's groan as his hand slid down to your butt had you pressing yourself against his thigh. "Lead the way, Ace."

--------------------------

The elevator ride to the top floor was filled with the sound of kissing as well as the little gasping noises you made. Your hands were at the fly of his jeans as he pushed you back against the wall and devoured your mouth. Bradley was so hard and ready for you, he was honestly surprised. He just met you. This was not a usual occurrence for him. 

"Bradley," you moaned, unbuttoning his jeans as the elevator jolted to a stop. You abandoned his jeans for his hand and pulled him down the hallway, running toward your room and laughing. You stopped in front of one of the doors and started to dig in your bag.

He stood behind you and ran his lips along your neck as you gasped for him. You were so responsive, stroking something deep down inside of Bradley every time you reacted to him. He wrapped his hands around to the front of your jeans and started to play with your button as well. When his fingers met the soft skin of your belly, your head tipped back against him. 

"I can't find my room key," you moaned as he ran his hands up inside your shirt. He watched as you gripped the bag with both hands and let your eyes drift closed. 

"You're not really trying very hard, Baby," he said with a smirk. He couldn't believe you right now. So pretty and so lost to his touch. He was throbbing and aching for you, too. 

"Because you're teasing me!" you complained with a laugh. But then you turned in his arms, and suddenly Bradley's hands were on your bare back. Your eyes were wide, bag clutched between your body and his. "This is... not something that I usually do. Especially not when I'm on the job." Your voice was soft, and as you nervously bit your lip, Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek.

"Same, Ace," he promised with a smirk. "In fact, I've never had a woman seduce me this quickly before. You're irresistible."

Your laughter was the best thing he had ever heard. "I thought I was the one being seduced here?"

"No," he said, reaching into your bag and plucking out the key. "You're in charge." He handed it to you, and you wrapped your fingers around the back of his neck and kissed him hard before you turned and unlocked the door with your other hand. You pulled Bradley with you as you stumbled backwards into the dark room. 

As you searched blindly for the light switch, you pushed Bradley against the wall. You had your fingers in the hair at the back of his head and your tongue was in his mouth as you located the switch.

"That's better," you mumbled breathlessly as you turned on the light, and Bradley pulled away from you a few inches. 

"You're fucking gorgeous," he whispered as he tightened his right arm around your waist. He wasn't being shy about how hard he was for you, and you weren't being shy either. You whimpered as you rubbed yourself gently against him, and he ran his thumb along your cheek and down to your lips. "I haven't been this turned on in so long."

Then Bradley watched you reach down and pull off your white shirt in one smooth motion, leaving you in that sinful looking blue bra before him. You were stroking him through his jeans with your right hand when you whispered, "I thought you were going to taste me, Bradley." Your eyes were wide and innocent looking as you challenged him. 

He nodded slowly. "I wanna taste you everywhere." Then he scooped you up as you laughed, and he carried you to the king sized bed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "You gonna let me do that?"

"Yes," you whispered right next to his ear, and Bradley eased you down onto the bed with his body weight on top of you. As you started tugging on his Padres shirt, he managed to remove his shoes before reaching down both of your calves and yanking yours off. He tossed them blindly behind himself, wincing as he hit the wall with both of them. 

But you just laughed and pulled his tee shirt up, leaving him in his white tank. You were holding his shirt in your hand as he pressed his lips to yours. "You taste so good here," he whispered, running his tongue along your bottom lip as you wrapped your leg around his hip. Then he kissed your chest before licking a stripe across the top of your lace bra as you bucked your core against him. "Fuck," he groaned. He licked and sucked on the top of your right tit. "Your skin tastes like that spilled beer. I love it on you."

"Well then, you better clean me up with your tongue, since it's your fault in the first place." You tipped your head back, and arched your back off the bed, and Bradley followed your lead, letting his big hands find the clasp of your bra. You moaned softly as he unhooked it and moved his fingers around to ease the fabric away from your body.

"God damn," he groaned before taking your nipple between his lips. Your fingers were tight in his hair as he sucked on you, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb against your other breast.

"Bradley!" you cried out when he rubbed his mustache across your nipple. He was dying to fuck you, but you were letting him tease the hell out of you, and he was loving this.

"You like that?" he asked, enjoying all the cues you were giving him. He couldn't stop grinning as you whimpered a soft little yes before pulling his undershirt off. 

When you ran your fingers through his chest hair and down his abs, Bradley swallowed hard. Because you didn't stop there. You reached right for his unbuttoned jeans and eased his zipper down. He held himself over you, looking down into your needy eyes as you ran your fingers along the elastic of his underwear before delving inside. You licked your pouty lips before you wrapped your hand around his cock, and then you closed the distance up to his lips with the softest, sweetest kiss. You stroked him slowly while barely brushing your lips against his, and it was driving him absolutely insane.

"Ace," he grunted, and you squeezed your hand around his cock and giggled while he moaned for you. Then you gasped and let go of him. "What's wrong?" he asked, immediately pulling himself away from you while he panted.

Your eyes looked concerned, so he put a little more distance between your bodies. "I don't have any condoms," you whispered as you eased your hand away from him.

Bradley pressed his lips to your forehead. "I think I have one in my wallet. It's new."

"Oh," you gasped. "Should have known," you told him. "You're pretty gorgeous, too."

Bradley wanted to ease your mind, let you know that he didn't hook up with a lot of women anymore. He wanted to tell you that the condom was there for just a special occasion like this one. He wanted to explain to you that the last few he'd had in his wallet had been sacrificed to Jake when he'd been in a pinch at the bar.

But you were easing him onto his back, and he supposed it probably wouldn't make much of a difference. It wasn't like you were going to want more from him than just tonight. Besides, he hadn't had anything that wasn't casual in a very long time. 

You were on top of him now, straddling his waist in your unbuttoned jeans, and you were reaching for both of his hands. And when you had your fingers laced with his and pinned his hands over his head, Bradley closed his eyes and enjoyed your touch. Your lips were soft on his face and your thumbs were stroking along his palms in a way that was not only turning him on more, but also providing him with some comfort. 

When you whispered his name, he opened his eyes and he felt surprised by the realization that he only met you tonight. 

"Maybe you should get that condom ready?" you asked softly, rolling your hips against Bradley's torso.

"Yeah," he grunted. And then you were easing down his body, taking his jeans and underwear with you. Bradley propped himself up on one elbow as his cock sprang free. You made eye contact with him, lips parted on a soft whimper. 

"Bradley," you sighed, tugging his jeans, underwear and socks completely off. 

Before you tossed everything aside, he mumbled, "Grab my wallet, Baby." Your eyes met his with so much need before you focused on taking the leather out of the pocket of his jeans, it had him reaching for you. 

You shoved it into his hand before you scrambled back up his body and brushed your fingers through his hair, kissing his lips like he was every goddamn thing you wanted.

Bradley removed the condom and tossed his wallet onto the floor. Then he had you underneath him again. You still smelled like the spilled beer as he kissed his way along your chest, and you were trying to wriggle out of your jeans. "I can take care of that," he whispered, pressing the condom into your hand. Then he had every scrap of fabric removed from your body, and he didn't know if he could handle how perfect you really were. "Ace," he groaned when you eased your feet up his biceps and let your ankles rest on his shoulders. 

Bradley's lips found the inside of your right thigh as if he was drawn to you like a magnet. Your eyes were half lidded, and you had one hand in his hair and one on your tits. How was he going to recover from this?

"Let me taste you," he begged, and when you nodded, his lips were on your pussy immediately. He groaned, already addicted to the way you tasted here too. He kissed along your slit and buried his nose against your clit.

"Oh!" you gasped, tightening your grip on his hair and spreading your legs wider for him. Bradley's cock was throbbing against the bedding as he slid his tongue up through your soaking wet pussy until his lips were wrapped around your clit.

"Yesss," you hissed, gently riding his face as you whispered his name. And with each stroke of his tongue, you got a little louder, your fingers pulled his hair a little more. Oh, he was so fucking turned on for you, he wasn't sure he'd last more than a minute once he had that condom on.

"Bradley!" you gasped, pressing your heel into his back while he sucked on your clit. "Put the condom on."

It took him a little bit to get his lips away from your pussy, because he really wanted to get you off with his mouth. But then he rationalized that you wanted him to get you off with his dick instead, and that sounded perfect, too.

"Okay," he panted, brushing his wet mustache against your belly as you opened the condom for him. He rolled it on and kissed your lips as he pressed himself to your core. Now you were holding him in place by his hair as you returned his kisses, softly moaning into his mouth as he pressed his tip into you. You felt warm and tight and perfect, and as you took every inch of him, he stroked his thumb along your cheek.

"Oh god," you whimpered, frantically kissing him and licking his mustache. Your voice was coming in little gasps, and he loved the sound of it.

Bradley withdrew and thrust back inside you, and you rolled your hips with his. "You gotta tell me what you like, Ace. I want to make you feel good."

He watched your eyes go a little wider before you reached for his hand. When you took his index and middle fingers between your lips and started sucking on him while he fucked you, he groaned. "Baby. God that feels fucking great. But don't make me cum yet."

With a soft whimper, you swirled your tongue along his fingers before popping them out of your mouth and guiding his hand down between your bodies to your clit. Bradley had to suck in a deep breath and think about one of his superior officers leading a boring lecture to keep himself in check. He never felt close to the edge this fast, but as he ran his wet fingers along your clit and fucked you into the bed, he knew he could cum if he let himself. 

"Bradley," you whispered, and he buried his face against your neck. "Harder."

He bit his lip and fucked you harder while you whined his name, and he kept his fingers on your clit, trying to work you up. He needed to get you off. He absolutely needed to do this. Because he was hoping you'd call him or text him. He wanted you to save his number and use it. He was already dying for more. 

"Ace," he groaned, pressing his lips to your neck as your fingers drifted down his shoulders to his back. 

You moaned, "I like it when you call me that," so Bradley pressed the nickname against your lips with his until you were gasping and clenching around him. When you came for him, you took his fingers from your clit and laced your hand with his as his movements grew more erratic. 

He was saying something as he came inside you, but he wasn't exactly sure what. And you were looking up at him with a soft, fucked out smile and pushing his hair away from his forehead with your warm hand. And then you let him collapse on top of you while he was still buried inside you, and you ran your fingers back through his hair. 

Bradley settled his cheek against your chest and let himself enjoy the feel of your breathing evening out after your orgasm. You were still making soft sounds as you rubbed your calf along his leg. He could have stayed just like this all night. You felt that good. 

Just as he looked up at you, about to ask if there was any way you'd want to see him again this weekend, you laughed softly. 

"Wow. That was fun."

Fun. He wanted to be more than a fun time. "And good, I hope?" he asked softly. 

"More than good," you whispered, laughing again. "Amazing." 

Bradley smiled at you, and he knew he was blushing. "Yeah. Amazing is the right word for it."

And you were smiling so much, Bradley laughed as you tried to hide behind your hand. He leaned in and kissed your wrist. "Ace, I-"

Bradley jerked away from you as an alarm went off somewhere in the room. When you sat up, he gently eased himself out of you with a grunt.

"That's my thirty minute warning," you told him, scrambling out of bed. "I need to finish my article and submit it."

"Oh," he said, watching you bend to locate your phone. "Right."

You looked at him and licked your lips nervously as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. And then you bent to start retrieving your clothing, and Bradley's heart sank as he stood as well. Wordlessly, he went into the bathroom to take care of the condom and wash his hands, and when he came back out, you were dressed in your underwear and the white shirt he had messed up.

"I guess," he whispered, pulling on his own underwear, "I should go then."

You pressed your lips together and nodded slightly. "I guess so."

"Okay," he said, quickly getting himself dressed in everything except his Padres tee. He just held that while he looked at you. "You have my number."

"I do," you whispered. 

"You can use it," he told you with a smile, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek. And then your lips were on his. And then your fingers were in his hair again. 

You moaned and then pulled away from him, and Bradley forced himself to walk backwards to the door, not wanting to take his eyes off you. 

"Bye, Bradley."

He didn't want to say goodbye to you, so he said, "See ya, Ace," and then he was out in the hallway with the door closing behind him.

-----------------------------------

Oh, Bradley! I love Ace, and I hope you do, too! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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Author's Note: I'm literally SO EXCITED for this one, you have no idea (I even made a special banner and divider for the story, look!!!). It's gonna be a short one, only four parts, but I hope you'd still like it. There's a snippet of the first part below to keep yourself on your toes 👀 (special thanks to @avis-writeshq for being the best and most supportive beta ever). Your support means tons to me, so plsss don't forget to LIKE+COMMENT+REBLOG

♤ One || I'm in It for the Money ♤

When Derek is forced to go undercover for a case, he doesn't expect to encounter the past that has haunted him for years.

♡ Two || Let's Put On a Show ♡

To be added.

◇ Three || You Need to Get Ready ◇

To be added.

♧ Four || It's Time to Go ♧

To be added.

The scene below is a sneak peek from the first part of The Countdown.

You waited until Temples was out of earshot before addressing Derek, "Fancy seeing you here."

"Yeah. I wish I could say the same."

You smiled somewhat sadly at the taste of venom in Derek's voice. The damp and moldy air in the forgotten factory stood no chance against the sting of Derek's cold glare. It was easy for your body to ignore the chill, pretending that Derek's indifference didn't bite through your skin. Your heart, though, was a different story.

"I didn't know it was gonna be you," was what you ended up saying after a full minute of silence. "When Jimmy told me that someone would be coming in, he didn't tell me anything else. I wasn't expecting you."

It was the most sincere string of words you had uttered since showing up in front of him. For a moment, something twitched in his chest, and Derek loathed the fact that you still had that effect on him even after years had passed. But as frustrating as it was, Derek didn't think petty would suit him well as a middle name, so he swallowed the bitter lump and forced his shoulders to relax.

"So, this is where you've been all this time? Living as a ghost?"

Taglist is open. Leave a comment or send me an ask to be added!

Taglist: @citrusiove @kneelforloki @prentissim @bunbunbl0gs @lubunnii

You winced before you were even done speaking, knowing how they’d react to the excuse. They didn’t let you down as another of your friends threw a cloth napkin across the table. 

“You start seeing the hot pilot again, and you forget to mention it?!” 

“One who it was dumb to break up with anyway, for the record,” Anna added on, just for good measure. You rolled your eyes but you couldn’t help but partially agree with her, too. 

“It’s only been a month!” you exclaimed, though you knew it was a useless defense. “And technically, he’s an aviator.”

“He flies something that goes in the air. He’s a pilot.”

You didn’t bother to hide your grin as you took another sip of your peach mimosa.Your friends had immediately turned into a firing squad launching questions at you when you casually mentioned you had been running late because Bradley had been trying to convince you to let him drop you off instead of you driving yourself. He had brought it up with a kiss to the top of the head and his arms wrapped around you from behind when you were getting ready. He was going to the driving range with some of the guys, and had insisted that if it went how it usually did, he’d be finding excuses to leave after an hour or two anyway. 

“They’re too competitive, and they’re cheats, and my wallet can only take so much, okay? What better excuse is there than having to go pick up my girlfriend?” 

You had turned down his offer with a playful roll of your eyes and a comment about how maybe he shouldn’t make bets when he knows he’s not all that great of a golfer. He had gasped in mock outrage and tickled your sides, which had led to you kissing him in apology through your laughter, and before you knew it, he was lifting you onto the bathroom counter and had made you both a little late leaving your house. You bit your lip at the memory, your body tingling for another reason besides the champagne. 

“So, do you think it’s serious this time? Like…in it for the long haul?” 

You thought about how the last month of your life had arguably been one of the worst of your life because of work and those that came with it but how despite all that, when you thought of the passage of time, the first thing you thought of was how happy it was because you had Bradley back in your life. You were able to, for the most part at least, forget all of the bad when he was there. You thought of how glorious it was, falling asleep and waking up with him, and all of the little things he did that made it so obvious how he cared for you. He was simultaneously able to light you on fire in the best of ways and offer you peace to any situation, all at the same time. He was so beautiful, so kind, and he made you feel like no one else ever had. He never let you feel like a burden, and instead made you so confident that he felt all these things, too. 

Those words you hadn’t said flashed in your head again but you swallowed them down with another sip of champagne. 

“Yeah,” you grinned into the rim of your glass, unsure if it was the champagne or your thoughts that were making you feel warm and giddy inside. “I think so. I hope so.” 

There was cooing and awwing that broke out around the table but you didn’t even care, too content and happy to do anything but laugh. 

It was over two hours later that you were hugging them all goodbye on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, stomach full from brunch and your sides aching from how much you had laughed in such a short amount of time. It was so nice to just sit and talk and laugh with them, catching up on life and gossiping about relationships and things going on in the world. You were so glad that Bradley had convinced you not to cancel. You didn’t realize how much you had missed your friends until you were around all of them again. 

Anna hung back when everyone had dispersed, handing you a business card out of her purse. You raised your eyebrow in question. 

“It’s a friend of mine who works in your field,” she told you with a smile. “I know you’ve been on the market for a while. He’s a manager, and he’s going to have a spot opening up on his team soon. I mentioned your background to him, and he said to have you reach out if you think you might be interested. Not a guarantee, obviously, but I don’t think it’d hurt either. I think you guys would vibe really well together.” 

You read the details on the card and clutched it a little bit tighter. It was a company you had briefly looked at during your job search, but they hadn’t had any openings at the time. Excited anticipation rose in you and after carefully putting it in your purse, you threw your arms around your friend. She laughed off your thank you as she squeezed you a little bit tighter. 

“I hope it works out. But at the very least, even if it doesn’t, I can say that I’m at least responsible for bringing you and Bradley back together, since you were supposed to meet me at the bar that night. So I’m not going to feel bad anymore for ditching you at the last minute.” 

You threw your head back with a laugh. “Fair enough. Thanks for being a flake.” 

She shoved you, rolling her eyes and scowling at you playfully. “You’re so welcome,” she said sarcastically. She winked as she started walking away. “Have a good rest of the weekend with your aviator,” she called as she opened her car door.  “We’ll have to get our Navy men together for a double date soon!” 

And then it was just you, standing there on the sidewalk on a sunny San Diego afternoon, contemplating what to do. You grabbed your phone out of your jacket pocket when you felt it buzz. Like you always did, you smiled when Bradley’s name popped up. He was checking in to see if brunch was still going. His friends were going another round at the driving range, and he wanted to see where you were to decide if he was going to participate. It made you giddy how if you were home, he wanted to be there too. 

You thought over your options for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek. You hadn’t been planning on doing anything after you separated from your friends. But you were in a great mood, feeling better than you had in a while in regards to being out on your own. The restaurant you ate at was in one of the shopping districts you liked and it was a beautiful day. Since you were already here, you decided you were going to walk around for a little while. Setting off in the direction of the coffee shop a few stores down, you responded to your boyfriend's text, telling him to enjoy the next round. 

___

A bag from the jewelry store next door hung on your wrist. You had popped in in hopes of finding a similar necklace to the one you had lost and were pleased that they had the exact duplicate in stock. Now, you were sipping on a latte as you browsed the shelves in the bookstore. You had already mindlessly looked through a few genres and, without finding anything new that caught your eyes, decided that you would look for the next book in a romance series you had started a while ago. 

You were humming along to the song playing over the speakers as you walked down the aisles of paperbacks and hardcovers, your finger tracing the spines as you went. “Ah-ha!” you muttered to yourself, finally finding what you were looking for on one of the shelves in the corner of the store. You flipped the book over to read the synopsis on the back and were so engrossed in the synopsis that when you heard your name from right behind you, you startled so hard that the novel flew out of your hand and your hot coffee sloshed out of the lid and onto your skin. 

You whipped around and your eyes instantly widened in alarm. All at once you felt anxiety spread through your body like wildfire, your heart racing dangerously. 

“Paul,” you gasped. 

He was there, standing so close to you that you had felt his breath on your neck when he spoke your name. You nearly tripped over your own feet when you quickly took a step back. He was smiling broadly at you in the same way he always did. 

“I was hoping I’d find you!” he exclaimed, “I saw you earlier at the restaurant, but I didn’t want to interrupt your time with your friends.” 

Your mind whirled at his comment. He had been there? He had seen you? 

“You looked like you were having so much fun,” he continued like what he was saying was completely normal. Your stomach dropped. He hadn’t just been there. He had been watching you. 

“I-” you started, shaking your head. You didn’t know what to say. Your mouth felt so dry all of a sudden. 

“You look pretty today.” 

Bradley had told you more than once how beautiful you looked before you left the house in your sage green sundress and denim jacket, white tennis shoes on your feet. And you had felt it, too. But in an instant, you were uncomfortable in your own skin. You felt dirty at his praise and the way he was looking you up and down. 

Paul looked at you expectantly, waiting for a response. But you had nothing to say. Your mind was moving so quickly that it was hard to remember how to form sentences. You stared at him with wide eyes. A beat passed before he sighed, his smile dipping. His eyebrows knitted a little tighter together as he cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry we haven’t been able to talk at work the last few weeks. I was told I should stay away from you for right now.” 

You processed the words slowly, because they didn’t make any sense. He genuinely sounded apologetic, and was looking at you with something that looked like sympathy. But not for anything he had done. But because you hadn’t been able to talk? 

“You’re….sorry?” 

“Yes,” he nodded. When he nodded in emphasis, his glasses slipped down his nose. He pushed them up as he continued. “I forgive you, by the way.” 

“Forgive me?” you stuttered out, sounding incredulous.

“For turning me in,” he explained. The look on his face darkened as he clenched his jaw. “I’m sure it was your boyfriend who told you to do it.” He practically spat the word out, but then he quickly schooled his features, resuming the smile from before. “Anyway. I’m sure it will all be resolved soon. They’ll see that nothing is wrong and it was just an overreaction on your part.” 

You didn’t understand anything that was happening right now. You couldn’t. You stared at Paul in disbelief, unable to comprehend how he honestly believed the words coming out of his mouth. Every one felt like little pellets being thrown at you, each one stinging more than the last. Your fight or flight instinct was finally coming online and you swallowed thickly, trying to figure out what to do. 

“I - I need to go.” 

You startled again when you shuffled to the side, because Paul was quick to mimic the movement, staying in front of you and blocking your way. 

“Do you need a ride home?” 

You nearly choked at the question. “Do I ne- no,” you said vehemently, shaking your head. “No.” 

“I saw you drinking. I don’t mind taking you home if you drank too much,” he said, taking another step toward you. You stepped back, your shoulder blades digging into the books behind you and leaving you with nowhere else to go. Paul moved closer, so close you could see the smudges on his glasses and smell the cheap scent of his cologne. It reminded you of a high school locker room, and something flickered in the back of your mind. You had made that comparison before, a few weeks ago at the farmer’s market with Bradley. You had felt like someone was watching you and had smelt this same smell then, and your anxiety spiked when you realized what that meant. 

God, he had been there.

“You don’t live too far from here. It wouldn’t be an issue.” 

You had averted your gaze to the floor, purposefully avoiding eye contact. But your head snapped up so fast that you felt a twinge in your neck. Your already fast beating heart seemed to double down, your pulse thundering so hard beneath your skin that you could practically hear it. Bile rose in your throat as panic started to claw at you. 

“How do you know that?” you asked, pressing yourself further into the shelf behind you. “How do you - do you know where I live? Do you know my address?” 

He cocked his head to the side, looking at you with genuine confusion and curiosity, like it was you who was spouting off nonsense. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You gave it to me.” 

“I never told you that,” you spat. Your voice came out higher pitched, shaky and incredulous. You were so certain you had never done such a thing. 

“You shared your location with me, remember? At work that day? You wanted me to know.” 

He said the words slowly, like he was explaining something difficult to a child. He was looking at you like he was concerned for you for not remembering. Like you were dumb. You had never felt so small in your life in the worst of ways. Your mind searched through every encounter you ever had with him, trying desperately to figure out what he was talking about. 

And then you remembered. It was the month he had started, and your team was doing a happy hour after work. He was new to the area and wasn’t familiar with where the bar was. He had asked to ride with you, but you had been uncomfortable with the idea, so you had shared your location with him instead to help him get there on his own. But it had been a temporary share, just for an hour. That was it, you were sure of it. There was no way…

You scrambled for your phone. Your hands were starting to shake as you went into your contacts. Dread settled heavy in your stomach when you clicked on him. 

Oh, god. 

You had blocked his number months ago after the first time you had reported him to HR, when he had started texting and calling you all the time. Tears welled in your eyes when you saw that, despite that, you were still actively sharing your location with him. You hadn’t hit the hour setting that day. You had hit indefinitely. He had had access to it all this time. 

It had been months. He had known where you were for months. All those times he had shown up where you were. The grocery store. The gym. Restaurants. The Hard Deck the last two Fridays in a row. He had figured out where you lived by monitoring where you were. 

And you had done it. It had been an accident, but you had done it. And he interpreted it as you wanting him to know. As…as wanting him. 

And it was because of you. It was your own doing. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” 

You watched in what felt like slow motion as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar piece of jewelry. It was simple, a single small charm with your initial on it dangling from a thin gold chain. It was the same one you had worn for you don’t even know how long. The same one that had gone missing two weeks ago, that you had just bought a replacement for less than an hour ago. It’s the same necklace that you were so confident had been on the jewelry plate on your dresser, where you always put it when you take it off, but that you couldn’t find anywhere.

“I found this by your desk. I know you wear it all the time, so I figured you missed it and would want it back. I kept it safe for you.” 

He held it out to you with a large grin. He looked proud of himself, smug. You knew that your face was horrified in return. 

Your desk, he said. 

But it was on a Monday morning before you left for work that you couldn’t find it. You had it on in the picture you and Bradley had taken together the day before, when you wouldn’t have been anywhere near the office. He couldn’t have found it near your desk. 

He had your necklace. He knew where you lived. 

You felt like you were going to throw up. You could taste it in your throat, feel it all through your body. 

Your eyes flickered down to your phone and then back up at him, before repeating the pattern one more time. You stared at each other for a beat before you swallowed and tapped the screen. You were looking him in the eye when you hit “stop sharing.” His eyes widened as he realized what it was you had just done, and the friendly mask he had carefully maintained throughout the entire exchange disappeared in an instant. 

“Why would you do that?” 

Paul’s blue eyes were as dark as the ocean and as cold as it, too, and he was reaching for you. His clammy hand clamped around your wrist and squeezed tightly, and he was trying to yank you against him. Panic gripped you. He was saying something, but you couldn’t hear it. There was a ringing in your ears and it was like the aisles of books were closing in on you. 

You had to get out of here, away from him. You had to, and you were acting on pure instinct when you finally moved. You popped the lid off of your cup and threw the still hot coffee at him. Paul shouted in surprise as the liquid hit his face and covered his glasses. He was so close that some of it splashed back on you. When he stumbled back, he let go of your wrist as instinct took over to wipe at his face. 

“Stay the fuck away from me,” you hissed. And then in the same moment, you ran. 

Paul called out as you turned the corner and you pushed yourself faster. You didn’t even pause when you burst out of the door of the bookstore. You narrowly avoided running into several people as you darted through the shopping district in the direction of where you parked your car. The tears started as you ran. You didn’t even see the dip in the sidewalk until you were hitting the ground. You let out a sharp cry of surprise, but even then, you didn’t stop, struggling quickly back to your feet. 

You could see your car now. You tugged your keys from your bag, nearly dropping them in your haste. You scrambled to hit the unlock button and slid into the driver’s side.

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled out of the parking lot and after a minute of driving, the first sob worked its way out of your throat, followed quickly by a second. 

Paul knew where you lived. He had tracked your movements. This was your fault, your mistake having led you here.He had been following you for months, and it had all been because of your own carelessness. Your chest felt so tight - you could barely breathe. 

You made a sharp turn onto a different street at the last second, and then another after that. You were nearly hyperventilating by the time you finally stopped in another busy parking lot. 

Your hands were shaking so hard when you grabbed your phone from where you had thrown it in the passenger seat. You had to enter your passcode three different times because the trembling was so bad before it finally unlocked. Paul’s contact profile was still pulled up; you choked on another sob as you closed out of it and went to another. Once the sound of ringing echoed through your bluetooth you lost the grip you had on your phone. It fell to your lap and you clenched the steering wheel instead, your palms stinging, trying to remember how to take a deep breath. 

“Hey, baby. You all done?”  

Bradley’s voice surrounded you as it echoed from your speakers. In any other situation, you would have been able to hear the smile in his voice and would be delighted in knowing you were the one that put it there. But as you choked out his name, all you could think about was Paul. He had been watching you. He knew where you were all the time and it was all your fault. You let out another sob. 

The shift in Bradley’s tone was immediate. “Bug? What’s going on? What’s wrong?” 

You felt like you were drowning, sinking deeper and deeper into your panic. Bradley called your name and you didn’t think it was the first time. You tried to get enough air into your lungs to force words out. “I- Bradley,” you gasped. 

“I need you to take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong. Please, baby. Please.” He was begging you, he was so worried, and another wave of guilt washed over you. “Just take a breath. In and out, sweetheart. Come on.” 

You tried so hard to match the exaggerated breathing he was doing through the phone. You wanted to say something to him, to explain what was going on, but whenever you opened your mouth, another violent, gasping cry came out.

“B. He-he-he-” Black dots started appearing in your vision and you knew if you didn’t get ahold of yourself, you were going to pass out. With all the strength you could muster, you sucked in one deep, choppy breath. It left you in a painful exhale, your chest so tight it physically hurt. With violently shaking hands, you picked your phone up again. A brand new bout of nausea overtook you when you sent Bradley your location. 

Paul had known where you’ve been for months, yet you had never even shared it with your own boyfriend. 

“Can you - come - come get me?” you managed to choke out. “Please? I - I can’t -” 

“I’m on my way, baby. Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

-------

Part Nine :: Series Masterlist :: Main Masterlist

Notes: So.....Paul is the worst. Yikes. AHHHHH. I am so damn nervous about your reactions to this one. I hope it lived up to expectations.

Likes/comments/reblogs are the best encouragement for posting more🖤

Thank you to Mak and Em for all of your help making this story come to life. And thanks to Mak for the AMAZING banner!

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“A ten blade.”

The atmosphere inside the Operating Room is nothing like what it was in the Emergency Department. It’s calm and quiet. Bradley’s presence is calming. The patient is in good hands – capable ones.

Stretching his arm out, holding his palm towards the ceiling, Bradley waits for the scrub nurse to pass him the blade of his choosing.

“Thank you.”

A soft smile climbs onto your lips at Bradley’s words.

He has good manners. His mother raised him well. Compared to all the other surgeons you have interacted with over the course of the past few weeks, Bradley’s behavior stands out. He made sure to introduce himself to those nurses whose name he didn’t know as he walked into the Operating Room. After working alongside Dr. Seresin, it leaves you speechless – how Bradley makes sure that everyone feels appreciated for their work.

Drawing in a deep breath, letting your lungs expand under your ribcage, you watch as Bradley wraps his fingers around the curved surgical blade, moving to glide it along the left side of the patient’s chest. The incision is approximately four inches wide – big enough for Bradley to fit four fingers inside.

“Scissors.”

Bradley places the blade onto the side table. His eyes are glued onto the patient’s chest, a few wrinkles sitting between his brows as he concentrates.

Bradley feels relieved, like he is able to breathe again, as he realizes that the only thing on his mind anymore is the surgery he is performing. He is not thinking about you or his soon-to-be ex-wife. He is not thinking about the divorce or how messy his life is.

Maybe this is why Bradley loves being a surgeon as much as he does. It’s an escape. When he is in the Operating Room the world around him disappears, with all of its problems. This is what he needs. To be working. Now more than ever before.

The incision is bubbling with bright red, fresh blood. The surgical mask you are wearing blocks out most of the irony, rusty smell that normally makes you scrunch your nose.

Shivers run along the length of your spine as you watch Bradley use the scissors to cut out some of the soft, red flesh covering the patient’s ribs. The inside of your throat tingles. You feel uncomfortable. You are not yet used to seeing things like this.

It’s normal. Most surgeons pass out during their first surgery. It takes some time to get used to all the blood and flesh that’s on display on an operating table. But even if it is normal, you can’t help but mentally scold yourself for feeling this way. You expect so much from yourself. Always have.

Though the room is crowded, all you see is Bradley. Not the Operating Room nurses, not the anesthesiologist, not Dr. Seresin. Just Bradley.

All of him.

The way there’s not a hint of doubt in his whiskey-colored eyes. The way his presence fills the entirety of the Operating Room, making you feel warm and safe. The way his hands are not shaking the slightest bit as he reaches for a rib spreader.

Bradley places the spreader between the patient’s ribs through the incision he made. He uses it to push the patient’s ribs apart to get a better view of his chest and heart.

It looks brutal. The mask you’re wearing does a good job in hiding your grimace.

Trying to locate the source of the bleed, Bradley places four fingers inside the patient's chest through the incision. He gets a feel of his heart. “Open him up more, please.” Bradley feels it there. He feels the bleeder, – knows where all this blood is coming from. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Not before he sees it too.

Dr. Seresin reaches out and spreads the patient's ribs wider. He’s there to assist. “You feel it yet?”

The patient’s chest is bubbling with fresh blood, painting the blue surgical gloves Bradley’s wearing with different shades of red.

“There’s a hole in the ventricle,” Bradley tells him. “Right there.”

The patient is bleeding out. As Bradley locates the bleeder, fresh blood starts bubbling out from his chest onto the operating table. Bradley grits his teeth together as he reaches for a cloth. He pushes the cloth inside the patient’s chest, trying to absorb as much of the blood as he can to get a better view.

“He’s bleeding out.” Dr. Seresin says out loud, to no one in particular.

He too is scrunching his eyebrows together. Those focused, sage green eyes of his are carefully examining the amount of blood that is running along the side of the patient’s chest, pooling onto the operating table. It looks brutal. It’s been awhile since Dr. Seresin has seen anything like this.

“Oh my god.” Through gritted teeth, you suck in a deep breath as Bradley pulls the cloth out of the patient’s chest. Just a few seconds ago, that cloth was white. Now it’s bright red, dripping with blood.

Dr. Seresin hums in agreement. “You alright there, Kid?”

“Yeah, I am,” you decide. “It’s just so much blood.”

Your chest feels tight. The surgical mask sits snug on top of your nose and mouth, restricting the airflow into your lungs. The scent of sterile material and hand sanitizer is flooding your senses as you try to draw in deep breaths. Your hands are cold and sweaty, making your gloves feel sticky on the inside.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You tilt your head slightly to the side, tearing your eyes away from the patient’s chest. Dr. Seresin looks at you reassuringly, a promise in his eyes. He knows that it’s hard. But he also knows that you have what it takes to become a great surgeon, even if he’d never say it out loud. He is warming up to you.

You hum softly. “Thank you.”

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, not loud enough to be heard through his mask. He clears his throat. “Scissors.”

You can’t help yourself. You are too curious. So you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Opening his pericardium,” Bradley tells you. He is calm, his voice soothing. It eases up the tightness in your chest.

Pericardium, or as it’s also known as the pericardial sac, is a sac around one’s heart. It contains the heart and the roots of the major vessels. Bradley needs to open it up in order to see the patient’s heart that’s hiding underneath.

So he cuts through the patient’s pericardium, exposing his heart. You hold your breath. There it is. His heart. Moving inside his chest. Pumping blood as it’s supposed to – only now through the hole in its atrium, flooding the patient’s chest with bright red, warm blood.

Now both hands inside the patient's chest, Bradley’s hands carefully roam over his heart. It moves under his touch, making it hard for him to locate the bleeder. “Suction.”

Saliva feels thick on your tongue. It’s hard to focus when the humming in your ears is getting progressively louder, distracting you. The tips of your fingers are tingling as they go numb. There’s something bubbling inside your belly – an uneasy feeling. One that you are not familiar with.

The image before you is disturbing, to say the least. Someone with a weaker mind would have not made it this far. You are doing good.

C’mon. Don’t be a baby. You’ve got this.

Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You straighten your spine, square your shoulders. You are not going to pass out. Not today, not tomorrow. You are a surgeon. You remind yourself to act like one.

“There–, fuck.” Bradley clenches his jaw as he locates the bleeder. “Put your finger there.”

“Me?”

You capture your lower lip between your teeth, biting down on the soft flesh.

“Yes, you.” Bradley confirms. “Now! Please.”

You flinch. The tone of Bradley’s voice is authoritative as he raises his voice at you. He’s not mad at you. He is not doing it to make you feel bad about yourself. He remembers his first surgery. He knows what you are going through. So he raises his voice to get your head out of your ass, back in the game.

Your gloves are still clean. They are not going to be clean for much longer. You are hesitant, biting the inside of your cheek as you stretch your arm out. “Here?”

“Yeah, right there. I’ll take my finger out and you put yours there, so that I can get him on bypass, okay?”

You swallow. You take a quick glance at Bradley. “Yeah, okay.”

Bradley is already looking at you. There’s not a storm in his eyes like there is in yours. His hazel-colored eyes grasp a hold of your gaze, telling you that it’s going to be alright. “Okay.”

One second you are standing there, looking Bradley in the eye, gathering courage, and the next you are holding your breath, using your finger to temporarily plug the hole in the patient’s right ventricle.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel the heart moving around your fingers. You can feel it as it expands and contracts at a hurried pace. It feels warm and wet. There’s a lot of blood surrounding your finger, staining your glove.

It feels everything but natural. You feel like throwing up.

“Ten Prolene, please.” Bradley decides. Prolene is a synthetic suture. It’s commonly used in different surgeries. It's nonabsorbable and extremely durable. Bradley uses it to mark the place of arterial cannula with a couple of stitches.

The unpleasant feeling in your stomach settles, as the image before you changes. Soon your hands are free, back at your sides as the patient is put on bypass, with many tubes and straws sticking out of the patient’s open chest – from his heart. His heart looks a lot smaller now, as it’s drained of blood.

It doesn’t take long for the patient’s heart to stop beating as the Heart-Lung machine takes over. The Heart-Lung Machine acts as the patient’s heart and lungs for the duration of the surgery. The person running the machine, The Perfusionist, is an older man, maybe in his fifties. He is very calm. Doesn’t talk much.

Though you have known what a human heart looks like for years now, the light, yellow-ish color of it still surprises you. It’s not everyday you get to see a heart that has been emptied and stopped.

You lean slightly forwards to get a better view.

Bradley is as calm as ever, his chest rising and falling at a steady pace as he uses Prolene sutures to stitch up the tear in the patient’s right ventricle. He is using a curved suture needle, pushing it through the delicate flesh, bringing the sides of the tear together with knots that will hold.

You are in awe.

His hands are steady, his movements slow and precise. The years he has spent beside the operating table evident in the way he works the suture needle with such expertise. It’s astonishing.

Magical, even.

Bradley takes a quick glance at you.

You are beaming. Those pretty eyes of yours are sparkling under the harsh lighting. There are a few wrinkles sitting in the corners of your eyes, clear evidence of the widest smile that your lips have stretched onto. You are not holding your breath anymore. The tightness in your chest is gone, allowing you to breathe freely.

Bradley can see it. Clear as day.

You are starting to understand.

The high.

Bradley bites down a smile. You are so beautiful. So young and open-minded. So full of life. Experiencing these things for the very first time. Bradley is glad to be here. Glad to be a part of this core memory of yours.

“Alright, let’s take him off bypass.” Bradley glances at the Perfusionist, nodding once.

Your fingertips are tingling with excitement. The heart starts to move, slowly at first. It contracts once, then twice. Slowly settling into a comfortable rhythm, pumping blood into the patient’s body as it’s supposed to. His lungs start to move, expanding as they fill with air.

Bradley hums in contentment. There is no better feeling. If it were up to him, he’d spend all of his days like this. He wouldn’t spend them in a courtroom, fighting with his ex-wife. He would be here, in the Operating Room, doing what he does best.

“Let’s close him up.”

Soon you find yourself sitting on an empty hospital bed, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in your hands. Its scent – nutty and smokey – is lingering in the air. You close your eyes, breathing it in. Your eyelids feel heavy, exhaustion weighing them down.

It’s three in the morning. The corridor isn’t crowded like it usually is – only a few people walking by every now and then, their footsteps echoing in the empty space.

The paper cup feels warm against your palms. Bringing it up to your lips, you take a sip of the hot liquid inside, hoping that it’ll make staying up during the early morning hours a little easier.

“How are you holding up?”

You flinch. Coffee sloshes around the paper cup, climbing up its edges. A few droplets of the hot liquid fall down to your scrubs.

“Shit–, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Looking up, you are met with a pair of familiar, chestnut-colored eyes looking back at you. Bradley is standing at an arm's length away from you. He is wearing his scrubs, the sleeves of it sitting tight around his biceps.

“It’s alright.” A soft smile climbs onto your lips. “I thought I was alone.”

“May I?” Bradley asks, nodding at the empty space beside you.

Bradley looks good. Tired, but good. There are puffy, dark circles around his eyes. He struggles to focus his gaze, exhaustion weighing down his eyelids too. The long hours are graying the color of his eyes, making them appear dull – lifeless, almost.

“Yeah, please.”

The hospital bed sinks as Bradley takes a seat next to you. He too is holding onto a paper cup, the hot liquid inside of it warming up his fingers through the recyclable material.

“Are you alright?” The tone of his voice is deep and hoarse, sending shivers down the length of your spine. He sounds every bit as tired as he looks.

“I am.”

There is a permanent smile dancing on your lips. You are still high from the surgery. Thinking back on what happened inside that Operating Room, you can practically hear the monitors beeping in the background as the patient’s heart moves around your finger, making your stomach turn, making your throat tingle.

“That was…” Biting the inside of your cheek, you wonder if there even are words to describe the way you feel. Probably not. “There’s just nothing like it.”

“I know. It’s addicting.” he agrees.

Bradley takes a sip of his coffee. His bicep brushing against your arm as he does so – feeling so warm, so homey. You want to lean into his touch, rest your head against his broad shoulder. Close your eyes. Breathe in his scent.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask. You nod once, gesturing towards his hands – towards the golden wedding band that sits snug around his ring finger, glistening in the dim lighting.

“It’s…” Bradley starts. He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, pondering his options. He likes you. He really does. He doesn’t want to lie to you. “It’s, uh… Complicated.”

“Yeah. Relationships tend to be like that.” The tone of your voice is soft, soothing as it echoes through the empty space.

Bradley chuckles. He doesn’t remember a time when it wasn’t complicated. He doesn’t remember a time when that wedding band didn’t feel like a burden. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to be in love. To feel warmth spreading across his chest, his cheekbones.

“You didn’t have a ring then.” You are pointing out the obvious. You know you are. But it’s something that’s been on your mind a lot for the past few hours.

“I know,” he sighs.

Bradley doesn’t owe you an explanation. He knows that.

Just like he knows that the truth will come out eventually. He is getting a divorce. Spending all of his free time in a courtroom, fighting with his soon-to-be ex-wife. Not sleeping well. Not taking care of himself like he should.

“We’ve been separated for a while now. Going through a divorce.”

The words sting the tip of Bradley’s tongue. It’s a sensation Bradley is not familiar with. Of course he isn’t – it’s not like he has said them out loud before. It’s funny, really – how you, the stranger from the bar, are the first one to know.

“I’m sorry.”

You are not saying this to be polite, or because you can’t think of anything else to say. You are saying this because you really do mean it. You are sorry.

Throughout your trips around the Sun, you have only been through one break up. You still remember the way your whole body was aching. The way your chest felt tight for months after. You can’t even imagine what it feels like to go through a divorce.

You tilt your head back, facing him. Sympathy in your eyes. Bradley is there, looking down at you. Sitting so close to you, yet still not close enough.

There it is again. Between you. So thick that you could cut it with a knife. Pushing against your chest as you draw in deep breaths. You know that Bradley feels it too. You can see it in his eyes.

You stay there for a while. Holding each other’s gazes, tightening up each other’s airways. There is heat spreading across your cheeks. There are butterflies flying around your stomach, fluttering their wings so hard that it makes your breath hitch.

“I should go.” Your fingertips are tingling. They feel numb. Both hot and cold at the same time. It’s unfair.

“Yeah.” Bradley agrees. His voice is quiet. Just barely loud enough for you to hear.

Feeling the itch to lean closer to him, to run your fingers across those light scars decorating his cheeks, you push yourself up from the hospital bed. You can’t stay here. Not this close to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Not when the air surrounding the two of you feels as thick as it does now.

authors note besties… this chapter really pushed me to my absolute limits, writing about something i really don’t know shit about. i spent hours upon hours watching videos of different heart surgeries as well as reading different surgical reports. it would really mean the world to me if you’d let me know what you think 👉🏼👈🏼🥺 was it too much, not enough? anyway, i love you and thank you for reading 💚

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“I’m sorry, what?” you ask, just loud enough for Adelaide to hear.

You stand still, frozen in place. Your chest isn’t rising and falling at a steady pace like it usually is. Your eyes are blown wide, shock evident on your features. Did you hear that right?

“Precordial stab. A thirty-four year old male. No estimated time.” Adelaide repeats. Feeling the words sting the tip of her tongue, she scrunches her eyebrows together. It’s not Adelaide’s first time on a case like this, though it has been a while since something like this happened in San Diego.

Your fingertips are starting to tingle as your blood runs cold. You are trying hard to regulate your breathing, practically forcing air in and out of your lungs.

“Holy shit.”

“I know,” Adelaide agrees. “Let’s go, sweetheart. They’re gonna need every pair of hands available.”

Soon you are running through the crowded, concrete corridors of UC San Diego Medical Center. You can feel adrenaline coursing through your veins. It makes your heart pump blood into your brain and muscles, pressure banging against your temples as blood rushes by them.

Spending so much time at the hospital, you have really gotten to know your surroundings. You don’t get lost anymore. Working alongside Dr. Seresin, you really can’t afford to get lost.

You have worked with Dr. Seresin for a few weeks now. It’s been alright. You have learnt to do many things on your own, since Dr. Seresin doesn’t have time to look after you. And after talking with the other interns – after hearing that their attendings are watching their every move – you have really started to appreciate the independence Dr. Seresin has granted you.

UC San Diego Medical Center is a huge hospital. In fact, it’s California’s second largest employer, having over ten thousand employees. Needless to say, it’s always crowded. Whether it’s the cafeteria or the break rooms – it’s always crowded. Just like it is now.

You are using your elbows to push people out of your way. You know that everyone understands, yet you still feel the need to occasionally mouth an apology to the people you are nudging with your elbows as you go. You’re nice like that.

“What the fuck took you so long?”

The tone of Dr. Seresin’s voice doesn’t surprise you one bit. It’s loud and sharp, venomous even. You are pleased with the fact that being spoken to like that doesn’t sting anymore the way it used to.

“I literally got here as fast as I could.” you tell him. The best thing about working with Dr. Seresin is that he really doesn’t care how you speak to him. You can be every bit as mean and bitchy as you feel like. He’s couldn’t care less.

Your breathing is uneven and there are a few beads of sweat sitting on top of your temples now, being clear evidence of the amount of running you did to get here. The Emergency Room’s lights are bright. So much so, that this late at night you feel the need to squint your eyes a little.

Along with five nurses, Dr. Seresin is already working on stripping the patient of his clothing. The patient is unconscious. There is bright red, fresh blood staining his chest.

The scene is like nothing else you have ever seen. It’s a hassle, everyone performing to the best of their ability to keep the patient alive. Over the fuss, you are able to hear a paramedic speaking with Dr. Seresin, going through the patient’s condition.

“He is tachypneic, his RR is thirty.”

A patient being tachypneic, having tachypnea, means that their breathing rate is greater than normal, above twenty breaths per minute.

“No abdominal bruising,” It’s a familiar voice. One that belongs to the nurse, whose name you still don’t know. Her hair is thick and shiny. It’s braided nicely under the flimsy hair net she wears – just like it always is. “Symmetrical chest movements.”

“He is tachycardic at 170,” the paramedic informs. “blood pressure 170/110.”

There will not be a day when the sheer expertise of these professionals doesn’t amaze you. You are sure of it. Even the way they talk, how they are all shouting over each other yet still somehow all heard at the same time, is like nothing else you have ever seen before.

“Get me an X-ray and an ultrasound of his chest and abdomen” Dr. Seresin orders. “And get me Bradshaw!”

A few, tiny little wrinkles are sitting between your brows as you squint your eyes at the moving ultrasound picture. That’s a pericardial effusion. There’s no doubt about it. This means that there’s a buildup of fluid – or, as in this case, blood – around the patient’s heart.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what?” Dr. Seresin asks, coming to stand behind you.

“Insert the drain.” you answer, turning on your heels to face Dr. Seresin. “We need to drain the blood out, no?”

Dr. Seresin raises his eyebrows. There’s something about you – something that wasn’t there before. You are confident. Comfortable in your own skin, not stuttering over your words. There’s a firm expression decorating your features. You believe in yourself. You know what you are capable of.

He hums in agreement. “Go ahead, Kid.”

Over the course of the past few weeks, Dr. Seresin has watched you grow into that white coat of yours. You are glowing. It suits you.

You smile. He trusts you. “Thank you, Dr. Seresin.”

Inserting the chest tube is nothing like what it was the first time you attempted to insert one. You’ve got this now. You know what you’re doing. It shows.

It shows in the way you find the desired spot for the tube in no time, marking it with the back of a needle. It shows in the way you reach your arm out and ask for a blade, authority lacing your words. It shows in the way your features are relaxed as you make the cut, less than one inch long. It shows in the way you insert the drain, humming in satisfaction as you know you’ve done it right.

It’s the smallest procedure. But it’s a start. You’re getting the hang of things. Slowly but surely.

“Good job, Kid.” Dr. Seresin tells you, really meaning it. “Alright, let’s get him into OR one.”

You nod. “Yeah, let’s move!”

And with that, every single person in the room with a spare pair of hands, reaches out and wraps their fingers around the hospital beds railing. Feet carrying you towards the operating room with hurried footsteps as you move the patient through the crowded corridors.

“Where the hell is Bradshaw?”

The patient is losing a lot of blood. The hospital beds wheels are painting the white, concrete flooring with bright, red strokes. The smell of iron and rust is flooding your senses. Though the scent is strong and unpleasant, it doesn’t make you nauseous the way it did on your very first day. However, the thought of being stabbed to the chest is more than enough to make you feel nauseous. A shiver runs down your spine.

Not too long after, you find yourself standing in the middle of the disinfection room, arms crossed over your chest. You watch as Dr. Seresin takes off his white coat and tosses it onto the floor, not caring to see where it lands.

He secures his hair back with a thin, light blue hair net and covers the lower part of his face with a surgical mask before moving to the sink. As always, he starts scrubbing his hands for the surgery by wetting his hands thoroughly, before reaching for the soap.

You tilt your head slightly to the side, studying his appearance. You think you might prefer the way Dr. Seresin looks like this – without his white coat. Somehow, he doesn’t look as intimidating now. The short sleeves of his navy blue colored scrubs sit tight around his biceps, enhancing all that lean muscle mass that’s on display.

“Seresin.”

The sound of a coarse male voice makes you turn around.

Your stomach contracts into a tight ball, twisting and turning as you are met with familiar, whiskey-colored eyes looking back at you. That’s Bradley – the handsome stranger from a few nights ago. The man from the bar. The man who insisted on buying you a drink.

Oh.

It hits you then.

Bradley. As in Dr. Bradley Bradshaw.

No wonder he looked familiar.

Your eyes are blown wide, surprise evident on your features. The tops of your cheekbones feel cold and tingly. There are a few wrinkles sitting across your forehead as you are raising your eyebrows in question. How did you not recognize him?

Looking at him now, in the harsh and unforgiving hospital lighting, you are not able to deny his beauty. He looks every bit as handsome as he did sitting across the bar. You can almost hear the smooth jazz playing in the background as you think back on that night. You can almost smell the way the bar smelt – like tobacco, like an open fire.

Just like you, Bradley too is wearing his navy colored scrubs under his white coat. The long day he’s had has messed up his curls and painted the delicate skin right under his eyes with shades of violet and blue. He looks like something out of a dream. He, in his scrubs, with that messy yet still perfect hair of his, is that kind of handsome that stops anyone in their tracks. It’s not fair.

You remind yourself that you’re not allowed to think that. Bradley is your boss. Or technically, he’s your boss's boss.

And you have not been able to stop thinking about the way your boss’s boss smiled at you so charmingly – the way his pearly whites glistened in the dim lighting. You’ve not been able to stop thinking about the way those thick veins running along the length of his neck moved as he spoke.

You can still feel the way his coarse thumb felt pressed against the corner of your mouth. You can feel it running along your chin, tracing after a drop of your cocktail. Deep in thought, you raise your hand and gently brush over the corner of your mouth with your fingers.

It’s funny, really – how delusional you are. Up until this very moment, you were certain that there was something special, something electric in the air the night the two of you met. Maybe it’s because you’re still so young, so naive.

Your chest feels tight.

Unbeknownst to you, Bradley has been thinking about you too. In fact, he has not been able to get the image of you, with those perfect, plump lips of yours pressed against the side of the cocktail glass as you took tiny sips of your drink, out of his mind.

It’s not fair.

Bradley is a good man. He wants to do right by others.

Had he known that you are a surgical intern at UC San Diego, at the hospital he too works at, he would’ve never approached you. He would’ve never asked you about your day. He would’ve never bought you a drink. He would’ve never allowed himself to look at you the way he did – with such admiration, with genuine interest in those hazel colored eyes of his.

Bradley’s chest feels tight too.

Twiddling with the golden wedding band that’s sitting snug around his left ring finger, he reminds himself that he isn’t allowed to feel attracted to you. Not yet. Not before the divorce is finalized, at least. Bradley presses his tongue against his cheek, wondering how he got himself into this mess.

“Bradshaw.”

The sound of Dr. Seresin’s sharp voice makes you flinch. Looking at Bradley, seeing how gorgeous he looks, even in his scrubs, you forgot that Dr. Seresin was there too.

Gathering himself, Bradley clears his throat. “How is the patient holding up?”

“He has lost a lot of blood,” Dr. Seresin tells him. “His blood pressure keeps dropping.”

Bradley takes off his white coat, placing it on top of the steel countertop. In the disinfection room, there isn’t really a place for white coats, or for any of your stuff for that matter. Yet still, Bradley takes note to not leave his white coat on the floor, not wanting to have anyone clean up after him.

“I see.” Bradley answers. Eyes tracing along the bloody lines leading towards the operating room, a sigh escapes his lips. This is going to be one hell of a surgery.

And though no one says it out loud, every single person in the room knows that the patient has a really small chance of surviving. He has lost a lot of blood. He is weak. His blood pressure keeps dropping – even after receiving several units of blood.

Covering up those little messy, biscuit-colored curls of his with a blue hair net, Bradley turns to look at you. You bite the inside of your cheek, thinking about how unfair it is for Bradley to look that handsome whilst wearing a goddamn flimsy hair net.

“Scrub up,” Bradley tells you. “They’re waiting for us.”

You raise your eyebrows in question, not believing your ears. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, umm…”

Bradley can practically see the gears turning inside your head. He knows Dr. Seresin all too well. He knows his ways. Knows that he doesn’t like having interns around, slowing him down. He has a feeling that Dr. Seresin has not let you scrub in on any of his surgeries yet.

“C’mon,” Bradley encourages, nodding towards the large sink, signaling for you to start washing your hands. “I’m sure Seresin will be thrilled to have you scrubbing in.”

Dr. Seresin scoffs. It doesn’t surprise you.

“Speak for yourself, Bradshaw.”

Bradley shakes his head. There’s an amused smile dancing on his lips as he watches Dr. Seresin push the operating room’s door open with his hips, making sure to not let his hands touch anything.

Now it’s just you and Bradley. Just like it was a few nights ago.

And for a split second, it feels like the world disappears around you. You hold his gaze and he holds yours. There’s a hint of something in his eyes – something that wasn’t there before. You wonder what that is. You are young and naive. It’s in your nature to be curious.

“So… You’re my boss.”

You tilt your head to the side, curiosity lacing your words as you point out the obvious.

Bradley nods. “Yeah, something like that.”

There is an amused smile dancing on his lips. It’s a small world. Bradley is smart. He should have known better than to approach a beautiful girl at a bar so close to UC San Diego.

“You didn’t tell me you were a surgeon.” you scold him, knowing damn well that it would have not changed anything that night. You still would have let him buy you a drink. You still would have not pulled away when he ran his thumb across your bottom lip.

Honestly, you like Bradley all the more for not bringing it up. Surgeons are known to be noisy, even outside the hospital. Bradley isn’t. He’s different.

You remember taking notice that his clothes were well tailored, hugging his frame so nicely. Maybe someone a little brighter than you would’ve known that he is a doctor from just the way he looked. The way he dressed. The way his hair was well tamed, and the way his mustache was groomed. The way he was wearing a nice, expensive looking watch around his wrist.

The thought of Bradley being a surgeon didn’t even cross your mind that night. A part of you is glad that it didn’t.

“Neither did you.” Bradley argues.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t think I can call myself a surgeon just yet.”

”Sure you can.”

It doesn’t feel awkward. Maybe it’s because both of you know that you enjoyed each other's company that night. Maybe it’s because the both of you needed it so much then – to have a drink with a stranger.

As you are covering the lower half of your face with a surgical mask, Bradley reaches for a golden chain that he’s wearing around his neck. There’s nothing on it. No pendant, no nothing. Just a simple, thin, golden chain. Or it is just a golden chain, until he takes off a ring from the fourth finger of his left hand and hangs it from the chain. Many surgeons do that – secure their wedding bands around their neck with a chain while in the operating room.

Wait.

No.

That wasn’t there before. You would remember if it was. You spend those few hours studying his appearance, eyeing him so carefully. You remember wondering about how someone so good looking, someone so charming, could be single.

The surgical mask does a good job on covering the surprised look on your face. Had you not put on the mask a few seconds prior, Bradley would see the way your lips are parted in confusion. He’d see the way the corners of your mouth are slightly curved downwards as the realization washes over you.

Bradley’s married. And he is your boss. You couldn’t make things any more complicated if you tried.

”How has Seresin been treating you?” Bradley asks.

You already know more about Bradley’s personal life than many of his friends do. You know that he is married. You know that he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring the night the two of you met the first time. You know that it’s complicated. Bradley doesn’t understand it, but somehow he feels relieved that you know. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Not here.

”He’s alright,” you tell him. ”Still an ass.”

Bradley chuckles. He knows. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I won’t.” you tell him, really meaning it. Are there days when Dr. Seresin’s attitude drives you up a wall? Absolutely. But you have decided to not let it get to you. Dr. Seresin is one hell of a surgeon and there’s a lot to learn from him. “It’s just… I don't know what the fuck is his problem.”

“Oh, no one does.” Bradley tells you. “It’s nothing personal.”

You hum in answer.

A comfortable silence settles into the room as the two of you scrub your hands.

You have so many questions. Why did Bradley approach you, if he is married? Where is his wife? Do they have kids? Why wasn’t Bradley wearing his wedding ring? You scrunch your eyebrows together, deep in thought.

You remind yourself that now is not the time to think about these things. Now is not the time to think about anything else, but the surgery ahead. It’s going to be difficult. You need to keep your mind clear.

Shaking your head, you move over to the gowning trolley. The gown you’re about to wear is neatly folded and there’s a few hand towels sitting on top of it. A few wrinkles sitting between your brows as you reach for a towel and start blotting your skin dry.

“What was your first surgery like?”

Bradley picks up his gown and holds it up from its collar, unfolding it before him. “Hectic.” he tells you, keeping his hands inside the gown as he places his hands inside its sleeves.

“Is it true?”

“What?” Bradley asks you.

“The high?”

There is a hopeful glint in your eyes as you ask Bradley this. What you are referring to is the high you’ve heard some surgeons experience while performing a surgery. A mixture of adrenaline and contentment, the feeling of doing something good.

“Yeah,” Bradley chuckles, his eyes meeting yours. “It is. You’ll see.”

Behind the surgical mask you’re wearing, your lips curve into a soft smile. You nod in answer. “I can’t believe it,” you mumble. “Like, that it’s actually happening. I’ve dreamt of this for so long.”

“We’re ready, Dr. Bradshaw.”

A nurse walks into the room, her voice echoing in the room interrupting the two of you.

“Thank you.” Bradley acknowledges, keeping his hands above waist level as the nurse comes to stand behind him, tying his gown at the back.

“Are you nervous?”

The feeling of a pair of hands brushing over the fabric of your scrubs makes you flinch. Deep in thought, you didn’t notice that the nurse came to stand behind you to tie up your gown too. You are dreamy like that – get lost in your thoughts maybe a little too easily. “Huh?”

“I heard from Dr. Seresin that this is your first surgery.” she tells you. The tone of her voice is soft and kind, a hint of encouragement lacing her words.

You mentally scold yourself for getting lost in your thoughts again. It’s all so much. It makes your head spin.

“Oh, right – sorry.” you mutter, biting the inside of your cheek. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“You’re gonna do great.”

Something about a woman who you’ve never met before encouraging you makes your chest feel warm. She’s nice, sincere. She means it, really. You know she does.

“Thank you.”

Bradley holds your gaze as the nurse helps you put on a pair of blue, surgical gloves. You know that there’s so much Bradley wants to say to you. You can see it in his eyes. You can see the way regret grays the color of his brown irises. You understand. There’s so much you want to say to him too.

But now is not the time.

“You ready?” Bradley asks you.

“I think so.”

authors note hello friends! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, as always i’d like to hear your thoughts on anything and everything. next chapter will contain a surgery and i’m so excited for it :) thank you for reading!!

"I had the day off!" she told Everett, scooping him into a hug when he climbed out of the car. The absence of the Bronco made you frown a bit as you circled your car to where your sister was tickling Everett. 

You kissed her cheek. "We had no idea you'd be here!"

She grinned at you as she sent Everett ahead toward the bleachers. "I have a date tonight," she sang in an obnoxious voice. "With Coach Cute Glasses."

"You do?" you gasped, happy Bob had taken the initiative. 

"Yep. We're going on a little stroll through the park after practice and then grabbing a late dinner."

"Molly!" you squealed, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. "Bob is so sweet. Do not ruin him."

She turned to look at him out on the ballfield, and a soft smile touched her lips. "I make no guarantees." You and she started walking, and she held your high heels for you as you changed out of them. "Oh, and actually, Bob has something he wants to ask you, too."

"Me? What?" You had no idea what your sister was talking about, but as soon as you got to the bleachers, Bob came over to the three of you as you changed Everett's shoes.

"Hi, Molly," he said softly, and you watched your sister do the unthinkable. She planted one hand firmly on his chest like it belonged there, and she kissed him on the cheek. You watched him turn bright red, and all of the other moms looked like they were about to reach for their pitchforks. 

"Hey, Coach Cute Glasses," Molly said with a laugh that had Bob fiddling with his whistle. "I'm excited for our plans tonight."

Sandra and Tara appeared about ready to rage, looking between you and your sister like the two of you had stolen the most priceless of treasures. But you supposed you kind of had.

When Bob finally recovered, he asked you, "Team Mom? Can I take you out for a drink tomorrow evening as a thank you? I wouldn't have made it through the game last Saturday or the practices this week without your help."

"I'll stay with Ev for you," Molly added, nodding her head. "You deserve it."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Bob," you protested, but then Molly was glaring at you. "Okay, sure," you said, sending Everett out to start warming up. 

"Great," Bob said, and you followed him out to home plate as Molly sat down on the bleachers. "There's a Navy officer hangout called the Hard Deck. You want to meet me there after work?"

"Sounds good. Thanks, Bob."

-----------------------------------

Bradley felt a little dirty every time he pulled up the photos you sent him, but he really enjoyed scrolling through the progression of seeing you in your bra to seeing you bare for him. You were something else. So sexy. So funny. So smart.

It was Friday morning, and he had one more flight simulation to go. And if he skipped lunch, he could probably get home by dinnertime. Bob had mentioned that he was taking you to the Hard Deck for drinks tonight, and Bradley desperately wanted to get back in time for that. He couldn't wait to see the look on Nat's face when she met you.

Bob had also told him about his date with Molly. He gushed about how much he liked her for fourteen messages in the text thread, and Bradley didn't know how Bob managed to pull this one off.

Bradley hit the road for the long drive back to San Diego, deciding to skip changing out of his uniform. His khakis weren't the most comfortable thing in the world, but at least he'd get back sooner. He wound along the coastal roads, passing some ballfields on the way. He was pretty sure Everett would be able to make a real pitch team by next spring, but Bradley was definitely going to have to work on some things with him before then. It was okay, they had almost a year to get him there.

Bradley had also been thinking about what he could tell the kids in Everett's class about aviation during his career day speech. The fact that Bradley was looking forward to that still kind of shocked him.

The sun was setting when Bradley pulled into the Hard Deck parking lot, and he spotted your car right away. Then he spotted you, heading for the entrance in your tight, black skirt and heels.

"Kitten!" he called out the open window, and you spun around to face him with a smile on your face. He quickly found an empty parking space and barely had the Bronco in park before you were there. "I missed you," he said, climbing down and closing his door. 

Your arms were instantly around his neck, and you were kissing him so sweetly. "I didn't know you would be here," you whispered against his lips. Your hand trailed down his chest to play with his pins while you nibbled on his lips. 

"I drove straight through to get back to you sooner, Kitten." That seemed to do something to you as you parted your lips and tasted his tongue.

He turned and pinned you against the Bronco, licking and kissing his way up your neck. "You look hot in your uniform," you moaned. 

"You wore my favorite skirt," he mumbled, and you gasped as he ran his palm down the front of it. You were rubbing yourself against him with your fingers tangled up in his hair, and Bradley was hard as a rock for you. 

"Bradley," you whimpered as he nuzzled his nose down the front of your blouse. He kissed and tasted the tops of your breasts while you scraped your nails along his scalp. You were so sweet. His mind was flooded with thoughts of getting you in his bed with your tight skirt bunched up around your waist and your pussy overflowing with his cum.

He kissed you hard, making the back of your head tap the side window. "Can I take you home, Kitten? Skip the bar?"

You eyed his face in the dim, dusk light. "Yes, but I need to have one drink first," you promised him, running your fingers along his mustache. "I told Bob I'd meet him."

Bradley groaned and kissed your fingertips and then your palm and the inside of your wrist. "Just one drink. Then I get some alone time with you."

When Bradley wrapped his arm around your waist, you snuggled in next to him, kissing his bicep just below his uniform sleeve. "I can't believe you wear this out in public," you muttered, running your fingers along his pins again. "I think I changed my mind. Let's leave now."

Bradley chuckled and held the door open for you, guiding you inside the noisy bar with his hand at your lower back. "One drink," he reminded you. "Then you're mine, Kitten."

--------------------------------

You felt warm and flushed all over as Bradley guided you through the crowded bar. There were people in uniforms and some in civilian clothes, and you spotted Bob near the pool table as he waved to you. 

"Team Mom!" he announced as you and Bradley neared him. "And Rooster, you made it back," he added, fist bumping Bradley. You had never heard anyone use his call sign before, and it made you laugh. 

"I forgot your name was Rooster," you said, smiling up at his face as he lazily rubbed your back. "What's yours, Bob?"

You watched his cheeks flush in embarrassment. "It's actually just Bob."

"Oh," you said, thoroughly confused as you were immediately introduced to a beautiful woman who went by Phoenix.

"So, she's the Team Mom," she said with a devilish grin in Bradley's direction. "I think that would be your aviator call sign. Team Mom. Also, I'm still pissd you don't have another sister." Phoenix sighed and shook her head at you.

You laughed as she offered to buy you a drink, but then Bob stepped in. "No, it's on me! It's the least I can do since you gave up so much of your time this week to fill in for Bradley. What do you like?"

Bradley leaned down and kissed your temple and murmured, "Expensive champagne." He was making your tummy feel warm, the way he was being so affectionate in front of his friends and colleagues. You turned to look at him and he kissed you softly. 

You pulled away, suddenly feeling shy; five more minutes in the parking lot with him and you'd have been fucking on his backseat, but apparently this was too much.

"I'll have a beer. Thanks, Bob," you managed, cuddling up next to Bradley's side as Bob headed to the bar. 

"Hey, Rooster. You playing us a song tonight?" drawled a handsome blond man who was smirking at you. 

Bradley glanced down at you. "You like Great Balls of Fire?" he asked.

You gave him a strange look. "As long as you're talking about the song and not some sort of medical condition, then yes, I do."

Bradley started laughing with his head tipped back, and you grinned as the handsome blond laughed, too. "You're funny. My name's Jake," he said, shaking your hand as Bradley meandered a few feet away to sit down at the piano. 

You introduced yourself to Jake and listened to the tinkling sound of the keys as Bradley warmed up. You had no idea he was musically gifted, but you were excited to hear him play. He was probably one of those severely annoying people who was good at everything. He started playing the song, and even his singing voice was good. 

"So, how do you know Rooster and Bob?" Jake drawled, drawing your attention back to him just as Bob handed you a pint of beer. 

You thanked him and took a sip. "My son is on their tee ball team."

"How old's your kid?" Jake asked, smiling at you in a way that had you a little flustered. 

"He's almost seven." You were still distracted by Bradley, and now he was looking at you as he played. He winked only at you, even though he was starting to draw a crowd.

"I love kids," Jake informed you. "Hey, when you're done that beer, let me buy you another one."

"Oh, okay," you agreed, and then Bob called over to Jake.

"Come on, Hangman. Leave our Team Mom alone!"

Jake looked at you with renewed interest as you drank your beer. "Oh shit. So you're the Team Mom. I've heard a lot about you."

You were really surprised. "You have?" you asked as Bradley finished playing the song. You clapped for him along with everyone else, and then he was making his way back over.

"Yeah," Jake replied with a laugh. "You're the hot mom that Bradley is never going to date, because moms aren't his thing."

Your smile immediately vanished from your face. "What?"

Jake waved his hand in the air while he sipped his drink, as if you were supposed to know exactly what he was talking about. As if you weren't immediately on high alert and having a difficult time breathing. "You know...too much baggage. Complicated. Not worth the aggravation. That sort of shit."

You were frozen in place, barely able to speak. "He said that?" Your voice sounded tiny and your throat was tight. You ran your fingers along your neck, trying to make sense of this.

"Yeah, he went on and on the one night we were all hanging out."

Bradley had told his friends he would never date you. He had said you were too complicated. He told them you weren't worth his time. And now he was walking your way, smiling at you like you were still expected to go back to his place after this and let him fuck you. That had been his plan the entire time.

"But listen," Jake added. "I don't feel that way at all. If you're interested, I'd love to take you out to dinner." You thought maybe Jake was a little drunk, because he couldn't stop talking and then he reached out and stroked your cheek with his knuckles.

You gently grabbed his hand and guided it back to his side, just as Bradley rushed over with an irate expression. 

"The fuck?" he asked Jake.

"Hey, it's cool, man. I get it," Jake replied. "She's so hot, I can't believe you won't date her just because she has a kid. But good for you for getting her to agree to come out tonight. No reason you can't enjoy her."

You gasped and took a step away, knowing you needed to escape now with your dignity intact, but Bradley was immediately focused solely on you.

"Kitten."

You handed your pint glass to a random person, and then you were stumbling over your own feet, trying to get to the door as quickly as you could. Time seemed frozen, and you felt like you were going to throw up as you rushed past people who were happy and laughing. You could vaguely hear Bradley's voice behind you as you tried to get away. 

Once you were outside, you sucked in a deep breath of the salty air and fumbled in your pocket for your car key as you started running.

"Kitten!" he yelled, and you could hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel, and you knew that you would never be able to outrun him. So you skidded to a halt and rounded on him instead. A lot of things in your life were scary, like paying your bills, and making sure Everett had everything he deserved. But you would not be too afraid to stand up for yourself. You would not let another arrogant asshole determine your behavior for you.

As Bradley stopped abruptly in front of you, his face was illuminated by a street light, and you hated him for being so handsome. "Kitten. I can explain," he promised, holding up his hands in surrender. His brown eyes were wide as he searched your face.

"Did you tell your friends I'm too complicated to date?" you asked, voice steady as you stepped into his personal space.

"Yes, but-"

You stomped your foot, effectively silencing him. "Did you refer to my son as baggage?"

"Yes, but Kitten, I can explain."

You slapped him hard across the cheek, but his gaze never wavered. 

"I don't need you to fucking explain anything to me!"

"Please." He was pleading, his chest rising and falling as his expression was filled with panic. "Kitten."

"Stop calling me that. I can't believe you were just leading me on for fun."

"I wasn't," he insisted. "I wouldn't do that."

You just scoffed at him and shoved his chest. He grabbed gently for your hands, but you yanked them away and took a step back as tears filled your eyes. "I can deal with getting played, but not Everett! His dad already bailed on him, and I won't let him feel unwanted by anyone ever again! We come as a fucking package deal!"

Bradley was running his hands through his hair in dismay. "I care about both of you." His voice sounded choked up, and you wanted to believe him, but now you knew better.

You jabbed him in the chest with your index finger. "You're a liar," you told him as your tears finally spilled over. "Stay away from us outside of tee ball practice."

"Kitten." He tried reaching for you again, but you backed away, bumping into a parked car which made you cry harder.

"I need to figure out how to deal with Ev," you sobbed. "And don't you dare ever speak to me again." 

You ran for your car as you tried to take gulps of air into your burning lungs, swiping away the tears that were obscuring your vision. It took you a few tries to get the key in the ignition with your shaking fingers, but when you did you cranked the engine and pulled away. You could see Bradley in your rearview mirror as he dropped down into a squat in the dark parking lot with his head in his hands. 

The short drive back to your house was filled with the sound of you sobbing, and you stumbled out of the car and up to your front porch. You leaned against the railing and tried to compose yourself. But this was where you and Bradley had been making out less than two weeks ago after you had one of the best orgasms of your life. So you paced the length of your porch instead, wiping your tears and making sure your breathing was even. Because even though it was late enough now that Everett was surely in bed, you were going to have to contend with Molly.

"Hi," your sister said as you walked inside. She was snuggled up on the couch reading a book, but when she got a good look at you, she jumped up. "What happened? I thought maybe you'd be staying out later? Or all night since Bradley is back."

You pressed your lips together to try to prevent them from shaking, but Molly knew you too well. She was across the room collecting you in her arms immediately. When you started crying again, she didn't stop you, rather she just let you get it out of your system.

Finally, you were able to whisper, "Bradley told all of his friends that he'd never date me, because I have baggage."

Your sister's loud gasp was vindication to your soul, but you didn't like the price it came with. "That fucking prick. Does Bob know about this?"

"Probably," you said softly against her shoulder. "He must."

"I'll call him right now," Molly said, but you grabbed her tighter. 

"No, please don't. You had an immaculate first solo date with him last night which ended in a hot makeout session. I don't want the three ring circus that is my life to start messing up yours."

Molly kissed your cheek and promised, "Your life is not a three ring circus. And Everett is not baggage. And Bradley isn't worth your time if that's what he thinks. Now let me help you get changed for bed."

Molly helped you out of your black skirt, something you had hoped Bradley would be doing just a few short hours ago. And then you washed your face and brushed your teeth while shaking your head at your puffy eyes in the bathroom mirror.

You ended up climbing into bed in your bathrobe while Molly plugged your phone in. "You have thirty missed calls and seventeen text messages from Bradley."

"Ignore him," you whispered, pulling your covers up to your chin. "What am I supposed to do about Ev, Molly? He's so attached. Oh my god, I can't believe I did this. I knew better!"

"Shh," she replied, climbing into bed next to you. "I'll sleep over and take him to the game in the morning. And I'll deal with everything."

Eventually your exhaustion took over, and you fell asleep next to your sister, holding her hand in yours. Your last waking thought was a feeling of thankfulness that you had only mostly fallen in love with Bradley. 

-------------------------------

Wow, Jake. I mean, he's not wrong, but still. Thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls and @mak-32!

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