Jake Seresin had always been someone who fought for what he wanted.

The finest bicycle—training wheels notwithstanding—the newest PlayStation with all the best games already loaded. The greatest model airplane, the sweetest set of kicks, one desire replaced another almost immediately after its acquirement. An iPod at eleven became an iPhone at twelve; as a freshman in high-school, this sole ambition transformed into a spot on the football team. And then, to become the youngest captain they’d seen. Success and success, before he stumbled across an old album of film in his senior year. It contained photos of his grandfather decked out in navy beige, a riot of badges sewn onto his jacket, the backdrop of each scene a fighter jet. New goal. Jake’s thirst for the best thus decided on his career — a military grade aviator, the very best in the game, with TOPGUN based training before his deployment.

As the girl-next-door, you’d stood witness to all of his aforementioned triumphs. Not to mention, countless more that didn’t quite make the cut — his first kiss with Jenny Sheehan, the same year as you and him, the junior he lost his virginity to at the end of sophomore year. The fact that he was well-established as golden boy of your district; favourite to win Prom King, a state-champion level football player.

If Jake Seresin were to put his mind to something, he was guaranteed to achieve success.

The only thing was, it required a conscious effort. If he didn’t know to work for something, it was bound to evade him.

I. eighteen

“You know,” you say, sending him a meaningful glance, “those football dudes have probably already got a whole party planned in your honour.”

Jake’s trying not to look too pleased by this revelation. He turns his head to face you, his green eyes glinting with excitement. “Yeah? A surprise birthday thing?”

You’re sprawled out on the grassy expanse of your back garden, Jake to your right, a tantalising inch of space between your wrist and his. You swear, when you were younger, similarly recumbent statues, that the distance felt larger, each centimetre longer. Perhaps it’s the fact that Jake isn’t four foot five anymore. He’s grown enough in height and width, with solid muscles like body-heat furnaces, to skew the longitude and latitude between your pinky-fingers by a bit. Make them shrink. You shift in place absentmindedly, the bony prominence of your ankle knocking his. The grass is dry, prickly on the underside of your thighs.

“Duh,” you return, turning your head in tandem. You raise your eyebrows. “They’re like, obsessed with you.”

“And you?” He asks, grinning handsomely.

“Me?” You let out a bemused snort, though there’s no real fire in it. “In your dreams, Seresin.”

He rolls his eyes, reaching up to bump your chin with his knuckles. He tends to do this often; when he’s teasing, when he’s looking for an excuse to touch you. Not that he’s aware that he may have an ulterior motive — you’re one of his best friends, and your relationship has always been purely platonic. His subconscious is still figuring out a way to dispute this. “You’re going though, right? To this party that may or may not be happening?”

“Hm.” You crinkle your nose disdainfully. Though he’s drawn his hand back to his side, the heat of his touch lingers. “Not really my crowd.”

“C’mon,” Jake pouts playfully, nudging his shoulder against yours. “It’s my birthday.”

“Exactly,” you agree, propping yourself up on your elbows. You angle your torso away from him as you reach into your pocket, retrieving a black box made of velvet, dusty and lint-ridden. “Which is why I’m spending it with you now, instead of later when you’re fucking wasted.”

Jake’s eyes widen as they land on the box in your palm, his forearms sliding back in an attempt to scramble up. “Hold on there, ace,” he says faux-gravely, raising his eyebrows. “You’re not proposing, are you?”

He lets out a chuckle as you shove him backward, raising his arms in surrender. “Hey now. Just making sure.”

“Don’t worry,” you scoff, scrubbing that spot on your chin, still hot as static from Jake’s rough knuckles. “That’s absolutely never happening.”

Jake slaps his palm over his chest, pretending to look affronted. “What happened to our twelve year plan?”

You send him a glare. “I’m calling it off.”

“Oh, c’mon darlin’,” he returns easily, reaching forward and swiping the box from your grasp. “You know it’s more for your benefit than it is for mine.”

“Careful, Seresin,” you reply, narrowing your eyes. “I’m not like all those girls at school that you’re wooing. You don’t get to call me darlin’ like it’s nothing.”

“Ace,” Jake corrects, passing the box from palm to palm.

You nod. “Better.” And then you pause, frowning a little. “And hey, rude. I’m going to find a sweet, Southern boy well before we’ve hit thirty.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound like he believes you one bit.

“You’re going to be the one who hasn’t settled,” you hedge, frowning harder.

“Doubt that.” Jake sends you a meaningful look. “Girls love a guy in uniform.”

“Still have a few years till you get one of those, hot-shot,” you snort, raising your eyebrows.

“Right,” Jake agrees, unperturbed by the reminder. “But when I do,” he grins up at you self-assuredly, shuffling his broad torso closer, “I’ll finally have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Something in your chest twinges. You ignore it. “Everything?”

“I mean, probably,” he answers dismissively, propping himself up to eye-level. He’s close enough, now, for you to catch the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the rough slant of it as he smirks. He holds up the velvet box expectantly, cocking his head to one side. “Permission to open?”

“Granted,” you respond, sitting up fully with your legs crossed. When he does the same, his knees press into yours firmly. The afternoon sun is a bulb of light above you, bathing him in a lemon-yellow hue.

He undoes the box’s clasp slowly, his nimble movements as odds with the rough calluses on his palm. Inside it is a shiny silver fighter jet badge, the smooth, metal ridges gleaming in the sun. You watch his green eyes widen before they’re lifting to your features, softening into something fond.

“And don’t expect another present at graduation, because —” Your deflection is cut short as Jake bowls you over, his strong arms encircling your waist as he buries you in an embrace. You can feel his warm breath fan over your hair, the firm pressure of his biceps, the sheet of muscle on his torso as it pressed into yours.

Your back’s against the grass when he does finally pull back, large hands splayed either side of your shoulders. Maybe he doesn’t realise how close to something more this is — him on top of you, him so proximate, him with skin touching skin and lips near enough to warrant a kiss.

“How’d you know?” He asks breathlessly, lingering for a beat before peeling himself off you. In the split-second between holding you and pulling away, he’d been afforded the luxury of squeezing a bare expanse of soft waist. And to sear the visual of you beneath him into his brain. You know, in that aforementioned, purely platonic way.

“I saw you eyeing it last week,” you shrug, straightening up too. “It’s no big deal, really. Just thought you deserved a little more than a cake this year considering I probably won’t be seeing you until after you’ve finished at UT.”

Jake frowns a little at that, something wistful about it. “I’ll be back here for the holidays.”

“But I might not,” you reply, voice lower. “Not till I’m done, at least. Not till I want to settle down.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s the end.” Jake closes the box carefully. “We’ll make time.”

“Maybe.” A pause. “Or maybe… maybe we’re just high-school friends. Maybe you’re going to get your degree, and go to TOPGUN, and forget all about me and this dead-end town.”

“I could never forget about you, ace,” Jake teases, not quite catching the sad edge to your voice, the weight of the insinuation as it falls from your lips. “Besides, we’re guaranteed to meet at least one more time after graduation.”

“Oh yeah?” You frown. “When?”

“When we’re thirty, obviously,” Jake bumps your chin playfully, his cheeks all fond and flushed. “When I’m settled down with two kids and you come find me about our pact.”

You swat his hand away, sending him a glare. “You’re the worst, you know that? Happy birthday and good fucking riddance.”

Jake grins roguishly. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Fortunately.”

You fold your arms across your chest expectantly, still glaring up at him. “This is the part where you tell me you love me back, by the way.”

Jake furrows his brow in mock-confusion, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “You’re asking me to lie to you, now?”

“Jake,” you groan, ducking away when he makes a swipe for your torso. He manages to find purchase on your waist and pull you close, your head pressed into his chest, the low rumble of his laugh vibrating through your bones. He smells like vetiver and old-spice, something else, something deep and musky that’s so very him. You try to memorise it.

“Course I love you, ace,” he says casually, amicably. Platonically. “We’ve been best friends since we were eight fucking years old. You really still need me to tell you that I do?”

“Well,” you grumble back, scowling up at him indignantly, “you are leaving for college in like, a literal week —”

“Which is why,” Jake interrupts, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, “you should come to this thing tonight, whatever it’s supposed to be.”

Your expression falters, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Not really my scene.”

“Hm,” Jake shrugs, seemingly unperturbed. “Alright, fair enough.”

When there’s so many other things to think about, worry about, plan for, anticipate, it’s easy to ignore the odd feeling in his chest, the way his heart aches at the thought of pulling away. A week until he’s gone. Another until you are, too. Three years until you’re back for good. He won’t be, though. Four years of training as an aviation officer, four years of chances that you’ll have found someone else and settled. And then more schooling, if he’s lucky (or unlucky, he isn’t sure). Thirteen weeks of leave for TOPGUN when he’s done. You’ll probably have forgotten about the pact by then. And then finally, deployment into the armed forces after that, and God knows how long that’s bound to take.

But it’s okay. Jake’s only just turned eighteen. He has his whole life ahead of him, people to meet and girls to kiss and long-standing goals to achieve.

When you break free from his grasp, his heart twinges again. But it’s okay. He has plenty of time to figure out what that means.

“Have fun, though,” you say. And then, “I’ll be here.”

Jake shakes his head bemusedly, trying for light-hearted and landing on maudlin. “Christ, you sure are sentimental.”

“Don’t do that, Seresin.” You raise your eyebrows appraisingly. “I know you’re going to miss me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot.”

Jake grins that stupid, fond grin. You take a mental photograph. “Guess we’ll find out in a few years, huh?”

II. twenty-one

“So the prodigal son finally returns, huh?”

It’s a voice that Jake thought he’d forgotten. He can’t remember the last time he reached out to you over text, let alone spoke to you like this, up close and in person.

Admittedly, college has been a whirlwind adventure for the pair of you. A flurry of new friendships and lessons disguised as romantic relationships, you’d had your hands tied, any prior hometown promises long forgotten.

So you’d drifted apart, something you’d sworn against in high-school. It was a blameless truth, one that he’d long made peace with.

But hearing that soft timbre again, especially amongst aisles of childhood candy, brings forth a callow ache in his chest, his shoulders relaxing instinctively.

He turns around to find you smiling up at him, an empty trolley standing between him and an embrace. “Well, well,” he drawls out, his Southern twang lower than you remember, rougher around the edges. A pause as his gaze skates over your figure slow, agonisingly slow, lingering on your bare legs before smirking indulgently. “Look who got unbearably beautiful.”

You let out a playful scoff and discard of your trolley, stepping into his arms and wrapping your own around his torso. “Not you, that’s for sure,” you return, angling back and placing your chin on his chest. “You haven’t changed one fucking bit, you know that?”

Jake hopes to God, as he grins down at you, that his face displays the casual nonchalance that he’s trying to convey. Because he’s feeling the opposite—feeling a lot of you, at this stage—the closeness and skin-on-skin making it difficult to concentrate. It’s like all the platonic love that he had for you in high-school has grown ten-fold; intensified, ballooned, turned into something greater. Probably the distance, he decides, it’s made his heart grow fonder. Platonically fonder. Friends definitely love hugging friends as much as he is in this moment.

“You have,” he teases, looking over your pretty features, from your wide eyes to your soft lips, the pert nose between them. “How many broken hearts have your name on ‘em, darlin’?”

You make a face. “None.”

Jake’s heart soars without meaning to, a fleeting sense of relief. “Liar.”

“Says you,” you argue, narrowing your eyes faux-defensively. “How many girls have you trapped at UT Austin?”

“Too many,” Jake answers honestly, grinning that same, roguish grin that you remember from high-school. Your pulse lurches.

“All blowing up your DMs since this morning, I imagine,” you add, raising your eyebrows. “Honestly, Seresin, expected to find you on aisle six, today, if anywhere at all.”

Jake’s features soften a little. “You remembered?”

You shove him away reproachfully, as if insulted by the question. “Just because we haven’t spoken in a while doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten your fucking birthday.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks, best one I’ve had since I left. Sure, his fraternity has hosted many a party in his honour over the past few years, but nothing quite beats the sweet simplicity of a hometown reunion, the same eyes and pretty smile he’s had memorised since he was eight. “More than a while,” he says quietly, his voice gruffer now. “It’s been three years, ace.”

“You say that like it’s my fault,” you reply, your traitorous heart leaping as the sound of your old nickname. “Keeping in touch is a two-way street, you know.”

A pause. He’s still holding you close, his strong arms wrapped around your waist and squeezing. There’s more shoulder on him, now, a sharper jaw, darker stubble than you remember. In the artificial light of the grocery store, you can catch bright specks of yellow within his green irises. You clear your throat awkwardly, forcing yourself to pull away from him. He aches.

“Whatever,” he dismisses after a beat, reaching forward and bumping your chin sheepishly. He grins, and the heat of his touch washes over your in waves, never-ending jolts of vetiver warmth. “Doesn’t matter. Good to see you today, anyway.”

“And how are you celebrating twenty-one, hot-shot?” You ask, smiling in tandem. “Surely a party. Your other hometown friends know you’re home?”

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “The only hometown friend I care about is you.” He balks, combing his fingers through his neat hair until it’s wild, unruly. “Uh… I mean — you know what I mean. Point is, I’m staying in. Will probably crack open a beer on our deck with the old man.”

“Oh,” you say.

Another pause. Jake looks over your features carefully, trying not to sound too hopeful as he asks, “Are you free?”

Your eyes widen momentarily before they’re relaxing into something fond, and you reach forward playfully, giving his shoulder a punch. “For your twenty-first birthday?” You nod. “I’ll make myself free.”

And you do, of course you do, drop everything to reconnect with the boy-next-door. It’s how you find out that he’s only home for a week, his naval training take him to a distant shore of Lake Michigan, several miles north-east. His twenty-first birthday, and the six days that follow. If you’re disappointed by this revelation, you make sure not to show it.

Jake realises that he wants you to, selfish as that is. He looks over your soft cheeks and softer lips, beer-slick, and realises that he’s disappointed by it, even if it isn’t reciprocated.

It’s strange. You haven’t had a proper face-to-face in three, long years, but he’s certain he’s going to miss you when he’s shipped off to boot camp. His chest twinges again, a poignant sort of ache. He’s going to miss you more that he will his frat brothers, his roommates, the college flings that seem meaningless, now, all the pretty girls he’s hooked up with. He’s going to miss you more than he should a friend. But his heart isn’t quite ready to accept it.

“It’s going to be different this time,” he decides, tipping back the rest of his beer resolutely.

You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”

“We’re going to keep in touch.”

You balk. As much as you’d like to back his resolve, the rational part of your mind protests, calling his bluff. “We’re going to try,” you correct.

“No.” Jake turns to face you fully, the mirthful glint in his eyes long gone. “We’re going to keep in touch. Texts, calls, whatever. Up until I’m done.”

“You’re going to be busy, Seresin,” you warn.

“So are you,” he returns. “It doesn’t matter. Once a month, even. Once every few.” He allows for a purposeful pause, his lips pulling up into a lopsided smirk. “I mean, c'mon darlin'. How else am I gonna make sure no one else traps you by thirty?"

You let out a scoff, shoving him sideways playfully. The palm to bicep contact feels different than it used to, less amicable with more of a skin-burning tension. The heat lingers. “I'm not your darlin', Seresin,” you say, taking a generous pull of beer. Jake's gaze falls as the column of your throat shifts.

“Nine years till you are, ace," he teases, a little distracted now.

"Till I'm forced to be," you correct.

Jake raises his eyebrows. "You love it."

"You wish, buddy."

He leans close and clinks his bottle neck to yours, his torso folding over the deck chair's arm rest. When his proximity is so evident, you find it harder to keep the banter going. He does too, not that he'd ever think twice about it. Jake has this perplexing idea that the way he feels about you is completely normal — the lingering glances, the fact that his gaze keeps dropping to your lips without meaning to. Darkening some. He twines his forearm underneath your arm rest, tugging you closer in one, deft motion. Platonically. "You've missed me," he adds, trying for self-assured and landing on diffident.

His body-heat presses over you in waves. "Maybe a little,” you say.

"Maybe a lot."

III. twenty-two

Javy slides the shot glass along the sticky counter, his own held up, clear liquor sloshing over the rim. A salt shaker gleams in the dim, sconce lighting, discarded lime wedges privy to the exchange.

"Drink!" He urges, raising his voice to be heard over the clamour of bar patrons.

Jake eyes it faux-warily before sending Javy a grin, swiping it up and clinking the lip against his. "To twenty fucking two!" He exclaims unabashedly, tipping it back in one, swift motion. When he slams the glass back onto the counter, his face has crumpled into a grimace, the throat below it tequila-singed. He barks an appreciative cough, his gaze falling to his blank phone screen instinctively.

Twelve. Javy began the tally when he first noticed Jake do it this morning. In the time between their dismissal from the day’s training and now, the frequency with which his friend’s checked his phone has increased an alarming amount. He raises his eyebrows as Jake’s head lifts again, regarding him with something akin to mild amusement. “You expecting a call, Hangman?”

Jake balks, a momentary crack in his otherwise blithe demeanour. “What?” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. “No?”

“Oh shit,” Javy wolf whistles triumphantly, garnering the rest of the squad’s attention. “Expecting a girl’s call, huh?”

Natasha pipes up then, ducking her head around Javy’s torso to better survey Jake’s features. Behind her, it appears that Bradley’s also tuned in, his head cocked to one side curiously. “A girl, you say?” Natasha asks, raising her eyebrows. “Oh, I gotta hear more.”

Jake lifts his in tandem, grinning handsomely. “You jealous, Pheonix?”

“Not quite.” Natasha’s well versed enough in his brash manner to know better than to rise to the bait. “But you are blushing, Bagman. Who is she? Someone from your hometown?”

Jake’s silence speaks for itself. He’s about to supply them with some choice expletives, deflect some more, when he’s interrupted again, his callous persona disintegrating. “Well, shit,” Bradley hollers, his face splitting into a devious grin. “She is, isn’t she? What’s her name, Seresin?”

“Don’t know what you idiots are talking about,” Jake coughs out, swiping his phone off the counter adeptly. He turns around and smacks his large hand down in it’s place, perhaps a little more frustrated than he’s going for when he adds, “Gonna need another bud light quick sharp, honey.”

Natasha cocks her head to one side, her brown eyes glinting with mirth. “Bit touchy, are we?”

“Not touchy,” Jake lies, trying for nonchalance. “Not waiting for a call, either.”

Javy raises his eyebrows skeptically, clearly unconvinced. “Why do you keep looking down at your phone, then?”

“Uh.” Jake flounders, grimacing helplessly. The truth is, Javy’s right — he is waiting for a phone call, but not the kind that they think. Because though you’re a girl and it’s you that he’s hoping to hear from, he knows that the group will misunderstand if he confesses this. He’s distracted by a platonic desire, not one that’s romantic. It’s not going to feel like his birthday until he’s heard you acknowledge it as such. “Shit, I don’t know,” he finishes after a beat, avoiding eye contact. “Checking the time?”

Javy sends him an assessing look. “You’re the shittiest liar I’ve met in my life.”

“Alright, subject change,” Jake announces then, ignoring him. He clears his throat awkwardly. “We planning on getting wasted or what?”

Natasha and Bradley share a meaningful glance, the latter still smirking deviously, not quite ready to let him off. “Listen, Seresin, if you don’t tell us who it is, we’re going to have to —”

He’s forced to stop mid-sentence when Jake’s hand flies to the phone vibrating in his pocket, his once nonchalant demeanour giving way to anticipation. “— huh, doesn’t matter,” he finishes, wolf whistling approvingly. “Looks like it won’t be necessary.”

Jake flips him off dismissively before shouldering past the group; it’s a fruitless attempt at separation, the three of them too curious to allow him to go far. They follow him into a deserted corner of the bar, still well within earshot when he does finally pick up.

At this stage, Jake’s too preoccupied with finally hearing your voice to particularly care. There’s a crackle of static because its sweet timbre rings through, his features visibly softening as it presses over his eardrum. Bradley notices. Javy definitely notices. Even Natasha, who attests that Jake doesn’t possess a romantic bone in his body, is astute enough to catch on to the fact that his voice is lower, softer when he responds.

Several miles away, the familiar din of a bar blares through your phone. “Shit, you’re out, huh?” You ask, grimacing sheepishly. “Sorry. Am I calling at a bad time?”

Jake isn’t sure such a thing exists. He thinks it’s normal for any time to be a perfectly good time, as if an eleven pm call would be acceptable from any of his other friends. Realistically, if it was one of his frat brothers on the line, he probably would’ve greeted them fleetingly before hanging up. With you, however, he’s almost considering leaving the establishment. Platonically, of course.

“Oh c’mon, ace,” he teases, his features relaxing into something fond. “You really think that I was plannin’ on spending tonight at home?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply, an edge to your voice that tells him you’re probably rolling your eyes right now. His heart pulls. “I’ll let you get back to your girls in a sec, alright? Just calling to remind you that you’re getting fucking old.”

On Jake’s end, Bradley’s mouthing the nickname ace through a sly smirk, and Natasha’s scrolling through his Instagram followers furiously beside him. “What’s her name, Bagman?” She demands loudly, not bothering to look up at him.

It’s near imperceptible, but it’s there enough to register. “Your friends don’t know who I am?” You ask abruptly, a little unsure, a little disillusioned. Something about the fact that you aren’t important enough to mention makes the close in your ribcage shrink, poor heart aching in a way that it shouldn’t. It’s pathetic. You know you can’t really hold it against him. But for all you know about his naval training buddies, you thought he might’ve shared even a morsel about his hometown friends.

Hometown more than’s. Not that he’s come to terms with that just yet.

“Should they?” Jake returns, equally taken aback.

You balk. “I guess not.” In the distance, one protests, “Of course we fucking should! She’s making you blush, buddy.”

Jake glares at the perpetrator, Bradley Bradshaw, furiously, flipping him off again before ducking his head. “Listen, I better go before this lot eats me alive.”

“Didn’t realise that you were capable of blushing.” It’s hard for him to be mad at the goading remark when it comes out so sweet and fond. “Happy birthday, Seresin.”

You can hear Jake’s roguish grin in his voice, almost imagine it if you close your eyes. “I’m capable of a lot more than blushing, darlin’.”

“Hanging up now.”

“Uh huh. Hitting a fuckin’ ace.”

At the sound of the dial tone, Jake replaces his phone into his front pocket, his split-second delight turning into chagrin as he meets the trio’s knowing gaze.

“Huh.” Javy wolf whistles appreciatively, one corner of his lips slanting up. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Jake scrubs the back of his neck with a frown, the skin perplexingly too-warm all of a sudden. “What are you talking about?”

“The fact that you’ve got the hots for hometown girl, you cheeky fucker,” Bradley supplies, raising his eyebrows. “How long have you been in love with her?”

“What?” Jake sputters, huffing a nervous laugh. “Bradshaw, you’re delusional.”

“No, buddy, you’re delusional,” Bradley replies calmly.

“Okay,” Natasha says then, holding her phone up to Jake’s face. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Jake’s green eyes flicker with recognition before they’re widening, disbelief transforming his features. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

Natasha smiles triumphantly, bringing it back to her chest before he’s able to swipe it from her. “Easy. She’s the only girl you follow that’s made it onto your feed.”

“What?” Jake frowns, roughing his fingers through his hair distractedly. “No she isn’t. You’re on there.”

“Alone, I mean,” Natasha adds. “And sober. She’s in the first photo you ever posted on Instagram, dumbass.”

She pulls up the image in question for Javy and Bradley, a snapshot of the pair of you at high-school graduation. Jake has an arm wrapped around your neck and tugging you into him, your own crossed over your chest, tandem smiles on your faces. His gaze skates over all the guileless points of contact — chin on hair, rough fingers on waist, torso pressed to back as if it didn’t mean anything to eighteen-year-old him. He blinks.

“Because we’re friends,” he defends after a beat, no real fire to it.

“Just friends?” Bradley asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Just friends,” Jake affirms. Lie.

Natasha doesn’t believe it for a second. She shares a meaningful look with Javy before acquiescing, clicking out of your profile and replacing her phone into her pocket. “Right. Because it’s normal to wait all day for just a friend to call you.”

Jake shrugs, like this makes perfect sense. “I mean, we’re pretty darn close, Pheonix. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh I get it alright,” Natasha mutters, her gaze flitting to Rooster momentarily.

“I’ve known her forever,” he adds, more in an attempt to convince himself than anyone else. “It’s always been purely platonic.”

“Right.” Bradley cocks his head to one side, regarding him for a moment. “So you won’t mind if I slide into her DMs, then?”

Jake scoffs amusedly, shaking his head. “Be my guest, Bradshaw. She’s gonna reject you in a heartbeat.”

“And why would she do that?”

“She’s so out of your league,” so out of my league, “that it’s a goddamn embarrassment.”

IV. twenty-three

When Jake invites you to base on the eve of his birthday— a little wistful, a lot homesick—he doesn’t actually expect you to make it happen.

It’s more on a liquor-heavy whim than anything particularly plangent, which is why your swift arrival to the Northeast Coast is that much more surprising.

That much more difficult to decipher.

Turns out, you’ve been planning this trip long before Jake suggested it. After finding your Instagram at last year’s celebration, Natasha had the bright idea to DM you and keep in contact. In her defense, it wasn’t as though she had much choice in the matter — it wasn’t her fault that Jake had painted you as such an enigma, and he couldn’t really blame her for wanting to know more about this all-elusive, ‘just friend’ from his hometown. Who was capable of making him blush. And smile a smile that was actually genuine, for once. Amongst other things.

It’s how he finds himself staring—gawking—at you not twenty-four hours later, a party hat on your head and a tequila shot in your hand. Though you’re surrounded by the rest of the Dagger squad, save Coyote, it’s Bradley proximity specifically that has his pathetic pulse reeling.

It’s perplexing. He watches you down the shot at full tilt before Bradley does the same, the way his face crumples in tandem to yours pulling a peal of laughter from your chest. You inch closer. The vice-like grip Jake’s exerting on his low-ball is a seconds away from causing it to shatter.

“So I tell her —” Javy falters bemusedly, registering Jake’s taut jaw with a frown, “— yo, Hangman. You listening or what?”

“Or what,” Jake mutters back, tipping back his whiskey grimly.

Javy sends him a perplexed look, following his gaze to your figure by the bar before it clicks. He raises his eyebrows. “Oh. Rooster and hometown girl, huh?”

“What?” Jake’s still glowering at the pair of you. “What about them?”

“Oh, come on,” Javy answers, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re fucking jealous.”

“Fuck off, coyote,” he carps lowly, discarding of his empty glass before shouldering past him. You and Rooster are even closer to each other than you were a second ago, elbow to elbow with a look-don’t-touch inch between you. He ducks his head down to whisper something imperceptible in your ear, and you throw your head back with laughter, the glowing column of your throat on display. Jake’s stomach lurches. No way Bradley fucking Bradshaw is actually that amusing.

“Seresin!” You exclaim when he’s an earshot away. “There you fucking are. Here,” Bradley passes you another shot, which you pass to him, “have a birthday shot.”

Jake accepts the brimming glass with a clenched jaw, still glowering at Bradley beside you, the non-existent inch between your figures. As he replaces the one you passed on with another of equal calibre, the rough underside of his palm lingers over your smaller, softer one. Too close. Too long. It makes Jake clench his jaw harder, as if that’s fucking possible.

And though you’re far too inebriated as this stage to particularly notice, Bradley’s acutely aware of the cracks that are beginning to show in Jake’s demeanour.

So maybe his closeness to you in purpose.

Ever since that fated phone call that alerted them to your existence, the Dagger Squad have had many a conversation about your ‘just friends’ status. Namely, about the fact that it’s total bullshit; there’s this effect you have on him when you call—endearingly touted, the ace phenomenon—that just wouldn’t happen if this situationship was purely platonic. There’s no way just a friend is capable of begetting that lovesick grin.

Hell, Natasha would’ve once sworn that Jake Bagman Seresin wasn’t capable of the emotion. If they were to crack his chest cavity open, she would’ve once sworn there wasn’t a beating heart within it.

Now she realises that it’s because he’d given it to you long before she’d got to know him.

Bradley clinks his shot glass against Jake’s, smirking a smug, unperturbed smirk that makes him furious. “Happy fuckin’ birthday, Bagman!” He cheers, tipping it back with ease. By the time Jake’s doing the same, Bradley’s attention has returned to you. “Here, let me take that glass off your hands, sweetheart.”

You raise your eyebrows at the pet-name, a traitorous heat roaring through your cheeks. “Uh,” you hiccup, glancing over at Jake momentarily. “Right. Thanks, Bradley.”

“C’mon, ace,” he winks good-naturedly, taking it from your grasp, “we’ve been through this. Call me Rooster.”

Jake coughs violently, the tequila burning as it goes down. “Ace?” He sputters out, pushing his way between you and Bradley. “Alright, Bradshaw, you’ve had your fun. You mind fucking off now so the two of us can catch up?”

“Aw, shit, right now?” Bradley pretends to think about it, his brow furrowing in mock-deliberation. “But you already know everything about her. I, on the other hand, still have a lot to learn —”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jake interrupts.

Bradley raises his eyebrows, his mirthful gaze darting to you momentarily. “Huh. Why not?”

Because she’s mine. “Because,” Jake deflects, throwing his arm over your shoulder possessively, “it’s my fucking birthday.”

He tugs you against his torso firmly, his arm snaking around your neck to hold you there. The rough calluses on his palm press into your bare shoulder, and Jake can feel the osculate of your collarbone on his forearm. That pathetic, heart-lurching feeling is starting to acquiesce. You tilt your chin up to him in a daze, the heady mix of tequila and his cologne making it difficult to concentrate.

You don’t realise you’re tilting until Jake’s other hand drops to your waist, folding over it on instinct. “Woah there,” he says, his voice quieter now, solicitous. “You good?”

“I’m,” you hiccup again, “drunk.”

Jake grins down at you fondly. “Clearly.”

“Hangman,” you say then, looking back over at Bradley. “You have, like, really nice navy friends. Why didn’t you tell me that all your navy friends are so nice?”

It’s the first time you’ve addressed him by his call-sign, so naturally, Jake Seresin forgets how to breathe for a second. In a platonic way. It’s a split-second jolt of static to his pulse before the rest of your words register, pulling forth an uglier emotion from his chest.

He isn’t proud of what he says next. “If you’re talking about Rooster, he’s a douchebag. Big-time unavailable. Just…” he combs his fingers through his hair nervously, “…uh, just went through a break-up.”

You gasp, faux-scandalised, cutting Bradley a playful glare. “A rebound, Bradshaw? That’s why you’ve been flirting with me all night?”

Jake narrows his eyes menacingly, the ugly emotion intensifying ten-fold. “All night?”

Bradley decides against disputing the last minute lie Jake’s spit out, raising his arms in surrender instead. “So?” He asks, feigning confusion. “I mean… I’m single, she’s single —”

“It would never work,” Jake interrupts firmly, his hand dropping back to your waist. Squeezing absentmindedly. Your heart jolts, and you become acutely aware of all the too-warm, skin-on-skin. Back to broad torso, the rough-on-soft juxtaposition. You swallow.

Bradley cocks his head to one side. “Why?”

“It just wouldn’t, alright?” Jake pulls you even closer still, and your pulse whirs alive in anticipation. He glances down at you indulgently, his gaze skating over the planes of your pretty face. “For one, you’re way out of her league, Rooster.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you scoff playfully, though when you attempt to break free from his grasp, his hold on you only tightens further. His large palm splays the top of your shoulder, agonising over how soft your skin feels.

“And,” he adds meaningfully, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I wouldn’t wish dealing with her shit on my worst enemy.”

Bradley slaps his hand over his chest, pretending to look affronted. “You telling me I’m not your worst enemy, Hangman?”

But Jake isn’t listening. He hasn’t looked up since his gaze fell on your features, and as you meet it in tandem, you swear you catch it deepen. “Not to mention,” he says then, his voice lower now, gruffer. Pensive. “You’d always be doing long distance.”

You have a funny feeling this conversation is no longer about you and Bradley. You murmur, “I don’t care about that.”

“You should.” Jake really doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks he’ll die if he does so. “You deserve better.”

“And if I don’t want better?”

“Well.” A pause. “That’s what our pact’s for.”

V. twenty-five (+1)

When Jake returns home on his twenty-fifth birthday, it’s to find you on his porch in your PJs.

There’s a sultry, summer heat that presses over him in waves, the scent of cut grass and sweet honeysuckle permeating. Cicadas trill noisily.

With the promise of velvet dusk on the horizon, the ceiling flares above you are his only source of illumination. They bathe your dozing figure in a lemon-yellow hue, your bare arms and legs on display as they glow. The singlet you’re wearing has ridden up some, exposing a rectangle of soft skin that was created to torture him. His palms grow clammy.

He’s late. Turbulence and heavy rain had delayed his flight by an hour, and the traffic on the free-way had extended this by another. He’s late, and you’re waiting. His heart pulls. You’re beautiful.

He’s always known that you were—a fact of life, at this stage—but never before has he felt it like a blow to his chest, confronting enough to debilitate him.

Confronting enough to feel less than platonic. God, he’s known you for how many years? How has this feeling evaded him when he’s been so close for so long?

His head’s spinning, now, and he’s beginning to agonise over your pretty face. Romantically. There’s this immense, terrifying emotion attempting to break free from his ribcage. When you were eight years old, he used to think it was his protective instincts. At ten, it became his fidus Achates, and twelve was the year he mistook a blossoming crush for best friend-ship. In high-school, you were the girl-next-door that provided him solace from the popular crowd. More solace than he’d ever publicly admit to, more heart-rending tension than anything close to amicable. And though his feelings have magnified significantly over the past few years, he’s managed to stave them off, plead innocence in the name of having known you forever.

As if it’s normal to think about kissing ‘just a friend’ whenever you’re around them. His heart pulls again. It never does that with anyone else.

It’s like everything he’s overlooked is coming to a head all at once. The endless, late night rendezvous’ in your youth, the calls during training, the flights you booked to check in on him. The promises and inside jokes and platonic flirting that just wasn’t; Jake doesn’t think he’s had a happy memory without you playing a part in it, and it’s as he gazes over you that he realises that isn’t a coincidence. He still has the badge you gifted him on his eighteenth birthday secured onto his uniform collar, moored indefinitely. Several more decorate the beige fabric on his chest, but it’s that one he points to when people ask after his achievements.

Shit. The Dagger Squad were right, weren’t they? Jake Seresin is absolutely in love with you, and has also been an absolute idiot about it.

He drops his bag to the ground with a resounding thud, his muscles aching as he jogs forth to greet you with an embrace. It doesn’t matter that he’s exhausted and hasn’t slept in fucking days. The ache in his chest is stronger. Your closeness is like oxygen to him.

When you stir, it’s to Jake’s broad figure folding over you. There’s a split second where you startle before your features relax into something fond, and you leap up to wrap your arms around him, his own encircling your waist tight.

“About time, Hangman!” You say in lieu of greeting, burying your head in his chest with a smile.

Jake takes a deep breath in and closes his eyes, his tense shoulders visibly relaxing. Soap, lavender shampoo, faint notes of bergamot from your fading perfume. Skin like the summer sun, coconut sunscreen and fresh hibiscus from your back garden. Home. He blurts out, “I’m in love with you, ace.”

A pause. Jake grimaces when you tense in his arms; it wasn’t meant to come out so unceremoniously — he had a clear plan in his head, something that involved flowers and chocolates and a fancy date in town square. Something extravagant, impressive, of the calibre you should expect from potential suitors. Not this, not a blunder that makes his feelings sound like an afterthought.

You angle back gingerly, looking up at him through wide, disbelieving eyes. “What?”

There’s no way he’s being for real right now. Your heart has long since abandoned a steady rhythm, whirring in place like a spin-cycle, his solemn expression only making it whir harder. You become acutely aware of the rough hands he has on your back, the forearms pressed to bare waist. The torso to torso proximity. You add, “Don’t fuck with me, Seresin. I’m serious.”

Jake visibly softens, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. “You think I’d joke about something like that?” He murmurs.

“You’ve joked about far worse,” you mutter back, averting your gaze.

“Darlin’,” Jake reaches forward and pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger gently, tilting it up, “I’m being so serious it fuckin’ hurts, right now.”

Your breath hitches. There’s more leather and cologne in your personal space than you’re used to, Jake’s arm holding you up, the other pressing into your skin. And his gaze is all fond and heavy like molasses, more pupil than iris on display, vivid viridescence. The way he’s looking over you right now—like you’re the only girl in the world—is doing something funny to your chest. You ask, a little bashful, “How long?”

“Since I’ve known?” Jake grins sheepishly. “One second.”

You roll your eyes, attempting to wriggle out of his grasp to no avail. “What did I just say about fucking with —”

“Since my heart’s known?” He adds, backing you up against the wall to press himself closer, the fingers on your chin acquiescing. He places his hand on the ridged timber beside your ear, body-heat emanating from his too-close bicep. “Fucking years.”

Your eyes widen. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Shit… because I’m an idiot?” He pauses, shaking his head bemusedly. “Because I thought it was normal to want to kiss you all the time?”

“I —” you balk, your poor pulse jolting, “— you want to kiss me all the time?”

Jake’s gaze drops to your lips, and his licks his own absentmindedly. “All the time.”

“You’re an idiot, Jake Seresin,” you murmur, pressing your palms into his chest. “D’you know how many opportunities you’ve had to make a move over the years?”

Jake grins then, all sweet and roguish. “Yeah? You’ve thought about me making a move?”

“Don’t do that. You’re the first guy I ever loved.”

Jake’s turn to balk. His green eyes widen in surprise, the ceiling flares bringing forth specks of brighter yellow. “What?”

“Shut up.” You screw your eyes shut abashedly. “I was totally—totally—head over heels in high-school. You really didn’t know?”

“Of course not,” Jake breathes out, his hand moving to cradle your jaw. “Shit, ace. And how about now?”

You look up at him, brow furrowed. “How about now what?”

“You head over heels for me now?”

“I — uh, I don’t know,” you lie, swallowing slightly.

Jake’s gaze falls to the soft column of your throat momentarily before he’s composing himself, lifting back to your lips. “Right, yeah,” he agrees sagely, looking faux-solemn. “Me neither. Probably gonna have to kiss each other to be certain, huh?”

“Hangman,” you warn, no real bite to your words.

“C’mon, ace,” he murmurs, dipping his head a little. An inch between your lips and his, now. “Don’t you want to bring our deadline up by a few years?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before attaching his mouth to yours, this deep, sloven pressure that has you gasping into the kiss. His lips move with an urgency that renders you lightheaded, weak-knee’d in his arms, and it takes absolutely everything in you not to moan in sweet relief. When his mouth drags over to your jaw, your throat, he lets out an appreciative groan, and a needy ache sears through your core. He’s everywhere, all at once, and still feels as though he hasn’t tasted enough.

Jake Seresin kisses you like a man starved, and you realise that it’s a culmination of several years of unrequited love.

When he pulls back, it’s with kiss-bitten lips and a bruised smirk on his face. “Fuck, guess you kept your word after all, huh?”

“About?” You prompt, raising your eyebrows.

“You know…” Jake gesticulates vaguely, still grinning, “…settling down with a sweet, Southern boy well before thirty.”

You bite back a laugh and furrow your brow instead, looking over his shoulder in a show of mock-confusion. “Sweet Southern boy? Where?”

“Ha ha,” Jake returns, ducking his head to press a teeth-scraping kiss to your neck. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You love it,” you sigh out.

Jake’s low voice rumbles through your skin. “Unfortunately.”

"Can't believe Hangman's playing hard to get with Admiral Simpson," Phoenix muttered, eyeing the empty spot where he should’ve been.

"Bet that promotion to Lieutenant Commander already went to his head," Rooster quipped.

"If you’re talking about Jake, he’s coming," Maverick said. "He just asked to report in on Monday."

He left the room without another word. The Daggers exchanged looks, then shrugged. It was Jake, after all—he probably just wanted to make an entrance, with nothing but his damn ego walking through the door first.

When Monday rolled around, he strolled in with that trademark smirk and a swagger only he could pull off. Annoying? Absolutely. Eye-roll inducing? Without question. Missed? More than anyone was willing to admit.

“Be honest—did you tear up a little when you thought I wasn’t coming back?”

Bob and Phoenix.

Bob had a thing for those absurdly healthy smoothies from a place called Erewhon. Overpriced, organic, and influencer-approved—it was his guilty pleasure. Naturally, it wasn’t long before he dragged his favorite front-seater into it.

“What the hell is a Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, and why does it cost twenty bucks?”

The line was a nightmare—packed with people who all looked like they drove Teslas, had just come from Pilates, or were on their way to pitch a startup to their fiancée’s hedge fund bros.

Phoenix couldn’t quite figure out what Bob saw in these overpriced green sludge drinks, but she was usually down to try something new, even if her wallet cried a little every time.

“I don’t really get the hype either, but my husband’s obsessed,” You said with a shrug. “If it’s your first time, I’d go with something simple—maybe the pitaya, or the post-workout one is solid too. You look like you work out.”

They startled slightly when you turned around, smiling and introducing yourself after your unsolicited smoothie rant.

“I’ll take your advice—I’m Natasha,” Phoenix said, shaking your hand. It was only then that you noticed the massive emerald-cut ring on her finger, catching the light like it knew it was expensive. Bob followed with a shy introduction, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks.

Sticking to your word, you went ahead and ordered the absurdly named Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, along with a few other things. Once you paid, you turned back to them with a grin.

“If you’re free, my husband’s just parking the car—want to sit and chat for a bit?”

“Oh, we’d love to,” Phoenix said, “but we’re running late for a few apartment showings—this line took forever. But we should exchange numbers, maybe grab lunch sometime?”

“I’d love that! We actually just moved here, so it’d be nice to make some friends.” Your smile didn’t waver; wide, bright, and straight out of a movie scene.

After saying your goodbyes, you grabbed your order and stepped out of the line, letting them move forward. With one last wave—bright, effortless—you pushed through the door and disappeared into the sunlight.

Phoenix turned back to the cashier, halfway through her order, when her gaze drifted to the large front window—and froze.

"Holy shit."

Bob instinctively looked where she was staring, and his brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.

Jake Seresin was outside, casually leaning against a matte black Jeep Wrangler like he belonged in a magazine ad. Arms crossed, aviators in place, his flight jacket unzipped just enough to hint at the crisp white tee underneath. That usual cocky smirk was on his face—or at least, they thought it was.

But it wasn’t a smirk.

It was a smile—wide, open, and so bright it looked like it had cracked straight through his usual armor. Jake Seresin was glowing. Radiant. Practically lit from within.

And then they saw why.

You stepped out into the sunlight, heading straight for him, holding that ridiculous Hailey Bieber smoothie like it was a gold medal. Jake’s face lit up even more. He threw his head back and laughed, his whole body moving with it—unrestrained, joyful, real.

Then he reached for you, pulling you into his arms with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. One hand at your waist, the other settling on the small of your back, fitting you against him like you belonged there.

Phoenix’s jaw dropped slightly. Bob just stared.

Jake lifted his sunglasses, pushing them up onto his head, and looked down at you like you hung the stars. The softest expression they had ever seen on his face—like the man didn’t know how to look away. You said something that made him laugh again, and you handed him the smoothie like it was some inside joke.

They must have been staring too long. Jake’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch them in the reflection.

His eyes found theirs through the glass. For a split second, something flickered across his face.

Surprise. Panic. Maybe even guilt. Just enough to register—before he shoved it back down and straightened up, as if nothing had happened.

He opened your door and helped you in, careful not to jostle the armful of overpriced smoothies and whatever else you’d picked up. Then he turned back toward the window, his eyes meeting theirs once more.

A subtle nod. Barely there. But it carried weight—an unspoken request.

Not for secrecy exactly, but something quieter. A plea to let it be. To pretend they hadn’t just seen past Hangman… and caught a glimpse of Jake.

Phoenix and Bob exchanged a long look, sipping their drinks in stunned silence as they tried to process what they’d just witnessed. It was easy to box Jake in as the poster boy for cockiness—the walking embodiment of swagger and ego—but deep down, they’d always suspected there was more.

More to him than the sharp one-liners and smug grins. More than the call sign.

And now, they’d seen it.

Guess this was it.

The next day, Jake showed up with his usual swagger, every step as self-assured as ever. But his eyes—sharp, watchful—carried a flicker of guardedness. It was subtle, the kind of thing only Phoenix and Bob would pick up on.

“Hey, Strawberry Glaze,” Phoenix said casually.

She could’ve let it slide—pretended like nothing had happened—but she couldn’t resist poking at him just a little. Jake shot her a look sharp enough to make most people flinch.

She just laughed.

The words had been soft, low enough that no one else could hear. And the smile she gave him—amused, knowing, a little smug—said it all:

Your secret’s safe with me.

2. Bradley.

Bradley hated shopping. He wasn’t good at it—never had been. He took forever to decide what he liked, forgot to write down what he actually needed, and always left the store with random things and none of the essentials.

This time, though, he had a mission: crockery. At the moment, he owned exactly two plates and three mismatched forks. And if he was serious about settling down here, it was probably time to get his shit together.

Normally, he’d drag Nat along—not because she was a woman and supposedly knew about this stuff, but because she was mean enough to keep him on task. She had no patience for his two-hour deep dives in the mug aisle, where he’d examine every single one before deciding he didn’t like any of them.

But Nat had bailed on him, leaving him to fend for himself. Now he was aimlessly wandering the store, eyeing every dinnerware set like it might reveal the meaning of life, tossing random items into the trolley with no real plan—just vibes and mild confusion.

Ever the gossip, Bradley’s ears perked up at the sound of a laugh he knew far too well.

Hangman.

“Darlin’, if you put one more candle in the cart, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to burn the house down.”

“But Jake, smell this one—it’s amazing. And it says limited edition, so they won’t have it next time,” you replied, dropping not one, but two candles into the cart.

Bradley watched, stunned, as Jake didn’t even argue. He just shook his head with a helpless smile and kept pushing the cart like a man who knew resistance was pointless.

“I also saw this gorgeous botanical garden plate set online—we have to get it.”

“Whatever you want, doll,” Jake said, voice low and warm as he pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hip a casual, affectionate tap.

Bradley was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t stupid—and he definitely wasn’t blind. He saw the massive rock on your finger and the way Jake looked at you like you hung the stars.

Hangman, married?

The motherfucker was married.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Bradley had always assumed Jake Seresin was the type who’d never settle down—too cocky, too stubborn, too Hangman. Honestly, he’d half-expected the guy to grow old alone, flirting with waitresses and arguing with air traffic control until the bitter end. Harsh? Maybe. But Jake had never given them any reason to believe otherwise.

Yet here he was—married, domesticated, and currently letting his wife toss candles and dinner plates into the cart like she owned the place. And judging by the look on his face, she did.

The man Bradley was low-key stalking from behind a shelf of overpriced wine glasses wasn’t the Hangman he knew from the skies. This wasn’t the ruthless, lone-wolf aviator who treated teamwork like a contagious disease and would rather eat glass than back down in a briefing.

No—this Jake looked… soft. Happy. In love.

And it was messing with everything Bradley thought he knew.

He ducked behind the endcap as you turned down the next aisle, nearly knocking over a pyramid of mason jars in the process. This wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself—it was reconnaissance. For team cohesion. For morale. For… reasons.

Jake Seresin, hopeless romantic and candle mule, was not something Bradley had mentally prepared for.

He peeked around the corner again just in time to see Jake reach for a throw blanket you were eyeing. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the cart. “Matches the couch, right?” he said.

“Exactly,” you beamed, and Bradley swore the corners of Jake’s mouth lifted in something dangerously close to a fond sigh.

Who was this man?

Bradley had spent years knowing Jake as a walking testosterone complex with aviators and a call sign, someone who’d charm the hell out of a bartender and then ghost her before the first date. The idea that this man—this patient, domesticated, grocery-hauling version of Jake—existed at all was blowing his mind.

And worse? He looked good at it. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to play husband in a West Elm ad.

Bradley finally backed away from the aisle, muttering to himself, “I need to go look at forks before I lose my grip on reality.”

Still, as he wandered toward the kitchen section, a weird feeling settled in his chest—part disbelief, part amusement… and maybe a little bit of envy. Not the kind that stings, exactly, but the kind that pokes at something you didn’t realize was hollow.

Because despite all his jokes, all his gripes about shopping and settling down, maybe there was a tiny part of him that wouldn’t mind someone tossing limited-edition candles in his cart, either.

But first, he really needed more than three forks.

3. Payback and Fanboy.

It was just past 7 a.m. when Fanboy and Payback jogged down the beach trail, sneakers thudding lightly against the packed sand. The sun had barely risen, casting a warm, golden glow over the shoreline, and the waves rolled in slow and steady, their rhythm soft and soothing beneath the buzz of gulls overhead.

It was the kind of morning that made you forget how exhausting the week had been.

“If Mav makes us watch one more hour of grainy debrief footage, I’m walking into the ocean,” Fanboy grumbled between breaths, arms swinging loose at his sides.

“You say that, but last time he caught you checking your phone, he added another hour to the session,” Payback replied, grinning.

“I’m just saying—death by drowning would be less painful than another slideshow.”

They rounded a gentle bend in the trail, where the dunes opened up to a more secluded stretch of beach. The tide had pulled back, leaving wide, smooth patches of sand dotted with seashells and a few early footprints.

Payback slowed, frowning. “Wait. Who’s already out here?”

A large cream-colored blanket had been spread beneath a sun-bleached lifeguard stand. A wicker picnic basket sat off to one side, its lid open and lined with fabric. There were iced coffees, a brown paper bag, a small vase of wildflowers—wildflowers, at the beach—and two people.

One of them crouched near the cooler, pulling out what looked like a container of fruit. The other approached barefoot, holding two drinks, sleeves of a linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, light catching in his sandy hair.

Fanboy’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a second…”

The barefoot man looked up—and grinned.

Jake Seresin.

Hangman.

Golden-boy aviator, squadroom shit-talker, human ego parade.

Except… something was different.

He stepped forward, took one of the iced coffees from your hand with a quiet thank-you, then leaned in and kissed your temple with the kind of easy, familiar affection that made both Fanboy and Payback freeze mid-stride.

Jake said something with a lazy smile and you laughed, the kind of laugh that came from your belly—bright, genuine, totally unfiltered. Then you plopped down on the blanket, legs curled underneath you, pulling a croissant from the paper bag as if you’d done this a hundred times.

And maybe you had.

Because Jake didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it behind you, just in case the blanket wasn’t enough cushion. Then he sank down beside you, stretching his legs long across the sand and casually slipping one arm around your waist.

Payback immediately ducked behind a nearby dune like he’d just witnessed a war crime. “Tell me I’m not seeing this.”

Fanboy crouched next to him, equally stunned. “What the hell is happening right now?”

Jake leaned back slightly, watching you unwrap something else—probably another baked good—and tilted his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. You fed him a bite without even looking, and he accepted it like it was second nature. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I’m in shock,” Fanboy whispered. “He just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s a boyfriend move.”

“That’s not a boyfriend move,” Payback muttered. “That’s a married guy move.”

Fanboy squinted. “Wait—zoom in. Look at her hand.”

A glint of metal caught the sunlight as you reached for your coffee. Simple but elegant. An emerald-cut diamond, gold band. The kind of ring that said permanence. The kind of ring that didn’t come off easily.

“Oh my God,” Payback breathed. “He’s married.”

Jake leaned back again, one hand lazily tracing circles along your knee while you showed him something on your phone. Whatever it was made him chuckle low in his chest, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before setting the coffee down in the sand.

Fanboy was frozen, processing. “So Hangman—Hangman—sneaks off on weekends for romantic beach picnics… with his wife.”

“And we never knew.”

“I thought he lived off protein bars and sheer arrogance.”

“Same.”

You pulled something else from the basket—what looked like a floral plate set, one of those whimsical ones you’d find in a lifestyle magazine. Jake took it from you with care, set it between you, then reached for the wildflowers, adjusting the little vase so it wouldn’t tip over.

Fanboy stared. “He brought flowers.”

Payback shook his head. “He packed a goddamn centerpiece.”

They both crouched lower behind the dune, as if Jake might sense them. The only thing louder than the waves at that moment was the sound of their worldviews shattering.

Fanboy finally whispered, “Okay, but like… how dare he be this soft and not tell us?”

“We’re his squadmates. This is betrayal.”

“We were supposed to know before the blanket picnics started. There’s an order to these things.”

“I mean—what’s next? He gets a dog and starts doing couples yoga?”

Fanboy paused. “He would be good at couples yoga.”

Jake leaned back, hands behind his head, face turned up to the morning sun as you laid your head on his chest, sipping your drink and humming along to some song playing quietly from a speaker. You looked perfectly at ease, like this was your favorite part of the week.

Like he was.

“Okay,” Payback muttered. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“Agreed.”

“But also,” Fanboy added, eyes still wide, “we are absolutely never letting him live this down.”

“Obviously.”

They finally stood, dusting off their legs, still stunned but grinning. One last glance over their shoulders showed Jake pressing a kiss to the top of your head, like you were the only person on earth that mattered.

Hangman hadn’t just settled down.

He’d crash-landed into love, and apparently? He was thriving.

4. Javy (ten years ago)

The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, its low-ceilinged walls pulsating with neon light and the steady beat of a bass-heavy pop song. The air was warm and sticky, full of laughter, shouting, and the occasional off-key karaoke warble daring to take the stage. Jake leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the corner where you and your friends were holding court.

You were the heart of the group—laughing without restraint, glass in hand, your voice rising clear and confident above the din. Your friends egged each other on to the microphone, but you owned the room like it was yours, moving effortlessly through the crowd, radiating that kind of joy that was impossible not to notice. Jake’s gaze softened as he watched you—like you were a secret he had stumbled upon, the kind of thing you didn’t want to shout about but couldn’t stop looking at.

Javy, never one to let an opportunity for teasing pass, nudged Jake sharply. “You been staring at her all night, man. You planning to say something or just get a reputation as the creepy aviator?”

Jake barely glanced at him. “I’m just… watching.”

Javy smirked, shifting on his feet. “Right. Watching. She’s having fun—seems like she owns this place. You gonna sing or what? Or just keep mooning over her?”

Jake’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I don’t sing.”

“Everyone sings at karaoke night. Even you.”

Before Jake could respond, you stood with your friend, grabbing the microphone like it was a lifeline. The opening notes of a popular pop song spilled through the speakers, and suddenly, the bar seemed to hush just enough to let your voice soar.

You sang with an easy confidence, playful yet sincere, the kind of performance that made people stop talking and just listen. Jake felt his breath hitch—the way you smiled at the crowd, the way you closed your eyes briefly on the high notes—it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds.

Javy elbowed him hard. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pop the question right here, right now.”

Jake shot him a sharp look. “I just met my wife.”

The words slipped out quieter than intended, but Javy caught them all the same and grinned wider, clearly not buying it.

After your song ended, the room erupted into applause. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and caught Jake’s eyes from across the room. It was a brief glance, but electric—like a door quietly opening.

Jake made his way over, weaving through the small crowd until he was standing right beside you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and just above the music.

You smiled, a little breathless. “Hey.”

Jake nodded toward the microphone stand. “That was… impressive.”

You shrugged, flicking your hair back. “Well, I had a good duet partner.” You glanced at your friend and winked. “But it’s nice to have an audience.”

Jake laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your name?” You offered it to him, along with your hand to shake. “Jake,” he replied, taking it. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was trying to make sure you felt it. “And I’m supposed to be focused on training missions, but I can’t stop watching you.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so? What’s more distracting—the music or me?”

He smiled, just a little crooked. “Definitely you.”

You laughed, and the sound was like a spark in the dim bar light. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no crowd, no noise, just the hum of a song fading out and the start of something new.

Javy sidled up, grinning. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But remember, Jake, if you break her heart, I’m coming for you.”

Jake’s grin turned serious. “I don’t plan on breaking anything.”

Jake Seresin knows what it looks like when a pilot comes apart.

He’s seen it too many times. Eyes too wide behind the visor, hands too tight on the stick, flying like the only thing scarier than crashing is slowing down long enough to feel something. He did it himself once, years ago, when the world went sideways and the only thing he could control was altitude.

But this time, he’s not the one spiraling.

It’s you.

And he can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

You used to fly with control. Grace. Purpose. Like you understood that the sky was an extension of yourself, not something to conquer but to move through.

Now? Now, you fly low. Fast. Dangerous. You chase Gs like they owe you something. And Jake watches, helpless, as the light in your eyes shifts from precision to recklessness.

To everyone else, you're just "pushing yourself." Ambitious. Sharp-edged. Dedicated.

But Jake knows better.

He knows grief when he sees it.

It started after the accident. The one that took Smoke and Bishop and left you standing silent on the edge of the runway with clenched fists and blood in your palms from your nails digging into them. 

You had trained them. To you, they were the closest to siblings you would ever get. The ‘Disaster Twins’ You would call them, you loved them more than you thought you could love anything. 

You didn’t cry. You didn’t talk. You just got in the air again.

And you never really landed after that.

It happened fast.

Too fast for anyone to stop it. Too fast for comms to catch it. Too fast for a damn Mayday.

One minute, they were just dots against the blue horizon, steady and smooth, slicing along the coastline in perfect tandem. Smoke and Bishop, running a standard low-altitude pass, a formation they’d flown so many times it was practically instinct. They moved like one body in two aircraft, precise and clean.

Jake had flown the same run with them more times than he could count. It was a routine drill, textbook.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the wind shifted, sudden and sharp, a crosscurrent that wasn’t there five seconds before.

Until Bishop’s engine coughed mid-turn, just a hiccup, just a half-second stall, but that’s all it takes at low altitude.

Until Smoke, flying just off his wingtip, banked instinctively to adjust, too fast, too tight, the timing just off.

Until metal met metal.

Until the underside of Smoke’s fuselage clipped Bishop’s wing, snapping the formation like a bone under pressure.

One jet spiraled left. The other rolled hard, nose-down.

No warning. No words. No time.

And then— two flashes. Two slashes of water kicked up like missiles hitting the sea. Two plumes of smoke curling into the sky like a goddamn funeral pyre.

For a split second, the whole base held its breath. The tower fell silent—no chatter, no coordination, just dead air and wide eyes as they watched the impossible unfold.

Then the alarms started blaring.

Emergency sirens. Rapid deployment calls. Scramble orders. Voices tripping over each other in the headset as the reality caught up to them.

But Jake didn’t wait.

He was already moving, already halfway to the hangar before the first alarm finished sounding.

Helmet in hand. Visor down. Boots pounding the concrete like gunshots.

He knew how much they meant to the team, how much they meant to you. He was going to bring them back. 

He launched with the search and rescue team less than five minutes later.

The sky blurred past as he pushed the throttle wide open, cutting through the air like he could undo time with speed alone.

Come on, come on, give me something, he prayed, eyes scanning the endless blue, ears tuned to every crackle of the radio.

But there was nothing.

No flares. No beacons. No parachutes.

Just twisted fragments bobbing on the surface. Just a sick, oily smear staining the ocean. Just silence.

They circled once. Twice. A third time.

Still nothing.

No sign of Bishop. No sign of Smoke. Not even a shadow beneath the waves. Gone like they never existed. 

You waited.

You didn’t remember walking to the edge of the runway. Didn’t remember setting your helmet down on the concrete or unclipping your gloves.

All you remembered was watching them disappear.

One second, Smoke and Bishop were just ahead of you on the flight line joking about dinner, shit-talking each other over coffee like they hadn’t done the exact same run a hundred times before.

The next, the radio was screaming static, the sirens were blaring, and your lungs were empty.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t fall to your knees.

You just stood there, staring down the horizon like you were waiting for their jets to rise back up out of the sea.

You knew they wouldn’t.

You knew.

But you couldn’t move.

Not when the search and rescue teams launched. Not when Jake ran across the tarmac, helmet already on, jaw set and eyes flashing with something equal parts fear and fury. Not when he locked eyes with you for the briefest moment before climbing into his jet and disappearing into the sky.

You still didn’t move.

Because some small, delusional part of you, some desperate, aching scrap of hope—believed if Jake found them, maybe this wouldn’t be real.

You trusted Jake. If there was even a flicker of a chance, he’d bring them home.

So you waited.

You counted every minute he was gone, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Your fists stayed at your sides, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. The wind picked up and whipped at your flight suit, but you didn’t flinch.

The whole base moved around you, noise and chaos, medics and techs and officers coordinating in a frenzy, but it all blurred into a dull hum.

You only listened for one thing: The sound of engines returning.

When Jake finally landed, you watched him climb out of the cockpit, his face ghost-pale, his body moving like it weighed twice as much as it should.

You didn’t need to hear the words. Didn’t need to see the wreckage.

You saw it in the way Jake’s shoulders didn’t square up like they usually did. You saw it in the way he didn’t make a beeline toward you, he just stopped and stared, like he didn’t know what to say. Like he didn’t know how to look at you.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because Jake Seresin was always the loud one. The smooth one. The one with the right thing to say even when it pissed you off.

But now?

Now, he was just as quiet as you were.

And in that silence, everything settled.

Smoke was gone. Bishop was gone.

And Jake. Jake had gone looking and came back with nothing.

You turned and walked away. Not because you didn’t care. But because you did.

Because if you stayed one second longer, if you met Jake’s eyes, if you let yourself feel all of it at once,

You knew you wouldn’t come back from it either.

So you shut down.

You moved like muscle memory: locker, shower, bed. You didn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You didn’t sleep that night. Or the night after.

But what you didn’t know, what you couldn’t see from behind the wall you were building, was that Jake never stopped watching you.

That while you were trying to disappear into your grief, he was quietly anchoring himself to you.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t pry.

But every coffee on your desk, every rookie who didn’t approach you, every squad laugh that just happened to break the silence, he made that happen.

Because he couldn’t save Smoke. Couldn’t save Bishop.

But maybe, just maybe, he could save you.

And that’s when he saw you.

Standing alone, just past the edge of the landing strip. Still in your flight suit, hair wind-tossed, face blank.

Not crying.

Not moving.

Just… looking.

Like you’d seen it the second it happened. Like you’d felt the moment they hit the water deep in your bones.

Helmet clutched in one hand. Fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. But your jaw was set, mouth drawn tight, eyes locked on the empty sky.

It hit him harder than the wreckage did.

Because he’d seen grief before. Messy, loud, violent.

But this?

This was something else.

This was grief frozen mid-air. Grief turned to stone.

And Jake didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know how to walk up to you without making it worse. Didn’t know how to tell you that you could break down, that you should break down.

So he stayed where he was, boots rooted to the ground.

Watching you.

Heart in his throat.

Helpless.

And in that moment, Jake Seresin made a silent promise.

If he couldn’t stop the sky from taking people, he’d at least try to keep it from taking you.

He didn’t know how to talk to you about it. Not without making it worse. Not without risking that you'd shut down completely. So he didn’t.

Instead, Jake Seresin did what he always did when he didn’t know how to say the right thing—

He worked behind the curtain.

He made sure your locker was always stocked. That the coffee machine in the hangar bay was never empty of the kind you liked, even if it meant driving across base at 5am.

He kept rookies from asking you questions like “Were you close with them?” or “Did you see it happen?” with one look and a cold voice that said don’t. He had Hangman-level charm, but none of it touched his eyes when it came to you. That was reserved.

He asked Maverick to keep you off the flight schedule for a few days, not out of pity, but to buy you space and time. He knew you'd hate it if you found out it came from him, so he had Phoenix submit the request. Made it look like it came from the squad.

He didn’t tell anyone why he started carrying two coffees to the briefings. One always ended up on your desk, steaming and untouched until it cooled.

When you skipped meals, he casually "forgot" his lunch too, so you'd both end up in the kitchen, picking at whatever leftover crap someone brought in.

When you didn’t speak, he made sure the others kept things light around you. “Movie night?” “Cards?” “Beer run?”

Never how are you doing?Never are you okay?

You weren’t.

Everyone knew.

But they didn’t say it.

Because Jake made sure they didn’t have to.

He watched you fly harder after that.

Sharper. Lower. Like you were daring the sky to push back.

Like maybe, if you could fly fast enough, low enough, you could outrun the ache hollowing out your chest. Maybe the faster you moved, the quieter the memories would get. Maybe, if you pulled enough Gs, it would drown out the silence that followed Smoke and Bishop’s names.

Jake didn’t say anything at first.

Not when you cut a corner dangerously, close to a stall, or when your afterburner roared a half-second too long. Not even when you started volunteering for every high-risk sim that came through rotation, even the ones that made the newer pilots flinch.

Because he got it.

Because he remembered what it felt like to be halfway to falling apart and terrified someone might notice, sometimes flying was the only thing that kept the screaming quiet.

And he also remembered what it felt like when no one noticed, no one pulled you aside. When everyone just called it “pushing your limits.”

So he noticed.

Quietly. Faithfully. Desperately.

He kept track of your flight paths, your fuel consumption, the way you gripped the stick too tightly when you thought no one was watching. He covered your six in the air, kept an eye on you in the hangar, rerouted other pilots to less intense sims when he knew you’d sign up for them instead.

But he let you fly.

Because he didn’t want to be the one who took the sky from you.

He didn’t want to clip your wings just when they were the only thing keeping you above water.

Until the first time you scared him.

Really scared him.

It was a Wednesday. Sim run. Standard maneuver set.

Jake was watching from the tower, arms folded, comms in his ear, tracking your jet on the screen as you dove into a wide turn.

Then, suddenly, you rolled.

Hard and fast.

A barrel roll that was too low and too sharp. The clearance window you left was barely a breath wide. You skimmed the danger zone like you wanted to brush it.

His heart stopped.

“Holy shit,” Phoenix muttered beside him.

Jake didn’t say anything for a second. He couldn’t. Just stared at the screen, fists clenched, jaw locked.

When you landed twenty minutes later, you moved like nothing had happened.

You climbed down from the ladder, peeled off your gloves, tugged your helmet off like it wasn’t soaked with sweat.

But Jake saw the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking. He saw the adrenaline twitch in your jaw, the heat on your neck, the way your chest rose and fell too fast beneath your flight suit.

He walked toward you, heart still hammering, words coming too fast to filter.

“Trying to get yourself grounded, sweetheart?”

He meant it as a joke. Meant it as a jab, something light, something familiar to break the tension.

But the smile never reached his eyes. And yours didn’t even flicker.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t pause. Didn’t blink.

You just brushed past him, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat darkening your flight suit like blood.

And Jake stood there.

Watching you disappear again, a little further this time. A little faster.

And he felt it. Deep and quiet and awful, the creeping edge of fear.

Because that wasn’t just recklessness. That was grief with a death wish.

And now?

Now, he wasn’t just worried about you, he was terrified.

Because if Smoke and Bishop had been the beginning of the storm, you were the lightning strike chasing the wreckage.

He still didn’t confront you. Not yet.

Because he knew the worst thing you could do to someone barely holding it together was to shove a mirror in their face.

So instead, he doubled down.

He made sure your flight reports stayed clean. Quietly rewrote your more aggressive runs with phrasing that made them sound “ambitious” instead of “dangerous.” He kept the instructors off your back. Ran interference when anyone got too close. He adjusted his own sim rotation to match yours, so he’d always be in the air when you were.

You never asked him to do any of it.

But he did it anyway.

Because Smoke and Bishop were gone. And Jake was still here. And you were still here.

And Jake Seresin didn’t have many promises left to keep in this world.

But he made one that day, standing on the tarmac, watching your silhouette retreat into shadow with grief stitched into your spine like steel:

He would not lose you too.

Not if he could help it. Not without a fight. Not without trying.

Even if you hated him for it, even if you never knew.

Eventually it got worse though.

Jake started losing track of how many times he stopped breathing in the control room.

You flew like there was a countdown running out in your head.

Split-second maneuvers that left barely enough room to recover. Tight turns that scraped stall limits, your nose dipping just low enough to set off alarms in the tower. You flew into turbulence like you were daring the wind to try you.

Every time he thought you'd pulled the worst stunt you could, you'd top it.

Every time he thought maybe you were easing off, you proved him wrong.

And Jake started feeling it, not just in the pit of his stomach, but in his bones. That dull, persistent ache of helplessness.

He tried subtle things first.

Quiet. Careful. Didn’t want to spook you. Didn’t want to push.

So he’d wait until the others were gone, and cue up your sim footage, frowning like it was purely tactical.

“That’s not how we trained it,” he’d say casually, motioning to your line across the screen.

You barely looked up from your water bottle.

"You got a better way to stay alive?" you replied, voice flat but sharp.

And that was the thing, it wasn’t even defensive anymore. Just tired. Like you’d been living in this constant buzz of danger long enough that it didn’t even register as risk.

It was just normal.

Jake’s jaw would tighten. His lips would part like he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. Not then at least.

Because there was still a flicker in your eyes when you said it. Still something that looked like fight.

But it didn’t stop.

You just kept pushing. Every flight more aggressive than the last. Every line crossed with more confidence than the one before.

Eventually, subtle stopped working.

So Jake tried direct.

Cornered you after a particularly dangerous night op, both of you still peeling off your gear in the hangar.

He tossed his gloves on the bench harder than necessary.

“You’re not bulletproof, you know.”

You froze for a second, just a second, before you looked over your shoulder at him.

And you smiled.

But it wasn’t warm and it wasn’t teasing. It was sharp and small. A blade, not a joke.

“Neither are you.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because he knew they were true.

Because the way you said them didn’t sound brave. Didn’t sound like a challenge. It sounded like a warning. Like a confession.

Neither of you were bulletproof. But one of you had stopped caring about the impact.

Jake stared at you, throat dry, chest tight.

You turned away before he could say anything else, grabbing your helmet and heading for the locker room like the conversation didn’t matter.

But it did.

It mattered so much it made his hands shake.

Because that wasn’t just grief anymore.

That was detachment.

That was the kind of recklessness that didn’t have a future in mind and he was running out of ways to bring you back from it.

Then came the day you almost didn’t pull up.

Training op. Ocean run. Another routine flight.

At least, it should have been.

The weather was clean, visibility was good, comms were clear. It was a straightforward loop-and-return exercise, no surprises, no complications.

Until the final turn.

You banked too hard, fast, and too low.

You dove like you were chasing something only you could see, something far beneath the surface of the ocean, something you had no business following.

The warning blared in Jake’s headset. A shrill, gut-twisting scream that shot through his spine like ice.

“altitude, altitude—”

His blood went cold.

He watched from the second jet, powerless. All he could do was scream into the comms.

“Pull up Bear— God, pull up!”

And for a second— just a second— he thought you weren’t going to. Maybe you thought the same thing.

Then your nose jerked upward, your jet climbing hard, engines shrieking from the strain.

You cleared the water by less than a heartbeat.

Jake’s hands didn’t stop shaking the entire way back to base.

You landed like nothing happened.

No hesitation in your steps. No stutter in your breath. Helmet tucked under one arm, visor still streaked with sweat, flight suit clinging to your body like a second skin.

This time he didn't see the slight tremble in your hands, the little bit of hesitation in your eyes. That terrified him more.

Jake was already crossing the tarmac, boots slamming the pavement so hard it echoed.

“Hey!” he barked, grabbing your arm just before you passed him.

You jerked back, your voice low and cold.

“Let go, Seresin.”

He didn’t.

His hand tightened around your sleeve like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground.

“No,” he snapped. “Not until you tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

Your jaw clenched.

“I said let go.”

“You almost died out there,” he hissed. “And you’re acting like it was a fucking training glitch.”

“It was fine—”

“You call that fine?”

You tried to pull away again, but he stepped into your space, his voice shaking now but not with anger, with fear. Raw, wide-eyed, real fear.

“I watched you drop out of the sky,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I thought you were gone. I thought I was going to have to circle back and—”

He stopped, voice catching in his throat.

You looked away.

He caught your chin gently, not forcing, just enough to get you to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t shut me out. Not with this.”

You didn’t say anything. Not at first.

Just breathed. Just blinked. Just stood there like you were trying not to crack in half.

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “I can’t. Not like that. Not like them.”

Your face twitched.

He saw it, the shift. The smallest flicker in your expression. Not all at once. Just enough.

A crack in the dam.

And then—

You broke.

Not loud. Not violent. Just… empty. Like the fight drained out of your body all at once.

Your shoulders dropped. Your eyes glassed over, far away.

“Do you know what it’s like,” you whispered, “to be the only one left?”

Jake stared at you like his heart was ripping in half.

“I do,” he said softly. “I fucking do.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly, like you couldn’t quite believe him.

But you didn’t speak again.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t fall into his chest. You didn’t let him hold you.

You just pulled your arm free.

And walked away.

He sat outside your door that night.

Long after the lights went off. Long after the base had gone quiet. Long after the rest of the squad had moved on to the next thing, the next day.

He sat on the floor, back to the wall, your door a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him like he was praying for something he didn’t know how to name.

Because he was praying.

That you’d open the door, you’d come outside, and you’d say something. Anything.

But you didn’t.

And he didn’t leave.

Not for hours.

Because if you weren’t going to pull up—

He was going to sit right there and wait for the crash.

He tried everything after that.

Every conversation felt like a minefield. Every flight you took chipped something off of him.

After every sim, he was there, waiting for you before you could vanish behind a shrug and a halfhearted debrief.

He’d corner you just out of sight of the others, voice low, like if he said it gently enough you might actually hear it.

“That’s not who you are,” he said once, motioning toward your sim playback. The screen still glowed behind him, frame by frame of you flying like you had nothing left to lose.

You didn’t look at it but you also didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you murmured, eyes distant, your voice paper-thin.

Jake felt the words hit like a punch to the chest. Because he remembered who you used to be. The fire. The laughter. The way you used to grip the throttle with certainty, not desperation.

So he tried harder.

He begged.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he whispered one night outside the locker room, after you came back from a solo flight dripping sweat and silence.

“You’re already enough.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked past him like the weight of his words was too much to carry, too real to acknowledge.

He followed.

“You’re scaring the hell out of me,” he said, not caring if anyone else heard this time. “You think I don’t see it? Every time you dive like that, every time you push it past where it should go, I feel it. I feel it in my goddamn bones.”

“Jake—”

“Please,” he said. Voice breaking now. Eyes glassy. “Just—just pull up.”

There were moments, tiny, flickering moments, when he thought he got through to you.

When your hand would hover over the throttle just a second too long. When your shoulders would stiffen before a maneuver. When your eyes would meet his across the hangar, wide and flickering like they used to be.

He saw it, the hesitation. The part of you that wanted to stop.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were chasing something that didn’t exist. Or maybe… maybe you were trying to outrun something that did.

The ghosts, the guilt, the silence after the crash of Smoke and Bishop. The empty chairs. The quiet locker. The memory of a split-second decision that stole two lives and left you behind.

Jake knew that kind of pain. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight. The kind that turns the sky from freedom into punishment.

But watching you live it, watching you bleed out midair while everyone else called it discipline or drive, it made him feel helpless in a way he wasn’t used to.

So he did what he could.

But he knew those were just sandbags in a storm.

Because you weren’t staying grounded.

You were slipping, and he was running out of ways to catch you.

The day you died started like any other.

A little too bright. A little too warm. The kind of Southern California morning where the air clung to your skin and the salt from the ocean stuck to your tongue.

Jake got to base early, like always. He liked the stillness before the noise, the hum of the hangar when the world hadn’t quite started moving yet. He liked knowing he’d see you walk in.

And you did. Flight suit slung low on your hips. Hair twisted back with no real effort. Laugh curling out of your mouth like nothing was wrong.

You tossed a granola bar at Phoenix and made some offhand comment about how she flew like a drunk pigeon in the last sim. She flipped you off. You grinned.

And Jake, god, Jake wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe you were clawing your way out of the dark, that maybe you’d finally reached the edge of whatever cliff you’d been balancing on for months.

You winked at him across the flight line. It was small. A flash of the old you. He gave a half-smile back, like maybe the world was tipping in the right direction again.

But still, something in his gut twisted.

It was in the way your hands trembled just before you zipped up your flight suit. The way you lingered by your locker, staring at the photo of Smoke and Bishop like it was the last anchor holding you down. The way you said, “Catch you after,” when you walked past him.

Not when I get back.Not see you soon.

Just after.

It was subtle. It was nothing. But it gnawed at him.

He followed you down the hangar, cutting around one of the jets. His boots echoed. 

“Bear” He called your name.

You turned.

He hesitated. “You good?”

You tilted your head, smiled too easily. “I’m fine, Jake.”

He frowned. “You sure? I can talk to Mav, get you off this run. You look like you didn’t sleep.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious.”

Your expression faltered, just for a second. But then it was back. Bright and sharp.

“I said I’m fine.”

And like an idiot, he nodded and let you walk away. He let you climb into that goddamn jet like everything was normal.

You took off third in line.

Jake launched two birds behind you.

He didn’t know when exactly it happened. One second, the run was smooth, coastline just a smear of green and gold below, comms clear, air steady. You were in the pocket. Flying great.

Jake’s last transmission from you was a clipped laugh. Something about Coyote nearly overshooting the turn.

The moment the warning tone hit his headset, Jake’s blood froze.

The stall alert blared across the channel. A brief, high-pitched whine. And then the quietest kind of terror.

Nothing. Just static.

“Bear, confirm location.”

Silence.

“Bear, you copy?”

Still nothing.

He didn’t even realize he was screaming until Phoenix’s voice broke through, tight and panicked: “Hangman, what’s your position?"

He didn’t answer. Just shoved the throttle forward like he could outfly what he already knew.

He scanned the sky, the sea, the clouds, anywhere for a chute.

There was none.

Just smoke. Just debris.

The ocean below churned like it had teeth. And you, your jet, was already disappearing beneath the waves by the time he got just close enough to see the color of the wreckage.

He circled until his fuel started to run low. Listened to the silence in his headset like it owed him an explanation.

There was no Mayday. No goodbye. Just a flash of metal, a smear of black, and you, gone.

The recovery team brought back a scorched flight helmet and a piece of your tail fin.

They told him it was mechanical failure. Sudden. Nothing you could’ve done.

But he didn’t believe them.

Because you’d stalled.Not because of a system fault. But because you’d gone too low. Too fast. Too far.

Again.

And this time, you didn’t pull up.

The rest of the squad landed light.

Two birds short.

The wheels hit the ground harder than they should’ve. Rooster’s hands were shaking on the throttle. Phoenix didn’t even taxi all the way, just left her jet near the edge, like getting out faster would somehow make a difference.

The tower confirmed what they already knew.

No contact. No chute. No signal from Bear.

And still, they waited.

Some engines idling, heartbeats holding and all eyes locked on the sky.

Phoenix was the first out of her cockpit, helmet half-removed, eyes scanning the horizon like maybe you’d swing in late and make some crack about being fashionably behind.

You didn’t.

Rooster pulled his helmet off with shaking hands. His lips were moving, murmuring something over and over, words Phoenix couldn’t hear. A prayer. A denial. Maybe both.

Bob’s face was bloodless. He stood on the concrete, hands limp at his sides, like he’d left part of himself up there with you. When Payback asked him if he was okay, he just shook his head once, sharp and fast, and turned away.

Coyote slammed his helmet into the side of the ladder. The clang echoed across the tarmac. “Fuck!” The word was raw. Desperate. Like if he yelled loud enough, it’d pull you back.

Then the call came in.

Jake hadn’t found you.

No signal. No debris. Nothing but open water and too much sky.

Phoenix crumpled. Bent over like someone had punched the air from her lungs. Rooster caught her, arms around her back as she sobbed into his flight suit.

The rest of the squad fell silent.

Waiting. Watching.

He didn’t remember turning back.

Didn’t remember landing.

Didn’t remember the tower calling him home, voice clipped and grim: “Hangman, RTB. Repeat—return to base.”

He didn’t respond. Just obeyed.

Autopilot might as well have flown the damn jet. His hands weren’t steady. His eyes didn’t focus. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, like if he let himself inhale too deeply, he’d drown.

The moment his wheels hit the tarmac, everything went quiet.

He pulled the throttle back. Shut everything down with muscle memory alone it was all a blur. His helmet was still on when the canopy opened, the air too hot, the sky too bright. Too normal.

The squad ran across the tarmac like their legs didn’t quite work right, like maybe if they moved fast enough, they’d change what happened. Like maybe you were still out there, just waiting to be found.

But you weren’t. You were gone.

And Jake— he didn’t move.

He sat in the cockpit, visor down, heart silent. Not numb. Not yet.

Just…blank.

He finally climbed down when the ground crew started gathering, murmuring. Their expressions cracked and someone was crying.

He took one step. Then another.

And then he saw the others.

The squad, your squad, huddled in a loose, broken half-circle near the hangar doors.

Bob had both hands on his knees, like he couldn’t breathe. Fanboy was pacing, mumbling something under his breath over and over again. Phoenix had her back to everyone, shoulders shaking, fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white.

And Coyote—Coyote was shouting.

“What do you mean she didn’t eject?!” he barked at one of the commanders. “She knew better, she—she wouldn’t just—she had time!”

“No chute.” That’s all the officer said. Voice like concrete. “There was no chute.”

Jake stopped a few yards away. Helmet still in his hand, fingers curled around it so tightly the plastic creaked.

He didn’t speak..

The others noticed him then. Bob straightened. Phoenix turned, red-eyed and furious.

But no one said a word to him.

Because Jake Seresin, Hangman, the one who always had something to say, was silent just standing there. Staring at all of them like he didn’t recognize the world anymore.

Like he’d stepped off that jet into some alternate reality where you didn’t exist.

He wasn’t crying, he wasn’t yelling, he just looked lost.

Like every second that passed was another brick on his chest. Like the scream that had torn out of him over the ocean had taken everything else with it.

Maverick approached at some point. Said something about debriefing, command, protocol.

Jake didn’t hear it.

His ears were ringing. His heart was shattered.

He watched the team come apart, one by one. Phoenix broke down more, like it just hit her harder, biting her knuckle to stop from sobbing. Fanboy tried to comfort her, but his hands were shaking too badly. Coyote threw his helmet again like it owed him something. Bob sat on the pavement like his legs had stopped working.

And Jake just stood there. No tears. No sound.

Just the sick, slow understanding that you were really gone.

And he hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it.

He hadn’t grabbed your arm that morning or said don’t go. Hadn’t screamed loud enough for you to pull up and now he had to live in this hollow, echoing space you left behind.

A place where the squad looked to him for something, anything, and he had nothing to give.

He was supposed to be the one who caught people before they fell.

But this time, he hadn’t been fast enough.

And now, the only thing left was silence.

He replayed it in his head every night after. The moment he almost stopped you. The things he could’ve said. The way your voice trembled when you told him you were fine.

He should’ve known. He did know and he let you fly anyway.

Now he sits on the tarmac after dark. Same spot where you stood after Smoke and Bishop crashed. The cement still smells like jet fuel. The wind still tastes like salt. 

He knew exactly how you felt in that moment. The moment where you stood still, hoping, wishing that the sound of their jets would fly overhead signifying their safe return home. Except, now, he was wishing that it was the sound of yours. The same one that now laid hundreds of miles below the surface of the sea. 

That unforgiving sea. 

Your locker is empty now.

Your name is etched on a wall that no one looks at for too long.

And Jake Seresin, cocky, fearless, unshakable Hangman, hasn’t truly smiled in weeks.

He talks less and walks around like there’s a weight tied to his ribs.

Because the truth is, he tried, he really tried, but it wasn’t enough.

And now, he can’t hear a warning tone without his heart stopping, can’t close his eyes without seeing the smoke trail vanish into the sea, can't fly without looking to his right and expecting you to be there.

And the worst part?

It's that you almost came back. You almost got better. You almost stayed.

But almost doesn’t count in the sky.

Five days.That’s how long he lasted before it broke him.

Jake Seresin had always been good at compartmentalizing. At shoving the worst of it into neat little corners of his mind and slamming the door. Smile. Breathe. Get in the cockpit. Be the one they can lean on.

The others had taken time. Phoenix went home for a bit. Bob disappeared into his books. Coyote started running ten miles a day like if he stopped, he’d feel something.

But Jake? He stayed.

He flew every day. Trained. Reviewed flight logs. Filed reports. Kept the wheels turning because someone had to. Because if he stopped, he’d have to think.

And if he thought, he’d have to feel.

But it caught up to him in the locker room.

It was late. The hangar was quiet, humming with the silence that only came when everyone else had already gone. Jake had just flown a textbook sim. No mistakes. No risk.

Didn’t matter.

Your name wasn’t on the board anymore, your gear had been packed up, your locker cleaned out.

Only the dent in the wall where you’d once kicked it in frustration remained.

Jake sat down on the bench in front of his locker and stared at the empty space beside him.

The one that used to be yours.

The helmet you always left crooked. The smell of your perfume. The goddamn sticker you stuck on the door even after someone told you not to.

Gone.

His chest caved in before he knew what was happening.

Everything shattered.

He slammed his locker shut. Then again. Then again.

Harder.

Bang. Bang. BANG.

He grabbed his helmet and hurled it across the room. It cracked off the wall with a thud, then rolled.

“You weren’t supposed to go!” he roared. Voice hoarse, shaking, broken wide open.

His fist collided with the locker door. Once. Twice. The skin split.

“You stupid, reckless—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He slumped to the floor, knees pulled to his chest, knuckles dripping red, head pressed against the cold metal.

The sob that came next didn’t sound human.

It tore through him like shrapnel.

And then—

“Jake.”

A voice. Low. Familiar.

Jake didn’t look up. Didn’t have to.

He knew that voice.

Mav.

Maverick stood just inside the doorway. Not moving. Not speaking. Just…there.

Jake laughed. It was a horrible sound, wet, sharp, bitter.

“You here to tell me to suck it up?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“No.”

Jake finally looked up. And what he saw in Maverick’s eyes wasn’t pity. It was grief.

Deep. Quiet. Lived-in.

“I should’ve stopped her,” Jake choked out, voice cracking. “That morning I knew something was wrong. She smiled at me like nothing happened, but it wasn’t real. I saw it, and I just let her go.”

Maverick walked in, sat beside him on the floor. Slow. Steady. Didn’t touch him.

Jake shook his head, hands clenched. “I told myself she was getting better. I wanted to believe it. She winked at me, man. Like she was okay. Like she was still her. And I let it fool me.”

“You loved her,” Maverick said, gently.

Jake’s breath hitched.

“Of course I did.”

He dropped his head back against the locker. Eyes red, throat raw.

“I should’ve pushed harder. Stayed grounded with her. Screamed. Dragged her out of the damn cockpit. I knew she was burning out, and I let her fly anyway.”

Maverick was quiet for a long moment.

“There was nothing you could’ve done.”

Jake flinched like it physically hurt.

“No. Don’t—don’t say that.”

“You think I haven’t been there?” Maverick said quietly. “You think I haven’t watched people I love fall apart right in front of me and been powerless to stop it?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“You could’ve chained her to the floor and she still would’ve found a way into the sky,” Maverick continued, voice even but soft. “Because that’s who she was. That’s who you all are. You burn bright. You push limits. It’s why you’re the best. And sometimes…”

He trailed off.

Jake finished the sentence himself, voice shaking.

“Sometimes you don’t pull up in time.”

The silence that followed felt sacred.

Then Jake said, barely above a whisper: “She wasn’t supposed to die.”

Maverick nodded. “No one ever is.”

They sat like that for a while. Jake’s shoulders slowly uncoiling. The quiet wrapping around them like a shroud.

Eventually, Jake stood.

His movements stiff. Exhausted. Wrung out.

He picked up his broken helmet, looked at it like it was something sacred, then set it gently on the bench.

He didn’t say goodbye to Maverick.

Just paused in the doorway, stared out at the tarmac, dark, silent, familiar, and whispered:

“Miss you, darlin’.”

And then he walked out, the echo of your loss still stitched into his spine, but his heart carrying it now, instead of trying to outrun it.

He’d never stop missing you. But maybe now he could finally let himself grieve you.

The memorial was held eight days after they pulled the last piece of wreckage from the ocean.

Everyone came back.

No one had to be asked.

Dagger Squad scattered like the wind after it happened, everyone trying to make space for the ache, trying to survive the silence you left behind. But when the word went out: full honors, ocean burial. They all came home.

Even those who never stayed anywhere long enough to call a place home came back for you.

You were that kind of person.

The kind who made everyone else feel like they mattered.

And now they were standing on the edge of the sea, dressed in formal whites, eyes shaded by Aviators, watching your casket-draped in the flag you never stopped fighting for and 13 wings stamped into the wood- be dropped into the salt and foam. 

It didn’t escape them that it was completely empty except for the scorched helmet they recovered, masked with your callsign in your favorite color and a picture of your squad tattered and torn on the inside. 

Jake didn’t blink the whole time.

He stood rigid beside Maverick, jaw clenched so hard he thought it might crack. He didn’t cry. Didn’t move.

The only sign that anything was wrong was in the white-knuckled grip he had on his gloves.

Then came the flyover.

The Missing Man Formation.

Four jets cutting across the blue, one banking away in perfect symmetry.

The symbolism hit like a gut punch.

Phoenix stiffened beside him. Bob flinched. Coyote’s hands trembled.

Jake didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because that was your seat.

That should’ve been you in that jet.

And now you were the one missing.

When they folded your flag and handed it to Maverick, the world didn’t stop.

But for Jake, it might as well have.

That night, the Hard Deck was closed to the public.

Penny kept the lights low and the jukebox off.

No one laughed loudly. No one danced.

The whole bar felt like it was holding its breath.

Only Dagger Squad was there. Just the ones who knew you best.

There was a picture of you behind the bar. You. Smoke. Bishop. Jake.

Your smile was so wide it made his chest ache just to look at it.

He remembered the last time everyone had been here, so happy, so oblivious to the world. 

It was hot. The kind of blistering, salt-stained heat that made your flight suit cling to your back by the time you stepped onto the tarmac. But no one cared.

Because the mission was clean.The sky was yours.And for once, everyone came home.

Smoke was still laughing about his own dramatic radio call, some ridiculous Top Gun style line he swore sounded cooler in the moment. Bishop was teasing Bob for still calling you ma’am even after two deployments, and you had your boots kicked up on a case of Gatorade in the shade, sipping the red one Bishop always saved for you.

Jake had landed next to you. Smooth. Confident. Not showboating, for once, just glad to see you already on the ground, safe and whole. You waved at him from the hangar steps, hair windblown, grin easy.

That was the kind of day it was.Easy.

Maverick made a rare appearance in the ready room and brought ice cream sandwiches for everyone like some kind of weird, retired squad dad. Phoenix raised a brow but took one anyway. Coyote challenged everyone to darts at the Hard Deck later, and Bishop had already started trash-talking.

“Loser buys the first round,” he said, pointing between you and Smoke.

“I’m not losing to either of you,” you shot back, stretching with a groan. “Not after today. That formation loop? Art.”

“Oh, it was art?” Smoke teased. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Because I distinctly remember someone pulling a maneuver that nearly made me lose my lunch.”

Jake chuckled, slinging an arm over your shoulder from behind. “You sure it wasn’t just your age catching up to you, Smoke?”

“You’re barely three months younger than me, Hangman,” Smoke deadpanned.

“Still younger.”

Everyone groaned in chorus.

That night, at the Hard Deck, the lights were too bright and the jukebox was broken in just the right way cycling between classic rock and some 2000s playlist Bob had programmed weeks ago.

You sang along with Phoenix to some Avril Lavigne song. Bishop had one arm around Smoke and the other around Jake, slurring off-key lyrics like his life depended on it. Coyote and Payback had bets going on who would fall off the barstool first.

It was loud. It was messy. It was good.

And it would be the last time the whole squad was together like that.

But no one knew that yet.

No one knew that in two weeks, there’d be black ribbons on helmets and a moment of silence before flight briefings.

That night, there were just drinks and music and laughter.

You’d leaned over to Jake somewhere near closing time, voice low but honest.

“I hope we get a hundred more nights like this.”

He’d smiled, not knowing that would be the one that haunted him most.

Phoenix raised a glass and said your name first.

“To Bear,” she said, voice thick. “Our girl. Our favorite pain in the ass.”

A few people chuckled at that.

“She once threatened to break my kneecaps for taking the last cup of coffee,” Coyote added, lips quirking faintly. “Swear to God, I was scared.”

“She carried four of us off the tarmac once when we were heat exhausted,” Bob said. “All five-foot-seven of her.”

“She growled at a three-star once,” Fanboy grinned. “They backed down.”

More laughter.

It was soft. Careful. Like someone had cracked a window in a smoke-filled room.

“She was Bear,” Phoenix smiled sadly. “Called that because she bit off the head of anyone who messed with us. Our squad mom. Our enforcer. Our home.”

They all nodded.

Jake said nothing.

He sat at the far end of the bar, fingers wrapped around an untouched beer, staring at the wood grain like if he looked up, he might see you across from him again.

Phoenix slid into the seat beside him after a while.

Didn’t say anything at first. Just sat. Let the weight sit with him.

Then, softly: “You know she wouldn’t have listened to anyone, right?”

Jake’s throat worked. He didn’t answer.

“I tried too,” Phoenix admitted. “We all did. You just… you saw it first.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on the bar. “Doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“No. It won’t. But Jake…”

She waited until he looked at her.

“She’s flying with Smoke and Bishop now. Giving them hell, just like always.”

That was what cracked him.

Just a flicker. A corner of his mouth tipping upward. Barely there.

But it was real.

“She probably made it to the gates and tried to file a maintenance report,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Phoenix snorted through a sob. “She probably kicked the gates open.”

That almost did it.

Almost.

Jake took a deep breath, finally lifted his glass, and clinked it against hers.

“To Bear,” he whispered.

And this time, his voice didn’t shake.

He sits on the dock most nights now. Long after the sun’s gone down. Long after everyone else has gone home.

Your dog tags are a permanent fixture in his hand, wound through his fingers like prayer beads, like a tether, like if he lets go for even a second, you’ll disappear completely.

The sea is quiet, endless. So still it feels wrong. Like the world forgot to grieve. Like it’s daring him to remember alone.

Some nights, he talks to you.

Not out loud. Not exactly.

But the words form anyway, clogging his throat, settling in his chest like salt.

"You'd hate this place without you. It’s too damn quiet. Too clean."

"Phoenix still gives me that look. You know the one.""Bob leaves coffee on my desk now. Yours was better.""I miss your laugh. God, I miss your laugh."

He never says the one thing that sits deepest in his bones: I should’ve done more.

Because if he says it out loud, it becomes real. Permanent. A scar he can’t hide.

Every now and then, up in the air, he hears your voice in the headset.

Not clearly.

Just a flicker of static. A phantom "Seresin, get your head out of your ass" at the edge of a barrel roll. A laugh in the clouds when he hits a clean break turn. Sometimes, he swears he sees your jet, just a flash, tucked in tight at his six.

But when he turns, there’s nothing. Just sky. Just air.

Just loss.

When people ask about you now, he says the same thing every time.

“She was the best.”

Then he swallows around the lump in his throat and adds:

“She burned too bright. She was more than what they’ll remember.”

Because that’s what hurts the most. Not the way you went. But the way they talk about it now.

You became a cautionary tale.

A story whispered to fresh-faced pilots on their first day at Top Gun: "Don’t fly like she did.""Don’t chase the edge like it owes you something.""Don’t lose yourself in the sky."

Jake hates it.

You weren’t a warning.

You were alive. Loud. Stubborn. Brilliant. You loved the sky too much and it loved you back, until it didn’t.

He still flies. Of course he does.

But it’s not the same.

He doesn’t look for you in the locker room anymore, doesn’t expect to see you barefoot on the bench, peeling off your flight suit, smirking like you just rewrote the laws of physics.

But the ache doesn’t go away.

You’re everywhere and nowhere.

A ghost at his six. The wind on final approach. The silence after comms go dead. The echo in the hangar when no one else is speaking.

And on the nights he can’t stand the weight of your absence, when the grief feels too sharp to breathe through, he sits on the dock, your tags clinking softly in his hand, and watches the sky.

Waiting for one more flash of silver. One more glint of sunlight off a canopy.

Your house was loud—chaotic in that way it always was when the squadron piled in without hesitation. Laughter spilled from the living room, echoing off the walls as though the very foundation of the house had learned how to breathe along with them. There were shoes kicked haphazardly by the door as they almost forgot your no shoes in the house rule, jackets thrown across chairs, half-eaten pizza boxes stacked on the counter. Someone was yelling about picking the wrong movie, and someone else was insisting the volume was too loud even though nobody reached for the remote. Probably Payback finding something to complain about.

You should’ve been irritated. You should’ve been worrying about stains on the carpet or the fact that your couch was seconds away from collapsing under the weight of four aviators piled onto it. But instead, you leaned against the doorway, watching the chaos unfold with a kind of quiet awe.

It hit you, suddenly and all at once, how full the space was, not just with people, but with life.

There had been a time when nights were empty like this. When silence pressed so heavy against your ribs that it was hard to breathe, and there was no one to call, no one to lean on. Loneliness had been your closest companion, and the thought of belonging somewhere had felt like a fantasy you weren’t meant to touch. You had spent more time alone than with anyone else, never feeling like you had a home. 

But here they were now. A family you hadn’t been born into but had been given all the same. A family stitched together by chance and long days in the cockpit, by victories and bruises, by the unspoken promise that no one was ever truly alone anymore.

A laugh tore through the room, Rooster’s, loud and unrestrained, as he shoved Coyote for trying to balance a soda can on his head. Phoenix smacked Fanboy with a pillow, and Payback howled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Jake yelled something about house rules that didn’t make sense, and no one listened to him. Everyone was just being unapologetically themselves and you loved every second of it. It felt good to be in a room where embarrassment wasn’t even a thought. 

You smiled without meaning to, your chest tightening at the sight. For a moment, you let yourself step back and simply feel it: the warmth, the belonging, the rare and fragile gift of having a place to land.

“They love you, you know.”

The voice was soft, quiet enough that you almost thought you imagined it. You turned, startled, to see Bob beside you, half-hidden in the hallway’s shadow with a soda cradled in his hand. He hadn’t announced his presence, just slipped in like he always did, steady, grounded, seeing everything that others missed.

His words caught you off guard. You blinked, unsure what to say. Love? That felt too big, too unbelievable. You were the host, the one who made sure there was food and enough blankets, the one who held the chaos together, but love? That wasn’t something you thought you’d earned.

You must not have hidden the doubt well, because Bob tilted his head slightly, his expression impossibly gentle. “You’re home to them,” he said.

And just like that, your heart cracked open.

The tears burned before you could stop them, a lump rising sharp in your throat. You pressed your lips together, trying to steady yourself, but Bob’s words clung stubbornly to the quiet corners of your soul.

You thought of all the nights you used to spend in silence, the ache of wanting to belong somewhere, the hollow weight of loneliness. And then you thought of this night, of laughter spilling over like it couldn’t be contained, of pizza crusts and mismatched socks and the feeling that if the world ended tomorrow, you would have lived something worth remembering.

Your heart felt full in a way you couldn’t put into words.

You glanced back toward the living room, where the movie had finally started, though no one was really watching. Rooster had stolen all the pillows, Jake was heckling the opening credits, and Phoenix had her feet tucked under her like she’d already claimed her spot for the night.

And suddenly, you knew. Bob was right. They weren’t just friends. They weren’t just coworkers or teammates. They were home.

And they had made you theirs, too.

Without another thought, you pushed off the doorway and jogged straight into the chaos. “Make room for me!” you called, your voice cutting through the noise as you launched yourself onto the couch.

The entire pile of aviators groaned at once when you landed squarely on top of them.

“Jesus Christ—!” Rooster wheezed, trying to push you off as he flailed for air. “You’re crushing my vital organs!” Fanboy shouted dramatically, though he made no move to actually escape. “Get off me, or I swear I’ll—” Phoenix tried to sound intimidating, but she was laughing too hard to finish the threat. Jake, of course, only smirked. “Finally realized where the party was, huh, darlin’? Don’t worry, I saved you a spot.”

“Saved me a spot? You’re sitting on half the couch!” you shot back, elbowing him until he nearly toppled into the beer bottles littering the coffee table. 

“Worth it,” he said with a grin that earned him a throw pillow to the face that remained even after it ricocheted causing you to let out an unfiltered laugh. 

Bob, still leaning in the doorway, shook his head with a quiet smile. And then, just as quickly, he crossed the room and claimed the only free armchair, sipping his soda like he’d planned it all along.

Within seconds,it all turned into an all-out wrestling match over the last remaining blanket. Coyote tried to yank it from Payback, who retaliated by pulling you into the scuffle for some reason unbeknownst to you. Phoenix ended up flat on her back, laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks, while Fanboy yelled that he was Switzerland and refused to get involved.

You laughed until your sides ached, caught in the center of it all, your voice mixing with theirs in the kind of harmony you never thought you’d have.

When the dust finally settled, and everyone was tangled in one giant heap of limbs, someone hit play again, and the movie flickered across the TV. But no one cared much about the screen.

Because this, this was the whole point.

You sank back against the cushions, squished between Rooster and Phoenix, the blanket finally thrown over half of you, and let the warmth of the moment wash over you.

At some point in the night, the movie droned into background noise. Laughter softened into mumbles, mumbles into silence, and one by one, they all slipped into sleep.

You woke before the sun, stiff but warm, sandwiched between Rooster’s arm draped heavy across your shoulder and Phoenix’s head resting against your knee. The TV glowed faintly, cycling through previews again.

Carefully, you slid out of the pile without waking anyone. The floor was a minefield of empty soda cans, crumpled napkins, and popcorn kernels that had somehow made it halfway across the room. You smiled at the sight, shaking your head, and started cleaning quietly, stacking boxes, gathering cups, straightening blankets. Normally this would’ve sent you into overdrive but something about how happy everyone was last night erased that from your mind. It was worth it. 

By the time the kitchen counters were cleared, you had eggs cracking in a pan, coffee brewing, and the first hints of morning light spilling through the blinds.

The smell must have done the work, because the first shuffle of footsteps behind you made you glance back.

Bob was the first to appear, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. He leaned against the counter, watching you cook. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

You shrugged, smiling. “Didn’t want everyone waking up to a disaster zone.”

He gave one of his small, quiet smiles. “You’re good at taking care of people. Just… don’t forget you’re allowed to let us take care of you, too.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but before you could respond, another voice broke the quiet.

Rooster, hair a complete mess, stumbled in with a blanket still draped over his shoulders. “Tell me that smell is coffee and not me hallucinating.”

You slid him a mug without missing a beat. He grinned sleepily, the kind of grin that made you think of sunshine, walking over to where you were cooking and leaned his head on your shoulder for a second and muttered, “Knew I loved you.” He stood up and took a sip, burned his tongue, and swore under his breath, which made you laugh.

Phoenix wandered in next, stretching her arms high above her head. “If you’re making eggs, I call dibs on the first plate.”

“You called dibs last time,” you reminded her.

She smirked, sliding into a chair. “Yeah, and it worked then too.”

You just smiled at her over your shoulder as you continued your task, “Cheese?” you asked and everyone collectively hummed in agreement. 

Coyote shuffled in behind eventually, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. “Dibs on the first plate,” he announced before plopping into the seat across from Phoenix.

“Too late, I already called it” Phoenix narrowed her eyes at him, “and if you try and take my plate I’ll ‘accidentally’ drop hot sauce in your eggs.”

Their bickering picked right back up as if they hadn’t slept at all, and it made your kitchen feel alive.

Fanboy and Payback showed up together, still half-asleep but already arguing over whether they’d actually finished the movie last night. Payback insisted he’d seen the ending; Fanboy swore they both passed out twenty minutes in. You slid them plates just to stop the debate knowing they didn’t last 10 minutes into the movie.

And then, of course, Jake strolled in last, shirtless, hair a mess but confidence still intact. He leaned against the doorway like he was posing for a magazine cover.

“Darlin’, I’ve gotta say,” he drawled, “waking up to the smell of breakfast in your kitchen might be the highlight of my week.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving a plate at him. “Sit down before I throw this at you.”

He smirked, taking the plate anyway. “See? That’s why you’re everyone’s favorite. No one else would feed us after the mess we made.”

Soon, your kitchen was full again, the clatter of forks against plates, the scrape of chairs, the rising hum of voices. 

You stood for a moment, leaning against the counter, just watching them.

The aviators, your squad, your family. Sleepy-eyed and messy-haired, teasing each other between bites of food, laughing through yawns.

And as your chest swelled with something that felt dangerously close to tears, you thought: this was everything you’d ever wanted.

Your thought was cut short when Jake and Bradley started throwing bits of scrambled eggs at each other from across the kitchen. 

The announcement came in the ready room. Maverick stood at the front, arms crossed, that half-smile that was equal parts proud and amused as he laid it out: the Navy had decided to keep the detachment on permanently. 

That announcement led to cheers from the whole room. Fist bumps and claps on the shoulders filled the room with the widest smiles they had all seen in a while. The air was electric, for a moment. 

But with a permanent detachment came a new command structure, new responsibilities. And with him still serving as CO, they needed an XO.

Maverick called for the room to settle down and everyone quieted, letting him speak again. 

Your name was echoed across the hanger. 

You didn’t even process it right away. Just heard it, like a far-off echo, and then the weight of every eye in the room turned to you. 

Your excitement faltered for a split second, shock waving through you before the excitement returned. You hadn’t asked for this. Hell, you hadn’t even thought it was an option. But there it was,Maverick said it out loud, and the decision was final.

Bradley was the first one to move. He clapped you on the shoulder, the sound sharp against your flight suit. His smile was too tight, his jaw flexing as though he was forcing it to stay in place.

“Congrats, XO,” he said. The words were right. The tone? Just this side of mocking.

You met his gaze, searching for the warmth that had always been there,the soft edge, the quiet understanding you’d come to depend on. But his eyes slid past yours, already on someone else, and the hollowness of it settled in your chest like a stone.

The others cheered. Phoenix gave you a genuine grin. Bob’s smile was easy, proud. Fanboy slapped the table, shouting something about “drinks on you tonight.” But underneath the noise, you felt Bradley’s distance like static in the air.

His congratulations felt rehearsed, shallow. And while the squad noticed, their glances sharp between you and him, you brushed it off.

Because what else could you do? You hadn’t asked for this. You hadn’t stolen it from him. But something in his sharp clap, his forced smile, told you he thought otherwise.

That night, after the announcement, you expected the knock at your door.

With Bradley, there had always been a rhythm to things. He’d show up late, lean in your doorway like he hadn’t made up his mind about staying, then end up stretched out beside you hours later. He never asked if he could crash. You never asked if he’d leave in the morning. It just was.

You weren’t together, not officially. But you weren’t apart, either. No one else called you the way he did. No one else made him laugh in the middle of the night when the world was quiet. His shirts were folded into the corner of your drawer, and your favorite coffee mug had migrated to his kitchen. Unclaimed, undefined,yet undeniable.

You’d always balanced each other, even when you didn’t mean to. He was sharp when you were steady, quick when you were thoughtful. He’d barrel into things headfirst, and you’d catch him with the calm that made him slow down. He teased you for overthinking; you teased him for jumping without looking. And it worked, somehow.

But now… now you outranked him.

The word hung heavy between you, though neither of you said it. XO. It tilted the fragile balance you’d lived in for so long. The rhythm that had always felt natural suddenly seemed precarious, like one wrong move might send it toppling.

He knocked later than usual. Two short raps, then silence. When you opened the door, he was standing there with a six-pack dangling from his hand and that practiced smirk you knew too well.

“Brought provisions,” he said, holding it up. “Didn’t want your new XO paycheck going to waste on cheap beer.”

“Funny,” you muttered, stepping aside. He brushed past you like always, but something about it felt… different. Less easy.

He dropped onto your couch, kicked off his shoes, and flipped the cap off a bottle with the edge of his ring. “So,” he said, the word sharp, deliberate. “Big day.”

You grabbed a bottle too, settling beside him, close but not quite touching. “Didn’t feel big.”

His brow twitched. “It looked big.”

You searched his face, but he kept his eyes on the TV. You hated when he did that,like he could hide in the glow of something neither of you were watching.

“Bradley,” you said softly, “are you-”

“I mean,” he cut in, voice too casual, “XO. That’s a hell of a title. Gotta admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

There it was. The first cut, hidden behind a half-smile.

You set your bottle down slowly. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t have to,” he said, finally turning his head, his eyes catching yours just long enough to sting. Then he looked away again, reaching for the remote. “Guess they just knew you were perfect for it.”

The sarcasm was thin, but sharp enough to cut.

You exhaled, forcing steadiness into your voice. “If you’re upset, just say it. Don’t- don’t do this thing where you pretend it’s a joke.”

“I’m not upset.” His laugh was short, brittle. “Why would I be upset? You outrank me now. That’s… awesome.”

You stared at him, the distance between you louder than the TV. “Bradley, you’ve been here a hundred times. You’ve never sat this far away from me.”

That made him glance at you, jaw tight. He shifted, closing the space, letting your knees brush. But it felt wrong,like he was moving out of obligation, not instinct.

“Better?” he asked, dry.

You didn’t answer.

The silence stretched until it pressed against your ribs. Normally, silence with him was easy. Comfortable. Tonight, it was a stranger sitting in the room with you.

You finally asked, “Are you staying?”

His shoulders stiffened. Usually, he’d already be halfway to your bedroom by now, some offhand joke about stealing your pillows. Tonight, he just picked up his bottle, rolling it between his palms.

“Not tonight.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

You blinked at him. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to.” His voice was low, unreadable, and you almost missed the way his throat worked when he swallowed after. Regret? Anger? You couldn’t tell.

You waited for him to soften, to reach out, to undo the damage with a smile or a kiss. He didn’t. He pulled on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door.

“Bradley.” Your voice cracked just a little. He paused, hand on the knob, shoulders tense. You wanted to tell him to stay, to stop acting like this, to admit what was gnawing at him. Instead, you only managed, “Goodnight.”

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t give you the comfort of his eyes.

“Goodnight, XO,” he said, the title like a curse. Then the door clicked shut behind him.

The movie droned on. The beers sweated on the table. And for the first time in a long time, your bed was empty.

Saturday morning felt wrong from the start.

You woke up early, sunlight spilling across sheets that were too neat, too untouched. Normally, Bradley would be there,spread out across your bed like he owned the place, hogging the covers, arm slung lazily across your stomach until you shoved him awake. But today, it was just you and the silence.

You made coffee, checked your phone once, twice. Nothing.

By noon, you’d convinced yourself you were being dramatic. He’d been quiet before, sure, but Bradley wasn’t petty. He wouldn’t still be holding onto that promotion announcement like it was a personal insult. He was probably busy,errands, base stuff, whatever excuse he’d give with that sheepish smile.

So you texted. Lunch? My treat.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. A minute later: Can’t. Got plans.

Plans. He didn’t say what kind. He didn’t offer to reschedule.

You decided to run your own errands to keep your mind busy. Mindlessly shopping and looking at everything on the shelves like they were interesting but your mind wasn’t there at all. 

By the evening, your apartment felt too small. You walked the beach, let the salt air sting your skin, tried to remind yourself that this was just… a blip. A misstep. He wasn’t mad,couldn’t be mad,because what did you really do? Take a promotion you hadn’t even asked for?

Sunday started with another text.

Coffee?

He took almost an hour to reply. Already out. Next time.

Next time.

You stared at the words, reread them until they blurred, and told yourself it wasn’t deliberate. He wasn’t pulling away. You were overthinking. You always did this,built storms out of clouds that weren’t there. He’d show up, same as always, when he was ready.

Still, the hours dragged. You cleaned your kitchen, folded laundry, reorganized your dresser,anything to fill the space he usually filled. Every mundane task reminded you of him: his shirt still tucked in your drawer, his mug in your sink, his cologne lingering in your sheets.

By late afternoon, your phone stayed stubbornly silent. No knock on your door. No last-minute invite. Just the steady hum of your thoughts, circling tighter and tighter until they were a noose around your throat.

When the sun went down, you sat cross-legged on your bed, phone in your lap. Your thumb hovered over his contact. One call. That was all it would take.

Do you want to come over?Are you mad at me?Please don’t shut me out.

The words formed and dissolved in your head, too raw, too desperate. You knew how it would sound,clingy, insecure, like you couldn’t handle one weekend apart.

So instead, you set the phone down.

He needed space. That’s what you told yourself. If you pushed, it would only drive him further away. If you waited, he’d come back around.

Still, when you turned off the light, the silence beside you was deafening.

Monday morning, the hangar felt louder than usual.

You walked in with your cover tucked under your arm, the smell of jet fuel sharp in the air, voices bouncing off the walls. The squad was gathered by the whiteboard, coffee cups in hand, trading stories and laughter like any other day.

And Bradley was in the middle of it.

He leaned against the table, arms folded, his smile easy and bright as Phoenix ribbed him about something. He laughed, head tipped back, that same unbothered, charming sound that had filled your apartment a hundred times before. Like the weekend hadn’t been hollow. Like nothing had shifted.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching. You wanted to believe the distance had been in your head, that maybe you had overthought yourself into a corner. That this,him, relaxed, casual, at ease,was proof everything was fine.

But he didn’t look at you. Not once.

Before you could cross the room, Maverick caught your eye and waved you over. XO duties. A briefing to prep, paperwork to sign off, details to run down before the day’s flights. You nodded, slipping into the office behind him, throwing yourself into the role because that part,at least,felt solid.

By the time you rejoined the squad, they were still clustered around, coffee mostly gone, laughter simmered down into easy chatter. Everyone greeted you as if nothing had changed. Bob handed you a fresh cup without being asked. Payback leaned over the table to fill you in on the joke you’d missed. Phoenix gave you a smile, warm and effortless.

Everyone except him.

Bradley didn’t look up when you approached. Didn’t shift to make space, though there was room beside him. He sipped from his cup, eyes fixed on the whiteboard like it was more interesting than anything else in the room.

You forced yourself to focus, setting your cup aside, pulling the paper from your folder. “Alright,” you said, voice even. “Orders from Mav. We’ve got a sim run this afternoon, full team. He wants pre-flight prep done in pairs, one senior and one junior. Phoenix with Halo, Payback with Bob, Fanboy with Coyote,”

You hesitated, just slightly, the paper in your hands heavier than it should’ve been. “Bradley, you’re with me.”

That got his attention. He finally looked at you, but it wasn’t the look you’d been waiting for. No warmth, no spark of recognition that you’d once been his safe place. Just the faint curl of a smirk, sharp around the edges.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the words clipped, biting, perfectly polite on the surface,but you felt the sting underneath.

The squad glanced between you two, tension just sharp enough to notice. You pretended not to feel it, flipping the folder shut with steady hands.

“Good,” you said evenly. “Then let’s get to it.”

The prep bay was quiet compared to the buzz of the hangar. Just you and Bradley, side by side at the table, spreading out checklists and diagrams. Normally, this kind of work was easy between you,fluid, unspoken, a rhythm you didn’t have to think about. Today, it felt like moving through water.

You scanned the sheet, marking assignments. “You handle the systems run, I can take pre-flight checks.”

“Of course you will,” he muttered, eyes still on the page.

Your pen froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He gave a little shrug, lips twitching like he was holding back a smile. “Just,XO makes the rules, right?”

You stared at him, searching his face for the softness you were used to finding there. But he didn’t look at you, didn’t give you that. He just kept working, his tone light, casual, as if he hadn’t just jabbed you in the ribs with words.

You set the pen down. “Bradley, is there a problem?” You weren’t trying to sound authoritative, just genuinely confused. 

“No problem,” he cut in, finally glancing up. His expression was all smooth edges, the kind of practiced calm that only made the tension worse. “Just following orders. Like everyone else.”

The emphasis landed heavy between you.

You bit back a sigh, forcing yourself to move on. “Fine. Systems run. Make sure your calibrations are double-checked,we don’t need Mav breathing down our necks for sloppy prep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, the title thick with irony. His salute was sharp, mocking, before he turned back to the checklist.

It was subtle enough that anyone else would’ve missed it. To anyone else, he looked like he was just being himself,sarcastic, easygoing, the same Bradley they always knew. But to you, the digs were impossible to ignore.

And they kept coming. Little things. Questioning why you marked a task one way instead of another. Pointing out details you “might’ve overlooked.” Correcting you once,just once,on a stat you already knew by heart, his grin tight when you didn’t argue.

By the end of the prep, your jaw ached from how hard you were holding it shut.

When you signed off the checklist, he leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “See? Smooth as ever. Guess being in charge doesn’t suit you that bad.”

It was meant to sound like a joke. It didn’t. Not to you. 

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

It was just Bradley being Bradley,sarcastic, quick with a joke, always poking at you because he could. That was what you told yourself, over and over, as you double-checked the flight plan. The little comments,“XO makes the rules,” “Just following orders”, they weren’t daggers, not really. Just… his way of adjusting. Right?

But the more you thought about it, the more it pressed down on you.

Maybe you were being too sensitive. Maybe you were reading into every twitch of his mouth, every clipped “ma’am” like it was a personal attack, when really it was just his sense of humor. He wasn’t mad. He couldn’t be. He’d never be that petty.

Except,he hadn’t stayed over. He hadn’t grabbed lunch. He hadn’t called. Every excuse over the weekend had stacked higher and higher until it was impossible to ignore. And now, here he was, standing just close enough to remind you of everything you’d been, but far enough that you felt like you were standing on the other side of a line you couldn’t see.

You rubbed your forehead, willing yourself to focus. The last thing you needed was to let your thoughts eat you alive right before a sim.

Bradley glanced over. “Everything good, XO?”

You looked up, caught the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The question sounded innocent enough, but the way he said XO,sharp, deliberate,knotted your stomach.

“Fine,” you said, a little too fast. “Just running through the sequence.”

“Right,” he said, leaning back against the table. “Wouldn’t want to mess up. Wouldn’t look good if the XO tripped over the basics.”

Your jaw tightened. You wanted to snap at him, tell him to cut it out, but the words stuck in your throat. He was needling you, yes, but not in a way anyone else would notice. If you called him on it, it would sound petty. Like you were overreacting.

So you forced a thin smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep up.”

“Good,” he said, already turning away. “Wouldn’t want to have to slow down for you.”

The words lingered longer than they should have, echoing through your head as you made your way to the flight line. You strapped into the cockpit, fingers tighter than they needed to be around the harness, and tried to shake it off.

It was just Bradley being Bradley. Just him adjusting. Just you overthinking.

The sim ran smooth enough. Mostly.

His voice crackled through comms, sharper than usual. “Check your six, XO.”

You frowned, glancing at the radar. “I already have,”

“Guess not, or I wouldn’t have to remind you,” he shot back.

You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing down the retort. He was supposed to have your back, not undermine you mid-flight. But you said nothing, adjusting as he suggested, because the alternative was giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled you.

Later, when you called out an adjustment for his angle, he came back with, “Copy that, boss,” the word boss dipped in mockery, dripping through the comms for everyone to hear.

Not enough to spark suspicion. Just enough to sting.

By the time the sim ended, your hands ached from clenching the stick. You landed smoothly, logged the time, went through the motions. Outwardly, everything looked normal.

Inside, your thoughts were a snarl.

Maybe he hated you for this. Maybe the promotion had ruined everything. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

And maybe,just maybe,you were imagining it all, building ghosts out of shadows because you were terrified of what the silence between you really meant.

Monday bled into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday. Each day Bradley found a way to make you question yourself without ever saying anything outright. Little things.

“You sure that’s how Mav wanted it?” he’d ask, eyebrows raised. “Guess it’s your call,” he’d add, voice flat, the words barbed. He’d laugh with the others, loud and easy, and go quiet the second you joined the circle.

You kept telling yourself not to read into it. You were overthinking. He wasn’t cruel, not really.. Maybe you’d thrown him off. Maybe he just needed time. At least that’s the mantra you kept repeating in your head. 

But the silence between you stretched wider every day, and the edges cut deeper every time he called you XO instead of your name.

By Thursday, it was too much.

He pushed too far.

You’d given a clear order before the training run,tight formation, keep the angles clean. And Bradley, in front of everyone, had challenged it.

“Don’t you think it makes more sense to break earlier?” he asked, casually, like you hadn’t already explained, in great detail even, why.

“Negative,” you said firmly. “Stick to the plan.”

He didn’t argue outright, but in the air, he broke early anyway.

It worked, technically. But it wasn’t the plan. And it wasn’t his call.

The squad went quiet in the hangar after everyone landed, watching the two of you like they could sense the crack in the foundation. Bradley laughed it off, shrugged, acted like it was nothing.

But you couldn’t let it go.

So when the others filtered out, when the sound of boots on concrete faded, you cornered him.

“Bradley.”

He turned, still in his flight suit, sweat lingering at his temples. “Yeah, XO?”

“Don’t,” you said sharply. “Don’t do that.”

His smile flickered, quick and sharp. “Do what?”

“Undermine me. In front of them. Out there.” You kept your voice low, steady, even as your chest felt tight. “I didn’t ask for this promotion to hurt you. Hell, I didn’t even ask for it.”

His jaw worked, the smile gone now. For a moment, you thought maybe,maybe he’d soften, maybe he’d admit what you already knew.

Instead, his voice dropped.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, and it was worse than a yell. “Just being better than me was enough.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You felt the air leave your lungs, felt your stomach twist. But before you could respond, he pushed again,this time cruel, calculated.

“You’re not here because you’re the best pilot.” He stared at you, eyes dark, and then spat it out like poison. “You’re here because they needed a poster girl.”

The silence afterward was brutal.

Even he looked like he wanted to take it back the second it left his mouth, his lips parting like he was about to say something else.

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t yell. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

You just gave him a slight nod, turned, walked away, and let the echo of your boots on the concrete carry you out of the hangar.

Giving him the satisfaction of seeing that he got to you wasn’t something you were interested in doing today. 

By Friday you buried yourself in the work. Up before dawn, in the hangar before anyone else. Reviewing flight footage, combing through tactical reports, drafting patterns Maverick hadn’t even asked for yet. You weren’t just filling the XO role,you were exceeding it.

Because Bradley might have believed you were just a poster girl, but you knew better. And you were determined to give everyone else no room to doubt it.

So when the briefing rolled around, you were ready.

The squad filtered into the ready room, coffee cups in hand, still buzzing from the last run. You stood at the head of the table, charts and flight paths laid out. Maverick leaned against the wall behind you, letting you run point.

The room was alive with chatter until you stood in front of the projector. You didn’t bother raising your voice; you didn’t need to. They leaned in for you.

“Based on yesterday’s numbers,” you said, gesturing at the chart, “the left side of the formation is bleeding time. Too much drag, too wide of a roll. My recommendation is a thirty-degree cut here,” your pen tapped the point,“which should shave seconds off and tighten us back into rhythm.”

You scanned the room. Nods. Phoenix scribbled something in her notebook. Fanboy murmured a quiet “makes sense.” You had them.

And then Bradley’s voice cut through, quiet, lazy and sharp:

“That’s cute. But maybe let the real pilots plan this one.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Every head turned toward him, then back to you. It was the kind of silence that demanded a response.

You felt it, that familiar sting,his words were meant to diminish, to remind you that in his eyes you weren’t enough. For a moment, the old instinct rose: let it pass, keep the peace, don’t push him further away.

But no. Not anymore.

You set the pen down, lifted your eyes, and met his head-on. Your voice was calm,deadly calm.

“Funny. I didn’t realize ‘real pilots’ were the ones breaking formation because they couldn’t follow a simple order.”

The squad blinked, some of them shifting in their seats. Bradley stiffened, but you didn’t let the silence linger,you pushed the knife in deeper.

“And if you think being a ‘real pilot’ is about rolling your eyes at your XO in a briefing, then maybe you need to rethink what real leadership looks like.”

The words landed hard.

Phoenix’s eyebrows shot up, a slow grin tugging at her mouth before she hid it behind her coffee cup. Bob ducked his head like he’d just witnessed a car crash. Even Payback leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Damn.”

Bradley froze, caught completely off guard. His jaw worked, but no words came. For once, he couldn’t spin it into a joke or a dig. He looked over at Maverick, maybe trying to see if he would be reprimanded, or maybe even to see if he would but Maverick had a faint smirk on his face. 

Maverick, from where he leaned at the back of the room, cleared his throat pointedly and said, “She’s right. The adjustment stands.”

That was it. Settled.

You turned back to the projector like the exchange had never happened, finished the brief crisp and steady, and closed with, “Any questions?” Staring particularly at Bradley. 

No one had any.

Bradley stayed silent the rest of the session, his posture stiff, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you.

And when the squad broke for the day, their eyes didn’t linger on him. They lingered on you. Respect. Quiet, sharp, and undeniable.

The ready room emptied fast, boots thudding against linoleum and laughter echoing down the hallway. Plans for the Hard Deck buzzed in the air,Fanboy and Payback already arguing about pool, Phoenix casually announcing she was going to drink everyone under the table.

You stayed behind.

The projector hummed quietly as it cooled, your shadow stretching across the table piled with mission reports, readiness logs, and requisition forms. Paperwork wasn’t glamorous, but it kept your hands busy, your thoughts sharper than they wanted to be.

Bradley’s words still echoed: that’s cute… let the real pilots plan this one.

You signed another form. Clipped it into a folder. Tried to focus.

But the silence pressed in, and your mind filled the empty space with every insecurity he’d dragged to the surface. Maybe you were chosen for the wrong reasons. Maybe you weren’t enough. Maybe he’d never see you as more than the girl who got lucky.

You hated how much space he took up in your head. How he could be both the comfort you craved and the wound you couldn’t stop reopening.

The squad had begged you to come out tonight. You almost said no,God, how easy it would’ve been to stay home, to let yourself drown in reports and line items, to avoid the looks, the laughter, the chance of seeing him.

But then you caught sight of your reflection in the dark screen at the front of the room: squared shoulders, tired eyes, the faintest curve of determination at the corner of your mouth.

You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you sulk. Not tonight.

An hour later, the Hard Deck was warm with neon glow and the steady hum of the jukebox. The smell of salt, beer, and worn leather wrapped around you like something almost familiar.

“Hey, XO!” Payback grinned the second he spotted you. He raised his glass in salute. “Didn’t think we’d actually drag you here.”

“I needed proof this place still exists outside your bragging,” you shot back, sliding into the space Phoenix made for you at the high-top table.

Bob looked up from his beer, polite smile tugging at his lips. “Glad you came. It’s not the same when you’re not here.”

That softened something in you. Bob never said things like that unless he meant them.

Phoenix shoved a tequila shot into your hand before you could respond. “No brooding allowed,” she declared. “We’re not on base, you’re not XO here. Just one of us. Drink.”

You clinked the rim of your glass against hers and downed it, wincing at the burn. Phoenix cackled.

“That’s my girl.”

From there, the night loosened around you.

Two beers in, you were leaning against the high-top, laughing as Fanboy swore he’d take everyone’s money at pool.

“Your confidence is adorable,” Phoenix deadpanned, arms crossed. “Can’t wait to watch you crash and burn.”

“Care to bet on that?” Fanboy challenged, wagging his cue stick.

You raised your hand like you were swearing in. “My money’s on Phoenix. No offense.”

“Offense taken,” Fanboy huffed, though his grin betrayed him.

For a while, you forgot. Forgot the ready room. Forgot the paperwork. Forgot the way Bradley’s silence weighed heavier than his words.

The music was too loud, the drinks strong, and the squad was laughing in a way that tugged you along whether you wanted it or not.

It felt good.

Almost normal.

Until you checked your watch out of habit and noticed who still wasn’t there.

Bradley was late.

And that old ache, the one you thought you’d drowned in tequila and laughter, flickered back to life in your chest.

The pool table was quickly in chaos. Fanboy had just sunk the cue ball for the second time in a row, and Payback groaned like it was a personal offense.

“Man, I told you not to call your shots. You’re cursed when you do that.”

“Cursed? Please.” Fanboy leaned on his cue, smug grin plastered across his face. “That was a warm-up.”

Phoenix crossed her arms and tipped her beer bottle in his direction. “You’ve had three warm-ups, and the only thing you’ve sunk is your own pride.”

That got a laugh out of you, the sound surprising in its ease. You felt lighter, almost. Almost.

“XO’s with me, right?” Phoenix asked, glancing at you like she already knew the answer.

You smirked, leaning back against the bar. “Oh, definitely. You’re the only one here who doesn’t play like the cue stick’s a lightsaber.”

Fanboy gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. 

“I just call it like I see it,” you teased, taking a sip of your drink.

Bob chuckled softly from his stool nearby, always the quiet spectator until someone drew him in. “I don’t think she’s wrong.”

“Traitor,” Fanboy muttered, though his grin never faltered.

The jukebox switched to something upbeat, bass thumping through the floorboards. Natasha grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the pool table.

“C’mon, you’re breaking.”

“I didn’t agree to play,” you protested, though you didn’t fight her grip.

“You don’t get a say.” She shoved a cue stick into your hand, eyebrows raised. “Captain’s orders.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re not my captain.”

“Tonight I am.”

The rack broke under your shot, scattering the balls in every direction. A couple even sank, and Phoenix let out a low whistle.

“Damn, remind me never to bet against you.”

“Beginner’s luck,” you said lightly, though the warmth in your chest lingered.

You let yourself enjoy it,the laughter, the teasing, the drinks that burned less with each round. It felt good to just be, not the XO, not the weight of a promotion you never asked for, not the one carrying Bradley’s silence like a bruise.

But even in the warmth of it, your thoughts drifted. Every time the door swung open, every burst of laughter near the entrance, you caught yourself looking. Expecting. Hoping maybe?

And he wasn’t there.

Phoenix caught you staring toward the door once, too quick to pretend otherwise. She didn’t call you out, though,just bumped your shoulder with hers, offering a small smirk that didn’t press too far.

Another round came, and you raised your glass when Payback shouted for a toast.

“To surviving another week of Maverick’s insanity!”

Glasses clinked all around.

You smiled with the rest, the sound of it echoing in the back of your throat. But as you set your glass down, your eyes flicked to your watch again.

And even surrounded by laughter, you couldn’t shake the way the absence dug at you.

The night had settled into a rhythm,music humming low, glasses clinking, the occasional whoop from the pool table. You’d almost convinced yourself to let go, to stop waiting for the door to swing open.

Almost.

Because then it did.

Bradley Bradshaw walked in like he always did, larger than life without even trying. Aviators tucked into the collar of his shirt despite the fact that it was long past sundown, sleeves rolled to his elbows, an easy smile ready-made for a crowd.

The shift was immediate. You felt it before you saw it. The way conversation hitched, the way Phoenix’s grin softened, the way Payback tossed him a salute with his beer bottle.

“Bradshaw! About damn time,” Coyote called across the bar.

Bradley’s smile widened, that familiar charisma unfurling like a flag. “Had to make an entrance.”

It was loud,his arrival always was. You told yourself you were imagining it, but it felt like even the jukebox turned itself down for him.

Your grip tightened on the glass in your hand. You’d been laughing minutes before, but now the sound felt caught in your throat.

He made his way through the crowd with practiced ease, shoulder claps and quick handshakes pulling him in different directions. He belonged here, and everyone knew it.

Everyone but you.

Or maybe that was just the way his eyes skipped past you when they finally made it across the room. He didn’t stop, didn’t nod, didn’t let anything flicker across his face. Just carried on, sliding into the warmth of the squad like nothing had ever cracked between you.

Natasha caught the shift in your shoulders. “You okay?” she asked under her breath.

You forced a smile, lifting your glass in a mock toast. “Peachy.”

But your pulse was drumming too fast, anticipation curdling into something heavier as Bradley laughed at something Payback said, clapping him on the back like the last week hadn’t happened.

You told yourself to breathe. To let it go. To not give away how much his silence pressed down on you even in a room this loud.

Because if he wanted to act like nothing had changed, then maybe you’d learn to do the same.

“Just need a drink” You added, looking at Phoenix who quickly nodded and you two scurried away to the bar. 

You caught a breath you didn’t know you needed. Natasha didn’t say anything, just handed you another shot of tequila and you two silently took them together. 

“Alright, time to keep having a good night, you deserve it!” She exclaimed over the growing crowd and loud music. 

She was right, you did deserve it. 

You shook it all off and grabbed your new beer, making your way back to the group and pretending like nothing was tearing you up inside. 

You found your spot back at the table, beer in hand, laughter washing over you in waves that almost drowned the knot in your stomach. Phoenix was elbow-deep in a debate with Fanboy over some impossible pool shot, and Bob and Payback were leaning into a shared joke, their heads bent together as if the world outside the Hard Deck didn’t exist.

You let yourself sink into it for a minute, letting the chatter fill the empty spaces inside your chest. Almost.

Then he was there.

Bradley slid into the high-top chair beside you like he’d always meant to, like there was a space reserved just for him. His presence hit differently now,he wasn’t just late, he wasn’t just distant,he was Bradley, the one you had spent the weekend and the last week spiraling over, and suddenly the room felt tighter, louder, and somehow smaller all at once.

“Miss me?” he asked lightly, voice carrying that familiar smirk that could’ve softened anything.

You caught yourself tensing, a reflexive shift toward steel you didn’t need in front of the squad. “Something like that,” you said, letting your words hover just out of warmth. You were on edge, waiting for a jab or blow to sneak its way in. 

He leaned back, pretending casual, but the weight in his gaze told you he’d noticed how carefully you’d avoided him all night.

“Looks like you’ve been having fun,” he said, nodding toward the group.

“Always,” you replied, raising your bottle in mock salute. “Someone has to keep them in line.”

His smirk widened, and you felt it,the tiny pull of ease that came with him. But it was tentative, quiet, as if he was testing the waters, seeing if you’d let him back into your space.

The hour of avoidance had stretched long, but now here he was. Close, yet measured, leaving all the space for you to choose whether to engage,or to keep the night steady, pretending nothing had shifted inside you.

You met his eyes, caught that flicker of recognition that maybe he was treading carefully, and for the first time that night, you allowed yourself a small, controlled exhale.

Because despite everything, you were determined to have a good night.

The night had finally started to feel manageable. You let your guard down slightly, leaning back in your chair, laughing with Bob over some ridiculous thing that Coyote and Payback were doing, and sipping at your beer. Bradley had joined the table an hour ago, but the tension had softened into a tentative truce,you weren’t walking on eggshells, but you weren’t engaging either.

He laughed at some joke Payback told, tossing back a drink a little too quickly, the liquor loosening the edges of his control. And then it happened.

A jab.

“You know,” he said, voice deceptively casual, “this whole promotion thing… kinda feels like a joke. Some of your ‘tactical decisions’ yesterday? Straight-up laughable. Or maybe they just promoted you because you smiled at the right people.”

The room went cold.

Laughter died mid-air. Forks paused. Even the jukebox seemed to fade into the background.

You froze, staring at him, the words twisting like a blade.

Bradley’s smirk faltered for half a second when he realized what he’d just said, but he didn’t take it back.

You didn’t know what to do, what to say. Internally, you were already sobbing, your heart shattering because you foolishly let yourself think for a split second that he had gotten over it. That Bradley had dropped the whole thing and maybe he even missed you. 

You were beating yourself up for even thinking that it would go back to the way it was. You and him, your undefined relationship, even your friendship. 

Phoenix slammed her palm on the table, standing with a ferocity that made the entire booth shift in their seats. It startled you out of the spiral you were going through in your own mind. 

“You want to say that again?” she snapped, voice cutting like a scalpel. “Do you really want to reduce everything she’s done to a smile? To some token gesture?”

Phoenix’s voice cut through the Hard Deck like a whip, sharp and merciless. Every word she threw at Bradley landed like a hammer. You could feel the eyes of the squad on him, on her, and yes,on you.

Bradley opened his mouth, and Phoenix cut him off before he could flinch.

“You think because she outranks you, because she has outflown you in every simulation, because she’s out-disciplined every last one of you, that you can belittle her?” Her eyes burned into him. “Do you hear yourself, Bradshaw? You’re embarrassing yourself. You hate her because she’s everything you wish you were, and deep down you know she earned this. You just can’t stomach that it wasn’t you.”

The words slammed into the room like a bomb. Everyone leaned forward, watching him shrink under the truth Phoenix laid bare.

Your hands gripped the edge of the table. You weren’t crying, you weren’t yelling, but the heat of it all,the vindication, the guilt, the anger,settled heavy in your chest.

“Rank, respect, skill,none of that is handed out because you showed up with Maverick in your pocket and an attitude,” she continued, voice slicing clean. “She earned this. Every single second, every flight, every decision. And if you can’t stomach taking orders from someone better, maybe you should rethink why you even signed up. Maybe you should pack your bags and stop dragging your ego around while pretending it’s someone else’s fault.”

Phoenix’s words continued, and you let them wash over you. You weren’t smiling, not yet, but you felt the edges of a grin starting to form, the kind that comes from standing in your own light for the first time in a long while.

Her hands were on her hips now, towering over him figuratively if not physically. The squad was silent, the weight of every word settling like dust in the air.

Bradley’s jaw worked, words fumbling in his throat, the confident mask he wore for weeks cracking under the heat of Phoenix’s truth. For once, there was no clever comeback. No sarcasm. No smirk.

Just silence.

The room stayed silent long after Phoenix’s words hit.

Fanboy’s jaw was slack, cue stick dangling from his hands. Payback leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. Natasha had her arms folded, nodding subtly as if to reassure herself that yes, this was exactly how it needed to go down. Bob just stared, lips pressed tight, taking it all in.

You felt your shoulders shift, tension slowly leaking out. You had been holding your breath, bracing for Bradley’s inevitable retort, but it never came. You let your hands drop onto the table, gripping the edge, knuckles white at first, then relaxing as the fire in your chest cooled into a steady burn of relief and pride.

Your pulse was still high, heart hammering with adrenaline. You weren’t sure what from though. Embarrassment? Anxiety of what was going to come next? Hurt? 

Bradley sat frozen, jaw tight, eyes wide. Not blinking. Not speaking. The mask he usually wore, flippant, teasing, unshakable, was gone. For the first time in weeks, everyone saw the weight of his own insecurity press down on him.

Just as he was about to say something though, Coyote stepped forward, moving behind him like a shepherd guiding a wayward sheep. “Alright, enough,” he said quietly, voice low. “Come on, let’s take a walk outside.”

Bradley hesitated, still staring at you, but finally allowed Coyote to steer him toward the front door, leaving the tension and the silence behind him.

Bob leaned toward you, voice soft but firm. “You and Phoenix, back deck. Now.” It wasn’t a usual tone for Bob so you and Phoenix stood up blindly.

You glanced at Phoenix, who was already moving, smirking just slightly, and the two of you followed Bob out through the side door, the dim lights of the bar fading behind you. The night air hit you, cool and grounding. You let your shoulders sag as the tension bled out of your body.

Phoenix pulled off her jacket quickly like she was heating up from the anger that was still coursing through her body, tossing it over the bench beside her, and gave you a pointed look. “That’s for you. Don’t let him get to you anymore.”

You swallowed, blinking against the cool night air. “I… I don’t even know what I feel right now,” you admitted, voice tight. “Relief? Anger? I don’t know if I should feel proud or just exhausted.”

Phoenix stepped closer, nudging your shoulder gently. “All of it,” she said. “All of it is valid. And don’t pretend like you don’t know it. You earned every bit of what just happened back there. Every flight, every decision, every drill you nailed. None of it’s a joke, and you know it. Don’t let him make you question that, not tonight, not ever.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to loosen the tension in your shoulders. “It’s just… watching him squirm like that, hearing him say something so cruel and having someone stand up for me, I don’t know if I should feel satisfied or…”

“Or what?” Phoenix prompted, folding her arms and giving you that steady, unwavering look she had when she was done letting you play games with yourself.

“Or guilty,” you admitted quietly. “Like, is it wrong to feel some satisfaction? Or like it’s finally… fair?”

Phoenix’s smirk softened into something gentler, almost like pride. “No. Not wrong at all. You’ve been holding so much in for weeks, letting him push, letting him doubt you. Tonight? Tonight it’s all yours. And yeah, he deserves to feel it.”

You let your head tilt back against the railing, exhaling slowly as the night air hit your face. “Thanks,” you murmured. “I just… needed someone to say it out loud.”

Phoenix gave a small, approving nod. “That’s what I’m here for. And don’t you dare let him take another ounce of your headspace. Not now, not ever.”

“You would’ve stood up for any one of us if we were in the same position,” Bob chimed in, “We weren’t sure why you weren’t standing up for yourself but your squad will always be here for you.” 

You felt the tight coil inside you loosen just a little, the weight of the past few days settling into something steadier. For the first time since the promotion, since the hangar confrontation, you felt like you could breathe without thinking about him.

Phoenix clapped your shoulder lightly. “Now,” she said, voice lighter, “let’s go get another round before he has a chance to sulk his way back inside. You’ve earned it.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who earned it.” You laughed, letting her lead the way back to the bar, a small but solid spark of joy warming you from the inside out.

The night slowly settled into rhythm. With Bradley gone, Coyote insisting he needed to be “escorted home before he embarrassed himself further” the squad finally loosened completely.

Laughter and music filled the Hard Deck, unfiltered, easy. Fanboy finally moved onto darts after losing repeatedly at pool, Payback was arguing with Phoenix about strategy in a game that didn’t matter, and Bob was quietly cracking jokes that had everyone snickering. You moved through it all like you belonged, your shoulders finally light, your chest finally unclenched.

No one mentioned Bradley. No one needed to. The tension he carried for weeks had evaporated from the room, replaced by warmth and camaraderie. You poured yourself another drink at the bar, clinking bottles with Phoenix, then leaning into the group, letting their energy wash over you.

It was good. Pure, simple, and unbroken by passive-aggression or lingering resentment. For the first time in days, you felt like yourself.

Hours passed like minutes. You laughed until your ribs ached, took ridiculous bets at the jukebox, and for a while, you forgot about the promotion, the hangar confrontation, the weekend spirals.

Eventually, the bar started to quiet. People were leaving in drifts, saying goodnights, sharing hugs and handshakes. You hugged Phoenix last, silently thanking her again.

“Good night,” she said, smirking. “Remember this feeling. You earned it.”

You nodded, smiling genuinely. “I will.”

By the time you got home, exhaustion hit you like a freight train. Boots off, jacket tossed aside, you collapsed onto the couch, curling into yourself. The quiet of your apartment was almost shocking after the roar of the Hard Deck, but it was exactly what you needed.

And then the weight of the week caught up.

You thought about Bradley. About the interaction earlier tonight, the way you’d let your guard down around him for a fleeting second, the way that almost-unspoken tension had threatened to undo the calm you’d been building. You thought about the hangar, the promotion, Phoenix ripping him apart for what you hadn’t had the courage to say yourself.

Your chest tightened as you realized it: you hadn’t stood up for yourself. Not fully. Not in the moment that mattered most.

How did it get this bad? you wondered, heart hammering. How did I let it get to the point that the squad had to defend me? That I couldn’t even protect myself without someone else screaming it to the world?

Your fingers curled into the cushions. You overthought everything: every subtle jab Bradley had thrown, every passive-aggressive glance, every word you thought you could ignore.

And yet, beneath the anger and frustration, a spark of resolve grew.

Never again.

You would never let yourself be caught off guard like that. You would never let anyone, not even Bradley, undermine your accomplishments or your confidence. You would be sharper, steadier, stronger. And if he wanted to challenge you, to act out of jealousy or insecurity, it wouldn’t touch you anymore.

You sank deeper into the couch, letting exhaustion wash over you fully, feeling the adrenaline fade and the muscles unclench.

Tonight you had survived. Tonight, you had won in every quiet, personal way that mattered.

And tomorrow, you would rise, and nothing, no one, would make you doubt yourself again.

The apartment was quiet. The night stretched out around you, soft and empty.

And for the first time in days, you felt unshakable.

The morning light cut through the hangar windows in sharp, gold slashes, reflecting off the polished metal of parked jets. You moved with purpose, boots clicking against the linoleum in measured cadence, files tucked under your arm. The familiar hum of activity, the chatter of mechanics, the faint whine of engines starting up, grounded you. Today, there was work to do, and you wouldn’t let lingering tension from the weekend slow you down.

The ready room was already half-full when you arrived. The squad filtered in, some yawning, some sipping coffee, all focused. You cleared your throat and began the pre-flight brief, voice calm, controlled, precise. Charts were spread across the table; flight paths, roll pitches, alternate approaches, all organized meticulously. The eyes on you were attentive, some scribbling notes, others nodding quietly.

A few clarifying queries, answered concisely. No hesitation. No distractions.

When the briefing concluded, you dismissed them with a nod, letting everyone filter out to prepare for the exercise only needing to come back for pair assignments. You lingered, tidying the whiteboard, straightening charts, clipping completed checklists into binders. Every movement was precise, almost ritualistic, a way to keep the stress at bay.

Bradley was still there, still seated, clipboard in hand, pretending to review data, but you could feel his gaze like a weight in the room.

Phoenix was the last to leave, pausing by the door. Her eyes flicked to you, sharp and perceptive. You gave her a small nod, it’s okay, I’ve got this, and she finally stepped out, the click of her boots fading into the hallway.

Now it was just the two of you.

You didn’t acknowledge him. Not a word. Not even a glance. You went on collecting your files, stacking charts neatly, lining pens up in the holder. Every movement deliberate, controlled, keeping your mind centered on work rather than the tension coiling in the room.

Then

“Listen,” Bradley started, his voice softer than you expected, almost hesitant. “I was out of line. At the bar. Before that too. I know I hurt you. I didn’t mean-” He cut himself off, sighed. “No, that’s bullshit. I did mean it. But I regret it.”

You didn’t look up. Your hands stayed steady on your files even though your pulse was anything but.

When your silence stretched too long, he grew restless, voice sharp around the edges. “You could at least give me something back. A chance to explain, to-”

The door swung open again and the rest of the squad trickled back in, still chatting from the locker room. Bradley snapped his mouth shut, but then, almost desperately, he turned to them.

“Guys, come on. Someone’s gotta talk to her. She won’t even look at me.”

Bob froze mid-step. “Bradley…”

“Just- tell her I’m not the bad guy here,” Bradley rushed out, eyes flicking between them. “Tell her I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean what I said. She respects you guys. She’ll listen if it’s not from me.”

Coyote dropped his bag on the table, jaw tightening. “Don’t drag us into this. You screwed it up, you fix it.”

Bradley’s hands went to his hips, exasperated. “I’ve tried! She won’t even give me the time of day.”

“That’s not her problem,” Payback cut in, arms folded. “That’s yours. You think respect is automatic because of who your dad was? Because of what you’ve done? You burned it. You earn it back, or you don’t. But none of us are running interference for you.”

Fanboy’s tone was quieter, but sharp as glass: “You really don’t get it, do you? You made her feel small in front of us. In front of her squad. And now you want us to make her hear you? That’s not how this works.”

Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the room like a blade. She’d slipped back in without either of you noticing.

“She doesn’t owe you forgiveness, Bradshaw.” Her gaze was lethal, steady. “You want her attention? Stop begging us to clean up your mess. Stand up, own it, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll decide you’re worth her time again.”

His shoulders slumped under the weight of it. For the first time in days, he looked… small. And against your will, your heart squeezed in your chest.

Maybe I should hear him out, you thought. Just for a second. He looked so lost, so unlike himself. The Bradley you knew, the one you trusted, the one you cared for, flashed through your mind, almost enough to tip you.

Almost.

But then you remembered the bar. The hangar. The jabs. Poster girl. The sting of it lanced through your ribs, fresh and raw.

Your decision crystallized.

Finally, he dropped the clipboard onto a chair with a soft thud that echoed faintly in the room. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, pleading even, but you remained calm, steady, unflinching.

Your fingers lingered on the edge of the files as you adjusted them, the only sound the rustle of paper and the faint hum of fluorescent lights above, everyone else still.  Inside, your mind was a controlled storm: the anger, the resentment, the memory of his jab at the bar, of every jab thrown your way honestly, the frustration from it all. But you pushed it down, focused on the rhythm of the work in front of you.

Because he had no power here. Not anymore. 

You turned to collect the last of your preparation files, glancing at your watch. Flight gear awaited, jets awaited, the day awaited. Bradley could stew in his guilt or frustration all he wanted. You were already moving forward. Already handing out assignments. 

The silence stretched between you, taut and heavy, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t answer. And that, more than anything, let him know: nothing he said, nothing he tried, would break your focus,not today.

You didn’t slam the door when you left, you didn’t need to. The silence that followed was louder than anything you could’ve said.

Out in the hallway, your footsteps echoed against the concrete, steady and sure. But inside, your thoughts churned.

He tried to make me small.He tried to make me doubt.He thought I’d fold just because he said the words.

Not anymore.

You straightened your shoulders, walking faster now, like every step was an oath.

I’ll always be one step ahead. One rank higher. One more medal. One victory greater.

Not just for yourself. Not even for the Navy.

For him.

So that every day, every deployment, every debrief, Bradley Bradshaw would be reminded of the truth: he had tried to cut you down, and instead, you would always be the one towering over him.

If he ever doubted me for being a woman, I’ll make sure he spends the rest of his career chasing my shadow.

And for the first time since the promotion, you felt steady again. Not healed, not free of him, but steady.

Because spite had its own kind of power.

Years blurred together in the rhythm of deployment, detachment, and training. Faces came and went, squadrons shifted, COs rotated, but one truth never changed: you kept climbing.

Lieutenant Commander. Commander. XO turned CO. Each pin, each stripe, each medal was earned with sweat and hours and sacrifice. You bled for them, fought for them, proved yourself a hundred times over until no one, no man, no doubt, could ever reduce you to a poster girl.

And always, just behind, was Bradley.

He never fell. He wasn’t the kind of man to fall. He was solid, capable, decorated in his own right. But he never quite caught you, either. At every ceremony, every promotion, every time your name was called before his, he clapped with the squad, wore the smile, but his eyes always gave him away. A flicker. A shadow.

Regret.

You saw it when he thought no one was looking. When the crowd’s cheers covered the silence between you. When the medals shone too brightly against your chest.

There was a time you would’ve wanted to comfort him. Would’ve wanted to close that distance, bridge the gap, tell him it didn’t matter who outranked who. That was another lifetime. Another you.

Now, you only met his eyes long enough to remind him: You tried to make me small. And look at me now.

The squad never forgot either. They carried that night at the Hard Deck like a story told in glances and unspoken loyalty. They never let him rewrite it, never let him downplay what he’d said. And in their silence, in their steadfast support, you found a kind of family he had squandered when he tried to undermine you.

Years later, standing at a podium with another bar added to your uniform, you scanned the crowd and caught him watching. Not angry, not jealous, just hollow. Still one step behind.

You squared your shoulders and let the vow echo again, not bitter anymore, not cruel, but steady.

If he ever doubted me for being a woman, I’ll make sure he spends the rest of his career chasing my shadow.

And he did.

His cheekiness was exactly what had gotten you to fall in love with him. Well, that and his incredibly sweet side that he only let a select few ever see. While he might've earned the call sign of "Hangman", he's never left you hanging when it really mattered. None of his team, either, as he'd grown up since that last mission of his with the other Daggers.

"I've got all night, darlin'," he said after a moment. "You'll love it, so I hope you won't keep it waitin' too long."

"What is it exactly?"

He didn't bother answering. Nope, he just shot you another wickedly charming grin.

As much as you wanted to hate him for it, you couldn't help falling that bit harder for seeing that grin and the twinkles of mischief in his gaze. He loved to spoil you when he got the chance, and he wasn't about to stop. Even when you told him you didn't need to be spoil, he double-downed and find some other way to make you feel special. All you really needed was him though.

Sliding him a beer, you could only shake your head at him.

Soon enough, you had other patrons vying for your attention. It took several minutes to do up their orders and have them retreating back to their original places around the bar. By the time you got a chance to breathe again, you spotted Jake at one of the pool tables with Bradley and a few other Daggers. While they'd gone ahead to rack up a new game, you noted Jake lacked a cue stick, an unusual sight due to his love of the game and its brand of hustle.

In your moment of breath, Bradley's girl came up to you with a wide smile on her face.

You soon learned the reason why when you spotted the sparkly ring on her finger.

"Congrats, girl," you squealed right along with her.

A few patrons gave you both the stink eye, but you both ignored them. Instead, you inspected her ring and noted how pretty it looked. The perfect ring from the perfect guy for her. You couldn't be happier for her.

"You know you'll be next," Bradley's girl said, her gaze going to where Bradley and Jake stood talking near the pool table. The other Daggers took turns giving Bradly their congratulations from what you could tell, but it was the look on Jake's face that nearly stole your ability to breathe.

Phoenix had taken up Bradley's attention momentarily, but it gave Jake reason to scan the bar. His gaze landed on you and he shot you a wink, which you happily returned. But his gaze didn't veer away, either, soon settling into a look of such softness, such adoration. It was a look of love and promise.

"Like I said," Bradley's girl whispered in your ear, breaking the spell Jake had been weaving over you.

You shook yourself and gathered up your things. "You sure you and Penny have got the place? I don't wanna leave you two if you need the help."

"Go! Jake's been waiting on you long enough. See what this surprise is he has for you. Send me pics, too."

Officially shooed from the bar, you soon found yourself closing the distance between you and Jake, who opened his arm for you to slide under. His hand settled at your waist even as he turned his head and pressed a kiss to your head.

"Ready to go?"

You nodded. "Yeah, I am."

He didn't need any further encouragement. After a few simple farewells, he swept you out of the bar and to his truck. Opening the door for you, he helped you inside and made sure your belt was buckled before shutting the door and dashing to the driver's side.

On the way, he held your hand on the console between you. Every so often, he'd bring your hand up and press a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Really not going to tell me, are you, Seresin?"

"Nope," he grinned at you, "but I know you'll love it."

"You keep saying that," you grumbled but with little bite or heat.

Eventually, he pulled off the main road and onto one of the quieter streets. The homes were a little older but quaint in their unique colors and styles. At the end of the road, he pulled to the side and killed the engine.

A man emerged from the open garage with a wave and a nod.

"Who is that?"

"Javi's friend, Zach. Come on, I'll introduce you, then we can see your surprise."

Zach turned out to be a nice guy who was all too happy to show you the surprise Jake had for you.

A large pen had been setup to the side of his garage which had a full litter of puppies. The wiggly pups grew more excited upon seeing you and Jake, each one jumping over another, to get to you. Several licks and nips touched your fingers long before you'd even gotten into the pen where you could settle in the heart of the litter.

"They're ready to go. Just have to pick out the one you like, darlin'."

"You got me a puppy?" you asked, even as you allowed several of said puppy lick you and jump on you.

Taking them in, you soon spotted the sweetest of the bunch. A little shy but so sweet when you picked it up, nuzzling into your neck, you fell instantly in love. The pup wouldn't be little for long, you knew, but you couldn't help falling for its sweet face and silky coat.

Jake merely smiled that sweet, sappy smile as he watched you.

"Find the one?" he asked eventually, but he knew. Of course, he did, helping you out of the pen with the pup of your choice still in your arms. Before you got too far, he leaned back into the pen and took out the one that had caught his eye as well. At your questioning glance, he shrugged. "Can't have yours getting lonely when we're working. Everyone needs a buddy."

After thanking Zach and squaring up, you both took your pups back to the truck where Jake proceeded to show you all the items he'd gotten for the pups prior to collecting you from work. He'd really gone all out with everything the two pups could possibly need for their first few weeks in their new home: new pens/crates, training pads, toys, treats, and food.

"You thought of everything, didn't you?" you couldn't help asking. "Well, Seresin, you weren't wrong. I loved your surprise, and I love you."

His head ducked down, but you could make out how pleased he was at your words. He hadn't always been the best at gifts or surprises, but he'd gotten better with time. You were almost certain this was one surprise and gift you'd never forget as the two pups cuddled in your lap.

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge. 

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.” 

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.” 

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.” 

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you. 

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.” 

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning. 

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign. 

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.” 

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.” 

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-” 

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.” 

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room. 

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.” 

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.” 

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes. 

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.” 

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls. 

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly. 

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.” 

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes. 

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?” 

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.” 

“Why don’t you ask one of them?” 

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.” 

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.” 

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going. 

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.” 

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown. 

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.” 

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?” 

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless—overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.” 

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed. 

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.” 

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?” 

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.” 

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?” 

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.” 

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?” 

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.” 

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?” 

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.” 

- 

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable. 

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.” 

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.” 

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.  

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.” 

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps. 

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed. 

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone. 

“Anytime, Captain.” 

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.” 

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.” 

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot. 

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.” 

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.” 

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.” 

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.” 

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?” 

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.” 

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-” 

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.” 

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you. 

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar. 

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him. 

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance. 

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker. 

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.” 

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest. 

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin. 

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day. 

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to. 

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.” 

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.” 

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.” 

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-” 

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.” 

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare. 

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.” 

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next. 

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration. 

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.” 

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.” 

And with that, he turns and walks away. 

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut. 

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock. 

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch. 

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake. 

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over. 

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it. 

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker. 

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing. 

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open. 

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.” 

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut. 

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams. 

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?” 

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending. 

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar. 

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?” 

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved. 

“Yup.” 

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-” 

“Please don’t say it.” 

“Jizz,” he says gleefully. 

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime. 

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both. 

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat. 

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.” 

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.” 

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly. 

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?” 

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.” 

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.” 

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear. 

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.” 

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off. 

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit. 

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.” 

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face. 

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.” 

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again. 

“You know it’s not true, right?” 

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-” 

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.” 

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.” 

He cocks his head. “You do?” 

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.” 

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe. 

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.” 

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.” 

- 

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that. 

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did. 

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help. 

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons. 

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat. 

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God. 

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time. 

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up. 

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor. 

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass. 

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself. 

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising. 

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite. 

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler. 

It’s now or never. 

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile. 

But then you see him. 

And you stop dead in your tracks. 

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion. 

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer. 

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind: 

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now. 

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago. 

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy. 

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband. 

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming. 

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid. 

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating. 

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before. 

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out. 

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone. 

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest. 

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into. 

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.” 

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.” 

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-” 

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops. 

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts. 

No. Fucking. Way. 

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?” 

Yes. A cat in heat. 

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.” 

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit. 

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat. 

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin. 

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest. 

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude. 

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you. 

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.” 

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood. 

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.” 

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.” 

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you. 

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.” 

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.” 

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart. 

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” 

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say. 

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.” 

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap. 

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.” 

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about. 

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.” 

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb. 

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him? 

You blink back the sting of tears. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net. 

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early. 

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner. 

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules. 

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens. 

Jake takes off his fucking shirt. 

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet. 

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you. 

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices! 

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots. 

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?” 

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.” 

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.” 

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic. 

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail. 

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up. 

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right? 

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil. 

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity. 

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off. 

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match. 

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.” 

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?” 

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you. 

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake. 

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?” 

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!” 

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!” 

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now. 

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush. 

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net. 

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated. 

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably. 

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy. 

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?” 

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it. 

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy. 

Wow, he really does not like losing. 

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance. 

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots. 

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan. 

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore. 

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs. 

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.” 

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.” 

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face. 

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him. 

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch. 

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out. 

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.” 

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?” 

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.” 

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction. 

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.” 

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.” 

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt. 

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-” 

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.” 

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing. 

- 

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin. 

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks. 

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit. 

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.” 

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.” 

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.” 

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension. 

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you. 

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.” 

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real. 

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-” 

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final. 

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater. 

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.” 

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine. 

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway. 

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs. 

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask. 

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.” 

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision. 

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?” 

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?” 

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down. 

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say. 

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him. 

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.” 

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn. 

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap. 

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.” 

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort. 

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late. 

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully. 

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can. 

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.” 

Jake finally hesitates. 

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark. 

And this time—he listens. 

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs. 

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic. 

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…” 

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins. 

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout. 

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit. 

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.” 

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing. 

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world. 

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be. 

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying. 

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update. 

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin. 

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.” 

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.” 

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.” 

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.” 

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. 

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.” 

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless. 

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-” 

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you. 

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin. 

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest. 

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him. 

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked. 

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?” 

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late. 

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes. 

“Jake, I-” 

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment. 

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word. 

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine. 

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not. 

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist. 

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart. 

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes. 

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely. 

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon. 

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train. 

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit. 

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?” 

“Do you see Mav?” 

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you. 

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.” 

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm. 

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight. 

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course. 

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid. 

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now. 

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe. 

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.” 

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore. 

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance. 

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.” 

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.” 

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you. 

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll. 

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane. 

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin. 

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!” 

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late. 

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!” 

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!” 

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake. 

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject. 

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air. 

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all. 

- 

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky. 

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude. 

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors. 

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!” 

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace. 

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room. 

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you. 

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.” 

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin. 

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence. 

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.” 

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?” 

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.” 

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought. 

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.” 

“Yeah,” you say. “That.” 

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air. 

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash. 

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin. 

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?” 

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?” 

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.” 

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.” 

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.” 

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.” 

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare. 

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.” 

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle. 

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-” 

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?” 

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?” 

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why. 

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.” 

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?” 

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.” 

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor. 

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up. 

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail. 

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-” 

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you. 

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him. 

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.” 

A flash of anger sparks in your chest. 

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?” 

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?” 

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.” 

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it. 

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. 

You can barely breathe. 

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.” 

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice. 

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.” 

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters. 

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away. 

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his. 

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again. 

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart. 

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare. 

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.” 

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.” 

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.” 

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.” 

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—” 

“Now.” 

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat: 

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.” 

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing. 

"Happy Birthday, Rooster," you whispered with a laugh, kissing his cheek so quickly he thought he had imagined it. "Next drink is on me." He swallowed hard, swirling the ice from his whiskey and Coke around in his glass. "Looks like I was just in time," you said, plucking the glass from his hand and heading for the bar.

"You're cruel," Bradley told Phoenix as soon as you were going. "You're evil, and I wish I never told you I have a thing for Midnight."

Nat rolled her eyes so hard Bradley was honestly afraid she wouldn't be able to see as well to fly ever again. "You think you're a locked box or something? You're transparent to me, Bradshaw. Literally an open book. As soon as Midnight showed up at Top Gun, I had your number. She's cute, she's smart, and she flies exactly like you do."

He watched you at the bar, and of course fucking Omaha was right there with you once again, his hand resting on your lower back. "I fucking hate him."

Nat snorted. "Omaha? You never used to have an issue with him before," she said, eyeing Bradley with an amused look. 

"He's annoying," Bradley said lamely. "And he's got nothing going for him except for that jawline." 

"Hmm," Nat hummed, shaking her head and scrutinizing him. "He's got pretty eyes too. And nice teeth. And his hair is actually similar to yours."

Bradley grunted and tried to ignore the scene at the bar while he picked up some darts. It was his birthday. He should be having a good time. He sighed and threw three darts in a row before Hangman joined him. And then he remembered why he never played darts when Jake hit three bullseyes in a row.

"Happy birthday," Hangman drawled with a lazy grin.

Bradley was saved from having to respond when you placed your hand on his forearm and handed him a fresh drink.

"Thanks," he told you, taking the opportunity to look at your face for a few seconds longer than he normally would. Big mistake. You got his heart rate going and made him feel speechless, and you weren't even doing anything. 

"So, what does the birthday boy have planned for the rest of the night?" you asked, staying with him even though Omaha was hanging around. 

"Oh, probably just getting blackout drunk and trying to forget that I have feelings," he replied casually, taking a sip of his drink.

"Yeah, I've tried that," you responded just as casually. "It doesn't work."

"Shit," he replied with a laugh.

"Yeah," you said, leaning in a little closer. "But I have a better idea."

Bradley shook his head and grinned. "No. Don't you remember? Penny said she'd kick us out if we played strip pool again."

You started laughing, and the sound of it this close up made him feel a little smug. Take that, Omaha.

"I swear, all it took was getting Bob to take his shirt off, and Penny looked like she was going to murder us," you said, still laughing brightly as you took him by the hand. "But we can play regular pool, if you want."

Bradley would have followed you anywhere. And then you were lacing your fingers with his, just so briefly, before letting go of him to grab two pool cues. And Bradley ended up playing with you as his partner while his friends handed him drink after drink. You were pretty good at pool, but he was better, and the two of you were unbeatable. Plus, this gave Bradley an excellent opportunity to stand very close to you and whisper in your ear. 

"Nah," he whispered as you bent down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before he pulled back a little. He thought he heard you sigh as he said, "Go for the corner pocket with the nine ball."

"Okay," you agreed, and Bradley got to watch you beat Omaha and Hangman. And that was really all the birthday present he needed tonight. But then you jumped up and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Smoked those losers!" you said loudly, and this time you had Bradley laughing. Then his hand settled around your waist, and as soon as he felt your denim jeans against his fingers, he had to back up a step. You just smiled and turned to re rack the balls.

Bradley didn't notice it at first, but after another two hours, he was definitely drunk. 

"Give me your keys," Nat told him around eleven o'clock as she held out her hand. 

Bradley had to lean against the pool table while he dug around in his pocket to get his keyring out. He watched with unfocused eyes as she removed his Bronco key and handed him the remaining house key on the keychain that said I'M SO FLY.

"How am I gonna get home?" he asked Nat, leaning in a little closer to try to focus. "Nat, I'm too fucked up to even use a ride app."

She smiled and patted his cheek. "Midnight offered to drive you."

"No!" he groaned. "Nat. You can't do this to me."

"Happy birthday," she crooned, disappearing off into the crowd with his key, leaving him holding a pool cue as you approached him again.

"Why don't you finish your drink, and I'll drive you home?" you asked with a smile so pretty on your lips, he was just dying to kiss you.

He realized he was staring at you now, but he couldn't figure out how to control his body and turn away. Riding in your car with you right now was going to be a disaster. He just fucking knew it. And now he was still staring at you as your smile grew. He would do anything to be able to look away, but now you were giggling, and my god, Bradley just loved that sound. But he tried so hard to look away until you bit your lip and reached out to touch his forearm again, and then he knew he wasn't going to be able to look away from your face ever again no matter what.

"Fuck," he grunted, wondering who had let him drink this much.

You were rubbing your fingers along his arm, and Bradley's brain helpfully informed him that he could have a boner right now, no problem.

"Fuck," he repeated. But you were still smiling. 

"You are so drunk right now," you said softly, shaking your head. "Your cheeks are beat red. You look adorable."

"You're adorable," he whispered, and your laugh was loud and bright. 

"Okay, you just finish this, and I'll take you home whenever you want, birthday boy." You picked his drink up off the table and he took it from you before you turned away.

Oh. You had thought he was joking when he called you adorable. That was good, because he hadn't meant to say anything like that at all. Not out loud. He was going to have to hold his own damn mouth shut in your car. 

He had no idea how long he had been standing there with his glass in his hand, but he was watching you talking to Omaha. Fuck that guy, for real. But he looked annoyed right now. Bradley liked that expression on Omaha's face. He also vaguely thought nobody should ever be looking at you with annoyance, because you were perfect. 

Bradley took a few steps so he was closer to you, because he was drunk, and going home sounded like a good idea. Then he heard Omaha.

"What do you mean you're taking Rooster home? Like you're taking him to your house?"

You replied right away, and your voice sounded crisp. "He's drunk. It's his birthday. I offered to drive him home. To his house. You need to relax."

Bradley liked that tone of your voice when you were talking to Omaha. Especially when your eyes and voice softened as Bradley made his way over to you. "I'm ready to go, Midnight," he said, and you took his hand right away. Bradley shot Omaha a smug smile and saluted him like a real asshole, even though he knew nothing would ever happen with you. But the look he received from Omaha combined with his middle finger in the air had Bradley laughing. 

"Did you have a fun night?" you asked, slipping your arm around Bradley's waist to help him walk. He probably looked like an idiot right now, but he didn't care. 

"Yep," he replied. "Thanks for playing pool with me. And thanks for the drinks."

"Oh, it's no problem," you said. "I know you'll pay me back on my birthday."

Bradley draped his arm around your shoulders even though he firmly told himself not to. "I'll buy all your drinks on your birthday. All that microbrewed shit you like."

You laughed as you led him to your car and unlocked it. "Just get in, birthday boy."

"It's not my birthday anymore," he whispered. "It's midnight." And then he laughed and added, "Well, you're Midnight, actually." He groaned and ducked down into your car when you opened the passenger side door for him. "Just ignore me."

You leaned in and helped him get his seatbelt on. "Now that would be impossible, Rooster."

Your face was close to his, and you weren't moving. Why weren't you moving? You weren't drunk. You'd had one beer, hours ago. You should be moving away from him. "You okay?" you finally asked, patting his chest where the seatbelt crossed him. 

"I like your face," Bradley told you, and then he wanted to disappear into thin air more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

"Thanks," you whispered with a smile. "That's sweet. I'll take you home now, okay?"

Bradley just nodded and cradled his face in his hands as you shut the door and walked around your car. When you closed your door and started the engine, he dared to glance at you before turning to look straight ahead. He would be home soon. And he could climb in bed and this would all be over.

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

Bradley was drunk. You'd never seen his cheeks so rosy or heard his voice so raspy before. It was a cute look on him, even though he seemed pretty far gone. But teasing him a little bit was always fun, because you knew nothing would ever happen.

"I like your face, too," you told him as you backed out of the parking space. "It's a very nice one. Handsome."

Bradley groaned and gaped at you. "What the fuck, Midnight?"

"What?" you asked, glancing at him before you pulled out onto the street. "You're handsome. All you guys are."

"Fucking Omaha," Bradley muttered, and you laughed as he cross his arms. 

"You don't like Omaha?"

Bradley scoffed. "Lieutenant Jawline? He can fuck right off."

You were now howling with laughter as you tried to make a left turn. "What does that make you then? Lieutenant Mustache?"

Bradley chuckled and tilted his head back. "I guess so. But that would make you Lieutenant Sexy Laugh and Beautiful Face."

You gasped and glanced at him as your belly swooped. He was flirting with you. But he was drunk. "That's too long to fit on my name tag."

"Baby, you're so perfect, you deserve two name tags. Maybe even three," he mumbled. "Maybe even a hundred name tags. I can think of a hundred different things I like about you."

You swallowed hard as you turned onto his street. After you had driven two blocks in a daze, you asked, "What's your house number?" You couldn't remember. You were having a hard time remembering anything. Because Bradley Bradshaw could think of a hundred different things he liked about you.

"I dunno," he groaned, pushing his fingers through his hair. "I can't remember anything except that time you wore shorts when we went to the beach and your bikini top was pink, and Nat made fun of me for being too embarrassed to tell you I think you're pretty."

You laughed softly as Bradley's eyes opened wide. "You are so drunk, Rooster! I can't believe we got you this drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," he muttered, turning in his seat to look at you as the light turned green.

"You don't even remember your house number!" you said, driving slowly down the street 

"I think it has an eight in it."

You laughed and pulled over, turning to look at him. "Rooster, what am I supposed to do with you?"

His eyes were soft as he lazily searched your face. "I can think of a few things. They all involve your lips."

You were the one gaping now. His eyes were unfocused, and no matter how badly you wanted to feel his mustache against your skin, you kept yourself a few feet away from him. When he leaned in, you brushed your fingers through his hair to keep him from getting closer. "Rooster," you whispered as he melted into your touch. "Do you want me to just take you to my place?"

His eyes bugged out, and he started to stutter. "Shit, I, well... Midnight, I-I..."

You let yourself stroke your fingers through his hair for a few more seconds before you eased him back against the seat and pulled back away from the curb. "You can sleep it off at my place, and I'll take you back for your Bronco in the morning."

"Sleep? At your place? Of all the things I have imagined doing there, sleep was not one of them."

He was very clearly a mess at the moment, but you couldn't help yourself. "Oh really? What have you imagined?"

He groaned loudly, closing his eyes and rubbing his palms along his face. "Imagined kissing you after I took you out to dinner. Kissing you on your couch and in your bed. Imagined how good you must taste."

Then he was quiet. You thought he must have fallen asleep. And as you pulled up to park in front of your apartment, you couldn't believe you'd gone out on a date with Omaha and let Omaha kiss you when there might have been even the slightest possibility that Rooster wanted to do those things. 

He was breathing softly now, his head resting on the window. When you got out and opened the passenger door slowly, he jolted awake and tried to climb out with the seatbelt still on him. You tried not to laugh, but it was just too funny. 

"Sit back, Rooster," you whispered, and you leaned across his big, warm body to unbuckle him. Then you took him by the hand and laced your fingers with his. You loved the way his hands felt, so big and secure. 

"That feels so nice," he murmured, pulling your hand against him. "Where are we going?"

He was trying to lead you away from your building, and you had to keep pulling him along with you. "Come this way, Rooster."

"Okay, baby. Whatever you want."

You just shook your head as you unlocked your building with his big body looming behind you. "I'm taking you to my apartment. You'll be fine, okay?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed, and you wrapped your arm around him to get him inside. He stumbled down the hallway to your door, and once he was inside, you took his hand again. 

"Here's my bathroom," you said, turning on the light and leading him in. You dug around in one of the drawers and found an extra toothbrush. "You can use this. And the bedroom is next door."

"Thanks," he whispered, bending down to kiss you cheek softly. "Love you." You stood there stunned as Bradley turned toward your toilet and started to unzip his jeans. 

Then you quickly darted out of the bathroom and closed the door. You were stuck somewhere between laughing and dying from shock. This is not what you had signed up for when you agreed to drive him home! But maybe it was even better. Or maybe it was a lot worse, and he didn't really feel this way at all.  

When you heard the toilet flush, you headed to the kitchen and filled two glasses with water. You'd let him sleep in your bed and you'd crash on the couch. You were pretty sure he wouldn't even fit on the couch anyway. The couch he told you he had imagined kissing you on.

What was going on here? 

The bathroom door opened, and you heard him say, "Midnight? I'm getting in bed."

"Okay," you replied with a laugh as you carried the waters into your bedroom. "I think you should drink this." He was wearing nothing except his boxer shorts, and your jaw dropped open. Because he was stunning. Big and muscular and fucking hot. "Water," you muttered, handing him a glass. 

He downed the whole thing in one big gulp, and then he set the glass down, swaying on his feet. "I think I need to sleep."

You nodded at him, and he was reaching for your hand, and you had no idea what to do. "What do you want, Rooster?" you asked, but he was scooping you up into his arms.

"Sleep," he muttered. 

"With me?" you gasped.

"Yep."

And a moment later, Bradley was behind you with his big arms wrapped around you, and he was sound asleep. 

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

Before he even cracked his eyes open, Bradley knew he had a headache. So he just burrowed further into the soft, sweet smelling blanket. He knew this smell. It was familiar and comforting. When he gathered the blanket up and buried his nose in it, he realized it smelled like you.

His eyes were open then, even though his head was pounding. He had never been in the room before. But he was sure it was yours. And the spot in bed next to him was still warm. 

"Oh no. Oh no," he groaned, covering his face with his hands. "What did you do?" Suddenly it was hard to breathe. He was in his underwear. In your bed. Hungover. Yesterday was his birthday. How did he even get here? He could remember playing pool with you at the Hard Deck, and then Nat took his key away. And... oh shit, he got in your car.

He was stumbling out of bed, looking for his clothing. He found his jeans and shirt neatly folded up on your desk chair. As quickly as he could, he pulled everything on and headed down the hallway.

You were in the kitchen, wearing shorts and a tank top, brewing coffee. You were perfect. Holy shit, you were everything. And he had already fucked this up.  

"Midnight?" His voice was rough and raw, and when you turned to look at him with a gorgeous smile on your face, he thought he was going to throw up. 

"Morning, Rooster. Sleep well?" you asked with a smirk. Bradley couldn't formulate solid thoughts. You were handing him a cup of coffee. You weren't wearing a bra. He had been in your bed with you, and he couldn't remember anything that happened.

"Did we hookup?" he blurted loudly, and you froze with the coffee mug in your hand. "Oh, shit, Midnight. Please tell me we didn't sleep together."

You no longer looked happy. But you were shaking your head with your eyes locked on his. "No," you whispered. "We didn't do anything."

As relief washed over Bradley, you turned away from him with the mug and looked out your kitchen window. "Thank goodness," he sighed.

"Yeah," you said softly. "That would have been terrible."

"Absolutely," he said, still catching his breath.

But now you didn't seem to want him around at all. "I'll call Nat and see if she can meet us with your key." You kept your back to him as you reached for your phone, and then Bradley closed the distance to you. 

"Hey, Midnight?" he asked, taking your phone from your hand. You glanced at him over your shoulder with annoyance. "Thanks for driving me last night."

"No problem," you replied quietly, avoiding his eyes now. 

"But why did you bring me here?"

You rolled your eyes. "You couldn't even remember your house number, and it was so dark, I couldn't tell which one was yours. Now let me take you back to your car, please?"

But then Bradley remembered telling you he could think of a hundred different things he liked about you. He remembered holding your hand and kissing your cheek. 

You were walking across the kitchen away from him, but he chased you down, lacing his fingers with yours. You only looked slightly surprised. "Did I completely embarrass myself last night?" he asked.

Despite your best efforts, you were smiling at him again. "I thought you were pretty damn endearing, actually." You tried to pull your hand out of his grasp, but he held you tight. 

"I can think of more than just a hundred things I like about you. So many more than that." He pulled you a little closer still. "You let me sleep in your bed with you?"

You sighed. "Don't worry, Rooster. We didn't hook up. We didn't even kiss. You just spooned me and passed out immediately."

Bradley groaned and tipped his head back. "I spooned you? I got to cuddle with you, and I don't even remember it? That's not fair!"

Another smile was dancing along your lips as you nodded. "You're really great at cuddling. Very warm." But then you bit your lip and looked at the floor. "Would it really have been so bad if we did more?"

"Yes!" he nearly shouted, and your startled eyes snapped up to his. "Baby, I want to remember that stuff in vivid detail!" 

You laughed and now Bradley was smiling. And then you kissed him softly, and he thought his heart was going to pound out of his chest. "You said some crazy stuff last night while you were drunk," you whispered, but he kept you close to him.

"I am pretty sure it was all true," he promised you. "But I'd be more than happy to fact check with you."

"You said you like my face."

"That's a fact," he said, nodding. 

"You said you wanted to do things with my lips."

"Oh, yeah. That's definitely a fact."

"You said you imagined taking me out to dinner and kissing me."

"Many times."

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" you asked, sounding annoyed.  

He kissed you again. "Fucking Omaha, baby. What's that all about?"

"Oh," you said softly. "That is something that is basically nothing. At least on my end of things. And I could happily put a stop to that."

"Like today?" he asked, running his lips along your neck. 

"Like five minutes ago, Rooster."

Then you had your arms around his neck, and Bradley's hands were all over you. Your soft sigh as he kissed your lips had him scooping you up into his arms. "Can I have a do-over? Can we get back in your bed and cuddle?"

"Yes," you whispered as your mouth brushed his neck while your fingers went to his hair. 

This time Bradley kept his clothes on, and when he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, he laced his fingers with yours. "I like this. We should do this all the time."

"We will," you promised, and his lips and mustache found your neck as he buried his nose in your hair. "I hope you had a fun birthday."

He needed to remember to thank Nat for being a pain in his ass when he saw her later. "I did. But today is even better."

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

Midnight, you're so lucky, babe! Upgrading from Lieutenant Jawline to Lieutenant Mustache! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls for putting up with me.

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“I was late for dinner, so what?! That doesn’t mean you can act all crazy!” Bradley yelled at you. 

“I’m not acting crazy! I want to know where you were!” You yelled back. 

His face beat red from yelling. The veins in his forehead were popping out and his knuckles were white from clenching his fists. This argument was unlike any other, it had lasted a lot longer than usual. You weren’t sure when your relationship with Bradley had taken such an ugly turn, but you weren’t liking it. 

You had supported his career from day one sticking by his side; staying up late waiting for him to call when he was on deployment, putting your studies on hold, and waiting for him to come home. You ignored all the comments and stares at you as you stood by Bradley’s side at the Hard Deck or Naval events. It was hard being so much younger than Bradley, but you had somehow figured out a way to fit right in with the crowd. It was one of the many things Bradley had loved about you. 

You also weren’t ever one to cause arguments for no reason or any reason at all. Bradley found it quite odd that you never tried to pick a fight with him about things. For being so young, you were probably the most easy-going girlfriend he had ever had. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you had reached your limit. For the past couple of months, Bradley had been brushing you off. It started with being late for dinner and not texting you he was going to be late. Then, it turned to leaving the house early in the morning and not so much as whispering goodbye or leaving you a note like he usually did. You knew that he was busier now with his new position and promotion, but you didn’t think it was at the point where he’d forget something so important as your one-year anniversary. 

It wasn’t that Bradley was late to your anniversary dinner, it was that he completely didn’t show up to it. You sat at the restaurant, in that baby blue dress, he loves so much for three hours. The waitress even gave you that sad look and a bottle of wine on the house. Bradley had told you he would be pushing it to make it on time, going over flight plans with Jake. You had called Jake, in tears as you ran out of the restaurant trying to avoid the sympathy looks from strangers. 

“He’s not with me,” Jake said, “He left the hangar hours ago.” 

It felt like a slug to your chest as you heard Jake’s words. You tried your best to give Bradley the benefit of the doubt, and not let your mind go there. . . but you couldn’t help it. He was staying out later, coming home at odd hours, answering his phone, and walking away to a private spot in his house. And you swore that he came home smelling of another woman’s perfume a couple of nights ago. 

Bradley had rushed home the second he checked his watch and realized how late he was. He stopped by the local flower shop and begged them to unlock the door so he could buy you a bouquet of purple roses. He had practiced a speech in his head of what he was going to say to you, but when he walked through the door and found you sitting on the couch, still in your dress and a glass of red wine in your hand, he knew that he wasn’t getting out of this easy. 

He didn’t, however, expect you to yell at him. He had never, ever, seen you like this.

“You have been lying to me for weeks!” You yelled at him, “And how dare you stand there and belittle me!” 

“Well! What do you expect me to do?! And what the hell were you doing on base at night? You know you can’t be there!” Bradley said.

“Because I wanted the fucking truth, Bradley. And I got it. Tell me where you were!? You told me, Bradley, you promised me that you wouldn’t do this to me! That you were better than all the rest and I believe you, so just tell-” 

“Oh my god!” Bradley groaned, running a head down his face, “You’re acting like a child!” 

You froze as you stared at him, his brown eyes filling with regret the second the words slipped his mouth. 

“I-” 

Tears welled up in your eyes as you stared at him. You weren’t even thinking when you picked up the glass vase of flowers he had gotten you and threw it down on the floor. The shattering of glass was deafening as Bradley jumped, while you stood there barefoot, letting the glass and water sprinkle on your feet. You looked up at him, his eyes were wide as he looked from the mess and then to you. 

“Jesus, you really have fucking lost it.” Bradley laughed to himself, “This is why I spend my time with Tessa-” 

He clamped his jaw shut as soon as he said the name. You took a shaky breath, as tears clouded yours. She had a name, making everything you had speculated even more real. Bradley took a step towards you, but you held your hand up stopping him. You bit your lip and wiped your eyes. 

“I think I-it’s best if you stay with Jake tonight,” You suggested and Bradley nodded. 

You listened as Bradley’s footsteps drift out of the kitchen and up the creaky wooden stairs of your home. The bedroom door shut, and Bradley started shuffling around to find himself clothes for the night. You took a deep breath and knelt down, looking at the glass that was shattered around the floor and started to clean it up. You paused several times as your vision got too blurry with tears to continue. Once you had everything cleaned up, you made yourself a cup of tea, and sat down at the table, looking out into the still dark of the night. 

“Hey,” Bradley said softly, walking over to you, his backpack over his shoulder, “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to go to bed upset, cause I know you won’t sleep. We’ll talk in the morning, okay?” You nodded and Bradley kissed the top of your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I’m sorry too,” You said barely above a whisper. You watched as Bradley walked out the front door, the image being burned into your eyes. You had watched him leave a thousand times, but for some reason, this felt different. You saw his car pull out of the driveway and turn down the road towards his brother’s house. You didn’t move, letting the sinking feeling of the quiet house soak into your skin. 

———————

“She threw a glass?!” Jake asked as Bradley, recounted the argument between you and him.

“Not really, more like held it above her head and threw it down,” Bradley answered. He was stretched out on Jake’s couch, a glass of whiskey in his hand, “And then I mentioned Tessa.” 

“You’re a fucking idiot…” 

“I know,” 

“Did you explain who Tessa was?” 

“How the fuck do I explain who Tessa is without telling her the whole secret. ‘Oh hey, babe I’ve been sneaking around with an engagement party planner so I can propose to you.’ ” Bradley said and sat up from the couch, “I feel like I just fucked everything up.” 

“Sounds like it,” Jake said, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Bradley shot him a look and he held his hands up in defense, “Hey! I’m not the one who called their girlfriend a child. You already know how she feels about being called that” 

“I know,” Bradley sighed, “I just. . . She was just- I don’t even know. I’ve never seen her that upset and it was making me mad that I was making her mad and I just-”  

“Fucked up.”  

“Yeah,” Rooster leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling, “What do I do?” 

“Exactly what you are doing now. You let her have the night, let her think things through, and go back tomorrow. Talk it out. You two have been through so much together, this can’t be the end,” Jake explained and Bradley nodded, “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too long, your mind needs rest.” 

Bradley nodded, “Night, man.” 

Bradley finished his glass of whiskey and then set it down on the table. He pulled his phone out and contemplated sending you a message, but decided against it. He locked his phone and set it down, before lying down and getting comfortable for the night. 

————————-

The next morning Bradley did exactly what Jake had suggested and went out to buy your favorite flowers. The morning rain felt refreshing as he pulled up to his shared home with you. Bradley checked himself in the rearview mirror, making sure he looked his best. He picked up the yellow and orange roses he had gotten, and sniffed them, making sure they smelled fresh. 

“Okay… here goes nothing,” Bradley said to himself as he pushed the car door open and quickly ran into the house, trying not to get soaked by the rain. He unlocked the door and shut it quickly. 

“Sugar!” Bradley called out. 

He looked around the first level and didn’t see you. He checked his phone, noticing it was still morning, you might have not been up yet. A smile crawled its way to his face, as he climbed the stairs, two at a time, the thought of surprising you dancing in his head. However, when he pushed the bedroom door open he was met with the sight of a perfectly made bed as if no one had slept in it. 

Bradley moved quickly from the main bedroom to the guest bedrooms and saw the same scene. Perfectly made beds. He began to panic, what if something had happened to you last night after he left? Bradley pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing your number, only for it to go straight to voicemail. He called the same number three more times, getting the same result each time. He sent Jake a frantic text, telling him you were missing. 

Bradley paced his bedroom, the flowers now laying on the bed, as he was pulling at his hair trying to think of what could’ve happened and who to contact. He pulled up the call feature on his phone again and almost called 9-1-1 when he looked up at the doors to their closet. He slowly put his phone down and walked to the closet. Pushing the doors back, he broke down. 

“No… no… no, no!” Bradley cried as he ran over to the dresser, yanking open the drawers to find them in the same state as the closet.

Empty. 

He pulled open cabinets in the bathroom, drawers to her vanity, desk drawers in the office, and pantry cupboards. Everything that you owned was gone. 

Bradley felt like the house was suffocating him. He ran down the stairs and out the door, slamming it shut. He ran all the way to Jake’s house, which luckily for him was just two streets over. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. Everything that he had ever known was just gone… 

“Bradley?” Jake asked, barging into the house, “W-what happened? Where are you? I just saw your-” 

“She’s gone,” Bradley said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“S-she left me… she left me, oh my god, she left me.”

taglist form - I can't believe I need to say this. . . but you have to put your Tumblr username to be able to be tagged.

taglist: @damrlova @shanimallina87 @phoenix1388  @desert-fern @mygyn @cherrycola27  @yanna-banana @seitmai @topgun-imagines  @bradleybeachbabe @startrekfangirl2233 @xoxabs88xox @atarmychick007 @Munsonswhore86 @happypopcornprincess @sophiaslastbraincell @bradswolfe @fandom-princess-forevermore @thedroneranger @angelbabyange @callsignharper @genius2050

You try to carry the many logs in your arms, sticking your tongue out in concentration. "You know... You could just ask for help." Jake laughs as he carries his own logs. "I don't need you, Bagman. I've been camping since I was 3, I can carry logs without any help." Jake rolls his eyes and when the two of you reach the others, you can't stop but sigh when you drop the wood in the little pit Rooster dug into the sand. Jake drops his own logs into the pit and taps on your shoulder, laughing. "Just shut up..." You groan.

Bradley just stays sat next to the fire, watching the flames dancing as they wait for the others to arrive. He just listens to the cracklings and he can hear Jake and Natasha having small talks. The sound of loud music pulls him from his thoughts and he raises his head, watching Mickey and Bob chatting in the parking lot. Reuben and Javy join a couple of minutes after that and they all start chatting and drinking. Sometimes one of them sighs and a silence takes over the moment before someone tries to crack a joke. The sun disappears behind the ocean and they're joined by the billions of starts above them, the moon shining bright and reflecting into the calm water. Bradley stays silent a little moment, his gaze fixed on the sand between his toes, before he takes a gimp of his beer and stands up. "I'd like to say something." Everyone turns to him and stops talking, knowing perfectly what was about to be said. "A year ago, we... lived something I never thought living all over again, and the fact I already faced it doesn't help with the pain. I don't know how you're holding up but it's been a very long year for me..." He can feel the tremble in his voice and the tears threatening from spilling and running down his face. But he stays strong, for his friends. "I'm glad we're all here today, Y/N would have appreciated it." He then sits back down and it's all silent again, just the sound he makes drinking his beer being heard. "To Y/N..." Natasha raises her drink and waits for the others to join her. They all raise their drink in turn, all of their voices echoing in the quiet evening.

You pass the doors of the locker room, the head low and deep in your thoughts. You don't even notice Natasha changing into her flight suit. Your just reach for your locker and open it, your gaze still looking into the void. You come back to reality with a start when you feel Nat's hand on your shoulder. "Hey, you're okay?" She asks you with worry painted all over her face. It wasn't you to just walk in a room and say nothing. "Yeah... Why ya asking?" You just turn back to your locker and takes off your shirt, tossing it into the locker. "I've been calling you several times, you didn't react." She zips up her suit and grabs her helmet. "I'm tired, is all."You try to give her a warm smile but she can clearly see it doesn't reach your ears like it usually does when you're smiling. She doesn't want to push you so she simply nods and leaves the room, leaving you alone with your thousands of thoughts. The words of the doctor you saw this morning just repeating in your head. Brain tumor. Too late. Inoperable.

"You guys remember when Y/N got so drunk she asked us to go skinny dip with her?" Bob laughs, looking up at the stars above them. The memory raises laughter among the group and a soft smile appears on Jake's lips. "I actually went with her that night." The confession earns him a few disgusted noises and gags among some mindless insults. That made him laugh. "I didn't go into the water or even got naked. I just looked after her from the beach, watching her having so much fun in the ocean. She was laughing so hard, I thought she would wake up all Fighter Town." He laughs and the others stop insulting him, just listening to Jake's secret memory. He rubs his face and wipes the first tears forming under his eyes. "I actually skinny dipped with her once." Natasha confesses, and a wave a wolf whistles is heard. She almost regrets immediately telling the boys her little secret but she really wanted to share the memory and keep the mood light. "Please tell me you got home together and had a pillow fight in cute Pj's." Jake smirks at her and she throws a handful of sand in his face to make him shut up. The blond pilot grimaces and spits sand before rubbing his tongue and his eyes, groaning. "What kind of porn do you think you live in?" She laughs and she watches her friend trying to spit all the sand in his mouth and she lies down, her head resting on her crossed arms. "It was just before she told us. I guess she wanted to create some memories." The silence comes back as they all know what she means by 'she told us'. Probably one of the worst day of their entire life.

You were waiting for the others to join you at the Hard Deck. Hell, you even asked Maverick to come, he deserved to learn it from you too. You were looking at your feet as you were pacing, Penny glancing at you as she was cleaning some stuff. You hear the door open and Jake's voice shouting. "The Queen has required my presence so here I am!" You smile at his antics and go to hug him tight. He's quite surprised by your display of affection but hugs you back. When you pull away, he ruffles your hair and you grumble. "Hello, Sunshine... So, what's the object of our meeting?" He asks as he sits down on a stool. "Can we... just wait for the others to arrive? I want all of you to be here before I say anything." You look back at the doors, checking if anybody else arrived. "Is everything alright?" He asks, frowning and a bit worried. You don't want to lie to him but you're not ready to tell him yet so you don't say anything and fake a warm smile. "Don't try to get any hint, Bagman." You elbow him gently and his frown is replaced by a kind smirk. "Alright, alright..." He quickly rubs his face before standing up and walking to Penny, asking her for an old fashioned. Jake was always early to everything so it didn't surprise you that he arrived first and the others took their time to join you.

When you made sure everyone was here, the whole place is on edge. Everyone wants to know why you asked them to meet you in the middle of your day off. You're standing in front of them and refuse to look into their eyes. "Okay, hum... I guess this is the moment to tell you something quite important. Since we've been reunited last year for this suicide mission, you've all become the closest thing to what I call a family. And I'll never thank enough fate for putting us all together and for making me meet all of you." You're fidgeting with your bracelet as you keep your head low, shifting your weight from one foot to another. "But I guess every good thing has its end." You chuckle dryly and finally look up, crossing pairs of concerned gazes. "Few weeks ago, I had my medical exam to check if I would be clear to fly this year and they found something. In my brain." You gulp and slightly jump when you hear a glass knock against the wooden bar. You look at Bradley and see his jaw tightening, he already knows what that means, he's been there before. He's looking deeply into your eyes, waiting for the bomb to drop. You take a deep breath and maintain his eye contact. "It's untreatable..."

The silence comes back in the Hard Deck and Penny is the first one to react, walking around the counter and wrapping her arms around you. She's whispering apologies in your ear but your eyes are still on your friends, they're all shocked, they don't know what to say. You blink and Jake stands up, leaving the bar, slamming the door behind him. You can still see him through the windows and he sits down on the steps, burying his face into his hands and you can see his shoulders slightly shake with sobs. You don't blame him. He doesn't really like showing his vulnerability, but you're his weakness. Bob and Natasha wrap their arms around you in turn, promising you they'll be there for you if you need anything. Javy quickly hugs you and kiss your hair before going to check on his best friend outside. Mickey and Reuben hug you in turn and Maverick is the last one to face you. "Captain... It's been an honor..." You try to smile and joke but he simply takes you in his arms and you let yourself close your eyes and breathe deeply, feeling safe in his arms. When he pulls back, you're met with Bradley and he's opening his mouth, trying to find the right words, but he can't. "I'm sorry..." You whisper and he quickly looks away, chuckling dryly. "You shouldn't be apologizing." He takes your hands in his and just traces the lines of your palms with his thumbs. "I'm sorry you have to go through this all over again." You mutter and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his chest and listening to his fast heartbeat. "It's not your fault, kiddo... It's not your fault..." He kisses the top of your head and rubs your back.

The seven friends can hear the crickets singing and the waves crashing on the rock a little further. The light mood from earlier disappeared when Natasha mentioned the sad day of your announcement. "Maybe we should skinny dip in her memory..." Mickey wonders with a kind smile, looking around at his friends. "I'm not getting naked with porn-guy over there." Natasha immediately refuses, pointing at Jake. "It was a joke, Phoe'. I wouldn't even want to see you naked..." He mutters the last part. "We don't need to get naked, just in our underwear would be enough to make her happy." Mickey smiles a bit more, already undoing his laces and taking off his shoes and socks. "Come on, guys..." He begs when he sees none of his friends follow him in his idea. "I do it if you do." Bradley looks over at Natasha with a smirk. "Don't get too excited, Bradshaw. We might think you wanna see me naked." She laughs and starts stripping. Mickey grins and sees Reuben, Bob and Javy starting undressing as well. He gives Jake a pointed look and the blonde sighs. "Alright... But don't jump on me as soon as I'm undressed." He unbuckles his belt and Javy whistles jokingly. "We wouldn't dream of it, Bagman." Natasha is quick to shut him up and he simply rolls his eyes with a soft smile. When they're all wearing nothing but their underwear, they stay around the fire, looking at each other with silly faces. "What now? I mean... We've all got killer bodies but I won't stay like that all night long, it's kinda cold." Bradley jokes and a few laughs erupt. "You're scared the cold air might affect your body, Bradshaw?" Jake laughs and is immediately stopped when Bradley growls and starts chasing him.

The two men run on the sand, sometimes almost falling face first and Jake ends up jumping into the cold water. Bradley stops in his track with a grin and watches his friend stands up in the water, a shocked expression painted all over his face. "The water is freezing!" He screams and hurries to get out of the water but Bradley runs to him and tackles him back into the water. The rest of the squad erupts in laughter and they start running to the water to join the two men bickering in the cold water. When the water reaches Natasha's feet, she lets out a scream but doesn't stop in her track and dives right into the ocean. She lets the cold water hug her and wash her of the day's sweat before joining the others at the surface. She rubs her face and brings back her hair, laughing. She notices Jake shivering and his lips starting to turn purple-ish. She chuckles and splashes him right in the face. The blond pilot groans and slashes her back but she uses Bradley as a human shield. Jake laughs loudly at his frenemy's face but his smile quickly falls down when the Bradshaw pushes on his head to push him underwater for a few seconds. Natasha turns to Bob who let his glasses on the beach and now has to squint to see correctly. She splashes him and he screams before splashing back, but he doesn't really see her and ends up splashing Javy. Reuben and Mickey quickly join the water fight and the laughter can be heard from the beach.

They end up staying in the ocean for what seems like an eternity and when they go back to their stuff on the beach, the sun is slowly rising. They're completely drenched to the bones but silly smiles are engraved on their faces as they sit down on the sand. Natasha rests her head on Bob's shoulder who puts back his glasses on his noses. Mickey is lying down on her lap and she mindlessly plays with the short curls starting to grow on his head. "She would have loved this improvised not-so-skinny dipping..." Jake eventually says, his voice raw from all the screaming and all the laughing. Nobody says anything else but everyone agrees with him. For once. Natasha closes her eyes and ends up falling asleep on her WSO's shoulder and Mickey falls himself asleep on her lap. Bradley and Jake fall asleep a bit later too, lying down on the sand, their faces covered by their own shirts. Javy and Reuben share the cover they used to keep them out of the sand as a blanket and fall asleep. Three hours later, when Maverick gets off his bike, he notices several figures on the sand. He frowns and when he steps closer, he recognizes his squad, asleep and half naked on the sand. Confusion is written all over his face until he checks the day and recognizes the date. Yesterday was marking one year after your passing.

You watch them play football on the beach with a big smile on your face. Since Maverick introduced you to the Dog Fight Football, your friends would only play that game when you would go to the beach. You laugh when Mickey is being tackled by Jake and the two men roll on the ground. You take a sip from your drink and readjust your hat on your head. The umbrella over you already providing you shade but your chemo-bald head wasn't something you wanted other people to see. So after a quick discussion with Mickey, he took you hat shopping and you had a lot of fun. He insisted on paying everything and you ended up with almost ten new hats you could match with multiple outfits. No need to specify that you couldn't fly anymore but with a little help from Maverick, you still could come to base and see your friends. Your family. You're brought back to reality when a sweaty, panting Jake drops next to you. You give him a cold beer and he takes a couple of gulps before turning to you. "Want some?" He asks and you give him a pointed look. "Right... You're no fun, I forgot." He turns back to watch the others play and you bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself from thanking him for joking about it. He was the one you felt the closest to. You didn't know why or how it happened but it happened. You loved all of them so much but Jake was different, sometimes you could almost feel like you were connected. Just like twins.

"Hey... You're getting red, you need more sunscreen?" He asks as he points to your reddening arms. You nod and he grabs the tube from the beach bag you got and walks around you to stand behind you. He starts rubbing your shoulders with the sunscreen, being careful not to knock your hat off inadvertently. "You know... I'm still up for giving you a last wish..." He says and you turn to look up at him with a smile. He wiggles his eyebrows and you slap his chest before turning back to watch your friends play. Jake leans over to your ear and you can practically hear his smirk. "The others won't know, I promise." He whispers before rubbing your right arm with sunscreen. "Oh my God, stop!" You laugh, making him smile widely. "I'd rather give my last wish to Rooster." You say jokingly just to mess with him. "You wouldn't!" He moves to your left arm and when it's all done, he sits down on his heels before you. "But seriously, if you want anything before you..." He starts saying and stops himself, not fully on term with what was to happen. "You just ask, and I'll do anything to make it happen. And I'm sure the others would do the same." He keeps your hand in his and you look down and your joined hands, containing the tears. You look back up at him and take a deep breath. "I don't want anything more, Jake... I already have all I need." You smile at him and then look over at the others cheering Bob for tackling Mickey. You chuckle and Jake smiles, his stare never leaving your joyful face. That's exactly how he wants to remember you, smiling and laughing.

Such damage was done

But I made it through, 'cause somebody knew

I was meant for someone

Honey

6 weeks ago

“C’mon, pretty girl, you gotta punch out!”

My head is fuzzy as I come to, but I’d be able to pick up Jake’s voice in a crowd with no difficulty. That’s when I finally hear Coyote frantically yelling my name, telling me to eject.

“Copy! Eject, eject, eject!” I grip the handle and tug hard, wind immediately whipping around me as my seat launches from the plane. I sigh in relief when I turn to see Javy following close behind me. In my daze, I don’t realize how close I was to the tree line. The second green flashes in my vision, I pull my chute and make a hard landing, which knocks me unconscious once again.

The next time I come around, I’m woken up to the sound of various monitors beeping and am in a hospital bed. I catch a glimpse of Javy running out of the door, quickly returning with a nurse in tow.

“Hi sweetheart, do you know where you are?” The elderly nurse with a kind smile asks me.

I shake my head no, or at least I try to, the motion sending searing pain through me and making me groan. “I know I’m in a hospital, but I don’t know where or why. What happened?”

The nurse, whose name tag says “Joyce,” tells me that I’m in the hospital following a hard ejection and pauses to let me sip on some water before she starts in on my injuries.

With a deep breath, she asks if I remember anything, which I softly answer no to. “Alright, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just gonna go for it. You have a severe concussion, multiple fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a ligament tear in your hip, several deep contusions, and you suffered a miscarriage.”

It takes me a second to process everything she said thanks to the concussion. When her final words hit, I suck in a breath that is accompanied by sharp pains in my chest and stomach. “A miscarriage? I didn’t even know I was pregnant…I wouldn’t have gotten in the cockpit if I knew, I swear! I would never-“

The nurse quickly grabs my hand and cuts me off before I send myself into a spiral. “Oh, sweet girl. I don’t doubt that for a second. You were only about 6 weeks along, I’m not surprised you didn’t know. I know it won’t make it less painful, but the baby probably hadn’t even attached to your uterus yet, that’s how early it was. Given that, we won’t have to do anything surgical as it passes. It’ll most likely feel like a really bad cycle for you with stronger cramps and heavier bleeding. We can talk about it more later, you need your rest right now.”

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze before pushing more medicine through my IV and then heading for the door, pausing to let me know to push the call button if I need anything. Once she leaves the room, I turn to Javy.

“Javs…”

My eyes fill with tears and he’s quick to gently tug me into his arms. “It’s ok, Honey. You didn’t know. We’re just happy you’re alive, we thought we lost you for a little bit. Jake was beside himself, we all were.”

“Oh my God, Javy! Jake! Where is he?!” I’m scanning the room, looking for him or anyone else who may have tucked themselves into a corner, but I come up short.

“The rest of the squad got redeployed. Apparently the planes that intercepted us were part of a much larger fleet and they didn’t even make it off the carrier before they were sent back out. They’re still out there, which is why he’s not glued to your side. Since you and I both had to eject, we’re grounded until we’re medically cleared.” Javy explains as he gently rubs my back.

“Javy Thomas Machado! Are you ok? Please tell me you fared better than I did?”

I jerked back to eye him, instantly regretting it because holy fuck does everything hurt.

“I’m fine, Bubs. You pulled your chute too low, I’m guessing because you were barely conscious, which is why you probably feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. My landing was textbook, only a few scratches from the trees on the way in, but I’m perfectly fine otherwise.”

“Does…does Jake know? About the baby?” A fresh round of tears starts leaking down my cheeks.

“Yeah, he does. He…might have found this out under the insinuation that he was your fiancée when he called. They said they wouldn’t give out any info if he wasn’t family, and since y’all don’t have the same last name, he said you were engaged. Which is why they told him about the baby so easily. I’m so sorry, Honey. I’m sorry I didn’t do more to keep you from getting hurt.”

Javy’s grip around my shoulders tightened and I felt his own tears drip onto my shoulders.

“Don’t you DARE. You protected me better than anyone else ever could. Don’t even think otherwise. You saved me, ok Javs? I may be your backseater, but you’ve had my back more times than I could ever count. I’m gonna be just fine, I promise.”

Present

Javy barely left my side my entire hospital stay, which lasted a little under a week. Once I was stable, I was sent home on medical leave to rest for the next 2 months at minimum. Since I was on crutches for 5 weeks to heal from the surgical repair of my hip, I decided to crash with Penny and Amelia. Their house has no stairs, comes with two mother hens who double as guard dogs, and a certain blonde haired aviator doesn’t have a spare key to let himself in.

I haven’t been able to face him since they returned 2 weeks ago. I’ve ignored every call, text, email, and hell, even Instagram message from him. I’m not ready to see the look of disappointment I’m sure he’ll be wearing. Not only had we not talked about having kids, we hadn’t even discussed whether or not we were even exclusive. Did I know neither of us were seeing other people? Sure. But we hadn’t had the conversation. Plus, I had and lost his baby. I’m close enough to both him and his family to know that he’s definitely hurt. I’m not ready to hear him tell me he can’t do it anymore, that he can’t look at me without seeing what he lost. Despite every plea for me to call him, just talk to him, I leave him on read. He’s man enough to let me down in person, he won’t do it via text. So maybe, if I just keep ignoring him, I won’t have to feel the hurt I know is coming when he tells me he’s done.

Javy, Nat, Bob, and the rest of the Daggers have tried telling me that I have the wrong idea, but I know they’re just protecting me because they know I’m fragile. Between all the therapy to help me heal from the event and process my future, I’ve been a train wreck. My physical pain has all but disappeared, only a few twinges here and there if I move just the right way. But my emotional pain hasn’t made much progress. Getting over the terror of almost dying in the wreck, the damage the injuries did, losing the baby, and the constant anxiety over my future in the navy has been heavier than I ever expected. I’ve slowly warmed back up to everyone. Everyone but Jake.

And the old lovers sing

"I thought it'd be me who helped him get home"

But home was a dream

One that I'd never seen 'til you came along

Jake

The squad finally convinced me to join them at Penny’s tonight for Mav’s birthday. I'm holding out hope that I’ll bump into Honey tonight, but I don’t think my odds are favorable. Knowing her, she escaped the house she’s been staying at before everyone else was expected to get there. She can be evasive when she wants to be. And damn does she want to be. It’s apparently a surprise party, so she asked us to all come straight over from work since Mav planned to stop by Ice’s grave on the way home. I walk up to the door, a bottle of Mav’s favorite scotch tucked into my elbow, and lift my hand to knock on the door. Before my knuckles make contact, the door is yanked open to reveal Penny with her finger at her lips to shush me. My brows raise in confusion but I roll with it.

It’s oddly quiet when I walk in and I see my closest friends silently standing around the dining room table. Javy then points to the couch. My heart damn near falls out of my ass when I see what he’s pointing at. It’s a vision I’ve missed desperately; Honey napping on the couch. She’s always been perfection to me, her soft body curving in all the right places. I’ve never been the guy that’s into model skinny girls. I like to know I won’t break her when I get rough, and I really like to get rough. Honey’s always had warm, soft skin that’s perfect for leaving hickies and fingerprints on her chest, hips, and thighs. Which is why my heart crumbles a little more, seeing her looking so frail, her face significantly thinner and her arms looking a little bonier with less muscle.

My eyes dart to Penny, wordlessly searching for the ok to lift her into my arms and carry her away from the crowded room. She seems to understand what I’m asking and nods before tipping her head to the hallway on her left. I silently scoop her up and almost cry when she nuzzles her cheek against my chest. Once I find the open door, I peek into the room and my suspicion that it’s the room she’s been staying in is confirmed when I see her favorite blanket at the foot of the bed. I gently shut the door with my foot before sinking down into the bed, still holding her tightly to my chest. I tell myself I’ll let her go in just a minute, I just need a little longer to hold her, a little longer to let her warmth fill the cracks in my soul. I shift on the bed until my back is leaned against the pillows, Honey’s head is laid on my chest, and her legs are draped over mine.

Just a few more minutes.

A few minutes turned into a lot of minutes, my shitty sleep schedule finally caught up with me and I quickly fell into a deep sleep. I wake up when I feel Honey stirring and moving to sit up and see the dark sky through the slats of her blinds. The sun was most definitely still up when I brought her in here.

“Jake?” Her sleepy voice is soft and the confusion is clear in her tone.

“Hi, Honey. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I’m sorry,” I grumble out, lifting my hand to rub the sleep from my eyes.

“I thought I was on the couch? Oh man, did I miss Mav’s party? I bet Penny’s pissed!” She shifts to stand but my hands land on her hips, preventing her from going anywhere.

“She’s fine, I promise. If anything, she’s happy you’ve been resting and that we finally have a chance to talk. If she was upset, she would have woken you up when you were on the couch instead of letting me carry you to bed.”

“Jake, I can’t do this. I’m not…I’m not ready for this! I don’t think I’ll ever be. I know you’re mad at me, I do. And I deserve all the anger, but I’m not ready for my heart to break again before it’s even healed because I ruined everything!”

Tears flow freely from her eyes as she half heartedly pushes at my chest.

“Honey, no. You’re wrong, I- “ My words are cut off when she shoves at my chest again and raises her voice.

“No! Don’t lie to me Jake, I know you hate me! You don’t have to let me down easy, ok?! Just get it off your chest and let me go!” She starts sobbing and I tug her into my chest again, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight.

“Honey, shhh. You can let it out. Crying until there’s no tears left if you want. But when you’re done, you’re gonna listen to what I have to say, alright?!”

I feel her nod against me then start rubbing soothing circles on her back with one hand, the other tangles in her hair and tucks her face into my chest as she cries. We stay like that for a while, whether it be minutes or hours I’m not sure. Her sobs turn into stuttered breaths before eventually evening out into a steady rhythm.

“You ready to listen to me now, pretty girl? I’ve been losing my damn mind waiting until you were ready, but now that I’ve got you here, I don’t think I can let go until you’ve heard me out.” My hand started gently stroking her hair, a tried and true trick to bring her comfort when she’s stressed.

Her voice is hoarse and weak when she replies. “Go ahead. I’ve held you off long enough.”

My hand continues its pattern for a few minutes, running my fingers across her scalp and through any tangles they encounter in her hair, as I articulate my thoughts. I drop my forehead to the top of hers, taking a deep breath, then kiss the crown of her head before I start talking.

“Honey, being away from you these last 6 weeks has been the most painful experience of my life. First, not being there when you woke up. Then not being by your side when you got the awful news. And then you avoiding me? That shit sucked, babe. But the worst part about it all is you thinking that I’d be disappointed in you, that I’d be mad at you, that you think I’m not so stupidly in love with you that I can’t breathe without you! Darlin’, I know we never talked about it, but it hurt me too knowing we had a baby and lost it. I can’t imagine how painful going through that must have been, not only physically but emotionally. I wish you would have let me be there for you.” I take the chance to pause when my voice cracks over the last sentence.

“…you’re not mad at me?” She squeaks out. “Not just for losing the baby, but for getting pregnant in the first place?”

I let out a harsh chuckle at that. “Sweet girl, it takes two to make a baby. How could I be mad at you for that? Besides, the idea of having a baby with you isn’t one I detest, but we can have that conversation another day.”

“Wait…what? You’re stupidly in love with me? Is this some way to make me feel better? Because if it is, I-”

“Dammit woman!” I cut her off the only way I know how, by slamming my lips against hers and kissing her until she’s breathless.

We pull apart and she opens her mouth to speak again, but I cut her off by clapping my palm over her mouth.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ stubborn, but damn if it doesn’t make me love you more! Now, are you gonna listen to me or do I need to kiss you some more?”

She locks her eyes on mine, giving me a slight nod to let me know I can continue.

“Now, explain to me why you think it’s just a way to make you feel better.”

She sighs and shifts her gaze to her hands where they’re clasped in her lap. “We never talked about our…relationship being more than what it is. You’ve never been a long term kinda guy, you said it yourself! I thought that maybe it was your feeling like you owed it to me to be there or something, I dunno. I’ve seen the trail of broken hearts you’ve left behind and I don’t know if I can handle being one of them, ok? I thought maybe if I didn’t give you the chance to break me, I’d get away unscathed. But then this happened. And now that I know there will always be a part of me that was also a part of you, even for a tiny bit of time, I also know that’s not a possibility anymore. As if it was ever a possibility.”

“Oh, my sweet Honey girl. You were never gonna be part of that trail, because you’re the destination. I didn’t know I needed you until you popped into my life. With your bubbly personality, damn near permanent smile, incredible sense of humor, brilliant mind, and let’s be honest, jaw dropping looks, you knocked me on my ass. I didn’t think I’d ever wanna settle down, I didn’t think I’d ever fall in love. My parents adore each other and I knew anything less than what they have isn’t worth it. I never thought it was in the cards for me because I didn’t think I would ever look at someone like my dad does my mom. But then there was you. Javy knew it before I did, but you’re my once in a lifetime girl. Remember that trip we all took to Mexico, when that monkey clung to you and wouldn’t let go?” I pause to let her answer and she lets out a soft “mmhmm.”

“Well, turns out my wingman snapped a picture of me looking at you. He waited until we got back and he dropped me off at my house to show it to me. When he did, he grabbed the picture I have of my parents I have in my living room. He handed it to me, not saying anything as he unlocked his phone and flipped it around to show me the picture. When I looked between the two, I noticed two things. One, that I’m a dead ringer for my dad at the same age. And two? The look in my eyes as I smiled at you was identical to the look in his as he smiled at my mom. Now you’re who I wanna come home to. Whether it be just you and me, a dog, kids, or all of the above; I want it all. Wherever you are is where I want to be, for as long as you’ll have me. I love you, Honey. With every fiber of my being.”

My eyes flit across every freckle on her face as she processes what I just said. Tears drip from her eyes and I start to worry I royally fucked up. I’m about to start talking to try and dig my way out of the hole I found myself in when her hands land on each of my cheeks.

“I love you too, Jake Seresin. I want all of that and more, I want everything you’ll give me. I do have a question for you though, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”

“Of course, anything.” I’m quick to reply.

“Would you still love me as much if I wasn’t a badass WSO, saving your ass at every turn?”

I almost think she’s just teasing me until I see the sincerity in her eyes. I reach out and brush my thumb across her cheek, swiping away the remnants of her tears.

“Sweetheart, I’d love you just as much as I do now in any situation, in any lifetime, in any universe.”

“They’re talking about permanently grounding me. They discovered a heart condition while I was in the hospital and I haven’t told anyone about it. I’ve been killing myself over trying to decide what to do, over whether I should fight the medical retirement option or accept it and move on. I don’t want you to think this is all dependent on you, but if the dog and the 2.5 kids is what you want in the future, I think I know what I wanna do.”

My chest squeezes at her admission, she’s gone through so much by herself and it kills me that I haven’t been here to help her through it. But that all changes right now.

“Honey, I’ll be beside you no matter what you decide. You wanna fight it? I’ll be right there with you, ready to duke it out. You wanna take the out, use that brilliant brain in one of the thousands of other ways you can help people? I’m here for that too. Whatever you decide, you won’t be alone in your journey. You have me completely, and now that you know it, I hope you’ll let me help shoulder some of the burden from her on out.”

It’s her turn to kiss me breathless as she crawls into my lap and locks her arms around my neck. My hands land on her hips and every ounce of tension my body has been carrying for the last two months just melts away. Laughter from down the hall reminds us of where we are and the fact that we’re not alone. Honey pulls away from me, much to my dismay, and rests her forehead against mine. We sit like that for a second, basking in the comfort that only we can give each other, before she climbs off of my lap and onto the floor, then reaches her hand out for mine. I wordlessly tangle my fingers with hers and she tugs at me until I stand up. She pulls me to the door, opens it, and I happily follow her down the hall like a puppy. Once we step into the light of the living room, all eyes fall on us and our joined hands.

“Thank fuck! Best birthday present ever!” Mav says, jumping up to wrap us both in a tight hug. The room erupts in cheers, and I swear I see a tear in Javy’s eye.

“I’m so claiming the first speech rights at your wedding, since it was my birthday that brought you two back together and all!”