Selene

↳ A = Aftercare   (what they’re like after sex)

Logan doesn't play when it comes to taking care of his people, and that's especially true after sex. He literally won't be able to rest until he's sure that you're comfortable, fully satisfied, and happy.

He's the ultimate clinger. There are times where he'll just want to stay buried inside of you, trying to stay as physically close to you as he can until he literally has to get up. He loves the feeling of going soft inside of you.

Especially when he's been practically, rough and/or eager, he'll make sure he takes care of you. That could mean his hand slipping between your legs, not in a sexual way but to check if there's any swelling or soreness. It could be wiping you down with a warm and wet cloth, kissing over the hickeys and bite marks that he left on you, fetching you a drink to replenish lost fluids, or checking in on you in breathless whispers, "how was that for you, baby?", "are you sore anywhere?", "do you need anything?"

He'd tell you how well you did and how he just wants to take care of you now. He'd pull your boneless body flush against his chest, pressing kisses to every bare inch he can get at and thank you for being there.

↳ B = Body part   (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

You: There are many, SFW, body parts of yours that Logan enjoys, but if we're talking NSFW then it's your hips, purely based on how much time his hands spend there. He's obsessed with having something to grip tightly onto when he's got you in his favourite positions.

When he has you bent over, skirt hiked up and panties slipped to the side, he's obsessed with the feeling of your soft waist in his hands, how he can use it to control the pace, pulling you back harder against him, watching how he disappears within you.

His second favourite is probably the small of your back, something darkly possessive within him swells when he pulls out at the last minute and cums there. "I think you should just get my name tattoo'd here, that way I can mark you permanently."

Him: As someone who is a hockey player, hard-working, and handy, he's the most proud of his hands. They're calloused and slightly scarred, but they tell a story of a man who knows the value of hard and skilled work.

Also, he loves his hands because of how they look when they're on you. He loves how his hands are large enough to cup your breasts, how thick his fingers are, so it only takes two of them for you to feel full. He loves how long they are, so when he curls them in you they're able to hit that spot.

↳ C = Cum   (anything to do with cum, basically)

Logan's favourite place to cum is when he's buried deep inside of you, unbreaking eye contact as you both feel his dick twitch as he shoots warm, ropey, cum into you. As said in A = Aftercare, he'll stay inside of you after that, loving the messy, sticky, and dirty feeling of your juices mixing.

A man as possessive and (consensual) domination-loving as Logan, he loves when he pulls out so he can just sit back on his heels and spread your legs, watching how his cum slowly drips out of you, staining the mattress below.

If it's not inside of you, then it's on your stomach or lower back, the control of it having his dick stirring again.

He is also someone who'd play with the cum, rubbing it over your body, shoving it back in your sensitive hole, scooping it up and making you clean it off of his fingers. All of it.

↳ D = Dirty secret   (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This many is a voy👏🏽eur👏🏽.

He didn't even realise he had an obsession with this until one afternoon. It’s not like he hadn’t seen you changing in front of him before, but that day, as he watched you changing through the small opening of his slightly ajar bedroom door, something shifted.

Your back was turned as you lifted your shirt over your waist. His breath caught, his dick stirring in his pants as you slid your trousers down your thighs. He didn't understand why he stood watching you from the dark rather than making his presence known...

Until it happened again, this time more deliberate. You were taking a shower, he tested the door, it was unlocked...

He did it a couple more times, seeking out the cracks in doors, before the guilt hit him more than the shame. When he finally admitted to it, you just laughed and told him you knew and would have locked the door if you wanted privacy.

From then, it's a game with no rules. he'll never know when you're going to purposely leave the door open or unlocked, inviting him to catch you without your "knowledge".

Sometimes he comes back from practise and you're in his room, door ajar and legs wide as you press a vibrator against your clit. He palms himself through his pants as he watches your back arch against the bed.

Sometimes he'll come back to find you desperately sliding your pussy against his pillow, moaning his name softly because it smells like him and you miss him.

When he's on an away game, he'll ask that you send him videos so he can watch you touching yourself, rolling a nipple between your fingers.

↳ E = Experience   (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Now this one is a mixture. Because on the one hand, he’s had many a hookup before. He’s young, attractive, and has a reputation for knowing how to treat a woman. So, his room (after Dean’s) was no.2 for the never-ending line of puck bunnies.

On the other hand, when it comes to sex with a girlfriend, he’s not as experienced. He’s used to pleasing a variety of women that he had nothing but confidence walking into your first time together. But seeing you there, on his bed and wet for him, it felt like a whole different ballgame.

He wasn’t prepared for how different it would feel when you’re with the same person, your feelings getting deeper and deeper, and the desire to please getting higher.

With you, he focused on ways to make you cum that not even he knew existed. So, he has a mountain of experience, but learning to please you felt like a new challenge.

↳ F = Favourite position   (this goes without saying)

Two sides to him where one is the good ol' missionary position. He loves the eye contact, loves when you gasp into his mouth and wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer and deliciously deeper.

But, again, there's a possessive side of Logan that comes out mainly when you're fucking. The desire for control takes over and he loves to take you from behind.

He loves Prone Bone or, alternatively, the Wheelbarrow. More details here.

↳ G = Goofy   (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Logan's playful and sarcastic and would most definitely make teasing comments especially if he was jealous or something. But, in the heat of the moment, he's not silly or goody. He's dead focused on fucking the life out of you. He takes making you cum as serious business. That's not to say that sex with him is rigid because it's not! He just wouldn't be focused on being a standup comedian.

THAT SAID!! if something funny happened like a pussy queef or someone losing their footing, he'd laugh and make a joke. He wouldn't take that part seriously.

↳ H = Hair   (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As an athlete that spends hours wearing sweaty hockey gear, he takes personal hygiene VERY seriously. He's a naturally very hairy man, but he keeps himself well-groomed for you but also himself. He defo has some hair down there though, he doesn't like the bare look, preferring the more masculine look of his natural body hair.

He's unbothered by it and doesn't understand the appeal, but one thing you'll NEVER let him touch is the happy trail on his stomach leading to his pubic hair 😋.

↳ I = Intimacy   (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Just because he's possessive and likes control, it doesn't mean that he's not a romantic and sex isn't extremely intimate. In the bedroom, his walls crumble. Just looking into his eyes during it will tell you how devoted he is. No matter how hard his hips thrust, how tightly his hands grip, how hard he's mouth sucks on your collarbone, his eyes tell you how attached and vulnerable he is with you.

From between your legs, he'll look up at you, fingers tangled with yours while the other one caresses you.

He'll spend his time always trying to kiss you too, whether that's on your lips in missionary or down your back from behind.

↳ J = Jack off   (masturbation headcanon)

Logan masturbates mostly as a stress-relief when he's overwhelmed with hockey or family drama and you're not around. He mostly does it in the shower, after he's used your scented shower gel or soap, so he can imagine it's your warmth around him. His hand wraps around him tightly, he closes his eyes, picturing what you looked like pinned underneath him or remembering the sound of you moaning his name.

↳ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Say it with me now, PRAISEEEE KIINKKKKK. He loves both giving praise and receiving it. Hearing you softly whisper "You're doing so good, Logan," or "You take such good care of me" while he’s deep inside you completely undoes him. His thrusts always become more erratic, his dick sliding out as he gets too eager.

He also loves to tell you that you take good care of him. When your lips are wrapped around his dick, tears pricking at your eyes, he'll stroke your cheek and tell you how proud he is of you. how perfect you are.

Don't let there be a time where you're silent during sex...

And that's the tamest of his kinks...

↳ L = Location   (favourite places to do the do)

It's not that Logan doesn't like the risk, but he's favourite place is his (or your) bedroom because there's the freedom and flexibility to try out so many different positions, toys, role plays etc.

However, if he's burning with stress or after a tough game, he's going to take the first place he can find. Especially if it's a locker room... The Uniform Stays ON & Missed Shots.

↳ M = Motivation   (what turns them on, gets them going)

Not to make him sound like a WHORE, but it's probably easier to list what doesn't get him turned on when it comes to you. Next to anything that you wear (a short skirt, knee high boots or socks, his jersey, tight clothing that shows your curves, long baggy clothing that doesn't show your curves, glasses, your pyjamas, gloves...) gets him going.

Watching you study, you absentmindedly biting your lip, the lil concentrated face that you make, the way you hold the pen... and he's ready to mount you.

Any strong emotion (jealously, anger, stress, post-match high) gets him needy for you.

↳ N = No   (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Truthfully, I see it get to a point where he'd be hard pressed to agree to a threesome, especially if he had to watch you get fucked by someone else.

Other than that, he wouldn't want the sex to feel emotionally detached or unsafe. So, he wouldn't want to do something that degrades you or causes extreme pain. Nothing gets him softer faster than seeing your face distorted in uncomfort or pain.

↳ O = Oral   (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving: He loves this because he's a genuine munch that does it for the love of the game. He takes his sweet as time between your thighs, to the point where there are days where you have to remind him that there are other body parts he could use there. Sometimes your thighs end up shaking, not from orgasm, but from fatigue as he's kept you spread so long as he ravishes you. He's skilled, patient, and takes pride in making you cum on his tongue. He's vocal about it too, moaning loudly as he tastes you, grinding against the mattress.

Receiving: He doesn't ask for it as often, but he does love it when you're on your knees, looking up at him through your eye lashes as your tongue laps over his leaking slit.

Preference: giving.

↳ P = Pace   (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

By now, he's learnt what you like and knows the exact pace that you need without you needing to use words. He's a pillar of patience, he knows how to build up that tension, getting you ready on his tongue or fingers before considering anything else.

Like 55% of the time, he's slow and sensual. Undressing you slowly, teasing touches, body worship etc., But the other 45%, he's fast and rough and leaving brusies that you'll savour in the morning.

↳ Q = Quickie   (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Logan is built for longer sessions, he likes to make you cum first, but then likes to drag out your second orgasm to the point where you're left begging.

That doesn't mean he is completely opposed to a quickie. He'd do it if he had to, like the coach to the next away game leaves in 10 minutes, has to. but even then, he's defo the type to shrug and go "I'm already late so may as well take my time, it's not like they can leave without me..."

↳ R = Risk   (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He'll take the risk especially if it's something you want, he loves to test limits.

He's not an exhibitionist, so doesn't really go to far on the public risk side of things, he gets enough adrenaline from hockey that he doesn't necessarily need that in his sex life too. however, he doesn't mind taking a semi-public risk and he has no problem getting Caught.

↳ S = Stamina   (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The man is an athlete. He has the endurance to go for multiple long and heavy rounds in a single night. Sometimes, he lasts so long that even you're like 'okay, wrap it up!'

His turnaround time is crazy too. He can cum and then not even 10 minutes later, he's pressing his semi on the small of your back.

His stamina always far extends what's needed to ensure you're thoroughly taken care of.

↳ T = Toys   (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn't own them himself, unless you're counting handcuffs and a blindfold, but since he started dating you, there's a whole collection of toys in his bedside draw.

He's not the type to get intimidated by a toy and pressing a vibrator to your clit whilst he drove into you would get him insanely turned on. He'd let you use your toys on him too.

↳ U = Unfair   (how much they like to tease)

Sometimes he's a tease without meaning to tease. What he'd call savouring you, you'd call teasing. But really, whenever he did intentionally try and tease you, it would backfire and only make him more desperate.

↳ V = Volume   (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He makes you loud, but he himself isn't a loud screamer or name-caller. He isn't silent though, and lets you know just how much he's enjoying you through a series of deep chest rumbles, breathless sighs of your name, and GRUNTS.

This man is a ragged grunter and a swearer. He talks a lot, mostly swear words. When he gets closer to orgasm, he'll stop being able to form sentences all together, only grunts and your name.

↳ W = Wild card   (a random headcanon for the character)

The first time he told you he loved you was when he was buried in you, and the realisation made him cum immediately.

↳ X = X-ray   (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's THICC, veiny, and lengthy without being too intimidatingly massive. Probs like 7inches erect. The head flushes dark when he's aroused and very responsive to your touch.

Body wise, he's very stereotypically masculine. Strong, broad shoulders, well-defined abs, strong back muscles, hairy in the right places. His biceps aren't large though.

↳ Y = Yearning   (how high is their sex drive?)

With all that testosterone bubbling inside of him, his need for physical outlet is HIGH. He craves you and sex constantly. When he's on an away game, he'll be very restless. He'll sneak you into the hotel sometimes because he just can't focus or sleep without fucking you.

If it's not possible to have you there, he'll bombard you with texts, detailing how he's going to pin you down when he's back. He'll beg you to send him videos or watch the ones that he's stored in his phone and rut against the bed.

↳ Z = Zzz   (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Once he's satisfied that you're satisfied, it doesn't take him long to fall asleep at all. He'll wrap you up in his arms and KO within like 5 minutes, sleeping deeper and more peacefully than any other time.

☁️: as always, i'm curious to hear your thoughts... please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog with your thoughts (whether you agree or disagree) ❤︎‬ x

Your old Mercedes-Benz 380SL rumbled into the gravel parking lot of the Hard Deck, the first bar your GPS had thrown your way. It had been years since you’d been back to Lemoore. Even then, memories of the place had long since dissolved beneath a haze of flight hours, classified missions, carrier deployments, and the relentless cycle of detachments that had followed your graduation from Top Gun. What little you did remember felt distant now, like recalling someone else’s life, but tonight that hardly mattered. All you wanted was a stiff drink, good food, and a reminder that you were finally home.

The place buzzed with the easy kind of noise only a military town dive bar could produce. Pool balls cracked against one another somewhere in the back, laughter spilled over the music pouring from the jukebox, and every other patron seemed to be wearing their khakis. Naval aviators were packed shoulder to shoulder around high-top tables, gold wings glinting beneath neon beer signs. 

The open barstool was your oasis in the desert as you slid into it, sighing happily to see the tiny menu laminated and stuck to the bar. 

The bartender, an older woman with the most beautiful skin you’ve ever seen, walked over. “What can I get you?”

“A cheeseburger,” you answered without hesitation. “The greasiest one you’ve got. Fries, too.”

She arched an eyebrow, amusement written all over her face. 

“And a double of your best whiskey on the rocks.” You smiled widely as she nodded. 

She placed the order and slid over a frosted glass for you before attending to someone across the bar. You took the time to check your phone, avoiding the real reason you were back here. You just wanted one night where it felt like you were you again, and not just property of the United States Navy. 

“A greasy cheeseburger,” Penny, you learned, had slid the basket of food over to you. 

If it were any other circumstance, you would have been embarrassed by the moan that left your mouth after your first bite. 

“Good?” She asked, her hands pausing from shining a glass as she watched you. 

You nodded, eyes nearly closed. “It’s perfect.” 

A sharp laugh escaped her. “You just get back?” 

Your eyes open, finally placing the burger down to take another drink. “How’d you know?” 

You’re in civvies, and even have makeup on for the first time in months. But you reckon she’s worked here long enough to see it in every person that steps through the doors. 

“Come on,” Her eyes are playful, “No one acts like that about those cheap burgers unless they haven’t had one in a while. How long?” 

“Two years,” You sighed, “Haven’t been home for longer than a few months in about 5.” 

She made a noise of understanding; her life had been so intertwined with the Navy for years, she knew just how much it takes from someone. 

“Well, we’re glad to have you back. Hopefully it’s for a little longer this time.” She smiled, “Burgers on me.” 

Your head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

You were already reaching for your wallet when she held up a hand.

“My bar,” she said matter-of-factly. “My rules.”

“I can’t let you-”

“Tell you what.” She pointed toward the half-empty whiskey glass in front of you. “I won’t take your money unless you order another one of those. Then we’ll call it even.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Welcome home.” 

She gave the bar a light tap with her knuckles before disappearing toward the kitchen, leaving you alone with the comfortable hum of conversation surrounding you. 

By the time you finished, the basket in front of you held nothing but a few lonely fries and a crumpled sheet of wax paper slick with grease. You slid a crisp fifty-dollar bill beneath one of the coasters anyway, hoping she’d find it after you were gone, then tipped back the last swallow of whiskey. It burned all the way down, drawing a wince that settled into a satisfied smile as you set the empty glass back onto the bar with a quiet clink.

You slid off the barstool with a contented sigh, fishing your keys from your pocket as you prepared to call it a night. The burger had done its job. The whiskey had done its job even better. Maybe you’d save the third item on your list for another evening.

The front door swung open before you could take a single step.

A man ducked beneath the frame with the easy confidence of someone who’d been walking into the Hard Deck for years. Aviator sunglasses hung from the collar of a faded Hawaiian shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. Sun-kissed skin, broad shoulders, and a mustache that made you stop in your tracks. He was navy, that much was obvious. He might as well have been a walking poster child for an aviator. 

He slid onto the stool beside the one you’d just vacated, where you stood still half in and half out. 

“You’re back,” Penny was already reaching for a bottle. “You’re here a few days before the crowd.” 

“You know me too well.” He says. “I just couldn’t stay away, Penny. You know me.” 

“Yeah, right.” She grinned. 

He grinned, all practiced charm, and accepted the beer she slid across the counter.

It wasn’t usually your style to go after other Navy pilots. Too many complications. Too many chances of crossing paths again in some hangar halfway around the world, or discovering six months later that you’d unknowingly hooked up with someone from your own air wing.

As a rule, you avoided it.

But rules had exceptions. And tonight that exception had a mustache that you yearned to feel against your skin, and muscles flexing with each rise and fall of his arms. 

Besides, out of the hundreds of aviators running through this town, what are the chances that he was one of the dozen who had been picked for this special assignment? 

You eased back onto your stool as though you’d never intended to leave, setting your keys back onto the polished wood.

“Penny, my dear,” you called, a devilish smile tugging at your lips. “Think I could trouble you for another whiskey?”

She didn’t even look at the register, or you as you tried to slide your card across the bar. Instead, she plucked the folded fifty-dollar bill from beneath the coaster and held it up between two fingers.

“I told you,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “My bar. My rules.” 

You sighed, snatching the card back. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that until I left.” 

“Oh, honey.” Penny laughed. “I notice everything.”

She slid the bill back across the bar toward you before reaching for the whiskey bottle anyway.

“First refill’s still on the house.” Before you could protest again, the man beside you leaned an elbow onto the bar, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“You can’t get one past Penny.”

You turned toward him. “That so?”

He nodded solemnly, though the grin threatening his mouth ruined any attempt at seriousness. “Trust me. You don’t want to end up on her bad side.”

”He’s learned the hard way.” Penny smirks, dropping off your drinks before she decides that she knows exactly what’s happening between the two strangers. 

Bradley turns to you, his gaze wandering from your boots to your jeans, lingering for the briefest second on the low cut of your top before finally settling on your eyes. There was nothing crude about it. If anything, it was almost appreciative, accompanied by the smallest lift of one corner of his mouth when he realized you’d caught him.

”So,” He starts, “What brings you here?” 

It’s such a cliché line; it almost makes you laugh. You hold up your glass, swirling around the amber liquid and the ice together. “This.” 

He clinks your glasses together, “Touche.” 

There’s a brief lull, the two of your eyes shamelessly on each other. 

“I’m Bradley.” He offers. 

You give him your name with a smile, and he immediately repeats it back after you. As if he’s testing the shape of it in his mouth, but not for the first time tonight he’s decided. 

The conversation moves easily after that, effortless in a way that surprises you. You don’t talk about work. Neither of you ask the obvious questions. You don’t mention where you’ve been, and he doesn’t ask why you look like someone who hasn’t slept properly in months. He doesn’t elaborate when he mentions not being home in almost a year, and you don’t express your same sentiments about it. 

You’re just two strangers sitting at a bar pretending, for a few hours, that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Music comes up first, some argument over whether old records are better than anything made now. He has strong opinions, the kind that make you laugh because he says them with complete confidence. 

“You’re very opinionated for someone I just met,” you say, resting your chin lightly against your hand.

He looks at you over the rim of his beer, which Penny silently dropped off.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re usually right.”

A slow grin pulls across his face. “I usually am.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That might be the most annoying answer you could’ve given. God.” 

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

The way he says it is cocky, but honest. There’s no malice in it, just the darkening of his eyes. It’s just an observation, and maybe that’s what makes it worse. He’s right. You could have left an hour ago. You had already gotten almost everything you came here for. The burger, the whiskey, the small piece of normal life you’d been craving since you stepped off that plane. But you were exactly where you wanted to be, with his eyes desperately trying not to look down your shirt with each flirty glance you threw his way. 

When last call came, you were shocked to look at the clock and realize it had been hours since Bradley slid into the seat next to you. The Hard Deck had slowly emptied around you without either of you really noticing. The loud groups of aviators had filtered out one by one, the music had been turned down, and the warm buzz of conversation had faded into the quiet sounds of closing. 

Somehow, through all of it, the two of you had stayed exactly where you were, caught somewhere between wanting the night to end and not wanting to be the one who ended it.

Bradley glances around at the emptying bar before looking back at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“I think we’re getting kicked out.”

You look around, pretending to be surprised by the chairs being lifted onto tables and Penny wiping down the counter.

Eventually, you slide off the stool, grabbing your phone and your keys.

“Goodnight, Penny.” You wave goodbye. 

Penny looks up from behind the bar, already knowing exactly what she’s looking at.

“Stay out of trouble, you two.” 

There’s something about the way she says it that makes you feel like she means more than the words themselves.

You smile. “Always.”

He bids her goodbye as well, before turning back to you. 

“Let me walk you to your car?” He asks, and it makes you chuckle. The two of you are circling it, both of you just itching and waiting for the other person to make the first move. 

The two of you step outside together, the cool California night air immediately replacing the warmth of the bar. The parking lot is quieter now, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes as you both slowly make your way out.

Your shoulders brush on the short walk, before you’re leaning against the side of your car. 

A low whistle escapes him. “No way.”

You glance back. “What?”

He looks between you and the Mercedes, impressed despite himself. “That’s yours?”

You smile, suddenly a little more proud than you mean to be.

“Yeah, I helped rebuild her a few years back.”

“God, you’re a dream. You, not the car.” He walks around the front of it slowly, appreciating the lines of the car. “But the car's great too. Gorgeous car for a gorgeous girl.” 

Your cheeks warm; before you can respond, your eyes drift past him toward the other side of the parking lot.

“And I’m guessing that’s yours?”

He turns, following your gaze.

A bright blue Bronco sits under one of the parking lot lights, standing out against the rows of ordinary cars.

“That obvious?”

You blow out a playful puff of air. “Yeah, kinda.” 

 His body is still only a few inches away from yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him despite the cool night air. Close enough that you’re both very aware of the fact that neither of you has actually said goodnight, and that neither of you really want to. 

“Well, I guess I’m gonna-“ You go to turn, before he says your name in his deep tone. 

You turn back to face him, and he steps closer, your back pressing harshly against your car door. His body cages yours in, close enough that the space you’ve been carefully dancing around all night finally disappears.

“Can I?” The question is quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the distant waves and the empty parking lot around you.

You answer by closing the distance.

The first touch of his lips against yours is everything you expected and somehow nothing like you imagined. Warm, certain, and long overdue after hours of pretending you weren’t both waiting for this exact moment. His mustache brushes against your skin, and the small laugh that escapes you is swallowed by the kiss because somehow that detail you’d been thinking about all night is even better than you had pictured.

Up close, he smells like sandalwood and something unmistakably him, a trace of the night air and jet fuel clinging to his clothes. He tastes like whiskey and heaven. 

You rise onto your toes, your hands finding their way around his neck and pulling him closer, though there’s barely any space left between you. His hand settles at your waist, steadying you, and for a few minutes there is no bar, no tomorrow, no reason to think beyond this moment.

The kiss is hot and messy. Two people who had clearly been aching for this moment for longer than they’d be willing to admit. His hands are roaming shamelessly, gripping your ass harshly through the fabric of your jeans. The touch has you mewling into his mouth, your hands reaching up to harshly grip at his sun-kissed locks. 

When the two of you finally pull apart enough to remember that you’re in public and the night eventually has to move forward, you give him your address. He repeats it back with that same little smile he had when he first said your name, like he’s committing it to memory.

He leaves you with one more kiss, alongside a wink that has your body shivering in anticipation. 

“See you soon.” He says, and you watch him jog to his car with a pep in his step. 

When you get into your Mercedes and see his blue Bronco following behind you through the quiet California streets, you realize you aren’t thinking about anything else at all.

Bradley is by your side the moment he steps out of the car, even as your hand is in his, dragging him up the stairwell. He’s making it difficult by pushing you against the wall every few seconds, his lips harsh against yours. His mouth moves down your neck to your collarbone, sucking and biting at your sensitive flesh. You’re so dazed by the sensation you nearly drop your keys. 

“You,” Your breath is not as steady as you willed it to be, “Bradley, are trouble.” 

“Yeah?” He pants, his hands heavy on your hips as he stands behind you. The press of his bulge in his pants presses against your back. He presses a little further, teasing as your hands fumble with the locks. 

“Yes.” You bite back a moan, finally getting the key inside of the lock. 

“If you were wearing a little dress,” He whispered with a soft kiss to your earlobe, “I’d take you right here against the door. Let everyone know just how good m’making you feel.” 

The whiskey has warmed your veins, but not enough to do something as reckless as that. Even if he makes it sound good. Even if the thought has you clenching your thighs together and dragging him into your now open apartment door. 

He slams the door behind him, stalking you through the hall as you both shed your belongings in various places. Keys are thrown on counters, shoes are kicked off god knows where, and you’re pulling his egregiously bright shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor. 

He bends down and picks you up in one swift motion, making you squeal. Your hands are clinging to those biceps you were drooling about earlier, your thighs wrapped around his waist. 

There’s no time before his tongue is in your mouth again, carrying you blindly across your apartment’s layout. It’s when he realises he has no idea where he’s going that he pulls away. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” He pants. 

You laugh; it’s ugly and loud, but it makes Bradley’s eyes sparkle at the sound of it.  

“Down the hall, last door on the left.” You giggle, and he takes you right there. Slamming the door with his foot, you’re amazed by his athleticism when you’re gently pressed against your mattress. 

You both take a moment, lost in the moment and each other's eyes before there’s a reminder of why you're there in the first place. Clothes are being tugged at, jeans discarded on the floor as you fumble around with your top. 

He helps lift the fabric off your shirkers, his eyes darkening at the sight of your lacy bra. 

“You know,” He whispers, mouth dry, “Been trying not to stare at your tits all night.” 

“I know.” You sigh contentedly, your hands running up and down his rock-hard abs. The small trail of hair leading into his boxers tickled your fingertips. “Why do you think I wore this shirt?”

“I’m really-” He unclasps your bra with one hand, lips trailing down your neck, “A respectful gentleman. But god. These are perfect.” 

Your giggle is cut off with a moan when his mouth attaches itself to your hardened buds, his other hand palming your tits harshly. The soft tickle of the hair above his lips makes you moan his name gently. 

“You know,” You start, copying him, “I've been imagining what that mustache feels like against me since the moment I saw you.” 

He pauses for a brief moment, his honey brown eyes flickering up to you, where your nipple was still in his mouth. 

“Really?” He hums, pulling away with a soft strand of spit attached to his glossy lips. 

You nod, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your thumb reaches out to wipe away the spit, softly petting his upper lip. 

“You’re so fucking hot.” You admit, as he takes your thumb into his mouth with a pop. 

“Says you.” 

Within seconds, you're pushed onto your back again, your head falling back into the pillows. His hands are traveling down your body, his thumbs hooked into the side of your soaked panties. 

“How do you feel about feeling this mustache against this sweet little cunt?”

He has barely touched you, and your eyes are already rolling into the back of your head at his words alone. “Fuck, yes. Please.” 

The barely there fabric is dragged down your legs and tossed somewhere far away as Bradley’s fingertips dig harshly into your thighs. His breath is hot and teasing as he kisses up and down your inner thighs before settling exactly where you need him. 

His tongue drags experimentally up your wet heat before his lips wrap harshly around your throbbing clit. 

“Oh god.” You whimper, your legs tensing in his hold as he took his time slowly lapping against you. It was slow, sloppy, and the hottest thing a man had ever done to you. His own moans were muffled into your cunt, as he devoured you like a man starved. 

As long as it had been for you, it felt like it had been even longer for him. He ate you out like he was relishing the fact you were even letting him. His mustache brushing against your sensitive skin, just enough to add more fuel to your already burning pleasure. You were a babbling mess, your hands alternating between tugging at his hair and gripping the sheets like a lifeline. 

With a frantic cry of his name and a harsh tug on his hair, you came against his mouth. It was glorious, as he coaxed you through your high, his frantic moans of encouragement spurring you on while his own hips ground gently against the sheets for the slightest bit of relief.

“You taste incredible.” Was the first thing he said when he came back up for air, his face wet and glistening from your release. 

Your chest was heaving, your stomach rolling at his words. “Come here.” 

Who was he to deny your beckoning finger? He pulled his boxers down swiftly, his hard cock slapping the skin harshly once it was free from its confines. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. It was long and veiny, a thick patch of curly hair at the base. 

You almost said a thank-you prayer to god, who was clearly not in the room. 

“Like what you see?” He asked, his voice thick with anticipation as he crawled back onto the bed in between your legs. 

“You know,” You sighed once his lips pressed gently to your neck, “Most cocky men aren’t always packing; can’t be too sure.” 

A giggle escaped you as he laughed against you, the damp hair tickling your neck. “Cocky?” 

“The cockiest.” You tease, wrapping your legs around his toned thighs, pulling him closer to you. “Now come on, give me your cock.” 

He shakes his head gently; he almost thinks he could fall in love with you right here.

“Yes, mam.” He presses his lips to yours again, your mouth opening instinctively for him. You could taste yourself against his tongue as he pressed against your weeping cunt. He pushed into you slowly, each of you letting out sighs of relief into each other's mouths. 

He was dragging himself inside of you once inch at a time, the hot drag making your body feel aflame. 

“God,” Your nails dug into his forearms, “You’re so b-big.” 

“Taking me s’well.” He spoke through his teeth, his eyes furrowed shut to avoid already finishing from how tight, warm, and wet you were wrapped around him. 

When his hips met yours, his thighs trembling. His lips kissing and sucking at whatever bare skin of yours he could reach as you molded around him. The first thrust took both of your breaths away, as he pulled halfway out of you before sinking back in. 

“Fuck.” You cried out, pulling him close as he began to fuck into you expertly. 

It had been a long time, too long, so any sex would have sufficed, but this man was sex on legs and knew exactly how to angle his hips to make your eyes roll in the back of your head. 

Your heels press harshly in the back of his thighs, urging him to keep going as he found a rhythm that had both of you melting into each other. It’s otherworldly, the feeling of him stretching you out on each lewd slap of his hips against yours. 

You can feel his hand slide down your slick skin to widen your legs for him, his eyes looking down to where he was sliding in and out of you. 

“God,” He groans, his palm pressing against your lower stomach, “Taking me like a fucking dream. S’good baby? Tell me how fucking good it is.” 

“L-like I said, cocky.” You tried to tease, but instead it came out breathy and shaky. 

“You like it,” He grinned, slamming himself even harder into you. “She fucking loves it; she’s screaming for me.” 

You wanted to roll your eyes at him referring to your cunt as a ‘she’, but you couldn’t think of anything as he pounded into you. Especially not when the pads of his fingers find your clit. The bed was creaking loudly, and you couldn’t get the taste of his name out of your mouth as he talked you through it. 

Your release comes quicker than you thought it would, and Bradley’s thankful because with each jolt of your tits as he thrusts, he was worried he was going to cum inside of you.

“M’gonna cum.” 

He leans down, pressing you harder into the bed. His lips against your neck. 

“Cum around my cock, there you go.” He cooed, as you threw your head back in pleasure, “Fuck you’re so beautiful cumming around me.”

If he thought you cumming on his tongue was perfect, this was otherworldly.

He’s nearly growling as you clench around him, your release pulling him even deeper inside of you. His hips lose their rhythm, stuttering as his jaw drops. 

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He’s gritting his teeth together when your still trembling legs pull him even closer. When he can’t take it anymore, he pulls out of you harshly, his hand wrapping around his cock and tugging harshly until thick ropes of his cum splatter on your lower stomach. His eyes are shut, his abs glistening and tensing, and pleasure is written all over his face as he whimpers out. 

You bask in the haze for a moment, both of your panting breaths syncing as you tried to catch your breath. You were still seeing stars behind your eyelids when the bed shifted. 

“Let me get you a washcloth.” He whispered, kissing your forehead gently. You remember the soft drag of the cloth, cleaning you up, and how he wrapped you softly in the sheets. Exhaustion and orgasmic bliss had seeped deep inside of your bones, your eyes fluttering shut. 

There’s not much to remember after that. 

You wake up to the feeling of your bed shifting, which makes you freeze. Your eyes open lazily to see the naked man rolling out of your bed, only covered by the thin top sheet wrapped around his waist. You watch him with amusement, as the memories of last night come flooding back to you. When he not-so-subtly sneaks out of the bed, he jumps when he looks back to see your now awake frame. 

“H-hey,” He whispers, his voice slowly getting more high-pitched, “Good morning. How are you?” 

You have to bite your lip to stifle your laugh, “Good morning.” 

“I uh,” He starts, still clutching the sheet like a lifeline, which gives you a wonderful view of his v-line as he awkwardly stands there, “I uh have this work thing? I swear I wasn’t just gonna sneak out on you.”

”Yeah, you were.” You whispered in amusement. 

“N-no!” His voice sounds even higher than before, “No, no I swear-“

“I’m not-” You start, but your voice is so hoarse, and you don’t know if it’s from the whiskey or screaming his name all night long. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I’m not home very much.” 

He visibly relaxes, all the panic draining from his face. “Fuck, thank god. Neither am I. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here.” 

You laughed outright this time, sinking farther into the tangled sheets. “By all means,” you teased through a yawn. “Sneak out.”

The blanket slipped carelessly down your shoulder as you reached overhead, exposing a sliver of bare skin before you noticed. His eyes betrayed him almost instantly, flickering toward you before he caught himself and jerked them back up to your face with all the subtlety of a teenage boy. A faint flush crept up his neck.

“Last night was really fun.” He added softly, “Like really fun.”

”Yeah, it was.” You smiled lazily at the man as he awkwardly scooped his clothes up from the floor. 

It’s a comfortable yet awkward silence as he shuffles around. You wrapped the blanket tightly around yourself before climbing out of bed, the hardwood cold beneath your feet. Every step reminded you of the night before, your muscles aching pleasantly enough to make you smile despite yourself.

“I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded, falling into step behind you.

Just before you reached the front door, he tipped an imaginary hat with exaggerated politeness.

”Well,” You breathed out, “Thanks for last night.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Thank you.”

For a second neither of you moved. He stood in your doorway with his boots finally laced, hair still hopelessly messy from your fingers, while you remained wrapped in nothing but your blanket, hoping the neighbors weren't there to side-eye you. 

“Well...” You smiled, rocking back on your heels. “Have a good life-”

“Oh, hey.”

His hand slipped between the door and the frame before you could close it, earning an amused look from you.

“If you ever end up back at the Hard Deck…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “And you want to grab a whiskey or something…” His grin returned, hopeful but entirely unassuming. “I’d be down.”

You couldn’t help smiling again. I’ll probably never see you again, Bradley.”

His smile lingered for another heartbeat before he took a step backward into the hallway.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Bradley.”

You closed the door before you could watch him disappear toward the elevators.

The door was slammed before you had a chance to watch him walk to the elevators. It was better this way, easier. 

By Monday morning, it already felt like another life.

Your apartment looked like a staging area more than a home. Flight gear was spread across the kitchen table beside intelligence reports, satellite imagery, weather data, and a stack of folders stamped with enough black ink to make it a waste of paper. A half-packed duffel sat open on the couch while your phone buzzed relentlessly somewhere beneath a pile of paperwork.

You answered it with a grunt, shrugging your bag over your shoulder. “Mav, I’m on my way in-“ 

“Change of plans, meet me in the hangar, get your flight suit on.” His voice crackled through the receiver, making you pause in the middle of your kitchen.

“You sure about this, old man?” 

When Maverick met with the graduates regarding the mission, it went better than he expected, all things considered. A few cocky pilots and pissed-off admirals were the least of his worries with the weight they were putting on his shoulders. He went to dismiss them into flight checks before practice, before he paused.

”Before we get started,” Maverick said, waiting until the room settled, “there’s one more thing.”

A few heads lifted from the mission packets scattered across their desks.

“An additional aviator has been assigned to this detachment; you haven’t met them yet.” 

That immediately drew a few curious glances around the room.

“For the past several years, Lieutenant Y/l/n has been conducting surveillance for this mission.” Maverick gestured toward the topographical map projected across the screen. “Every route you’ve studied, every radar profile you’ve reviewed, every piece of reconnaissance you’ve been briefed on has her fingerprints all over it.”

The easy chatter that had filled the room moments before disappeared.

“She’ll be flying this mission alongside you,” Maverick continued. “Whoever is selected as strike lead, Lieutenant Y/l/n will be their wingman.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, looking around the room as though she’d been hiding in plain sight the entire time.

“Where is this elusive stealth pilot?” he asked, pointing theatrically around the room. “I’d kinda like to know who’s gonna be flying next to me.”

A few quiet laughs rippled through the room. Another eye roll from Phoenix, a scoff from Rooster. 

Maverick only smiled.

“Oh,” he said, gathering the folders from the podium. “You’ll meet her.”

Within minutes, the briefing shifted into flight assignments and simulation parameters, and the conversation drifted back to fuel loads, attack profiles, and timing windows. The mysterious pilot was almost forgotten about as practice teams started. 

For the next several hours, the team ran through formation exercises and simulated combat scenarios, pushing each other harder with every pass. Maverick was currently putting them through the wringer in dogfighting. You hid in the shadows, just outside of reach, watching them the entire time. It was three rounds of pilots before you decided to make your entrance. 

”Uh..” Bob’s hesitant voice crackled over the frequency, uncertainty bleeding through even beneath his practiced calm.

 “Where is he, Bob?” Phoenix demanded, craning her neck beneath the canopy, her eyes darting across the empty sky where Maverick had disappeared only moments before. A beat of silence stretched just long enough for panic to settle in. 

“I d-don’t know,” He yelled back, the radar empty below him, “Is he? He’s underneath us!”

“Nope.” Maverick’s voice arrived with infuriating confidence. “I’m right here.”

His jet erupted into view directly ahead of them, slicing through the clouds with effortless precision.

“Wrong, Bob,” Phoenix muttered, instinctively checking behind her as she tried to speed up to meet Maverick.

The coms crackled loudly, “Below, below, Phoenix,” Bradley warned, his voice sharper now as something flickered beneath her aircraft.

She jerked the jet up, “What?” 

“It’s not hitting the radar; who is it?” Bob asked, his palms against the glass. 

Then a voice, bright with amusement, cut across every frequency.

“Hi, everyone.” You chuckled. 

Every head snapped downward.

“This is Lieutenant Y/l/n speaking. I’ll be assisting you all on this mission. I’m sure Maverick mentioned me.” 

Your F-18 was so impossibly close beneath Phoenix’s that, for several seconds, you’d been swallowed entirely by her shadow, matching every movement so perfectly you looked like an extension of her own jet. It was an old trick, one that required absurd precision, nerves of steel, and absolute trust in your own instincts. Against the glare of the morning sun, there had been nothing to see until you wanted to be seen. Especially not as everyone was focused on Maverick. 

“Joining the fight?” Rooster asked, trying to pretend he wasn’t both equally amused and terrified of the stunt you just pulled. 

You peeled away with a smooth roll, dropping toward the hard deck so low it made Bob suck in a breath over the radio before leveling out. Across the valley, Rooster’s aircraft broke from the pack, immediately catching your attention. Your helmet turned first. Your jet followed a heartbeat later.

“There she goes,” Maverick murmured, almost sounding pleased.

You immediately lit the burners.

The distance between you and Bradley evaporated with frightening speed. He caught the movement in his mirror just as your nose slipped inside his turn, matching him through every evasive maneuver. He climbed. You climbed. He rolled. You rolled tighter. The missile tone shrieked through his headset before he’d even finished trying to shake you.

“Tone, tone, tone.”

You laughed over the comms as the simulated kill registered. “Fox Two.”

Bradley groaned loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Maverick couldn’t hide the grin in his own voice.

“That, everyone… is Shadow.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Phoenix let out a low whistle. “…Badass.”

“Lesson one,” You said. “The most dangerous pilot in the sky isn’t the one you can see, it’s the one you can’t.” 

The engines had barely finished whining down before you were climbing out of the cockpit, helmet tucked beneath your arm, adrenaline still buzzing pleasantly beneath your skin. Heat shimmered off the tarmac as the canopy lifted, and you couldn’t stop the grin stretching across your face, the kind that only came after a flight where everything had gone exactly right. Maverick was already waiting beside the line of parked fighters. Sunglasses hiding whatever smug expression you knew was underneath them.

“Hell of an entrance, Y/n.”

You laughed, accepting the quick side hug before bumping his shoulder with your own. “An entrance you orchestrated.” 

“I think it showed, em.” He offered, leading your way into the hangar where the rest of them stood surrounding the radios. 

You scanned across the crowd as you approached, taking in the faces of the pilots you would be flying beside. Most of them looked exactly as you expected, curious, skeptical, still trying to figure out who exactly had been hiding underneath the radar for the past few hours. You offered them a small smile.

“Lieutenant Y/l/n,” you began, your voice carrying through the hangar. “I know most of you have already met me in the air, but I figured an actual introduction was probably overdue. We know Maverick has a flair for the dramatics.” 

A few quiet laughs moved through the group.

“I’ve been assigned to this mission as your reconnaissance specialist and wingman. I’ve spent the last few years collecting intel on the target area, studying the terrain, the defenses, and every possible route in and out. My job was to make sure you have as much information as possible before we ever leave the ground.”

You continued speaking, settling into the familiar rhythm of a briefing, until your eyes moved across the group one more time. Until you paused; a familiar face standing among the pilots was a face you had not expected to see. A mustache, messy brown hair, and an expression that shifted from curiosity to complete disbelief the second he recognized you.

”And uh-“ Your words caught somewhere between your thoughts and your mouth. For one brief second, the confident lieutenant who had slipped beneath their radar disappeared, replaced by the woman standing in her apartment doorway a few days ago watching one Bradley Bradshaw walk away.

His face mirrored yours, confusion and shock before a small smirk of satisfaction pulled at his lips. He was shaking his head, a small laugh of amusement nearly slipping out at the absurdity of it all. 

You cleared your throat nervously, looking anywhere but in his direction as you continued. “As I was saying, my role is to make sure everyone here has what they need to get home.”

“I’m here because Maverick asked me to pass along a skill set that’s kept me alive more than once, and if it helps even one of you make it home when this stops being practice and starts becoming real, then I’ve done my job. Nobody in this room needs another lecture about being the best pilot. You’re already here because you’re among the best. What keeps people alive isn’t talent. It’s trusting the person flying next to you enough to know they’ll be exactly where you need them when everything goes sideways.”

A few deserved glances towards Hangman’s way make your brows quirk up. 

“And you, Hangman.” You set your helmet down on one of the desks, a little harder than necessary as you rounded to the man sitting casually, “You pulling that shit out there? Do you think that makes you more of a man? To leave someone hanging like that?” 

“They can’t keep up-“ 

“Or maybe you can’t follow rules to save your life. You wanna be wing leader? Not in my world, Lieutenant. I may not have final say, but I’ll be damned if I’m up in the sky with only you looking out for me.”  

Hangman held your stare, his ridiculous smirk not budging in the slightest.

“Well, aren’t you something, Shadow.” He said, playing completely unfazed as per usual. 

You held the eye roll back for the sake of professionalism and spun on your heels.  “I have a feeling,” you replied as you turned on your heel, “this is going to be a very long few weeks.”

A laugh echoed somewhere behind you. “It sure is,” Rooster chimed in.

The sound of his voice sent an involuntary chill down your spine.

You refused to look back, to acknowledge him in any way. 

Instead, you busied yourself gathering your notes while Maverick wrapped up the remainder of the briefing, assigning study material and dismissing everyone for the evening. Conversations immediately broke out around the hangar as pilots compared notes from the day’s exercises, arguing over dogfights, laughing about blown maneuvers, and already trying to size one another up before tomorrow’s training.

The second Maverick dismissed the room, you slipped out a side door before anyone could stop you, weaving through the maintenance bays toward the locker rooms with your helmet tucked beneath your arm. If Bradley had recognized you, and judging by the look on his face, he absolutely had, you weren’t quite ready for that conversation yet.

Most of the squad was still lingering in the hangar, giving you just enough time to shower away the sweat and lingering smell of the cockpit. Hot water beat against your shoulders until the tension slowly began to loosen, though it did very little to quiet your racing thoughts. 

He was good (really, he was good at a lot of things, but you really tried your best not to go there). There was a high chance he’d be selected to fly wing leader, so you couldn’t avoid him forever. 

You pulled on a fresh shirt and jeans before stuffing your flight suit into your duffel bag. Your locker slammed shut with a metallic clang as you zipped the bag over your shoulder.

“Well, well.” The voice came from directly behind you. “I thought you said we’d probably never see each other again.”

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment before letting out an amused sigh. “Funny,” you muttered as you turned around. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Bradley leaned casually against the row of lockers. His hair was still damp with sweat from the flight, stubborn curls refusing to stay where they’d been pushed. A dark streak of grease was smudged across his forehead, and his flight suit hung open around his waist, revealing a sweat-soaked olive undershirt that made him look like every tag chaser's wet dream. 

He caught you looking, and there was that cocky smirk again.

“I swear,” you said before he had the chance to speak, lifting a hand in surrender, “I wasn’t given a roster. I had no idea who was getting called back for this mission. I have the same clearance as you, and Mav didn’t tell me anything.” 

He held his hands up, “I believe you. You looked like you were gonna shit yourself up there.” 

“I just didn’t know,” you began, shaking your head as you searched for the right words, already aware you were dangerously close to overexplaining yourself. “I figured you were a pilot. I mean, obviously. I just had no idea you’d be called back for this mission specifically.”

“I’m just that good, sweetheart.” 

You hated this; you hated how you somehow managed to hook up with the hottest man alive who just so happened to be the man you were more than likely going to have to put your life in his hands in just a matter of a short few weeks. 

“So am I.” You barked back automatically, perhaps a reflex from years of being looked down upon as a woman in this field. 

“No one’s managed to get a lock on me in years,” he continued, holding your gaze without the slightest hint of teasing now. “Then you show up out of nowhere, tuck yourself underneath Phoenix’s shadow, and stick yourself on my six before I even knew you were there.”

The way he said it, the admiration in his voice and the glazed look in his eyes. It made your body ache, a subtle warmth growing in your lower belly.

“You gave me a fight, a little one anyway.” You whispered, teasingly. 

“I was caught off guard,” he defended, shifting on his feet, “I’d love to go head to head with you up there. No rules. Would be a real sight to see.”

You forced yourself to clear your throat, breaking eye contact before your thoughts wandered elsewhere. The conversation had drifted dangerously close to sounding like foreplay, only this time the setting wasn’t your apartment.

“We’re professionals.” You nodded once, convincing yourself as much as him. “We can fly this mission together without there being any issues. Right?” 

Bradley considered you for a moment, humming thoughtfully before his gaze drifted from your eyes. It wandered, entirely unapologetically, over your face, your shoulders, down just enough to make your pulse quicken before lazily returning to meet your eyes again.

“Yeah,” he replied, taking his time with the answer. “I think we can.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” You groaned, leaning your head on the locker. 

He blinked with exaggerated innocence. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what.”

A fake gasp escaped him as he pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“Excuse me?” he said, sounding thoroughly offended. “You’re the one looking me up and down.”

A flush crept up your neck as you ripped yourself upright. “I was not.” 

He just stood there, crooked smile still on his face. “Whatever makes you feel better.” 

You could feel his gaze on you, even as you attempted to gather your belongings. 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he asked, laughing again.

“Looking at me like you’ve seen me naked.” You seethe out, throwing the bag over your shoulder. 

“Oh,” he replied with entirely too much satisfaction. “But I have.”

A groan escaped you as you dragged a hand down your face. “We can’t do this. Seriously, no one on the squad can find out. It was just one night. Besides, we agreed it was nothing serious. We’re adults. Adults have one-night stands all the time.”

“Agreed.” He says, and you can’t find it in yourself to believe him with that smirk still beaming. 

“I just don’t want it to complicate the mission.” You settled on, “We need to be able to work together.”

Bradley studied you for a moment before nodding, the teasing still lingering in his eyes even if he chose not to push any further.

”I agreed, Shadow.”

He let your callsign roll easily off his tongue, smiling as though he’d been waiting all day for an excuse to use it. Something about hearing it from his lips made your stomach do an annoyingly noticeable little flip. The same lips that- yeah, you needed to leave. 

“Goodbye, Rooster.” 

You didn’t need to turn to know that he watched you leave, each sway of your hips intentional as you slammed the door behind you. 

The weeks that followed were on such a tight schedule you hardly had time to think about that fateful night. Training began before sunrise and rarely ended before dusk, each day blending seamlessly into the next as Maverick pushed the squad harder than any of them thought possible. Your chest ached at the end of each night, G’s making your lungs ache on the walk back to your car. Tensions were high as Rooster and Hangman competed against each other for the wing leader spot. 

You knew it would be Bradley; there wasn’t a doubt in your mind. The mission suggestion was all but written up the moment Hangman left you in the air over a dozen times in the first round of simulations. He was a good pilot, a fearless one, but he would get everyone killed, and you knew Maverick knew it too. 

Even with this, the squad slowly started to become your family. Bob and Phoenix were impossible not to like, and before long the four of you had fallen into an easy rhythm of grabbing late-night dinners after training or ending particularly brutal days at the Hard Deck, trading stories over greasy burgers and pitchers of beer while Payback and Fanboy argued over pool in the background. Even Hangman and Coyote occasionally wandered over to stir the pot before inevitably insulting Bradley enough to start another dick measuring contest, as you and Phoenix called it.

“They’re measuring again.” She’d whistle with a shiver of disgust from where she sat beside you.

You’d roll your eyes, “Should we bring out the rulers, boys?”

“Yeah, you’d like that, huh, Shadow?” Hangman would smirk, sending a filthy wink your way.

Bradley’s jaw would clench at that, before his Rooster persona was back on. “I think we all know I’d win, right Shadow?”

You’d roll your eyes and gulp down the rest of your beer, pretending like your heart wasn’t racing.

You got to know Bradley, the real Bradley Bradshaw that was behind the cloak of Rooster. He talked about growing, about his mother, about Goose, though those conversations came much later and only after the bar had emptied. He told you about how he puked the first time he took Gs, and you exchanged deployment horror stories. You learned about his friendship with Phoenix and his ongoing feud with Hangman, and how it all started years back

The first time someone convinced him to climb onto the piano for you at the Hard Deck, you laughed so hard you nearly slid right out of the booth. Phoenix caught your arm before gravity could finish the job, shaking her head as Bradley belted out Great Balls of Fire with absolutely no shame. He was in his element, and it looked good on him. Almost too good.

You’d catch yourself staring at him a little too much, letting your mind wander to places they shouldn’t go. During lessons, you’d find yourself watching his back, your eyes lingering on the scar on his chin, or the curl that always escaped out of his helmet when he showed up to practice with damp hair. 

Flying with him was a different ballpark, so different from being with him in between the sheets. It was almost more intimate, getting to know someone so quickly and so deeply. You knew when he was about to push a maneuver harder than planned because his breathing changed just enough over the comms for you to hear it. He learned you always checked high before low, that you favored patience over impulse, and that whenever you said, “I’ve got you, Rooster,” he never had to look twice to know you meant it. 

You matched his speed within fractions of a knot, mirrored every bank and climbed until it felt less like two aircraft carving through the sky and more like a single thought split between two cockpits. Thousands of pounds of steel and miles of open air separated you, yet somehow you became more aware of him there than you ever had been standing inches apart.

But amidst the camaraderie amongst some of the dagger squad, tensions were growing higher on the flight deck, after yet another failed simulation. Even on Bradley’s six, practically touching his jet while targets were acquired, you were still too slow. It was too risky; there was still too much room for error.  The tactical debrief felt suffocating. Maverick’s face was pressed into a hard frown as he looked at each of you, disappointment etched into his features. 

“Why are you dead?” He started, shooting daggers into Bradley, “You’re team leader up there, why are you dead? Why is your team dead?” 

Phoenix breathed out, frustration rolling off of her shoulders, “Sir, they’re the only ones who made it to target.” 

“A minute late. He gave the Enemy aircraft time to shoot him and his wingman down,” Maverick said, making Bradley tense from where he was sitting next to you. “They’re still dead.” 

“You don’t know that-“ 

“You’re not flying fast enough,” Hangman interjected. “You don’t have a second to waste.”

”We made it to the target.” 

“And superior enemy planes intercepted you on your way out.”  The room went still again. 

Bradley shrugged, ”Then it’s a dogfight-“

”Against fifth-generation fighters.” The vein in Maverick’s neck is protruding, his eyes locked on Bradley's. 

You couldn’t just sit there and let him take the brunt of this, so you clear your throat, “We’d still have a chance.” 

There’s a brief silence; you can feel Bradley’s appreciation as he shifts in his seat. “If we got intercepted, they’d think there’s only one. We have the element of surprise, and with Rooster up there and me-“

”In F-18s?”

Bradley shakes his head, ”It’s not the plane, it’s the pilot-“

”Exactly.”

Maverick's words make the tension in the room climb until it feels impossible to breathe normally. You slowly leaned back into your chair, watching the exchange unfold with a tightness in your chest. You knew there was history there, short clipped words from Bradley and the way Maverick watched him like a hawk. It wasn’t your place to pry, so you didn’t. 

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission, sir.”

All eyes turn to Hangman as he scoffs,  “You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here or a man doesn’t come back.” He takes his time to gaze over at Phoenix, then to you with an arrogant look on his face. “No offense intended.”

You’re ready to bite back before Bob leans forward in his seat, “Yet somehow you always manage.”

”I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative is all.”

Not even Maverick’s interjections get Hangman to stop the tirade he’s dead set on continuing. 

“We’re going into combat, son. On a level no living pilot has ever seen. Not even him. It’s no time to be letting the past hold you back-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bradley cuts him off, his body shifting to lock eyes with the man. 

Hangman looks around the room, waiting. This is what he was waiting for, his grand finale and final show off to drop the bombshell he’d be clinging onto for just the right moment. 

“I can’t be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man?” And there it is. You heard Bradley’s stories; his dad died flying. He never said anything special, and you didn’t pry. 

“Or that Maverick was flying when your old man-“ 

Maverick’s attempts at settling the peace fall on deaf ears; it all happens so fast. Before Hangman can even get all of the words out, Rooster is leaping from his seat, heading straight towards the blonde. He grabs his collar, and it’s chaos from there. You follow, slipping in between the two men as hands pull them back from each other. The entire class now stood, separating them as best they could. 

“You son of a bitch-“ 

Everyone was yelling, spit flying as you pressed your palms into Bradley’s chest. His arms were being held back by Bob and Phoenix, as you tried to push him away.

“Bradley,” You tried to redirect his attention, “Bradley, he’s not worth it. I promise he’s not worth it.” 

His eyes, full of fury, met yours and couldn’t help but soften just the slightest bit. Unfortunately for you, this moment was not in isolation. It wasn’t a gentle moment in the hanger, or the corner of Hard Deck, or in the locker room. This subtle display of knowing was out in the open for everyone with eyes to see. And Hangman? He was one of the most observant people you’ve ever met, and you hated it about him. 

Once things were settled, they let Hangman loose, but with a glance towards Bob and Phoenix, you made sure they didn’t do the same for Bradley. You could feel his heart beating wildly underneath your palms; he wasn’t thinking clearly. The moment he was free, he’d do something to jeopardize this mission and his career.

“You’re dismissed.” Maverick’s voice booms through the crowd, but everyone’s adrenaline is still pumping. 

“He doesn’t have what it takes,” Hangman looks to Maverick, “You know I’m right.”

Then his gaze is on you, your body still pressed against Bradley’s as he writhes, wanting nothing more than to land a punch to the side of the cocky man’s face. He goes to leave, but waits until he’s all but nose to nose with Bradley before saying his final remarks.

“Wow, Bradshaw.”

The room immediately shifted, everyone preparing for yet another fight to break out. 

“You know, I knew you wanted it bad,” Hangman continued, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “I just didn’t realize you wanted it that bad.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone, not as eyes filtered amongst the crowd. Another revelation made. It sounded like everything was underwater when you turned, your body jerking harshly. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” You snap, before you feel an arm wrapped around your waist. Somehow Bradley has freed himself from their grips, and used it to pull you back. This action itself seemed to all but confirm his suspicions. When Hangman clicked his tongue. 

“Watch it,” Bradley warned, tensions rising all over again. 

“I said you’re dismissed,” Maverick yelled once again. 

Bradley’s grip loosened, but he didn’t let go immediately. His eyes flickered toward Hangman, who was already walking away, then back to you. He gave you the smallest shake of his head; it wasn’t worth it. You swallowed the anger building in your throat, watching Hangman disappear through the doorway.

You stepped out of Bradley’s grip as if it burned you, walking back to your seat as the crowd slowly dispersed. He wanted to follow you, to talk, but he let his friends guide him gently out of the room while you lingered back. When the final pilot walked through the door, Maverick cleared his throat. 

“I didn’t know you knew Bradshaw.” He said, his arms leaning against the table. 

You scoffed, “Yeah? I didn’t know you did either.” 

“Fraternization code of conduct states-“ 

“Don’t quote the book at me,” you snapped, the words leaving your mouth before you had the chance to temper them. The silence that followed made you immediately regret the tone. You straightened in your chair, rubbing a tired hand over your forehead. “Sir.”

He was quiet, waiting for an explanation. 

“We met the day I got back; I didn’t know anything besides his name.” It felt ridiculous admitting this to your superior. “We’re not in a relationship. We’re the same rank, and he’s not my superior nor am I his. And when I advocated for him to be strike lead…” You shook your head. “That had nothing to do with the fact that I know him. I’d have said the same thing if we’d never met outside of work.” Your voice softened, conviction replacing frustration. “He’s a damn good pilot, Maverick. You know this.” 

The room was quiet again. You looked at him expectantly.

“Your turn.”

That’s how you ended up here, seated outside on the beach in front of Hard Deck. Your feet in the warm sand, with a jacket thrown over your shoulders. Maverick told you everything, from pulling Goose out of the water to pulling Bradley’s papers. It weighed heavily on you to know Bradley had so much riding on this mission. 

You were being lulled by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore before a voice spoke up from behind you. 

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Bradley spoke up, slowly creeping up until he was sitting next to you. 

 You smiled softly at him, “Penny rat me out?” 

“Not to brag,” He whispered with a chuckle, “But I think I’m her favorite.” 

You were glad he was feeling better, especially after the events earlier. You wanted to hear his laugh, and that scared you. All of it scared you, whether you’d be willing to admit it out loud or not. The mission stakes, the way your chest felt when you looked at Bradley, the unknowing of the future. 

“How are you feeling?” You turn to look at him, as he rests his arms on his knees. 

“More level-headed,” he admitted, rubbing absentmindedly at the scrape across his knuckles. You don’t ask how he got it. “Still pissed.”

“I figured.”

“I hate that he got to you.”

You turn in confusion, “Hm?” 

He sighed, still watching the water.

“I don’t care what he says about me.” He paused, swallowing hard enough for you to notice. “My d-dad…” His voice caught just enough to betray him before he found it again. “That’s different.”

There wasn’t any bravado behind it, no attempt to shrug it off with a joke the way he usually did. It was simply the truth. You thought back to everything Maverick had told you only an hour earlier, about Goose, about Carole, about promises and guilt and thirty years of trying to protect someone while going against their own wishes. Bradley wasn’t just carrying his own expectations into this mission. He was carrying his father’s memory, his mother’s hopes, Maverick’s regret, and now the impossible responsibility of leading a team through something they weren’t expected to survive. 

He let out another slow breath before continuing. “But he went after you because he knew it’d get a reaction.” He finally looked over at you, the moonlight catching the exhaustion written across his face. “Out of both of us.”

Your chest tightened, but you shook your head almost immediately. “He didn’t get to me,” you promised. “You’re not a woman in the Navy if you let one comment about fucking your way to the top get into your head. If I threw punches every time someone assumed I was sleeping with somebody important, I would’ve been arrested years ago.” A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Besides…”

You let the pause linger just long enough. “Phoenix and I are gonna kill him.”

There it was, that laugh you’ve been aching to hear. 

“What?” He got out, his chest aching from how hard he was cackling. 

“You heard me.”

You kept your expression perfectly serious. “We’re gonna dump him somewhere off the eastern seaboard. Phoenix’s idea. Bob volunteered to be lookout.”

He laughed- oh, he laughed loud enough to echo over the surf, shoulders shaking as he doubled over slightly. The sound settled somewhere deep in your chest, warming places you hadn’t realized had gone cold, and you caught yourself smiling long before you meant to. It’s infectious, and you’re both laughing off the horrors of today until your sides hurt. 

You brush your shoulder with his playfully, but he keeps your shoulders touching before you could pull away. 

After you both catch your breath, he leans in a little closer, a more serious look washing over him. “I want you to know, Hangman is wrong.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole.” 

“No, I mean…” He looked away again, watching the tide for a second before gathering the courage to continue. “I know we didn’t know each other before that night, but I never once did anything with the intention of you helping me get strike leader.”

You nod quietly, but let him continue. 

“I mean…” He laughed awkwardly at himself. “Obviously, having the best recon pilot in the Navy watching my six doesn’t exactly hurt my odds, but…” His voice trailed off as he searched for words that didn’t seem to come naturally. “I’d have been sitting out here talking to you anyway, despite it all.” 

“You know, Bradley, much to my dismay, or my attempts to not,” You trailed off, letting your knees knock into each other, “I happen to like you.” 

“You sure know how to sweet-talk a man.” He chided, making you fully press your shoulder into his a little more. 

“Just,” You sighed, fingernails picking at a thread on your shorts, “Wish we met in different circumstances.”

He nodded, “You gonna give me some spiel about how the Navy comes first? 

You let out a quiet laugh. “Why? Is that the same speech you’ve been giving women for years?”

He snorted, shaking his head, before looking back out toward the horizon. “I’d be lying if I said the Navy doesn’t come first. It has to. It always will, at least while I’m wearing the uniform.” He paused, drawing a slow line through the sand with the heel of his boot. “But I think that’s what makes this so frustrating.”

”When I told you I wasn’t looking for anything serious, I wasn’t lying.” You started, “I mean, you know how it is. It’s impossible to date, to do anything in our lives. But, I don’t know. This feels different, and it’s scary.” 

“You were the first person I’d slept with in over a year.” He admits, a small, almost embarrassed smile on his lips, “I don’t know if you know this, but there aren’t a lot of women on naval bases.” 

A toothy grin pulls at your lips, “You were mine, too.” 

There’s a silent lull between the two of you, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the ocean and quietly mourning a life you didn’t have. One where meeting someone didn’t come with a countdown clock attached. One where you could go on dates without wondering if either of you would be shipped away. One where liking someone didn’t immediately come with the terrifying realization that the thing you wanted most was also the thing that could hurt the most. 

That wasn’t the life you had. Right now you couldn’t focus on anything else but the mission. A mission that had a timeline, one that was closing in faster than either of you wanted to admit.

“Maybe in another life I would have met you and asked you out on an actual date first,” He whispers. “Maybe in another life we could give it a try, instead of worrying if we’re gonna go down in a fiery blaze.” 

“Hey,” You poke his chest, “That’s not funny.” 

“Just so you know…” His voice softened. “I like you too.”

You smiled sadly, leaning into him on purpose this time. His arms came around you, pulling you into him as you watched the sun set over the California skyline. 

 The route that had just become muscle memory, the terrain etched into everyone’s minds through countless simulations and live runs, had been changed. Dogfighting was expected; squads were exhausted.  Somewhere between all the infighting, the squad slowly stopped feeling like a group of strangers thrown together by circumstance and started resembling an actual team. Maybe this had something to do with Maverick’s football day, which was a day you spent grateful for sunglasses as you got to ogle a very sweaty, very fit Bradley running underneath the hot sun.

He knew it too, as you had dropped the ball (literally) quite a few times in distraction. This is why when he slung his sweaty bare arm over your shoulder, you couldn’t even deny the accusation.

”Am I distracting you, Shadow?” He asks, sweating all over you while the boys yelled for him to stop flirting and rejoin the game. 

“Shut up.”

”You’re not being very subtle, Bradshaw.” 

“Never said I was trying to be,” he grinned, and you could envision his sparkly eyes behind those aviators. “At least now you can ogle me in my flight suit without shame.” 

“That would imply I had shame in the first place.” You smirk, slinking your fingers together with his. He took your hand in his, making your heart soar until he turned it against you, pulling you against him. 

“Bradley, Bradley, put me down!-“ 

Bradley carried you halfway across the sand before tossing you into the water, and the second you surfaced, laughing and wiping salt from your face, you knew you would remember that moment forever.

It was a good day. A really good day, followed by a very bad one. You sat there with Bradley’s hand wrapped tightly in yours while you waited to hear if Phoenix and Bob were okay. The uncertainty was unbearable, the silence between updates stretching longer than it should have. For someone who had spent years flying into dangerous situations, waiting on the ground had always been the hardest part.

When the news finally came that they were alive, that they were okay, it felt like a fifty-pound weight had been lifted from your chest. You left him and Maverick with a swift kiss to Bradley’s forehead, pretending you didn’t hear the screaming down the hallway.

The days were coming faster, deadlines were pushed, and before all of you knew it was the day of. You boarded the carrier with the rest of the team, the ocean stretching endlessly around you as the ship carried all of you closer to the mission. Your bag was dropped into the barracks beside Phoenix’s room. You were as ready as you were going to be. 

Pre-flight checks, mission debriefs, medical evaluations, and more were all a blur as you walked through it on autopilot. No one ever talks about the mental strength it takes to know you have to pull off not one, but two miracles to bring all of your friends home and complete the mission. You looked around at the group of people you had grown to love, even Hangman, and felt a painful stab in your chest as you all said your good nights after dinner. Hangman didn’t even make a single joke about it being the last supper; the tension surrounding everyone was different; this was real. 

You couldn’t sleep. You were almost positive nobody else could either.

The carrier had gone quiet hours ago. The steady hum of the ship beneath you should have been comforting, something familiar after years of deployments and long nights spent away from home, but tonight every vibration felt like a reminder.

You had flown dangerous missions before. You had stared down impossible odds and climbed into aircraft knowing there was a chance you wouldn’t climb back out. You had trained for this. Prepared for this. Studied every inch of the terrain until you could probably fly the route with your eyes closed.

But you’ve never flown a dangerous mission with people you considered family.  Especially not with someone you may have been in love with. 

Eventually, exhaustion started to win. Your thoughts blurred at the edges, your body finally beginning to surrender to the need for sleep when a knock echoed against your door.

You were awake instantly. For a second you didn’t move, hoping maybe you had imagined it. Then it came again, even more frantic than before. You pushed yourself out of bed with a quiet groan, dragging a hand over your face as you crossed the small space of your bunk.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your eyes as you reached for the door.

You swung it open harshly, “W-what?”

Then you saw him. Bradley stood there looking anything but tired. His hair was messy, his breathing uneven, and there was a nervous energy radiating off him that you had rarely seen. This was the same man who could fly straight into enemy territory without hesitation, who could stare down Maverick during a debrief and argue his point until everyone else backed down.

But standing outside your room in the middle of the night? He looked terrified.

“Bradley?”

“I can’t.”

The words came out immediately, almost like he had been holding them in the entire walk over.

He took a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can’t sleep.”

You stared at him, your exhaustion slowly fading as you realized just how serious he was.

“I can’t go to sleep,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I can’t go into tomorrow without doing this.”

Before you could even respond, his lips were on yours. You kissed him back before you could think about it, your fingers finding the fabric of his shirt as if grounding yourself through him was the only thing keeping you steady.

Everything else faded away as you pulled him into your room, the door slamming shut. Nothing else mattered, not when you pulled him into your twin-sized bed. His body on top of yours, kissing you as he’d never get the chance to again. He took his time, kissing every inch of your skin he could and prying the sweetest noises out of your mouth. 

He made love to you, pushing into you with a cry of your name. Then, he fucked you like it was his last night on earth, because it might have been. You fell apart underneath him over and over until you could barely keep your eyes open anymore.

The morning came almost violently, the alarm blaring in your ears as you snuggled into Bradley’s chest. You would do anything to turn it off, to get just a few more minutes in his arms.

“Hey...” He whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. 

You sighed, burrowing yourself into him. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” He coaxed you out of bed. “I gotta be on the other side of the boat in like 20 mins, and I don’t think Nyx would appreciate me in the girls' shower.” 

“But I would.” You grumble, helping throw him his clothes as the two of you readied yourselves for the day as much as you could. 

He could see the faraway look in your eyes as you watched him leave. “Hey, it’s all gonna be fine.” He said with a kiss, “I’ll see you out there.” 

All you could do was nod to keep your emotions in check. You wanted to believe him; you really did. You and Phoenix helped each other get ready, fixing loose strands of hair, adjusting collars, checking straps, making sure every piece of gear was exactly where it needed to be.

There was comfort in the routine, familiarity in the way you two moved around each other. In knowing that even when everything else felt uncertain, there were still things you could control.

Phoenix zipped up your flight suit while you helped fix the collar sitting crooked around her neck. Neither of you said much; there wasn’t much to say. 

When you went to meet the squad on the runway, it smelled like sea salt and jet fuel, the early morning fog rising off the side of the boat. Everything was a blur of adrenaline and verbal checks with command until the clock ticked. 

Bradley’s met yours on the way to your jets, soft and almost heart-wrenching as you clutch your helmet to your side. 

“Don’t do that,” You yell out. Even with the sounds of jet engines and water rushing against the side of the carrier, you know he can hear you. 

He raises a brow. “Do what?” 

A sense of déjà vu hits your chest, making you smile despite yourself. “You know exactly what.” 

He walks a little closer, and up close you can see it on his face. “Y/n-“

”Stop.” You cut him off, making him pause. ”Stop looking at me like you’re never gonna see me again.”  

“I’m not-“ Before he has a chance to continue, you keep talking, “Because you will, Bradley. Up there.” 

You point to the sky, a small smile on his face despite the nerves wracking his body. 

“I got your back, Y/n.” He promises, as the boat horns signal you all to head to your jets. 

“I got yours.” 

Settling into your cockpit always feels like coming home after a long day; you know the ins and outs of this jet like the back of your hand. The mission objective has been drilled into your head. All the information you’ve sent to higher-ups, all the sleepless nights this is what it has all led to. Now that you were here, you could feel your stomach twisting with anxiety and something else as you watched Bradley’s plane race ahead of yours on the jetway. 

When you’ve served as long as you have, or flown as many hours, sometimes it all blurs together. Your body was on autopilot; the only thing running through your mind is the checklist of everything needed for you all to make it out of this alive. 

In moments of extreme stress, the body has a way of protecting itself. It narrows your focus until there is nothing else left. No fear. No doubt. No room to think about the fact that the person flying in front of you is someone you had kissed goodbye only hours ago, someone whose hand you had held in the dark while both of you pretended tomorrow wasn’t coming. From the moment your thumb hit the countdown clock, everything became a blur of commands and instinct.

You became one with your jet, every adjustment made without hesitation, every maneuver calculated by muscle memory alone. Bradley’s aircraft stayed directly next to you, close enough that you could track every movement, close enough that you could trust him to be exactly where he needed to be.

For a moment, it almost felt easy. The first miracle happened. The second happened by the scrap of your fucking teeth. And ironically, you think that was the easy part.

Ten Gs slammed into your chest, the pressure crushing down on you until your lungs felt like they were filled with tar. Your body fought against the weight, every muscle straining as you forced yourself to keep breathing, forced yourself to stay conscious, forced yourself to keep flying.

You pulled up hard, coming alongside Bradley just as the belly of his jet skimmed dangerously close to the snow-covered rocks below. The wings of your aircraft passed close enough to each other that for a split second you could feel the danger of it, the razor-thin margin between control and disaster.

“Now get out of there.” Cyclone’s voice crackled through your headset, and suddenly the entire weight of the world was back on your chest. 

The moment you came back to, alarms were blaring, smoke was flying, and SAMS were practically everywhere. You were all fighting for your lives. It was your turn to dodge and weave, firing countermeasures, trying your best to outmaneuver the agile missiles. 

“Rooster,” You called, hearing nothing but silence as you watched his jet drop slightly, “Don’t go into G-LOC on me.”

Bradley gasps for breath as his vision returns, brought back by the sound of your voice, then the symphony of alarms blaring in his ears. This is the dogfight you all knew would happen; here it was. 

“Shit. They’re everywhere.” You’d never been so thankful to hear his voice. 

Payback cut in fast, “Get low, get low.” 

Another alarm screamed.

Your eyes snapped toward the warning display just as another missile locked on. You reacted before thinking, firing your own countermeasure and watching the missile veer away from its path. The maneuver forced you to break away, your aircraft pulling in the opposite direction as you avoided the impact.

For a few terrifying seconds, you and Bradley weren’t flying side by side anymore.

“Fuck,” You seethe, “Can barely fucking see. Rooster, 3 o’clock.”

Then chills fill your bloodstream when he speaks, “I’m out of flares.” 

You turn back, and you can see the missile coming straight towards him. A scream leaves your throat as you drop your throttle, an attempt to help even if it’s fruitless. You can’t watch him die; you won’t, and then suddenly Maverick’s in the direct line of the missile. Maverick releases flares, but he’s too late. And he knows it. You all know it.

The missile hits Maverick’s engine. A fireball shreds his engine; all you can do is fly from above, watching him fall. Your stomach is in knots, and if you had eaten anything this morning, it would have been thrown up all over your cockpit; you’re sure of it. 

You can barely hear Phoenix call it, “I repeat, Dagger 1 is hit. He’s going down.”

You feel the tears filling your eyes as you dive below the SAM radar once again; the absence of the alarms had never felt so loud in your life. 

“Dagger 1. Status. Has anyone seen him? I didn’t see a chute.” Bradley asks, and the denial in his voice makes you stifle back a sob.

Payback speaks, “He’s gone, Rooster.”

“W-we have to circle back,” Bradley says, and you watch his hesitation as you all get back into formation.

”Dagger, you are not to engage. Repeat, do not engage.” Comms says, but you can see it. In the way he’s flying, you press your jet feet away from his, just enough to see him through his canopy. 

“Dagger Two. Return to carrier.” Another order came through your headset, louder this time. “Acknowledge.”

“Rooster, those bandits are closing,” Phoenix’s voice cut through the static, steadier than anyone felt. “We cannot go back.”

“Dagger, Comanche, bandits thirty east.”

“Rooster,” you breathed, your voice cracking despite every effort to keep it level. “He’s gone. We have to go.” You eased your jet closer, slipping into position just long enough to look through the glass. You needed one last chance to pull him back. His helmet turned ever so slightly, and through layers of plexiglass, oxygen masks, and the roar of two engines pushing to their limits, your eyes met, yours pleading. 

Please don’t leave me too. Please. 

His shoulders barely moved as he took one slow breath.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says before he circles and falls back hard. 

“Bradley, Bradley,” You kept calling his name, your voice growing louder with every desperate attempt to reach him, but the distance only widened.

 His aircraft became smaller and smaller, swallowed by mountains, smoke, and cloud until there was nothing left to look at except the empty patch of sky where he’d been flying only seconds before. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself when the explosion bloomed against the horizon. You didn’t flinch. 

Enemy aircraft were already closing the gap, warning tones screaming relentlessly through your headset as instinct forced your hands to keep flying while your heart shattered somewhere miles behind you.

“Dagger Two is hit,” someone called over the radio, their voice tight with disbelief. “I repeat, Dagger Two is hit.”

Your hands trembled violently around the throttle, every muscle in your arms threatening to give out as the fireball reflected faintly across the glass of your canopy. You wanted to turn around. Every part of your body fought the training that had been drilled into you for years. You wanted to dive after him, to ignore Cyclone, ignore the mission, ignore the four other pilots depending on you and find whatever was left. Instead, you shoved the throttle forward and forced yourself to stay in formation, tears blurring your vision.

You couldn’t look back.

You knew if you looked back, you wouldn’t stop. And it wouldn’t help the rest of your friends get home.

So you stared ahead while your mind betrayed you, replaying the night before in cruel, perfect clarity. The feel of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His fingers lazily tracing circles across your back as the carrier rocked gently beneath you. The warmth of his voice in the darkness, his sweat-lined skin pressed against your own. 

“When all this is over,” He hummed, your sweaty bodies still panting as you draped yourself across his chest, “I’m gonna take you to get a real burger.”

You jokingly moaned, “God, you sure know how to sweet-talk a lady.” 

“M’serious.” He shifted, cupping his face in yours. “You deserve an actual date. Something casual because I know you hate that fancy shit, but something worthy of you. Something that makes you happy.” 

“You make me happy. Happier than I thought I could be.” You whispered, your cheeks grinning against his hold as he pulled you back in for another kiss. 

Your jet hit the deck harder than it ever had before, the violent impact ripping you out of the memory so abruptly your entire body lurched forward against the restraints. You can’t speak, you can’t think, you can barely breathe. The canopy was barely clear before you were forcing it open, stumbling out onto the deck so quickly you nearly missed the ladder altogether. 

Someone was shouting your callsign. Someone else barked an order for you to stay put. You heard none of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat and the echo of Bradley’s voice repeating I’m sorry over and over until it drowned out everything else. Your boots slammed against the concrete as you ran, weaving through deck crew and mechanics. Every step hurt, your lungs burned from the G-forces, your legs threatened to give out beneath you, but you kept running until Dagger Spare came into view.

You hauled yourself onto the boarding steps of Jake’s jet. It wasn’t until you grabbed onto the side of his cockpit that you realized your helmet was gone. You didn’t remember taking it off. You didn’t remember throwing it aside. Somewhere between the landing and the sprint across the flight deck, it had simply ceased to exist. None of it mattered. 

Jake nearly jumped at the sight of you. His eyes widened beneath the visor as he took in your face, your shaking hands, the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

“Shadow-”

“If they call…” Your voice cracked so badly you barely recognized it as your own. You tried again, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing. “If there’s anything… if anybody hears anything…” You swallowed hard, your chest heaving. “You have to go. You have to save him.”

Someone behind you shouted your name again, louder this time, and you flinched so violently it startled even you.

“They’re not gonna let me fly,” you whispered, panic spilling out faster than you could stop it. “They’re gonna ground me.” You grabbed the edge of his cockpit so tightly your knuckles turned white. “I’m trusting you. If there’s any chance he’s alive… any chance at all…”

He looks at you, a soft mist over his pale blue eyes. “I promise, Y/n.” 

You turn with a curt nod, seeing Phoenix following alongside Hondo. The second you reached her, whatever strength had been holding you upright disappeared. You collapsed into her arms without a word, burying your face against her shoulder as sobs finally tore free from your chest. She held onto you just as tightly, her own tears soaking through your flight suit while your hands clung desperately to the fabric at her back.

”I never even got the chance to love him, Nyx.” You sobbed. 

“You did, you do.” She whimpered, “He knew, he knew, Y/n.” 

The minutes that followed blurred together in a haze of adrenaline wearing off and grief settling in. Someone draped a blanket over your shoulders. Medics came in to poke and prod, protocol, but Bob told them to give you a minute. He slid juice boxes over to where you and Phoenix were curled into each other on the couch; you thanked him for very politely telling them to fuck off. 

Then it was just what remained of the Dagger squad wallowing in what should have been a successful mission on paper. 

After what felt like an eternity, Mickey finally broke the silence.

“Why did he do that?”

No one answered immediately.

Phoenix sniffled beside you, still absentmindedly combing her fingers through the hair that had fallen loose from your bun sometime during the mission.

“Because it’s Bradley.” She whispered, “He would’ve done the same for any of us.” 

You squeezed her hand harder, willing the tears away. 

The silence settled over the room again, heavier this time. Bob sat with his head buried in his hands, absently pressing buttons on an old phone that lay on a table for decoration. Reuben had somehow acquired a handheld radio that you were fairly certain belonged to someone much higher ranking; the speaker pressed tightly against his ear while he listened to every transmission coming through.

No one paid him much attention until he suddenly sat forward.

“Overwatch is reporting signs of a jet on course for our position.”

“Fighters?” You sniffle, Phoenix's hands stilling from where they were combing through the hair that had freed itself from your bun. 

“In a F-14 Military piece?” He asked, a spark lit underneath all of you at the realization. 

You sit up, almost immediately 

“What?” 

“How the fuck did they get an F-14 in the air?” 

“You’re joking.”

Reuben cuts off everyone’s questions, waving his hands to silence you all. 

“Rooster’s ESAT is back online. It’s them.” He whispered, before his voice got louder, “It’s fucking them!”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until Phoenix grabbed both sides of your face.

“They’re alive,” she repeated, her own voice cracking around a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Did you hear him? They’re alive.”

The breath you pulled into your lungs was the first real one you’d taken since watching Bradley disappear beneath the smoke. Your knees buckled so suddenly that Bob was beside you before you could hit the floor, steadying you by the elbows while Phoenix held onto your shoulders. Relief crashed through your body so violently it almost hurt. Your chest ached. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every muscle that had been locked tight since the mission finally gave out all at once, the adrenaline crashing in waves. 

“Oh my God,” you whispered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh, my God.”

The room erupted around you.

Mickey let out a disbelieving laugh, throwing both hands over his face before turning in a slow circle as if he had too much adrenaline to contain. He tackled Rueben into a hug that nearly sent the radio skidding across the floor. Bob was jumping up and down, his arms still on both of his girls. 

All of you migrated toward the observation windows overlooking the flight deck, the radio turned up as loud as it would go. Every transmission made your stomach knot tighter, your heart in your throat as they sent Dagger Spare up in defense. 

You watched nothing but the open ocean through the windows, while your nails dug crescent moons into your palms as your heart threatened to beat itself out of your chest. Phoenix reached for your hand without saying a word, your fingers intertwining so tightly they almost hurt. 

“Foul deck, foul deck, raise the barricades. Maverick and Rooster landing.”

You were already running before the call had finished, shoving through the doorway with the rest of the squad close behind. Boots thundered against the metal stairs as all of you raced toward the flight deck, your lungs burning from the sprint, your heartbeat somehow louder than the alarms and engines surrounding you.

The jet was beat up and smoking, crew swarming around to put out the fire as the canopy slowly lifted open. He looked exhausted beyond anything you’d ever seen, his flight suit streaked with soot and grease, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his movements slower than usual as he climbed onto the wing. He was filthy. 

Someone shouted something behind you, but it dissolved into meaningless noise as your feet carried you forward before your brain had the chance to think. You shoved through deck crew, through sailors, through officers, your eyes never leaving him for even a second.

There was no chance to think before you were in front of him. The corner of his mouth tugged upward into that impossibly familiar grin, tired and crooked and overflowing with relief the second your eyes met his. It was the same smile that had greeted you that night at Hard Deck, the same one that had become so easy to find across briefing rooms and cockpits and late nights.

”You asshole!” you yelled, shoving both hands against Bradley’s chest hard enough to make him stumble half a step. “You almost got yourself killed!”

The words had barely left your mouth before his hands were on either side of your face, calloused palms warm against your flushed skin as he pulled you into him.

The kiss was anything but gentle.

It was frantic and relieved, weeks of burning tension and memories of last night poured into it. Around you, the crowd erupted into cheers, but it all dissolved into background noise the second his lips found yours. You melted into him despite every intention of staying angry, catching the unmistakable pull of a smile against his mouth as though he already knew exactly how this was going to end.

When you finally drew back, your forehead rested against his for a moment, both of you laughing quietly as you caught your breath.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound convincing. “Don’t think that gets you out of it.”

“I know.” His thumbs brushed lightly over your cheeks, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made your heart ache. “So let me make it up to you.”

”You finally gonna let me fuck you in the flight suit?” 

Bradley’s eyes went comically wide, instinctively pulling you a little closer, the roar of the crowd around you swallowing your words before anyone else had a chance to hear them.

“No,” he blurted, before immediately catching himself. “I mean-yes. Eventually. Absolutely, but that’s not what I meant.” He laughed, sweat dripping from his brow. “Let me take you out. On a proper date, give me a chance to ask you to be mine.” 

“But you said-“ 

“Oh, fuck it. Fuck all the reservations we both had.” He smiles, and it’s so wide it looks just like heaven. “I almost died, and all I could think about was how I regret never getting a chance to call you mine.” 

His eyes sparkled as you nodded, so quickly you were afraid you’d get whiplash. 

“Bradley. I’d love to be yours.” 

Hockey boys disappeared.

You wished you had known that before you let Dean slip out of your place two nights ago.

They didn’t do it intentionally, never maliciously either but the season swallowed them whole. They vanished into six a.m. skates and afternoon lifts, into physical therapy appointments that patched together bruised shoulders and strained knees. Into mandatory media interviews the athletic department insisted would make the team more marketable, more approachable and into lectures they attended only long enough to collect notes before hurrying off to practice again, then came the exams they'd postponed because hockey had always come first until suddenly it couldn't.

Their schedules folded in on themselves until entire days disappeared without warning.

You only ever seemed to find them again at parties, ones Allie and Hannah practically dragged you to, insisting fresh air, loud music and cheap drinks counted as emotional healing.

Your skin had been buzzing ever since that night, an awareness sitting right beneath the surface no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. Every time you opened your dresser, the tangled pile of Agent Provocateur lace shoved unceremoniously into the back of your drawer stared back at you like evidence from a crime scene. You'd stuffed it in there without folding a single piece, too flustered to deal with it afterward, yet you still couldn't bring yourself to move it somewhere less obvious.

Then there were Dean's texts, you answered them eventually, right after rewriting each reply sufficient times to make yourself question your own sanity. Was starting a sentence with a capital letter too serious? Did ending it with a period make you sound annoyed? Was “okay” different from “ok”? You caught yourself deleting perfectly normal messages simply because they looked too eager before sending something shorter that felt even stranger.

You hadn't mentioned that night once.

You tried not to think too much about the kiss or what had come before and especially not how it had ended. He'd watched you pull your pajamas on without a trace of impatience, giving you the privacy of looking away whenever your eyes met before inevitably finding you again, you kept your focus away from the memory of the gentle press of his lips against your forehead before he'd left, so tender you could still feel the warmth after he’d stepped away. You'd looked completely wrung out, limbs heavy, emotions stripped bare, too tired to pretend you were anything but vulnerable and he'd treated you like something precious instead of fragile.

You hadn't reached for him.

Even now, the memory made your fingers twitch uselessly at your sides. If you'd caught his wrist and tugged him back for even another minute, would anything feel different now? Or would you still be dissecting text messages like they were evidence in a court case, wondering how you had become shy after years of knowing each other better than anyone else?

“So that's what it feels like,” you breathed, the words escaping before you realized you'd spoken them aloud as your heeled boots scraped lazily against the sidewalk.

A few steps ahead, Allie stopped so abruptly she nearly caused a collision. She turned on her heel, her brows knitting together as she looked first at Hannah walking beside you, checking whether she'd heard the same thing, before her attention landed squarely on you.

“That's what what feels like?” she asked, curiosity overtaking whatever conversation you three had been having.

You could feel another exchange of glances pass between them, so quick most people would've missed it. Hannah's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, Allie's mouth pulled into a thin line before she gave the smallest shrug in return.

Years of friendship had made you fluent in conversations that didn't require words. If you had to guess, it translated roughly to “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it was too soon to drag her to a party.” You pretended not to notice. Instead, you let your gaze drift down the street.

Cars lined both curbs, squeezed bumper to bumper beneath the streetlights, while clusters of students spilled across lawns and sidewalks with red cups already in hand. Music pulsed from somewhere ahead, bass so heavy it vibrated faintly beneath your feet and every few seconds another burst of laughter erupted from the overcrowded house at the end of the block where people continuously filtered through the front door, the party breathing them in and out.

You let out a quiet sigh, wondering whether turning around now would actually be more awkward than simply going inside.

Hannah spoke first, her voice light. “We don't have to stay long,” she reasoned, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jacket as she smiled at you. “There's free booze. Let's just treat it like a pregame, then we can head back to the apartment, order something greasy and play poker.”

“No offense, girls,” you replied with the ghost of a smile, “but I'm not stripping naked in front of you two tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”

Allie snorted. “I think she means the normal kind of poker.”

You looked at her with exaggerated disbelief. “We're in college, Allie. There is no other kind.”

A laugh escaped Hannah while Allie rolled her eyes so dramatically you were surprised they didn't disappear into the back of her head permanently.

“Okay…” Allie muttered under her breath, drawing the word out as she pointed an accusing finger at you. “Pessimist.” Then her entire expression brightened again, optimism returning with alarming speed. “Let's not waste good outfits by turning around prematurely. One hour.” She held up a finger. “Two, tops.”

“And no boys–” Hannah added.

You watched Allie's head whip toward her so quickly a strand of hair stuck briefly to her lipstick. “What?” she protested.

Hannah ignored her entirely, keeping her eyes on you instead. “We'll keep them at bay.”

“Who's we?” Allie demanded, her eyes widening in horror. She turned toward Hannah, raising both eyebrows in an elaborate series of expressions that looked suspiciously like she was trying to negotiate exceptions without saying them openly.

“Yeah,” you chimed in before Hannah could answer, “let's not be rash.”

Both of them looked at you at once and you blinked innocently. “I mean…” you amended, scratching lightly at the side of your neck. “Talking's fine, right?” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “If Tucker came up to me, I wouldn't ignore him.”

“You like Tucker?” Hannah asked carefully, the question so gentle that it almost sounded like she was testing the ice before stepping onto it. Her eyes narrowed, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile. “Though he's not the demographic I'm worried about.”

Your head snapped toward her. “No, I–” You stumbled over the words, making a vague gesture in the air between you. “It was just an example. He's a boy–” You caught yourself. “Man.” The correction did absolutely nothing to restore your confidence as both of them continued staring at you expectantly. You winced. “Okay, it was a bad example,” you admitted, ducking your head.

Before either of them could capitalize on it, you slipped neatly between them and continued walking toward the house, hoping physical distance would somehow end the conversation…It didn't.

“Surprised you didn't use Dean,” Allie remarked quietly.

Your entire body locked up and your next step faltered before stopping altogether. Slowly, you turned back to face them, your expression caught somewhere between horrified and deeply offended. “Let's pick another word.”

Allie blinked. “…What?”

You shrugged awkwardly, refusing to elaborate for a second before mumbling, “‘Use’ just sounds wrong.”

“Since when?” Hannah laughed, looking genuinely confused.

“I meant ‘use him’…” Allie's grin spread wider the second she realized what could’ve happened inside your head. “As in ‘use him as an example’.” She pointed at you dramatically. “Though if you're into that dominatrix shit, I'll just ask you not to do it in the apartment.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “And much less with Di Laurentis. I doubt his ego could handle physically being under a woman and–”

Your eyes widened a little more with every passing sentence. Your mouth opened twice, each time thinking now was the moment you'd interrupt, only for Allie to barrel cheerfully into the next thought before you could squeeze a single word in.

“…he'd probably have trouble performing or something. I don't remember Six Flags having a ride where you stand in line for forty minutes just to leave disappointed. He'd spend more time advertising himself than actually delivering and fuck forbid he finds a captive audience…we'd never hear the end of how 'life-changing' he thinks his d–”

“Allie,” you finally managed weakly, which thankfully made her rant stop.

A few steps away, Hannah made a strangled sound that was half laugh, half cough. “Okay!” she wheezed, trying and failing to compose herself. “I think we'll all stay away from boys tonight.”

A huff of laughter escaped you, the tension finally cracking. “So if Garrett waltzes in,” you asked, “you're just going to keep that man away?” Your eyebrows lifted knowingly. “If what slips through the thinnest walls ever made is any indication, I'd like to see that work in your favor.”

Hannah didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, that's different,” she replied with unmistakable pride. “We're together.”

“Better wrap up your French lesson then, Madame,” Allie declared, already marching ahead with exaggerated determination. She shook her head dramatically, muttering loud enough for both of you to hear. “We? Who's we? Far as I know this is still a free country…” She threw one hand into the air in theatrical protest without ever slowing her pace, leaving you and Hannah exchanging an amused glance before following after her.

You grimaced before leaning slightly toward Hannah, lowering your voice as though the woman in question might somehow overhear you from halfway up the walkway. “I think we should start putting the news on as background noise,” you reasoned with complete sincerity.

A laugh escaped Hannah before she bumped your shoulder lightly with hers as the two of you started walking again, unhurried despite Allie steadily increasing the distance between you.

“College is torture enough,” Hannah sighed. “Let's at least wait until we get this semester's grades.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “And gauge exactly how much pain we actually deserve…smart idea.”

Hannah breathed out dramatically. “Or the worst I've ever had.”

You laughed under your breath just as Allie's voice carried across the front lawn. “Are you guys coming or what!?” She stood on the porch with one hand on the doorway of the open front door, the music spilling out around her while impatiently waving both of you over.

“Yeahhh…no,” you replied, motioning toward the overflowing house in the distance, the one she'd insisted would be a good idea in the first place. “I think this one already beats it.” You let out a long, defeated sigh as you and Hannah finally caught up to Allie, meeting her expectant stare. “Poor choice of words again, babe.” You told her, pressing your lips into a thin line.

Allie rolled her eyes with exaggeration, muttering something under her breath that was completely swallowed by the music pouring from the open front door before disappearing inside. The bass had grown strong enough to rattle the loose wooden steps with every beat.

You stepped through the doorway last.

Warm air, thick with perfume, sweat, beer and something unmistakably fruity from whatever jungle juice someone had mixed in the kitchen, hit you instantly. Every room seemed packed wall to wall with students, some danced with complete disregard for personal space while others shouted conversations directly into each other's ears. Plastic cups littered every available surface, laughter rose above the music in uneven bursts and somewhere upstairs someone cheered so loudly, it briefly overpowered the speakers.

“…Or what,” you echoed quietly to yourself as the front door swung shut behind you.

The phrase lingered in your head while your eyes swept over the crowded rental. You spotted Hannah and Allie weaving confidently through the bodies ahead of you, Hannah reaching back once to make sure you were still following before the crowd swallowed her hand again.

“I'm gonna get us something to drink!” you called over the music once you'd caught up.

Allie answered with an enthusiastic thumbs-up that quickly dissolved into dancing with whoever happened to be beside her, already swaying to the beat without a hint of self-consciousness. Hannah, meanwhile, had her phone out before you even finished speaking, her attention dropping to the screen with a smile you recognized instantly as she typed what was almost certainly a message to Garrett letting him know the three of you had made it there safely.

You smiled back at everyone who greeted you on the way through the house, returning waves and quick hellos even when you barely recognized the faces. If you acted normal for a while longer, maybe your brain would eventually believe that this was just another party, another late night. No tangled thoughts or awkward tension sitting beneath your skin, no constant awareness of a pair of hands that had learned you with impossible patience only two nights earlier.

You kept searching for the kitchen instead, hoping the simple task would occupy your mind before it drifted back to your bedroom, to the mirror the two of you had stood in front of, to the way he'd looked at you through your own reflection, the quiet praise, the tenderness and how he'd made you feel seen by expertly opening the walls to your own pleasure.

By the time you reached the kitchen, you were relieved by the mundane sight of overcrowded counters. You pulled it open, grabbed three cans of soda and decided they were probably the smarter choice, experience had already proven that alcohol loosened your tongue far more than your common sense appreciated.

You cracked yours open, taking a long sip as the cold, fizzy sweetness settled pleasantly in your throat, cooling the nervous warmth that had been building there all evening. For a moment, you simply stood there, your eyes wandering over the crowded kitchen. People leaned against countertops with red cups in hand, someone laughed loudly, making the room glance over and two strangers debated mixers in front of the freezer.

Then your gaze caught on the one face you had hoped not to see, your ex.

His eyes found yours in the same instant, his posture straightening automatically. You recognized that look, that subtle shift that always came a second before he decided on his next move which was toward you.

Instinctively, you took a step backward, only to bump into a cluster of people reaching for drinks behind you. Someone muttered a quick apology without looking up, another squeezed past with a bag of ice and before you could sidestep out of the way, the kitchen had filled in around you completely. There was nowhere left to retreat.

He threaded through the crowd anyway, slipping between shoulders and conversations with determination until he stopped in front of you, wearing the careful expression of someone approaching a frightened animal he believed he could still coax closer. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Let’s make that a little longer then, wouldn’t that be nice?” you replied with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

He exhaled through his nose, already looking faintly irritated in that familiar way that told you he'd remembered one of the things he'd disliked most about dating you, your sarcasm. “Come on, don’t be like that–”

“Don’t be like what?” you cut in flatly.

He hesitated, his rehearsed opening clearly unraveling. “I just meant…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m trying to apologize here, okay?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Great fucking job you’re doing,” you noted with a careless shrug. “Fantastic timing too, just like in the cafeteria.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his face as though he could erase the last few weeks with the gesture alone. “I know I fucked up, okay? I tried to text you–”

“You’re blocked.” The interruption came so automatically you barely thought about it.

He paused for half a second before giving a slow, unimpressed nod. “I figured.”

“Good.” You took another sip of your soda before looking back up at him. “I was worried guessing would use up the rest of your brain cells and you wouldn’t have any left by the time exam season came around.”

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. He glanced around the kitchen instinctively, checking whether anyone had overheard the exchange before his attention settled back on you. “This is all just a fucking game to you, huh?” His eyes dragged over you with thinly veiled annoyance.

“Isn’t that what made you leave?” You shot back, “Only one of us hates losing badly enough to flee.”

“Fuck you,” he bit out sharply. “I didn’t flee.”

“You didn’t stick around to try either.” You stepped forward to press a finger firmly against the center of his chest, the contact making him stiffen. “I fucked you.”

His jaw flexed so hard you thought you heard his teeth grind together. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he took a step backward, your finger slipping away from his shirt.

“Don’t text again,” you finished, your voice suddenly much quieter than before. “I think you’ve wasted enough of each other's time.”

He stared at you for another second, searching your face for something that wasn't there anymore, then he looked away first. Without another word, he turned, disappearing back into the crowd until the moving bodies swallowed him entirely.

You remained where you were, blinking slowly as your pulse settled, willing the humiliation from the cafeteria and the anger sitting hot in your chest to dissolve together into something less exhausting. They stubbornly refused.

Your eyes dropped to the soda can still clutched in your hand. You frowned at it as if it had failed you before lifting it for another long drink, the carbonation stung pleasantly at the back of your throat. You swallowed, exhaled through your nose and muttered under your breath, “I fucking hate being sober.”

“No you don’t.” The voice reached you immediately and it made every muscle in your shoulders relaxed before your brain had even caught up. You turned around so quickly a few drops of soda sloshed over the rim of the can. Relief settled into your chest the second you saw him.

Dean stood just a few steps away, both hands shoved into the pocket of a dark hoodie thrown hastily over a wrinkled Briar hockey T-shirt. A baseball cap sat low on his head, hair escaping around the edges and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of too many early practices and not nearly enough sleep. He looked nothing like someone who planned on staying at the party and despite looking completely worn out, seeing him made the crowded kitchen feel infinitely less suffocating.

“Get me out of here,” you sighed, the words leaving you in one long breath. “Please.”

Dean's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise before one corner of his mouth curled upward. The tiredness hanging around his eyes didn't disappear but it softened beneath a grin he was clearly trying and failing to suppress. “Is that begging I hear?”

Your eyes narrowed sharply. “Make yourself useful, Di Laurentis.”

He nodded with exaggerated thoughtfulness, accepting the challenge as he reached over to pluck the two unopened soda cans from your hands, balancing them effortlessly in one hand. “Front jean pocket,” he instructed, nodding toward your right side. “On your right.”

Your gaze followed the gesture before immediately flicking back up to his face, then, despite yourself, it drifted lower to his jeans. You looked back up at him with unmistakable suspicion and slowly shook your head. “I'm not putting my hand in there,” you decided, lowering your voice instinctively beneath the music. “It's inappropriate…and there's a…” Your eyes darted downward again before returning to his. “…lump.” Doubt colored the last word.

Dean stared at you for a beat before an incredulous laugh escaped him. “Those are my car keys,” he clarified, amusement bleeding into every syllable. “I figured you should wait in my car.” His grin only widened the longer he watched realization dawn across your face. Tilting his head slightly, he studied you with obvious delight. “You think I'm hung like that?”

You straightened, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking embarrassed. “There was a point where we bathed together before it got weird,” you reminded him matter-of-factly. “I think I know exactly how hung you are.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Seen it recently?”

You snorted. “Your pants don't leave much up to the imagination.”

“Trust me,” he replied with effortless confidence, giving a small shake of his head. “They do.” He nodded once more toward his pocket. “Front pocket. Go on.”

You groaned quietly. “You saying ‘go on’ doesn't somehow make this better, you pervert,” you whisper-yelled, stepping closer so your complaint wouldn't carry past the people milling around the kitchen.

Dean mirrored the movement, leaning down until the two of you were close enough that neither of you had to raise your voices. Around you, the party rolled on without a second glance. Someone behind you was arguing over whose turn it was at beer pong, another group erupted into cheers from the living room and a couple squeezed past carrying more drinks, nobody spared the two of you so much as a curious look.

Dean's eyes lingered on your face, taking in the fake indignation you weren't quite managing to sell.

His smile softened, more playful than teasing. “Don't let those fingers stray, then,” he murmured, his tone light, you couldn't tell whether he was trying to fluster you or simply enjoying how easily you flustered yourself. “I'd hate for you to get distracted.”

You reached forward, hooking a finger through one of Dean's belt loops and giving it a small tug that drew him a step closer without either of you thinking much about it. The movement brought him within arm's reach, the familiar scent of clean detergent, cedar and the lingering bite of cold night air clinging to his hoodie crowded out the smell of beer and cheap liquor filling the kitchen.

You intentionally looked everywhere but at his face as you slipped a cautious hand into his front pocket, determined to keep your attention fixed on finding the keys rather than on the warmth radiating through the denim beneath your fingertips. Your fingers searched carefully until they brushed cool metal.

The two of you stood almost chest to chest now, neither acknowledging just how little space remained between you. “New perfume?” he asked conversationally, though the amusement in his voice was impossible to miss. It was probably the safest compliment he could give you, anything more direct and there was a decent chance you'd retaliate by driving a knee into somewhere he valued quite highly.

Then again, he thought with private amusement, doubling over from the pain would technically put him even closer to you.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, refusing to look at him as you heard him unsuccessfully swallow a laugh. Your index finger finally caught the loop of the keychain and with a victorious little huff you pulled the keys free before quickly retreating a full step as though distance alone could erase how aware you'd just become of him.

You held the keys up between two fingers. “Couple of lumps you've got in there.”

Dean stared at you for half a second before slowly shaking his head. “Poor choice of words.”

You pointed vaguely in the air between the two of you. “Yeah, say that to Allie.”

His brows pinched together. “…What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” You answered far too quickly before he could pry further. Gesturing toward the crowded rooms beyond the kitchen, you added, “I don't care if they drink, just make sure they have a driver home. We drove here.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied with an exaggerated nod and a mock salute. “Garrett's with them anyway. I'll tell him.” Moving to the side, he tipped his head toward the hallway in a silent gesture for you to go first. You squeezed back through the crowd, Dean falling into step close behind you without needing to be asked.

“Alright,” you muttered, fishing your phone out as you carefully navigated around a couple dancing in the middle of the hallway. “I'll text them too.” Your thumbs were already opening the group chat. “Seeing my fuckass ex is enough of an excuse to call it a night.”

Dean's expression, playful until then, quieted as he glanced back toward the kitchen you'd just left before looking down at you, his pace never slowing to make sure you never had to push your way through the crowd alone.

“He's here?” Dean asked, every trace of amusement now fully gone. His shoulders straightened instinctively as his eyes swept back toward the kitchen over his shoulder. “Where?”

You caught him halfway through turning, already reading exactly where his mind was headed. Before he could take a single step, you reached out, your fingers slipping into the waistband, lightly catching against his jeans to tug him back in the opposite direction. “Not the mission,” you reminded him.

Dean's attention dropped briefly to your hand before he let himself be redirected without resistance, falling back into step behind you. “I'm willing to make an exception,” he muttered, though there wasn't much conviction behind it anymore. After a beat, his voice softened. “Did he talk to you?” The concern sat plainly beneath the question.

You hummed in acknowledgment. “And I talked back.” You shrugged as if it had cost you nothing, even if your heartbeat hadn't entirely settled yet. “He won't invade Troy tonight…problem solved.”

By the time you reached the main room again, you rose onto your toes, scanning over the sea of heads for Hannah and Allie. “I saw them over there last.”

Dean followed your gaze before nodding. “They went out back. I'll go find them.” He jerked his thumb toward the street outside. “My car's up there.”

“No detours,” you warned, pointing a finger squarely at his chest. “I'm serious.” You didn't have to explain which detour you meant.

Dean looked at you for a second before lifting both hands innocently. “I'd say I'll keep my eyes down,” he replied, “but then we'd come face to face.” He punctuated the joke with the most exaggerated, insincere shrug imaginable, very intentionally mocking your ex's height.

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “Face to nose if he's wearing his lifts,” you corrected.

“Told you he wasn't that tall,” Dean added, unable to resist sounding just a little smug as he began walking backward toward the sliding door leading outside, keeping his eyes on you until someone bumped into his shoulder and forced him to glance away.

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled as you headed toward the front door instead, weaving between conversations and dancing bodies, “one pair of fakers we were.”

The cool night air met you the second you stepped outside, washing away the suffocating warmth and noise of the packed house. You drew in a deep breath, the distant bass now muffled behind closed walls and doors instead of vibrating through your ribs. Following Dean's directions, you walked up the street beneath the glow of scattered streetlights until you found his car parked along the curb. You unlocked it with a press of the key fob, climbed into the passenger seat,and shut the door behind you. The silence that settled around you felt almost foreign after the chaos inside. You leaned back, letting your head rest against the seat, absently turning the unfinished soda can between your hands while condensation dampened your fingertips. It wasn't long before the driver's door opened. Dean slid into the seat beside you, shut the door with a solid thud and for a moment neither of you said anything, both simply appreciating the quiet. The two of you sat without moving, facing the windshield as warm orange streetlights painted long streaks across the hood of the vehicle.

“Forgot how to drive?” you asked quietly, turning your head toward him. The question died when you realized he was already looking at you. He hadn't been watching the street ahead at all.

“Forgot I can't read your mind?” he countered, one eyebrow lifting.

“We both know you can,” you replied just as quietly, the corner of your mouth threatening the smallest smile. “Just won’t advertise it.”

Dean held your gaze for another second, searching your face as though deciding whether to challenge that. Instead, he looked away first. He reached for the ignition, started the engine and shifted the car into drive. It wasn't surprising in the slightest when he drove toward your apartment without asking where you wanted to go.

The drive passed in comfortable silence, it didn’t beg to be filled but still acknowledged some conversations deserved better than red lights and passing traffic. Every now and then your eyes drifted toward him, only to find his attention fixed on the road, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped absentmindedly against the stick shift in time with a song only he seemed to hear.

He glanced at you once at a stoplight, offering a faint, reassuring smile before looking ahead again.

When he parked on campus, neither of you commented on the fact that he killed the engine immediately instead of lingering in the driver's seat. You climbed out together, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm as you crossed the silent pathways toward your building.

The night air had cooled further, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant rain and Dean stayed close without crowding you, matching your pace while occasionally glancing your way as though weighing a dozen different openings to a conversation he hadn't quite found yet.

You unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside. He followed a second later, pulling the door shut behind him until the click of the lock left the apartment wrapped in familiar silence.

“Not much of a talker these days, I see.” The words carried no accusation. If anything, there was relief in finally saying them aloud after days of carefully skirting around the obvious.

Your replies had shrunk from paragraphs to sentences, then from sentences to a handful of words. Phone calls that once stretched lazily into the early hours now barely lasted a few minutes before one of you found an excuse to hang up. You wandered farther into the living space, slipping your jacket off your shoulders and draping it over the back of the couch.

Beneath it, the fitted top you'd worn out suddenly felt much less out of place than it had at the party. At home, there was no reason to pull the fabric loose or check how much skin it revealed. Hiding from Dean had never really been an option and after everything the two of you had shared, it felt pointless to start now.

“Not much of anything lately,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes as you smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the hem of your top.

Even without looking, you could feel his gaze settle on you. It carried none of the hunger that had unsettled you in front of your bedroom mirror days before. Instead, it was patient, concerned, impossibly attentive and that made it even harder to meet. Warmth crept across your skin anyway, a shiver tracing lazily up your spine under the weight of being so thoroughly seen.

Dean took a couple of measured steps forward, stopping before the space between you disappeared entirely. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes and finding only your profile. “Did he get into your head?” he asked gently.

The question lingered for barely a heartbeat before you shook your head and finally looked up.

Your eyes found his. “No,” you answered. “You did.” The words came out quietly, stripped of frustration or blame. They weren't meant as an accusation, they mostly sounded like the first honest thing you'd managed to say all week.

“Well,” he breathed, the corners of his mouth lifting into an easy smile, “think I should've gotten first dibs on it before anyone else anyway.” As he spoke, he closed the remaining distance between you with unhurried confidence, leaving barely enough room for a breath to pass between your bodies.

“Funny,” you answered dryly, though the effort it took to keep your expression straight was entirely wasted. Your lips betrayed you, twitching upward despite your best attempts. You rubbed absently at your eyebrow before letting out a sigh, trying to smooth away nerves that refused to settle. “I don't know how to talk to you anymore,” you admitted, the confession falling somewhere between frustration and vulnerability.

It explained the clipped texts, the shortened calls, every conversation that had ended long before either of you had actually wanted it to. Dean's expression softened as he gave the smallest shake of his head, his voice matching the gentleness in his eyes. “That's okay.”

“No, it's not.” Your gaze dropped to your heeled boots, suddenly fascinated by the floor beneath them.

“You're doing it to me,” he replied with certainty. “I would know.” He stepped forward until there was nowhere left for the distance between you to exist. “Look at me.”

The request carried none of the sharpness of a command. It was patient, warm, spoken with the confidence that you'd meet him there eventually. Slowly, you lifted your eyes just as his hands came up to cradle your face, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting lightly close to your ears. “It's okay,” he repeated, searching your face as though he intended to make you believe it through persistence alone.

You exhaled through your nose. “Of course you'd think that.”

“Mhm.” The sound vibrated quietly in his throat as he leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose gently against yours. The tiny gesture stole another reluctant smile from you. “Though if you ever say you're not much of anything again,” he murmured, “I'm afraid we're gonna have issues.”

Your hands rose instinctively, settling against his biceps, feeling familiar muscle beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Don't we already?” you asked, smiling properly now.

“My only issue,” he replied without hesitation, “is that I haven't kissed you in two days.” His thumbs brushed lightly across your cheeks. “What's yours?”

“I already told you.” Your smile lingered as he began guiding the two of you backward through the apartment with tiny, measured steps, never pushing or assuming. Every movement left you room to stop him if you wanted to, though you never did.

“And I know you have a close second,” he said quietly.

You hesitated, swallowing once before admitting the thought you'd spent days trying to bury. “…It's embarrassing when the wanting shows.”

Dean's expression softened further. He shook his head once. “And the only person who ever made you feel ashamed of that isn't here anymore.”

Your fingers tightened around his arms without thinking. “It's gonna take a while to unlearn that,” you whispered.

“I can wait,” he answered. There wasn't a trace of impatience in his voice, only certainty. “I happen to know that what comes after is worth a lot more than passing time.”

Your breathing caught slightly. “What comes after, Dean?” you asked, your hands holding him a little tighter as though the answer might slip away if you didn't.

He leaned down until his lips barely grazed yours, close enough for every word to be felt as much as heard. “You.” The single word lingered between your mouths before he continued softly, “Everywhere else it can wait. Until that happens, you cum first.” A teasing smile slowly returned to his lips. “Still think my choice of words is poor?”

A quiet laugh escaped you, so warm it dissolved the last remnants of tension sitting in your chest. “Not if you prove it to be right.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. His mouth found yours with restrained hunger, patient for only the first heartbeat before deepening the kiss. One hand slipped from your cheek to the place where your jaw met your neck, tilting your face upward to meet him fully, while your own fingers disappeared into his hair, threading through the soft curls at the back of his head as every uncertain conversation from the past two days quietly gave way to something the two of you had always understood better than words.

Your tongues moved together with an ease that made the last two days of awkwardness feel impossibly far away, every hesitant thought dissolving into this. Your fingers gradually slipped from his hair, lingering there for a heartbeat before finding the front clasps of your top instead.

You worked at them absentmindedly, your attention never truly leaving him until the kiss eventually broke with a soft, audible pop, though neither of you moved very far.

Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours, his breathing still uneven as his eyes searched your face rather than wandering elsewhere. “Do you need anything?” he asked, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the silence filling your room. Even as you continued undoing the clasps, he never looked away from your eyes. “Tell me what I can do.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, heat pooling low in your belly at the intensity of his gaze. You finished with the last fastening and shrugged the fabric from your shoulders, letting it slide carelessly to the floor beside your feet. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already tight and aching from the cool air and the weight of his stare before folding your arms loosely across yourself more out of habit than discomfort. “I was hoping you had a plan.”

Dean nodded imperceptibly, his expression turning thoughtful. His gaze drifted around your room instead of lingering on you, as though sorting through possibilities rather than impulses. The lingerie crossed his mind only briefly before he dismissed it, that had helped once but it wasn't something he wanted either of you to rely on.

He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead before turning away entirely and walking toward your dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, he began looking through it with surprising confidence, as though he vaguely remembered where things belonged from years of friendship spent around you.

“Sure…” you nodded, watching him with growing amusement as you bent to unzip your boots, kicking each one aside before slipping out of your skirt and underwear as well, letting them pool at your feet, leaving you completely bare before him. “Make yourself right at home.”

“We can argue about it later,” he answered without looking over his shoulder, continuing his careful search. “You'll tell me how forward it was of me and I'll agree with whatever punishment or compensation you decide on afterward.” His hand paused before finally lifting a long, narrow scarf from beneath a folded sweater. “This'll do.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “For what?”

Turning back toward you, he crossed the room at an unhurried pace, stopping within arm's reach. The teasing had disappeared from his face, replaced by the same patience he'd shown you all evening.

Holding the scarf loosely in one hand so you could see it clearly, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

You tilted your head, studying him, trying to read whatever idea was taking shape behind his eyes. “I don't think I've ever had to ask myself that.”

“I need you to ask now,” he replied gently. “Do you trust me?” He let the question sit between you before adding, “And if you don't like where this is going, we stop. Immediately…at any point.” His certainty wasn't performative, it was calm, leaving no room for doubt about whether he meant it.

You held his gaze for another moment before answering, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you.” A faint smile softened your features. “It's not something I've ever questioned.”

He waited a beat before speaking again, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

“Turn around.” The instruction was patient, offered rather than imposed. He didn't repeat it when you hesitated, didn't fill the silence that settled between you.

His eyes simply remained on yours as you swallowed, searching his face one last time before slowly turning your naked body away from him until your back faced his chest. You felt him move closer, heard the faint rustle of fabric as he stretched the scarf carefully between both hands. It rested gently over your eyes, the material impossibly soft against your skin before he drew the ends behind your head and tied a secure knot with care.

His fingers lingered, checking that nothing tugged uncomfortably. “Is this too tight?” he asked.

You instinctively shook your head before remembering he would probably request for it to be spoken. “No,” you managed softly.

His hand settled lightly against your hip, the simple contact making your breath catch. With the gentlest pressure, he guided you back around until you faced him once more. Deprived of your sight, every other sensation sharpened, from the warmth radiating from where he stood, to the rhythm of his breathing and the subtle creak of the floor beneath shifting weight.

You heard the soft thud of fabric landing somewhere nearby once he peeled off his hoodie and t-shirt, followed by another low rustle before his footsteps returned. His hands found yours gently, wrapping loosely around your wrists before guiding them upward until your palms rested against the warmth of his bare chest.

He didn't move them any further, leaving the choice entirely to you. Tentatively, your fingertips traced across firm muscle, learning the shape through touch alone. Your confidence grew by degrees, hands exploring broader paths over his shoulders and chest, your nails lightly grazing the contours beneath his skin before drifting lower over the firm lines of his abdomen, pausing briefly at his navel before following the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Your fingers came to rest just above the button. “I want these off,” you breathed.

Dean couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, though you only heard it in the warmth that colored his reply. “You think you're in a position to make demands?”

“That's exactly what I think, Di Laurentis.” You nodded once beneath the blindfold, a small smile tugging at your own lips. “If you want me to play the game, you're going to have to comply a little sooner.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him before it faded just as quickly. When he spoke again, his voice had lost almost all of its teasing edge. “I don't think this is us playing around anymore.” You felt him lean in, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke. “I hate that we used that as an excuse.” The frustration threaded through his words was unmistakable, directed inward rather than at you, carrying the weight of every feeling the two of you had hidden behind jokes because admitting them outright had always seemed far more frightening.

You couldn't help but smile at the memory, warmth creeping into your expression. There had been something absurdly innocent about the two of you back then, trusting each other so completely that curiosity had outweighed embarrassment, stumbling into questions neither of you had been old enough to answer, only to leave them hanging for years.

“We were getting too curious,” you murmured, a quiet laugh escaping with the admission.

“Isn't that what's happening now?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement.

You tilted your head beneath the blindfold, the smile on your lips widening. “You know how to tie your own laces now, don't you?” you teased. He laughed softly before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Your hands rose instinctively, finding the sides of his face, your thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw as you returned the kiss with an ease that had finally replaced the uncertainty of the past few days.

His tongue brushed yours, drawing a soft moan from your throat as heat pooled heavier between your thighs and while you kissed, his hands worked open the button of his jeans. You heard the metallic rasp of the zipper, followed by the rustle of fabric as he shoved them down his hips along with his boxers. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the rest of his clothes, leaving him gloriously bare. The heat of his body radiated against yours and you could feel the hard length of his cock brushing against your stomach, hot, heavy and already leaking at the tip.

His strong hands slid down your sides, then gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly as a surprised yelp escaped you, quickly dissolving into a breathless laugh. Your legs wrapped around his hips as you kept kissing, mouths moving together in perfect sync while his muscles flexed beneath your palms as he carried you across the room, the thick head of his erection nudging teasingly against your inner thighs with every step.

He knelt carefully onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your combined weight and gently laid you back against the pillows. Your legs fell open shamelessly, knees bending and parting wide to make room for him. The cool air kissed your dripping pussy, making you acutely aware of how soaked and ready you already were.

Dean settled between your spread thighs, hips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner legs as his lips left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along the corner of your mouth, your cheek and down the sensitive column of your throat. Then he pulled back, leaving you waiting in the dark, blindfolded and aching.

You reached for him, fingers tracing and caressing every inch of his face from his cheekbones, the slight stubble on his jaw and the curve of his lips, trying to paint his expression in your mind.

His nose nudged affectionately against yours and you felt the warmth of his breath mingle with your own, the thick tension between you crackling like electricity.

He swallowed. “Can I kiss you?” His voice was hesitant, it didn't belong to the confident grin he usually wore. The uncertainty made your brows draw together for the briefest moment before your expression softened into a small, helpless smile.

“I think we're beyond you asking,” you replied, your heartbeat quickening as the silence stretched comfortably between you.

Dean's eyes lingered on your face, before landing on your lips for only a moment before lifting again. “Not on your mouth, Y/n,” he specified shamelessly.

You swallowed hard and nodded softly against the pillows, chest rising and falling faster as you heard the mattress shift under his weight.

His warm lips finally landed on your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there before trailing lower. They brushed along your sternum, then settled between your breasts, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin. When his mouth closed around one peaked nipple, you gasped sharply. The wet heat of his tongue swirled around the stiff bud, flicking and sucking with just the right pressure, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Your back arched instinctively, pushing more of your breast into his mouth as slick arousal coated your outer lips.

The hand not supporting his weight traced a feather-light path from your knee upward, fingers grazing the soft skin of your inner thigh before reaching the neglected breast. He cupped its full weight, massaging slowly, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger while he continued devouring the other, gauging every reaction, squeezing harder when your breathing turned ragged and gentling when you whimpered, learning exactly how you liked to be touched.

When the first nipple was glistening and throbbing from his attention, he switched sides. His mouth claimed the other peak with the same hungry reverence, sucking deeply while his fingers continued to knead the slick, sensitive flesh he’d just left behind, all while low, needy sounds spilled from your throat.

Satisfied, Dean let his tongue drag lower, licking a slow, wet trail down the underside of your breast. He pressed lingering kisses along your ribs, then your stomach, each one audible and intentionally placed, his lips brushed over your navel, teasing the sensitive skin there before venturing even lower. He took his time, kissing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then settling fully between your spread legs.

Your heart thundered so loudly in your ears that the rest of the world felt distant. Blindfolded and trembling with need, every other sense was amplified, the heat of his breath against your dripping pussy, the faint scent of your arousal mixing with his and the slight tremble in his hands as he gripped your thighs. He was clearly trying to pace himself, wanting to savor you without rushing, refusing to give your doubts any room to surface.

A broken moan tore from your lips the moment his mouth finally sealed around your swollen clit. The wet heat, the perfect suction and the slow swirl of his tongue, were nearly too much, your hips jerked upward, fingers fisting the sheets as pleasure spread outwards.

He reached up, finding your hand where it gripped the sheets and laced his fingers through yours, squeezing once. The simple touch pulled you back into the moment when your mind threatened to drift.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured against your pussy, the low vibration of his voice making your clit throb.

Your mind reeled. No one had ever been this patient with you, this attentive, this unwaveringly focused on what you needed instead of how quickly things could move forward. It felt unfamiliar, so much so that part of you didn't quite know what to do with it and the comparison arrived before you could stop it. Your ex had tried a handful of times but his enthusiasm had always faded the moment your body didn't respond on the timeline he expected. He would pull away with a shrug, muttering excuses about not enjoying it or not liking the taste, always making it sound like a matter of preference while leaving the weight of it squarely on your shoulders.

Every abandoned attempt had left you feeling increasingly self-conscious, wondering whether there was something wrong with you, whether you simply asked too much by needing patience instead of urgency.

Your throat tightened around the words before they ever had a chance to leave it. You wanted to explain why his patience mattered so much, why every careful pause and every moment he gave you without expectation made something in your chest ache but the memories felt too tangled, too embarrassing to lay bare.

“I wouldn’t know,” you breathed, voice shaky.

Dean didn't ask what you meant, he didn't press for details you clearly weren't ready to give, nor did he try to fill the silence with speeches that would only skim the surface. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, then answered calmly, “Feel it. I know you can.”

He accommodated, strong hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips slightly, giving himself better access. His tongue flattened and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, gathering your wetness and savoring it with a quiet hum of approval. The sound was so genuine it made your cheeks burn.

He repeated the motion again and again with broad strokes that coated his tongue and lips in your slick arousal, then circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, learning the exact pressure that made your thighs twitch. He sucked the swollen nub gently between his lips, holding it there while his tongue flicked it softly. The suction was warm and rhythmic, never rushed or demanding and when your breathing grew uneven, he eased off enough to drag his tongue back down, licking through your folds and pressing the flat of his tongue against your entrance, tasting you deeply.

His saliva mixed with your own arousal, dripping down over your ass and soaking into the sheets beneath you. He kissed your pussy like he was kissing your mouth, slowly and attentively, alternating between gentle licks, soft sucks and lazy swirls of tongue that explored every inch of your most sensitive regions.

The blindfold made it impossible to predict where his tongue would go next, keeping your body in a constant state of anticipatory tension while Dean kept your hand firmly in his, thumb stroking soothing circles over your knuckles whenever he felt you start to tense or overthink.

Every so often he would pull back to press a tender kiss to your mound or the crease of your thigh, murmuring soft, wordless sounds of encouragement against your skin before diving back in. The sensations were overwhelming in their gentleness, relentless patience that made your pussy feel swollen and pulsing under his mouth.

After another slow, savoring pass of his tongue through your folds, he moved lower and pressed the tip of his tongue against your entrance. He circled the tight ring of muscle first teasingly, before pushing inside, gently but insistently. The thick of his tongue slid into you, stretching you open in the most intimate way possible. He fucked you with it in slow, shallow strokes, curling and thrusting, coating himself in the fresh rush of slick that leaked around his mouth while his nose pressed firmly against your clit with every forward motion, rubbing in time with the rhythm of his tongue.

Your skin grew damp with sweat, a light sheen covering your chest and stomach, nipples tightened into painful peaks, aching in the cool air. Your hips rolled and twitched against his face, thighs trembling as they tried to close around his head only to fall open wider again.

Your breathing turned into soft, broken whimpers that even you could tell sounded strained and uncertain. Dean noticed and slowed his movements but didn’t yet stop, still fucking you gently with his tongue, still licking up every drop of your arousal like he couldn’t get enough.

“Mngh…Dean–” you barely managed, his name catching on a shaky breath before your voice gave out entirely. His head lifted rapidly as he pulled away, concern replacing concentration as he searched your expression for any hint of discomfort. Every trace of certainty vanished from his posture, his brows drawing together as he studied you.

One of your hands reached down blindly, grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him upward. Your chest heaved as you struggled to steady your breathing, each inhale feeling a little too shallow to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind. Words crowded against one another, half-formed confessions and old fears tangling together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.

Your other hand shook as it slid down your body, covering your throbbing, soaked pussy, clit pulsing hard under your palm, slick, swollen and too painfully sensitive to keep going. You still weren’t anywhere close to coming and all you could think about was saying the wrong thing, about ruining the fragile safety he'd spent so much time building around you. More than anything, you were terrified of disgust, that subtle withdrawal, the excuses and the feeling of being left unfinished.

Your voice came out small and fragile. “I’m sorry. I’m–fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His hand found your cheek, palm warm against your skin as his thumb brushed slowly beneath the blindfold. He studied your face in silence first, as though making sure you were really listening before he spoke and when he did, there wasn't an ounce of frustration in him. “You don't apologize,” he said firmly, thumb stroking gently across your cheek once more before coming to rest beneath your jaw, encouraging you to keep your chin up. “Not to me.”

One hand stayed wrapped tightly around his arm, fingers digging into the firm muscle as if you were afraid he might pull away despite his words. Your heart hammered so loudly in your ears that you barely registered his words at first. “It just takes really long–”

“Hey…” Dean nudged your face gently with his palm, guiding you back to the present until your racing thoughts quieted. “I would’ve sucked you clean off the bone if you hadn’t pulled me up,” he smiled.

The moment you registered his words, you let out a shaky sob that melted into soft laughter, the tension in your chest finally easing.

“We can try again some other time if you want–”

You were already eagerly nodding before the words had fully left his mouth.

He chuckled, the sound low and breathy against your skin. “Yeah? Did you like it? Was that okay?” His fingertips traced feather-light paths along your sides, your ribs and the curve of your waist, keeping the connection gentle but constant, which he knew you needed.

“Overwhelming,” you breathed, still feeling the lingering slick between your thighs as it cooled and the heavy pulse of your swollen clit against your palm.

“Mmm…Yeah?” His voice dipped with interest.

“Overwhelming’s good,” you continued softly. Your body felt flushed and sensitive all over, like it needed that intensity just to begin learning how to let go. “I like feeling you close.”

“How close?” he teased, his nose brushing slowly along the side of your jaw, warm breath tickling your skin.

“Really fucking close,” you whispered, guiding his face until his lips met yours in a deep, slow kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, tangy, slightly sweet and undeniably intimate, nothing like you had imagined. Dean moved his tongue against yours with the same patience he had shown between your legs, licking into your mouth with quiet groans of pleasure that vibrated through your chest.

“Tastes like fucking heaven,” he rasped when you finally parted for air.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, until your chests pressed together, skin hot and slightly damp with sweat as the hard length of his cock rested heavily against the soft inside of your thigh, twitching every time you moved.

You smiled against his lips, letting out a teasingly doubtful hum. “Careful there…might be disappointed when you go.”

“Doubt it. If there is one, you’re going there too.” The smug happiness in his voice made you laugh, the sound light and breathless. He responded by pressing a flurry of soft kisses all over your face, cheeks, nose, forehead and the corner of your mouth, while his cock dragged teasingly along your inner thighs, leaving a faint trail of precum on your skin.

Your laughter quickly faded into quiet, needy moans, inciting your own hand to apply pressure against your still-throbbing pussy, fingers slipping through the mess of slick there in an attempt to relieve the area. Dean lifted his upper body slightly, looking down between you as he stilled the accidental roll of his hips and you moaned again at the loss of friction.

“I could get closer,” he breathed, voice rough with want. “Want me to do that?”

Your legs parted wider in silent invitation as you nodded against the pillow, heart racing.

“Let me see you,” he spoke softly. It wasn't a command, more of a gentle suggestion, one he waited patiently for you to consider. You slowly moved your hand away, exposing your glistening, swollen pussy to him once more while you tried to picture the expression on his face, the way his eyes would darken with hunger and affection. “Do you have condoms?” he asked carefully.

“Closer, Dean,” you echoed, voice small but sure. “I want you as close as you can get right now.” You paused, ears straining for any change in his breathing. “I’ve never…” You trailed off, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I’m clean. I take my birth control–”

“Me neither.” His forehead dropped against yours, breath warm on your lips. “I just want you to be sure.”

You swallowed, nodding as your hands roamed up and down his arms and across his broad shoulders, feeling the tension and warmth of his muscles. His pulse jumped under your touch. “I would want it to be with you,” you confessed, bare and vulnerable.

He went still above you, the words knocking something loose. “I've always wanted it to be with you,” he breathed, the honesty in his voice wrapping around you like a second skin.

With a deep, measured breath, he wrapped his hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking it once before pressing the blunt, leaking head right against your slick entrance. Hovering over you, he braced his forearm beside your head, eyes remaining locked on your face as he pushed in leisurely until he sank deep in one long, continuous thrust.

Both of you moaned openly, lips falling slack at the intense sensation. He filled you completely, stretching your walls around his girthy length, stealing the breath right from your lungs. At the same moment, he reached up and gently tugged the blindfold away, letting you finally see him, your eyes glassy with overwhelmed tears as they met his, the eye contact undoing you more than the fullness between your legs.

You whimpered, voice breathless. “I hate that you might be right.”

“About?” he chuckled softly, staying buried to the hilt while he gave you time to adjust, eyes tracing over your face like he was trying to memorize it.

“Thinking highly of your dick…” You swallowed hard, your pussy fluttering and clenching around the solid invasion. “It sure is there.”

“Focus on it then,” he grinned, that cocky yet tender expression making your chest tighten. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up as though he couldn't settle on one place to look.

“Not much else I can do,” you admitted, voice shaky, the words barely making it out whole.

Dean leaned down, catching your mouth with his, searching and wanting to swallow the shakiness right out of you. Only when you softened against him did he begin to move, shallow at first, drawing back only a few inches before sliding back in, letting you feel every inch of him dragging along your sensitive inner walls. Each time he bottomed out, his pelvis pressed firmly against your clit, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through you. Your body rocked beneath him with every careful thrust, the wet, intimate sound of your joined bodies filling the room alongside your shared breathing.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face as he kept an unhurried pace, rolling into you repeatedly. He watched for every flicker, every little crease between your brows and twitch at the corner of your mouth, searching for the exact angle and depth that made your expression soften with bliss instead of tension. “What’s on your mind?”

“You,” you answered immediately, the most honest thing you could say.

His smile deepened with satisfaction but he wanted more than what was at the surface, what he knew you thought he wanted to hear. His thumbs brushed tenderly across your temples, easing your mind. “What’s around it?”

“How…” A moan interrupted you as he rolled his hips just right, cock stroking a spot inside you that made your toes curl. “Just how much I’ll want you to believe me when I say this was good…once it’s over. I know it will be.” Your breathing came in heavy pants now, chest rising and falling against his. “Even when…when I won’t–”

“If,” he corrected gently but firmly, still thrusting steadily as the head of his cock dragged deliciously along your walls on every withdrawal, then pushed back in deep. “That’s if you don’t.” He paused, “Listen to me, I don’t think there’s anything you’d tell me that I wouldn’t believe.”

“Well…I need you to be sure,” you pressed, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling. Vulnerability sat raw in your throat, each word feeling like it cost you something you couldn't get back. Your nails dug crescents into his sides, holding on like he might disappear the second you finished the thought. “Please, be sure.”

“Certain,” he nodded, then leaned down closer, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes locked so you could see the sincerity burning there. “I’m right here with you, now and after this.”

He maintained the thrusts long and measured, pulling almost all the way out until only the swollen head remained inside you, letting you feel the stretch as he sank back in again, its slick glide was audible with every meeting of your bodies. Sweat beaded along his collarbone and dripped onto your chest as he held himself above you, muscles flexing with control.

His pelvis kissed your clit on every downstroke, rubbing in slow circles when he stayed buried deep, grinding the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs trembled around his hips.

When your brows creased a little too tightly, he adjusted the angle, tilting his hips until the sensation smoothed your expression again. He watched your eyes and mouth, learning your body in real time, focused entirely on making this feel safe and good rather than chasing his own end, he simply wanted to be connected to you.

Your walls hugged him tightly, fluttering with every push, your wetness coating his shaft and easing each deep slide while you could feel the way his cock throbbed inside you, the subtle twitch it gave when you clenched around him. He drew his cock back slowly so you could feel every ridge and vein dragging along your inner walls before sinking back in.

Your breath hitched sharply, as if that alone told him everything he needed to know, he repeated the motion, slower this time letting you feel the full drag and press of him. He pulled out almost completely on the next stroke, just the swollen tip resting inside you, before sliding back in with one smooth thrust that forced a whimper from your throat, strokes that let you savor the way your pussy stretched around his thickness, the way your walls fluttered and clenched trying to keep him inside.

Your hands roamed his back, nails lightly scoring his skin as another deep thrust made your feet arch and when your brows drew together in concentration, he moved again, tilting his hips, changing the depth. Near the end of a dragging stroke, he reached down and hooked one hand behind your knee. He lifted your leg slowly, draping it over his hip and higher along his side, opening you up further, the new angle letting him press deeper. He rolled his hips upward on the next thrust, driving his cock into you with a smooth, upward grind that rubbed directly against a spongy pillow inside while his pelvis continued to crush against your clit.

Your whole body reacted at once, back arching hard as a broken moan spilled from your lips.

“Right there, mmh?” he cooed, voice low and warm, repeating the exact same rolling motion. “Try that for a bit?”

You nodded quickly, eyes falling shut as you surrendered to the sensation. His cock stroked along that perfect angle with every upward push, the head pressing right where you needed it most, pussy clenching tightly around him and soaking his cock even more with every grind.

Dean kept watching you, even as your eyes stayed closed. He studied the way your head tilted back against the pillow, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips trembled on every moan. He adjusted the angle of his hips in tiny increments, searching for the rhythm that would keep those creases of wonder on your face. The emotional weight of his attention made your throat tight, he wasn't just fucking you, he was tuned in completely, making sure you felt safe and cherished in every stroke.

“M–middle,” you moaned, voice breaking on the word.

Dean adjusted accordingly, angling his cock exactly where you needed him but before he could even settle into the new position, a raw, wanton moan tore from your throat and your back arched sharply off the bed as your eyes opened.

“Breathe,” he instructed gently, locking eyes with you and giving a slow, reassuring nod. His thumb brushed over your parted lips. “Breathe,” he repeated, “Focus on what you know.”

He kept moving in that centered, precise rhythm, strokes that dragged his thick cock along the same devastating path inside you.

“Mmpppff,” Your eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure built higher, one hand dug into his shoulder, nails biting into his skin while you struggled to draw full breaths. You tried to focus only on the slick drag of his cock entering and leaving your pussy, the way your walls stretched and clenched around his girth, the constant wet sounds of your bodies meeting.

“There you go. That's it,” he husked, bending lower to press a soft kiss to each of your closed eyelids. The new angle drove him even deeper, he pressed forward, settling his weight fully over you and nudging his face into the crook of your neck. Your moans became continuous, loud and broken, spilling from your open mouth without pause.

Dean groaned against your neck, low and desperate sounds vibrating through your skin and making you even hornier. His own unfiltered whimpers and heavy breathing mixed with yours as the position allowed you to breathe him in, sweat, skin and sex, chest heaving beneath his weight.

For several thrusts, no sound came out of you at all. Your mouth hung open in a silent cry, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, refusing to let go. The pressure inside you coiled tighter than you'd ever known, winding higher with every drag of him, every muscle in your body drawn taut and ready to snap.

It was new, unfamiliar with an edge of fear threading through it, a building intensity you had no name for or memory to compare it to. Your fingers curled hard into his shoulder, keeping yourself against a feeling that seemed too big for your body to hold.

A sudden, sharp gasp tore from your lungs, followed immediately by a sob that shook your entire frame. The orgasm crashed over you, deep, vaginal and violently intense, unlike anything you'd known your body capable of. Your pussy clamped down hard around his cock in rhythmic contractions that squeezed him in waves as pure ecstasy ripped through you. For one disorienting second you didn't know whether to cry or laugh, caught between the shock of it and the sheer relief of finally breaking. You sobbed openly, tears spilling down your temples and into your hair, a startled laugh bubbling up right alongside them.

“Mmhnhgh…fuck, fuck, fuck!” you cried, voice wrecked and trembling as the pleasure kept rolling through you in devastating pulses. Your walls fluttered and pulsed wildly around his thrusting cock, soaking him even more.

Dean groaned deeply at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, drawing out every last tremor of your orgasm. A quiet laugh escaped him, disbelieving and reverent, the sound punched loose from his chest before he could stop it. He stared down at you, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of your face gone soft and open, tears streaking your temples and lips parted around broken breaths. You looked undone in the most beautiful way he'd ever seen and for a second his vision blurred, his head going light with it.

He blinked hard, jaw tight, willing himself to hold it together as your walls kept squeezing him greedily, refusing to let him go.

He fucked you through it with careful, deep strokes, prolonging the pleasure until your body trembled beneath him. You felt impossibly wet, your arousal and his precum mixing and leaking out around his cock with every thrust.

The first orgasm had barely begun to fade when his pelvis ground harder against your swollen clit with each rolling thrust. The added stimulation pushed you straight into a second, clitoral orgasm that blindsided you, entirely different from the first and brighter too now as many sensations arrived all at once for your mind to sort through. Your thigh quivered violently against his side as bright pleasure exploded outward from your clit, blending with the deep, pulsing contractions still rippling through your core. You cried out again, fresh tears streaming down your face as the dual sensations overwhelmed every nerve in your body.

Your vision whited out for several seconds, your entire body locking up and then shaking apart in his arms. Sobs mixed with desperate moans as wave after wave rolled through you, leaving you raw and shattered in the best possible way.

Dean bent down and kissed away your tears, the salt of it lingering on his lips. “That's how you're supposed to feel,” he hushed against your temple, voice rough with awe and restraint.

“Nnngh, can’t–” you managed, lips parted, chasing words that wouldn't come.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, voice thick. “Gotta let it happen.”

Dean kept thrusting for as long as he could, fucking you through the tail end of your orgasms. His hips snapped forward a few more times, chasing his own release, less controlled than anything he'd let himself be before.

With a wanton whimper, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, harder than he ever remembered coming, raw and unguarded, shaking with the force of it. Thick, warm pulses of his cum spilled deep inside you, flooding your pussy with heat that made you shudder, your oversensitive body twitching around him as his cock throbbed and jerked against your walls.

He stayed inside you, breathing heavily against your neck, neither of you speaking and just letting the last tremors settle.

After a moment he pulled back reluctantly, until there was just room between your bodies for both of you to look down and watch. He gave a few shallow, unhurried thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you, the creamy mixture leaking out around his cock with every small movement. You were both transfixed by the filthy, intimate sight, watching each slow slide, neither of you willing to look away until his cock finally stopped twitching.

With one final thrust he stilled completely, buried deep inside you and let his forehead drop to your shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The room went quiet except for your shared, rasped breathing and underneath it, the faint hitch of his breath catching, over and over in quiet little hiccups he couldn't smooth out no matter how he tried. You ran your hands slowly up and down his back, soothing the tremor still running through him and caught the small, wet sniffle against your skin, proof that he'd cried too, that this had undone him just as much as it had undone you.

You finally felt like you could breathe again. Every muscle in your body went limp as you melted into the mattress, utterly spent, tears still drying on your cheeks and Dean's warm weight pressing you down in the most comforting way possible.

You kissed while stubbornly blinking back tears, holding yourselves together until you simply couldn't anymore. Time dissolved into something shapeless, measured only by slow breaths, racing hearts and bodies pressed together. The sheets twisted around your limbs and for the first time, your body didn't feel like something you had to apologize for.

When Dean finally moved, he did it with an achingly slow pace. He kissed you deeply, tongue dancing with yours while he began to pull out, as though the press of his lips could somehow stop the inevitable. You whimpered softly into his mouth at the feeling, his thick cock sliding from your sensitive, cum-filled pussy in one continuous, wet glide.

A thick trickle of your shared release followed, leaking slowly down your folds and onto the sheets. The sudden emptiness left you aching and strangely bereft, even as his tongue continued to stroke gently against yours through the loss.

Whatever this was afterward, it was unlike anything you'd ever experienced.

“Stay right here,” he murmured against your lips once they parted.

Dean eased himself out of bed shortly to start the shower, testing the water with the back of his hand until the temperature was just right before returning for you. He wrapped an arm around your waist and picked you up bridal style, carrying you into the bathroom and taking your weight without making you feel incapable.

Then guided you beneath the warm stream. Steam gradually filled the room while he took his time cleaning you, soapy hands moving with care over every inch of your skin, washing away sweat and the evidence of your shared pleasure, pausing every so often to brush a kiss against your shoulders, the back of your neck, the curve of your spine, or inside of your wrist.

He slipped away for a moment with a parting kiss, only to strip the bed and remake it with fresh sheets before returning the instant he heard the water stop.

You couldn't help but stare as he stepped into the bathroom doorway. A clean towel was already waiting in his hands, along with clean underwear and a pair of pajamas he'd unearthed from your dresser, and with obvious satisfaction, one of the hoodies he'd been insisting had mysteriously disappeared months ago.

Another towel hung dangerously low on his own hips, barely clinging to the sharp cut of his pelvis. Droplets of water still clung to his skin, tracing slow paths down the defined lines of his abs and the deep V that disappeared beneath the towel. The sight made your breath catch all over again, his body glistening, relaxed and impossibly attractive in the soft bathroom light.

Dean noticed your gaze and gave you a small, knowing smirk but said nothing. He set the clothes aside and got to work, drying your skin carefully section by section, working moisturizer into every inch of you with soothing strokes and helping you into the soft fabric of your clean underwear and pajamas. Then he carried you back to the freshly made bed despite your quiet insistence that you could walk.

After fluffing your pillows and tucking the blankets around you, he finally took a moment to dry himself off and pull on his boxers. Only then did he return to your bedside, lean down and press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before lingering there for a moment, as though reassuring himself that you were comfortable and finally at peace.

“I'll go raid your cabinets for something to eat,” he said quietly, palm moving slowly over your hair in absent, soothing strokes as he looked down at you. His thumb brushed lightly against your temple before his hand slipped away.

It was far too late to order food and even if somewhere nearby was still open, you doubted you had the energy for anything more substantial than a few bites. A tired smile tugged at your lips as you gave him a small nod but the moment he stepped away from the bed, your chest tightened unexpectedly, eyes following him across the room as though distance alone suddenly felt wrong.

Dean noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye but kept walking toward the bedroom door. “If you hear something heavy drop,” he said over his shoulder, a teasing grin returning now that the weight of the evening had begun to lighten, “that's probably just me hiding from Hannah and Allie if it comes down to it.”

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you turned your head toward the clock resting on your bedside table, the glowing numbers confirming just how late it had become. “Doubt they'll be back tonight,” you murmured, your voice rough with exhaustion.

Dean paused with one hand resting against the doorframe. Instead of leaving, he turned back to look at you properly. His teasing expression faded as he searched your face, trying to read what you needed without making assumptions but he knew tonight had been overwhelming in more ways than one. Maybe you wanted to be alone now, to untangle your thoughts in private before either of you tried putting words to everything that had changed between you.

He wouldn't force that conversation tonight if you weren't ready. “I can go,” he relented, the offer sincere enough that you knew he'd leave without hesitation if that was what you wanted.

Your hands fidgeted restlessly with the edge of the blanket gathered over your lap, smoothing wrinkles before twisting the fabric between your fingers again. You gave the smallest shake of your head, so slight it was nearly impossible to notice.

“I'd rather you didn't.” The words came out quietly. Your gaze drifted away from him, settling instead on the dark window across the room where your reflection stared back faintly against the glass.

You drew in a slow, steadying breath. If there was ever such a thing as good timing, you doubted either of you had managed to stumble across it tonight, then again, maybe there never would've been a perfect moment for this. All you knew was that you were tired of keeping parts of yourself hidden from him.

Dean remained exactly where he was. He didn't move closer, didn't interrupt or rush to fill the silence stretching between you.

“I think I love you,” you admitted at last, it felt strangely fragile once spoken.

Your eyes finally lifted to meet his as you blinked quickly, trying to keep the fresh sting of tears from spilling over, you'd already cried enough for one night.

Dean's expression didn't morph into surprise. Instead, he nodded once, his head tilting and his answer arriving with a tenderness that marked you more than if he'd been shocked. “I know that.”

A breathy laugh escaped you, your head shaking as you smiled weakly. You should've known he’d say that. The two of you had said those words before, they'd existed between you for years in birthday cards, sleepy phone calls, goodbye hugs and reassurances before exams or after bad days, less frequently as you'd grown older, perhaps but they had never truly disappeared.

This was different, though, you'd hoped he'd hear it in your voice. “No…not like that.” You swallowed, clearing your throat before trying again. “The…the other way.” The confession sat awkwardly on your tongue, still too new to fit comfortably. “It's probably going to take me a while to figure out that one too.” You let out a self-conscious laugh that barely qualified as one. “I just thought…I'd give you a heads-up.” Your fingers tightened around the blanket. “In case…you have time to stick around for that too.”

Your eyes dropped back to your hands, unable to bear watching disappointment if it appeared.

For a long second, the room remained perfectly still, then Dean smiled. It was far from the teasing grin he wore so effortlessly, a smile touched with years of memories only the two of you shared.

“I know, baby,” he ventured.

His fingertips tapped absently against the doorframe as scenes from years ago drifted through his mind of the two of you, younger and convinced you were being impossibly sneaky, sitting shoulder to shoulder in playgrounds you'd long since outgrown after the sun had gone down, hiding behind climbing frames and plastic tunnels simply because they gave you somewhere to be alone together.

Memories of fingers laced together in the dark, shared laughter muffled into sleeves and the first time your mouths had met almost by accident, followed by another and another, both of you pretending each one had been just as thoughtless as the last since acknowledging it felt far more frightening than simply letting it happen again.

“I never thought we'd grow out of it,” he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours. “You've never been an enigma to me…Of course, I have time,” he murmured. “I've loved you for as long as I can remember. For you, I’ve always had time.”

He smiled softly and everything inside you slid into place.

Oh, love. The nostalgia returned with childlike wonder. How long had it been waiting for you to find your way back to the playground?

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

Glen Powell (RPF)

Twisters Characters (Tyler Owens, Scott Miller)

Top Gun Characters (Jake Seresin, Bradley Bradshaw, Bob Floyd)

Other Glen Powell Characters (Charlie Young, Mark Reynolds, Gary Johnson, etc.)

Marvel Cinematic Universe Characters (Bucky Barnes)

WWE / Professional Wrestling Characters

Fics for Events & Challenges (Kinktober, Glenmas, etc.)

Then, his shadow stretched long across the hangar floor behind you.

“Hell of a move out there,” he drawled, voice slick with that Texas edge he sharpened like a knife.

You didn’t turn around right away. Instead, you leaned against the bench, unfastening your gloves with slow, deliberate movements. “You mean the part where I left you hanging in my six? Or the part where you stalled trying to catch up?”

There was a beat of silence, and then you heard his boots close the distance. Not storming. Not angry. Just… deliberate. Controlled. Like a predator who knew patience was part of the kill.

Finally, when you met his eyes, he was standing a little too close, heat rolling off him like he never left the sky.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake muttered, jaw tight, voice low enough to make it feel private.

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, giving him that slow, crooked grin he hated. The one that said I know I’m better, and you do too.

“Like you’re proud of it.”

You stepped in, just enough to make him flinch, not back, never back, but enough to make something in him lock up.

“Oh, I am,” you said, voice syrup-thick with challenge. “I’m very proud of it.”

Jake’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, quick, sharp, dangerous, before it came right back up. He was smiling now, but it was the kind of smile that came with teeth.

“Cocky, Crash,” he said, voice like a spark on gasoline. “Might wanna watch that altitude before you stall out next.”

But you didn’t answer. Not with words. Not yet, because you knew exactly how high you were flying.

And more importantly, you knew he was chasing.

Before either of you could throw the next punch, verbal or otherwise, the hangar doors groaned open again, letting in the rest of Dagger Squad with the kind of loud, casual chaos only they could bring. Payback was the first to speak, his voice echoing off the walls as he pulled his helmet off and shook out his damp curls.

“Well, if it isn’t Crash and Hangman,” he grinned, tossing a glance between you and Jake. “How’s the air up there, sweetheart?”

You smirked. “Clean. Unlike your record.”

Coyote let out a low whistle, already unzipping his flight suit. “Damn, she’s still got fire left in her and just smoked Hangman at ten thousand feet. Man’s gonna need therapy.”

Jake didn’t take his eyes off you. “I don’t need therapy. I need better wingmen.”

“You need humility,” you replied, tossing your gloves into your locker with just enough force to make a point.

Then came Phoenix, swaggering in with her usual post-flight strut and zero patience for testosterone-soaked one-liners. “Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing vaguely between you and Jake, “can it wait until after we all shower and don’t smell like burned jet fuel and fragile egos?”

Fanboy laughed under his breath, already halfway to stripping down. “You sure? This is better than Netflix.”

Harvard and Yale brushed past you on their way to the lockers, both nodding politely before catching on to the tension and exchanging a glance that said oh great, it’s happening again. You didn’t care. You didn’t exist to be anyone’s entertainment. Not even Dagger’s. Especially not Jake’s.

You made your way to the female side of the locker room, where a metal divider sectioned off the space, standard setup, rigidly enforced. No overlap. No excuses. You walked like you weren’t burning, even as you peeled out of your flight suit and let the cool tile of the shower area offer temporary relief.

Meanwhile, through the thin wall, you could still hear them, Jake’s voice louder than the rest, no doubt throwing around some snarky excuse for why he got beat again. You rolled your eyes under the stream of water, letting it scald your skin and wash away the sweat, but not the irritation.

Not the heat.

Then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, his voice filtered through the locker chatter again.

“Crash thinks she’s untouchable just because she got lucky once.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers tightening around the bottle of shampoo. Once? That was your third win in five days, and you both knew it.

Over in the male locker room, the conversation was shifting. Rooster’s voice cut through next, calm but edged in something sharp. “You’re obsessed, man. You’ve been spiraling since the first time she beat you. Admit it.”

Jake responded too fast. “I’m not obsessed.”

There was a short pause, and then Payback’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Sure you’re not. That’s why you talk about her in your sleep.”

You didn’t mean to smile, but it happened anyway, quick and gone, like turbulence.

By the time you emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around your neck and flight suit half zipped again, the squad had already started to head out. The locker room buzz had died down to a low murmur of sarcasm and soap. Phoenix passed you at the doorway, giving you a nod and a raised brow.

“He’s still pacing,” she said under her breath. “You’re in his head, Crash.”

You just shook your head, brushing past her without comment. Jake Seresin could burn through every ounce of pride he had and it still wouldn’t be enough to eclipse yours. You didn’t need to be in his head.

You were already in his airspace.

The corridor between the locker room and the flight debriefing room was narrow, lined with flickering fluorescents and the hum of vents that couldn't quite beat back the post-flight heat. You moved through it with practiced ease, boots scuffing against the tile in sync with your steady breathing, body still thrumming from the high of the sky. You’d flown clean, sharp, and unapologetically fast. Faster than him. Again.

Then, just as you rounded the corner past the exit hatch, you caught him.

Jake leaned against the wall like he belonged there, one arm braced high over a locker, hair still damp, towel slung lazy around his neck like it hadn’t been weaponized in half a dozen locker room showdowns.

His flight suit hung open to the waist, dog tags swinging with every shift of his frame. His eyes flicked up the moment he saw you, dark and unreadable, but not unreadable enough.

You paused mid-stride, giving him a glance sharp enough to cut through any lingering sweat-fog between you.

“If you’re waiting for an apology,” you said, tone dry as desert wind, “you’ll be collecting dust.”

Jake pushed off the wall, slow like it meant nothing, like he wasn’t waiting at all. “You think I want an apology?”

“I think you want something,” you replied, not bothering to stop walking as he fell into step beside you.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling through the narrow hall like smoke. “You always this arrogant after a flight?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to give him your profile. “Only when I fly better than the guy who won’t shut up about being the best.”

Jake’s grin twitched wider, but there was no warmth in it, just edge. “You don’t fly better than me, Crash. You fly dirtier.”

You stopped short, the words hitting a little too close to something you didn’t care to name. “Funny. I thought getting results mattered more than looking pretty for the scoreboard.”

He leaned in then, just enough to make you feel it. The space tightened. The air thinned.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he said, voice low enough to make you forget anyone else even existed on base, “and I might start thinking you want me to bite back.”

You blinked at him, expression carefully blank, even as heat crawled up your neck. “Bite harder, Seresin. You’re already choking.”

For a second, you swore he forgot how to breathe. His jaw twitched, and his fingers curled at his sides like he needed something to grip. He stepped back before he did something stupid, or worse, something obvious, and ran a hand through his hair like it could tame what was already out of control.

Then, from the corridor ahead, Coyote’s voice rang out, oblivious and perfectly timed.

“Briefing room in five! Mav’s not gonna wait!”

You didn’t spare Jake another glance as you brushed past him, but you could feel his stare burning into your spine like afterburner exhaust. You walked faster, not to get away, but because you knew he’d follow.

And he did, because whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

It was just about to enter a new altitude.

You broke into a jog the second Coyote’s voice echoed down the corridor, knowing full well that if you were even a minute late, Maverick would make you run the entire flight line in full gear as penance.

Not that you’d mind the workout, but the humiliation? You weren’t about to hand that over, especially not with Jake Seresin breathing down your neck like a heat-seeking missile.

Behind you, you could hear his boots pounding against the tile, fast and cocky, like he was trying to pass you just for the hell of it. Typical.

Then, with the door to the briefing room coming into view and Jake gaining a little too much ground, you made a split-second decision. A barely perceptible shift of your elbow. A subtle, graceful move of your foot.

Not enough to trip a normal man.

But Jake Seresin was not a normal man. He was an ego on legs and pride in motion, and pride, as always, made people sloppy.

His shin clipped your boot. It wasn’t hard, it didn’t have to be. Momentum did the rest.

There was a sharp, stuttered curse, followed by the unmistakable sound of six-foot-something of Navy muscle stumbling mid-sprint. He flailed for half a second, arms windmilling, before regaining his balance, barely catching himself on the wall with a thud that echoed like thunder.

You kept running.

By the time you burst through the briefing room doors, your breathing was under control and your expression was as smooth as your landing had been earlier that day. Maverick was already standing near the front, arms crossed and brow raised in that unreadable instructor expression he’d perfected years ago.

“You’re cutting it close, Crash,” he said, nodding toward the clock.

You slipped into your seat with a shrug. “Better late than sloppy, sir.”

Just then, the door slammed open again.

Jake stormed in, hair even messier than before, dog tags clinking violently against his chest as he shot you a look that could’ve grounded aircraft. You smiled sweetly, already leaning back in your chair, hands behind your head like you had no idea what he was so worked up about.

He didn’t say a word, but his glare said everything.

Phoenix coughed into her fist, clearly holding back a laugh. Payback nudged Coyote with his elbow and muttered something that earned him a full-bodied snort. Even Rooster lifted his brows in mild concern-slash-amusement.

Maverick narrowed his eyes at both of you, clearly sensing the hostile weather front in the room.

“Glad you two could join us,” he said dryly. “Now sit. Down.”

Jake dropped into the seat across yours, still fuming, still wordless. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel it, every molecule of heat radiating off his body like his fury alone could melt steel. There was a tightness in his shoulders that didn’t ease, even as the briefing started and the screen flickered on.

Still, you leaned in just a little and whispered, voice barely above a breath.

“You should watch your step, Seresin.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at you.

But you knew you’d just declared war, and you were already winning.

The lights dimmed as Maverick keyed the projector, the screen flickering to life with a grainy playback of the final dogfight of the day. The room hushed immediately, the air shifting from casual post-flight sarcasm to focused, near-surgical attention. All eyes faced forward, shoulders squared. Whatever rivalry burned beneath the surface would have to wait, at least for now.

“Alright, let’s start with the final engagement,” Maverick said, stepping to the side as the video played from the onboard camera of your jet. “North of Bravo Six, two thousand feet above deck, lead aircraft, Crash.”

A few heads turned toward you, though no one spoke. You didn’t need to bask in it. The screen spoke for itself. Your Super Hornet banked hard into a tight split-S, dodging Jake’s pursuit and twisting into a vertical climb that should’ve stalled you out if you hadn’t already throttled preemptively and calculated the airspeed differential in advance. It was clean. Precise. Dangerous as hell.

“Now that,” Maverick said, turning to face the room again, “was a bold move. Most pilots would’ve blacked out halfway through that climb. Crash here timed it down to the damn second and pulled out with two Gs to spare.”

You sat straighter in your seat, but didn’t grin. You didn’t have to. Instead, you nodded once, calm and composed, like it was exactly what you expected to hear.

Across the row, Jake stiffened, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw ticked the way it always did when something didn’t sit right, aand apparently, you being right was what bothered him.

“Sir, with all due respect,” he started, voice clipped, “that maneuver wasn’t bold, but it was reckless. She dove straight into a negative pitch at a rate that would’ve flattened most pilots. If her timing was even half a second off, she would've stalled out and taken both of us down.”

You turned to him then, brow raised, calm as glass. “But I wasn’t off, Seresin.”

Jake didn’t back down. “That doesn’t change the fact that it was reckless.”

“Actually,” you said, tone even and deliberate, “it does. I factored in the barometric drop from the marine layer, calculated the drop-off in air density, and initiated the climb before your nose even cleared my tail. I had twenty-three hundred feet of vertical to bleed speed and an angle of attack set at precisely sixteen degrees. You were flying by instinct. I was flying by math.”

The silence that followed was almost smug. Payback muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “damn”, and Phoenix just raised her brows at Jake like you walked into that one, didn’t you?

Meanwhile, Maverick simply crossed his arms and nodded, clearly not surprised.

“She’s right,” he confirmed, glancing at Jake before turning back to the screen. “That was some of the cleanest risk mitigation I’ve seen from a junior officer. She knew her limits. More importantly, she knew your limits, too.”

The jab landed harder than any turbulence. Jake looked away, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his molars grinding.

You didn’t gloat. You just kept your eyes on the screen, watching as your jet pulled out of the maneuver with smooth, practiced grace while his frame lagged behind, sharp, but not quite sharp enough.

Then, without needing to be prompted, you added, “Also, that wasn’t a dive. It was an accelerated vertical escape into a high-speed climb. If I had pulled two seconds later, I would've clipped the wake vortex. But I didn’t. So maybe instead of calling it reckless, we start calling it what it was.”

Jake muttered under his breath, something just shy of a curse, and you smiled to yourself, small, barely there, but satisfying all the same.

Maverick exhaled like he was hiding a grin. “Alright,” he said, “let’s move on.”

Maverick clicked to the next frame, pausing on a still image of your Hornet mid-climb, the vapor cone beginning to bloom from your wings. He narrowed his eyes at the angle, thoughtful, and then turned slightly, directing his next question toward the room, but you could tell it was meant for you.

“Alright, walk me through this. You initiated the vertical afterburner climb here—” he pointed to the timestamp, “—but you didn’t switch to combat spread until two seconds later. Why wait?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Because I needed Hangman to commit.”

That earned you a few startled glances. Maverick tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Elaborate.”

You sat up straighter, sliding your flight data tablet closer and tapping to bring up your own recorded metrics. The graph glowed pale blue on your screen as you began.

“He was tailing too close for a clean break. If I broke right into spread, he would’ve mirrored it and stayed locked in. But by delaying and keeping him in the pocket, I forced him to stay on my vector while I manipulated speed bleed through vertical gain. He was flying with nose authority, but not enough roll control at that angle to compensate for thrust lag.”

You tapped the chart, zooming in on the data.

“The second he hit ninety percent throttle and lost yaw stability, I banked left, just outside his field of correction. That gave me a clean line to reposition and full weapon sim lock before he could recover trim.”

There was a long pause. The room stayed quiet. Even the air vents seemed to hum a little softer.

Then Payback let out a low whistle. “She baited him.”

Phoenix blinked. “That wasn’t just instinct. That was textbook manipulation of enemy error.”

Rooster gave a single, incredulous laugh under his breath. “Holy shit, she played you like a violin.”

From across the room, you heard Fanboy mutter, “I’m not even mad. That was art.”

You stayed composed, unbothered, because it wasn’t the first time you’d outflown someone by outthinking them, but it was the first time you did it in front of all of them.

Meanwhile, Maverick just nodded slowly, visibly impressed in the way that meant something. “That’s the kind of situational awareness most pilots don’t develop until they’ve logged ten times your hours.”

You nodded, calm. “I’ve always liked math, sir.”

That got a few more chuckles, the kind laced with genuine awe and no small amount of respect. Even Phoenix cracked a smile, bumping her knee lightly against yours in a rare show of squad affection.

And Jake? Jake looked like he’d just been punched in the gut, stripped of rank, and made to salute you all in the same breath.

His mouth opened like he had something to say, but nothing came out. His jaw tightened instead, his grip on the edge of the table white-knuckled and furious. He stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. Because this wasn’t just your win, it was your arrival. And no one, not even Hangman, could deny it anymore.

The briefing wrapped with Maverick’s final nod, and the squad filed out in clusters, boots scuffing, side comments exchanged, the occasional lingering glance in your direction. You didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were about. You had just executed a maneuver that would probably be added to training tapes, and you made it look like muscle memory.

Meanwhile, Jake didn’t say a word.

He stood slower than the rest, arms folded tight across his chest, that unreadable look on his face carved from pride, heat, and something just short of fury. You could feel it before you turned, his eyes dragging over your shoulder blades like a targeting laser. Still, you didn’t look back. Not until you stepped into the corridor.

Then, as if you’d conjured him, you heard his voice behind you. Sharp. Icy.

“Real clever stunt in there.”

You turned on your heel, facing him fully now. The hallway was quiet, most of the squad already vanished into other rooms, the locker halls, the mess. Out here, it was just you and him. Just enough space to make something dangerous feel inevitable.

“You mean the one that worked?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jake took a step forward, his gaze locked on yours. “You humiliated me.”

You arched a brow. “I outflew you. That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he snapped, closing the distance again, “you calculated me. Used me. Like a move on a goddamn chessboard.”

You tilted your head slightly, biting back the smile that wanted to surface. “And you’re mad because I did it better than you?”

“I’m mad,” he growled, stepping in until the space between you could barely hold a breath, “because you’re not just flying dirty, you’re flying like you’ve got something to prove.”

“Maybe, I do.”

Jake’s eyes scanned yours, lingering too long on your mouth before he caught himself. He looked furious. He looked obsessed. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to fight you or—

“You’ve been gunning for me since the second you walked into this base,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. “What is it? You think you’re better than me?”

You leaned in just slightly, close enough to make him shift, to feel that tension coil between you again.

“I know that I’m better than you,” you whispered. “But it kills you more, because I’m right.”

He laughed then short, humorless, almost breathless. It didn’t soften anything.

“Careful, Crash,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “you keep pushing and one day I’m not gonna let you walk away with just a smartass line and a smile.”

You stepped closer again, toe to toe now, and stared him down like you were locked at altitude.

“Then don’t.”

The words came out low, clean, and lethal.

Jake’s breath hitched, and you watched the war play out behind his eyes, the one between pride and want, fury and restraint. His hand twitched at his side, like he didn’t trust it not to reach for you.

Then, from around the corner, someone’s voice called out; Rooster, maybe, or Coyote, you couldn’t be sure. The sound broke whatever fragile, electric moment was about to combust.

Jake took a slow step back. His jaw clenched again, but this time, he didn’t say anything.

He just turned and walked away.

And for some reason, that was worse than anything he could’ve said.

The Hard Deck was glowing with neon and noise, the jukebox throwing out some Tom Petty track while pilots crowded around pool tables, beers in hand, laughter spilling like spilled salt across the floorboards. You were leaned over the edge of the far table, cue balanced against your thumb, eyes narrowed in focus. Rooster stood beside you, arms crossed, already grinning like he knew you were about to win.

You made the shot, smooth, clean, corner pocket, and straightened with a cocky tilt of your head.

“Damn, Crash,” Rooster said, nudging your shoulder, “you’ve been on fire lately. What’d Jake do, give you all his luck?”

You laughed, passing him the cue. “If Seresin gave me anything, it’d come with a side of unresolved trauma.”

Rooster barked a laugh, lining up his own shot. “You’re not wrong.”

Meanwhile, at the bar, the doors swung open with a gust of salt air, and Jake strutted in like the devil himself had opened the door just for him. Coyote trailed at his side, followed by Harvard, Yale, Fritz, and Omaha; Jake’s usual entourage when he needed backup for his ego. He spotted you almost instantly. You didn’t look, but you could feel the shift in atmosphere the second he zeroed in.

Then he strolled over, beer in hand, the swagger turned up to eleven.

“Well, well,” Jake drawled, coming to a stop right beside the table, “didn’t realize you and Bradshaw were dating now. Should we start calling you Mrs. Rooster?”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned one elbow on the table, cocked your head, and shot him a smile so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

“Jake,” you said sweetly, “if jealousy had a face, it’d still be prettier than yours.”

The reaction was instant. Coyote howled. Rooster nearly choked on his drink. Harvard and Yale exchanged wide-eyed glances. Omaha laughed so hard he had to grip the edge of the table for balance.

Even Phoenix, just now walking over with Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Halo in tow, caught the tail end of it and raised her brows. “Damn,” she said, sipping her beer. “Y’all starting early tonight.”

“Starting?” you said, turning to face her with a smirk. “I’ve been cooking him since he walked in.”

Jake’s jaw ticked, but he covered it with a smug shrug. “We’ll see who’s cooked when I wipe the floor with you.”

“In what, delusion?”

“Nope, the pool.” He stepped closer, snagging the spare cue from the rack and twirling it between his fingers like it was a weapon. “You and me, Crash. Best of five.”

Rooster set his drink down and gave Jake a look that fell somewhere between exasperated and knowing. “Hangman, you sure you wanna do that? She’s been on a streak.”

Jake didn’t look away from you. “I like streaks. Especially when I get to break them.”

You stepped forward, grabbing the chalk and spinning it slowly in your fingers. “Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on, “but don’t cry when I make you look bad in front of your fan club.”

He grinned, sharp and wild. “Just don’t choke when the heat’s on.”

The squad began to gather around, drinks in hand, forming a loose circle around the table. Phoenix climbed onto a nearby stool with her beer. Fanboy leaned against the wall, already grinning. Bob stood a few paces back, quiet but invested. Payback and Halo threw down a few bills on the corner of the table, already betting on the outcome.

You racked the balls, slow and steady, hands precise. Jake stepped to the other side, chalking his cue like it was part of some ritual. Then you both leaned over the table, eyes locked.

Two apex predators in one room, each convinced they were the only one worth watching.

The air snapped tight around you, and neither of you missed.

Jake broke first. The cue ball cracked against the rack with a sharp, brutal snap, scattering the solids and stripes with precision that bordered on violent. One dropped, then another. You leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him circle the felt like a predator sizing up terrain he already thought he owned.

He sank a third before he finally missed, barely, by inches. The crowd gave a collective breath, and then it was your turn.

You stepped into position like you belonged there. Your hips grazed the table’s edge. You lined up your shot, cue gliding through your fingers with practiced ease. One tap, clean, sharp, and the ball dropped.

“CRASH!” Rooster whooped from the sideline, raising his beer like a trophy.

“Let’s go, baby!” Phoenix yelled over the music.

“Hot damn,” Payback grinned. “She don’t miss.”

“Crash! Crash! Crash!” Fanboy and Halo chanted in rhythm, smacking their drinks against the bar in time.

You didn’t react to them, not outwardly, but your next shot curved with just the right amount of English, bouncing off the side rail and sinking your second with a casual kind of grace that looked like you were barely trying.

Jake’s voice cut through the noise. “Show-off.”

You smiled without looking at him. “Better than a sore loser.”

You nailed a third. Then a fourth. When you finally missed, only slightly, the cue ball grazing too far right, it was Jake’s turn again. He moved with fire now, slick and deliberate. He lined up three shots in a row, executing each with brutal efficiency. Coyote clapped like it was the Superbowl.

“HANGMAN!” he yelled, riling up Harvard, Yale, and Omaha into a full-blown cheer squad.

“Let’s go, Seresin!”

“Clean kill, baby!”

“Send her crashin’!”

The Hard Deck was fully invested now, drinks forgotten, crowd circling the table as people pressed in for a better view. The jukebox volume had been dialed down, not officially, but like the bar collectively understood something bigger was happening here. It was more than pool. It was battle. Banter. Bravado and blurred lines.

Your next turn had to be perfect, and it was.

You pivoted around the table, spinning your cue once before sinking a bank shot so clean the crowd actually gasped. Your corner pocket stroke after that was surgical, snapping the eight into position like you’d choreographed it in your head three plays ago.

"CRASH!" the crowd erupted again, louder now, voices echoing off the walls.

Rooster leaned back, hollering. “She’s cookin’!”

Phoenix threw both hands up like a ref signaling a touchdown. Bob even smiled—Bob smiled.

Jake didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch, but his grip on the cue tightened enough to make his knuckles white.

Then he stepped up, wordless, and went to war.

His next shot curved like poetry; sleek, exact. Another fell, then another. Harvard screamed his name. Yale slammed his hand against the nearest stool.

The scoreboard was nearly even.

You were two apex predators circling a kill neither one wanted to share, and the kill was glory. Admiration. Each other.

But no one in the room could miss the difference now. Jake was damn good, but you? You were unbothered.

You were better, and the whole damn bar was watching.

By the time you lined up your next shot, the score was dead even. One ball left for each of you, eight still waiting like a final dare. The crowd had gone near silent now, the kind of hush that happens when people realize they’re witnessing something unrepeatable. The jukebox kept spinning something low and slow, but even the music sounded like it was holding its breath.

Jake was posted up against the far corner, cue slung casually over his shoulder, but his eyes never left you. He watched you like a man waiting for a lightning strike, like he wanted to be hit. You felt the burn of his stare trailing down your back, across your legs, over your arms as you bent slightly to study your angle.

You didn’t look up at him. Not yet.

Instead, you backed up just a little, slow, measured, deliberate, and bumped into him with a subtle sway of your hips.

“Oops,” you murmured, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

He didn’t move.

You shifted again, cue stick low in your hand, angling to line up, right as the tip of it just so happened to swing directly between his legs with a gentle tap.

Jake inhaled sharply, catching it with both hands as he flinched back half a step.

“Oh my god—” Fanboy choked somewhere in the crowd.

“Did she just—” Payback was laughing, doubled over.

Coyote barked, “Direct hit!”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “She’s playing dirty tonight.”

You turned your head slightly and looked up at Jake over your shoulder, your smile sugar-sweet and fake as sin. “Sorry, Hangman. You were standing way too close to the danger zone.”

Jake was frozen, like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle you, kiss you, or throw you across the damn table. His jaw flexed. His eyes burned. And there was this twitch in his fingers, like every bone in his body wanted to grab you and do something about it.

You moved back to your shot without another word, leaned down, and sank the last ball with surgical precision.

The crowd exploded. “CRASH!” they screamed in unison, fists pumping, laughter and cheers flooding the bar like someone had just won the Super Bowl.

You didn’t look at Jake, but you felt him behind you. Still. Staring.

Like you’d knocked the wind out of him, and he was trying very, very hard not to beg for more.

Jake didn’t say anything after you sank the final shot. He just stood there for a second, cue slack in his grip, gaze locked on the pocket like he could will the outcome to change, but the eight-ball was gone. So was his win. And the cheers echoing through the Hard Deck were all for you.

You passed by him without a word, just a slow, deliberate glance that said everything he needed to hear. The crowd was still riled up, people clapping you on the back, offering drinks, showering you in affection like you were the patron saint of pool table warfare. And maybe tonight, you were.

Meanwhile, Jake drifted toward the bar, alone. He didn’t limp, exactly, but his pride definitely did. He ordered something sharp; whiskey, probably, then leaned against the counter, nursing the glass like it could drown the sting. His eyes flicked to you more than once, but you didn’t look his way again. Not yet.

That’s when she approached.

A tall brunette in a slinky black tank and heels too impractical for a place with peanut shells on the floor. She leaned on the bar beside him like she was in a perfume commercial, all breathy smiles and glossy eyes. Jake saw her. Of course he did. And predictably, his expression smoothed into that practiced smirk, the one that usually knocked people flat before he even said a word.

“Well hey there,” he said, voice lower now, just shy of sultry. “You lookin’ for something?”

She smiled, coy. “Yeah,” she said, dragging out the word with a lilt. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me get it.”

Jake leaned in slightly, shoulders shifting. He sipped his drink and gave her that full Seresin tilt-your-head-and-look-charming move. “Well now, that depends,” he said smoothly. “What exactly are you looking for?”

There was a pause. A beat. A little twist of the universe.

Then she leaned closer, cupping her drink between both hands, and said with a little wink:

“Crash’s number.”

Jake froze.

It was microscopic, but you knew him. The twitch in his temple, the sudden flare in his nostrils, the faint noise that might have been a strangled laugh or a dying breath, he was flabbergasted.

“Come again?” he asked, blinking once.

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Crash. You know, the one who just smoked you on the table? God, she’s so hot. Like, I almost asked her myself, but—” she swirled the straw in her drink, “—you looked like you might have an in.”

Jake took a slow step back like she’d just hit him with a taser.

You, across the room, turned just in time to catch the moment. His eyes flicked toward you, burning with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. And you? You just smirked. Cool. Effortless. Like you knew.

Because you did.

His glare hit you like a storm cloud. You met it with sunshine.

And in that exact moment, the only thing more bruised than Jake Seresin’s ego… was his dignity.

The bar emptied in waves, laughter spilling out onto the parking lot like the tide receding after one hell of a storm. Most of the guys were buzzed or straight-up hammered; Fanboy giggling against Halo’s shoulder, Coyote yelling something about karaoke into the night, and Payback dramatically fake-snoring in the bed of someone’s truck. Bob, ever the responsible one, was helping Phoenix wrangle Rooster into handing over his Bronco keys before he could insist he was “totally fine” to drive with a beer still in hand.

You sighed, catching the jingling keys mid-air after Phoenix tossed them your way. “I’ll drive him,” you said simply. “He’s two blocks from my place anyway.”

“Crash for MVP,” Phoenix muttered, dragging Fanboy toward her Jeep like a tired babysitter clocking out.

You rounded the Bronco, throwing open the driver’s door just as Rooster plopped into the passenger seat with a dramatic groan, head already tilted back like he planned to fall asleep the second you hit the road. You reached for the door to close it behind you when—

A hand slapped flat against the frame, stopping it mid-swing.

You didn’t have to look. You knew who it was.

Jake Seresin stood there, still reeling from the night, still wearing that perfect mix of ego and frustration like a custom-tailored flight suit. His other hand braced against the Bronco’s roof, effectively caging you in with his arms and the dark and the heat rolling off him like summer thunder.

“What,” he said, low and sharp, “are you doing to me?”

You turned, leaned your hip into the seat casually, unbothered. “Driving a friend home. Want me to call you a cab?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

You tilted your head, gaze traveling slowly over his face. “You're going to have to be more specific, Seresin.”

Jake leaned in just a little closer, breath warm near your ear, voice dipping into something dark and quiet. “You’re under my skin. In my head. Hell, I dreamt about you last week and woke up pissed off and hard.”

You blinked once. Then smiled.

Calm. Controlled. Deadly.

“Must’ve been a good dream if it lasted long enough to piss you off.”

Jake exhaled like it pained him. His eyes searched yours, wild but tethered, and his mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace.

“You’re driving me insane,” he muttered.

“Good,” you replied, brushing past his shoulder deliberately as you leaned forward to grab the seatbelt. “Maybe that means you’ll stop talking for once.”

But just before you could buckle yourself in, his hand shot out again; catching the seatbelt strap right by your fingers. The movement was fluid, unfairly fast, and suddenly you were nose-to-nose again, your breath catching before you could stop it.

“You keep poking the bear, Crash,” he said, mouth barely moving. “You really think I won’t bite?”

Your lips parted, just slightly, just for a fraction of a second. You felt it in your gut, in your thighs, in the base of your damn spine. But before you could answer, before you could say something biting or kiss him or deck him—

He stepped back.

Fully. Cleanly. Smirking like the devil after a sermon.

“Sweet dreams, hotshot,” he said with a wink.

Then he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire circulatory system with one sentence.

And in the silence that followed, you buckled your seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, and stared at your own reflection in the windshield.

Because goddamn him… you were thirsty now.

The Bronco rumbled down the coastal highway, headlights cutting through the early a.m. haze like spotlights on a bad decision. The window was cracked just enough to let in some sea air, though it didn’t do much to cool the wildfire that Jake Seresin had lit in your bloodstream thirty minutes ago.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, lips pursed, trying to focus on the road and not the fact that your pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment that smug bastard backed away like he hadn’t just whispered his way into your frontal lobe.

Meanwhile, Rooster was passed out in the passenger seat, limbs loose and tangled, head tilted back so far he was nearly kissing the ceiling. He snored once, then muttered something about "Mav's fault" before going limp again.

You almost laughed, until, completely unprompted, he shot up straight, eyes still closed, and bellowed into the night:

“YOU SHAKE MY NERVES AND YOU RATTLE MY BRAIN—”

You nearly swerved. “Oh, my God—”

Rooster slapped the dash like it was a piano and launched into the next line: “TOO MUCH LOVE DRIVES A MAN INSAAAAANE!”

You blinked at the road, deadpan. “Are you serious right now?”

But he was already gone again, flopping sideways against the window like someone had unplugged him. You stared at him for a beat, jaw slack, then back at the road with a slow, broken laugh. “You are a menace.”

Still, the second you hit the red light, your thoughts slid right back where they’d been since Jake cornered you. His voice. His eyes. That goddamn heat that crawled under your skin and made your spine twitch. You tried to shake it off, but your thighs had other ideas, pressing tighter like you could trap the thought and suffocate it before it reached your core.

No such luck.

Because it had been months since you let yourself think about anyone like that. Even longer since you touched yourself to the idea of someone who knew your name, let alone whispered it like a curse.

But now? All you could think about was his voice in your ear, hot breath on your neck, that smirk that made you want to throw hands and then straddle him right there on the Bronco hood.

It was disgusting.

It was shameful.

But it was so, so hot.

You sighed sharply, punching the gas when the light turned green. “God, I am so using my vibrator tonight.”

Rooster stirred beside you, one eye cracked open. “Did you say something?”

You kept your face forward. “Nope. You’re dreaming.”

He nodded solemnly. “Dreamin’ of piano bars.”

Then he passed out again. You kept driving.

And tried very, very hard not to pull over and scream into your palms.

Rooster blinked up at you with bloodshot eyes and a stupid smile, legs still tangled on the Bronco’s seat. “I’m just… I’m just gonna sleep here,” he mumbled, arms crossed like he thought he was making a strong case.

“No, you’re not,” you snapped, already half-dragging him out the passenger side door. “You're not dying of heatstroke in your own damn driveway, Bradshaw.”

He groaned dramatically, but let you help him stand. It was like guiding a baby giraffe in flip-flops, knees wobbling, weight shifting every direction but forward. Eventually, with a key dug out of his back pocket and a lot of grunting, you got him to the front door. Then inside. Then to the couch, where he dropped like a sack of aviation-grade potatoes.

You threw a blanket over him with a muttered, “Don’t puke on this, or I’m setting you on fire,” and turned to leave.

But not before locking the door behind you like a good friend. And then? Then, you ran.

Like full-on, boots-slapping-asphalt, Olympic sprinted down the sidewalk, because your place was only a few blocks away and every second between now and your own bedroom felt like torture.

The whole way, your mind was an endless loop of Jake’s voice; gravel and heat, laced with that godforsaken smirk: “You keep poking the bear, Crash… you really think I won’t bite?”

You fumbled with your keys when you got to your door, nearly dropped them twice, cursing under your breath like you were being hunted by the ghost of your own horny decisions. Finally, you got it open, stepped inside, slammed the door, and locked it behind you with a click that felt like salvation.

Then came the shower. A quick, cold rinse that didn’t even try to calm you down, just enough to wipe off the sweat from the bar and the shame from sprinting like you were in the Hunger Games. You didn’t even dry your hair. Just scrubbed your teeth, spat, wiped your face on a towel, and bee-lined straight to the nightstand.

And there it was. Your true co-pilot. Your vibrator.

You didn’t even hesitate. Pulled open the drawer, grabbed the vibrator like it owed you backpay, and collapsed on the bed with a groan that came from somewhere deep in your soul.

“God damn you, Seresin,” you muttered, flicking it on.

And then you let yourself finally, finally take the edge off the way only a desperate, pissed-off pilot with Jake Hangman Seresin living rent-free in her head could.

- Jake -

Jake Seresin was in hell.

Not literal hell, not the flames and brimstone kind, but the slow, grinding, full-body, carnal kind that made his brain short-circuit every time you so much as breathed in his direction.

And right now? You weren’t just breathing.

You were doing push-ups.

In the dirt.

Sweaty, flushed, jaw tight with focus, and wearing that goddamn fitted undershirt that clung to your back like a second skin. Every time your arms bent, your triceps flexed in the most unfair way imaginable, and every time you exhaled, he swore he could feel it in his spine.

Meanwhile, Mav paced behind the group like a disappointed father, barking out counts while the entire squad groaned under the weight of hangovers and regret.

“Push-up number forty-two! You wanna be late to my tarmac? You better be ready to earn it!”

Jake didn’t even care. Let him do fifty. Hell, let him do a hundred. He deserved it for the things he did to the mental image of you last night, things he was still recovering from.

Because after you strutted out of the Hard Deck like the devil in boots, all victorious smirks and slow blinks, Jake had barely made it home before he was jacking off with the desperation of a man trying to exorcise you from his bloodstream. He didn’t even bother putting on music or pretending it wasn’t about you. It was disgusting. It was shameful. And it was the only thing that got him to sleep.

But it hadn’t helped.

Not even a little.

If anything, it had made it worse, because now he knew what it sounded like to moan your name, even if it was just in his own head, and now here you were, doing push-ups beside Phoenix, sweat rolling down the side of your neck like a damn baptism, and Jake’s mind was already halfway to hell again.

He clenched his jaw, gritting through another rep.

God, the way your body moved, like you didn’t even know how distracting you were. Your hair was pulled back, messier than usual, little strands clinging to your cheeks. Your lips were parted just slightly, breath steady, focused, but your ass? Perfectly arched. Your back? Shimmering. And every time your chest lowered to the ground, he had to dig his fingers into the gravel just to keep from groaning.

“Fifty!” Mav shouted. “That’s the price for being a squad of hungover jackasses!”

The group groaned and collapsed onto their stomachs, catching their breath.

Jake rolled onto his back, arm over his eyes like it could block out the sight of you, but it was too late. You were burned into his retinas. Into his frontal cortex. Into the pulse in his pants that was now pressing insistently against his flight suit like it had any right to ask for round two.

He peeked at you from under his forearm.

You were grinning now, fucking grinning, and wiping your forehead with the hem of your shirt, revealing just a sliver of skin at your waist. Just enough to ruin his morning, afternoon, and potentially career.

God help him. He wanted you so bad it felt like a fever.

And the worst part? You feels like you knew.

Jake had survived missile lock, blackout spins, G-force trauma, and enough high-risk training exercises to make most people piss themselves.

But nothing, nothing, had ever tested his willpower like the way you stood in front of him now, chugging from your water bottle like the heat didn’t bother you, like your shirt wasn’t plastered to your skin, like your sports bra wasn’t visible under white cotton like the setup of a goddamn wet dream.

He watched a droplet of water slip from the corner of your mouth, trail down your chin, and disappear down your neck.

He blinked slowly.

Focus.

But there was no focusing. Not when the sun was kissing your collarbones, and sweat had turned your skin into something glistening and golden.

Not when your shoulders looked like they could cut steel and your legs were carved like a Roman statue, lean, powerful, flexed with every shift of weight as you leaned over to tie your boot. You didn’t even bend like a normal person. You bent like a temptation.

Meanwhile, Jake was standing next to Coyote, nodding absently at something about flight rotations, pretending he wasn’t one heartbeat away from turning around and walking headfirst into the ocean just to cool down. He clenched his jaw again. If he did it any harder, his teeth would break.

You tossed your water bottle into your duffel, then stretched your arms overhead, back arching just slightly, shirt rising with the motion. Jake caught a glimpse of the slope of your lower stomach and swore he saw God, or maybe the Devil. Whoever made it so that looking at you felt like a punishment.

You yawned next, like it was nothing, like the whole squad wasn’t already down bad, but Jake? Jake was on the edge of a breakdown. You rubbed your neck, turned toward Phoenix, and laughed at something she said. That sound? That laugh? Jake wanted to trap it in his hands and crawl inside it.

He shifted on his heels, forced himself to look away, but it was no use. Every time he glanced at you, every flick of your wrist, every cocked eyebrow, every stupid smirk, you just looked hotter.

Hotter than last night.

Hotter than when you beat him at pool.

Hotter than when you hit him in the balls with your cue stick and smiled about it.

He was so screwed.

And not in the fun way.

Every single part of you was a problem. From the way you stood with one hip popped, weight balanced like you were permanently ready for takeoff, to the way you looked in that damn flight suit, zipped down just low enough to hint at the curve of your collarbones, sleeves pushed to your elbows like you didn’t even know you looked like sex personified.

Jake knew that if you told him to get on his knees, he’d do it without thinking.

He hated that about himself.

Worse, he was starting to like that about himself.

And the next time you smirked at him, like you knew exactly what you were doing, like you felt how hard he was trying not to think about what your thighs would feel like wrapped around his head?

He nearly groaned out loud. So, Jake tried to play it cool.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms, squinted at the tarmac like there was something, anything, more important out there than the way you adjusted your hair with a slow, careless drag of fingers that damn near made him whimper, but the second he thought maybe, maybe, no one had noticed the mental gymnastics he was doing to stay upright—

“So… how’s that chastity belt feelin’, Hangman?” Coyote leaned in with the subtlety of a brick and dropped the line like a live grenade.

Jake’s head snapped to him. “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me,” Coyote grinned, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he turned his whole body to face him. “You’ve been eye-fucking Crash since warm-ups.”

Rooster snorted from behind, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Bro, he nearly passed out at push-up number twenty. Man was suffering.”

Jake scowled. “I was focused.”

“Yeah,” Rooster nodded. “On her ass.”

Coyote laughed loud enough to draw a glance from Halo and Phoenix. “Dude, you looked like a Victorian husband watching his wife show ankle. I thought you were gonna faint.”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it, and then pointed a finger in Rooster’s direction. “You were singing in your sleep last night. ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ In falsetto.”

Rooster just shrugged. “Yeah, and you were singing her name while holding your drink like it was holy water. So what’s your point?”

Jake flushed. Fully. From the neck up. A violent, betrayed shade of red.

Coyote leaned in closer, voice lower now, like he was trying to counsel a man who just lost the war. “Just admit it, Seresin. You got it bad. Like… ‘late night sock drawer’ bad.”

Rooster made a choked-off sound that was half-laugh, half-gag. “You think he cried after?”

“I think he cried during,” Coyote replied solemnly.

“Y’all done?” Jake muttered, jaw clenched like he was trying to chew through steel.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Rooster grinned. “Because if you don’t do something about it soon, you’re gonna combust mid-flight.”

Jake rolled his eyes and turned away, desperate for a distraction, anything, but then he looked up—

And saw you again. Walking toward the hangar. Hair tied back.

Sunlight bouncing off your cheekbones like it knew he was watching.

He cursed under his breath and shut his eyes. Yeah.

He was doomed. And his so-called friends? Not helping.

The water was hot. Scalding, even. But Jake stood under the spray like he wanted to boil the memory of you right off his skin.

It wasn’t working.

He scrubbed a palm down his face, leaned a forearm against the tile, and exhaled slowly, hoping the heat would drown the ache that had settled in his gut since yesterday, but every time he closed his eyes, you were right there, smirking, sweating, stretching, tying your damn boot like you knew he was watching.

The worst part? You did know.

The water hit the back of his neck, rolling down his spine, but all it did was make him feel hotter. He clenched his jaw, tried to think about anything else. Flight schedules. Fuel consumption ratios. Maintenance reports. Hell, even Mav’s disappointed dad voice.

But then he remembered the way your shirt had clung to your chest during push-ups, and it was over.

He groaned low in his throat and thunked his head against the wall.

Get a grip, Seresin.

And then—

“Hey, Hangman,” Coyote’s voice echoed from across the shower stalls, loud and evil. “You better not be jacking it in there, man. We still got drills.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “I’m not, asshole.”

Rooster laughed somewhere behind him. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s been like ten minutes and we haven’t heard you breathe.”

“I swear to God—” Jake turned slightly, water still cascading over his back, face red from heat and humiliation.

“Hey,” Fanboy added, “if you are, at least aim down, alright? Shared pipes.”

Coyote coughed. “Dude, I’m begging you, not near the drain.”

“I will punch all of you.”

Then, like an angel dipped in irony, Bob’s voice drifted in—calm, diplomatic.

“Guys, don’t tease him,” he said gently.

Jake sighed in relief.

Then Bob added, “He’s clearly going through it.”

Jake tensed.

“Poor guy’s got a crush,” Bob finished, completely deadpan.

The showers erupted.

Laughter echoed off the tile, a few slaps ringing out as someone clapped the wall, someone else mimicking kissing sounds. Jake wanted to crawl into the drain and disappear.

He shouted over the chaos. “She’s not a crush! She’s a menace!”

“Yeah,” Rooster called, voice thick with smug, “a sexy, sweaty menace.”

Coyote chimed in, “Who lives rent-free in your right hand, bro!”

Jake groaned, turned the water off, and slammed his palm against the tile. “I hate all of you.”

Bob, towel wrapped around his waist, peeked around the edge of the stall with a perfectly innocent expression. “Need a minute, Hangman?”

Jake grabbed the nearest bottle of shampoo and chucked it at him.

The ramp buzzed with energy as Mav stepped back from the line of jets, arms crossed like he was about to scold a bunch of toddlers. He gave his usual pre-flight breakdown—\, tight formation, real-time targeting drills, and "keep your egos on the ground, I don't need another set of wings lost to pissing contests."

Jake stood next to his bird, helmet tucked under his arm, nodding along like he was listening. But really, his eyes kept flicking toward the jet two rows down. Your jet.

And inside it? Bob.

Because of course Maverick decided to pair the smartest WSO in the group with the one person guaranteed to send Jake straight into therapy. Just a casual “Bob, you’re with Crash today,” like it wasn’t the equivalent of handing a match to a man already drenched in jet fuel.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

Meanwhile, you were tucked into your cockpit, already pulling your helmet down, adjusting your gloves like you were born for this. You didn’t look his way, not even once, but that somehow made it worse.

Because it meant you weren’t doing it to tease him. You were just being yourself. Just competent and composed and so goddamn hot in your gear he couldn’t see straight.

Then Bob turned, met Jake’s eyes through the open cockpit, and smirked.

Jake narrowed his eyes immediately, jaw tightening. He gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head, the universal sign for don’t you fucking dare.

Bob shrugged, then smiled wider.

And then he leaned into the cockpit and adjusted your helmet straps for you, gently, methodically, like a gentleman helping royalty with her crown. His gloved fingers moved with practiced care, and you?

You smiled at Bob; warm, soft, that soul-melting smile that Jake had never been on the receiving end of. And just to make sure Jake died fully and completely, you reached up and patted Bob’s cheeks.

Twice.

Like you were blessing him for his service.

Jake made an actual, audible sound, somewhere between a scoff and a choking cough, and had to take two steps back before he threw his helmet across the tarmac.

Coyote’s voice crackled in his ear through comms. “Hangman, your blood pressure okay, man?”

Jake growled into his mic, “Shut up.”

Bob gave a thumbs-up, turned toward the ladder, and waved at Jake on his way down.

Jake glared so hard he saw red behind his visor.

Then he finally climbed into his own jet, muttering under his breath the whole way.

“Touch her again and I will replace your shampoo with engine degreaser, Floyd.”

- You, Crash - 

The hangar was still buzzing when the jets touched down, the echo of roaring engines slowly fading as everyone rolled out from their cockpits, adrenaline cooling into sweaty exhaustion.

You popped your canopy with a lazy grin, helmet under one arm, flight suit unzipped just slightly at the top to let some air in.

Meanwhile, Jake climbed out of his own jet like a man climbing out of a grave, every movement a little stiffer than usual, a little tighter in the shoulders. He didn’t say a word as he walked past you.

He didn’t have to. You’d smoked him. Again. It wasn’t even close.

You’d cut him off mid-roll, anticipated his throttle push like you were reading his mind, and pulled a counter-maneuver so fast and clean the tower had to replay it twice to confirm it was even legal. Mav’s voice had crackled through comms after the final pass, “Goddamn, Crash. That was art.”

Jake hadn’t said anything then, either.

Now, the squad was gathered in the debriefing room, still sweaty in their flight suits, the lights dimmed just enough to keep the projector screen visible. Maverick stood at the front with a remote in one hand, flipping through the recorded flight footage with a casual grace that always made him seem ten years younger.

The screen showed a slow-motion replay of your final maneuver, your jet slipping into a controlled stall, dropping altitude just enough to force Jake to overcorrect and shoot wide, right into your six.

“Alright,” Mav said, glancing back at the room, “Crash, walk us through that last move.”

Without missing a beat, you stood up and stepped toward the screen, eyes tracking the footage like it was muscle memory. “He went high on the third loop, which meant his velocity would drop faster on the vertical. I knew if I stalled into a break and cut my throttle just enough to slip into his blind spot, I’d force him to reacquire visual manually, but by the time he did, I was already behind him.”

You didn’t say it to brag. You said it like you were pointing out a weather pattern or explaining the laws of gravity. Calm, steady, with the easy confidence of someone who knew their craft inside and out.

Mav nodded slowly, visibly impressed. “That was textbook.”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Textbook, but ballsy.”

Rooster muttered under his breath, “That’s my girl.”

Meanwhile, Jake sat in his chair, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was trying to hold his ribcage together. His jaw was locked, lips pressed in a tight line, and he refused to look at anyone, especially you.

Coyote nudged him. “She’s not even sweating, man.”

Jake didn’t respond.

Bob, bless his diplomatic heart, tried to lighten the mood. “At least you didn’t crash into the ocean.”

Jake glared at him like he was about to eject in the classroom.

You finished your analysis, stepped back, and gave Mav a small nod.

He smirked at you. “Nicely done, Crash. I’m running that clip for the next class.”

You shrugged, already sinking back into your seat. “It was just physics.”

Jake let out a slow, audible exhale that sounded dangerously close to a growl.

- Jake -

The Hard Deck was loud with end-of-day energy, pool balls clacking, jukebox humming, pitchers of beer sweating on every table. You were in the middle of it all, perched on the edge of the squad’s usual booth, laughing as Phoenix tossed a peanut at Fanboy’s head and Bob tried to explain the physics of beer foam to Rooster.

Everyone was talking over everyone, a storm of noise and movement and warmth that dulled the sting of today’s brutal flight.

Then, casually, you stood and stretched. “Gonna grab another drink,” you said, waving off Halo’s offer to come with.

None of them noticed when the man intercepted you halfway to the bar.

At first, it seemed harmless. Just some average guy, civilian, definitely, leaning in with that drunk, too-smooth smile, asking your name like he didn’t already know it.

You gave a polite nod, tried to turn toward the bar, but his body shifted to block the way. His voice dropped lower. His eyes dragged down and back up like you were inventory.

Meanwhile, across the bar, Jake had been half-listening to Payback and Harvard argue about jukebox etiquette, but his eyes had been on you the whole time. It wasn’t on purpose. Not really. He just always seemed to know where you were. And when your shoulders stiffened just slightly, when your smile flattened into something tight and fake, he felt it like a change in pressure.

Without a word, Jake stood.

The guy didn’t see him coming at first, too busy leaning closer, murmuring something that made you shift your weight back, but Jake saw it all. The way your jaw clenched. The way your arms folded, not relaxed, but defensive. And that was enough.

Jake crossed the floor like a storm, his presence immediate and hot, and then he was right there, between the guy’s shoulder and your space, voice low and sharp.

“She said move.”

The man glanced over, smirking like he was being challenged to a game. “This your boyfriend or something?” he asked, eyes still on you.

Jake didn’t even blink. “Walk away.”

But the guy didn’t. He chuckled, slow and ugly, and then leaned forward like he had something clever to say. “She doesn’t seem like she needs protecting, but if she does, hell, I’d volunteer.”

Jake’s fist hit the guy’s face before the sentence even finished.

The bar exploded into shouts.

You immediately stepped between them, pressing both hands flat against Jake’s chest, holding him back. “It’s not worth it,” you said quickly, voice low but firm, eyes flicking between Jake’s clenched jaw and the stunned man stumbling back. “Let’s just go back. Come on.”

Jake’s chest heaved beneath your palms, his eyes burning holes through the guy’s face, but he didn’t move, not forward, anyway.

Behind him, Rooster and Coyote were already out of their seats, Payback cracking his knuckles like it was a warm-up round. Phoenix stood halfway up on the booth, eyes sharp, while Bob muttered something that sounded like “oh boy, here we go.”

Then the man made his second mistake.

He sneered at you, lip split, ego bruised, and muttered, “Typical pilot bitch. Probably thinks flying makes her fucking special.”

The silence was instant.

Even the music felt quieter.

Then you turned.

And decked him.

Your fist cracked against his jaw so hard his knees buckled. He dropped to the floor like a sack of disgrace, and you surged forward, ready to land another, but Jake caught you around the waist, arms locking across your stomach, pulling you back just in time.

“Let me go!” you shouted, trying to twist free, face flushed with fury. “I’m not done!”

“You’re done,” Jake muttered, half-laughing, half-panicked, holding you tight as you kicked back lightly against his shin.

“Coward ass, limp-dicked, mansplaining fossil of a—”

“Crash,” Jake warned, barely restraining the smile breaking across his face.

The bar was chaos now; cheering, clapping, voices rising. Rooster and Coyote were already dragging the guy toward the door like bouncers, Payback holding it open while Penny stood behind the bar with a dishtowel and one raised brow. “Toss him,” she said flatly.

And they did.

Jake hadn’t said a word as he guided you out the back of the Hard Deck, his hand still warm against the small of your back. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the lingering chaos inside, cheers, music, Phoenix probably trying to convince Penny not to ban the squad for the hundredth time. Out here, it was quieter. The breeze off the water was sharp and salty, cooling your skin where it burned from the fight.

He led you past the deck, past the strung-up lights and weather-worn picnic tables, toward a row of old wooden lounge chairs facing the beach. They were half-sunk in sand, tilted like drunk old men, but the moment Jake eased you toward one, you jerked away from his touch.

You rounded on him, voice still tight with leftover fire. “Why’d you hold me back?”

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting the bite in your voice. “Because you were about to break his jaw,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“So?”

He exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a slow step back like giving you space might defuse you. “So, you already won. The guy was on the ground.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing. The moonlight made your features sharp, feral, still coiled like a spring. “Yeah, and I wanted to finish it. You didn’t have to touch me.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, his own frustration peeking out beneath the surface. “Jesus, Crash. You think I did that to what, control you? Embarrass you?” He scoffed and shook his head. “I was trying to get you out of a bar fight before you lost your commission. You punched him once. That was enough.”

Your jaw clenched, lips parting like you were ready to snap back, but the words got tangled in your throat. The worst part was that you knew he was right. The second worst part? He hadn’t been rough about it. He hadn’t dragged you out. He’d been gentle. Almost… careful, and for some reason, that made you angrier than anything.

You looked away, fists still tight at your sides. “I didn’t need saving.”

Jake’s voice dropped, low and soft. “Didn’t say you did.”

He sat down slowly in one of the lounge chairs, elbows on his knees, watching you with that same unreadable expression he wore in the cockpit. Somewhere between studying you and preparing to be burned by you.

Then he added, almost like a confession, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

Jake laughed, but it wasn’t amused, it was bitter, tired, raw. “You think this is about wanting you?” he said, voice cutting through the night air like a blade. “You think that’s the whole story?”

You squared your shoulders, already bracing for whatever self-righteous bull was about to come out of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I bruise your ego? Again?”

Jake’s eyes flashed. “No, what bruised my ego was busting my ass for two years at the Academy just to have you breathing down my neck like a damn shadow every step of the way. You wanted it more than anyone. More than me. I won, Crash. And you still made it feel like I lost.”

You stepped closer, chest tight, voice sharp. “Yeah, you won. Top of the class. Best scores. Best pilot. Everyone sang your damn praises like you were the second coming of Maverick. And I? I was second. Always second.”

Jake flinched, just slightly, but you saw it.

“I was second to you in every damn brief, in every damn report card. And you want to know what that did to me?” you continued, your voice rising with every word. “It made me better. It made me sharper. It made me come back swinging every time just so I could finally say that I beat Jake fucking Seresin.”

Jake's expression tightened. “So that’s what all this is? This whole time? You’ve been trying to settle a score?”

“You’re damn right I have,” you said, breath shaking now, “because no one talks about who came in second. No one remembers her name. And I knew, I knew, if I couldn’t be the golden boy, I was going to be the storm that beat him.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric.

Jake ran his tongue across his teeth, pacing a few steps before whipping around again. “You think I had it easy? That it was all just handed to me? You think I liked being put on a pedestal I didn’t ask for, being the one everyone expected to fly perfect every damn time or else I was a failure?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the crack in his voice. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He was breaking.

“They never gave me space to mess up,” he continued, quieter now, but more dangerous. “They just expected me to win. And when you came in second, you had something to chase. I didn’t. I had something to lose. Every second. And then you showed up again at North Island, all sharp edges and scars, and suddenly I wasn’t the best anymore. Suddenly you were beating me. Outflying me. Outthinking me.”

He stopped, looked at you.

“You think I hate you for it,” he said. “But I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Then what, Seresin? What the hell do you feel?”

Jake stepped closer, breathing hard, eyes burning.

“I feel like you’re the only person who ever made me doubt myself,” he whispered. “And I hate that I fucking need you because of it.”

You shook your head, scoffing as your arms dropped from your chest, hands balling into fists at your sides. “You think I wanted to make you doubt yourself? That was never the point, Seresin. You were already standing on the podium. I just wanted to prove I deserved to be there too.”

Jake looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. “You think I didn’t know that?”

“You didn’t act like it,” you snapped. “You never once looked back. Not when they gave you that medal. Not when they handed you command over a squad you didn’t even respect. You didn’t look back at the person who came in second, who gave you a run for your goddamn money every time.”

“I couldn’t look back,” Jake said, voice low and shaking. “Because if I did, I knew you’d catch me.”

You blinked.

And then he continued, stepping closer like every word was pulled from a place he’d buried deep. “I saw you every damn day after graduation, when you got posted to Fallon, when your name popped up on the ranking boards. Every time I turned around, you were climbing higher. You were everywhere. And I couldn’t breathe, because I knew the minute you got the same chance as me, you’d be better.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because hearing it from him, from the golden boy who never broke, felt like the world cracking open.

Jake let out a breath, almost a laugh, except it sounded like it hurt. “I hated you for it. And I hated myself for hating you, because no matter how hard I tried to outrun you, you kept showing up. Stronger. Sharper. Smarter.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper now. “So you tried to ignore me?”

Jake nodded slowly. “Yeah, because if I acknowledged you, I had to admit you were everything I wasn’t.”

That made your chest tighten, your mouth part slightly with something soft and unspoken, but the fire hadn’t burned out yet, it was just turning blue-hot, simmering low and dangerous.

“So what now?” you asked, tone still laced with heat, but not just the angry kind. “You wanna tell me I’m good enough and shake hands and call it even?”

Jake's eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and there was something dark and hollow in his voice when he said, “I don’t want even with you. I want everything.”

The words knocked the air right out of your lungs.

And still, you stood your ground.

Because for all the fury, all the tension, all the years of circling each other like predators in the same sky, this was the moment that stripped it all bare.

And you had no idea what would happen next.

“You think you’re the only one who sacrificed something?” you yelled, chest rising and falling so fast it felt like your ribs might crack. “I gave up everything to be here! My family, my fucking sanity, years of grinding just to prove that I could be better than the boy they called untouchable!”

Jake was shaking now, fists clenched at his sides, face red with anger and something deeper, something that had been boiling under the surface for years. “And I never asked you to! I didn’t make you chase me!”

“No, you didn’t!” you shouted, voice almost hoarse now. “But you sure as hell enjoyed knowing I was always behind you!”

That did it.

Jake surged forward, hands gripping your face so fast, so rough, it made you stumble back a step—and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was a collision. A spark catching flame after years of dry kindling. His mouth crashed against yours like he was drowning in it, like kissing you was a punishment and a reward at the same time.

Meanwhile, your hands curled into the front of his flight jacket, dragging him closer, not because you wanted to be held but because you wanted him to feel everything he’d made you carry.

Then, he bit your lip.

And you gasped against him, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, gripping like he’d been starved for this exact contact. There was no space left, only the taste of anger and adrenaline and longing on his tongue.

And still, neither of you pulled away.

Not even for air.

His mouth was frantic against yours, all heat and teeth and helpless, frustrated longing. There was no finesse, no clever lines or slow lead-up. Just years of tension detonating between your lips. He kissed you like he hated himself for it. Like he couldn’t stop. Like the taste of you might ruin him, but he wanted it anyway.

You couldn’t breathe, because you didn’t want to.

Because the way his hands moved, sliding up your spine, gripping the back of your neck, then curling into your hair, it felt like a man trying to memorize you. Meanwhile, your fingers fumbled at his collar, bunching the fabric of his jacket like it was the only thing anchoring you. Your teeth clashed, lips bruised, but you didn’t let go. Neither of you did. Then, his tongue slid past your lips and you groaned into him; soft and guttural, like something sacred just cracked wide open.

Jake pulled back just barely, panting, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were wild, his jaw tight, voice gravel when he finally spoke.

“I hate how bad I want you.”

Then he kissed you again, harder this time, like the words had cost him too much, and only your mouth could take the sting away. Your body curved into his as you answered with your whole damn soul, kissing him like revenge, like release, like all the nights you’d laid awake thinking about this moment and hating yourself for it.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because the more you kissed, the hungrier it got. The more his hands explored your waist, your ribs, the way your flight suit clung to your body like a second skin, the more he knew he’d never be able to look at you again without remembering the taste of your mouth and the fire of your fury.

And he didn’t care.

He kissed you like a man gone mad.

And you let him.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, because he had. Every sparring match, every smirk, every insult thrown across briefing rooms and bar tables, they’d all been smoke screens for this. And now that the dam had broken, he wasn’t stopping. Couldn’t.

Your back hit the nearest lounge chair, and he followed, crowding you against the weathered wood like the night itself was bending around the two of you. His hands slid down your waist, then up again, palms splayed like he was trying to cover every inch of you at once. You then curled your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth, a low, feral sound that made your knees weak.

He kissed you like your lips held answers he didn’t know he was asking. Then he pulled back just long enough to breathe, his forehead against yours, his voice rough and breathless.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him back in, crashing your mouth against his again; faster this time, deeper. His tongue found yours, hot and messy and perfect. The kiss turned hungry, frantic, like you were both starving and the other was the only thing left to devour.

Jake’s hands slipped under your flight suit, fingertips skating across bare skin, and it hit you like a gut punch, how long you’d wanted this. How long you’d hated wanting it.

But right now? You didn’t care.

Because his mouth was on your jaw, then your neck, then back to your lips like he couldn’t stand being away for more than a second. Then he breathed your name between kisses like a prayer and a curse, and your nails raked down his back through his shirt, trying to get closer, closer, still not close enough.

And God, when he bit your lower lip and tugged, just enough to make you gasp? You almost lost it.

Your breath came in short, sharp pants, ragged and desperate. Your lips were red and kiss-swollen, smeared with the taste of him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his damn flight jacket like you could anchor yourself there.

Jake’s hands were everywhere, your hips, your lower back, gripping you like he didn’t know where to touch first, couldn’t choose, so he chose all. His thumb dragged slow, filthy circles against the side of your neck, reverent in the most unholy way.

But you tilted your head back and let out a laugh, breathless and soaked in want, more of a whimper than a joke.

“Let’s not fuck on a beach chair like drunk teenagers,” you rasped against his mouth, voice wrecked and ruined.

Jake just looked at you, eyes wild, pupils blown wide. His mouth was parted like he wanted to bite down on the words you just said and swallow them whole. He blinked once, slow, like processing language took too much effort while his cock was already rock-hard and straining against the front of his jeans.

Then he exhaled, a groan caught halfway between frustration and reverence. He pulled back just enough to glare at you like you’d just suggested celibacy.

“My car,” he growled, voice hoarse and lethal. “Now.”

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of his truck, door slamming behind you. The inside was hot, day-warmed leather and sun-stale air, but it didn’t matter. Jake didn’t even touch the key. He turned, jaw tight, eyes burning like he could already see you bent over the console. He stared at you like a man seconds from snapping.

You stared right back. And then? You pounced.

Your knees straddled his lap before he could even speak, thighs spreading like a prayer turned sacrilegious. Your mouth crushed into his, all teeth and spit and hunger. The kiss was messy, obscene, more tongue than technique, more need than patience. Jake groaned deep in his chest as you rocked against the bulge in his jeans, hard and hot and already leaking.

His hands shot down to grip your ass, squeezing like he could mark his name there. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, voice broken. “You gonna ride me right here?”

“Unless you want me dripping down your thigh instead,” you hissed, and he swore, low and guttural, fingers fumbling to shove your panties to the side.

The truck shook with the force of your bodies, seat springs creaking, windows fogging like sin was sweating from your skin. His hand slid between your legs, cursing again when he felt how wet you were. “Shit,” he groaned, pressing two fingers inside without warning. “So fucking ready for me.”

You moaned against his neck, hips rolling down on his hand like your body knew him, like it had been waiting on this exact moment forever. “Jake,” you breathed, and his name on your lips damn near undid him.

He dragged his soaked fingers back out and smeared them along your inner thigh, grinning like a bastard. “You’re fuckin’ dripping, baby,” he murmured, eyes dropping to watch it. “Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Let’s get out of here first, yeah?”

You nodded, nails digging into his shoulders, and he kissed you again, harder, dirtier, tongue deep in your mouth like he wanted to taste every filthy thought in your head.

And still, still, it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He started the engine with a jerk, jaw tight, knuckles pale from how hard he gripped the wheel. You shifted in your seat beside him, thighs still spread from straddling him moments ago, breathing like you’d just finished a damn marathon. The heat between you? Still alive. Still feral.

Jake didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. His voice would’ve cracked or cursed or begged. Instead, he yanked the gear into reverse with a force that nearly made the whole truck shudder.

You sat there, smug and aching, dress bunched up too high on your thighs, no underwear in sight because he had shoved them into your jacket pocket like a trophy. His scent was on your neck. Your slick was probably still drying on his jeans.

The silence was thick, dangerous. Carnal.

Jake’s jaw was clenched so hard it could’ve cracked stone. His right hand gripped the gearshift, but you felt the twitch in his fingers. Like he was seconds away from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat instead.

You shifted again, slow and shameless, and let out a little sigh. Just to test him.

His head snapped toward you for a second, eyes dark, wild, starving, then back to the road.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “You trying to get me arrested?”

You smirked, dragging one hand slowly down your own thigh, deliberately, until it brushed over your knee. “I dunno,” you murmured. “You’re the one with the loaded weapon.”

He choked. Literally choked on a breath. “If I crash this damn truck, it’s on you.”

You leaned closer, voice all syrup and sin, whispering, “I’m soaked, Jake.”

His groan was primal, a sound pulled straight from the chest of a man two seconds from wrecking. “Keep. Talking. And I will pull the fuck over.”

“Then pull over.”

The growl that ripped from his throat was almost a laugh, dark and wrecked and barely human. His hand shot across the console, gripping your thigh, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises. “You are not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” you purred.

The rest of the drive was a war. His hand stayed tight on your leg, dragging higher every few seconds, testing just how much self-control he had left. Your skin buzzed beneath his touch, your whole body humming with anticipation. Every red light was a goddamn curse. Every green one, a lifeline.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, neither of you had spoken in minutes, but the air was so heavy it could’ve been sliced with a blade. Jake slammed the gear into park, killed the engine, and turned to you.

No words. Just fire in his eyes.

And you? You looked right back at him. Still smug. Still aching. And so very ready.

The front door slammed behind you with a sound that echoed off the walls, low and final, like the starter pistol to something primal. Jake didn’t bother with the lights. There was no need, he knew this house in the dark, and he was already walking you backward down the hallway, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other gripping your jaw like he could keep you right there, right where he needed you.

Your breath hitched when your spine hit the cool wall, and he was already on you, mouth hot and unrelenting, tongue sliding past your lips like he owned every gasp he stole from you.

Meanwhile, your hands yanked his shirt up, impatient and clumsy, fingers skating over hard muscle and warm skin. He groaned against your mouth when your nails scratched lightly down his abs, but he didn’t stop kissing you.

If anything, he got rougher, teeth scraping your lower lip, then sucking it between his like he wanted to leave a mark. You kicked your shoes off blindly, one hand fumbling behind you for anything to hold onto as his thigh slotted between yours and pressed up, hard. Your hips rolled instinctively, a whimper escaping you before you could catch it.

Then Jake pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes glittering in the low light like something dangerous. His voice was low and hoarse, barely more than a breath. “Bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t hesitate. He let you lead the way, but only for a moment, his hands stayed on your hips, guiding you down the hallway like a man possessed.

By the time you stepped over the threshold of his room, he was already peeling your dress over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. It hit the floor with a soft whisper, but the sound was drowned out by the rustle of clothing and the hiss of breath through clenched teeth.

Jake didn’t stop moving as he undressed you, didn’t slow down even when his fingers found bare skin and heat and soaked thighs. He cursed, soft and reverent, under his breath, then leaned in to kiss the hollow of your throat. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin with each syllable. “You’re dripping for me.”

You were. You knew you were. And still, you didn’t care. You just wanted him, on you, in you, wrecking you. His touch was rough now, greedy. He walked you backward again until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were falling, legs spread, chest heaving, completely bare under the sharp, hungry gaze of a man who looked like he was deciding whether to kneel or devour.

Jake dropped to his knees like it wasn’t even a question.

Then, with one hand on your thigh and the other spreading you wider, he leaned in and tasted you.

His mouth was hot and slick and obscene, dragging through your folds with a slow, deliberate hunger that made your hips jerk against the sheets. Jake groaned into you like your taste was the only thing he’d been craving for days, maybe years.

His tongue was relentless, flat and wide one second, then sharp and focused the next, circling your clit like he was memorizing the exact pattern that made you tremble. Meanwhile, his fingers bruised into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, because you were already writhing, already on edge from the buildup that started the second he growled “my car.”

You gasped, back arching as he sucked harder, and that only earned you another moan from him, deep and guttural, vibrating straight through your core. The sound sent shivers down your spine and made your thighs try to clamp shut, but his grip was unrelenting.

Jake didn’t just want you to take it, he wanted to wreck you with it. He wanted your legs trembling, your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to nothing but curses and moans tangled in his name.

Then he slid two fingers inside you, slow and thick, curling them just right, and your cry was sharp enough to echo. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging, anchoring, not because you wanted him to stop, but because it was too good. It was too much.

He was fucking you with his fingers and devouring you with his mouth like the world was ending and this was the only way he wanted to go out.

“Jake, shit, Jake, I—” You couldn’t even finish the thought. Every time your voice rose, he doubled down, faster, deeper, filthier. His mouth was soaked, your slick coating his chin, and he didn’t care. He groaned into it, tongue flattening again as your thighs began to shake. You were so close you could taste it, breath catching, legs threatening to give out.

“Come on,” he growled, voice low and wrecked against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And you did.

It hit you like a wave breaking loose, your entire body arching, gasping, clenching down on his fingers while your orgasm tore through you with vicious force. Your thighs shook. Your hands tightened in his hair. Your voice broke apart on his name as he kept licking you through it, slowing only when your legs finally gave out, twitching against the bed like you’d been electrocuted from the inside out.

But he didn’t stop. Not really.

Even as your body trembled, even as your breath stuttered in your chest, Jake was already rising, standing between your knees, dragging his shirt off over his head. His chest heaved. His mouth glistened with you. His eyes? Still feral.

And then he reached for his belt.

He yanked his belt free with a sharp snap, the leather whispering through denim loops like a warning. Then, without a word, he unbuttoned his jeans, the fabric straining around his thighs as he shoved them down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking.

He stroked himself once, slowly, eyes locked on your bare, trembling form sprawled across his sheets, your chest still rising and falling in the aftermath of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to savor you, stretch this moment out, but restraint was slipping from his fingers fast, unraveling with every second you laid there, slick and spread and waiting.

Meanwhile, you reached for him, your touch greedy as your hand wrapped around his wrist and tried to pull him closer. He let you, but barely, he resisted just long enough to press the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your folds, dragging it slow, wet, and taunting. The sound alone was sinful, sticky and obscene, your slick coating him so thoroughly it made him shudder.

Then he pushed in, just the tip at first, then more, inch by devastating inch, and you both moaned at the same time, the kind of sound that was deep and guttural and torn straight from the soul.

Your walls stretched around him, velvet heat pulling him in, and Jake cursed under his breath as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, staying there for just a second, breathing heavy, hands on either side of your ribs, trembling with the effort it took not to lose it right there.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You feel, Jesus, baby, you feel like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t answer. You could barely breathe. You just nodded, wide-eyed, hands clinging to his shoulders as he started to move, slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust dragging against the most sensitive parts of you with precision. Meanwhile, your moans turned needy, breath hitching with every grind of his hips, every wet slap of skin against skin.

Then he sped up, and the rhythm shifted, less careful, more feral. He fucked into you with a purpose, hips snapping forward like he was chasing something with every thrust, dragging moans and curses out of you until all you could do was hold on.

One hand gripped the headboard above you for leverage while the other tangled in his hair, desperate for something to anchor yourself as your body rocked under the weight of his. Jake leaned down to press his mouth to your throat, biting just hard enough to make you cry out before soothing it with his tongue, hips still slamming into you with relentless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking against the wall in time with each thrust. Your skin was slick with sweat, your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to keep him deep, to keep him there.

And Jake? He looked completely wrecked, hair wild, muscles tight, sweat dripping from his brow as he kept chasing that high, as he fucked you like he wanted to leave an imprint on your soul.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Jake’s rhythm started to falter, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer effort it took to hold back. His thrusts grew sharper, deeper, hips snapping forward with that brutal precision that made your breath catch every time he bottomed out.

Meanwhile, his eyes were locked on where your bodies met, watching his cock disappear into you again and again, coated in your slick and glistening in the low light like the filthiest fucking dream. His mouth dropped open with a growl that vibrated in his chest.

“God, you take it so well,” he hissed, voice low and wrecked. “Fucking perfect, so fucking tight for me.”

Then he leaned in, face flushed and hair damp with sweat, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow even filthier. “You ever think about what you’d look like,” he murmured, thrusting deep enough to make you cry out, “round and dripping, full of me?”

Your moan was instant, raw, involuntary.

Jake grinned, sharp and unholy. “Yeah,” he groaned, snapping his hips hard, making you jolt up the bed. “Bet you’d look so fucking good carrying me. All swollen, leaking for days, fuck, baby, I could make you mine. Over and over, till your pretty little body can’t hold any more.”

He was feral now, hips punishing, one hand reaching to grip your thigh and push it higher against your chest, folding you in half so he could get deeper. His cock dragged against your walls just right, brutal and perfect, making stars dance behind your eyes. You were gasping now, clutching at the sheets, fingers white-knuckled from how hard you were hanging on.

Meanwhile, Jake was falling apart right above you. “You want that, don’t you?” he growled, voice slurring with lust. “Wanna feel me come inside, wanna know I fucked you so deep, so good, you’ll still be dripping when you wake up.”

You couldn’t even form words. You just nodded, moaned, whimpered, anything to tell him yes, please, more.

Then his hand slid down to your lower stomach, pressing down lightly while he thrust, making you feel everything. “Feel that?” he whispered, completely wrecked now. “That’s me. All of me. Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby. Gonna come so fucking deep you’ll feel it in your throat.”

The way he said it, like a promise, like a prayer, was enough to send another wave of heat crashing through you. Your second orgasm slammed into you with no warning, tearing a cry from your throat as your walls clamped around him, squeezing, milking, begging.

Jake snapped.

He cursed viciously, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock pulsed, spilling into you with a low, guttural moan that sounded more like a man losing his religion. He stayed there, locked tight against you, hand still pressing your belly, like he wanted to feel his cum take root.

Even as you trembled beneath him, aftershocks rippling through every inch of you, Jake didn’t move. He just kissed your throat, your collarbone, your lips, slower now, reverent, but still with that edge of obsession burning in his touch.

And then? He pulled back just enough to look down between your thighs… and smiled.

The air was thick with sweat and sex, the room dim and humming with the afterglow of what you just did, but your pulse hadn’t slowed. Neither had your hunger. Jake lay flat on the bed, chest still rising and falling hard, face flushed and jaw slack, utterly wrecked from the way he’d come inside you. He looked dazed, blissfully fucked-out and completely unaware that you were far from satisfied.

You shifted beside him, still trembling a little, but a new kind of heat lit beneath your skin. Then, without a word, you swung your leg over his hips and settled yourself on top of him, thighs spread wide, still sticky from his cum. He blinked up at you, confused at first, but then your fingers wrapped around his cock again, slick and still rock-hard despite the fact he’d just finished inside you minutes ago.

He groaned, long and broken. “Fuck, babe, give me a second—”

But you didn’t give him anything. Not mercy. Not pause. Not relief. You just smiled slow, fingers stroking him deliberately from base to tip, your palm gentle at first, then tighter, then featherlight just to make him twitch. Meanwhile, your hips ground down against his stomach, heat rubbing into skin, body still greedy and dripping.

Jake’s hands flew to your thighs like he could steady himself, but his eyes were already wild. “Shit,” he muttered, head pressing back into the pillow. “Too much. Too, uh, fuck, I’m still—”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in sin. “You said you could handle me. So… handle it.”

Then your thumb dragged over his tip, spreading his own slick around the head, and he jerked, muscles twitching like he’d been shocked. His breath hitched, chest stuttering, hands tightening on your legs.

“You’re killing me,” he gasped.

“Good,” you purred, eyes locked on his. “Then maybe you’ll learn not to think you can fuck me once and call it a night.”

You leaned forward, hand still working him slow, torturous, squeezing just enough to make him twitch and throb under your palm. He was sensitive, overstimulated, every nerve on fire, and you knew it. You thrived on it.

Jake was panting now, voice strained and begging. “Please, baby, I swear, fuck, stop teasing. Let me, let me come inside you again, please—”

But instead, you dragged your soaked core along the length of his cock without letting him in, slick smearing over him like temptation incarnate. You rocked your hips once, twice, just enough to let the head catch at your entrance, and his hands flew up like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down or beg harder.

Then, with a smirk and no warning, you sank down onto him in one slow, devastating push.

His entire body arched. A sound ripped from his throat, something between a moan and a curse, utterly helpless.

“Fuck, fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last—”

“I don’t care,” you whispered, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced against his chest. “You’re mine tonight. I’ll take what I want.”

And you did.

You rocked your hips slow at first, taunting, grinding down until his cock was seated deep, then rolling your pelvis just enough to make him twitch beneath you. His hands flew to your thighs again, gripping hard like he was trying to ground himself, but you slapped them away, breathless and wicked.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured, grinding down harder this time, your cunt clenching around him so tightly it made him gasp. “You don’t get to hold on. You just get to take it.”

Jake looked up at you, eyes wild and pleading, sweat dripping down his temples. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue, but no words came, just a broken moan as you lifted your hips and sank back down, slow and deliberate, making sure he felt every inch. He was already throbbing, overstimulated, your walls squeezing him like a velvet vice, and the way he whimpered under you only made you ride him harder.

Then you started to pick up the pace.

Each bounce made the bed creak under you, your thighs slapping against his as you moved faster, harder, chasing the edge with no mercy. Your tits bounced with every thrust, sweat rolling down your spine, and Jake was completely wrecked.

His head was tipped back, mouth open, eyes fluttering, and his cock pulsed inside you like it was trying to come again already, hot and aching and too much.

“Fuck, fuck, I can’t, I’m gonna—” he babbled, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other hovering like he didn’t know if he should grab you or pray.

You leaned down then, your lips brushing his ear, voice thick and filthy and pure control. “You’ll do nothing unless I tell you to,” you whispered. “You hear me? You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

Jake whimpered. He actually whimpered, and the sound shot straight through your core like lightning. You rode him faster now, chasing your own high, slamming down on him with every bounce, making his cock hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. You clenched hard around him just to feel him twitch again, and he cursed, loud and raw, like it physically hurt to not come.

“Baby, please,” he begged, voice broken. “Please, I can’t—let me, fuck, let me come—”

But you didn’t slow down. You slammed down harder, faster, feeling him stretch you wide and full, every thrust making your thighs quake and your breath stutter. You were close, so close, and you wanted to drag him there with you. Not gently. Not sweetly. Ruthlessly.

You ground your hips in tight, punishing circles, your nails dragging down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake. “Beg for it,” you said, panting, your voice high and wrecked with pleasure. “Beg me to let you fill me again.”

Jake nodded, desperate, his voice nothing but air and agony. “Please, fuck, please, I need to, I wanna come inside you again, wanna fill you up, make you messy, baby, please, please, I’ll give you all of it, I swear—”

And with a final, devastating grind of your hips, you pushed yourself over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you so hard it ripped a scream from your throat. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, fluttering, pulsing, and Jake snapped.

He surged up, hips lifting off the bed to meet yours one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a loud, hoarse cry, cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you again, even more this time, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped down your thighs.

You collapsed on top of him, bodies slick and trembling, his cock still twitching inside you as your breath mingled in the heavy air.

But neither of you moved. Not yet. You barely had time to breathe.

Jake’s cock was still inside you, still thick and hot, twitching with the aftershocks of his second orgasm, but he didn’t soften. Not even close. Instead, he gripped your hips in both hands and flipped you effortlessly, your back slamming into the mattress with a gasp before you could react.

The sudden shift knocked the air from your lungs, and before you could speak, he was already on top of you again, eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat glistening across his chest like sin itself.

“Round three,” he growled, voice low and savage, dragging his cock out just enough to make your cunt clench. “You think I’m done with you?”

You barely had time to answer before he shoved back in, one hard, brutal thrust that made you wail.

“Do you have any fucking idea,” he hissed, pulling out again, slow and deliberate, “how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this pussy?”

He slammed into you again, harder, deeper, making the whole bed rattle beneath you. You clawed at the sheets, head thrown back, thighs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

Jake didn’t stop. “Every goddamn night,” he gritted out, thrusting in time with every filthy confession. “In the shower. In my room. On base. Anywhere I could get my hand around my cock and picture you moaning like this.”

Then his hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. His hips snapped against yours, brutal and fast, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

You were already sore, already overstimulated, and yet you wanted more. You wanted it rougher. And Jake? Jake was giving it to you like he had a grudge against your body and worshipped it all at once.

“You made me wait,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, your legs pushed back until your knees nearly touched your chest. “Made me suffer. Made me fucking ache for this.”

You tried to respond, tried to tell him yes, to beg for more, to say you were sorry, but all that came out was a strangled moan as he slammed into you again, making your voice catch and your vision blur. Your nails dug into his biceps, clinging to him like you were drowning in the heat and weight of him.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t letting up.

His pace stayed relentless, cruel even, the kind of rhythm that bordered on punishment. His cock pounded into you like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there, and his words spilled out in low, breathless curses between every thrust.

“You think riding me was enough?” he rasped, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “You think I was just gonna let you get on top, get your pretty little orgasm, and walk away?”

He thrust harder, deeper, and your entire body jolted, the bed slamming into the wall.

“No,” he growled. “Now it’s my turn. And I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you again. Until you’re ruined.”

And God, you were. You could feel the mess between your thighs, the raw ache of your pussy from being used and stretched and filled again and again, and still, it wasn’t enough. Still, you wanted more. And Jake? He wasn’t even close to finished.

Jake pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered from the loss, from the aching emptiness he left behind, but he didn’t give you a second to mourn it. Instead, he grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and hauled your ass up into the air.

Your knees barely hit the mattress before he had you positioned how he wanted, spine arched, face pressed into the sheets, and cunt on full display, flushed and dripping with the mess of everything he’d already given you.

“Stay just like that,” he growled, voice so low and rough it scraped through your spine like a knife. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he shoved back in, one hard, vicious thrust that made you scream into the pillow. He didn’t ease in. Didn’t rebuild the rhythm. He just fucked you, raw, hard, and punishing. His hips slammed into your ass over and over, the sound obscene, echoing off the walls with every brutal snap.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets, mouth open in a silent gasp, tears pricking your eyes as the pace pushed past pain and straight into ecstasy.

Meanwhile, Jake was groaning behind you, loud and ragged, hands gripping your hips like handles. “You hear that?” he growled, slamming into you harder. “That’s how fucking wet you are. You did this. You made me like this.”

He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear the broken sob that slipped out of you. “God, I’ve waited so long to ruin this pussy,” he spat, driving into you deeper, harder, until the mattress shook and your legs started to give out. “All those nights with my fist wrapped around my cock, thinking about bending you over like this, fucking you so deep you can’t even stand after.”

Then his hand slipped between your thighs and found your clit, already swollen, already throbbing, and rubbed it in tight, merciless circles. The double stimulation made your back arch, a high, helpless moan ripped from your throat as your walls fluttered around him again, already spiraling into another orgasm.

Jake felt it. Saw it. And it only made him fuck you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come again. Milk my cock. I want to feel it, want to feel you break around me.”

And you did. Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, white-hot and blinding, your thighs shaking violently as your pussy clenched down on him, tight and relentless. You screamed into the sheets, body going slack beneath him as wave after wave ripped through you, each one more devastating than the last.

But Jake didn’t stop.

He kept going, chasing his own end like a man possessed, fucking you through your orgasm and into another, his moans turning into curses, then into praise. “So fucking good. So tight. You were made for this, fuck, baby, I’m gonna fill you up again. Gonna breed you so full it leaks out of you for days.”

His thrusts turned erratic, deep, savage, hungry, and then he buried himself one final time, cock throbbing as he came hard inside you, spilling deep with a loud, wrecked groan. His hips rocked through it, dragging it out, grinding into you as his cum filled you again, hot and endless, dripping down your thighs before he even pulled out.

You collapsed beneath him, completely destroyed, gasping and twitching, skin marked with sweat and teeth and everything in between.

Jake dropped forward over your back, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside you, and murmured against your shoulder:

“…still not done.”

Jake didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Even as you collapsed into the mattress, your limbs boneless and your cunt aching from how hard he’d just fucked you, he stayed buried inside you, hard again before he’d even finished panting into your neck. You felt the twitch of his cock still lodged deep, felt the drip of his cum leaking down your thighs, and just as you sucked in a breath to beg for a pause, he growled low and dark right in your ear.

“Get back up.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, legs trembling beneath you, but he didn’t ask twice. He dragged you up by your hips, repositioning you like a ragdoll, ignoring your protests, your stuttering cries of Jake, I can’t, because he knew. He knew your body better than you did by now. Knew you’d take it. Crave it. Come again before you even realized you could.

Then he started to move.

This time, it was brutal from the start. No buildup. No mercy. Just pure, punishing rhythm, deep, raw thrusts that had your voice breaking open in cracked sobs. You were already overstimulated, your clit throbbing with every slap of his hips against your ass, your walls fluttering weakly around him as he shoved his cock deeper into you, harder.

“You think I’m done?” he snarled, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your head back again, your spine arching beautifully beneath him. “Nah, baby. I’ve barely fucking started.”

He slammed in again, hard enough to shove you forward on the bed, and your hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, legs struggling to hold your own weight, but Jake caught you, kept you upright, one arm wrapped under your stomach as he fucked you harder, faster, the wet slap of skin-on-skin growing downright filthy.

“Feel that?” he groaned, grinding deep, cock twitching. “That’s the third load dripping outta you. Gonna make it four. Gonna pump you so full, it’s all you can smell. All you can feel.”

You sobbed into the pillow, throat raw from moaning, and still, still, your body rocked back against him, desperate, greedy, utterly ruined. You didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know your own name. All you knew was Jake. The way he filled you. The way he broke you.

Meanwhile, his hand reached down again, fingers working your clit with ruthless speed, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your entire body seize. “One more,” he muttered, voice barely a breath now. “Give me one more. Milk my cock again, baby. Show me you can.”

You didn’t even have time to answer.

Your orgasm tore through you like a goddamn explosion, loud, vicious, legs giving out as your pussy clamped down so hard around his cock, it made him curse. Your cry was sharp and raw, the kind of sound that came from deep inside your chest, and Jake rode it out like a man starved, fucking you through it, into it, until you felt yourself tipping into a haze that was almost too much.

He came again, loud, wrecked, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he spilled another hot, endless load inside your already used cunt. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t slow down. He pressed in, grinding, as if trying to force every last drop as deep inside you as he could.

Then he collapsed over your back, panting against your spine, chest heaving, body shaking from the sheer force of it.

And still, the only thing he could say, raw, reverent, filthy, was:

“…fuck.”

The room was quiet now, just the heavy rise and fall of breath and the soft hum of night air spilling through the open window. Your body was still trembling, skin slick with sweat and streaked with the rawness of everything he’d done to you, but the moment his arms wrapped around you from behind, the chaos softened.

Jake didn’t speak at first.

He just held you tight and sure, like you were something precious. His lips pressed into the curve of your shoulder, a kiss so gentle it almost made you cry. And then, when he finally moved again, it wasn’t with hunger or force. It was careful. Reverent. Like he knew he’d already ruined your body and now he wanted to worship it in the wreckage.

He rolled you onto your back, slow and easy, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he settled between them again. His cock was still hard, of course he was, this was Jake, but there was no rush in the way he reached for you. He cupped your cheek, thumb dragging along your bottom lip, and whispered:

“You okay?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat, heart aching from how tender he sounded. And just like that, Jake leaned in and kissed you, really kissed you. No tongue. No teeth. Just slow, deep pressure. Lips brushing. Breaths mingling. Like he was pouring every filthy confession back into your mouth in the shape of love.

Then he entered you again, slowly this time.

Your breath caught. You were sore, still so swollen from everything that came before, but the stretch was familiar now. Comforting. Home. He sank in inch by inch, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed against your lower stomach, grounding you, holding you open for him.

And when he was fully inside you, deep and still, his hips flush against yours, he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost like he was in awe. “You feel like heaven.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t rough now. It wasn’t fast. It was slow, aching, like he wanted to feel every pulse, every squeeze, every breathless whimper you gave him. He rocked into you gently, hips rolling with that practiced ease that spoke of pure control, his gaze locked on your face like watching you fall apart beneath him was his new religion.

Meanwhile, your arms wound around his shoulders, dragging him closer, your chest brushing his with every deep, dragging thrust. The sounds now were softer, the wet glide of his cock inside you, your breath catching, his low, broken moans melting into your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And he meant it.

Every touch, every kiss, every deep, slow stroke of his cock inside your raw, used body, meant something. This wasn’t just fucking anymore. This was his heart, bared and messy and desperate to be felt. His lips pressed to your jaw, your eyelids, your throat. Like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like he wanted to kiss every part of you that had just taken him like that and now still, somehow, loved him enough to hold him this way.

He reached down between your bodies again, fingers ghosting over your clit, not fast, not rough, just soft circles, teasing and devoted. Your hips twitched, breath catching, and he whispered, “Give me one more, baby. Just one more. Let me feel you like that again.”

And you did.

You came slowly this time, quiet, shaking, moaning his name like a prayer, like you were unspooling thread by thread. Your walls fluttered around him, warm and wet and full, and Jake groaned as he followed you over that edge, coming deep again, but this time with a soft, aching moan, one hand curled into your hair as he buried his face in your neck and just breathed you in.

You held each other there, still joined, his cum leaking down your thighs, your heart thudding steady against his chest.

And in that silence, in the aftermath, Jake kissed your temple and whispered,

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Jake didn’t rush. Didn’t pull out right away. He just stayed there for a few more seconds, cock still nestled deep inside you, chest pressed against yours, his breath warm where it fanned against your collarbone. You could feel the aftermath, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body trembling with leftover pleasure, your heart beating so hard it hurt. You were used, ruined, absolutely undone.

And he kissed you like you were holy.

Then, finally, he pulled out slowly, so careful, so gentle, and sat back on his heels, just watching you for a second like he couldn’t believe you were real. His thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip, and then he whispered, voice rough but soft, “Don’t move, baby. I got you.”

You heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the floor, the rustle of water running. A second later, the lights in the bathroom dimmed low, and the sound of the tub filling made your already-tired limbs melt deeper into the sheets. You could barely lift your head when he returned, one arm sliding beneath your back, the other under your thighs, and he carried you, completely naked, completely spent, into the bathroom like you were something fragile he’d accidentally broken and now wanted to piece back together.

The tub was already half full, steam curling in the air, and Jake had dropped a few drops of something into the water, lavender-scented, soft and floral, the kind of thing that told you he cared. Really, truly cared.

He stepped into the tub first, sitting down with a grunt, and then gently lowered you in with him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapping around you the second you hit the water. The heat enveloped your sore muscles, the ache between your thighs soothed by the softness of it, and you sank into him with a breath that sounded like the first real inhale you’d taken in hours.

Meanwhile, Jake’s hands never stopped moving.

One cradled your thigh under the water, thumb tracing lazy, slow circles over the bruises he’d left. The other brushed over your stomach, then up to your ribs, then back down again, just touching, just being.

You felt him shift, reaching for a soft cloth, and then he began to wash you, starting at your collarbone and working down. It wasn’t sexual. Not now. Not after what you’d just done. It was… intimate. Reverent.

“I made a mess of you,” he said against your shoulder, lips barely moving. “Gotta take care of my woman now.”

You hummed, eyes closed, breath hitching just slightly when the cloth brushed between your thighs. Jake slowed, soft as anything, cleaning you up with such care it almost made you cry. He kissed your shoulder again, then your jaw, then nuzzled into the side of your face with a low, satisfied sigh.

“God, I love you like this,” he whispered. “Soft. Safe. Mine.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss him. It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that doesn’t beg for more but just is, like a heartbeat. Like breathing.

And then the two of you sat there, soaking in the warmth, his cum floating between your legs, your bodies tangled and still, like nothing existed outside the walls of that steam-heavy room.

The bathwater had gone a little cooler, the lavender bubbles clinging to your skin in soft ribbons, and your back was still nestled to Jake’s chest, his arms loose around you, lips brushing every so often against your temple like he couldn’t help himself. The chaos of the night had finally calmed, but under the surface, there was still want. Not lust. Not hunger.

Need.

You’d tipped your head back, resting it on his shoulder, fingers lazily trailing over his thighs under the water when you murmured, “You remember that Taylor Swift song?”

He huffed a little against your cheek. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

You smirked, voice low and barely a breath. “Dress. The part that goes: I’m spilling wine in the bathtub, you kiss my face and we’re both drunk.”

Jake froze, then let out the softest exhale, like something in his chest cracked. “God, yeah.” Then quieter: “That’s what this feels like.”

You turned, slow, just enough to see his face, wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead, eyes soft and ruined. You kissed him, and it tasted like salt and lavender and exhaustion. You were both drunk off it. Drunk off each other.

Jake shifted behind you, adjusting, and you felt the way his cock stirred beneath the water, half-hard, barely there, but responding to the heat of you, the softness of you leaning into him.

Your hand slid down without thinking, curling around him gently beneath the bubbles, and he groaned quietly into your mouth, his hand tightening just a little on your waist.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, and instead of answering with words, you lifted yourself just enough to turn around and straddle him, knees pressing into the slick porcelain, water lapping over the edge. The shift made the whole tub creak beneath you, but you didn’t care.

Jake looked up at you like you were something out of a dream, his hands finding your hips again like they belonged there, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left earlier with reverence now.

And when you sank down onto him, slow, so achingly slow, it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was like melting. Like coming home.

His head dropped forward, forehead pressing to your chest, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you rolled your hips with gentle, fluid rhythm. The water sloshed with every movement, bubbles slipping down your back, and the whole thing felt suspended in time, like if you stopped breathing, the world would too.

Jake’s lips found your throat, then your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts, pressing kisses there like he needed them to live. And when he looked up at you again, eyes glassy, mouth parted, he whispered, “If I get burned, at least we were electrified.”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, your hands tangled in his wet hair. “We are,” you breathed. “We always have been.”

The rhythm stayed slow. Sweet. Every thrust was deep, gentle, intentional, your foreheads touching, lips brushing, his hands slipping down to cup your ass under the water as he rocked into you with that aching, all-consuming kind of tenderness. Like he didn’t just want to come inside you again. He wanted to leave a piece of his soul behind.

“Everyone thinks they know us,” he murmured, his voice cracked open now, his thrusts growing slower, more reverent.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “But they know nothing about us.”

Jake moaned quietly as your name slipped from his lips like a promise, and your hips stuttered as your orgasm built slowly, sweet, soft, warm like honey melting in your veins.

You clenched around him, your breathing shallow, and Jake was right there with you, coming with a low groan that vibrated against your chest, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot, lost in the warmth of the water and the mess of both of you.

You stayed like that; panting, connected, tangled up in each other, water cooling around your bodies and steam curling in the air like a sigh.

And when he finally spoke again, it was so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.

“I’d drown in you a thousand times,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Just to feel this.”

The water had gone quiet again, soft ripples fading around your bodies as you rested on his chest, your heartbeat finally slowing. Jake’s arms were still around you, one hand lazily gliding up and down your spine, and your cheek was pressed against the slope of his collarbone where it felt safe, sacred, even.

The air was heavy with lavender, and the only sound left was your breathing and the occasional creak of the tub when either of you shifted.

Jake hadn’t said much since the last kiss. Just held you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

But then, soft. Almost too soft to hear, he whispered, “Can I tell you something without you laughing?”

You tilted your head, brows furrowed gently. “Jake, I’d never laugh at you.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly. His throat bobbed against your temple. Then he exhaled a shaky breath, and everything about him shifted, no swagger, no cocky grin, just Jake. Raw. Honest. Terrified.

“I think I’m obsessed with you,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Not in some unhealthy, possessive way. Not like that. Just, fuck, like I think about you all the time. You’re in my head even when you’re not trying to be. When I fly, when I sleep, when I’m laughing at something dumb on my phone, I’m wondering if you’d laugh too.”

You blinked. Your heart fluttered. And he didn’t stop.

“I’ve replayed every time you’ve touched me. Every sound you made. Every look you gave me. I think I’ve imagined kissing you in more places than I can count. Not just the sexy shit. I mean, like… the back of your hand. The corner of your smile. Your shoulder when you’re falling asleep.”

His hand was trembling slightly where it rested against your back, but his voice kept steadying the more he spoke. The more he gave.

“I wanna know every version of you. I want the quiet mornings and the late-night breakdowns. I want to kiss you when you’re angry and hold you when you’re too tired to talk. I want all of it.”

You could barely breathe.

And then he leaned his head back against the porcelain edge, looking up at the ceiling like the weight of what he was about to say might crush him.

“But none of that matters unless you want it, too,” he whispered. “So I’m asking. Just once. No games, no pressure. Will you let me? Let me love you? All the way? Because I swear, I won’t fuck it up. I won’t let you down.”

He turned back to you then, eyes glassy but so clear, like he was laying down every weapon, every mask, every part of him that pretended not to need.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” he said. “Just… let me.”

And there it was.

Not just love. Not just lust. Not just obsession, but devotion. Willing, reverent, forever kind of love. The kind that sits quietly in the bathroom at 2AM, holding you in a bathtub that smells like lavender and memories you haven’t even made yet.

Your voice came soft, trembling, nearly swallowed by the gentle ripple of water around your bodies. “Yes.”

Jake froze.

You felt it in the way his chest stopped moving, in the way his hand clenched ever so slightly at your hip. Your head was still against his shoulder, cheek damp from bathwater and emotion, but when you tilted your face up and looked at him, really looked, his eyes were already glassy.

Not from lust. Not from tension, but from the sheer weight of being seen.

“Yes,” you whispered again, surer this time. “Love me, Jake. Please.”

His breath caught, like you’d just ripped the last bit of air from his lungs and replaced it with something sweeter. And then his hand came up to cup your jaw, slow, gentle, almost reverent, as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just everything.

His lips moved over yours with unspoken promises, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on your cheeks, and you melted into him, soft and slow and safe. The water shifted around you, warm and quiet, wrapping you both in a kind of hush that felt sacred. Jake’s mouth broke from yours only to kiss your jaw, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. Every touch was a vow.

Then, barely audible, he murmured against your skin: “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

You climbed into his lap again, this time not out of hunger or heat, but closeness. Wanting to be so near to him you didn’t know where your body ended and his began. You settled over him gently, your knees on either side of his waist, your arms looped around his neck like he was the only thing anchoring you.

When you sank onto him this time, it was slow. So slow. Like you needed to feel every inch of him stretch you, fill you, remind you that this? This was what love felt like. His cock pressed deep, and you both let out shaky, stunned breaths, like the fit of it was just as emotional as it was physical.

Jake buried his face into your neck, his lips parting on your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer. “So good,” he breathed. “So fucking good. You’re everything.”

You rocked against him in slow, lazy rolls of your hips, bodies slipping and gliding beneath the water, skin against skin. It was gentle, loving, like every thrust was a heartbeat. A reminder. He held you close, his hands traveling up and down your spine, over your ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts in quiet reverence.

Meanwhile, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as your lips found his jaw, his cheek, his temple. “I’m yours, Jake,” you whispered, lips grazing his skin with every word. “I always was.”

That made him shudder, a full-body reaction, like the weight of your words had sunk right through his bones. His hips bucked up a little harder, a little deeper, and his mouth found yours again. It wasn’t frantic. It was full, and his tongue gliding against yours like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted when you gave him your heart.

“I want this,” he murmured between kisses. “Every night. Every morning. I wanna wake up with you like this. I wanna hold you when you're tired. I wanna, fuck, I wanna make love to you until you're too full of me to ever forget it.”

You whimpered into his mouth, your body trembling with the slow, warm build of pleasure that came not from force, but from feeling. The way he touched you. The way he kissed you. The way he looked at you like you were the only real thing he’d ever known.

He was close. You both were, but neither of you rushed it.

Because this time? It wasn’t about release. It was about belonging.

Jake’s breathing hitched as you rocked against him, his hands splayed wide across your lower back, fingers sifting through the suds to hold you steady. He was so deep inside you, and yet he kept whispering like it still wasn’t close enough. “You feel like… everything,” he breathed. “Like I’ve been chasing this without even knowing.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder, the crook of his neck warm and slick beneath your lips. You pressed soft kisses there, one after another, until you felt his pulse jump under your mouth. He was trembling now. So were you.

That quiet build between your thighs, that familiar ache curling in the base of your spine, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brutal. It was tender. It was yours.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered, voice breaking. “With you. Like this.”

Jake’s hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you forehead to forehead. His nose brushed yours. His eyes were wide and aching as he nodded, as he begged, “Yeah, baby. Please. Come with me. I need to feel it. Just you and me.”

And when you did?

God, it was gentle, but devastating. Like something cracked open inside you. Your body went still, legs trembling around his waist, head falling back slightly as your orgasm swept through you like warm rain, waves, slow and shattering, moans slipping past your lips like prayers.

Your walls clenched down around him, and you felt him let go too as his breath caught, his whole body shuddering as he came deep inside you, thick and slow, his arms locking around you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

There were no words for a moment.

Just panting. Soft cries. The sound of water sloshing as you both stayed tangled, still joined, not ready to let go.

Jake buried his face into your neck, whispering, “I love you,” like it was something he’d been dying to say. “I fucking love you.”

You cradled his head to your chest and kissed his temple.

“I love you, too.”

He eventually stood, the water cooling now, and carried you out of the tub like you were made of silk and sunlight. He dried you off with that same reverent touch, one towel for you, one for him, and tucked you beneath the covers with care, as if the warmth of your body might flicker out if he moved too fast.

In bed, he curled behind you, bare chest pressed to your spine, his hand slipping to rest low on your belly, where his warmth lingered inside you still.

There were no more words left. Only silence. Soft breathing. The sound of your hearts syncing under the hush of the night.

And as your eyes fluttered shut, as the moon spilled soft light over your tangled limbs and tear-streaked cheeks, you felt it again, that current between you. Not fire. Not thunder.

Just electricity.

Because maybe the world wouldn’t understand what you were. Maybe they’d never know how much you’d given each other. How much you’d bled to arrive at this place, naked, vulnerable, utterly seen.

But at least?

↤ Main Masterlist

Flight Risk — 15.1K [!!]

Two years should have been enough for you to move on from a heartbreaking situationship. However, Jake’s return to North Island proves that time doesn’t necessarily heal all wounds.

Additional Cuts

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys — 2K

Jake Seresin has pushed through the worst of war, but nothing can compare to the fear of you saying I love you. So he runs.

Grounded in the Afterburn — 1.8K

Jake Seresin buries himself in work—until a stitched red heart and a conversation with his father force him to confront the love he’s been too scared to claim.

Strangers Again — 1.8K

Returning to North Island is one thing. Seeing you at the Hard Deck is another. This may be the toughest thing Jake's had to do yet.

Here Comes the Sun — 2.6K

The morning after is never easy, especially not when Jake wakes up alone. Not when you can't even look at him.

More Than Time — 1.8K

Attending Javy's wedding has Jake thinking about his future with you — and how beautiful you would look in white.

You hum, slurping on a milkshake as you sit behind the wheel, “I think you mean you should check the clutch,” you say, a teasing bite in your tone that makes his lips curve in a subtle smile, “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” he says, reaching up to grab the car hood. 

Logan keeps his hands up there, his undershirt riding up just enough for you to see his midriff skin. You can’t tell if it’s intentional, but if the smirk on his face is any indication, he knows what he’s doing, “It’s not like you to be the damsel in distress type.” 

You drag your eyes up again, “Yeah, but I don’t even know what a clutch is, so.” 

“Fair,” he says, slamming down the car hood. He barely cleans his hands before swiping them over his forehead, failing to get rid of the sweat, “Would you take it inside? I’ll drive it to the autoshop tomorrow, first thing in the morning— It’s just too fucking hot today.”

You shrug, putting the sweaty cup aside as you shut the car door closed, turning the key. The heatwave that has been terrorizing Massachusetts was the sole reason for you to beg Logan for him to check why your AC wasn’t working, and it’s making it impossible for anyone to be outside, especially doing handwork like he is. It’s only fair that you allow him the comfort of doing it later at the shop. 

So you wait for him to open the door for you and back into the boy’s garage, a room big enough to fit a bunch of boxes, training equipment, a little sink where Logan now washes his hands and all four of their cars, though right now only Logan’s pickup truck is there.

“You’re home alone?” 

Logan hums, “Dean’s in New York with Beau, Tuck and Garrett went to Boston for the weekend.” 

“Oh, Boston’s so nice this time of year,” you say, “Very windy. Didn’t you want to go with them?”

“Hm, I– Couldn’t.” he clears his throat, opening the passenger door, “Turn the AC on for me? I wanna hear the noise.”

“Yes, sir.” You say, watching the left corner of his mouth twitches slightly, just enough for you to catch it. 

It’s fun to flirt with Logan, you think. There’s a tension in the air between you two, always present. In your lingering touches under innocent hugs, sustained eye contact during casual conversations — always, always there, like fog surrounding your true intentions. But in moments like this, when you’re all alone and there’s no way around it, where you feel the hazyness clearing up and your feelings growing stronger, a pull from your guts in his direction. 

You keep thinking he feels it too, wondering if the raggedy noise coming from the AC is the only reason why he’s sitting next to you on the passenger seat.

“Oh, that’s fucked,” he says, eyes widening in a way that makes you bite back a laugh. He turns the AC off again, “Yeah, I’ll definitely check the clutch tomorrow.”

You groan, head dropping onto the headrest. “This is awful.”

He chuckles, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It's bad timing. Summer has just started— We have a new heatwave coming every other week.”

“And I’ll get it checked before Monday.” He says, his hand dropping on your shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring way, “Just chill, alright? I’ll fix that.”

You look up at him, eyes traveling up his arms until they find his face, his big eyes staring at you in all their glory, no hair falling on them since it’s all pulled back under a red bandana, a smear of grease right below it being the cherry on top. 

You smile, your own hand moving to his face, thumb pressing on his forehead to smudge it clean. Your fingertips move down to his under his jaw, “You look nice in a stubble,” you mutter, “Frames your face.”

Logan relaxes under your touch, his eyes closing, “I was going to Boston too,” he says, voice barely there.

“Hm?” 

“With Tuck and Garrett. I was going with them this morning,” he says, head moving so his chin rubs against your palm, a gentle tickling, “Then you called, and– Well.”

“Wait,” you feel your breath catching, “You stayed back just to help me?”

“Yeah.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing for him to do, because it might just be, “It’s you, y’know?”

Your thumb stops moving across his cheek, staying still as you process what he just said. It’s such a show of his attention towards you, that just like that, the fog that once hid your feelings has now lifted completely — you see Logan clearly in all his intentions, and you desperately want to kiss him. 

Your other hand moves to grab his face too, pulling him to you. 

Logan keeps his eyes shut, but he finds your mouth quite easily, like the image of you it’s printed on his memory. He bends over the console, pressing his lips to yours as his hand moves to the back of your head, keeping you close to him as you kiss, and kiss, and kiss, his mouth moving from your lips, across your cheek to your ear, “Baby,” he murmurs, “come here.”

His hands move to the small of your back, urging you to lift up from the driver’s seat and cross over the car center, your knees on the passenger’s seat astriding him. 

Logan wraps his arms around you, moving up to get his mouth onto yours again, desperate. 

“Been wanting this since forever,” he mutters against your lips, a line of open mouth kisses under your jaw and down to your neck. You throw your head back, mouth gaping as you let out a delicious groan. Logan smiles between kisses, “That good?”

“Shut up,” you answer through gritted teeth. 

Your hands drop to the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling it up under Logan’s stare, his rough hands caressing your sides. Your fingers move to the back of his neck, lifting his head for him to look at your face, “Just keep kissing me?”

He nods, blown eyes watching your every expression as he takes his own shirt off, the loose bandana falling off his hair with it. You giggle at his urgency, your laugh turning into a gasp as Logan runs his tongue against your collarbone, pressing kisses on your cleavage. 

Logan’s hands grab your waist, guiding your hips front and back, pressing you against his lap. He uses your jeans seams to his advantage, the friction nearly driving you insane, your moans driving him insane. “Fuck,” he murmurs, and you kiss him again, thrusting, “fuck, honey.” 

“Logan,” you pant, “Logan, please.” “Please what, baby?” He says, chin resting on your chest as he stares up, “Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you, anything.”

You groan, his hips jumping up,  “Logan, ah– Please, fuck me?”

His head drops to your shoulder, a warm breath hitting your skin as he huffs, “Fuck, yeah. Yeah, honey. Lift up for me?”

You hover over his lap, his talented fingers finally to good use. Not any tools, not your stupid car engine, but quickly undoing your jeans and pushing them down, just enough for him to fit his hand.

Logan moves his thumb over your panties until he finds your clit, rubbing in slow circles as your eyes flutter closed, a raggedy sound coming out of your mouth, “Logan, babe–”

He shushes you, a quick peck on your lips, “Let me have you like this for a second,”

he mutters, “Yeah? Just watch you for a moment.”

You nod, head dropping to his shoulder. Logan uses his pointer to pull your panties aside, middle finger finding your slit, “You’re soaked, baby,” he says, and you whine.

“You’re such a fucking tease, did you know that?”

He chuckles, “I’ll stop,” he says, but god, you don’t want him to. 

You feel a tightness building your underbelly, a fire that moves down your body growing stronger with every one of his touches, and it all feels so fucking good, you think you could melt with it. 

Logan takes his hand out of your jeans, hand on your thighs to lift you again, “Gotta take these out, yeah?”

You hum, watching as he pulls your jeans and panties out, then moves to undo his pants as well, “You have a condom?”

“Uh,” he looks around, eyes widening, “In my wallet, but it’s inside the house, I think.”

You twist around to face the dashboard, opening the glove box. “I might have some.”

A surprised laugh escapes his mouth, “You keep condoms in your glovebox?”

“I keep hygiene utensils in my glovebox. It just happens that condoms are one too.” You answer, “What about a thank you instead?”

Logan presses his lips on your upperarm, “Thank you so fucking much, really,” he says, taking the condom out of your hands and ripping it open, “You sure you wanna do it?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “Yes, pl—”

He kisses you again, swallowing your plea. He won’t let you say it, there’s only so much teasing he can do. Logan presses into you, hands guiding you down slowly.

It’s like throwing gasoline into the fire in your pit. You moan against Logan’s lips, his mouth opening up to kiss you. You keep moving your hips while he helps you with your slow, steady pacing, until that won’t do anymore.

“Logan,” you whimper, “faster, please.”

His hands squeeze your sides, panting with you, “Oh, fuck, baby–”

“Faster?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “Just— Fuck,”

Your hands go for his shoulders for balance, and you start moving faster and faster. Logan’s head drops as he lets out a moan, “Babe—”

“I know,” you say, lips pressing against his entire face in clumsy, wet kisses, “Please, I’m close too.”

He starts thrusting harder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep your bodies joined completely, nose pressed against your neck. You feel the warmth overtaking you, your legs faltering as you wail out Logan’s name, mouth sinking down on his, a deep kiss as he follows you down the fire.

It takes a more gentle touch from him to pull you from your blissed out state, “Baby,” he mutters against your skin, “You okay?”

You hum, cheek pressed to his shoulder, “Fucking great.”

“Yeah?” Logan’s half-moon eyes stare down at you. Laying down on the car seat, he maneuvers you to join him, pulling you in an improvised cuddle on such a limited space. 

Logan brushes his fingers over your cheek, a peck here and there, “If you want to,” he starts, “We can go inside, maybe take a shower.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still greasy,” you answer, and Logan laughs, rubbing his face against your arms as if to pass it to you. You yelp, pushing him gently, then saying in a softer tone, “In a minute, yeah? I’d like to lay here for a minute longer.”

His lips turn into a smile, “Yeah. I’d like that too.” He says, resting his chin on your shoulder, “Stay the night too?”

“Yeah. Of course,” you say, pulling his hand for a kiss, “But we’re driving to the shop in the morning. Next time I want the AC on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mutters, then lifts his head a little, “Do you still have that milkshake lying around? I could use a sip.”

You giggle, thinking the poor thing’s probably all melted now. Not that you’re much different.

notes: thank you for reading! i'm still a bit stiff with writing smut so please be nice to me. requests are open, likes reblogs and thoughts are appreciated! <3

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate out a girl?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into your eyes.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.

The bathroom mirror didn’t help.

Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.

That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.

Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.

But it was your eyes that gave you away.

You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.

You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.

Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.

Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.

But Dean hadn’t been cruel.

He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.

Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.

He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.

Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.

“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”

He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.

That was the worst part.

You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”

There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.

“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.

Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.

“You okay?”

You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.

“I’m fine,” you managed.

For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.

“That was a terrible lie.”

Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.

“I’m getting ready,” you called back.

“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.

“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”

“I’m having a moment.”

Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”

You looked at the lock.

Your hand didn’t move.

“No.”

There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.

Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.

But this time, he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.

You didn’t.

You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.

The worst part was that you still believed him a little.

Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.

Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.

Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.

You remembered lifting the blanket.

You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.

And then he’d woken up and made a joke.

You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.

By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.

Almost.

“You took forever,” he said.

There it was—the attempt.

You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.

You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”

The room went quiet again.

You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.

Dean stood.

“About what I said earlier—”

“You don’t have to.”

He stopped.

You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.

“I kind of think I do,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

That made you look up.

Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

You forced a small smile. “Like what?”

His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.

“Like I regretted it.”

There it was.

The word you’d been trying not to touch.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”

“I don’t.”

He said it too fast. Too seriously.

For one awful second, you believed him.

Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.

“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.

His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that.”

You swallowed.

Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.

“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”

Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Great choice.”

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”

The sarcasm should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”

“I know.”

“No, you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”

Your mouth closed.

That was annoyingly accurate.

Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.

But his phone rang before you could say anything.

Both of you looked at the screen.

His mother.

Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.

You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”

He didn’t move.

“Dean.”

His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”

You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.

“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”

There was a pause.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”

You were not ready.

You were barely a person.

But you zipped your bag anyway.

Breakfast was worse.

There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.

Dean held your chair out for you.

The gesture was automatic.

So was the way you hesitated before sitting.

He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.

You hated that you saw it.

“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.

You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.

Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”

Fine.

The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.

His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”

Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”

“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”

You froze.

Dean’s head lifted.

His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.

Dean’s mother gave him a look.

“What?” his father asked mildly.

“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.

The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.

At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.

Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.

You took it without thinking.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

His eyes met yours.

For one stupid second, everything softened.

Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.

Dean did too.

His mother saw that.

When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.

“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.

Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”

“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”

You swallowed.

Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.

You looked away first.

“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.

His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”

“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”

She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.

Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.

That seemed more likely.

She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.

Then his parents were gone.

Just like that.

No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.

Dean turned to you slowly.

The lobby felt too quiet.

“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.

You wanted to say yes.

The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.

Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”

Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”

The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.

Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.

You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.

They were not.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

Allie.

allie: are you alive?

allie: and by alive i mean emotionally

allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast

allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast

allie: answer me before i create a theory

You turned your phone face down.

Dean noticed.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”

Silence again.

Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”

You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s new.”

“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”

You finally looked at him.

He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.

“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”

The worst part was that he sounded honest.

Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.

So why didn’t it make you feel better?

Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.

You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”

Dean didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Your lips pressed together.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.

Dean took a breath, slower this time.

“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”

Your chest ached.

He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”

You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.

He didn’t.

Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.

You nodded once, mostly to yourself.

“There it is,” you said softly.

His eyes cut to you. “What?”

“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”

Dean flinched.

You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Dean went quiet.

The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.

Almost honest.

Almost enough.

Almost real.

“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean inhaled sharply.

You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.

For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”

That was not enough.

You hated that it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.

“Okay.”

“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Okay.”

That was all.

And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.

Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.

That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.

Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.

You told him he didn’t have to.

He ignored you.

“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”

“I’m sure.”

“That was patronizing.”

“That was supportive.”

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”

“I’m counting on it.”

For half a second, the banter felt easy.

Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.

Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.

You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.

Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.

You stilled.

His hand dropped.

That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.

You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.

“Can I call you later?” he asked.

Your chest tightened.

“You can,” you said.

Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.

Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”

It disappeared.

You almost apologized.

You didn’t.

Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“It doesn’t feel fair.”

“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”

You looked down at your shoes.

Dean said your name softly.

You hated how quickly you looked up.

“I meant it,” he said.

You didn’t ask which part.

You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.

So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.

For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.

Not okay. Busy.

There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.

Allie called you on Sunday night.

You ignored it.

She texted.

allie: coward

You ignored that too.

allie: i say that with love

You almost smiled.

Almost.

On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.

You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”

Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“It’s an intervention.”

Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”

“You both have intervention faces.”

Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”

Hannah nodded. “A little.”

“Work on that,” you said.

Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”

“Apparently.”

Hannah hugged you first.

You hated that it made your throat tighten.

Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”

You looked down at the coffee lid.

The question should’ve been easy.

No, because Dean had been careful.

Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.

“Not on purpose,” you said.

Allie’s expression shifted immediately.

Hannah’s face softened.

You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.

“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.

You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.

“We broke the rule.”

Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”

“No, the tax fraud rule.”

“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”

You laughed once, but it didn’t last.

Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”

Your face warmed.

Allie inhaled. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me.”

“It was good,” Allie said.

“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.

Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.

“And then?” Allie asked.

“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”

Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”

“He said he panicked.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe him?”

You didn’t answer.

Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”

That was the worst question.

Because yes.

Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.

“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.

Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.

“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.

Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Dean texted that night.

dean: can we talk?

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then it lit again.

dean: not tonight if you don’t want

dean: just when you’re ready

You typed three different answers.

Deleted all of them.

Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.

You did not sleep much.

By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.

The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.

tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.

That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.

You told yourself Dean might not be there.

That was stupid.

Dean was always there.

He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.

But his face changed, just enough.

His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.

Garrett noticed.

Logan noticed.

You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.

“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”

Dean went very still.

Logan’s eyes widened.

Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”

Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.

“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”

“It was,” Allie said.

Dean hadn’t said anything yet.

You looked at him because not looking was worse.

“Hi,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”

That was it.

Two words.

And somehow, the room felt full of them.

Movie night was terrible.

Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.

He didn’t come closer.

Didn’t sit beside you.

Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.

There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.

And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.

You told yourself that was proof.

Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.

The kitchen was quieter.

You liked that.

You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” Dean said.

You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”

“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Dean saw it, because of course he did.

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“It was small, but I’m counting it.”

“You’re desperate.”

“Yeah.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

You turned around.

Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“And then you keep saying them.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“Dean.”

“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it’s true.”

That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.

He was dangerous.

You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”

Dean’s face changed.

“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean went silent.

The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.

Your heart dropped slowly.

“Right,” you said.

“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

“Then say it.”

Dean’s mouth opened.

Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes closed briefly.

You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”

Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean looked at you.

The words tasted awful.

You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”

“Don’t.”

It came out fast. Too fast.

Garrett’s expression sharpened.

You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.

Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on?”

You froze.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You knew that.

After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.

But then Dean spoke.

“Nothing.”

Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“The captain thing.”

“The captain thing?”

“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”

Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Your fingers curled around the railing.

Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Then, quietly, “Yeah.”

Your breath caught.

Garrett said, “Dean.”

“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”

You should’ve left.

You stayed.

“What happened?” Garrett asked.

Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”

Garrett was silent.

“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”

“What kind of joke?”

“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.

“I said we should blame the wine.”

Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”

You closed your eyes.

The hallway blurred for a second.

Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”

“I tried.”

“Try better.”

Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then tell her.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”

Everything inside you went still.

The house noise faded.

The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For a second, you couldn’t move.

You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.

Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.

Garrett said something after that.

You didn’t hear it.

Dean answered.

You didn’t hear that either.

Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.

You stepped back quietly.

Then again.

The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.

Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.

You walked until the house was behind you.

Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.

Allie.

You declined it.

Then Hannah.

You declined that too.

Then Dean.

You stopped walking.

His name filled the screen.

For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.

Then the call ended.

A text appeared almost immediately.

dean: where did you go?

Another came before you could breathe.

dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that

You stared at the message.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.

Please tell me you didn’t hear that.

Not, please let me explain.

Not, I didn’t mean it.

Just proof that there had been something to hear.

Another message appeared.

dean: I need to talk to you

You locked your phone.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.

It buzzed again.

You looked down before you could stop yourself.

dean: it’s not what you think

Your vision blurred.

That was the thing, though.

You had heard him.

Clearly.

You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.

Maybe all of that was true.

Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.

Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.

But you’d heard enough.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For once, you decided to believe him.

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