You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.

The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.

Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat. 

You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.

Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.

Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory. 

You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.

Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.

It always made you think of Bradley.

You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.

You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved. 

By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.

Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair. 

You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home. 

Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.

The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls. 

Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.

Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.

Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.

You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.

Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.

“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”

You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.

Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.

“Well, look who it is!”

You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”

Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.

“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”

You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”

Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”

“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”

You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”

You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”

“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”

You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.

You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.

He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.

This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.

“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”

You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”

Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”

You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”

Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”

You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”

He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”

You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”

“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”

You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.

“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”

You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”

You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”

“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”

“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”

You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”

A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”

The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer. 

Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”

Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.

You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”

Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.

“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”

“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”

“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”

Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”

“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”

That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”

No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.

“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.

When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her. 

“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”

You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”

“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.

Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”

“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”

“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”

Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”

That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”

“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”

You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”

Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”

Your pulse stumbled.

Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.

Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”

You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”

When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.

You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.

Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.

Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.

The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.

Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.

“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.

Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks. 

His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.

“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.

You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”

When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice. 

You both pretended a lot of things.

“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.

“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”

He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”

You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”

That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good. 

“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”

You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”

“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”

And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.

The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.

“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”

You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”

“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”

Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.

“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”

You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”

Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.

When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.

When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman. 

The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.

Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”

You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip. 

He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.

Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for.  You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.

“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”

“Does my pride count?” you shot back.

“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”

Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.

You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.

Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.

The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.

Every accidental touch made your heart skip.

“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”

“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”

Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”

“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.

“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.

Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.

Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”

Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.

“Not bad,” Hangman said, pointing. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”

You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone. 

He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.

“Bradley?”

He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”

You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”

Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together. 

He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully. 

You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back. 

“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.

He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension. 

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.

His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine. 

“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.

You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.

You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.

You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.

Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.

You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet. 

Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”

You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.

You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.

The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.

You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.

The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”

So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.

He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”

You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”

Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”

You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”

“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”

“Desperate times,” you muttered.

You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene. 

Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”

“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”

“You’re holding the can upside down.”

You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”

Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”

He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.

The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.

That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.

“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.

Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”

“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”

He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.” 

You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”

Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”

You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”

It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.

You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours,  touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.

“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.

Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.

“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.

Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And yet you love that about me.”

That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”

You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”

He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”

“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”

Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you. 

The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.

Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”

He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.

“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips. 

Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”

“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”

He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.

Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”

Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”

“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”

“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”

By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing. 

“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”

You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”

“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”

You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”

He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”

You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.

Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years. 

After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.

At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years. 

Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.

There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.

Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.

You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.

“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.

Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Too sentimental?”

“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.

You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.

He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.

“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.

You’d inhaled sharply.

You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.

The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.

You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”

Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”

“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”

The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.

When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.

Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.

“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.

He’d nodded. “Anytime.”

You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.

“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”

Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”

“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.

“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.

You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”

Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.

The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”

“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”

You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.

He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”

“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.

Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.

The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.

“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”

Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”

“You didn’t even give me a choice.”

His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”

Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.

“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.

He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.

The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.

“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”

Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”

He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.

When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent. 

Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”

You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.

The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.

When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.

Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Two years?” you’d said. 

That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.

He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”

You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”

“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.

Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.

The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.

And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.

You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.

You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.

“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”

“Tell me about it.”

You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.

You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration. 

So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.

Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.

Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.

“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”

“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”

“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.

You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”

Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”

Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”

You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”

“And now?” Phoenix asked.

You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”

Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”

You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”

Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”

You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”

“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.

You groaned. “Not this again.”

Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”

“Everyone?” you asked.

“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”

You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”

Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”

You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”

For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.

“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.

Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.

“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”

Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”

You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”

Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement. 

“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”

Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”

You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”

Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”

Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.

“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”

Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.

You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”

The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”

“But?” Halo prompted hesitantly. Phoenix exhaled quietly beside her.

You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”

Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”

You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”

For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song. 

Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”

You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”

“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.

You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”

Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”

You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”

“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”

The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.

You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet. 

You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.

Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.

You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch. 

You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.

When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.

“Hey,” he said, his voice even.

“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”

“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”

He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.

Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less. 

He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.

After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down. 

“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.

So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.

You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.

“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”

You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”

Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”

You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”

He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”

You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”

“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.

You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”

Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”

His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.

You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”

That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.

Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”

You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”

His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”

Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”

“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”

“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”

Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”

“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”

You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”

“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”

“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”

Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”

“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.

You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”

Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”

He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”

Your throat burned. “You had me!”

“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”

That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”

Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”

He froze, chest rising and falling fast.

“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”

His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”

You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”

The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.

Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”

You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”

You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”

“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”

You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”

Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.

You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.” 

You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”

Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”

That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”

You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”

Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”

You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”

Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”

You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”

“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.

“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”

“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”

His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.

You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”

Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”

His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.

“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”

Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”

“That’s not true,” you argued softly.

He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”

You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”

“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”

You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”

Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”

You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”

He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”

You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.

“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”

Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”

“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”

You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”

“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”

The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.

“Bradley,” you said quietly.

He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered. 

His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.

He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric. 

You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.

Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.

You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”

“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”

Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.

His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once. 

“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”

“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”

When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.

“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.

Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window. 

“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”

Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face. 

“Did you—?”

“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”

Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

The Hard Deck was alive with laughter, the low hum of conversation mingling with the distant crash of the waves. The scent of salt and spilled beer hung in the air, the jukebox spitting out a country song that had more than one pilot tapping their fingers against the worn wood of the bar.

Jake "Hangman" Seresin leaned against the pool table, a cocky grin playing at his lips as he chalked his cue. His gaze was locked onto Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife.

"You wanna try that again, Rooster?" Hangman drawled, voice as smooth as whiskey. "Because I could've sworn you said I got lucky on that last shot."

Rooster scoffed, arms crossed over his broad chest, aviators still hooked onto the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. "You heard me just fine, Bagman. One lucky shot doesn’t make you the best."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass in your hand as you took a slow sip of your drink, the cool condensation slick against your skin. From your seat, you watched the exchange unfold, feigning indifference behind the rim of your glass. But your eyes weren’t on Hangman—not really.

They were on Rooster.

The way his jaw tensed, the way his biceps flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the way the veins in his forearms stood out when he gripped the pool cue. You knew better than to stare, but the dim lighting and the amber of your drink made for good camouflage.

Beside you, Bob and Fanboy were deep in conversation, their voices threading through the noise of the bar.

"I’m just saying," Bob mused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "a good WSO doesn’t just read the pilot—they anticipate them."

Fanboy nodded, ever the calm voice of reason. "It’s about trust. You can be the best at reading radar, but if your pilot doesn’t trust you to have their six, you’re dead in the air."

You hummed in agreement, setting your glass down with a soft clink. "It’s instinct. That’s why some pairings work better than others. Right, Bob?"

Bob smirked knowingly, glancing over at Hangman, who was now leaning dangerously close to Rooster, both men locked in a silent battle of egos. "Yeah, like you and Seresin," he said. "You two just… click."

"Match made in heaven," Fanboy teased, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. It was true, in a way. You and Hangman worked well together, your sharp instincts and calculated precision balancing out his reckless confidence. In the air, you made each other better. On the ground, though?

That was different.

"Hey, Snipes!" Hangman’s voice cut through the conversation as he straightened, smirking at you. "Tell Rooster here that he should quit embarrassing himself and rack ‘em up for a rematch."

You raised an eyebrow, the weight of Rooster’s gaze settling on you before you even turned to meet it.

"Don’t look at me," you said smoothly. "I just work here."

Laughter rippled through the group as Rooster smirked, shaking his head before taking a long sip of his beer. The golden liquid caught the light, and for just a second, you let yourself look—really look—before turning back to your drink.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the bar, swirling the remnants of your drink in the glass as Bob and Fanboy continued talking shop beside you. Their conversation faded into the background, your focus slipping as Rooster set his pool cue down and stretched, arms lifting high above his head before settling back down, fingers tapping absently against the side of his beer bottle. The stretch pulled his shirt tight across his chest, and you forced your gaze away, taking a slow sip of your drink to cover the way your pulse kicked up.

"You good?" Bob’s voice cut through your thoughts, quiet but pointed. His pale blue eyes studied you with the kind of sharpness that made you wonder just how much he noticed.

"Yeah," you said quickly, setting your glass down. "Just tired."

Bob hummed in a way that said he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go, turning back to Fanboy, who was now deep in some exaggerated retelling of a training exercise. You took the out, shifting your attention back to the room, where Hangman had just stepped closer to Rooster, that ever-present smirk still in place.

"Come on, Rooster," Jake drawled, resting his pool cue against the table. "You gonna admit I got you, or do you wanna lose again?"

Bradley scoffed, shaking his head. "Man, I swear, you could fall into the ocean and still find a way to be cocky about it."

"Damn right," Jake shot back, tipping his beer up for a slow sip.

Your lips twitched, but you hid your smile behind your drink, letting the glass linger against your lips. Bradley's eyes flicked toward you, quick but sharp, and for a second, you thought—no, you knew—he caught you watching. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Heat licked up the back of your neck, but before you could react, Jake clapped a hand on Bradley’s shoulder with a grin. "Come on, Bradshaw, let’s go again. Unless you’re too busy staring at Sniper over here."

Your stomach dropped.

Bradley’s jaw tightened just slightly, his fingers flexing around the bottle in his hand. But if he was caught off guard, he didn’t show it for long. Instead, he just smirked, slow and easy, before turning back to the table.

"You wish, Seresin," he muttered, racking up the balls.

The moment passed, the conversation shifting, the music playing on. But as you turned back to your drink, your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Because if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that Hangman never said anything without a reason.

And now, thanks to him, you weren’t the only one noticing where your attention kept slipping.

Bob was still half-listening to Fanboy, nodding along as his fingers drummed against the side of his glass, but you could feel his attention flicking back to you every so often. He wasn’t obvious about it—not like Hangman, who would’ve just called you out in front of everyone—but Bob noticed things. Always had. It was part of what made him such a damn good WSO.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pushed your empty glass toward the edge of the bar. "I’m gonna grab another drink," you said, keeping your voice even, casual.

Bob’s gaze lifted from his own glass, studying you for half a second before he nodded. "You want company?"

You shook your head, already sliding off the barstool. "I’m good. Be right back."

Bob didn’t press, just hummed in acknowledgment, but you caught the way his eyes lingered as you turned away. If anyone was gonna figure you out first, it would be him. You just had to make sure you didn’t give him anything more to work with.

You wove through the crowd, dodging a pair of aviators deep in some animated debate over dart scores, before finally making it to the bar. Penny was a few customers down, pouring a round of shots, so you leaned against the wood, letting your fingers trail along the smooth, worn surface as you waited.

It wasn’t until you felt a presence beside you that you glanced up—and immediately regretted it.

Bradley.

He was close. Not enough to be improper, but enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne beneath the salt air, enough that you could see the way the dim bar lights caught on the gold in his hair.

"You hiding over here, Snipes?" His voice was easy, teasing, but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, willing your pulse to slow. "Just getting another drink, Bradshaw."

He smirked, leaning against the bar beside you, his fingers tapping absently against the wood. "That so?"

You didn’t answer immediately, but you didn’t have to. Because the way his eyes stayed on you—the way they held just a little too much knowing—told you he wasn’t buying it.

Penny slid a beer across the bar toward Rooster without him even needing to ask, a silent acknowledgment that he was a regular here. He caught it easily, fingers wrapping around the bottle as he turned back to you, his smirk still in place but softer now, more amused than cocky.

"You always this jumpy, Snipes?" His voice was low, meant just for you, the rough edge of it curling around your name in a way that sent heat flickering down your spine.

You scoffed, shifting your weight against the bar. "I’m not jumpy."

"Mm." He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes not leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. When he lowered it, he let his elbow rest against the counter, his body angled just slightly toward you. "You sure about that?"

Your brows lifted, feigning disinterest. "You always this nosy, Bradshaw?"

His grin widened, like he knew exactly what you were doing. "Only when it’s interesting." He let the words hang in the space between you, light but deliberate, before nodding toward your empty glass. "What’s your poison tonight?"

You should’ve just answered him. Should’ve just kept it casual, like you did with everyone else. But the way he was looking at you—the lazy tilt of his smile, the barely-there rasp in his voice—it made you want to push back just a little.

"Why?" you asked, tilting your head. "Gonna buy me one?"

Something flickered in his expression, brief but unmistakable, before he leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice was low when he murmured, "That depends."

Your fingers tightened around the glass, pulse kicking up. "On?"

Bradley let the silence stretch, like he was giving you time to think about it, about him, before finally smirking again. "On whether or not you’ll actually drink it… or just use it to hide behind."

Your breath hitched, but before you could come up with a response, Penny stepped up to take your order, cutting through the moment. Bradley didn’t move, didn’t look away—just waited, watching, like he already knew he’d gotten to you.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away from Rooster’s knowing gaze as you turned to Penny. "Whiskey, neat."

If she noticed anything in your voice, she didn’t comment on it, just nodded and reached for a bottle. But Bradley? He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound warm and teasing as he took another sip of his beer.

"Didn’t peg you for a whiskey drinker," he mused, tilting his head.

You shot him a look. "And what exactly did you peg me for?"

He let his gaze flick over you, slow and measured, before shrugging. "Something smoother. Less burn."

You smirked, rolling your empty glass between your fingers. "Maybe I like the burn."

Bradley’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted, the teasing edge softening just slightly. "Yeah," he murmured, voice quieter now. "Maybe you do."

Penny slid your drink across the bar, and you grabbed it quickly, grateful for something to do with your hands. But when you turned back, Bradley was still watching you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something you weren’t sure you were ready to decipher.

"Careful, Sniper," he murmured, tipping his bottle toward you before taking a sip. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

Your stomach flipped, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you lifted your glass, letting the whiskey slide down smooth and slow before setting it back on the bar with a soft clink. Then, with your best smirk, you leaned in just a fraction, just enough for your voice to dip between you both.

"You wish, Bradshaw."

But even as you said it, you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—him or yourself.

Rooster was still smirking when he took another sip of his beer, but when he lowered the bottle, you caught it—just the smallest trace of foam clinging to the edge of his moustache. It was barely noticeable, but once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

Without thinking, you reached up, the tips of your fingers grazing his jaw as you swiped your thumb along the corner of his mouth. "You had a little—"

The words caught in your throat the second his breath hitched, his entire body going still under your touch. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the slight stubble along his jaw rough against the pad of your thumb. You should’ve pulled away the second you fixed it, should’ve stepped back before the moment stretched too long, before the air between you shifted into something heavier.

But you didn’t.

Bradley didn’t move either, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Slowly, so slowly, his lips quirked, and you felt it—the way they just barely brushed against your thumb before you finally dropped your hand.

"Thanks, Sniper," he murmured, voice lower than before, rougher.

You swallowed, gripping your glass a little tighter as you forced yourself to scoff, to play it off. "Try drinking like an adult next time, Bradshaw."

He grinned, eyes still on you as he took another slow sip—deliberate, careful, like he was daring you to look away.

But you didn’t.

And maybe that was your first mistake.

You should have walked away. Should have taken your drink and gone back to Bob and Fanboy, slipped back into easy conversation about WSOs and manoeuvring and anything that didn’t involve the way Rooster was looking at you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stayed put, fingers curling around your whiskey glass, pulse thrumming beneath your skin as Bradley studied you with that lazy, knowing smirk. The worst part? He wasn’t even trying. He wasn’t laying it on thick like Jake would, wasn’t feeding you some line just to see if you’d take the bait. He was just… there. And for some reason, that made it harder to shake.

"You always this handsy, Snipes?" His voice was smooth, laced with amusement, but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter.

You scoffed, finally forcing yourself to take a step back, putting distance between you both. "Don’t flatter yourself, Bradshaw."

He hummed, tipping his beer toward you in mock salute. "Too late."

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the crowd, desperate to pull the focus away from whatever the hell this was. The Hard Deck was still alive with energy, the Dagger Squad scattered around the bar. Hangman was now leaning against the jukebox, arguing with Coyote about song choices. Payback and Fanboy were deep in conversation, likely rehashing old stories from training. Phoenix was at the dartboard, eyes locked in concentration as she lined up a shot.

Safe distractions.

"I should get back," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

But before you could step away, Bradley's voice was there again, softer now. "You ever gonna let me catch up to you, Snipes?"

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your drink. The question wasn’t loaded, not on the surface. But something about the way he said it made you pause, made you consider the weight behind it.

Slowly, you turned back to him, arching a brow. "What makes you think you’re behind?"

Bradley smirked, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Call it a gut feeling."

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you should have, something unspoken lingering in the space between you. Then, with a small shake of your head, you turned on your heel, slipping back into the crowd before he could say anything else.

But even as you walked away, you felt it—the heat of his gaze still following you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet.

You barely made it three steps before you felt it—fingers curling around your wrist, firm but careful, like he wasn’t trying to stop you, just… slow you down.

"Hang on," Rooster murmured, his grip warm against your skin.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t stop him, didn’t shake him off. He didn’t give you the chance to. With a gentle but insistent tug, he steered you through the crowd, slipping easily between groups of aviators and locals like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You knew where he was leading you before you even saw it.

The narrow hallway just past the bar—the one that led to the bathrooms, the back exit, the only quiet place in the Hard Deck that didn’t involve sneaking behind the counter with Penny’s disapproving glare burning into the back of your head.

The second you stepped into the dimly lit corridor, away from the noise, away from the others, Bradley let go of your wrist. But he didn’t step back. If anything, he was still too close, the faint scent of his cologne and the salt air clinging to his skin.

You crossed your arms, forcing yourself to level him with a look even as your pulse betrayed you. "Seriously, Bradshaw? The hallway?"

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, steady. "Seemed like the only way to get you to actually talk to me."

Your stomach flipped, but you forced a scoff, leaning back slightly against the wall. "Talk to you? About what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his gaze flicker over your face like he was trying to figure something out, like he was debating how much to say. Then, finally, quietly—

"You’re different with me."

Your breath caught.

Bradley took a step closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your eyes on his. "You talk all that shit with Hangman. You joke with Bob, mess with Fanboy, keep up with Phoenix. But with me?" His head tilted, voice dipping lower. "You’re careful."

You swallowed hard, willing your expression to stay neutral. "You’re imagining things, Bradshaw."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No, I’m not." Another step, closing that last bit of space. "And I don’t think you are either."

Your back hit the wall. You hadn’t even realized you’d been inching away, hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten until there was nowhere else to go. But even now, even with the way his voice curled around your name, warm and teasing and just a little too soft, he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t have to.

Because the way he was looking at you—the way he always looked at you—was more than enough.

Rooster’s hands flexed at his sides, like he was physically holding himself back. Like if he didn’t, he’d reach for you without thinking. His jaw tightened, his breath uneven, and for the first time all night, he didn’t have a smirk, didn’t have a teasing remark locked and loaded.

"Tell me no," he murmured, voice rough, low, almost desperate. "Tell me to back off, and I will."

You should have. You knew you should have.

But you didn’t.

"Rooster, it's the alcohol talking."

His eyes searched yours, flickering between them, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "Snipes…" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to pull himself together, but then his voice dropped even lower, nearly breaking—

"Please."

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering in your ears. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was begging. Begging for permission, for just a sign that he wasn’t crazy, that whatever this was—whatever had been burning between you for months—wasn’t just in his head.

And God help you, you wanted to give it to him.

"Bradshaw…"

His lips parted at the sound of his name, something flickering in his expression—hope, relief, hunger, you weren’t sure. But his hands stayed at his sides, fists clenching, because he was waiting. He was waiting for you.

"Tell me yes," he whispered. "Just once."

Your breath shuddered.

And then—

You did.

The word barely left your lips before Bradley moved.

Not rushed, not reckless, but like he’d been holding himself back for so damn long that the second you gave him permission, he couldn’t stop himself. His hands finally found you, one pressing firm and warm against your waist, the other cradling your jaw, fingers skimming your skin like he needed to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch.

And then—God—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful. It was needy, desperate in a way that sent heat rushing through you, like he’d been dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could quench it. His lips moved against yours like he was making up for lost time, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was afraid if he let you go, you’d slip right through his fingers.

You fisted the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned—deep, low, the kind of sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened, his body pressing flush against yours as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he needed to prove something. Like he needed you to feel how long he’d been waiting for this.

It was overwhelming and dizzying, and God, you should have stopped him. Should have pushed him away before this became something you couldn’t take back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself drown in him, let yourself pretend—just for a second—that this was something you could have. That Bradley was something you could have.

And when he finally pulled back, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, his voice came out rough, almost wrecked.

"Tell me I’m not crazy," he whispered. "Tell me you want this too."

You swallowed hard, hands still curled into his shirt, your heart pounding against your ribs.

And when you finally answered, your voice was barely above a breath—

"I do."

Bradley kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting years for this moment and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go. His hands gripped your waist, your jaw, like he needed to feel you everywhere at once, like he was trying to make up for all the times he’d held back.

You were just as desperate, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you, just heat and pressure and the intoxicating taste of whiskey and beer on his lips.

But then—between kisses, between the ragged breaths you barely had time to take—he murmured against your mouth, "Why’d you join the Navy?"

You barely processed the question at first, not with the way his lips trailed along your jaw, not with the way his hands were tracing slow, burning lines down your sides. But then he pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded but curious. Like he needed to know.

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs. Of all the moments, of all the things—he wanted to ask this now?

You smirked, tilting your chin just slightly, your hands still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. "I like dressing like the man."

Rooster froze for half a second, his brows lifting slightly—then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his forehead dropping against yours. "God, I knew I liked you," he murmured, voice husky, and before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, deeper, hungrier, like your answer had just sealed something in him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, "I do too."

Jake’s eyes snap up to your face, wide now. He’s still holding his nose, blood trickling down his cheek, still lying on the sticky hardwood floor. 

“Shit, Hangman, are you—” Mickey stops dead when his gaze lands on you, lips curving into that bright, boyish smile. “Oh. Hi.” 

You tip your head, smirking. “Hi.” Then you nod down at Jake. “This belong to you?” 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Jake mutters, reaching a hand up for help. 

Javy appears beside Mickey and grabs Jake’s hand, hauling him up so fast his head spins and he has to steady himself with a hand on his friend’s shoulder. 

“You alright, Seresin?” 

Jake whips around too fast, making his head throb—but the pain is nothing compared to the confusion. 

How the hell do you know his name? 

“Wow,” you mutter, eyeing his service khakis up and down. “Military suits you.” 

He drops his chin to his chest and spots his name badge, then glances back up with a smirk beneath his still-bleeding nose. “Nice trick.” 

You lift a brow. “Trick?” 

“My name badge.” 

You tilt your head. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” Your eyes narrow, lips curling into an amused grin. “Jake.” 

His eyes widen and his hand drops from his face, a fresh drop of blood dripping onto his upper lip. 

Something about you is familiar, he can’t deny. Your smirk, the little sparkle in your eye, the way you say his name. You know him—that’s for sure. But does he know you? 

His first thought—fear, really—is that you’re a bitter one-night stand he never called back. But usually those women have slapped him by now. And he’s been good lately—he hasn’t broken a heart in at least a year. He’s turned a new leaf. He’s the new and improved, sensitive, understanding Jake Seresin now. 

So why can’t he remember you? 

Then his eyes drop to the boots—your boots. The ones you begged your parents for as a graduation present. The ones you wore everywhere from the day you got them. The ones that sat beside his bed that night—the night you both crossed the line. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. “I—It’s you. I mean, you’re—oh my God, you’ve changed—you—you’re really—holy shit.” 

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing pink—and that’s when Jake really recognises you. Because he knows what you look like when you blush. God knows he made you blush enough growing up. 

But holy shit, have you changed. No more awkward acne, no more uneasy smile, no more terrible haircut. You stand taller now, more confident, like you finally know exactly who you are. It’s magnetic. Jake can’t look away—and neither can anyone else. 

“Come on,” you giggle softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You grab his arm, nod at his friends, and start dragging him toward the bar. He doesn’t even spare Javy or Mickey a glance—because he can’t stop looking at you. The curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the way your fingers fit so perfectly around his wrist. 

He knows you. Knows everything about you. He once mapped every inch of your skin with his mouth. You’re familiar to him, but somehow—right now—completely different. 

“You’ve changed,” he says again. 

You stop at the bar and shove him toward a stool, ignoring the comment as you turn to face Penny. “Could I get some ice, please? And—” 

Penny drops a box of tissues on the bar with a small smile before turning to fetch the ice. 

“Didn’t think it was proper for naval officers to get into bar fights,” you say, handing him a wad of tissues. 

He presses them beneath his nose, wincing. “I was trying to deescalate the situation.” 

You snort. “Oh, really? And how’d that work out for you?” 

He tries to smirk beneath the clump of bloody tissues. “Well, now I’m being taken care of by a pretty girl, so you tell me.” 

Your brows lift. “Wow. No preamble, just straight into it, huh?” 

He tips his head back, feeling another drop of blood slide down his nose. “Does there need to be preamble between two friends who’ve known each other for literal decades?” 

“When they haven’t seen each other for one of those literal decades? Yes,” you say, before softly thanking Penny as she hands over a towel full of ice. 

“That’s a lie, I saw you on a video call two Christmases ago.” 

You huff a short laugh and step closer, sliding between his knees, one hand cupping the back of his head. 

So much for preamble, he thinks—before scrambling to think of the grossest things he can imagine. Because you’re too pretty, too close. You smell too good, and you’re too you. It’s dangerous for you to be standing between his legs right now. Or at all. 

Even if you are just trying to play nurse. 

Oh, God. Now he’s picturing you in a skimpy nurse costume. 

“Have you stopped bleeding?” you ask, urging his head forward again. 

He slowly pulls the tissues away, eyes locked on yours. He’s been closer to you before—obviously—but not in years. Ten years, to be exact. Sure, there have been the occasional calls, texts, and family video chats. But he hasn’t seen you. Not in person. Not like this. 

Not since he broke your heart. 

“I think you’re good, cowboy,” you murmur, pressing the makeshift icepack into his hand. 

Jake lifts it slowly to his nose, hesitating when you hold your hand out for the bloody tissues. The way you arch your brows is impatient, though, and he caves—dropping them into your palm. You scrunch them into a ball and head toward the back of the bar. He watches you disappear into the women’s bathroom, then reappear a minute later and make your way back to him. All the while his heart is thumping too hard and he’s still trying to reroute his blood flow. 

“So, Seresin,” you say, sliding onto the stool beside him. “What’s it like being an American hero?” 

He chuckles. “I don’t know about hero.” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. Your mom hasn’t stopped bragging about you since you graduated the academy.” 

“Of course she hasn’t,” he sighs, trying to ignore the heat creeping into his cheeks. 

“Come on, then,” you press. “What’s it like?” 

He takes a slow breath and sets the icepack in his lap. “It’s good,” he mutters, green eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Hard work, but… fulfilling. I love it.” 

Your lips twitch as if you’re trying to bite back a smile. “And those other men in khakis—you work with them?” 

“Yeah,” Jake nods, swivelling slightly to glance at his friends across the bar. “And the rest of ‘em over there, pretending they’re not staring right at you.” 

You laugh softly. “So you’re all pretty close, then?” 

Jake huffs. “Almost too close.” He turns back to you, and—for some stupid reason—it feels like he can breathe again. Like looking at you is all he’s ever needed to really feel alive. He clears his throat. “We make up an elite mission unit.” 

Your brows lift. “So you’re like… a top-secret government spy?”  

“More like a top-secret government pilot.”  

“Wow,” you laugh again—but there’s a little bite in it this time. “That must work fantastically for getting you laid. Or—sorry, should I not assume? Is there a Mrs. Seresin I haven’t heard about?” 

Jake hesitates, narrowing his eyes. “Are you trying to figure out if I’m single?” 

The faintest shade of pink creeps into your cheeks. “I’m not trying to figure out anything,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m asking.” 

The confidence in your voice isn’t forced. You know exactly what you’re asking—no hesitation—and it’s just another reminder of how you’ve changed. Not completely, but enough to make Jake feel like he’s the one playing catch up. 

So he does what he always does when he feels a little off-balance—he smirks. His head tilts just enough to catch the light in his eyes, and one brow lifts, deliberate, as though he’s daring you to rise to the bait. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, and when his jaw ticks, the smirk tugs wider—lazy, practiced, dangerous. 

“I’m single,” he says, his voice lower now. 

You hesitate. Jake can almost swear you’ve stopped breathing. Your eyes are locked on his face, your cheeks slowly getting redder by the second. 

After a beat—a very smug, loaded beat—he asks, “And you?” 

You blink, a small frown pulling between your brows. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.” 

“That so?” Jake leans back a little, studying you. “So I can’t ask why you’re here in North Island?” 

Your frown deepens. “You don’t know?” 

“I’m supposed to know?” 

You shrug. “I just figured my mom would’ve told your mom and—well, she would’ve told you.” 

Jake’s smirk slips, eyes narrowing as he thinks back to his last phone call with his mother. It was only a week ago—and her voice had sounded a little smug. A little secretive. Bubbling with something she clearly wasn’t saying. Something he should’ve caught. 

“Actually,” he says slowly, “now that you mention it, she was kind of giggly on our last call.” 

“Oh.” You nod once, lips twitching. “So she wanted it to be a surprise.” 

Jake chuckles under his breath. “Well... it was.” 

You let out a quick half-laugh, but your eyes flick past him, fixing on a safe spot in the corner of the room. He notices. Of course he notices. Because every time your shoulders start to ease, you look away—like you’re reminding yourself to stay guarded. To keep the mask in place. And that hits harder than he’d like to admit. 

“So.” He clears his throat. “Why are you here?” 

“I transferred,” you say simply. 

Jake tilts his head. “You’re... Navy?” 

You shake your head. “No—civilian contractor. My company landed a contract here and I went for a promotion.” You pause, searching his face, like you’re testing the weight of your words. “And I got it. Senior analyst. Leading a whole team, and everything.” 

Jake blinks. “Wow. That’s... impressive.” His chest tightens. “How long’s the contract?” 

“Three years.” 

His heart gives a sharp, heavy thud—like it’s reminding him it’s still there. Still feeling. Still tangled up in you. 

“So you’re here for a while?” he asks, voice quieter now. 

You draw a deep breath and nod. “Yeah. That’s why I figured we should make amends... since we’ll probably be seeing each other around.” 

Jake flinches. “Okay. Ouch.” 

You blink. “What?”  

“Well, first of all,” he says, squaring his shoulders, “I didn’t realise we still had amends to make. And second—” he pauses, watching the way you hold yourself so carefully, that calm expression you’ve practiced to perfection “—‘see each other around’? Like we’re not going to actually hang out. Catch up. Be friends?” 

There’s a long beat. The air grows heavier, pressing close, and the look in your eyes sharpens. You’re still wearing that mask, but it doesn’t reach your eyes—and in them, Jake can see almost every turbulent emotion clawing for release.  

“I don’t think I can be friends with you, Jake.” 

The words hit like a punch to the gut—but he doesn’t let it show. 

“Come on,” he sighs, “it’s been over a decade.” 

You swallow hard, your gaze flicking back to that corner of the bar—the safe spot you keep retreating to. “Yeah, but… the first person to break your heart always leaves the deepest scar. You know?” You pause, blinking fast before your eyes meet his again. “Anyway,” you add with a soft sigh, “I should call an Uber. I have an entire apartment to unpack and only two days to do it.”  

“Don’t call an Uber,” Jake says quickly, pulse pounding in his ears. “Let me drive you home.” 

The deepest scar. How could you say that so casually? As if you don’t realise it kills him to know he broke your heart at all—let alone left the kind of wound that never healed. 

Your brows pinch. “What about your friends?” 

“They’ll be fine.” He waves a hand, aiming for casual even though his chest feels like it’s splintering apart. “Besides, I’m exhausted—I could use an excuse to go home.” 

You study him for a moment, eyes betraying the quiet battle you’re fighting inside. Jake can see it. Then a long breath escapes you, and your shoulders drop—not in surrender, but in something close to it. 

“Okay,” you say, sliding off the stool. “I’ll wait outside while you say goodbye.” 

“You don’t want to meet them?” he asks. 

“Not today.” 

“But someday, right?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t push your luck, cowboy.” 

Then you turn on your heel and disappear, weaving through the crowd, leaving Jake with reeling thoughts, an aching chest—and the quiet awakening of something he thought he’d lost forever. 

After a good minute of staring at absolutely nothing, replaying the last half hour in his head, Jake finally slides off the stool and makes his way toward his friends. He’s barely reached them when Javy dramatically shoots to his feet, eyes wide as saucers. 

“Is that really her?” he asks. 

Jake blinks slowly, then nods. 

“Oh my God, she’s—” 

“Wait,” Bradley cuts in, “she’s the one that—” 

“Yeah,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha frowns. “The one that what?” 

Javy lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’s so—” 

“Different,” Jake interrupts quickly. 

Bradley smirks into his beer bottle. “She’s hot.” 

“Who’s hot?” Natasha demands, her patience thinning by the second. 

“Hangman’s friend,” Mickey offers, as if he’s being helpful. 

She shoots him a sideways look—sharp enough to wipe the grin from his face. 

Javy tilts his head. “I thought you said she wasn’t—” 

“She wasn’t,” Jake says fast. “I mean—on the inside, she’s always been—” He hesitates, the words sticking in his throat. “But she’s different now. She’s—” 

“Gorgeous,” Bradley says, earning himself a scathing glare from Jake. 

Natasha slaps both hands flat on the table. “If someone doesn’t tell me who this woman is right now, I swear to God I will flip this table.” 

“It’s bolted down,” Bob mutters. 

Her head whips toward him. “Then I’ll rip it out of the goddamn floorboards.” 

Bob leans back, both hands raised in surrender. 

Natasha turns back to Jake. “Who is she?” 

Jake exhales slowly. “She’s my—” 

“The one that got away,” Bradley interrupts with a grin. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “And you know this how?” 

Bradley shrugs. “Hangman told me the whole story one night when he was really drunk. I saw a photo of her on his dresser and—” 

“You have a photo of her on your dresser?” Natasha’s brows shoot up as her gaze swings back to Jake. 

“It’s not weird,” Jake insists quickly. “We’ve known each other forever. We grew up together.” 

Bob leans in, brow furrowed. “Then why haven’t the rest of us heard about her before?” 

Jake swallows hard. “Because I’m pretty sure she’s spent the last decade hating me.” 

Natasha frowns. “Why?” 

“Isn’t she waiting outside right now?” Micky cuts in before Jake can answer. 

“Shit,” Jake mutters. “Yeah—uh, I gotta go. I’ll see you guys tomorrow night.” 

“Wait,” Natasha says quickly, eyes wide. “I need to know what happened.” 

“Coyote can fill you in.” Jake turns to his best friend with a grimace. “Just… try not to make me sound like too much of an asshole.” 

Bradley snorts. “That’s gonna be tough.” 

Jake shoots him a flat look before giving the rest of them a half-hearted wave and disappearing back into the crowd, praying to any god who might be listening that you haven’t already changed your mind and called an Uber. 

But sure enough, when he bursts through the doors into the cool night air, there you are—leaning against the front of his truck, arms crossed, head tipped back, eyes lost somewhere in the stars. 

Jake’s gaze drags over you like a man starved. The column of your throat, the slope of your collarbone, the way your crossed arms press against your chest—every detail carves itself into him like it hasn’t a hundred times before. He tells himself to stop, to focus on your face—your gorgeous face—and not drink in your skin like he’s been dying of thirst. But he can’t. Not when he still remembers your taste. Not when the ghost of you has been haunting him for so many years. 

And before he can force himself to move closer, to speak, he just stands there for a beat too long—wanting you more than he ever has, and hating himself more than he ever thought possible. 

“Good to know your taste in vehicles hasn’t improved since high school,” you say, snapping him out of whatever trance you’d put him in. 

Jake clears his throat, glancing toward the truck. “That’s because it can’t improve,” he says with a small smirk. “Doesn’t get much better than this.” 

You roll your eyes and push off the fender. “Actually, it does. Believe it or not, they’ve invented these things called safety features now. You know—air bags, emergency brakes, power steering.” 

Jake snorts. “Power steering? You saying you don’t enjoy watching me flex every time I turn a corner?” 

You huff a laugh and circle around the front of the truck, but Jake catches the small smile tugging at your lips before you turn away. 

He climbs into the driver’s seat, jams the key in the ignition, and the truck shudders awake with a growl that rattles the cab. 

Your eyes go wide. “Jesus Christ, Seresin. You’re basically driving a tin can on wheels.” 

He chuckles. “A tin can with character.” 

You roll your eyes again as you buckle your seatbelt, tugging it sharply a few times to make sure it locks. Jake watches you, chest tightening. He still can’t quite reconcile it—how you’re both exactly the same and yet entirely different. You’ve always been beautiful to him. Always. But now the rest of the world can see it too, and he hates that he never said it back when it mattered. Back when it was just the two of you, before life sharpened your edges and forced you to build walls. 

Because now? Now it’ll look like he only wants you after the ‘glow-up’. Like he’s the asshole who broke your heart, left you scarred, and came crawling back once you’d turned into the kind of woman who could turn every head in the room. 

And nothing could be further from the truth. 

Because the truth is, there hasn’t been a single day in Jake Seresin’s life where he hasn’t thought about you. Loved you. Wanted you to know just how much you mean to him. 

“Just head toward Ocean Boulevard,” you say, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts. 

Jake clears his throat, fixes his eyes out the windshield, and shifts into first. The truck rolls forward, gravel crunching under the tires, and soon enough he’s driving out through the base gates, hitting the gas down Ocean Boulevard. 

“Turn down F Avenue and keep going until you hit ninth,” you instruct. “Then turn—” 

A loud pop cuts you off. The steering wheel jerks violently, rattling the cab, and both of you flinch as the truck lurches. Jake grips hard, steering it toward the side of the road until he manages to edge it right up against the curb.  

Then he yanks the handbrake, kills the engine—and his head whips toward you, eyes wide. “You okay?” 

You blink once, twice, a small frown creasing your brow. “Well… yeah. It’s just a blowout.” 

He lets go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and nods, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know. Just… scared me.” 

“Scared you?” you echo, lips twitching. 

He nods again, voice dropping low. “Yeah. You being in the car. If something had happened—” His throat works, and for a second he can’t look at you. “I’d never forgive myself.” 

Before you can answer, he shoves the door open and climbs out. His heart is beating too hard, too loud, and he’s starting to feel lightheaded. He needs air. Space. Because sitting there with you so close, your perfume clouding the cab, he felt like he was seconds away from blacking out. 

He circles the back of the truck until he spots the damage—the rear wheel on the curb side, rubber shredded in strips. 

“Got a spare?” you ask, climbing out of the passenger seat. 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Great. Where’s the jack and wrench?” 

When he looks at you—hands on your hips, brows pinched, lips pressed into a determined line—he can’t help the smirk tugging at his mouth. “As much as I’d love to watch you change the tire on my truck,” he says, “I’m pretty sure the spare’s either missing or older than we are.” 

Your brows shoot up. “You don’t have a spare tire?” 

Jake shrugs. “Not sure. Didn’t check when I bought it.” 

“From a dealer?” 

“Nope,” he chuckles. “Some guy on Facebook.” 

“Jake!” 

“What?” He throws his hands up, still laughing. “I didn’t need a fancy car. I barely drive it. Pretty sure this is the second, maybe third time it’s left base since I bought it.” 

You fold your arms and glare at him. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” he says with a shrug. “I’m still in the barracks. Don’t need to go anywhere else.” 

You tilt your head. “What about hookups?” 

He scoffs. “What hookups?” 

“Oh, come on. You’re Jake Seresin. Don’t act like you’re not—” 

“I’m not,” he cuts in, a little too fast, stepping toward you like he needs you to believe it. 

You go rigid, shoulders tensing, walls snapping back into place so visibly it makes his stomach sink. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping back again. “I’ll call Rooster and see if he can still drive.” 

Your brows knit, arms dropping to your sides. “Sorry for what?” 

Jake hesitates, phone halfway out of his pocket. “For… making you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Jake.” 

He frowns. “Then why are you so guarded?” He knows he shouldn’t ask—he should just let it go and be grateful for even a small piece of you back in his life—but he can’t. “Why are you holding back? Why does it feel like we’re strangers when I’ve known you your whole life?” 

You blink slowly, the crease between your brows deepening. He can feel your gaze tracing his skin like fire—studying him, measuring, keeping that practiced calm in place. 

“We are strangers, Jake,” you finally say, voice steady despite the way your eyes glimmer under the streetlight. “We haven’t really spoken in ten years—and yes, I know that was my choice, but—” You stop yourself and draw a deep, shaky breath. “But do you have any idea what you did to me?” 

Jake’s chest tightens. “I know I fucked up, okay? I know I hurt you. I know—” 

“No. You don’t,” you cut in sharply. “You have no idea. You didn’t just hurt me, Jake. You fucking destroyed me. You ruined me. You broke pieces of me I didn’t even know existed. You ripped me apart in ways I’m still putting back together. And I know—” You let out a bitter laugh, edged with tears. “—I know it was over a decade ago. I get it. But do you have any idea the kind of damage you have to do for it to take ten fucking years to heal?” 

Jake’s eyes sting. His pulse is pounding in his ears. Words scream inside his head, but none make it out. He’s frozen. Paralysed. His chest aches—and his heart is breaking. 

You take a deep breath and blink hard, tipping your head back. “I was in love with you, Jake,” you say, voice lower now. “Even after you said what you said, I—I still loved you. I still wanted you. God. I fucking want you now—do you know how sick that makes me feel?” 

His chest tightens like he’s pulling ten Gs, heart hammering so loud he can barely hear his own ragged breaths. 

“Sick?” he echoes, voice distant, hollow in his ears. 

“Yes, sick,” you snap. “Because you were everything to me. Not just then, not just after we—after we fucked.” You almost choke on the word as a single tear slips down your cheek. “For as long as I can remember, you were the most important thing in the world to me. It was always you. It was always about you. Everything I did was for you. I mean—fuck—I pretended we didn’t even know each other in school because you asked me to. I didn’t come over when your friends were over because you asked me to. I didn’t talk to you at your goddamn birthday parties because you asked me to!” Your voice rises, raw and fraying at the edges. “I did everything you asked me to just so you’d still be my friend. And I thought—” you close your eyes, more tears slipping free, “I thought college would’ve been different. I thought you’d matured—at least, that’s what Mom told me. But—but then we—” You stop short, hand pressed to your chest as if something heavy is pressing down too hard for the words to escape. 

Jake blinks fast, fighting to keep his own emotions from spilling. “Please,” he rasps, “please stop.” 

Your eyes narrow at him, red-rimmed and glinting with unshed tears. “You want me to stop? You want me to stop reminding you of what you did? How you treated me?” You swipe angrily at your cheek with the back of your hand. “Well, too bad. Because maybe you’ve managed to repress the memories, but I haven’t. It wasn’t just that final moment that hurt me, Jake. It was every fucking year leading up to it. It was every single moment you treated me like I was less than just because I wasn’t pretty.” You let out another bitter, almost incredulous, laugh. “God, do you know how insane that sounds? Do you know how stupid it feels to admit that the crux of my childhood trauma is a stupid boy not thinking I’m pretty enough to be seen with him in public?” 

Jake swallows hard on the lump in his throat. “That’s not—” 

“This is why I haven’t spoken to you in over a decade,” you snap. “Not because I’m not over what happened that day. I am. And not because I hate you. I really don’t.” Your gaze pins him, sharp and unyielding. “But I will never forgive you for what you did to that little girl. To me. For making me feel like I wasn’t worth shit.” 

You stand frozen for a beat, chest barely moving, the weight of your words settling between you. Then, with a breath that feels too heavy, you turn on your heel and start walking away. 

“Wait,” Jake calls, voice cracking. “Where are you going?” 

You don’t answer. 

“You can’t walk home in the dark,” he says, jogging to catch up with you. 

“It’s not far,” you throw over your shoulder, keeping your pace steady. 

Jake lets out a sharp breath. “It’s still dark.” 

“Then follow me,” you snap, voice low and tense. “I don’t care. Just don’t talk to me, I—I'm tired.” 

And so he does. A few steps behind, careful not to crowd you, probably looking like a shadow under the dark of night. He doesn’t speak—not because you told him not to, but because he can’t. His chest feels tight, his heart hammering in a way that makes each step heavier, each breath a little harder to draw. He can’t even pretend to know the depth of your pain—only that he caused it. 

All he wants is to reach out, to say the words he should have said a decade ago, to beg for forgiveness and make you understand that he isn’t that boy anymore. That he knows now—truly knows—that everything he said, everything he did, was wrong. That if there’s even the tiniest chance to make it right, he’d take it. He needs you to know that he did love you—that he still does. But he was young, reckless, cruel in ways he didn’t understand, a kid blind to the damage his words and actions could leave behind. 

And now he sees it. All of it. The little cuts, the dismissals, the moments that seemed meaningless to him but defined years of your life. It wasn’t just that final night in college that broke you—it was everything before it, piling up silently while he had no idea. 

He’s carried guilt for years, but only tonight does it hit him in full—the scale of what he’s done. Ever since losing you, he’s wanted to know how to fix it, how to reach you, how to make you see the truth of what he’s felt all along. But now, following you through the dark, heart hammering, thoughts splintering, he isn’t sure there’s a single thing he could do to repair the damage. Or if he even deserves to try. 

- Ten Years Ago - 

The sun cuts across your face—a single, blinding line of gold splitting through the gap in the curtains. You blink awake, slow and heavy, shifting under the soft sheets and—an arm. The solid weight of an arm wrapped tight around your waist. 

For a split second, panic slams into you. The memories of last night flash through your mind in jagged, breathless bursts—his hands gripping your skin, the press of his mouth, the way your body gave itself over to him in ways you’d only ever dreamed of. Your heart stutters, pounding loud in your ears, and then— 

Your gaze lands on him. 

Jake Seresin. 

He’s right there, inches away, his face bathed in pale morning light. Long lashes fan over his cheeks. His lips part softly with each steady breath. He looks nothing like the golden boy who ruled every room—he looks younger, softer, like someone only you were ever meant to see. 

And it wrecks you. 

Your heart lurches high in your throat, choking you with the force of it. You’d pictured this so many times—fantasised about it, begged for it in the quiet corners of your mind—but the reality is overwhelming. Dizzying. Too much. Too real. 

You shift onto your side, body aching with reminders of every place he touched you, every line you swore you’d never cross until you crossed them all with him. 

Your fingers twitch against the sheet, and before you can stop yourself you’re reaching out—tracing the hard angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. Memorising him like proof this actually happened. His skin is warm under your touch. He stirs but doesn’t wake. 

And that’s when it hits you, knocking the breath from your lungs. 

You lost your virginity to Jake fucking Seresin. The boy who never felt like he could be yours. The boy who could undo you with one look. The boy you’ve loved all your life, even when you wished you didn’t. 

And now you’re lying in his bed. And he’s holding you like you’re his. 

“Stop staring,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

Your cheeks flush, hand still hovering at his jaw. “I’m not.” 

The corner of his mouth curves. “Liar.” 

Your heart stumbles. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Can’t,” he murmurs, finally cracking one eye open to look at you. “Not with you right here.” 

His arm tightens, pulling you closer as he shifts to tuck the other beneath your body, pressing you right up against him. He brushes his lips against yours, soft and fleeting, before sinking back into his pillow. His eyes flutter shut, a contented sigh slipping out like this moment is the most perfect he’s ever known. 

You want to relax with him, to nuzzle into his chest and breathe him in, to forget about every anxious thought spinning in your mind. But you can’t. Because this is real, and what happened last night has changed everything. 

“I can hear you overthinking,” he mutters, eyes still closed. 

Your eyes linger on his mouth, and warmth rushes through you at the memory of everywhere it was last night. 

“Can you blame me?” you whisper. “Last night was—” 

“Perfect.” His eyes open fast, worry clouding them. “Right? You’re not regretting—” 

“No,” you cut in quickly. “Of course not. I don’t regret anything.” Your gaze falls to his chest. “Unless you regret—” 

“Never.” 

He tilts your chin up with gentle fingers, green eyes searching yours as if to be sure. Then he kisses you—soft, slow, reverent. Everything he couldn’t say, everything he showed you last night, pressed into the shape of your mouth. 

You want to be cautious, to protect yourself, but you can’t. Not with Jake. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, and being here with him feels inevitable—like this was always where the two of you were meant to end up. 

Sure, it’s been complicated. Nothing about Jake has ever been simple. But when it’s just the two of you, all the noise disappears. Alone with him, you’ve always felt like you mattered. Like he loves you just as much as you love him—maybe even needs you in ways he can’t show anyone else. 

You know what people think. That you should hate him for keeping you a secret, for pretending you weren’t important when others were around. You’ve heard it enough times—from friends, even family. But you never could hate him. How could you? He’s Jake Seresin—the golden boy, the one everyone wants a piece of. You never blamed him for holding one piece back for himself. The piece that was you. Because with you, he’s real. And you’ve always known him better than anyone. 

Maybe you were naive to accept the way things were, to let him look right through you in public just because you didn’t fit into his world. But that was then. He’s not that boy anymore. He’s grown. Changed. You can’t hold the mistakes of a kid against the man he’s becoming. 

Deep down, you’ve always known he cared. Even when he didn’t show it the right way, he was still there. Last night only proved it. Proved that what you’ve always felt—that you were more than a secret—was real. That he sees you. All of you. 

And even if everything changes after last night, you know you’ll never regret Jake Seresin being your first. And you know you’ll never stop loving him. 

“Coffee?” Jake offers, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

His eyes are open now, wide and soft, full of something you can’t quite place. 

You hum. “Yeah, but does that mean I have to get out of bed?” 

He chuckles. “Nope. Just me. I’ll run down to the café.” 

He kisses you again—firmer this time—before slipping out of bed and grabbing his clothes off the floor. The same ones you’d tossed there last night, after undressing each other. Because last night you had sex with Jake Seresin. And that’s not something you’re ever going to be sick of reminding yourself. 

“What’s that grin for?” he asks as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

You tug the covers up to your chin. “Nothing. It’s just—” 

“We had sex last night?” 

You roll your eyes, hiding your stupid smile beneath his duvet. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

He laughs softly as he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead—a simple gesture, but one that makes your chest ache with fondness. 

“I won’t be long,” he says, swiping his wallet and keys off the bedside table. 

Then with a crooked grin and a cheeky wink, he’s out the door. Leaving you in his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his dorm, replaying every moment of last night like you’re trying to catalogue every touch, every look, every feeling. 

You lie there for a good five minutes, reminding yourself that this is real. That Jake is going to walk back through that door soon. And when he does, he’s going to touch you again, kiss you again—be with you in ways you’ve dreamt about for most of your life. 

With a soft, almost dreamy sigh, you slip out from beneath the covers and start gathering your things. You know Jake has class sometime this morning, so you don’t plan on lingering like some clingy girl who doesn’t know when to leave. You pull on your clothes from last night and grab the sweatshirt draped over the back of his desk chair—the weather’s turned colder overnight, and you know you’ll need the extra layer. 

You tidy the few things that got knocked over last night and loosely make his bed before settling at the foot of it, phone in hand. You scroll through a few missed notifications and quickly reply to your friend, the one who had so reluctantly left you in Jake’s care last night. 

It’s not that she doesn’t trust him—she just doesn’t like him. None of your friends do. They think he’s cruel, shallow, all ego and no care. But they don’t know him the way you do. They don’t see the sweet side—the quieter, insecure parts of him that you’ve always believed were yours alone. They don’t know how much he really does care. 

After about fifteen minutes of scrolling through your phone, you realise that Jake is taking a little too long. You know the café he likes, and you know it wouldn’t be busy at this time on a Thursday—most students are either in class or studying at the library by now. 

You wait two more minutes before pushing off the bed and heading for the door. You yank it open and stick your head into the hallway, like maybe checking will magically make him appear. For a moment you just stand there, listening to the distant shuffle of feet and scattered voices. You’re about to give up and step back inside when— 

“Seresin! Where you off to in such a rush?” 

“Hey, McNeil.” Jake’s voice echoes down the corridor. “What’s up?” 

You twist your head both ways, but you can’t see anyone. You can’t even tell which direction the voices are coming from—but the hallway is carrying them straight to you, loud and clear, like it wants you to hear. 

“Not much, man,” McNeil—whoever that is—says. “Thirsty this morning?” 

Jake laughs, but it’s off, forced. “Oh. Yeah—uh, this one’s for a friend.” 

“A friend?” McNeil presses. “Wait... don’t tell me you had a sleepover with that freshman four I saw you bring back last night?” 

Your chest tightens. Your breath comes sharp and shallow, panic pressing down on your ribs. 

“Yeah… I mean, she’s a family friend,” Jake says, letting out another awkward laugh. “I was just trying to be nice. My mom would kill me if she found out I left her drunk and alone at some frat house.” 

Your stomach drops. Heat prickles up the back of your neck, humiliation burning hot and mean behind your ribs. 

McNeil snorts. “You’re a saint, Seresin. I bet she was all over you too.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Jake says, voice deeper now, slipping into that fake bravado that makes him sound like the worst kind of asshole. “She was drunk off her ass, a little desperate. I just didn’t have the heart to toss her out.” 

McNeil laughs. Loudly. Like Jake is hilarious, and not breaking you apart with every word. 

Tears sting your eyes, falling fast and hot down your cheeks. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing at you, but you don’t have time to let it take over. You let the door fall shut with a thud loud enough that you know they’d have heard it, then scramble to gather your things, slip into your shoes, and yank the door open again. 

You turn sharply into the hall, swiping furiously at the tears blurring your vision. Your whole body is shaking—trembling—with a mix of anger, embarrassment, pain. You never imagined anything could hurt this much, but hearing him say that after you gave him everything? It’s unbearable. 

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your chest aches, your limbs feel like lead, and nausea presses against the back of your throat. You’re not sure you’ll even make it out of the building without collapsing or throwing up. 

You reach the end of the hall, swing around the corner—and freeze. 

“Wait,” Jake says, eyes wide, coffees in hand. “Let me—” 

“Fuck you,” you snap, voice sharp. “Get out of my way.” 

“Please, just listen. I—” 

“You what?” you cut him off, wiping more tears from your face. “You’re sorry? You didn’t mean it? How the fuck do you even start to fix this, Jake?” 

His mouth opens, then closes. No words come out. He’s frozen, eyes wide and glossy, as if they might fill with tears too. 

“I know I’m not very pretty,” you breathe, voice breaking. “I know I’m not like the other girls you’ve dated. I know you were embarrassed of me when we were kids—but that was then, Jake. Back when you were too young to understand, and I was too naive to know how much it hurt. But this? This is now.” You swallow hard, blinking fast to try and clear your tears. “We’re done. I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want to be your dirty little secret. I don’t want to be the girl you’re ashamed to be seen with. I don’t want you in my life. Ever.” 

“No,” he whispers, desperate, almost pleading. “Please… don’t say that.” 

You hold his gaze for a moment, letting it hurt, letting him feel the weight of what he’s done. Then you drop your eyes and shoulder past him. 

“Bye Jake.” 

- Present - 

For some reason, living close to the beach makes you want to be the kind of girl who owns matching workout sets and jogs at sunrise on a Sunday morning. But after digging through your suitcase—still not unpacked—at ten a.m., which is obviously well past sunrise, and finding nothing but a pair of black leggings and a threadbare Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, you have to admit you’re not that kind of girl. 

Still, you force yourself to get dressed, lace up your shoes, and leave the apartment. You’ve been unpacking boxes for over twenty-four hours now, after giving up on sleep Friday night and needing the distraction all day yesterday. Your hands are covered in little cuts from the carboard edges, the floor is littered with packing paper, and your back is aching from hauling overstuffed boxes. 

You need air. Sunlight. Maybe even human interaction. 

And you need to text Jake. 

You need to apologise, because freaking out on him Friday night was totally uncalled for. Sure, you hadn’t seen him in person for more than ten years, but that doesn’t give you the right to let every feeling you’ve ever had boil over all at once. He was right—it’s been over a decade. You should be over it. You are. You just… felt a lot of feelings when you saw him again for the first time. 

And you want to explain that to him. Tell him that you really don’t hate him, you really are over it. That maybe, you even want to be friends again. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still have feelings for him. Feelings like that don’t just disappear, no matter how badly someone has hurt you. And it isn’t even that night, or the morning after, that lingers the most—like you told him last night—it's everything else. Every year leading up to it. As a kid, you had no idea how much it hurt until you grew up and looked back. Until you realised that the way he treated you is the reason you’ve never felt worth anything. 

That kind of mould doesn’t break easily. 

Even now, you’re still unsure of yourself. Nervous. Self-conscious. Always worrying about what others think. 

But you can’t blame Jake. You can’t hold it against him. He was just a kid too, and he didn’t know any better. His dad was barely around—too busy being an admiral to bother actually fathering his son. And his mom? She was kind but soft. Oblivious to the way her husband cared only about Jake becoming a military man, never about teaching him right from wrong. Jake had to figure that out on his own. 

And you know he was always desperate for his father’s approval. He couldn’t be weak, he couldn’t be truant, he couldn’t fall short. He had to be perfect. With perfect grades and perfect friends. You just didn’t fit in that perfect picture. 

In a twisted kind of way, Jake was almost protecting you. He knew his father didn’t like you—you knew it too. To him, you were a rambunctious child, given too much free will and not enough military discipline. He never said it to your parents—wouldn't dare—but you’d overheard him say it to his wife once or twice. Jake’s mom still loved you, though. 

It’s complicated. Almost too complicated. And that’s why you can’t blame Jake for everything. Yes, he hurt you, and you’ve always needed him to take responsibility for that. But you’ll never blame him. Not completely. 

You can’t. 

You still love him. 

“Watch it,” someone snaps, yanking you out of your thoughts. 

You stumble to the side of the path. “Sorry,” you mutter, breathless. 

A woman jogs past with a small curly white dog that looks like it would rather be anywhere else but tethered to her leash. Her face is twisted into a scowl, eyes flicking over your well-worn sweater like it personally offends her. 

Maybe she’s not a Cowboys fan. 

You shake your head, take a deep breath, and turn to continue your walk. Not jog—because jogging is hard. You could barely breathe after running to the end of your block. 

You’re just about to pull your phone out and start drafting a text to Jake when— 

“Hey.” 

You glance up, and your heart lurches. “Jake?” 

There he is. In all his sweaty glory. Jake Seresin, looking like absolute sin in a pair of gym shorts that would make a nun blush and a tight-fitting t-shirt that makes your fingertips itch to touch it. 

Yeah. Even after all these years, Jake still has the same effect on you. Breathless, frustrated, and a little horny. 

“What—uh, what are you up to this morning?” he asks with a tentative smile. 

“Just thought I’d come out for a jog on the beach,” you say—and immediately regret it. 

Jake knows you. He’s not stupid. You’ve never gone for a jog in your life, and in the decade you spent apart, that hasn’t changed one bit. 

He smirks. “A jog?” 

You tilt your head. “Okay. More of a walk.” 

He nods, eyes dropping to your sweater. “Is... is that mine?” 

You glance down, face burning. “Uh, maybe.” 

There’s a pause. Not awkward, but charged. He keeps staring at the sweatshirt like it’s trying to tell him something, whispering a secret he’s been desperate to hear. A confession. It’s almost unnerving. And the old woman walking past definitely thinks he’s just staring at your tits. 

“Listen, Jake,” you say finally, shifting awkwardly to the side of the path. “I want to say sorry.” 

He blinks, lips twitching. “Sorry for what?” he asks, echoing the words you said to him two nights ago. 

You give him a flat look. “I’m serious. I need to apologise. I shouldn’t have freaked out on you like that.” You pause, clearing your throat. “I know it might not seem like it, but I really am over it. It was just... a lot, seeing you again for the first time.” 

His expression softens, his eyes tracing your face like he’s afraid to miss a single detail. “You don’t need to apologise.” His voice is low, steady. “And you don’t need to be over it. What I did was... horrible. Unforgivable. Not just that morning, but our whole lives.” 

“You were just a kid, Jake.” 

“A kid that should have known better,” he says, brows pinching. “And... a man that should have learnt how to apologise properly and take accountability.” 

You shrug, lips tugging into a small sheepish smile. “I didn’t really give you a chance.” 

“I should have tried harder,” he insists. “I should have slept on your doorstep telling you how sorry I was, how much I needed you. But...” he takes a deep breath, jaw tight, “I’m trying now. And I swear, I’m going to do everything I can to fix this. To make you know how much I care. How much I missed you.” 

His eyes are wide, pleading, overflowing with that emotion you know but still can’t name. The noise of the beach—the gulls, the waves, the chatter—falls away. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart and the echo of his words ringing through your head. 

“Okay,” you mutter, blinking up at him. “So, what now?” 

“Friends,” he says, smiling now. “And promise me you won’t disappear again.” 

“Disappear?” you echo. “Jake, you always knew where I was.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, for starters, you texted me at least once a month.” 

“But you didn’t always reply.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, but you saw me on those stupid family video calls our parents make us do.” 

“That’s true,” he admits, “but you never spoke.” 

“Alright.” You cross your arms, lips tugging into a small smirk. “I also know you used to call my mom every few months to make sure I was alive. Ask if I was engaged or dating anyone or—God forbid—married.” 

Jake’s eyes go wide. “She told you?” 

“Of course she told me, she’s my mom.” 

He pouts—actually pouts. “She said it was our little secret.” 

You snort. “Yeah, no. Nothing is a secret when it comes to you, Seresin. If Mom had her way, I’d have been walking down the aisle to you the minute I turned eighteen. Pretty sure she’s still holding out hope.” 

Jake’s eyes narrow. “Hope for what?” 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Us, idiot. You and me, together. God, if we ever told either of our moms that we slept together, they’d have the glory box out and the wedding planner booked in seconds.” 

Jake hesitates, then frowns. “You didn’t—you didn’t tell your mom?” 

“Tell her what?” 

“That we... you know—” He winces. “I just thought that was the kind of thing moms and daughters talked about.” 

“About losing my virginity?!” you hiss, horrified. 

A few passersby glance your way—some curious, some disgusted. One teenage boy—seventeen, maybe—bursts out laughing until his mother swats him on the arm. 

Jake chuckles. “I know it was good, but I’d rather not broadcast it to all of North Island, if that’s okay with you.” 

You freeze—cheeks burning, heart pounding. Good? He thought it was good? For you, of course it was, but for him? You’d expected... mediocre at best. You never imagined he’d still think it was good ten years later. Surely he’s had better sex since then. Surely you don’t even measure up to what he’s experienced since then. 

“Good? It... it was good?” 

His smile falters. “I mean—yeah. It was... really good. Was it not good for you?” 

Your pulse thrums in your throat—and lower. Heat crawls across your skin. How are you having this conversation in the middle of Coronado a decade later? And why is it making your entire body blush? 

“Yeah—of course it was good for me,” you mutter, eyes dropping all the way down to your shoes. “I just didn’t think it would’ve been... for you.” 

He scoffs. “Are you kidding? I still think about that night.” 

The words hit like a spark in dry grass. Your head jerks up, your breath catching, and suddenly all you can hear is your heartbeat. He’s staring at you like he can’t believe what he just admitted, like he’s waiting—pleading—for you to answer. 

But you can’t. How could you? 

It feels like the entire world has narrowed down to the space between your bodies, your chests rising and falling in the same jagged rhythm. Every thought, every impulse, every memory of that night is screaming behind your eyes, but all you can do is hold his gaze. 

He leans in—just a fraction—but it’s enough, and it’s too much. Too close. Too raw. Your stomach twists, your pulse races, and the seconds stretch out into something heavy and electric, until the air between you feels like it could ignite. 

You blink and force an awkward laugh. “Okay, I—uh... we probably shouldn’t talk about this.” 

He laughs too, strained and uncomfortable. “You’re right. We shouldn’t.” 

You hesitate for a moment, then hike your thumb over your shoulder. “Well, I should get back to unpacking.” 

“Of course,” he says, a little too quickly. “I told my friends I’d meet them for coffee so...” 

You step back, as if a few feet of space might stop you from wanting him so badly. “Right, well—um, see you around, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “See you... around.” 

He starts to move past you with a tight smile—but stops. Mid-step, mid-thought. Then he turns to you with an unreadable expression tugging at his features. Something between a frown and a grimace, like he’s physically holding himself back. 

“Come to the bar tonight,” he blurts. 

You lift a brow. “The Hard Deck?” 

“Yeah. It’s trivia night. First Sunday of the month. My squad and I always go. They’re all really competitive, but... it’s fun.” 

“Your whole squad?” 

He nods. “I promise they don’t bite.” 

Your lips twitch. “Not even the tall one with the moustache?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his jaw tightening. “Don’t even joke.” 

“About what?” you ask, all faux innocence. 

“Flirting with—or, I don’t know, hitting on my friends.” 

His shoulders go rigid, his whole body tense. He looks genuinely annoyed. Whether it’s because he doesn’t want to share his friends—or doesn’t want to share you—you’re not sure. All you know is that you hope it’s the latter. 

You decide to push it. “What if they flirt with me?” 

“They won’t,” he snaps—not harsh, just quick. 

You huff a laugh. “Okay, ouch.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs. “I mean, they probably will flirt with you, but—” He stops himself, brow furrowing, throat working on a swallow. “They’ll like you. Trust me.” 

He looks frustrated, conflicted. Like there’s something he wants to say—something burning to be said—but it’s stuck somewhere in his chest, and he just can’t get it out. 

“Like me?” you echo. 

He nods. “Will you come—please?” 

You hesitate, blinking up at him with a small frown. “Huh. I think this is the first time you’ve asked me to hang out with your friends.” 

“Shit,” Jake mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I… guess it is.” 

He looks bashful, boyish. Like the kid who used to stay up with you until midnight the night before your birthday, waiting to hand you the most thoughtful present you’d get that year. 

“I’ll come,” you decide. 

His face lights up. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Okay, good. It starts at seven. Do you need a lift?” 

You snort. “I’m not getting back in that truck. Ever.” 

Jake slaps a hand to his chest in mock-hurt. “Don’t hate the truck.” 

You roll your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll meet you there. Now aren’t you late for coffee with your friends or something?” 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, his voice lower, almost disappointed—as if he doesn’t really want to leave. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

You nod. “See you tonight, cowboy.” 

He gives you one last, tight-lipped smile, full of something he isn’t saying, then nods and continues down the path. After a few steps, he breaks into a jog. He risks a glance over his shoulder and almost trips—which makes you giggle. And when he turns his head back around, you shamelessly watch his ass in those criminal little shorts until he’s too far away to see. 

- 

You spend the rest of the day unpacking. And ignoring the growing weight in your chest at the thought of meeting Jake’s squad. 

Because what if they don’t like you? 

Just because you’re older now doesn’t mean you’ve miraculously gained confidence. Sure, you’re a little more self-assured, but most of the time you’re just faking it. Deep down, you still feel like that awkward, unconventional little girl who was never pretty enough to stand in the middle of the class picture. Or make it into the yearbook. Or get asked to prom. 

Well, technically, Jake did ask you to prom. He’d already graduated, but he offered to take you to yours. You were flattered—of course you were—and you wanted to say yes, but you knew it was just out of pity. You knew he didn’t really want to take you. That he wouldn’t know how to explain to his friends why he was taking his weird little family friend to prom. 

So you told him it was fine. That you had a date already. 

You lied. 

Jake only found out that you’d gone alone years later, when you told him in college—the night everything changed. The night you lost your virginity. 

You were at a frat party, overwhelmed and uncomfortable, when Jake texted you to meet him in the quad by his dorm. So you went. Talked. Laughed. Reminisced. Slipped back into the easy rhythm of sharing secrets the way you used to when you were kids. When you’d build blanket forts and whisper to each other past bedtime. 

You don’t remember exactly how it came up, but somehow you ended up talking about prom. Jake was telling you some ridiculous story about one of his friends—the last in the group to lose his virginity—who was determined to make prom night his big moment. And that’s when you decided to tell him two of your own secrets. 

The first was that you’d gone to prom alone, and you apologised for lying to him about it. He was a little upset that you'd had to spend prom night all by yourself, but he didn’t hold the lie against you. 

And the second? You admitted that you were still a virgin. And while it wasn’t all that unusual for a college freshman not to have lost their virginity yet, you were still aching to know what it would feel like. 

The air shifted then—suddenly charged, crackling like static before a storm. You could feel the way his body moved even though he wasn’t touching you. Your pulse was too fast, your skin too warm, every nerve on high alert. 

The memory of that night is a blur now, more feeling than detail. What you do remember is Jake kissing you. Touching you. Taking you up to his dorm and making you see stars. 

Then... the morning after. And heartbreak. 

Even though it hurts to think about it, you still do. Often. Because even though you’ve slept with other people since then—good, attractive people—Jake is the best you’ve ever had. And you worry that he always will be. There was something deeper about that connection, something woven into your souls. Like he knew your body better than you did. Like you just fit together. Every touch was electric, every breath magnified. He was gentle but commanding, coaxing and generous. God, you think about that night way more than you should. 

And sometimes you wish you hadn’t done it—because maybe then you wouldn’t still be tethered to him, even now. Maybe you’d have a chance at moving on. But the truth is, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Because no matter what came after, despite all the fallout and all the ache… it’s still the best night of your life. 

The sharp ping of your phone bounces off the tiled bathroom walls. Your thoughts scatter, memories dissolving, and you inhale too fast, too shallow. It’s almost time to leave, but you’ve been frozen in the mirror for at least five minutes now, still debating whether to put lip gloss on. 

Your phone pings again, and you glance down. 

JAKE: Let me know when you’re here. 

JAKE: We’re at a table just inside the main doors, to the left. 

You draw another deep breath, longer this time, and tuck your phone into the pocket of your jeans. You smooth your palms down your thighs, give your reflection one last searching look, then grab your jacket, slip on your shoes, and force yourself out the door. 

The Uber ride to the bar is too quick. There’s hardly enough time to quiet your nerves or breathe through the knot in your chest. And before you’re ready, you’re walking up the sandy steps to The Hard Deck’s front doors. 

You hesitate before pushing them open, hand hovering, and tell yourself to keep it together. It’s just Jake. Just Jake’s friends. Just a bunch of incredibly skilled, ridiculously smart, and unfairly attractive fighter pilots. Not intimidating at all. Right? 

“Hey!” Jake calls the second you step through the door, like he’d been waiting all day just to see you. 

His friends, all crowded around the table, snicker and exchange knowing glances. 

“Hey,” you greet, reaching them in only a few strides. 

Jake pushes to his feet. “Guys, this is—” 

“We know,” the moustached one cuts in with a grin. “You’ve been talking about her nonstop for the past fifteen minutes.” 

Jake shoots him a flat look. “Thanks, Rooster.” 

You laugh softly, eyes darting around the group of—quite honestly—obnoxiously attractive people. 

“That’s Bradley,” Jake tells you, “or Rooster. Then there’s Mickey—Fanboy—Reuben, or Payback, Javy, also known as Coyote, Natasha, who’s also Phoenix, and Bob.” 

You blink. “Bob?” 

Bob smiles softly. “Just Bob.” 

You turn back to Jake. “What’s your nickname again? I can’t remember.” 

“Bagman,” Natasha answers before he can, smirking. 

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. 

“It’s Hangman,” Jake says, narrowing his eyes at her. 

You grimace. “Yeah, that’s not much better.” Then you pull out the empty chair beside Bradley. “But it’s fitting, at least.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and muffled laughter from the table as Jake’s jaw tightens, his cheeks flushing the faintest shade of pink. You bite back a smile and settle into your seat, trying not to look at him as he drops into the chair on your other side. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Natasha says, leaning forward. “You’ve known Bagman for… how long?” 

 “Met him before I was even an hour old,” you reply. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Bradley mutters into his beer. 

Natasha’s eyes widen. “I have so many questions.” 

You risk a glance at Jake—and heat rushes to your cheeks when you catch his eyes already on you. “And I have answers.”  

“No you don’t,” he says firmly, pinning you with his gaze. 

“Yes, she does,” Bradley cuts in, draping his arm across the back of your chair. “And I, for one, can’t wait to hear them.” 

You turn toward Bradley, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his profile. He’s handsome—that’s for sure—and the moustache is criminally hot, even though it shouldn’t be. He could be your type, if you had a type that existed outside of Jake Seresin. And he gives off that flirty, fun, no-strings-attached kind of energy that most people probably mistake for genuine interest. But the only thing you’re genuinely interested in is getting under Jake’s skin, and if the look he’s giving Bradley for draping his arm over the back of your chair is any indication, this is the perfect target to flirt with. 

Not that you’re trying to cause any real drama. You would never. You’re just… testing the boundaries of this new dynamic. Seeing if Jake really means it when he says he wants to be friends again. Making sure his words weren’t empty, and that he genuinely wants to fix things between you. 

And okay—maybe you have a little something to prove. Maybe you want to prove that you are desirable. Flirty. Fun. That you can hold your own with someone as charming and attractive as Bradley. It’s not even about Jake—well, not entirely. It’s about proving it to yourself. About believing it. 

“Our team’s called The Wingmen,” Bradley says, nodding toward the papers in the middle of the table. 

You squint to see the team name written at the top of each sheet. One sheet per round, ten questions—ten answers. And since Natasha is the only one with a pen in front of her, you’re guessing she’s the scribe. 

“The Wingmen?” you echo. 

“Yeah.” He tilts his head toward you. “When we fly, whoever’s second in formation is called the wingman. They cover our six, make sure no one gets in trouble.” 

“Oh.” You nod slowly, lips twitching. “So, nothing to do with helping each other get laid or anything like that.” 

Bradley’s lips curl into a smirk, his mahogany eyes sparkling under the dim bar lights. “No,” he chuckles, “nothing like that. But something tells me you don’t need much help in that department.” 

You arch a brow. “That so?” 

He nods. “In fact, I don’t think you’d have to do much more than flash that pretty smile to get me into—” 

“All right, North Island!” Penny’s voice crackles through the mic. “Welcome to The Hard Deck’s trivia night. We’ve got teams all over the place tonight—and some new faces—but I’m assuming you all know the rules.” 

There’s a soft round of applause, and you swivel in your seat to see her standing in front of the bar.  

“No phones, or your team will be penalised,” she goes on. “Write your answers on the answer sheets, then bring them up at the end of the round. My lovely assistants Amelia and Pete will be marking and tallying scores.” 

Across the table from you, Mickey whistles, and the rest of the squad whoop and clap. 

Bradley leans in again. “That’s Maverick. Our CO. He’s dating Penny—and that’s her daughter.” 

You raise your brows. “Go Penny.” 

Bradley’s eyes widen, a grin tugging at his lips. “Did you just call my godfather hot?” 

“Godfather?” you echo. 

He nods. 

“Guess it runs in the family, then,” you say with a small smirk. 

He chuckles, colour blooming across his cheeks. “Smooth. But we’re not technically related.” 

“It worked, though,” you point out. “You’re blushing.” 

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath again as Penny rattles off all the categories for the night—movies, music, geography, history, science, literature, and pop culture. Then she tells everyone they’ve got five minutes to grab a drink, put their phones away, and get ready for round one. 

When you turn back to the table, you can feel Jake’s stare burning into the side of your face. 

You glance at him, brows raised. “What?” 

His shoulders are tight, jaw set, brow furrowed. “Nothing,” he mutters through his teeth. 

You tilt your head. “Doesn’t look like nothing.” 

His eyes flick past you, just for a second—toward Bradley—and they narrow slightly before snapping back to yours. 

“It’s nothing,” he insists, even though he sounds anything but convincing. 

“Okay,” Natasha cuts in before you can push further. “You all know the rules. Use your inside voices. Don’t yell out the answers—I’m looking at you, Fanboy. If you’re certain you’re right but someone disagrees, swear on Bob’s life. If you think you’re right but not totally sure, swear on Hangman’s life. And if you need to check your phone, take it outside, but don’t bother coming back until the round’s over. I’m not getting penalised because of you idiots.” 

“Wow,” you murmur, leaning just slightly toward Bradley. “She’s competitive.” 

“You have no idea,” he says quietly, his arm brushing yours as he leans closer. 

On your other side, Jake clears his throat—loudly. 

Natasha’s eyes cut toward him. “Something to add, Bagman?” 

He straightens quickly. “No—sorry. Just… something stuck in my throat.” 

She frowns, sceptical, but doesn’t push it—she just launches back into her speech about why everyone needs to focus tonight. Apparently, they broke their winning streak last month, and second place isn’t good enough. According to Natasha, second place is just the first to lose. 

It isn’t long before Penny returns to the mic to kick off the first round, and the buzz of conversation dulls to a low hum. Even the patrons not playing seem invested as she starts reading out questions. 

“Which 2005 sci-fi thriller directed by Steven Spielberg grossed over six hundred million worldwide?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey says, leaning across the table. “War of the Worlds.” 

“You sure?” Natasha asks. 

He nods vigorously. 

“Wasn’t it like… a Star Wars movie or something?” Reuben pipes up. 

Mickey’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “Spielberg didn’t direct a fucking Star Wars movie, you idiot.” 

Reuben just shrugs. “Yeah, but War of The Worlds kinda sucked.” 

“Just because you didn’t like it doesn’t mean it bombed,” Bob mutters. “It’s a sci-fi classic.” 

“I’m with Payback,” Javy chimes in. “I didn’t really like that main guy—what’s his name again?” 

“Oh my God,” Natasha hisses, smacking both hands on the table. “This isn’t a film critique. Fanboy—are you sure that’s the right answer?” 

Mickey nods again, and Natasha scribbles it down on the sheet. 

“Okay,” Penny calls over the chatter, “question number two: which actor played Jack Dawson in the 1997 film Titanic?” 

Beside you, Bradley scoffs. “Way too easy.” 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Familiar with your heartthrob actors, are you?” 

“I had to learn from somewhere,” he shoots back with a smirk. 

Your eyes narrow. “Did you just call yourself a heartthrob?” 

He opens his mouth to retort, eyes sparkling, when— 

“Can you two shut up?” Jake hisses, leaning forward with a glare. 

Your brows pinch, indignation rising in your chest, but before you can fire back Penny is already on the mic with question number three. 

The rest of round one passes in a blur. Mickey and Bob field most of the answers—apparently the group’s film buffs—while you sit and quietly overanalyse every detail of Jake’s body language. Every muttered word. Every sidelong glance. He hasn’t smiled once since you sat down. Not since you slid into the seat beside Bradley and started innocently chatting. 

When round two begins, you quickly realise that Javy and Reuben are the squad’s main music enthusiasts—because they’re already whispering answers to Natasha before Penny even finishes the question. 

“Which song by American singer-songwriter Kenny Loggins was made famous by the 1986 film—” 

“Danger Zone,” Reuben cuts in under his breath, and Javy nods 

Natasha writes it down without hesitation and then slides the answer sheet toward Mickey—who is apparently the volunteer runner for the night. And just like that, round two is over. 

“So,” you say, glancing at Bradley, “what happens if we lose?” 

His eyes go wide as he drops his empty beer bottle on the table. “Don’t say that too loudly, or Phoenix will kick you out just for jinxing us.” 

Heat creeps into your cheeks, and you glance across the table to make sure she didn’t hear. 

“We came second last month—by one point,” Bradley explains, lowering his voice. “She blamed Bob because he swore on his life that orcas are whales. They’re called killer whales, right? But Nix knew it had to be a trick. She still wrote down whale anyway… and turns out, they’re dolphins.” 

Your brows lift. “Dolphins?” 

He nods. “Yep. She didn’t speak to him for a week—and he’s her back-seater. They literally have to fly together every day.” 

You huff a laugh. “That’s actually kind of impressive.” 

“Incredibly impressive,” Bradley agrees with a smirk. 

You open your mouth to press him further about Natasha’s competitive streak when the loud scrape of chair legs on hardwood cuts you off. You whip around to face Jake, who’s now standing with his chair shoved roughly back. 

“Anyone want a drink?” he asks, his voice clipped. 

Bradley, Javy, and Mickey all take him up on the offer, and just as he’s about to walk away, you reach out and grab his hand. 

He freezes mid-step, turning back slowly. 

“Could you get me one too, please?” you ask. 

His gaze drops to your hand curled around his, and his expression softens. “Yeah,” he mutters, “of course.” 

He clears his throat, but doesn’t let go right away. He lets his hand linger in yours for as long as both your arms will allow, and when he finally lets go, your skin burns with the memory of his warmth. 

“Wow,” Javy chuckles. 

You turn back to face the table. “What?” 

The whole table looks like they’re holding back a smile or a laugh, each one of them eyeing you carefully—like they’ve been warned to keep their mouths shut. 

“Nothing,” Natasha says before anyone else can crack. “It’s just—he’s different with you.” 

Your cheeks burn. “Oh.” 

“Not in a bad way,” she adds quickly. “Just... softer.” 

You open your mouth to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean when Penny’s suddenly back on the mic, announcing the start of round three. Jake returns a minute later with a tray full of drinks and sets it in the middle of the table, completely oblivious to the way you can’t take your eyes off the strain of his t-shirt sleeves around his biceps.  

“Alright, geography time,” Penny says into the mic. “First question: what is the highest mountain peak in North America?” 

“Denali,” Mickey replies almost too quickly. 

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I don’t trust you. How do you know that?” 

His cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink. “I just do.” 

Reuben leans forward. “You sure, man? Geography isn’t your strongest—” 

“Yes,” Mickey snaps. “I’m sure. Swear on Bob’s life.” 

Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Bob’s life—you sure about that?” 

“You better be sure,” Bob mutters. “I’m not dying just because—” 

“It’s in Twilight, okay?” Mickey hisses through his teeth. “There’s a vampire coven in Denali, Alaska—also known as Mount McKinley. Highest point in North America.” 

Bob’s eyes widen. “You’re gambling my life on Twilight knowledge?” 

Reuben snorts. “You’ve watched Twilight?” 

“I read them, actually,” Mickey mutters, sinking lower in his chair. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha sighs. “Does anyone have a credible answer for this?” 

The table falls quiet, the mic crackling softly as Penny lifts it to her chin again. 

“Fuck it,” Natasha mutters. “You better be right, Garcia.” 

She scribbles it down and shoots Mickey a pointed look—one that says if this loses us the game, you’re dead. 

“Okay, question number two,” Penny announces. “What is the capital of Australia?” 

“Sydney,” Javy says immediately. 

You lean forward. “Actually, it’s Canberra.” 

Natasha frowns, pen hovering. “You sure?” 

You nod. “It’s one of the most commonly mistaken trivia questions. I got it wrong once, and now I’ll never forget it.”  

“Nice,” she says, flashing you a smile before writing it down. 

You lean back, taking a long sip of your drink to hide your smile—because of course you’re a little smug about finally getting to answer a question. 

“Not bad,” Bradley murmurs, leaning in just a little. “Didn’t have you pegged as a geography nerd.” 

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m not. But at least I’m contributing. You haven’t answered a single one yet.” 

He shrugs. “Trivia’s not my strong suit.” 

“Then what is?” 

His grin spreads slow, all confidence and ridiculous sex appeal. “Charisma. Good looks.” 

“Ohhh.” You nod with mock seriousness. “So you’re the hot but incredibly unhelpful friend?” 

His brows lift. “You think I’m hot?” 

You meet his gaze, unflinching, voice dropping lower. “You know you’re hot.” 

“But you just admitted it.” 

“Must be all that charisma of yours working.” 

For a beat, you just stare at each other. Both smirking, both daring. It isn’t charged the way things with Jake are—not even close. Those moments are heavy, weighted with everything unsaid. This is lighter. Just fun. Just banter between friends—or potential friends. And Bradley is charismatic, it’s hard not to flirt a little. 

Then— 

The harsh scrape of chair legs on hardwood—again. 

You whip around, startled, but this time Jake’s already gone. And when you spin toward the door, you only just catch the back of him as he stalks out into the night. 

“Uh oh,” Javy mutters. 

Bradley winces. “Shit.” 

“I’ll—um—” you push your chair back gently, “I’ll go make sure he’s—yeah.” 

You slip away as quietly as you can, ducking your head to avoid everyone’s eyes as you follow the same path as Jake out the doors. 

The night air hits cooler than you expect. The sun’s almost gone now, and the sky is a swirl of deep blue and fading orange that’s getting darker by the second, making the poorly lit car park feel a lot sketchier than it had an hour ago. 

Jake is only a few feet ahead, his head bowed and hands shoved as deep into his pockets as they’ll go.  

“Hey,” you call, lengthening your stride to catch up with him. “Jake.” 

He slips between two cars, and you can hear the jingle of keys. 

“Jake,” you try again, louder this time. 

He ignores you. 

“Jake!” you all but shout, trailing him until he finally stops—until he has no choice but to acknowledge you. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

He spins around, jaw set, brow furrowed. “What the fuck am I doing? What are you doing?” 

You rear back, stunned. “I—I’m… playing trivia and talking to your friends.” 

He scoffs. “You’re not talking. You’re flirting.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Seriously?” 

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. He just pins you in place with those green eyes—so clouded with emotion they almost look black in the dim light.  

“Okay, firstly,” you say, folding your arms, “that was barely flirting. And secondly, who are you to tell me who I can and can’t flirt with?” 

He blinks, almost like he’s buffering. “I’m not—I just… they’re my friends.” 

You snort. “Right. They’re your friends, so they can’t be my friends.” 

“What? No—no, that’s not what I’m saying. They can be your friends, they just—” he hesitates, drawing in a sharp breath, “they can’t be your… boyfriends.” 

“Boyfriends?” you echo, incredulous. “I mean, I don’t usually juggle more than one at a time, but…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you stare up at his stupidly perfect face—then you shake your head hard. “Look, if you’re trying to look out for me, or whatever—I’m sorry, you missed out on the whole protective older brother act when you ignored me for most of my teenage years.” 

His expression falters, eyes going wide. “Brother act?” 

“Yes.” You huff. “And I get it—you’ve known me since we were kids, and maybe you think you need to protect me. But we’re adults now, Jake. I can flirt with who I want, date who I want, without needing anyone’s permission or approval.” 

The air hangs thick between you, your chest is rising and falling faster than it should beneath your tightly crossed arms. Jake just stares, brow furrowed, jaw clenched like he’s physically biting back the words he really wants to say. 

“You think I’m being… protective?” he says finally. 

“Well, obviously.” You drop your arms. “If your friends are off-limits, just say that. But for the record, that was barely flirting. It was friendly banter.” 

His brows shoot up, and he takes a half-step back like you’ve knocked the breath out of him. “Banter?” he echoes. “If that’s not flirting, then you are way more dangerous than you realise. You just—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut as he sucks in another sharp breath. “You don’t get it, do you?” 

“Get what?” 

“Come on,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re smart. You can figure it out.” 

“Figure out what?” You throw your hands up in frustration. “Why are you being so weird and cryptic?”  

“Because I’m jealous!” he blurts, his voice sharp, almost desperate. “I’m not being protective, or trying to keep you away from my friends… I—I’m jealous.” He drags a hand down his face. “I’m jealous of every single person you look at that isn’t me. I’m jealous of everyone you’ve been with since me. I’m jealous of all the people who got to know you in the last ten years while I—while I did nothing but miss you. While I wished I had the balls to tell you back then that I—I’m… that I’m in love with you. And no amount of distance or time is ever going to change that.” 

You’re almost sure your heart stops—if it weren’t for the deafening pound of your pulse in your ears. Your chest tightens, breath catching. All you can do is stare at him, his words stretching taut between you, heavy with everything unsaid and far too much that was said. 

“Jake…” you whisper, voice barely audible. “You’re not—” 

“Don’t—” He steps closer, eyes burning. “Don’t tell me how I feel. Because I have always known that I would love you forever—I just didn’t know how much until it was too late.” 

Heat crawls up your neck, nerves prickling every inch of skin. Your limbs feel weightless, numb—you don’t even know how you’re still standing. But you are. 

“Okay.” You nod slowly, pulling in a shaky breath. “I’m not trying to invalidate how you think you feel, but Jake… I’m not stupid. I know I’ve changed—I worked really hard to change, to feel better about myself. But just because I look better now doesn’t mean—” 

“Not better,” he cuts in, quick and firm. “Just… different. But you’re still the same girl I grew up with. The same girl I’ve always loved. And it’s never been about how you look—God, I wish I never let it be about that. Because I—I’ve always thought you were beautiful. Always. I was just too chickenshit to tell you. To tell anyone. Except—” he huffs a broken laugh, running his hand through his hair again, “I think I told my mom one Christmas when I got drunk and started rambling about how much I missed you. And maybe I wrote it in a journal once, because I read somewhere that journalling helps—but, fuck, please don’t tell anyone about that.” His voice cracks. “I just… I don’t know what to do.” 

When his gaze finally finds yours again, his eyes are shining—brimming with sincerity, with emotion threatening to spill over. 

“I’ve only had you back for a few days, but I can’t lose you again,” he murmurs, voice low and breaking. “Not because you hate me. Not to anyone else. I—I feel like I’m going insane. I can’t just be your friend. I can try, but I can’t lie. I can’t pretend I’m not in love with you, that I haven’t been for most of my life.” 

Your breath catches, your chest heaving, and for a long, trembling moment you just stare at him. Everything he’s said, everything you’ve felt but buried, it’s too much. Too heavy. Too dangerous to keep shoving down. It slams into you all at once, leaving you reeling, until standing still feels impossible. 

Your hands move before your brain can catch up—fisting in the collar of his shirt, yanking him down until his mouth crashes against yours. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a collision, sharp and searing, years of silence and longing tearing wide open in the span of a heartbeat. 

He gasps against you, as if this—finally kissing you again—was more than he ever allowed himself to hope for. 

And then he’s devouring you—hands clutching your waist as you surge forward, pressing flush against his chest, arms locking around his neck. He’s solid, warm, unrelenting, his lips claiming yours with a desperation you’ve never known—but that you answer in kind, matching him with every ounce of ferocity you’ve held back for far too long. 

The taste of him is dizzying. Familiar, foreign, forbidden. Like a drug you swore off years ago but were never truly free of—one hit and you know you’ll never stop craving. 

His tongue grazes your bottom lip—hesitant, pleading—before slipping past your lips as you part them for him, and the sound he makes deep in his chest has heat flooding your veins. His grip is bruising, desperate, like if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish. 

You want everything. All of him. Every piece he’s kept hidden. You want to take until there’s nothing left, until he’s burned into you so deep you’ll never know where you end and he begins. It feels ridiculous to admit while making out in the middle of a half-lit car park, but it’s truer than anything you’ve ever known. 

“Need you,” you breathe against his mouth, your lips brushing his with every word. “Jake, I need you.” 

His hands slide higher, spanning your ribs, pulling you tight against him like he could weld you together. “‘M so sorry,” he murmurs raggedly. “You have—you have no idea how sorry—” 

You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, silencing him with a sharp tug that rips a groan from his throat. “Stop apologising,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “It was over a decade ago.” 

He pulls back suddenly, brows pinched, lips swollen and kiss-bruised. “Don’t say that. I was... I was horrible. You deserve so much better than me. I don’t even know why you just kissed—” 

“Because I love you too.” 

He gasps—literally gasps—green eyes wide as they search your face for any trace of insincerity. 

“I mean,” you sigh, eyes dropping to where your fingers are twisted in his shirt, “you have no idea how much I’ve wished I didn’t over the past ten years, but...” you meet his gaze again, “I do.” 

His lips twitch. “You love me?” 

You nod. “You, cowboy.” 

You only catch a glimpse of the breathtaking grin that splits across his face before he’s kissing you again. Hot and urgent, every apology and unspoken word pouring out in the way his mouth moves against yours. 

One arm bands tight around your waist while the other slides up your side—over the swell of your breast, your chest, until his fingers settle at the base of your neck. And the lightest curl of pressure there makes a breathy moan break from your throat. 

He smiles against your lips, tightening his hold until your body is crushed against his, your lungs fighting for air. You can feel every line of him—solid muscle and heat—and the rigid press of his cock straining against your hip. 

You can’t help but roll your hips into him, drawing a groan from his throat. 

“Careful, darlin’,” he murmurs, that country drawl thick and low. “Or we won’t make it home.” 

Your lips drag across his jaw, down the curve of his neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against hot skin. 

“I don’t wanna wait anymore,” you whisper. 

His breath stutters. “What d’you mean?” 

You pull back and meet his eyes. “Get in the truck.” 

He just stares, stunned, eyes wide and unreadable. 

“What?” you ask, frowning. 

He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing, I—” He scans your face again, like he’s half-convinced this is some kind of cruel joke. “I thought you hated the truck.” 

You roll your eyes as you slip your hand into his pocket, fingers moving deliberately slow. He gasps again, startled, and you can’t help but laugh softly as you fish out his keys and turn toward the truck. 

“Why don’t you give me a reason to love the truck, then?” 

He hesitates for a moment, like his brain short-circuited and needs to reboot—but then he snatches the keys from your hand and quickly unlocks the door. 

You’re giggling again when he spins back around, arms wrapping tight as his lips find yours without hesitation. He pulls you close, stumbling backward until the backs of his legs hit the rocker panel. Then, lips never leaving yours, he pivots you both until you've got your back to the truck. 

“Ready?” he murmurs, his hands clamped at your waist. 

You barely have time to nod before he lifts you, setting you inside—and only then do his lips leave yours. You scoot back across the bench until you’re nearly against the passenger door, and Jake reaches down to jerk the seat lever, shoving it as far back as it will go—before climbing in after you. 

You bite your lip, sliding down until your elbows sink into the cracked leather seat. Jake crawls forward, yanking the door shut behind him. His broad frame devouring the space you thought would be enough—but still, it’s perfect. 

The cramped cab forces every inch of him against you. One knee slips between your thighs, the other planted at the edge of the seat as he hovers over you. Instinctively, your body arches to meet his. You wind your arms around his neck and fall back until you’re lying flat, dragging him with you. His hands brace on either side of you, arms taut and trembling with the effort of holding himself up in the tight space. 

His lips meet yours slower this time, gentler, like he's trying to memorise the taste of you. Trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his with every slow brush and lazy flick of his tongue. His weight sinks heavier with each breathless whimper you give, like your voice alone is enough to undo him. 

One hand glides down your side, curling beneath your lower back and pressing you closer, moulding you to him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as he exhales against your lips. 

“God, I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, mouth trailing across your jaw, “every day,” his lips ghost your skin, “for the past decade.” 

You tilt your head as he works lower, his mouth hot and insistent against your throat, heat coiling deep in your belly. 

“Making out in your truck?” you manage, the words faltering when his teeth catch at your collarbone. 

“No.” His voice roughens, vibrating against your skin. “You.” 

His hips grind forward, the solid line of him hard beneath denim, pulling a desperate arch from your body—seeking more friction, more heat, more him. Your hands roam his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the tension ripple in his muscles as he moves against you, each motion frantic and aching. 

His arm slips out from beneath you, hand trailing down the curve of your hip, dragging over your thigh as you rock into him, chasing every scrap of pressure. Breathless, your mouths crash together again—teeth clashing, tongues tangling, daring each other closer. 

“Fuck, you’re… perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, low, heavy. 

You arch harder, hands sliding down his chest until your fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans. “Jake… I wanna—” Your words break on a gasp when his hips grind down again. 

He groans, deep and raw, his grip locking on your waist to pull you flush as he rolls into you, slow and deliberate. Every drag, every shift leaves you unravelling, thoughts dissolving in the haze of touch. 

“Tell me what you want, darlin’.” His accent thickens with heat, each word heavy, edged. 

“Don’t… stop,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw, voice caught between plea and command. 

“I’m not,” he rasps, eyes locked to yours with an intensity that makes your knees tremble. “Never stopping.” 

Your hand drifts lower, cupping the length of him through the denim, and his groan breaks rough, forehead dropping against yours. You tilt your head to catch his mouth, nipping at his lower lip as your fingers tighten around his shape of him through his jeans. 

“Fuck,” he chokes. 

His hips jerk forward, chasing your hand, chasing friction. You drag your palm over him again before fumbling with his belt, yanking it free of the loops. 

“I thought we were just making out,” he mutters, breath harsh, voice thick. 

“And I thought you said you weren’t stopping,” you counter, your lips grazing the line of his jaw. 

His breath falters as you finally work his belt loose, fingers moving quick over the button and zipper before shoving his jeans down his hips. Then your palm finds him again—this time only thin cotton in the way—and his head drops to your shoulder on a ragged exhale. 

“We should be quick,” you whisper. “Before we get caught.” 

He lifts his head, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. “Trust me, baby. ‘M not gonna last long.” 

You grin up at him—dopey, lovesick, and not caring in the slightest. Because you’ve thought about this man every day for the last decade. You’ve missed him, loved him, cursed yourself for it. And now? Now you know you’ll never want anyone the way you want him. 

And you believe him when he says he loves you—how could you not, when he’s looking at you like this? Lips bitten, eyes glassy, devotion and sin bound together in one. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” you ask, your hands already at your own jeans. 

You fumble the button and zip, then lift yourself just enough to shimmy them down. Jake shifts above you, trying to give you space even as he shoves his own pants down to his ankles. Both of you are panting, breath fogging the warm cab, condensation gathering at the windows. 

You kick one foot free, leaving your jeans tangled around the other leg—just enough to move, just enough to hook your thighs around his hips and drag him down to you. His briefs are still on, straining painfully tight over the thick line of his cock. 

Your arms lock around his neck as his lips crash back onto yours. Urgent now, rushed, but still reverent—like he’s trying to worship even in the hunger. His teeth catch your lower lip as his hips grind into yours, the heat of him pressed hard against your bare core. 

You gasp at the friction, dizzy with it. You shouldn’t be this far gone after a handful of desperate kisses, but you are—soaked and aching, sprawled in the cab of Jake’s old truck, seconds away from begging him to fuck you. 

“Do you need—” His words cut off the moment his hand slips between your thighs, fingers dragging through your slick. 

You gasp at his touch, back arching, eyes fluttering shut. “No,” you pant. “Just—just need you.” 

He groans into your mouth, the kiss hot and desperate—searing, then gone too soon. You chase his lips as he pulls back, earning a low, rough chuckle that vibrates in his chest. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him shove his briefs down and wrap his hand around himself—thick, aching, already slick at the tip. 

You’ve seen him before—of course—but it still knocks the breath from you. Still makes your mouth water. Still makes your body clench and flutter, helpless in its need for him. 

You whine—actually whine. “Jake—” 

“I know, baby,” he coos, eyes flicking up to catch yours. 

His face is flushed, lips red and swollen, pupils blown so wide the green is barely there. You drink him in, your gaze darting over every detail, before dropping lower—down to where his hand is wrapped around himself, poised just above you. He strokes once, slow. Twice, sharper. Then his hips dip, lining himself up. 

“You ready?” he murmurs. 

You tighten your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him in. His breath stutters as he presses forward, the swollen tip sliding against your slick heat. 

“So fucking wet,” he groans, eyes falling shut. 

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the closeness—the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, the dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him, here, now, inside. 

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really. Eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders, clenching around him like you’re trying to hold him there forever. He buries his face in your neck, breath hot against your damp skin. 

Then he shifts above you, hips rocking back, his cock dragging against your walls, making your stomach coil and electricity spark across your skin. You draw a sharp, shaky breath—and before you can brace yourself, he snaps forward, thrusting deep. 

“Fuck—” you cry out. “Jake.” 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “Don’t want anyone to hear us, darlin’.” 

“What if I don’t wanna be quiet?” you whisper. 

His hips roll back with a controlled slowness, his head lifting to meet your gaze. “Then ‘m gonna have to make you be quiet.” 

Anticipation coils tight in your chest, a dangerous current coursing through your veins, lighting every nerve ending on fire. 

Then his hips slam forward again—and again—rougher now, losing restraint. Your whole body jolts with each thrust, and you moan—loud, too loud. The sound bounces around the small cab, a filthy echo that anyone passing by could hear. 

“Darlin’,” he growls, warning thick in his tone. 

You can’t help but grin, dizzy and cock-drunk, bouncing beneath him as his hips piston into you, finding that perfect spot every damn time. 

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, slick and messy, perfect. His pelvis smacks yours in a brutal, intoxicating rhythm. Your arousal coats him, dripping down your thighs and onto the leather seat—but still, it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Jake,” you pant, “touch me.” 

A guttural sound rips from his chest. His arms shake as he shifts his weight, one hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. The pressure is immediate, devastating, and your vision whites out as a sound bordering on a scream tears free. 

“Baby,” he chokes, thrusts faltering as you clamp down around him, “you gotta keep it down.” 

His words are useless. You moan again, clawing at his back, dragging his shirt up so you can feel his skin, the roll of muscle as he drives into you. The friction is perfect, the heat unbearable—building fast, sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries. He grunts against your shoulder, biting back his own noises, panting as his hips slam into you at a punishing pace. Your head bumps the passenger door with each thrust—just barely—but you’ll worry about the concussion tomorrow. 

The weight of his body on yours is perfect—too much, and not nearly enough. You wish there were no clothes between you, that you could strip him slowly, taking your time to worship every inch of his skin—but there’ll be time for that later. 

Right now, you just need to come before trivia ends. 

“Jake—fuck—” you choke as his fingers press down on your clit. 

Your hips buck up to meet his, chasing the friction, the pressure, the rhythm he’s setting. His touch doesn’t falter—circling, pressing, coaxing that little bundle of nerves with almost cruel precision. Every movement sends jolts of pleasure ricocheting up your spine. The knot in your belly pulls tight, your arousal making a mess between your bodies, your orgasm rushing in hot and fast.  

“Jake, ‘m gonna—” 

“I know, baby,” he mutters against your neck, voice rough and wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?” 

That’s all it takes. Your body locks up, back arching, legs trembling, hips grinding desperately to meet his thrusts. He slams into that spot over and over again, relentless, while his fingers work your clit—slick, practiced, merciless. You cry out, the sound strangled and raw. 

Your orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. Your walls flutter and clench around his cock, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from him as his thrusts falter. He spills inside you, shuddering, his whole body seizing above yours. 

The two of you pant through it, chests heaving, grinding lazily to ride out every last wave. Clinging, shaking, sweat-slicked and breathless and undone. 

Eventually, he collapses fully, face buried against your shoulder. The weight of him presses down heavy, making it hard to breathe—but you don’t mind, not when you can feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest, steady and real.  

“Sorry,” he mutters, shifting slightly. “You okay?” 

You blink up at the windshield—completely fogged, opaque. You couldn’t see out even if you wanted to. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m okay. You?” 

He sits up, bowing his head—thanks to the low roof—as he tucks himself back into his briefs.  

“I’m more than okay,” he says with that signature little smirk. 

Heat floods your cheeks, your face burning impossibly hot in the sauna you’ve both created in the cab.  

“Good,” you say, smiling like a lovesick idiot as you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Jake somehow wrestles his jeans back up his legs and then moves to help with yours. He catches your ankle and guides your foot through the loose pant leg before shimmying them higher, both of you dissolving into giggles as you writhe on the bench until you can finally button them at your waist.  

“You look a little...” His eyes gleam wickedly. “Freshly fucked.” 

You snort. “Funny that.” 

You shift until you’re side by side, neither of you ready to leave the hot box of sex and condensation you’ve created.  

“Do you want to go back in or just go home?” he asks. “I can just tell them we fought and I drove you home, or something.” 

You frown. “Why would you tell them we fought?” 

“Because we did,” he says, brows knitting. “And they probably wouldn’t be too happy if I said we fought, made up, and then went home to fuck.” 

Your lips twitch. “Leaving a few details out of the ‘made up’ part of that story.” 

He chuckles, leaning in until his nose bumps yours. “You want to tell my squad we fucked while they potentially tanked trivia?” 

“Phoenix would be so mad,” you giggle—even though the thought of her wrath makes your stomach flip. 

“Exactly.” He kisses you quick, then again, lingering this time. “So either we go back in there, risk them realising what just happened—and also face Phoenix’s fury when she finds out we ditched the team. Or...” He kisses you again, slower, hungrier. “We go home and do what we just did a few more times—at least until you can’t walk.” 

Your cheeks blaze, but you bite down on the grin threatening to break loose. “Who says I’m going home with you?” 

He shrugs, smug. “Or we can go to yours.”  

“So, you think a love confession and the best orgasm I’ve had in ten years is enough of an apology?” you tease, brow arched. 

His eyes go wide. “Best orgasm since—” 

“Don’t get cocky.” 

He smirks anyway. “Darlin’, if that was the best orgasm you’ve had in ten years, I’m about to blow your mind. And for the record—” He kisses the tip of your nose before settling back in the driver’s seat. “—I plan on apologising a lot more than that. Repeatedly. With my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Baby, when I’m done apologising, you’re not even gonna remember your own na—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

You both freeze, heads whipping toward the driver’s side window. Silence hangs for a heartbeat—then a faint giggle breaks it from outside.  

“Hangman,” Bradley calls, voice dripping with laughter. “You in there?”  

“No,” Jake blurts instantly. 

You swat his bicep, eyes wide. “What the fuck?” 

He shrugs helplessly, panic and amusement twisting across his face.  

“We can’t exactly drive away,” he hisses, jerking his chin toward the fogged-up windows.  

“Open up, Bagman!” Natasha shouts, punctuating it with a sharp bang on the door. 

Your fingers clamp around Jake’s forearm, nails digging in as mortification floods your chest. God, if the seat could just open up and swallow you whole, you’d gladly go. Because of course you’d get caught fucking—or freshly finished fucking—in Jake’s truck by his squad on the very first night you met them. 

Slowly, Jake leans toward the driver’s side window, dragging his palm through the condensation. A clear streak forms—just enough to reveal them. All six of them. Standing there, staring in with varying degrees of amusement—Bradley barely holding it together, Javy giggling behind his hand, Mickey grinning, Bob’s ears turning red, Reuben trying not to smirk. And Natasha. Arms folded, glaring like she’s two seconds away from murder.  

“Do either of you know which colour pill Neo takes in The Matrix to discover the real world?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the door, sharp and unshakeable. 

Jake glances at you, brows raised in question. 

“Um... red,” you whisper, praying she can’t read lips.  

“She knew!” Mickey shouts triumphantly. 

Natasha’s arms drop, her jaw slack. “We lost by one point!” 

“Okay, time to go,” Jake mutters, snapping the lock down with a decisive click. 

Then he yanks his shirt over his head and starts wiping down the windshield. You whip around, lock your own door, and scramble to clear the window. Natasha rattles the driver’s side handle with a sharp yank, then storms around the front of the truck and starts pounding on your side instead. 

“Bagman!” she growls, rattling the handle. “I’m not mad at you, I swear,” she says, softer now, eyes cutting to you. “But I’m gonna fucking kill Bagman.” 

You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of you as she continues to yank at the door, rocking the truck with her effort. The rest of the squad are doubled over, wheezing and cackling, tears streaming down their faces while Natasha keeps trying to break in. 

You do your best not to ogle Jake—shirtless, muscles flexing, biceps straining as he clears the fog from the glass.. Instead, you lean over and twist the key, letting the engine roar to life. The whole cab shudders with the obnoxious growl, but this time, you don’t mind. For some reason, you kind of like his stupid old truck now. 

“Don’t you dare drive away,” Natasha warns. “I swear to God, Seresin. I will find you and I will make you pay.”  

“Bye, Phoenix!” Jake calls sweetly, tugging his shirt back on and flashing the rest of the squad a shit-eating grin. “See y’all at work tomorrow!” 

Then he turns to you, the bravado melting off his face. His eyes catch yours, warm and unguarded, and before you can breathe, he leans in to kiss you—soft at first, then with a playful nip to your bottom lip that makes your stomach flip.  

“God, I love you,” he sighs as he shifts the truck into gear. 

Your heart swells, aching with the weight of it, because God—you love him too. You always have. Always will. And there isn’t a shred of hesitation this time. Jake loves you, wholly and fiercely. You know he’ll never hurt you again—not on purpose. There’s still stuff to work through, sure. But you’ll face it together. Heal together. Be together. 

Because that’s all that’s ever really mattered—that despite everything, you found each other again. Waited for each other. Needed each other more than anything.  

“This is definitely going to come up in a wedding speech,” Jake mutters, almost to himself. 

“Wedding?” you echo, breath catching. 

“Oh yeah.” He glances at you, that ridiculous smirk stretching across his face. “I’m marrying you. And unfortunately, those idiots are probably going to be the entire bridal party.” 

Your stomach twists, not with dread, but with anticipation—warm and electric. Because yeah, you’re going to marry him. The certainty of it surges through you, fierce and undeniable, stealing the breath from your lungs. 

You can’t fucking wait to marry Jake Seresin. 

Jake “Hangman” Seresin had a reputation for being bold and larger than life. To most, nothing more than a cocky, overconfident pilot, the kind of guy who never seemed to take life too seriously. But when the Daggers met you, they began to see a side of Jake they’d never expected—a side that made them realize there was far more to him than they ever realized.

And it happened in little moments, each one chipping away at the image of Hangman and revealing Jake.

***

Phoenix

Natasha had always been sharp. She could read people easily, and Jake was no exception. She’d noticed the changes in him before anyone else: how he wasn’t as quick to boast, how he lingered on his phone more often, smiling at something no one else could see.

Still, it wasn’t until that night at the Hard Deck that she put the pieces together.

Jake walked in with you by his side, and Natasha immediately noticed the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the casual charm he used on everyone else—it was softer, almost reverent.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Jake said, his voice filled with a kind of pride that made Natasha blink in surprise.

You smiled and waved, introducing yourself as Jake’s girlfriend, though you didn’t need to. Natasha had already figured it out.

She watched as Jake stayed close to you all night, not in his usual attention-seeking way, but quietly, as if he couldn’t bear to let you out of his sight. When you laughed, he leaned in just a little closer. When you spoke, he listened like your words were the most important thing in the world.

Later, as Jake brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek and a soft smile, Natasha smirked and leaned over to Bob. “He’s gone.”

Bob

Bob Floyd noticed it in the details, in the quiet moments that others might overlook.

When Jake and you invited the squad over for dinner, Bob didn’t know what to expect. He’d never pictured Jake as the hosting type, but as he stepped into your cozy home, he could tell this was different.

“Make yourself at home,” you said warmly, handing Bob a glass of sweet tea.

Jake was in the kitchen, wearing an apron—an apron, of all things—as he stirred something on the stove. Bob couldn’t hide his surprise.

“You’re domesticated, Seresin,” Rooster teased, leaning against the counter.

Jake smirked without looking up. “Happy wife, happy life,” he said easily, earning a laugh from you.

“Not your wife yet,” you teased.

“Yet,” Jake said, glancing at you with a grin and tossing you a wink that made Bob’s chest ache with secondhand fondness.

Bob noticed the way you moved around each other, wordlessly passing utensils and dishes, finishing each other’s sentences. There was a quiet rhythm to it, a kind of unspoken understanding that came from deep love and trust.

When dessert came out, Jake set the plate in front of you first, brushing a kiss to your temple. Bob caught the way you smiled, the way Jake’s hand lingered on yours for just a moment longer than necessary.

Bob glanced at Phoenix, who raised her eyebrows knowingly. “That’s love,” she whispered, and Bob couldn’t agree more.

Rooster

Bradley Bradshaw noticed it during a pool game at the Hard Deck.

Jake had always been competitive, but tonight, he wasn’t playing to win against the squad—he was playing to impress you.

Every shot he made, he’d glance over at you, his grin widening when you clapped or cheered. But it wasn’t just the showmanship that caught Bradley’s attention. It was the way Jake handed you the pool cue, guiding you through your shots with a patience Bradley hadn’t thought him capable of.

“Am I doing this right?” you asked, laughing as you tried to line up your shot.

“You’re perfect,” Jake said softly, his voice so low that only you and Bradley heard.

Bradley rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. “You’re whipped, Seresin.”

“And happy about it,” Jake shot back, winking.

Bradley couldn’t argue with that.

Payback & Fanboy

Fanboy and Payback noticed it on the beach.

It was a rare day off, and the squad had decided to hit the sand for some football and relaxation. You’d tagged along, sitting under an umbrella with a book in hand while the others played.

Jake kept sneaking glances at you between plays, his grin growing every time you looked up and smiled.

When the game ended, Jake jogged over to you, dropping to his knees in the sand beside your chair. “Having fun?” he asked, brushing sand off his hands.

You smiled, closing your book. “Always, when I’m with you.”

Mickey nudged Reuben, jerking his chin toward the two of you. “Look at him. That’s not the Hangman we know.”

“Nope,” Reuben said with a grin. “That’s Jake. Big difference.”

Coyote

Javy had known from the beginning.

He’d been there when Jake first mentioned you, his voice tinged with something Javy hadn’t heard before: vulnerability. He’d watched as Jake navigated the early days of your relationship, unsure of himself in a way that was both endearing and rare.

At a barbecue one weekend, Javy pulled Jake aside, nodding toward you as you chatted with Phoenix and Bob.

“She’s good for you, man,” Javy said.

Jake nodded, his gaze fixed on you. “Yeah. She is.”

“You ever gonna tell her how whipped you are?” Javy teased.

Jake smirked. “She already knows, no need to say it.”

The Moment They All Realized

The squad’s collective realization came during another gathering at your house.

It was late, and the group was sprawled across the living room, laughing and swapping stories. You were in the kitchen, tidying up, when Jake disappeared without a word.

A few minutes later, he returned with a dish towel over his shoulder, carefully carrying a handful of freshly washed glasses.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?” he asked, walking straight to you.

The room went silent as the squad watched him press a kiss to your temple before helping you dry the dishes.

Phoenix broke the silence first. “Holy shit. He’s a househusband.”

The room erupted in laughter, and Jake looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely,” Natasha said, grinning.

As the laughter died down, Javy raised his beer. “To Y/N,” he said.

You looked up, surprised. “To me?”

Javy nodded. “Yeah. You turned Hangman into Jake. And we love you for it.”

The squad cheered, and as Jake’s hand found yours, you squeezed it, your heart full.

You’re doing a terrible job at paying attention to where you’re going as you take the elevator, jamming your finger against the 12 button so hard it hurts. Pizza is on the twelfth floor, and you’re hoping Daniel will be there early like you so that you can forget about Jake and his tyrannical rule. 

It’s clear as day to you; Jake thinks he has control over you just the same way he has control over the girls that drool over him at the Hard Deck. He thinks one glance will melt your brain into mush, but it won’t. It doesn’t, and you’re not letting the cockiest man you know believe he’s won you over. Especially one that you work with. If anyone found out- if any of your fellow aviators knew that you’d succumbed to Jake’s charms… you’d risk losing the respect you’ve fought hard to earn on the tarmac. You’re not letting your career take a nosedive because Jake won’t stop bragging about getting his dick wet. He doesn’t get a say in your life if he has nothing genuine to contribute to it. You know him well enough to know that caving in and fucking would be the worst decision of your life, and you refuse to let him feel like he’s won you like a prize. You’re standing up for yourself; if he can shit-talk Daniel, you can shit-talk Miss Melons.

Your skin prickles with annoyance the more you think about the woman that had approached you both- seriously, did she not consider that she was being intrusive and rude? You assume Jake has snagged her away from her roommate by now, and they’re probably having a better time than you are. 

Everything feels unfair, down to the coincidental roommate placement. It’s like the universe had heard you needed a break, and wanted to punish you for it.

Cracking open your book helps, but it takes you a while to get into the groove. You’re sitting poolside across from the pizza place, eyes glancing from page to parlor every once in a while to check for a certain bearded man. The main lead is compelling, and your stomach soars as you imagine Daniel in a cowboy hat. You’d save that horse.

Peace is hard to find while sitting poolside on a cruise, but chaos is actually the perfect white noise for you to read, and your concentration isn’t broken until a shadow falls over your lounge chair. You glance up, but it’s not the man you’d wanted to see.

“Hey.” Jake’s already frowning, his face apprehensive like he thinks you’ll scream at him to get away. You want to, but you don’t want to cause a scene.

“What, Hangman?”

“I’m not trying to control you.” He pushes despite seeing your gaze back on your book, “I just don’t think you’re meant to be with Daniel. But I shouldn’t have given you a hassle for doing the same thing to me. I just… I do it because-”

He stops short, glancing sideways at a man running despite the clear no running sign on the lifeguard tower. You decide to help him in his moment of need.

“Because you’re used to women who let you walk all over them. Even if you’re not trying to control me, you’re used to having that control. It’s familiar for you, so you expect it, even if you don’t know you’re doing it. But I’m not like that. You can’t keep me waiting on you.”

The scoff he lets out is accompanied by an expression that looks truly pained, “That ain’t it at all. But forget it. Don’t worry about why I do it. I just thought maybe you were doin’ it to me for the same reasons. But never mind. I’ll shut up about Daniel. Truce?”

You glare up at him, book still open in your lap. He extends an uncharacteristically helping hand, and you wait a truly uncomfortable amount of time before taking it and shaking once.

“Truce.”

He takes the chair beside you, stretched out in the sun. Unfortunately, it seems like your reading time is over as his head turns to you, “So, Dudley showed up yet?”

“He’s coming for lunch.” You cling to your novel, trying desperately to ignore Jake and his instantly broken promise, “What about Melon girl, they weren’t ripe enough for you?”

“She wasn’t my type.” He starts, and there’s a heavy silence before he continues, “I don’t like a woman who thinks it’s fun to get between a couple.”

The sideways glance you send Hangman, the ‘I-told-you-so’ smirk, is lethal.

“Anyways.” He continues, tone more casual now, “Fancy a swim, darlin’?”

“I’ll read instead,” You offer, “But you have fun, Hangman.”

“Party Pooper,” He accuses, standing from the lounge chair he’s occupying and stretching briefly, “You’re an absolute mood-killer. No fun, the most boring person on this boat.”

“I’m about to be more of one: have you put sunscreen on?”

“Nope,” He grins, “You volunteering to do the honors, you sleazy thing?”

“Absolutely not. But you can use the stuff in my bag.” You nod at your tote bag, “Don’t use it all, though.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jake nods, folding into a seat on the edge of the lounge chair beside yours, “So, what’s going on in that book, they boning yet?”

“Mhm.” You nod absently as Jake begins smearing sunscreen over his arms and legs, “Real sexy stuff.”

“I’ve got somethin’ sexier for you.”

“It’s a porn book, Hangman,” You clarify, in case he’s forgotten, “I’m trying to read porn. Leave me alone.”

“There’s porn right here!” He calls, arms out to show off his impressively tanned and toned chest, a thick layer of sunscreen giving it a sheen that glistens in the light. As reluctant as you are to admire anything about Jake, you can’t lie; he has a body worth ogling. But you will not ogle it.

“This porn’s better,” You hum, glancing up at Jake through your lashes, deceptively inviting, “This guy’s got a cowboy hat on.”

“I’ve got a million and one cowboy hats,” Jake insists, slowly inching towards you and away from the edge of the pool, “Is that really all it takes, darlin’? ‘Cause I can slap one on in seconds, if that’s what you’re after. ‘Even brought one with me in case my roommate was into it.”

“Mm, maybe,” You let him get closer, excitement clearly swirling in his eyes as he advances towards your chair. He doesn’t notice the shifting of your feet until it’s too late and one is shoving firmly against his chest, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling backwards into the pool.

There’s not anyone in his immediate vicinity besides you, so you take the brunt of the splash, but it’s worth it.

“But I like it better when the hat’s on a real gentleman!” You call, laughter interrupting your words as Jake emerges from the pool well and truly soaked, shaking water out of his hair. He’s been thoroughly underwater trained, so he’d been able to catch his breath in time despite the surprise of it all, and there’s no real harm done besides the initial splash.

“You dirty rotten minx,” He calls, water dripping from his short hair into his eyes, “You lured me in with the promise of cowboy hat sex just to push me in the pool?”

“I can’t believe you fell for it!” You’re still laughing, but maybe this bout of giggles is only to annoy him, “That’s, like, the oldest trick in the book. Well, maybe besides the cowboy hat sex thing. But you shouldn’t have gotten so close!”

He braces his elbows on the wall of the pool, the border surely burning his skin. But he stares at you regardless, “I thought you were finally givin’ in.”

“It’d take a lot more than a cowboy hat to make me give in, Jake.” You laugh, turning back to your book, “Like, a full personality transplant.”

Jake hears Danica’s words repeated back to him in his head, ‘Show, don’t tell’.

“Noted. I’ll look into one’uh those,” He quips, smile sarcastic and empty as he resorts to swimming alone, “Hey, when you’re done with that chapter, you should join me.”

“No.”

“Alright.”

You glance away from the book’s pages at Hangman’s unusual, immediate acceptance of your refusal. But he lifts himself out of the water- no stairs, no ladder, only his forearms against the deck, and your stomach sinks as you realize he might be playing a game of wills with you.

Instead, he sits beside you again, this time facing away from you, “Will you rub some sunscreen on my back?”

You want to say no. You would, if he were only asking to feel your hands on him. And maybe that’s part of it, but you also know that as much as he tans, he could burn, and his back is the only part of himself that he can’t reach. You’d want someone to do you the solid too, so you sigh and set your book aside.

“Fine. But you owe me.”

“Mhm.” He nods, passing you the sunscreen, “I’ll rub it wherever you want, Y/N.”

You whack him upside the head with the bottle, and when he hisses in pain and pitches forwards, you squirt some of the lotion onto your palm and begin applying it to the broad, tanned, muscled expanse of his back.

You’re no masseuse, but apparently you’re rubbing all the right places, because Jake lets out grunts and groans that are borderline pornographic. If they were coming from anyone else, you might have squirmed in your seat, but each one sends your eyes rolling skywards as you cover Jake’s skin in goopy sun lotion.

“Damn, you’re good.” Jake grunts as you dig into a knot beneath his shoulder blade, “Do that again?”

“I’m putting sunscreen on you, Jake, not working out muscle tension.”

“Oh, come on, just a little more?” He pleads, turning so that he can glance at you from the side of his gaze, eyes shining in prayer.

You dig extra hard into his muscle, and you take some sort of wicked pleasure in the way that his resulting groan is more of a pained yelp than something of enjoyment. 

“There, Hangman.” You whack the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades, “You’re all oiled up.”

“Aren’t you glad you were the one to get to do it?” Jake grins blindingly, and you bury your nose in your book again to avoid answering his question.

“Oh, you can stick your face in that book all you want,” Jake drawls, and you hear the displacement of the water he steps in as he lowers himself into the pool, gracefully and by choice this time, “But I know you liked having your hands all over me, darlin’.”

You want to gripe something back- something witty and cutting that will tear him down where he stands, but he’s turned away from you, already submerging himself to begin swimming laps. You admire his dedication to exercise even while on vacation- you have no plans to visit the gym in the lower decks.

Jake sees the diving board just as you do, and you keep him in your peripheral vision as he climbs out of the pool to make his way up the ladder. Your novel is begging to be read, but your eyes stick firm on one fitting word- ‘abdomen’ so that you can watch Jake from the corner of your eye as he prepares to dive.

Fortunately, you don’t need to continue the ruse of reading because Jake bellows from across the deck, “Y/N, look!”

You’re met with a grin when you look up at him, his arms raised above his head and joined flush together in diving position, “I’m gonna dive- watch me.”

“I’m watching.” You call, injecting your voice with as much disinterest as you can manage without feeling guilty, “This feels like babysitting, Hangman.”

He dives instead of quipping back, and it’s an impressive one, not that you’ll sing his praises for it. He comes up on the side of the pool closest to you, arms flinging an arc of water onto the concrete before you.

“Was it good?” He asks, panting slightly, hanging onto the wall.

“Yes,” You reply, a sickly sweet smile on your face as you condescend to him, “You did so good, honey.”

“Shut up,” He sends a wave of water splashing over your sandals, and you can’t be mad at him after all the teasing you’ve been inflicting upon him.

“I’ve been workin’ on my diving,” He goes back to swimming around, this time more casual as he keeps his head above the water to speak with you, “My nieces back home are learnin’ to swim so I’ve been in the pool a lot lately. Anytime they drag me in there I dive in and splash them.”

His arms cut through the water with strength and ease, confident strokes as you mull over his words. The image of Jake urging a toddler in floaties to cross a 3-foot gap into his arms is- endearing, not that you’ll admit it. You hum in acknowledgement, and tuck back into your book.

There’s not many people in the pool this early- most are probably still in bed with a hangover and a mess to clean up - and it’s large to boot, so there’s plenty of room. Your eyes drift left and catch sight of a jacuzzi, and suddenly your beach chair seems to pale in comparison.

Okay, you won’t join Jake in the pool, but you’ll relax for a couple of minutes in the jacuzzi. Just until Daniel gets here.

Jake doesn’t notice that you’ve stood until your chair is empty, and you have a perfect view of him floundering, scanning the entire deck until he spots you half-submerged in the hot tub.

You get to laugh at him again, and he grants you a good-natured grin instead of getting annoyed.

“I thought you’d finally found what’s-his-name,” Jake swims over to the separation wall that keeps the hot water parted from the cold, “Mind if I join you, Y/N?”

“Only if you’re- careful!” You shriek, trying desperately to protect the pages of your book from his sopping wet skin as he scales the barrier, “Hangman, if this book gets wet, you’re replacing it for me.”

“Alright, alright! I’ll take you on a shopping spree, relax. Hey, if I’m buyin’ you porn books, doesn’t that make me somethin’ like a sugar daddy?”

“You’re not getting any sugar,” You shrug, “But sure.”

“Just call me daddy, Y/N.” He grins, “That’s all the sugar I need.”

You hide behind your book so that he can’t see the way your face wrinkles into a grimace. The heat from the jacuzzi spreads inexplicably quick all of a sudden, warming your neck, your ears, your face, and Jake lets out a thick, heavy groan as he settles into the warm water.

“This is nice.” He muses, eyes closed, “Real relaxing.”

“It’s less relaxing when someone’s talking the whole time,” You peek across the side of your book, “Shut up, maybe?”

Jake snorts, leaning his head back against the edge of the pool, “Alright, alright your majesty. I’ll stay silent.”

You don’t verbally thank him, but you don’t make a scene when his leg drifts across the jet currents of the jacuzzi to brush against yours.

You cover a good chunk of your novel before a voice calls your name, and this time it’s the two people you’d been hoping to see all morning. Danica waves giddily at you and Jake, who’s picked his head up from where you thought he’d fallen asleep and is already mad-dogging Daniel. You wave back to Danica, and cast a quick glance down at your bathing suit before standing to greet Daniel. It’s just as tight and showy as you prefer it to be. 

You pay no attention to Jake where he gets out behind you, too focused on Daniel to care. But perhaps you should have, because you’re two steps from meeting Daniel in the middle when Jake’s strong arm shoves you sideways, and your book is wrenched from your grasp as you fall sideways into the pool.

It’s cold, colder even because you’d been soaking in the hot tub. You’re surprised, but you suppose you can’t even really be mad at him considering it’s just payback for what he’d done to you.

You’ve barely righted yourself in the water before there’s another splash beside you, and when you finally emerge there’s hands reaching for your waist, Daniel’s as you realize he’d jumped in to help you. 

“You-!” You splutter at Jake with bleary, chlorine-soaked eyes, attention split between Daniel who’s trying to ensure you’re alright, and Jake who’s snickering while holding your book in his thankfully dry hand.

“You asshole.” Daniel finishes for you, “She could have drowned!”

“I know how to swim,” You brace a hand on Daniel’s chest- startlingly bare, but riddled with coarse, brown hair, “It’s fine, I- I pushed him in earlier.”

“Relax, Prince Charming. It’s just a bit of payback. And look,” Jake waves your novel in front of you, “Dry as a bone.”

“Well I am- uh, not.” You stand half-submerged in the pool, Daniel still holding onto your waist, “So, I guess I will go swimming.”

“Great. You can swim with us.” Daniel smiles, warm and inviting as he keeps his hands on you.

“Yeah, us.” Jake agrees, taking Danica’s towel and spreading it over a sunny lounge chair for her.

Jake helps lower Danica gently into the pool, holding her hand while she takes the stairs, before jumping in beside you so that you’re splashed by the wave he creates.

“You are an asshole,” You laugh, breaking away from Daniel’s grip to shove at Jake’s shoulder. The grins on your faces are bright and genuine, perhaps the first time you’ve both been able to laugh with each other the entire trip. It feels nice, and you don’t fight when he shoves back at you with strong arms.

“Hey- hey!” Danica shouts, standing behind Daniel with a hand on his shoulder, “Why don’t you turn that pushing and shoving into a game of chicken?”

“I’m down,” Daniel seems thrilled to be opposite Jake as he lowers himself for Danica to climb atop his shoulders, “Y/N, you okay on his shoulders?”

Jake does the honors himself, dunking himself under the water and coming up between your legs. You barely have time to plant your hands on the top of his head, fingers twisting instinctively into his hair as you accidentally tug it while he stands at his full height again.

“Shit, sorry Hangman.” You let go of his hair, hoping you hadn’t yanked too hard. He’s forgiven, for now, so you won’t resort to childish things like hair-pulling.

“That’s okay, darlin’.” He grins, craning his neck back to meet your eye, “I like it when you tug on my hair.”

You have to overlook Jake’s suggestive comment as Danica’s already reaching for you, and you eagerly engage in a shoving match while the two men beneath you plant themselves into the bottom of the pool. You manage to get a leg up on Danica, and they’re both pushed backwards by the force of your shove, but Daniel surges forwards and ends up knocking you and his roommate right into each other.

You collapse against Danica, forehead-to-forehead, giggling like little girls. Her eyes are bright and shining with amusement, and her breath smells minty- like gum, not toothpaste. You’re more than happy to begin pushing at each other again, and though you’re confident your navy-built muscles are going to prevail, she lands a critical shove against your shoulder that throws you off-balance and sends you toppling off of Jake’s shoulders.

The water is cold, colder than you remember as you splash into it, and when you come up for air, already laughing, Jake’s facing you, having turned when you’d fallen from his shoulders. He’s grinning too, a hand already outstretched to help you up, but upon seeing you stand his eyes widen and his face drops.

“Shit.” He lunges for you, cutting through the water as his arm wraps around your back to yank you tight against his chest. You protest, grunting with exertion as you try fighting against his grip. But his muscles are impressive, and you’re trapped against his chest despite your best efforts.

“Would you cut it out? I’m trying to help you. Your top came untied.”

“What?” You splutter, water trailing down your face as you quell your instinctive struggle against his crushing hold. You realize that the reason for the extreme cold had, in fact, been because your bikini top had abandoned ship, and you barely have time to process the feeling of your bare tits slammed up against Jake’s hard, toned chest before he’s fishing the bathing suit out of the water and feeding it around your waist.

“Up,” He instructs, lifting his eyes to the expansive blue sky above you so that you can separate yourself from his chest for long enough to cover your own again. It’s- a strange gesture of courtesy that you would have expected from Daniel, sure, but not Jake. Perhaps that’s why you’re so sluggish, why it takes you longer than expected to fit your top back over your tits and grapple with the strings.

“You decent?” Jake asks, and when you grunt in confirmation he drops his eyes again. He notices you struggling with the ties and reaches for them himself, gently swatting your fingers away as he uses his advantage of sight. It presses his muscular shoulder up against your face, and you turn so that your cheek rests against it instead of your nose. Suddenly you’re held against his chest like a slow dance, and something terribly and inexplicably squirmy happens in your stomach.

“Done. I double knotted it.” He hums, and it’s such a sincere tone, one that’s completely vacant of all his usual dickishness, that you lose yourself staring at his face when he pulls away. You begin examining it for any sign that perhaps he was murdered and replaced with a poorly-trained doppelganger.

His hair looks right, albeit sopping wet. His eyebrows are growing slightly bushier than usual, but nothing you’d consider a complete and total imposter. His nose is still the same: strong, slightly downturned (though not as far as Rooster’s), and there’s a tiny patch of sunscreen that hasn’t been rubbed in near his right eye. His mouth is set in a determined purse as he double knots the strings of your bikini top together, and his eyes- his eyes are different.

Miles different than you’ve ever seen them. The outside edge of his hazel-green rings is softened, like someone has blurred their usual sharp border and lined it with suede. His pupils are huge, and they’d be eclipsing his irises if those weren’t so big and puppy-like. He is, in every sense of the word, gentle, inside and out. 

Jake has never been gentle before. 

“You alright?” He asks, and you snap back to reality with his large hands spread over the expanse of your bare back, the eyes that you’d been examining firmly and concernedly fixed upon you. Only a few meager strings separate his skin from yours, and you nod once, steadily as you gently push his arms off of you.

“Let’s go again,” You call to Danica and Daniel, your voice a piss-poor attempt at strength and nonchalance as it lacks its usual life, “Good hit, Danica. But watch out, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Bring it,” She grins gleefully, and her giddy gaze drifts downwards to Jake’s face when he lifts you onto his shoulders yet again. From the looks of it they share some sort of silent conversation- some inside joke that you’re not privy to. 

Something about that, something about her excluding you from a conversation with your own teammate makes you shove her, not enough to knock her off of Daniel’s shoulders, but enough to show her that you’re not going easy on her. She shrieks giddily as she writhes to stay balanced on Daniel’s shoulders, a smidge less broad than Jake’s. You’re thankful for that, for the steady mount you’ve got, as you resume pushing and shoving at Danica.

Jake is going insane. Not only does the phantom sensation of your bare tits- nipples hard from the chilly pool water - stick to him like a wet t-shirt, he can feel you against the back of his neck, your warm sex nestled snugly against him with only the bottom half of your bikini to separate you. Your thighs bracket his head, close enough for him to reach out and bite at, but he has to focus on keeping his stance sturdy so that you can play properly. Daniel’s glaring viciously at him across the few feet that separates the four of you, and he’s not going to let Mr. Mailman win. 

This time, Jake suspects you’ve used that military muscle of yours, because Danica slips backwards off of Daniel’s dewy shoulders and splashes into the pool. Your hand cups beneath Jake’s chin, tilting his head upwards and leaning it back into your lap.

“Nice one,” He grins upside-down at you, and you bump your fist against his when he offers it. Then you’re craning your neck down, surely uncomfortable as you leave mere inches between your lips and his, and his ears are ringing.

“Back up,” You murmur, disguising it as a congratulatory speech while Daniel helps Danica back onto his shoulders, “Get them to chase us and we’ll use the momentum against them.”

“Darlin’,” Jake proclaims, pride puffing up his chest that your legs are resting against, “You’re my kinda woman. Always looking to win.”

“Just do it, Hangman,” You scoff, but your eye-roll is less than irritated, fond if anything due to your partnership as Jake drops his head to face Daniel and Danica once more.

Jake stands in place where he’d been before, but when Danica engages with you he begins backing up. Slowly, carefully, ensuring that his feet are planted steadily each step so that you’re not tipped over, he makes his way towards the drop off towards the deeper end of the water. Daniel follows, taking the bait, and soon enough his predicament becomes obvious: he’s not as tall as Jake.

He stands somewhere close to six feet, surely, but not past it like Jake does. Your partner’s head is still comfortably above water, smirk in full force as Daniel’s beard becomes waterlogged. 

“That’s not fair!” Danica laughs, petting sympathetically at Daniel’s sopping wet hair, “Poor guy, we’ll get you stilts for the next round.”

Daniel lands a teasing pinch against the curve of her ass and she shrieks. You lunge for her, using her momentary shock to catch her off guard as you send her tumbling backwards into the water behind Daniel. 

You don’t have time to celebrate before Jake is ducking down and slipping himself out from beneath you, his strong arms bracing your fall so that you barely sink a few feet into the water. He crushes you in a celebratory hug, his laughter harmonizing with your own. He turns you both to face Daniel and Danica as they splutter to catch their breath, his cheek pressed flush against your own. 

“Chicken Champions,” He declares, holding you tight to his side at his own height, which means your feet float above his own in the water, “I’d offer to go again, but that’d just be cruel. You ladies wanna chatter in the hot tub while Danny-Boy and I show off on the diving board?”

“I brought a book,” Danica hums, face dripping with water you feel only mildly guilty for submerging her in, “If you wanna read, Y/N, I’ll do it with you.”

“Perfect.” Daniel nods, already cutting through the water on his way to the diving board, “I’ll be careful not to splash you guys.”

“I won’t.” Jake supplies helpfully, his grin turned shit-eating as he eyes you up, “No point in reading one of them smutty porn books if you’re not soaking wet.”

“Splash me and I’ll throw your room key off the side of the boat, Hangman,” You promise, “You’ll be begging strangers to take pity on you in the elevator.”

“Nah, that’s not my style,” Jake’s voice is dripping with intent while Daniel takes position on the diving board, his swim trunks dripping steady trails of water. You don’t know why until he continues, taking his own bait, “I’ll leave that to Daniel.”

You blame Jake’s comment for why Daniel’s dive nearly turns into a belly flop. It’s instantaneous, really, Daniel’s changing of posture as he register’s Jake’s biting words, and you have half a mind to admonish Jake for riling Daniel up during a dive- that could have ended badly. As it stands, Daniel does a sort of cannonball, though not intentionally, and you and Danica cringe in unison when he lands, sending water splashing well over the divider into the hot tub. Your book remains mostly unscathed- only a droplet of water lands on the cover and obscures the male lead’s face, blurring out his beard and making him appear clean-shaven. 

Jake is already scaling the ladder, and when he gets to the top he surveys Daniel emerging from the water.

“Six,” He shrugs, sneering down at Daniel from the highest point on the deck, “‘Could’ve clinched a seven if you hadn’t splashed the ladies, but your form was still shit.”

He doesn’t give Daniel a chance to fire back- or maybe the man is just too smart to take Jake’s bait - before he sets his arms together above his head, and seamlessly, impeccably cuts through the water. For someone so muscular and bulky, his form is graceful- not that you’ll ever tell him that. Water arcs outwards from where he’d landed, one half of the splash practically targeting Daniel where he stands watching.

He swims farther, nearly reaching the other end of the pool before he emerges, shaking water from his hair like a dog as he looks intently at you and Danica in the hot tub for a rating.

“Ten!” Your reading companion shouts, blessedly unaware of the tense atmosphere- or again, too intelligent to fall for Jake’s lowly antics- and you look at the water-stained cover of your novel.

You smear away the water droplet with your dry thumb, and the male main character’s beard returns.

“Four.” You call, voice deadpan as you lock your eyes on your novel, “For playing dirty and sabotaging the other contestants.”

Hangman’s grin is open-mouthed and cemented into place as he stands taller than Daniel in the water, tanned skin standing starkly out from the blue of the chlorinated water, “Dirty’s the best way to play, darlin’.”

Danica shoots you a look from behind the spread of her novel that you’ve sent many-a-girlfriend before. It’s the wide-eyed, restrained smile that screams ‘We’re talking about this later’, and you mirror her expression with your own disdain.

“Leave us alone,” You call, grinning apologetically at Daniel so that he knows he’s only a bystander, “We want to read.”

“Let’s leave the ladies to their smut, Dorian.” Jake calls, louder than he needs to be as he stretches to display his toned abdomen and muscled arms, “We can find our own fun. Wanna see who can swim the fastest? Place your bets, ladies: pilot or mailman?”

“You swam pretty slow when you crash-landed in the Pacific that one time,” You muse, fighting to keep a smirk off of your face, “I remember thinking you would die in the time it took for you to swim back to shore.”

“Wouldn’t’ve gone so slow if I wasn’t hauling my RIO back to shore. He hit his head on the way down,” Jake dips his head towards Danica, happily regaling her with the tale,  and you realize you’ve only fluffed his ego more, “So he was unconscious. Well I couldn’t just leave him there, ‘poor guy was only a trainee. So I took him along. It did slow me down, but,” He heaves a disgusting, gaudy, fake sigh, “It was worth it to send him back home to his mama.”

You taste a hint of blood where you’ve apparently chewed through your lip. You let it go and hope nothing escapes your mouth. It would be a shame to stain the pages of your novel red.

You’re trying very hard not to pay attention to Jake and Danica where he’s engaged her in a staring contest. Well, you suppose it’s not much of a contest that she can win: the point is that you’re losing. Jake’s showing off his impressive build, still running his mouth with every vaguely self-complementary anecdote he can embellish, and Danica is taking the bait, which means that your rampant attempts to cool Jake’s ego have failed. 

You let the warm, borderline-hot water sink into your skin and simmer alongside the building irritation that threatens to blow beneath the surface. You’re tired. This was supposed to be a relaxing vacation for you- or, if not relaxing, a good way to blow off steam. You were supposed to be bent in half up against the shower wall by now, not bending the pages of your book with the strong grip you’ve cemented onto them while you mediate Jake’s ego and the willingness of so many women to accommodate it. 

Part of you wants to let loose and have fun- not with Jake, of course. Never with Jake. But part of you wants to act rationally, forget the constant rivalry between you two and let him shack up with whoever will show him her tits first. But the other part of you, the one that cheers every time he places second in a show of skill, wants to knock him down a peg. It’s why you’re so persistently humbling him- or, trying to, at least. Something about him putting on this cocky persona- erasing all human emotion to make way for pure sleaze puts you on edge, and you pity the fool who believes it.

You can’t tell if Danica’s that fool yet, because she’s turned back to her book with a smile, but to her credit she doesn’t ogle him while he’s swimming. It would be easy to- he’s all tanned muscle and gestures that show off just the right curve or vein. He knows how to preen, but Danica seems to be minding her own business. That makes it easier for you to read your own novel; you don’t feel like you have to keep an eye out for her anymore.

You’re not sure whether it’s a love for the act or a wordless competition to outswim the other that keeps Jake and Daniel occupied with lapping the pool for so long, but as more and more people filter out of their rooms and onto the deck, there’s not much room for recreation anymore.

“Are you done?” You ask Danica, peering over at her after someone unknowingly sends a wave of water straight for you both, narrowly avoiding soaking your novels.

“I think I’m done.” She nods sheepishly, rushing to stand and keep her book dry, “Should we run away before the men notice we’re leaving?”

“Excellent plan,” You laugh, but you can practically feel Jake’s eagle eye upon you as you race for your towel, leaving soaked footprints behind on the wooden deck, “We should go get some pizza. They’re making more now that it’s a little busier out here.”

“You shouldn’t stare like that.” Daniel’s irritatingly smooth voice, pitched up slightly from Jake’s and entirely free of Jake’s rugged charm, makes Jake’s lips yearn to curl into a sneer.

Jake pivots in the cold pool water to face Daniel rather unimpressed, a scoff begging to burst from his lips, “Like what?”

“Like she’s a piece of meat, or something.” Daniel’s arms are crossed, and Jake plants his feet firmly against the concrete floor of the pool.

“Oh, you’re so virtuous,” Jake drawls, his skin burning and not from the rays of sun hitting it directly, “You frenched her in an elevator, Daniel, you’ve got no room to be talking to me about class.”

“She wanted me to kiss her. She kissed me.” Daniel insists, and Jake laughs- actually laughs, a grit of his teeth and a forceful exhalation of air, “That’s different than staring at her ass while she runs away from you like you’d flip her skirt up at a drive-in movie theater.”

“Flipping skirts,” Jake laughs, sadistic grin in full force, “Daniel, I’m not that old fashioned! Please, she’s in a bathing suit that she chose, for a sex cruise that she booked, and you know what? She probably wants you to be staring at her ass in it. And you don’t seem too concerned with the other people on the deck, I’m sure a few of them are looking too. And are you worried I’m looking at Danica’s ass?”

“You’re not looking at Danica’s ass.” Daniel nearly bites his tongue in an effort to keep his voice level, “Because you’re not interested in Danica. You’re interested in Y/N and you can’t have her. She’s not yours.”

“She’s not yours, either.” Jake spits, and there’s a moment of silence where both men’s chests heave with barely-suppressed tension. Jake realizes that he’s admitted to Daniel that he has no real claim over you, but the other man doesn’t fight back against not having one of his own. But you are his, you are Jake’s, in the way you’d fallen asleep in his arms last night, in the look in your eyes when you’d stared into his own earlier, in the stain on his pajama pants.

You’d moaned his name- his name, not Daniel’s.

Someone knocks into Daniel from behind, backing right into him and nudging him slightly off balance.

“Oh!” The woman shrieks, “I’m sorry! I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine.” He offers her a tight smile, heading for the ladder, “Don’t worry about it.”

Jake hauls himself up out of the pool with nothing but his forearms, using his towel to dry his hair if only to show off the expanse of his chest to any who may be watching. He checks- you’re not.

“So,” Danica leans forwards into your space at the pizza counter, eyes meaningfully wide, “Tell me why he’s acting like this.”

“He always acts like this.” You scoff, and when she levels you with an unimpressed glare, you insist, “No, really! He’s just- everything is a competition to him, everything. I met his mom once, and she told me that he used to have races at the dinner table to see who could finish their food first. He kept making himself sick but as long as he’d beat his brothers he didn’t care. He always has to win, and right now, he’s competing for us.”

“No, he’s competing for you.” Danica corrects you, “Is he winning?”

“Hell no. He’s- he’s not really competing for me, not meaningfully. He just wants to say he ‘got me’, you know? That would be major bragging rights on the tarmac. But that’s exactly why I can’t give in- I can’t be known as the woman who slept with her fellow pilot! Then they wouldn’t see my achievements anymore, just my mistakes.”

“I get that.” She nods, “But how do you know he’s just gonna dump you?”

“I’ve watched him dump the whole of San Diego,” You scoff, “That’s what he does. He doesn’t do love, he’s the kind of guy who’s only ever interested in something quick and dirty.”

“Everyone does love.” Danica frowns, “Some people just start later in life than others. And I think he’s starting now. With you.”

“Love,” You laugh, and sure, it’s dramatic, but if it gets through to her, you don’t care, “A man who loves me would not have tormented me for my entire career.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully, “I think he does. Even if he doesn't act the way you think he should, even if he doesn't act the way you would, I think he does love you. I think he just loves differently. I think he's new to it. What has he done to torment you?”

You huff, grateful for the opportunity to vent, “He constantly tries one-upping me- again, he can’t lose. He just- he pokes and prods and teases me like we’re on the playground or something, and it’s non-stop. It’s not like he’s sweet most of the time and then there’s a few bouts of light teasing, it’s- it’s constant, and I can’t ever let my guard down, or I’ll lose.”

“So you’re fighting to win, too.” Her eyes narrow slightly, “Why?”

“Because. I can't be second-best, and I can’t be known as the woman who slept with her coworker. I’m not doing that.” You repeat.

“Oh," She laughs, "So you're both stubborn. You don't want to lose, either. But second-best is temporary, rankings come and go. And I understand your thing about not wanting to be known for sleeping with him, but even if you did sleep with him, the whole Navy doesn’t have to know.”

“They will, Hangman will brag. He always brags.”

“He won’t- not if he’s in love with you, not if you want him to keep it private.”

“He’s not in love with me-!”

“Four slices of Pepperoni, two cheese?” A large tray is placed between you and Danica at the counter you’re both leaning against, and it snaps the two of you out of your debate.

You turn to see one of the employees looking expectantly at you, and Danica stammers, “Uh, three cheese.”

“Sorry.” He smiles placatingly at her, scooping another slice onto the plate, “Three cheese.”

“Thank you.” You take the pepperoni pizza, leaving Danica to collect the cheese. You feel bad for walking away, even if you know she’s hot on your trail, but you feel frustratingly suffocated, like everyone is urging you to make the biggest mistake of your life and never considering why you simply can’t. She doesn’t know Jake, she hasn’t spent the last decade with him as he’s blown his way through tourist after tourist, bragging all the while. And he doesn’t understand what it would be like- even if he wasn’t looking to win, even if he did just want to try casual sex for fun, you’d never be able to escape that reputation. 

You feel like you’re going crazy, and you plop down between Jake and Daniel where they sit at opposite sides of a table, ready to stuff your face with pizza instead of dealing with any of it.

Rooster had been anxiously waiting to hear the story of your first official time, the one that was with someone who wasn’t him. He didn’t realize that you still considered him your first.  He’d figured that part of your history had long been overwritten by whoever had been lucky enough to catch your eye and make your heart race in a romantic way.

The two of you had never talked about it in the after.

Not once, not ever.

He didn’t care that people knew, he just wasn’t expecting it.

Jake starts the group out of its stunned silence by slapping a heavy hand on top of the table, nearly sending some bottles to the floor, “I knew it! I knew y’all couldn’t have been friends all this time and not have tried it out at least once.”

“Jesus Christ, dude, chill,” Javy mutters. He’s always been the better of the two about reading the room.

Trying to spare you from being put on the spot even more than you already were now, Rooster mumbles through the way he’d lost his to a girl from his AP Econ class after a playoff baseball game.

He stares at the way you’re nervously picking at the label of the Blue Moon he’d grabbed for you when he went to get a refill of his own. He can practically hear the way your brain is buzzing. He wonders if you wish you could take back the words from where they are sitting on the table with the collection of bottles and peanut shells for everyone to see.

Bob being the team player that he is starts talking about how he’d lost his one summer in college to another camp counselor, going into more detail than he’s ever given before, probably trying to redirect the attention to himself to give the two of you a moment to regroup.

Rooster makes a mental note to tell Penny to put all of Bob’s cream sodas from now on on his own tab.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do here. Or where to look. Or where to put his hands. He wants to talk to you, but there’s no good way for him to go about it without drawing even more attention to the two of you.

You were supposed to be going on a first date tonight, but he’d talked you into canceling to hang out with him instead. He likes having all of your attention on him. And maybe he’s been a little selfish with you, because he doesn’t like to share you with anyone else. You’ve always been his best friend.

Rooster likes that he gets to talk to you whenever he wants now, and that it doesn’t feel like a never-ending game of catch up anymore. In the year since the Uranium mission, he’d felt like all the fragmented pieces of his life had finally come together. He’d reconnected with Mav, he was living in the same city as his best friend, and he had a place he could finally call home.

He didn’t just want the highlights with you, he wanted everything in between too. There’s no more distance due to time zones and scheduling times to call because now you only live 20 minutes away from him. And the next time he comes home from a deployment, he knows he’ll get to look forward to seeing you there waiting for him.

He feels like he’s learned so much more about the grown-up version of you over the last year than he has in the last ten.

Jake jumps in barely a breath after Bob finishes telling his story. “Well, we all know it’s not the first who matters, but who was the best.” Rooster doesn’t trust the gleam in his eyes or the sharp smile on his face. “Since Bradshaw cut you off before, how’s about you go first this time, darlin’. You can tell us about who knocked your socks off. Maybe this time he’ll let you finish, if you know what I mean.”

It’s thinly veiled snooping disguised as chivalry, and it doesn’t fool anyone. Nat’s eyes dart to him briefly, trying to get a read on him.

He’d been 21 at the time. And while he knows more now that he did then, he also knows his name isn’t going to be coming out of your mouth for a second time tonight.

Rooster takes a sip of his beer, needing something to do.

He knows you’ve been with other people. You’d lived with your ex for over a couple years, for fuck's sake. But it was like an unspoken agreement between the two of you to not talk about your sex lives with each other.

His leg starts bouncing again and he realizes he really doesn’t want to hear this. Not because of his ego, but because he doesn’t know what to do about the knot that’s formed in his stomach.

Your mouth opens and closes a couple times before you speak, “That title would also go to Rooster.” The admission is soft, but sure. 

Where his heart had been pounding before, now it feels like it had stopped completely.

It’s been 13 years since that Spring Break. 13 years and he’s still your best?

Barely five minutes ago, he hadn’t known where to look. But now? Now he couldn’t stop staring at you.

He just didn’t understand why you still wouldn’t look at him back.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊, 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

When you’d floated the idea by Bradley about visiting him at UVA for Spring Break during your weekly phone call, you’d been braced for the disappointment of him already having plans. It was his Senior year, it wouldn’t surprise you if he wanted to go out with a bang and make the most of it. Especially since he would belong to the Navy soon enough.

But he’d taken you by surprise when he started enthusiastically listing off all the places he wanted to show you, planning out your trip like a well-seasoned travel agent before you’d even booked a plane ticket.

You’d started looking up airfare before you’d even hung up the phone. And thirty minutes later you had a confirmation email flagged in your inbox after elatedly charging that aisle seat to the credit card you only used for emergencies.

It had been close to a year since you’d last seen him. He usually spent his Winter Break with your family, but this year he’d stayed on campus for the holidays and it was the longest the two of you had ever been apart since you’d first met him when you were 8.

And maybe that’s why it took you so long to spot him in the Arrivals area of the Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport.

You’ve always prided yourself in being able to pick Bradley out of a crowd anywhere, but in your cursory glance you hadn’t recognized the tall, broad guy with the UVA shirt pulled taut across his chest and wearing a baseball hat backward on his head. It wasn’t until your third searching pass that you’d caught the lips that were quirked up in amusement and those familiar brown eyes trained on you as he leaned ever-so-casually against the faux wood paneling on the wall waiting for you to notice him.

He’d filled out in the months since you’d last seen him. He was more toned than you remembered him being with definition in places where there hadn’t been before. His face had more distinct angles and less baby fat cushioned curves. Still a bit boyish, but he was well on his way to looking like a man.

Bradley raised his hand like he was going to wave, but then he’d mimicked casting a fishing line in your direction and reeling it in. And it was so endearingly stupid- so him- that you couldn’t help but take the bait and made your way towards him with the biggest grin on your face.

You’d ignored the jittery flutter in your stomach as you’d weaved between people and luggage. You’ve never been nervous around your best friend before. There was something that had on your mind a lot as the days to your visit inched closer, but you’d shoved that out of your mind, because you were finally standing in front of him in person for the first time in months. 

“Hey, kid,” he’d greeted you, taking your bag, “Charlottesville must have known you were coming, because she’s going to be sunny for you all week.” As soon as you were within arm’s reach, he tugged you right into his chest for a hug. You could feel the unspoken I missed you in the way he squeezed you just that bit tighter before releasing you.

Then he was dropping an arm over your shoulders and steering you towards the exit and driving you into town in the beat-up car he’d bought after selling his prized Montero, the car that Mav had given him for his birthday.

You’re only there for a week and Bradley doesn’t waste a single moment of it.

After dropping your things off in his dorm room, he takes you straight to campus where he gives you the Official Bradley Bradshaw Certified UVA Tour. He buys you lunch from one of the food trucks in the Amphitheater “for sustenance” before taking you to see the highlights. You start with the Rotunda and then the academic village, making a special pitstop at the Whispering Wall for you to tell it a secret. And then he takes you on a more historical tour, like showing you the exact route he used to streak The Lawn and pointing out the place he’d puked after his 21st birthday.

It’s clear he’d put so much thought into your visit because it seems like there is never a down moment. By the end of the third day you’re more surprised that you don't wake up every morning with a printed itinerary on your pillow.

He sneaks you into the Slaughter Rec Center to rock climb, claiming he had a person on the inside with the right connections. But really from what you could tell, the pretty girl at the check-in counter clearly had a crush on him. He takes you to the batting cages he likes to go to before Dead Week, and spends the time there equal parts making fun of your power swing and trying to fix it.

You get your revenge the next day standing outside of the imposing columns and massive doors to the Fralin Art Museum. Skeptically eyeing the sculpture in the front of the building that kind of looked like a giant wisdom tooth, you mentioned, “I didn’t realize you’d become such a patron of the cultural arts.”

“Hey now, I like artsy shit,” he’d said, only mildly affronted.

You snorted at that. “Is there an exhibit on beer pong and blunt rolling you wanted to see?” Through the window you’d spotted some large landscape oil paintings in ornate gilded frames and carved marble busts of what you assumed were probably of some of the Founding Fathers.

“You just missed that one, it was last month,” Bradley lobbed back, opening the door for you.

“What a pity,” you’d said with a dramatic sigh, “Guess we’ll have to settle for some tasteful nudes instead.”

“If we’re lucky,” he’d muttered under his breath, as you passed under his arm.

And then you’d felt the corners of your mouth kick up.

Turning around you’d pressed your finger to his chest, whispering so the person behind the ticket desk didn’t hear you, “Twenty bucks says you don’t make it thirty minutes in there.”

He narrowed his eyes, taking in your sly grin, “You’re on, kid.”

It’s the easiest $20 you’ve ever made.

The two of you call it a truce only after he tips your kayak into the still chilly Rivanna River.

Later that night, he takes you to a party on “Mad Bowl” that one of his frat friends was hosting. The backyard was all strung up with red and green Christmas lights like they had been too lazy to take them down after the holidays and decided it added to the outdoor ambiance instead of packing them away.

He was still just as protective over you as he was back in high school. Spending the whole night keeping an eye on you and handing you drinks that he’d uncapped himself using the opener that he had on his keychain, the one that still had the little fighter jet charm you’d given him ages ago dangling from it.

The days pass all too quickly as he shows you all of his favorite spots.

You knew UVA wasn’t where he’d originally wanted to be- where he thought he’d be- but you were happy that he seemed happy here.

But in between the late-night microwave ramen and movie watching and crossing off all the things on Bradley’s Spring Break To-Do List, there’d been something you’d been wanting to talk to him about. But you were having so much fun with him, you’d missed your best friend over those long months apart, and you didn’t want to ruin the time you had left with him here.

It lingered at the back of your mind like a phantom hair that you can feel, but can’t ever seem to brush off no matter how many times you attempt to. You felt like you were waiting for the right time that you weren’t sure would ever come. And if you were being honest, you weren’t entirely sure you would even be brave enough to ask if the time came.

The two of you had woken up way before the sun this morning.

If anyone other than Bradley had asked you to wake up before 5 AM to go hike to watch the sunrise, you would have laughed at them. But because it was Bradley, you’d set the alarm without comment. Even though he did have to gently pry you out of his roommate’s bed- with the fresh sheets he told you he bought especially for your visit- and lace up your shoes for you.

The views at Humpback Rock had been worth the hour hike up to the outcrop of craggy rocks. The sunrise painted them a stunning shade of soft orange as the rays illuminated evergreen covered hills and valleys that extended in front of you to the skyline. You and Bradley watched it in silence, shoulders pressed against each other  as you took it all in.

You’re cozied up on your bed for the week, flipping through a book you’d brought with you, but hadn’t touched at all until now when Bradley comes back from the showers. His hair is still damp and the ends are starting to curl a bit.  

He drops a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the nightstand next to you.

You hadn’t been sure what rooming with him would be like, the two of you together 24/7 since his roommate had left to go home for the break.  But it felt like you were two kids at sleepaway camp getting away with mischief rather than two broke college students only pretending to get away with mischief.

He sits down at the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his thighs, “So.”

“So?” you repeat, blowing on the hot coffee before taking a sip.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been up with you?”

You wince, and it’s not because the coffee tastes like tar. 

“What do you mean?” you try to ask casually.

Bradley gives you a look that says you don’t fool me, kid. “You’ve been squirrely. I didn’t want to press it, but I can tell there’s something on your mind.” He takes a sip of his own milky battery acid. “Are classes going better since you switched majors?”

You nod, looking anywhere else other than at him.

“How are things with your Dad?”

You offer him a shrug.

He sighs your name in exasperation. You can tell he is trying to tamper his frustration at your lack of cooperation.

“Is it a guy?” Bradley tries again.

You swear you feel your heart stop, because you knew what you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know how he was going to take it.

You fiddle with a string on his roommate’s comforter. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” you admit, tentatively, “But I’m nervous.”

Bradley’s eyebrows pull together as he sets his coffee aside, “C’mon, it’s just me. You can talk to me about anything.”

“It’s more of a question.” One you’re still deflecting from asking.

“Ok, well you know you can ask me anything.” His tiny dorm room feels even smaller as the two of you try to read the other’s face.

Taking a deep breath, you ask the question that’s been rattling around in your brain for weeks.

“Bradley, I was wondering if you’d be my first?”

Less than ten words. That’s all it takes to tilt Bradley’s world off its axis.

He’s loved getting to show you around UVA this week. It wasn’t where he thought he’d end up, but he hadn’t lost sight of where he was going. He was going to be a Naval Aviator one way or another. He just also got to have a normal college experience too, one he’d been excited to share with you.

Bradley had originally been invited to go stay with one of his friends at his family’s beach house, but when you called and asked about coming to visit Charlottesville, it was an easy choice for him. He’d pick you every time.

It had been even better getting to cross off some of the things on the bucket list he’d made for his Senior Year with you in tow, like the hike he’d taken you on this morning.

He loves the views from up there and thought it would be something you’d like too, but he’d never done the hike early enough to catch the sunrise before. It was actually something he was planning on going the morning of graduation as a symbolic way to end his time at UVA, but getting to do it with you was special in its own way.

And while he’d caught you lost in thought more than a few times over the last few days as he showed you around, he never in a million years would have ever expected you to ask him that.

Bradley knows all the words you just used, but they don’t make sense to him in that order.

His brain is working in overdrive trying to figure out if there is any possible way he could have misinterpreted you.

“Your first…”

You take another deep breath and tip your chin up in resolve before looking him dead in the eye, there’s so much vulnerability reflected in them, “I haven’t had sex before, Bradley. And I’m really hoping that my first time can be with you.”

Bradley wants to tell you to put your Styrofoam cup down because he’s worried the tight grip you have on it might crush it, but he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

He didn’t realize when his leg started bouncing until he sees you glance down at it.

Shooting to his feet and off his bed, he goes to lean against his recently decluttered desk. There’s too much restless energy coursing through him to just sit like he isn’t completely reeling. 

“Shouldn’t you want to do this with someone special? Like with rose petals and all that shit?” He scrubs a hand over his face. Rose petals and all that shit? God, he sounds like such a fucking dumbass, but he’s struggling to keep up.

And if he’s being entirely honest, he’s pretty surprised to learn you’re still a virgin. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but he knows you’ve had at least one serious boyfriend since you’ve gone to college. He figured that you got asked out all the time. He saw the way that some of the guys in his buddy’s frat were looking at the pretty girl with the dimples and big smile.

The girl who just asked him to be her first.

He hates the way your shoulders have slumped forward, like you’re trying not to cave in on yourself, “So, you don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that.” His answer takes him by surprise.

The only other sound in the room other than his pounding heart is the whir of the air circulating in his dorm. 

“Would it help to make a pro con list?” you offer, less than helpfully with a little shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley mutters under his breath, looking up at the speckled ceiling trying to decode the flecks like tea leaves. “She’s cracking jokes like she didn’t ask me to make her come.”

“Technically, I didn’t say anything about that. I just asked you to be my first.”

“I’m not taking your virginity and not giving you an orgasm,” he states, and your eyes get wide. He runs his hands through his hair. “Sex makes things complicated, kid. We’ve got a good friendship.”

You sit up straighter on his roommate’s bed and bring your knees to your chest. It exposes the backs of your thighs and he has to shake the mental images of skin on skin out of his head.

There’s a look on your face that tells him you feel ridiculous even asking him, “Do you think you’re going to fall in love with me or something?”

“No,” Bradley says, honestly.

He knows you’re just trying to make a point.

The two of you have been friends for over a decade. He knows he cares about you- he always has- but he couldn’t imagine what anything other than just friendship would look like with you.

You nod in agreement, like you had been anticipating the answer before you’d even asked him the question.

“And do you think I’m going to fall in love with you?” you ask, your head tilting to the side.

He doesn’t even blink, “You can do better than me.”

And he means it.

Even if there was something more between the two of you, you’ve always been too good for him. And knowing him, he’d find a way to fuck it up. You’re the last person in the world he’d ever want to hurt. He’d let you down before, he doesn’t want to do it ever again.

You shoot him a disappointed look, like you don’t like hearing him say that about himself. And he’s oddly touched that you’re defending him against himself. 

“You’d literally be doing me a favor.”

Bradley is still surprised that he hasn’t ended this conversation yet. The two of you were supposed to go to the movies, but that definitely wasn’t happening now.

“I’m not saying no,” he says, “But I need you to help me understand. Why me? Why now?”

“Bradley, I want it to be with you because there’s no one else I’ll ever feel as comfortable with as I do with you,” you explain.

He watches as you unfold yourself and climb off the bed, coming to stand in front of him. You gingerly reach out and put your hand on his forearm, like you don’t want to startle him. Not that he’d be able to move anyways since it feels like the soles of his feet are cemented to the floor.

“I keep waiting for it to not feel like such a big thing, but every time it seems like it’s going to happen, I freeze. And I know you’d take care of me, and I’m not talking about orgasms.” You stumble over the word a bit, not fully meeting his eyes as you say it. “It’s scary enough as a girl and I’m worried I’m going to be too in my head with anyone else. But I also don’t want to look back and have any regrets, and I know I wouldn’t have any with you.”

The mention of regrets makes his stomach twinge. His heart feels like it’s hammering in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say.

You are looking at him with such open sincerity. He has never been good with talking about his feelings, he’s always been the type to bottle things up, while you have always worn your heart on your sleeve. It was just another way that you were braver than him.

“I know it’s a lot,” you say, letting go of him to take a step back, like you want to give him breathing room, “So if it’s too big of an ask. Or if it’s not something you’re comfortable with-”

Bradley shakes his head cutting you off, “It’s not that at all, kid. I just haven’t done this before.” Your eyebrow scrunches together in confusion. “I mean, I have,” he corrects, “But it’s not the same. All the girls I’ve been with had already had experience. And if we were going to do this, I would want to make sure it’s as nice for you as it can be.”

“So you’d be my first and I’d be yours? Well, kind of.” You give him a little smile, it’s a shy but hopeful thing. There’s only a hint of your dimples, but it’s enough. And he feels that practical part of him that had been holding back soften at the sight of it.

He doesn’t think he’s ever said no to you, excluding the times you tried to get him to give you his beer at the house parties he took you to in high school, and that was more out of self-preservation from a healthy fear of your mom than anything else.

When you wanted to learn how to drive a stick shift? He took you to the abandoned parking lot, it didn’t matter that you didn’t have your learner’s permit yet. When you wanted to learn how to throw a punch? He was making sure you knew not to tuck your thumb under your fingers, so that you didn’t break your own thumb instead of someone’s nose.

He’s always had your back and you’ve had his. That’s how it was between the two of you.

You’ve already said it, but he needs to hear it again, “You really want to do it?”

“I really want it to be you, Bradley. I really want to do this with you. I trust you the most.”

He’s always been willing to help you with anything you’ve ever asked of him, why should this be any different? What’s a couple orgasms between friends?

“Ok,” Bradley nods. If it’s to reassure you or himself, he couldn’t say. “I’ll do it. We can do it.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, like you were fully prepared for him to let you down gently, “Really?”

You didn’t ask for his why he was agreeing, but he was going to give it to you anyway.

“I don’t think I’ve told you this, but I lost mine to Samantha Prescod after the game against Centennial that got us a spot at State that year,” he waits until he sees the recognition cross your face before continuing, “But I had also just learned about my mom’s diagnosis and I was trying to find anything I could do to not think about it.” He rubs at a spot underneath his collarbone, it never got any easier talking about his mom. “I think she assumed that I’d done it before, because we didn’t really talk about it. She was there and into it, so it just sort of happened. Actually, I’m pretty sure she only slept with me because she wanted to make her ex-boyfriend jealous, because they got back together like three days later.”

It’s probably for the best that Samantha Prescod lives on the other side of the country now because you look livid. Your eyes spark with anger and disbelief on his behalf.

“It was years ago, it’s fine, kid” he shrugs, trying to brush off your concern. “But if I had a do-over, I don’t know if I’d make the same choice again. And that’s not something I’d ever want for you.” You deserve the rose petals, but he’ll do his best for you. “So we can do it, but I have one condition.”

The relief on your face and the way the tension in your shoulder releases only solidifies his decision.

“Tell me,” you say, taking a half-step towards him, “I want you to be comfortable too.”

Bradley pushes off his desk and meets you the rest of the way, “If you even think you’re feeling uncomfortable- about any of it- I need you to tell me. And we’ll stop and figure out where to go from there. If it’s a change of position, if it’s a full stop and order pizza instead, we’ll do that.” He pauses and reaches out to tip your chin up. “I’ll do whatever you need, got it?”

You throw your arms around him, and his wrap around you just as easily. Your hair smells like the travel sized shampoo he’d picked up for you, figuring you wouldn’t want to use his 2-in-1. You murmur your thank you into his shirt followed by a fuck Samantha Prescod that makes him squeeze you just a bit tighter to him in affection.

When you step back and look at him, your lips twitch upwards, “What’s with the look, Bradshaw? Don’t tell me you’re going to lie back and think of England?”

That makes him chuckle, your joke lightening the mood in only the way that you can do. He rolls his eyes in equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“God, I haven’t been this nervous since I lost my own virginity. I was so stressed I was going to blow my load in two pumps and lose my street cred.”

You snort and send him a smirk, “Well, you must have done just fine. I overheard some glowing reviews in the girl’s bathroom on more than one occasion.”

“I maybe lasted ten trusts, but I had the good sense to eat her out after,” he admits, and then tacks on for good measure, “I’ve gotten better since then.”

“What a stud,” you tease.

This is easier, this feels like the two of you. This should be fun, it shouldn’t feel serious. He can make it good for you.

You look up at him shyly from under your lashes, “So how do we do this?”

He feels like he only just wrapped his head around the idea of it, but now he was facing the very real possibility of seeing you very naked very soon.

“You want to do it now?” Bradley blinks.

“I mean, if you’re up for it.” You scrunch your nose when you realize you’ve made a terrible double entendre. “No pun intended, I promise.”  

He wipes his hands on his pants.

“You sure?” he asks again.

“I’m sure, Bradley. As long as you are too.”

He nods, “Then I guess we just…”

He’s not sure where he was going to go with that. But he’s spared from being roasted by you for making some sure to be lame birthday suit joke because you’re untying the bow on the soft lounge shorts you’d thrown on after your shower from the hike, and all the words get trapped in his throat.

You don’t look at Bradley as you slide your shorts down your legs. And you definitely don’t look at him when you pull your shirt over your head, leaving you in only a soft green mesh bra and your cotton underwear. They’re mismatched, but sex with Bradley wasn’t originally on the Spring Break To-Do List agenda for today.

In fact, you hadn’t even been sure you were going to go through with asking him until he brought up the point that he knew you had something on your mind because you apparently had no poker face.

While it felt like you had a swarm of butterflies whirling in your stomach, you also knew wholeheartedly that this was the right choice for you. Everything he had said had solidified that for you.

You weren’t sure how you were ever going to thank him for this, but you had a lifetime of friendship with Bradley to figure it out.

His room cast in the soft afternoon light, the blinds only partly closed. There are little streaks of gold that line the plaid comforter on his bed. He’d been right, Charlottesville had stayed sunny just for you.

As you climb into it and situate yourself against his pillows, you can help but notice just how much his bed smells like him. It’s not the spicy scent you associated with the High School version of him. The woodsy and warm scent embedded in the threads of his sheets suits this grown up version of him.

You feel equal parts overdressed and underdressed in your bra and underwear. You know the latter are going to come off eventually, so you make a split-second decision to just take them off yourself under his covers. The idea of Bradley helping you to pull them off later seems like it would be too intimate based on the way the thought of it makes your cheeks heat up.

It’s practical, you’re being practical, you think to yourself.

You chance a peek at him and are surprised to see that he hasn’t budged an inch. It’s almost like he is waiting for you to get completely settled before he dares to move a muscle. His eyes are trained on the pile of your clothes on the floor, he looks lost in thought.

“Bradley?”

The sound of your voice seems to kickstart him into action.

He shucks off his shirt in that kind of reckless way that seems to be ingrained in boys and then unbuttons his pants. You’re torn between feeling like you should give him privacy and wanting to watch. What you were expecting is the way he takes the time to pick his clothes up before folding them over the back of the chair at his desk.

Your mouth goes dry as you take in the sight of his body, the diffused light perfectly outlines the shape of him. His broad shoulders are rounded with the muscles he’s gained from whatever exercises the NROTC has been putting him through. Your eyes dip down to his defined chest and over the ridges of his abs. You’ve seen him in swim trunks plenty of times, but seeing the way the muscles of his thick thighs fill out the black boxer briefs he was wearing was entirely new to you.

Bradley approaches you and then pauses as he bends down to collect your pile of clothes on the floor, his hand hesitating only for a second when he reaches for your underwear. He drapes all of your things on top of his on the chair and makes his way back to you.

The gesture makes you melt a little like a soft serve ice cream cone on a summer afternoon.

You lift the corner of the cover for Bradley and he climbs in next to you. You move closer to the wall, trying to make more room for the bulk of him in his small bed, and he shifts in even closer into you until your bodies pressed tight against one another. The curves and angles of the two of you slotting together like pieces of a puzzle.

It feels like the two of you are teetering there on the edge of something. You both know exactly where it’s going, but are unsure of how to make it from Point A to Point B. Both waiting on the other person to make the first move.

He rests his warm hand on your stomach, the muscles there jumping on their own under his touch in anticipation. Your faces are close since you’re sharing his pillow. His brown eyes are searching yours, probably looking for any sign of hesitation that you don’t feel.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.” It’s not a question, but a request.

“Overwhelmed,” you admit, “But in a good way.” He runs his palm lightly up your stomach and back down, soothingly.

“Good, that’s good,” Bradley says, clearing his throat, “You’re supposed to feel a little ‘overwhelmed, but in a good way.’” You feel your lips pull up at his gentle teasing.

He smiles softly at you. His face has always been so familiar to you. The pink from his scars have finally faded, but you wonder when his eyes start crinkling around the corners.

You let go of the comforter to run a finger down the top of his nose, “I don’t know how this has stayed so straight.” He’d been in more than a couple fights in his teen years, including one that had sent him through a sliding glass door.

“Probably the combination of a little luck and the fact that none of those guys could throw a punch,” Bradley smirks. He shifts on his side, propping himself up on an elbow looking down at you, still running his hand along your stomach. “What have you done so far?”

His fingertips circle your bellybutton and your stomach swoops like it’s on the swing carousel ride at the fair.

“Some over the clothes stuff…” you stammer. You’re having trouble focusing because all your attention is on his big hand and how it feels against your oversensitive skin. “And I have a vibrator, but ah…”

You’re so keenly aware of his hand. With every lazy circle he makes, he has you wondering if this is going to be the one where he finally moves his hand lower. That part of you in flutters in expectation because you know it’s coming.

You let out a shaky huff when his fingers trails back up your stomach.

“What is it?” Bradley’s hand stops moving. “What are you thinking?”

“Honestly?” you say, trying not to squirm, “I’m getting really horny and you keep teasing me.”

He presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh at your overshare, and there’s amusement in his eyes.

“You know, some people call it foreplay,” he drawls. You’d roll your eyes but his fingertips are by your bellybutton again and you want him to keep going. “You ready for more?” You nod a few times because if he doesn’t touch you soon you might just crawl out of your skin. “Ok, gonna stop ‘teasing’ you now.”

This time his hand doesn’t stop at your bellybutton, it keeps moving down, down.

You stutter over a breath when Bradley’s fingers touch your clit. You feel yourself melt a little further into his mattress. He’s making easy circles, letting you get used to someone’s fingers other than your own on the most sensitive part of you. Your hands are clutching tightly to his comforter, unsure of what else to do with them.

“Spread your legs a little wider for me,” he murmurs. You feel your face heat up. He’d just given you a direction, but it sounds almost indecent coming out of his mouth.

You shift, moving your legs apart further for him, until he secures your left between his own, opening you up even more. You know you’re wet and now he does too. Bradley’s fingers slide easily over you as he increases the pressure on your clit. You can feel the intensity of his gaze on you watching for your reaction as he figures out what you like the most.

It doesn’t take him long to learn your body. You don’t know whether to be impressed with him or embarrassed with yourself at how quickly he’s worked you up.

Your breathing feels so loud in your ears in the quiet room, every breath and sigh is amplified. There’s a certain thrill in not knowing how he’s going to touch you next, your own fingers pale in comparison now.

His warm breath coasts down the side of your neck causing you to shiver at the sensation. It makes goosebumps break out along your arms and your nipples pull taut.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Are you cold?” His voice is low in your ear.

“No, I-” Oh god, you’re right there. “B-bradley, I’m-” You’ve made yourself orgasm plenty of times, but you’ve never shared that part of yourself with anyone else before. No one knows what you sound like or what you look like when you come. But now, Bradley was going to have the piece of you too. A whine escapes you without your permission.

“It’s ok, kid, I’ve got you.”

You’re seeking and searching, but it’s Bradley’s fingers that have the answer.

And you come with your stomach twitching and hips jerking as he murmurs praise in your ear.

His fingers slow down, featherlight on your clit, but your heart is still racing when he rasps, “There’s one, you up for another?”

Bradley loves that moment during sex when he hears that first gasp or moan. He loves learning what sounds of satisfaction he can pull from his partner. He loves knowing he earned it. But he never in his life could have ever anticipated hearing those sounds from you.

In his bed. Because of him.

He didn’t expect the lick of heat that curled up his spine at the shape of your legs and the curve of your ass as you were stepping out of your shorts. He’d never seen anything so strangely endearing as it was watching you shimmy your underwear off under the shield of his covers.

Every hitch in your breath made his blood run hotter in his veins. He was trying to control his cock, but he’d started getting hard the second you’d pulled your shirt off. Your bra was some kind of sheer thing that left nothing to the imagination, and while he wasn’t trying to check you out- because that’s not how it was between the two of you- he couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered down.

You’re slippery, wet, and warm. And he knows he can make you come again.

“Do you want me to use my fingers now?”

You crack an eye open at him, it’s the first time you’ve opened your eyes since he first touched you. Your eyes are bright in that way that only comes with an orgasm. “I thought you already were.”

“Such a smartass,” he grins.

Bradley changes the unhurried circles he’d been making on your clit to the upstroke that made your hips jerk up into his hand the first time he’d tried it. The little noises you’re making have him fighting the urge to grind himself against you for some relief of his own. He’s still got your knee tucked between his own; where there had been a hint of polite space between your bodies, the way you’re writhing now has him pressed up against your hip.

You gasp, breathily, “Oh, you’re hard.” The disbelief is evident in your voice, but it’s the look in your eyes that he doesn’t know what to make of, something like surprise.

He’s been trying to be a gentleman, this is about you and not him. There might not be anything romantic happening between the two of you, but this was hot and he was more than a little turned on. And he knows you are too because he can feel how wet you are under his fingers.

“’Course I am,” Bradley says, nudging his nose against your temple, “I’ve got a pretty girl in my bed half naked.” He didn’t want you to feel like you were in this on your own, so he lightly rocks against you. He wants you to feel him, he wants you to know he is into this too. “Are you ready more?”

“I’m ready, I want more,” you confirm, wrapping your hand around his bicep.

Your breath hitches as he teases you with just the tip of his finger.

He’s been told before he has big hands and thick fingers, he’s always taken it as a compliment in the past, but now he’s scanning your face for any trace of discomfort as he sinks one into you.

Your eyebrows twitch then smooth out and your mouth drops open as he starts pumping his finger into you in a smooth rhythm.

“That feels nice,” you sigh, airily.

He knows you like it when your hips tip up just a fraction. His comforter is bunched around your waist and your nipples are peaked against the see-through fabric of your bra. He gets his thumb on your clit and you whimper as you tentatively roll your hips against his fingers.

Bradley hums his approval, “Atta girl. There you go, find what feels good for you.” His voice sounds low even to his own ears, a throaty rumble. He feels you clench around his fingers and it sets his pulse racing. It’s a piece of information he tucks away for himself.

He’s gentle on your clit, but now that he knows you’re into it he’s setting a more purposeful pace with his fingers.

You’ve got your bottom lip pinned between your teeth, like you’re trying to swallow down your sounds. He didn’t realize how much he liked hearing these new sounds from you until you started trying to muffle them. On the next slide of his finger into you, he knows exactly what he’s looking for.

You suck in a sharp breath of surprise when he finds it.

“Is that the right spot, kid?” He sounds so smug. You curse and your hand clutches at his shoulder. “You want to try a second finger?” he murmurs into your ear.

“Yes,” you rock into his hand, “Yes, please.”

“Whatever you want, Miss Manners.” His chest feels like he’s taken a shot of Fireball. “You’re so polite when you’re trying to get your way.”

“I’m always polite,” you challenged weakly, pressing your head further into his pillow.

“Mhm,” he indulges, fondly, “You’re the sweetest girl I know.”

And then he fills you with two fingers.

“Jesus, Bradley,” you gasp, offering more of yourself to him.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulder as he lets your whimpers and whines guide his hands.

The two of you have your eyes fixed on the way the tendons of the visible part of his forearm are flexing before it disappears under the covers as he works you.

Bradley curls his fingers into that spongy part of you and your hand flies to his wrist, gripping him tight. It makes him pause, worried that he might have pushed you too far too fast.

“No, no. D-don’t stop,” you plead, desperately, “I’m so close. Keep going, please.” You squeeze his wrist encouragingly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he soothes. He focuses his efforts on that spot again now that he knows you weren’t wanting him to slow down, but rather trying to hold him in place. His fingers inside of you and his thumb on your clit working in tandem to get you there again.

“I just- yes. Like that. Oh fuck. Keep doing that. Oh my god. Please, Bradley.”

He’s heard you say his name a lot of different ways, but never like this.

Your back arches and you twist yourself towards him, burying your face against him and keening into the hollow of his throat as you come around his fingers.

You jerk and writhe into his hand, your knee slips free of his and your thighs clamp together around him. Bradley rolls off the arm he’d been leaning on and brings it to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer and holding you to him as he steadily works you through it until you’re loose-limbed in his arms.

He waits until your rapid pants have evened out before he slips his fingers from you. The displeased sound that you make makes the corners of his mouth twitch. He should have known you’d be bossy. He rubs gentle circles into the divots at the base of your neck as you come down.

Bradley can feel your lips graze the side of his neck when you finally speak, “So, um, let me know if you need a letter of recommendation or anything. I’d be happy to pass one along to your next partner.” You languidly prop yourself up on his chest and he notes with pride that you look a little flushed. “But, seriously, I get it now.”

He huffs a laugh as he toys with the end of your hair, “I’m glad it lived up to the hype. Well, at least that part of it.”

You press your lips together like you’re deciding something, tracing idle shapes on his stomach, and he can’t decide if he thinks you’re doing it without realizing it or if you’re the one doing the teasing this time. Your eyes flick down to his visibly hard cock and he feels his face heat up, “Can I?”

“Do you want to?” Bradley wants this experience to be everything you need and want it to be, but something about the tables turning here and the idea of you being the one to touch him like that makes his heart pound.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you softly tell him, resting your chin on your shoulder. The tender way you’re looking at him makes his teeth ache.

“Ok, but only for a little bit,” he agrees. Bradley knows he’s walking a tightrope with this, he’s aching and more than ready to be touched, but he doesn’t want to come all over your hand.

He plants his feet into his mattress and lifts his hips enough to pull off his boxer briefs, sighing in relief as his cock bobs free.

“That can’t be average,” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t know if you meant to have said it out loud but he smirks all the same, “I’ve never been average a day in my life, kid, Grade A student here.”

A groan slips out of him as your tentative fingers grasp his cock. There’s a lack of finesse in the way you touch him, your hand isn’t nearly as well-practiced as his own. He wraps his hand over yours, guiding your strokes as he shows you just what he likes.

“You can grip it a little firmer,” he coaches. You nod studiously, like you’re going to be tested on it later. Together the two of you work him from root to tip.

Bradley had never given much thought to his size until now. He knew he was big, but seeing that your thumb couldn’t reach the tips of your fingers when your hand was curved around him was an ego boost he didn’t know he needed.

You get more confident with every glide up and down the length of him. Your tricky thumb sweeps over the tip, collecting what precum had gathered there, and it makes your hand slide easier over him. When he accidentally thrusts into your hand, you grin and there are those dimples again.

“Ok, ok,” he blows out a shaky breath, stilling your hand with his. “We gotta stop or I’m going to come. And I’m not about to be a one pump chump.”

“It sounded like you’re more of a ten pump chump, if I remember correctly,” you tease, looking all too pleased with yourself. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw, your street cred is safe with me.”

He shakes his head in amused disbelief, “You’re such a goddamn menace. I knew I shouldn’t have told you that part.” He surprises the both of you when he wraps an arm around you and rolls to pin you under him.

And it’s like all the air is sucked out of the room because your thighs are cradling his hips and his cock is resting heavy on your stomach.

Neither one of you dare to move. He’d give anything to know what you’re thinking right now, he feels out of his depth as he watches you watching him.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth, “Are you on-”

You nod before he even finishes the question.

“Do you have-”

He nods before you finish yours.

“What did you promise me?” he prompts, squeezing the dip of your waist.

You hold up your pinky to him, “I’ll tell you.” He wraps his own crooked one around yours and gives it a shake.

Bradley doesn’t know what comes over him, but he drops a kiss to your shoulder as he reaches over you into the drawer of his nightstand to fish out what he needs. He’s thankful when you don’t comment on it because he wouldn’t even know how to explain it.

He leans back on his knees and rolls the condom on with practiced ease, then flicks open the cap to the bottle of lube he’s also grabbed and drizzles it over his cock.

“Am I not…” you trail off. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound this shy with him before.

“You’re plenty wet,” he assures you, pumping himself- once, twice- just enough to coat himself, “But this’ll be good too. I think you’ll like it.”

Bradley settles back over you, one arm braced by your head and the other on your hip, as your hands come up to rest lightly on either side of his ribcage. He rocks against you to demonstrate; the head of his cock nudges your clit with each silky pass. You exhale heavily at the sensation as he eases you into the motion of it, as he shows you what it’s like with another person.

You’re holding him close, and in just a moment the two of you will be the closest two people can be.

He makes only enough room to reach down between your bodies, only looks away from your face long enough to line himself up with you. There is such trust in your eyes as you gaze up at him, it’s not something Bradley takes for granted.

You nod, your fingers stroking his sides.

God, does he want this to be good for you.

He takes a breath.

And then he’s shifting forward and pressing in.

Bradley thrusts into you with all the careful gentleness you’d expect from him.

His thumb skimming along your forehead as he pushes in, in, in.

When he found that spot inside of you with his fingers, you thought you were going to fly away from the intensity of it, but then he’d pulled you into the safety of his arms and you felt like you could fall apart because he’d be keeping the pieces of you together.

He’s been so good to you. He is so good to you. He’s the best person you know.

The more of him he gives you, the less you feel like you can catch your breath.

You feel hot, hot all over. And much fuller than you’ve ever been.

Some sound must make its way out of you because Bradley offers you a low soothing noise before you feel his lightly chapped lips against your temple.

There’s something about this that reminds you of the time he tried to teach you how to skateboard. Always waited until you told him you were ready, until you found your balance. He’d held your hand as you cautiously rolled along the sidewalk, you were less worried about falling with him by your side. Only this time, his hand is on your waist and the only movements are his hips against yours as he rocks into you.

Little by little. Inch by inch.

You clutch at his biceps at the slight stinging sensation and you feel him hesitate.

“It’s just a lot,” you whisper. His fingers flex on your waist.

“You’re doing so good, just a bit more,” Bradley murmurs, encouragingly.

There’s pressure, there’s a give, and then there’s relief when his hips finally, finally meet yours.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath.

Your eyes had flickered shut somewhere along the way. You open them to see that Bradley’s face and chest are flushed pink, the muscle of his jaw flexing. The furrow between his eyebrows is so deep that you release your grip on him to smooth out the lines with an unsteady fingertip.

He reads the question in your eyes.

“You’re just really tight,” he grits out, voice strained.

You assumed that was a good thing, but he’s holding himself so tense above you that now you’re not sure. “Do I-,” you fumble over the words, “Does this feel good for you?”

He huffs an incredulous laugh, and brushes back some hair from off your face, “You feel really fucking good, sweet-”

Your whimper cuts him off when he pulls out a fraction and then pushes back in.

His brown eyes take you in as he does it again, more this time. Pulling out just a bit- just enough- and then filling you again. The discomfort fading more with each thrust as he guides his hips to yours until yours are tilting up to meet his seeking more.

It’s a conversation between your bodies, the give and the take of it all as Bradley introduces you to this new unspoken language. You feel yourself flutter around his cock, stretched wider than you’ve ever been.

You feel that heat spreading underneath your skin again as he surely and steadily pumps into you. It feels like your nerves are on fire. You didn’t expect to even come once and you’re well on your way to a third.

He reaches down and hooks your leg over his hip. His hand slides up along the outside of your thigh and under your ass, tilting your hips up towards his even more. He’s so much deeper like this. Your hands slide into his hair, tugging at his curls.

“Bradley, I-I think… I feel-”

 “You’re gonna come,” he rasps, nodding at you. Encouraging, coaxing.

He grinds his pelvis against your clit with every deliciously slow roll into you.

Your mouth drops open at the feel of it, it’s better than anything you’ve ever imagined. You don’t think your faces have ever been closer than they are now. Bradley is breathing your air, and you’re breathing his. Bradley’s pupils are blown wide, his heavy-lidded eyes are locked on yours. You didn’t know there could be so many shades of brown. His curls are a mess and it’s all because of you. He licks his lips and your breath catches in your throat when his eyes dart down to your parted mouth.

His next thrust into you hits that spot inside of you just so right that it has you gasping.

It’s so good, it’s too good, it’s overwhelming.

You wrap your arms around his neck clinging to him, your face buried against him. Bradley drops his head to your shoulder, you feel his lips brush against your clavicle. Your head moves away on instinct, making more room for him if he wants to do it again.

You get lost in the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the places you’ve heard about and read about, but have never felt for yourself until now. He’s still got your ass gripped in his hand, whereas your hands can’t stay in one spot. They’re tangled in his hair, running over his shoulders and down his abs, gliding over his back aided by the sheen of sweat he’s worked up.

You’re not trying to hold yourself back, but it feels like you’re standing on the tallest diving board at the pool, your toes curled around the edge, but still too nervous about the drop to jump.

“C’mon, kid. You’re right there,” he breathes hard, “I need you to come for me. Just one more.”

He gets his fingers back on your clit and it’s the end of you. Your back is arching so much you think you might snap. Your toes curl so tights they may never unfurl. The force your orgasm overtakes you, demanding everything you have up to offer and then some.

You hear Bradley’s moan as you pulse around his cock, trembling under him as the waves of pleasure wash over you. His hips stutter against yours, finally losing that steady rhythm he’d set, you pull him tighter to you and it’s not long until he comes too.

It’s all white noise. All you can feel is your heartbeat pounding, until little pieces of the world come back into focus.

The hum of the fan.

The beam of warm afternoon light through the blinds.

The smell of the now cold coffee on his nightstand.

In the after, you’re all too aware of every place your body is touching Bradley’s.

He’d somehow managed to roll on his back and had taken you with him. He was literally just inside of you, but yet it feels like your leg draped over his thigh is somehow more intimate. A prickly self-conscious feeling settles over you. Unsure of what the rules were for friends who just had sex, you attempt to peel yourself off of him, but the heavy arm over your waist keeps you in place.

“Come back here, kid,” Bradley mumbles, his eyes still closed, “I need to cuddle after I come, so I’m gonna need you to indulge me here for a moment.” He strokes a soothing hand down your back. And while he says it’s for him, you know he’s still trying to take care of you.

He hums when you lay back down. You set a hand on his chest. He reaches for it with his free one and threads your fingers together. It makes you melt further into him.

You feel a little different. But mostly, you feel like a weight you didn’t know you’d been carrying had been lifted off of you.

Your first time was everything you hoped it would be. You were safe and cared for, and you already knew, you’d never have any regrets about it. And it was all because of him.

“Thank you, Bradley,” you say, softly.

“Anything for you, kid.”

Your early morning catches up with you as you lay there, warm and secure. Your eyelids get heavier with each pass of Bradley’s hand along your spine. And you drift off to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

You’re still you. And Bradley is still Bradley.

It was just… something between friends.

A few hours later the two of you are still in his bed.

Only now you’re clothed and swapping the cartons of Chinese food that he’d ordered while you’d napped against his chest, and fighting over the fortune cookies watching some reruns of old sitcoms. You couldn’t hear their laugh tracks over your own.

The last couple of days you had at UVA fly by just as quickly.

You don’t know how, but the two of you managed to cross of all the things on his Spring Break To-Do List. And before you knew it you were back at the airport.

Bradley had insisted on walking you in, wanting to see you off.

Neither one of you has ever been good with goodbyes. So you don’t give him one, instead you reach for your bag and tell him, “Ok, see you in June.”

Bradley doesn’t let go, clearly confused, “What the hell are you talking about?”

You grin because it feels like a checkmate.

“You didn’t think you’d be getting that diploma all by yourself, did you?”

He looks thunderstruck.

You and your mom already had the plane tickets and hotel room booked. Your stepdad wouldn’t be able to come, but he was planning on sending your mom with one of the cakes from his family’s bakery. You’d been tasked with finding out what flavor, carrot cake or peanut butter- Bradley’s two favorites- but you could iron out the details with him later.

You’d had a busy week, plus it was more fun this way.

Bradley tugs you into his arms, yours wrap around him just as easily as they always have.

“June?” he asks into the crown of your head.

“June,” you promise.

And when he lets you go- for real this time- it’s with a smile that takes up his whole face.

He doesn’t say goodbye either, “Be good, kid. See you in June.”

𝐍𝐎𝐖

You avoid Rooster for the rest of the night.

And Jake too, for that matter. Bless Javy for finding ways to distract him because you could tell than man was chomping at the bit for more details. But you’d already given him more than enough.

You could have lied, you probably should have lied. It might have been easier than feeling like you’d hung up part of yourself on the drying line for everyone to see. But in that moment, the thought of lying and saying anyone else’s name other than Rooster’s had made your stomach turn.

Because it was the truth, he was your first, but he was also your best.

When you come out of the bathroom, there’s no missing Rooster. He’s leaning against the wall by the entrance. It takes him a moment to notice you since he looks lost in thought, but when he does you feel pinned to the wall by the intense look in his eyes.

He stands to his full height as you approach, you know he wants to talk about it.

You shake your head at him, “We don’t need to do this.”

“No, kid, we really do.” He takes you by the arm and leads you to a quieter spot away from everyone else.

“It was just a game,” you start before he can, “And now I know more about everyone’s sex life than I ever wanted to.” He crosses his arms over his chest at your attempt at deflection. “Look, I’m really sorry if that was something you wanted to keep a secret or just between us. I should have asked you first if that was ok to share.”

“I don’t care about that.” Rooster waves you off and takes a step closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “All this time and I’m the best you’ve ever had?”

“Are we really doing this? Here and now?”

You peer around him to look and see if anyone is watching the two of you, it feels like a showdown. But all the Daggers are occupied, probably on purpose. You’ve never seen Mickey with such a serious look of concentration on his face.

“Here and now,” he confirms.

You feel flustered, “Rooster, it’s been 12 years and we haven’t talked about it once-”

“Bradley,” he cuts you off. He takes another step towards you, so you’re toe to toe with him. “I’ve always been Bradley to you.”

The tension that had crept up in your shoulders releases a bit.

“Bradley,” you say, softly. “Listen, I’ve had a lot of good sex since then. Great sex even.” He presses his lips together and nods. “And with other men, if I felt like they weren’t putting in their best effort I’d kick them out because the bar was set very high early on.”

You see him fight back a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, with pride.

Your breath gets caught in your throat, you know he hears it because his eyes take on a richer shade of brown. You both feel the shift, tension churning between the two of you.

Taking a deep breath, you continue, “But I was telling the truth when I said you were my best. Probably because of the way you made sure I knew that you cared. I don’t know how to describe it. It was just different with you.”

You feel his finger graze the back of your hand.

The sounds of the Hard Deck fade into the background as you stare at each other. Entire conversations are being had as you look into his eyes and he looks into yours. Words and sentences spoken with glances.

Just friends don’t look at each other like this.

“It’s never been like this,” you whisper, “We’ve never been like this before.” You gesture at how close he is to you.

How he’s almost got you backed up against a wall.

How he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“I know.”

He says your name and your heart somersaults in your chest.

“I want to see your tattoo. I keep finding myself looking for it when we’re all at the beach. And then I get annoyed, knowing that people have seen it and I haven’t.”

“My tattoo? Bradley, what-”

“I want to see your tattoo,” he repeats like it’s a fact. “And I want to punch Seresin in his smug face every time he flirts with you.”

You roll your eyes, “Jake doesn’t flirt with me, not really. He just likes riling you up.”

“What if I said I wanted to try this as more than friends.” Bradley settles a large hand on your hip. “What if I said that since you’ve moved here I’ve had a hard time keeping my head on straight.”

“Bradley.” His name falls out of your mouth so easily now that it can.

“I want to take you home with me. I want to kiss you. I want to make you come. I need to know if you sound the same in my bed. And then I want to take you out for breakfast and buy whatever fancy coffee you want and as many pancakes as you can eat.”

You’ve been told that you wear your heart on your sleeve, but he has always worn his on his face. There’s no mistaking the open want on his face.

“Bradley, it’ll be different this time.” For so many reasons.

Because it’s not a favor being asked. It’s not some new experience being tried with the person you trust the most, with everything. You’d be on equal footing. It wouldn’t be a friend helping a friend, the two of you would be crossing that line between friends and more because you want each other in that way.

“I want it to be different, sweet girl,” he says, cupping your face in his familiar hand, “I’m ready for it to be different, if you are.”

He looks from your eyes down to your parted lips.

“We didn’t do that last time,” you whisper. Feeling brave, you reach out and run your fingers along the buttons of his shirt.

“No, we didn’t,” he agrees. His eyes are trained on his thumb as he skims it under your lip. “And that’s a damn shame.”

Bradley’s face is all you can see. Warm eyes, a still-straight nose, and a soft smile that is for you and you alone.

He dips down and your eyes flutter closed, your head tipping up on its own in anticipation.

His lips brush your cheek. It’s not enough.

You tug on his collar, but he chuckles and kisses your cheek again, lingering longer this time.

“I’m not kissing you for the first time around the corner from a bathroom,” he rasps.

You open your eyes and see the amusement in his. He always did like teasing you.

“Oh, where do you plan on doing it then?”

“Outside your front door, like a gentleman,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You can’t help but grin because Bradley Bradshaw can’t wait the extra 10 minutes it would take to drive to his place instead of yours. He wants that kiss just as badly as you do. You watch as a matching smile to yours blooms across his face.

It feels normal to slide your fingers between his much larger ones. It feels right as you lead the way out of the Hard Deck with him only a step behind you.

As it turns out, he only makes it as far as the Bronco before he’s spinning you back towards him and pressing you against it. His hands are on your hips and yours are wrapped around his neck as he kisses you for the very first time.

Bradley kisses you like a man who knows what he wants. And what he wants is you.

It’s not tentative in the way that first kisses usually are.

He kisses you like he knows you.

Because he does.

Later, when he closes the door to the Bronco for you, it feels like the end of one thing. But as he slips his fingers into yours when he backs out of the parking space it feels like the beginning of something new.

That night tangled in Bradley’s sheets- he’d kissed you at every light which made those extra 10 minutes it took to get to his home worth it- he makes your back arch and your toes curl as he makes you come with his fingers and mouth and tongue and cock. His lips dropping kiss after kiss on every part of you that he can reach. Because he can, because you want him and he wants you. 

The way he touches you tells you that he remembers it all.

He was you first, but what you wouldn’t learn until later, is that he would also be your last.

And he’d be the only man to ever have your entire heart.

Happy Birthday Jordan! An AU just for you! 💖 I adore you and I hope this year is the best one yet!

A big thank you to @callsignspark and @ofstoriesandstardust for their help and beta reading and their woogirling! I appreciate you two so much!

Author's Note: this was a "what-if" AU set in the 'Like I Can' universe! If you want to read about what really happens you can read it here!

You can read more of my stories here!

Taglist:

Bradley sighs, making a concentrated effort to check his blind spot before switching lanes – like driving could distract him from this conversation. Why doesn’t he have a girlfriend? He’s never really thought about it so, clearly, it hasn’t been at the top of his priority list. “The last girlfriend I had was in college. Didn’t last long, either,” he says, hoping this might appease your curiosity enough for you to change the subject.

“Hmm.”

He looks over at you again, wondering what you’re thinking. Wondering if you might consider this little detail a red flag. “I haven’t really met anyone I wanted to spend all my time with,” he says. Until now.

“Interesting,” you muse, leaning back into your seat as though you’re satisfied with this response.

“Is it?” Bradley asks, his gaze inadvertently coasting over your bare thighs every time he glances at you.

You shrug mildly, your fingers once again toying with your bracelet.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Bradley asks, feeling temporarily bold.

“Mmm,” you deliberate, dropping your hands into your lap and slanting your head back against the headrest. “We’ll see.”

Bradley furrows his eyebrows, now watching you more than he’s watching the road. “What does that mean?”

“It means, we’ll see, sugar,” you respond absently. Then, suddenly, you spring up in your seat. “Apple orchard ahead!” you exclaim, pointing at the sign on the side of the interstate.

Bradley, more confused than ever, blinks between your outstretched arm, the billboard, and the road. “You want to pick apples?”

You give Bradley a look and say, “They’ll have pie!”

“Oh!” Bradley chuckles. “Say no more.” He makes a few lane changes so as not to miss the fast-approaching exit.

“We can have the pie for lunch,” you say, glancing at the clock on his dash.

“We can stop for lunch and then get pie,” Bradley proposes, hoping to once again enjoy the pleasure of your company at a restaurant.

You consider his offer and then counter with, “We can have some pie, then have lunch, and then have some more pie.”

Bradley laughs. “Sold.”

…

About an hour later, Bradley is sitting with you on a small dock overlooking a creek, the open pie box positioned in between the two of you.

“That’s a fresh pie,” you comment, sticking your fork into the flaky crust.

Bradley grins at the top of your head as you lean over the box to take a bite. For some reason, your obsession with pie supremely amuses him. “You’re fucking adorable,” he says before he can stop himself.

You freeze with the fork in your mouth and then slowly blink up at him, your eyes searching his for a moment before you sensually draw the fork out of your mouth and then lick it for good measure. Bradley nearly has a heart attack. You smirk at him playfully and then get to your feet. “You think?” you ask, as though you want to hear him say it again. You bend over slightly and lift your leg to remove a sandal.

Bradley watches you gracefully step out of your shoes while beads of sweat collect under the collar of his t-shirt. How could he have let that kind of thing slip?

“Fancy a dip, Rooster?” You eye him mischievously.

Bradley gulps as you bunch up your sundress, exposing more of your legs than he should ever get to see, and dip a toe into the water. The current bubbles around your foot.

“It’s cold!” you squeal, lifting your foot out of the water with a laugh.

Bradley chuckles, getting up as you hop in your excitement on the edge of the dock. “Careful,” he cautions, holding his arm out in case you fall. “Don’t slip.”

You plunge your whole foot into the water before promptly removing it with a splash and a yelp.

“Come on,” he says. “How cold can it be?”

You giggle, taking a hold of his arm as you once again lower your foot into the creek.

Bradley lets his hand close gently around your elbow, steadying you while your toe makes circles in the water.

“How deep do you think it is?”

And before Bradley has a chance to respond, you make your way to the bank and take several steps into the creek, squealing as you go. Bradley shakes his head with a laugh as you wade further in.

“What’re you waitin’ for, handsome?” you call to him when you’re about knee deep in the water.

Bradley, who’s pretty sure he’s going to be replaying that line in his head for the next week, strolls up the dock toward the bank. He slips off his shoes and stands on the slope for a moment, letting the water lap at his bare feet.

“It’s freezing, right?” you exclaim giddily.

Bradley shrugs as he finally enters the – admittedly frigid – water. “It’s nice,” he says. “Refreshing.”

You snort as he strides toward you and, when he’s close enough, you dip your hand into the water and splash him.

“Hey now,” he cautions. “Don’t start something you wouldn't want me to finish.” He’s deep enough now that the bottoms of his shorts are skimming the surface of the water.

You giggle and splash him again – harder this time.

Bradley shakes his head, lowering his hand into the water. “Just remember,” he says, “you asked for this.” And then he glides his hand along the surface, sending a cluster of water droplets in your direction.

You screech, covering your face and, not a moment later, start a boisterous aquatic attack, showering him with icy water and completely impairing his visual field. The skirt of your dress floats in the water like a lily pad as you retreat deeper into the creek.

Bradley, who’s now soaked from head to toe, peels off his t-shirt and tosses it onto the dock. Then, he follows you deeper. “You’ve been warned, princess,” he says, gathering a wave of water and sending it in your direction.

You scream as the giant splash drenches you entirely. You stand still for a moment, accepting your fate, and then you wrap your arms around your shoulders, shivering as you glance up at Bradley whilst water drips from the tip of your nose. “I’m all wet!” you shriek.

Bradley laughs, finally approaching you. “What did you expect?”

“That you’d let me win!”

Bradley eyes you with a smirk. “Let you win? Honey, you don’t know me at all.” Bradley can’t remember the last time in his life he’d used so many pet names, but, looking at you, they just keep rolling off his tongue.

You pout at him, your lashes dripping water every time you blink. “I’ll get you back when you least expect it,” you say.

Bradley chuckles. “Your lips are turning blue,” he says, noticing that your teeth are starting to chatter.

You let Bradley lead you out of the water and, once you’re back on the bank, you start to wring out the bottom of your sundress. The wet material sticks to your curves invitingly and Bradley begrudgingly looks away.

…

“Want me to drive for a while?” you ask, approaching the car.

Bradley looks over at you with an amused smirk as he pulls open the passenger door. “Nope,” he responds.

“You don’t trust me with your precious Bronco?” you ask playfully.

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. “I just don’t mind driving.”

“Neither do I.” You shrug.

Bradley ponders for a moment before replying, “Next time.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Planning another road trip with me already?”

Bradley feels the unwelcome – but vexingly predictable – stutter of his heart as you continue to hold his gaze. He tightens his grip on the frame of the door he’s still holding open because he can’t very well sink his hands into you. Not only are you much younger than anyone Bradley’s ever dated, you’re also Hangman’s little sister, a reality so unfortunate that it almost feels contrived. Of all the girls in the world, why does he have to be so utterly infatuated with you? After a few seconds of – we’ll call it deliberate – silence, he grins. “If you’ll have me,” he says.

You smile. “Fun,” you say, drawing a little closer to the passenger door – a little closer to Bradley. “Where are we going?”

Bradley gulps uneasily. “Anywhere,” he says, his voice raspy and uneven.

You graze your teeth over your bottom lip and Bradley could swear that the heat of the afternoon sun is about to melt his very bones. “I’ve always wanted to take the scenic route to Alaska,” you muse, pursing your lips.

Bradley watches you unblinkingly. “Let’s go,” he says.

You let out a peal of laughter and slap him lightly on the chest. “Can you imagine?” you exclaim.

He can. “It’s a bit in the opposite direction,” he says somewhat ironically. “But anything’s better than the desert,” he concludes, slowly shifting his weight after standing very still for a very long time.

You smile at him sympathetically, as though you can tell he’s suffering greatly. “Rain check?” you ask softly.

Bradley, who is absolutely sure that there isn’t a single organ in his body left uncooked, comments facetiously, “Does it ever rain here?”

…

“Let’s stop for some coffee,” you say about half an hour after getting back on the road.

If Bradley didn’t know any better, he’d think you might be finding excuses to extend the trip. “With a pinch of salt?” Bradley teases you, but obediently merges onto the offramp.

“I’m thinking of switching majors,” you say quietly, as though you’re unsure whether you really want to share this information.

Bradley glances over at you as he pulls up to a red light. “Sounds like you might need something a little stronger than coffee.”

You snort loudly and then let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m thinking you might be right, darlin’.”

Bradley’s heart races as he pulls into the lot of the first bar he sees. Frequenting watering holes is absolutely on the list of things Bradley should not be doing with his colleague’s baby sister. But you seem like you need to get something off your chest. And Bradley can’t imagine a more ideal way to spend an evening.

The tavern is low-lit and crowded, and you shift slightly closer to his side upon entering. Bradley instinctively places a hand on your back, like it’s meant to be there or something. He guides you through the packed bar toward an empty table near the back and waves down a server before taking a seat across from you.

He slides you a cocktail menu and watches you peruse it without saying a word. When the server arrives, you order a paloma.

Bradley orders a whiskey neat and fixes you with a weighty look once the server departs. “You want to talk about it?” he asks.

You shrug. “We can.”

Bradley continues searching your face. “Do you want to?”

You sigh and look down into your lap. “Nobody knows yet,” you admit. “I’m halfway through my junior year so switching would really set me back.”

Bradley nods sympathetically. He knows all about being set back. “What are you thinking of switching to?”

“Psych,” you respond hesitantly.

Then the drinks arrive and you fall uncharacteristically silent. Bradley takes a sip of his whiskey while you down a quarter of your cocktail in one gulp. “You want my advice?” he asks. “Or are you just sharing?”

You meet his gaze distantly. “My parents are gonna flip shit,” you says monotonously, as if you haven’t even heard his question.

Bradley smirks at you. “It’s their job to overreact,” he says. “They just want to protect you.”

You absently run your finger around the rim of your glass. “My brother’s gonna question my judgement. Say I’m making a mistake.”

“Your brother has questionable judgement, himself,” Bradley points out.

You let out a small chuckle. “I wish I knew both outcomes before making a decision.”

Bradley could sure relate to that feeling. “Sometimes, you just have to go with your gut. It may not apply here, to be honest, but this guy I know – one of my superiors – he uh, he has this motto: ‘Don’t think, just do.’ I’m not saying yours has to be a split second decision. But, if it were, and you had to decide this minute, without weighing the consequences or talking it over with your family, what would you choose?”

You blink up at him soberly and state, “Naval Academy.”

Bradley’s eyes widen stupidly as he processes your words. “That” – he croaks, then clears his throat – “that’s not psychology.”

You suck in your cheeks and solemnly shake your head.

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments shortly!

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