18+ mdni

Bradley shakes his head, his amused grin fading as he drops his gaze back to the tray of food in front of him, and a tiny pebble of guilt drops in the pit of your stomach. You suddenly feel bad for snapping at your best friend, so you bump your shoulder against his and reach over to steal a fry from his tray. 

He shoots you a glare from the corner of his eye, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he isn’t really mad. You pop the fry into your mouth and chew it with a smile before turning your attention back to the group, startling when you find a pair of green eyes already trained on you. Heat flushes up your neck, colouring your cheeks as you stare back at the man you had just previously been ogling. Time seems to slow down, or speed up, you’re not sure, but what you do know is how pretty Jake’s eyes are, swirling shades of green with flecks of gold that glow in the afternoon sunlight flooding through the high cafeteria windows. 

“Hangman?” Javy clicks his fingers in front of Jake’s face, simultaneously snapping you both out of whatever trance you’d been stuck in. 

When you look around the table, you notice that most of the group are standing now, holding their empty trays and getting ready to return to work. 

Jake blinks a few times, a slight frown creasing between his brows. “What?” he snaps. 

Javy chuckles, holding one hand up in surrender. “Calm down, I was just asking what time we should get to your place tomorrow night.” 

“Oh,” Jake’s shoulders visibly relax, “1800.” 

You roll your eyes playfully as you push up from your chair. “Okay soldier, you can just say 6PM.” 

His face breaks into a breathtaking grin as he stands and picks his tray up from the table. “Sorry civilian, I’ll see you at 6PM tomorrow night.” 

Low laughter rumbles through the group as you take an extra moment to appreciate the gorgeous man smiling at you, but then Javy tugs on Jake’s arm and interrupts you both for the second time less than a minutes. “Come on man, Mav will be pissed if we’re late.” 

“Wait for me?” Bradley asks. 

You turn to your best friend and find him looking at you – asking you – rather than his squadmates. “Huh?” 

He raises one judgemental brow, a teasing smirk on his lips. “After work, wait for me so I can give you a lift home.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “duh, I’m not walking.” 

His eyes flash toward Jake’s retreating form before he looks back at you with a grin. “Would you at least try to control yourself? Jesus, it’s so obvious.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you frown at him. “Hurry up or Mav will have your ass.” 

He stacks his tray on top of yours in your hands and leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re so sweet to me,” he jokes, before turning on his heel and jogging after the others. 

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you watch him leave, meeting Jake at the exit door leading to the main hangars. Just as they both disappear, you can swear Jake throws an angry glance over his shoulder at you, but the door swings shut before you can be sure. 

That glare haunts you on your journey back to the control tower. Had you really seen what you think you saw? Jake had just been grinning at you, joking with you, but then somewhere on his way across the cafeteria he had found a reason to glare at you. It doesn’t make sense. 

You try to push the image of his angry face out of your mind as you sit back at your desk, one of eight situated on the fourth floor of the main control tower. Three screens stare back at you, displaying various windows of information about the sky’s conditions and other operational statuses from around the base. You slide your headset on and adjust the dials until you can hear a soft crackle indicating successful connection to the correct frequency. One by one, you watch the faces and callsigns of your friends pop up on the right-most screen as they turn their comms on and ready their jets. 

“Maverick to control,” Mav’s voice comes through your headset. 

“Good afternoon, Maverick,” you reply, as if you hadn’t already been on the comms with him for half the day. 

“Radio check before take-off please, aviators,” he says, “alphabetical order if you geniuses can figure it out.” 

You roll your lips to keep from laughing, reminding yourself that despite your personal connection to these people, this is still your job. 

“Bob to control, can you hear me?” 

“Lound and clear,” you respond, quickly trying to figure out the alphabetical order for yourself. 

“Coyote to control.” 

“Copy.” 

“Fanboy to control.” 

“Copy,” you repeat. 

“Hangman to control,” Jake says, his voice in your ear sending the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. 

“Copy,” you reply. 

The line then goes quiet, a faint crackling the only indication that the radio hasn’t completely dropped out. You wait a beat before speaking again, “Radio check please Payback.” 

“Shit, sorry. Copy,” Reuben’s voice responds. “I thought Phoenix was before me.” 

“A comes before H, idiot,” Natasha says, followed by a chorus of snickers. “Phoenix to control, can you hear me?” 

“Loud and clear, Phoenix,” you reply through your laughter. 

“Rooster to control,” Bradley’s voice fills your ears, “your favourite pilot here, bringing up the rear.” 

You roll your eyes, “Copy that, Shakespeare.” 

Another rumble of laughter comes through your headset as you quickly type into the afternoon’s log that the radio check was successful. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Mav says as the laughter dies down. “Control, are we good for take-off?” 

“Skies are clear, Mav,” you reply, “take off at will.” 

You tune out the soft chatter as the squad ready themselves for taking off, and one by one watch their altitudes rise on your middle screen. They all pop up as red dots on the radar window, blinking slowly as they cruise through what you know is a cloudy afternoon sky. 

“We’ve got a stormfront coming in from the south,” you say, eyes darting to your left-most screen. “We might need to call it a little early this afternoon, Mav.” 

Maverick chuckles, “An early mark on a Friday? I don’t know if this lot deserve it.” 

A series of protests then fill your ears, almost every pilot falling for Maverick’s taunt and arguing that they do deserve an early mark, even going as far as to say that they’ve had a hard week. You’ve been here all week too, and you probably couldn’t agree with that since this week has been one of the cruisiest in a while. 

“Alright, alright,” Mav says to quell the bickering, “if you can perfectly execute the cloak and dagger drill, I’ll let you all land by 1500.” 

The complaining turns into cheering, and Bradley threatens the team to perform because he’s not staying back in a storm on a Friday afternoon. Not that Mav could keep them in the skies if the weather gets that bad. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, “Coyote, I’ll be your wingman, and I want Phoenix and Bob behind us. Hangman, Rooster will be your wingman-” 

“I’ve been trying, Mav,” Bradley interrupts, his voice dripping with cheek, “but the man is oblivious.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, blocking your airways as you suffocate on the audacity of your best friend. The laughter from your headset sounds distant as you try to remember how to breathe, willing yourself to calm down. Afterall, no one could really know what he’s talking about, right? 

“Yes, Rooster,” Maverick chuckles, “we’re all aware of how oblivious Hangman is.” 

Your eyes grow wide. 

“What are you talking about?” Jake pipes up, and you can almost see the adorable and confused look on his face. His brows pinched together, a little crease between them, and his bottom lip pushed forward in a small pout. 

“Point and case,” Bradley says, at which the rest of the squad dissolve into giggles. 

Does everyone know about your crush? Is Jake really the only confused pilot right now? 

“I don’t get the joke,” Mickey says over the laughter. 

You can’t help the smile that cracks across your face, a breathy laugh leaving your lips as you try to focus on documenting the weather warning in your afternoon log. The team continue to giggle, turning their teasing on Mickey before Maverick orders them to focus. They run the drill perfectly, finishing up just before an orange alert pops up on your screen, a notification from the weather analysis team telling you to get the squad on the ground. 

“Maverick,” you say, “the storm is coming in fast; you’ve been ordered to land.” 

“Copy that,” he responds, before rattling off instructions to the squad. 

One by one, you watch their blinking dots on the radar screen approach the runway and land. They manoeuvre toward the hangar, following instructions from the ground team to store the jets for the weekend. You exchange a couple of last words with Mav before they all remove their helmets and start the end of day procedures. You take time to check your emails and send the day’s log to the data analysis team before doing all your usual sign offs. By the time you’re exiting the control tower, it’s almost 4PM. 

You pull your phone out of your back pocket, about to text Bradley asking which lot he parked in today when his Ford Bronco skids to a halt three feet in front of you. He leans across the passenger seat and pops the door open with a grin. “Need a ride?” 

You roll your eyes, taking two long strides forward and throwing your bag into the back seat before flopping into the passenger seat beside him. “That was quick,” you state. “Doesn’t the debrief usually take longer on Fridays?” 

Bradley shrugs, “The admiral left early today so we didn’t have to do a formal debrief, and maintenance are doing a fuel flush on all the jets this weekend so they took them off our hands pretty quick.” 

“Oh, nice,” you reply simply before turning your attention back to your phone, checking the notifications you missed during work. 

Bradley navigates the base easily, slowing to a stop at the exit gates and having a short chat with the security guard in the booth before the boomgate rises and he hits the gas again. When the car merges onto the main highway, you tuck your phone under your thigh, not wanting to risk motion sickness with Bradley’s driving. Let’s just say, he’s a much better pilot than he is a chauffeur. 

“So,” he says, glancing at you with a cheeky grin, “do you want to hear something interesting.” 

You sigh, recognising that look. “Who were you eavesdropping on today?” 

“I heard Hangman talking to Coyote before I left,” he explains, eyes sparkling with mischief, “and I heard Coyote say to ‘stop making excuses and just ask her out’.” 

You frown, trying to tamp down the green-eyed monster rumbling to life in your stomach. “Ask who out?” 

“I didn’t hear a name, but I’m assuming-” 

“Don’t say me.” 

He chuckles, “Not me, you.” 

You scowl at him, “Don’t argue with me about semantics.” 

He rolls his eyes, “I just don’t understand why you won’t believe me. You heard the whole squad before, everyone knows except Hangman, even Mav!” 

“Mickey doesn’t know,” you argue. 

“Fanboy is almost as oblivious as your boyfriend.” 

Your eyes narrow, “Do not use that word.” 

He laughs again, “Which one?” 

“You know which one.” 

He sighs heavily, as if the weight of your unrequited crush was pressing down on his shoulders too. “Look, if you’re going to be stubborn, I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.” 

“Please don’t,” you beg, your eyes growing wide. 

He shrugs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, but you’re giving me no choice.” 

“Bradley, please,” you plead, turning in your seat to face him, “just leave it alone. I don’t want to ruin the friendship and make it uncomfortable for the whole group.” 

“The whole group already is uncomfortable with you two constantly eye-fucking each other!” 

Heat creeps up your neck, turning your cheeks pink and making your ears burn. You want to protest and continue arguing with him, because you’re adamant that Jake does not return your feelings, but your brain can’t seem to string a coherent sentence together. Instead, you sink down in your seat and scowl at the road, wondering what you could possibly be in store for if Bradley really is taking matters into his own hands. 

The rest of the drive home isn’t long, and soon enough, Bradley is pulling the Bronco into his parking spot in the garage of the apartment block you both live in. You don’t live together, but you do live in neighbouring studio apartments, so it often feels like you live together. You drive to and from work together, you usually have dinner together and watch movies together in the evenings. Basically, if you’re both not busy, you’re with each other, and it’s been that way as long as you’ve both been based on North Island. 

The squad had initially teased that the two of you might be more than friends, they even had you questioning it, but one wine-drunk kiss while watching The Bachelor confirmed that neither of you felt anything romantic toward the other. It was that same night that you also confessed to Bradley that you might be falling for Jake, to which he looked at you like you were stupid because duh. Apparently, your crush has been obvious from day one. 

Now, here you are, hopelessly in love with a man you not only work with, but you’d also consider one of your closest friends. Rock, meet Hard Place, and you? You’re in the middle. 

- 

After spending the night on the couch with Bradley and a box of pizza, you took yourself off to bed and dreamed one of the many reoccurring dreams you have about a certain fighter pilot. You managed to sleep in before taking yourself for a long walk and making a mental list of all the things you needed to do before Javy’s birthday party. 

Jake had been generous enough to offer having the party at his place, since the squad wanted to do something other than go to The Hard Deck for once. You'd offered to help shop for supplies and set up for the night, but Jake and Javy assured the group that they had it all under control. All you have to do is waste your Saturday and quell your nerves before the party. 

At exactly 5:45PM, there’s a knock at your door. You quickly finish applying your lip balm before tucking it into the purse hanging from your shoulder and grabbing the jacket you’d thrown over the back of the lounge. You yank your front door open to find your best friend grinning from ear to ear, his moustache looking particularly fresh. 

“You shaved,” you state, stepping forward and forcing him to step back. 

He nods before asking, “Did you?” 

You finish locking the door, slipping the key into your purse with one hand while the other slaps Bradley’s bicep. “Don’t be creepy!” 

He chuckles and rubs his arm. “I’m not being creepy, I’m just making sure you’re prepared for any outcome.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you planning?” 

"Nothing in particular,” he replies innocently, though the small smirk on his lips betrays him. 

You decide to leave it, since you're already nervous enough, and focus on relaxing the butterflies flapping wildly in your stomach. Bradley decided earlier that he would drive to Jake’s, since it’s hardly ten minutes from where you live, and leave his car in favour of getting an Uber home. Jake had said that anyone who wanted to crash was more than welcome to, but the thought of sleeping at his place only invigorates those nervous butterflies. 

“Stop,” Bradley says, one hand leaving the steering wheel to grab your bouncing knee. “Why are you so nervous?” 

You shrug, opting instead to wring your hands in your lap. “I don’t know, I just am.” 

“You see these people every single day,” he points out, “what’s so nerve-wracking about tonight?” 

You sigh, refusing to look at him as you reply, “I’m just feeling a little weird about going to Jake’s apartment.” 

His brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you can tell by the way he rolls his lips that he’s holding back laughter. Your cheeks burn, and you have to hide your face in your hands. 

“I’m not going to make fun of you,” he says quickly, “I actually think it’s a bit cute.” 

You drop your hands, turning to him with a frown. “What? Why?” 

He shrugs one shoulder, “I don’t know. It’s cute that you’re nervous to see where you’ll be living once the two of you finally fuck and get marr- ow!” 

You cut him off my smacking his arm, the same one as before, harder. “Would you stop being such a pain?!” you exclaim as the car comes to a halt. “You’re supposed to be my best friend; you’re supposed to comfort me, not make my face all red and blotchy right before we go inside.” 

He finally lets his laughter win, his shoulders shaking as he chuckles into his closed fist. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not trying to be a dick, it just comes so naturally.” 

You roll your eyes and pop open the passenger door, throwing him a glare over your shoulder. “I know.” 

He manages to keep his thoughts to himself while the two of you cross the lobby and ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. This apartment block is shorter than yours, but wider. It’s one of the most coveted locations for naval personnel based on North Island, being the closest two- and three-bedroom apartments to the base. Jake had lucked out when he snagged one of these apartments with another lieutenant, and he’d lucked out even harder when that lieutenant got relocated and he ended up having the apartment to himself. 

The sound of Bradley’s knuckles against the hardwood door knocks you back to reality, and you find yourself standing in front of apartment 4B. 

“Who is it?” Natasha’s voice calls from the other side of the door. 

“Stripper,” Bradley calls back. 

“Finally,” the door wooshes open and you watch the liquid in Natasha’s red cup slosh dangerously. “We’ve been waiting all night.” 

Bradley winks at her as he strides into the apartment, but before you can follow, Natasha blocks your path. “You need to pay the entry fee,” she says, offering you the red cup. 

You frown, “Why me and not him?” 

“Because it’ll calm your nerves.” 

You catch Bradley smirking over his shoulder, and you scowl at him, wishing you could telepathically punch him for texting Natasha in advance, warning her of your anxiousness. 

“Fine,” you sigh, taking the cup and tipping it to your lips. 

You drain the cup, ignoring the burn that slides all the way down to your stomach. When you tip your head back to look at Natasha, she’s grinning. “Now you may enter,” she says, stepping aside. 

There are a few more people than just the dagger squad in the apartment. You recognised most of them, but you decide that it’s not important enough for you to go around the room introducing yourself to the ones you don’t know the way Bradley is. Outgoing motherfucker. Instead, you beeline for the kitchen where Bob is on the phone reading out an extensive list of pizza orders. He offers you a quick smile before returning his attention to the list. 

There’s a makeshift cocktail station set up beside the sink, with an array of alcohol bottles sat on the passthrough window bench. Your gaze drifts past the bottles and into the lounge room where everyone is gathered, landing easily on Jake who is animatedly retelling something to two men you recognise as Fritz and Yale. You’ve never been so charmed by someone in your life, it’s almost laughable the way this man captivates you. You can’t look away from the bright grin on his face, the tiny crease between his brows, and the excitement in his pretty green eyes. 

“Hey,” Bob says, startling you out of your trance. 

You can feel heat blooming in your cheeks as you turn to face him, leaning your left hip against the countertop. “Hey.” 

“Drink?” he asks, a small but knowing smile tipping the corner of his mouth up. 

You nod quickly, “Please.” 

You chat idly while Bob fixes you both a cocktail that you don’t recognise, not that you’re much of a connoisseur when it comes to bartending, and you’re pretty sure he sneaks an extra shot into yours. Either way, the drink he hands you tastes delicious and fruity, and you’re feeling a little less nervous as you both join the group in the living room. A couple of Javy’s friends who you don’t know have already parted from the dagger squad, starting a foosball competition while the rest of you find somewhere to sit around the coffee table. 

“Okay,” Bradley says to the group, “let’s play a little warm up game.” 

“Yes!” Mickey exclaims as he settles into a beanbag. “I’m so down.” 

Javy chuckles, “Alright, what are we playing?” 

“Never Have I Ever,” Bradley replies, his lips curled into an evil smirk. 

Your heart stutters, forgetting its usual rhythm before jumping into an erratic beat. You tip your drink to your lips, almost draining the whole thing, and when you finally look back at your best friend across the coffee table, he winks. This is his plan. 

“But instead of just putting a finger down,” Natasha says, making you realise that she is in on it too, “you have to take a sip of your drink.” 

“Does everyone have a drink?” Bradley asks. 

You watch as a few of your friends drain the dregs of their current drinks before getting up to retrieve fresh ones, and you sigh, tipping the last of your cocktail into your mouth. You might as well get drunk with them. 

When Bob returns to his seat beside you, he hands you a bottle of blue liquid. “Thought you might need this.” 

You smile gratefully, “You’re the best.” 

Once everyone is settled again, Bradley and Natasha take turns going over the rules of the high school game, even though it’s not that complicated. 

“Oh, one last thing,” Bradley says, eyes trained on you, “nothing is off limits, and if you lie, you finish your drink.” 

“How will we know if someone’s lying?” Reuben asks. 

“I think there’s enough of us here that know each other well enough to spot a lie,” Natasha replies with a smirk. 

Well, fuck. 

“I’ll start,” Bradley announces. “Never have I ever slept with someone else in the navy.” 

Jake, Javy, Mickey, Reuben, Natasha, and Harvard – who you only know by his callsign – all groan and take a sip of their drinks. Your eyes widen and you turn to Natasha on your right. “Excuse me, why did I not know about this?” 

She rolls her eyes, “It was ages ago.” 

“Damn, Phoenix,” Reuben says with a smirk, “didn’t think you were a rule breaker.” 

“Technically,” Natasha bites back, “it’s not a rule, just frowned upon.” 

Laughter rolls through the group before Bradley turns to Jake on his left. “You’re up, Hangman.” 

Jake clears his throat as he sits up straighter and surveys the group, lingering on you for a moment longer than the rest. “Okay,” he says, “never have I ever had a secret relationship.” 

There’s a beat of silence, a few people’s brows creasing in confusion as everyone stares at Jake. 

“That’s a weird one,” Natasha states, though you can see in her eyes that she’s trying to figure out the hidden meaning to Jake’s declaration. 

“Well, anyway,” Javy says, chuckling as he tips his beer to his lips. 

The rest of the group takes a moment to think before both Bradley and Mickey also take a sip of their drinks. You watch Jake’s eyes widen slightly as he watches Bradley drink, then his gaze darts toward you, as if waiting for you to take a sip too. When you don’t, his shoulders seem to relax. 

“Oh, my God,” Natasha whispers so softly that only you can hear, and when you turn to look at her, you find her eyes focused on Jake. 

You feel yourself splitting in two, torn between asking Natasha what her revelation is or demanding to know what this secret relationship of Bradley’s was. You decide to go with the less nerve-inducing option. 

“Excuse me, Bradley,” you speak across the group, “what was this secret relationship?” 

He chuckles, “It was in high school.” 

“Oh,” Reuben wriggles his eyebrows and nudges Bradley’s side, “were you a junior and she was a senior?” 

Bradley snorts, “Actually, I was a senior and she was a teacher.” 

Javy chokes on his second mouthful of beer, and the group suddenly erupts into laughter and questions while Bradley sits there like a king. You join in the laughter and use the commotion to slide your gaze toward Jake, heat rising in your cheeks when you find his eyes already fixed on you. He smirks, and you’re pretty sure your stomach does a triple somersault. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Bradley says. “I know I’m a legend. Now, let’s get on with it.” 

Beside Jake, the man you only know as Harvard announces that he has never skinny dipped, at which everyone but Bob takes a sip of their drink. Next is Fritz, who declares that he has never had sex in the shower, and everyone in the group drinks. Your heart starts to race again as Natasha wriggles beside you, clearly excited about it being her turn next. 

“Let me think,” she says, rolling her lips as she pauses to think for a moment. 

You feel her brief gaze from the corner of her eye, and heat prickles the back of your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Never have I ever,” she begins, her brown eyes glowing with mischief, “had sexual fantasies about someone else in this group.” 

Your breath catches on its way out, lodging in your throat as you once again forget how to breathe. You can feel your pulse across every inch of your skin, your heart thudding so hard against your ribs you worry it might break free. You can’t lie. You know you can’t lie, because Bradley is giving you a very pointed glare from across the group and Natasha has turned her whole body to face you. 

“Fine,” you mutter into the bottle as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up. 

You hear Javy's laughter above everyone else’s hoots and hollers, and when you look back at the group, you catch the tail end of Jake taking a sip from his drink. Natasha giggles beside you, subtly nudging your side with her elbow. 

Bradley’s eyes are trained on you, and he opens his mouth to no doubt say something taunting when Reuben lifts his drink to his lips, and Bradley turns to him in shock. “You too?!” he exclaims. 

Mickey has dissolved into fits of laughter, curling over and holding his stomach. 

“It was an accident,” Reuben justifies, the colour of his cheeks growing deeper, “I had one dream.” 

“About who?” Jake demands, his frown more accusatory than curious. 

Reuben shakes his head, “That is nobody’s business but mine.” 

The laughter slowly dies down, and you silently thank any god that might be listening for the distraction before Bradley or Natasha could embarrass you further. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, quickly moving the game along. “Never have I ever piloted a jet.” 

The smirk on your lips is incredibly proud, and half the group groans while the other half chuckles as every single one of them tip their drinks to their lips. It was a cheap shot, but you had to distract from all the sex stuff before you spontaneously combusted. 

“Alright, Bob,” Bradley says, looking at the man to your left, “what have you got for us?” 

Bob clears his throat, a small smile curling his lips. “Never have I ever worn a bra.” 

Both you and Natasha roll your eyes and take a swig of your drinks, and across the group so does Bradley. You stare at him wide eyed as a stupid grin stretches across your face. 

“Oh, I have got to hear this story,” Natasha says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. 

Bradley tries to shrug nonchalantly, but you can see blood seeping into his cheeks, turning them red. “Alright, as if none of you have tried a bra on before,” he says, eyeing the men around the circle. 

Everyone bursts into fits of laughter, holding their stomachs or their chests as they fold over and start mocking your best friend. You almost feel bad for him, watching him try to defend himself, but then you remember that he started this game to out your crush and any trace of empathy you had is quickly wiped clean. 

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Javy says over the giggling and teasing, “it’s the birthday boy’s turn.” 

The noise dies down, and only then do you realise that the group of Javy’s friends by the foosball table are now watching the game of Never Have I Ever as if it’s some enthralling reality TV show. 

“Never have I ever,” Javy says slowly, his eyes locked on Jake directly across the circle, “been too chickenshit to ask someone out even though I’m clearly obsessed with them.” 

Your heart stutters again, unable to discern the difference between being held at gunpoint and playing a stupid game mostly likely created by high school students. You tip your drink to your lips, not missing the fact that Jake does too, and certainly not missing the way Bradley’s eyes widen and snap toward you. Mickey and Fritz also drink, but to your immense relief, the rest of the group hold off on the teasing for this round. 

“Okay, um,” Mickey taps a finger on his chin as he stares into space, “never have I ever ridden a horse.” 

Beside him, Reuben frowns, “What?” 

Mickey shrugs, “I was looking at the horse.” He gestures toward the narrow bookshelf beside the television cabinet, adorned with a few books, photo frames, and knickknacks. On the very middle shelf is a golden trophy with a little figurine of a cowboy riding a horse, his rope poised in the air mid-lasso. 

Reuben turns his quizzical frown toward Jake. “Why do you have a horse trophy?” 

Jake’s cheeks are pink, either from embarrassment or alcohol, you can’t tell, but Javy speaks before he can reply. “Didn’t you know baby Hangman was a part of Austin’s champion junior penning team?” 

Mickey tilts his head like a confused dog. “What’s penning?” 

“It’s a ranching thing,” Jake replies, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re in a team of three on horseback, and you have to separate cattle. There’re all these other rules too, but that’s the basis of it.” 

Your chest aches at the sight of Jake Seresin actually looking shy. You’ve never seen this man with less confidence than a stag in mating season, and that mixed with the imagery of a young Jake working on his family’s ranch; well, your heart is just about ready to burst. 

Bradley chuckles, “I always forget that you’re a cowboy.” 

“Can take the boy out of Texas,” Javy says with a southern twang, “but can’t take Texas out of the boy.” 

Jake rolls his eyes playfully and rumples up his empty red cup before tossing it across the circle at his best friend. From what you can gather, Jake and Javy have known each other far longer than just the past few years, and you’re always pleasantly surprised when either of them comes out with historic pieces of information about the other. 

“Alright, one more and we’re playing a new game,” Bradley announces, turning his attention to Reuben who is the last to go before it’s back to the beginning. 

 “Never have I ever,” Reuben says with a cheeky smile, “owned a cowboy hat.” 

The group dissolves into another fit of laughter, and you see Natasha and Fritz sip their drinks from the corner of your eye, but everyone’s attention has turned to Jake. 

He rolls his eyes again and pushes to his feet. “You people are relentless!” he exclaims, his tone laced with amusement. “I finished my drink anyway, so suck on that.” 

Renewed laughter rumbles through the room as Jake storms off down the short hallway, disappearing into a room you can’t see from your position on the lounge. Half the group make their way toward the kitchen to refresh their drinks, while the other half continue joking about Jake’s cowboy ancestry. 

You turn your attention back to the bookshelf where the trophy is, letting your eyes wander over all the pieces of Jake that are displayed on the shelves. You hadn’t noticed before, but a lot of the decor in the apartment gives subtle nod to his upbringing. Everything is washed in warm browns and oranges with rich wood furniture, photos of horses and farmland, and trinkets reminiscent of a life on the ranch. He has more than one trophy, you note, and there are a quite a few photos of a young, smiley boy standing proudly beside the same chestnut horse. Your chest squeezes again, reminding you just how enamoured you are with this man. 

“Drink?” Bob asks for the second time tonight, offering a different coloured cocktail than earlier. 

You nod, “Thank you.” 

“Pizza is almost here,” he says, looking at both you and Natasha. “Would you help me go down to the lobby and pick it up?” 

You both agree and let the rest of the group know where you’re going before heading out of the apartment door. The pizza guy meets you in the lobby barely a minute after you step out of the lift. Bob pays with cash, and you all stack your arms with boxes of delicious smelling pizza before stepping back into the lift and riding it up to level four. 

You can hear commotion the second the elevator doors part, and it gets louder the closer you get to Jake’s apartment. The three of you exchange dubious looks before Bob shifts the boxes in his arms to free one hand and knock on the door. It swings open almost immediately, and you can now very clearly hear some unrecognisable country song blaring while everyone hoots and cheers. 

Fritz, who opened the door, takes some of the boxes and calls for more help. As soon as your arms are free, you turn to see what all the fuss is about, your jaw dropping open the second your eyes land on the two men in the middle of the living space. 

Jake and Javy are arm in arm, jumping in circles and doing what you assume is supposed to be some country jig. It’s uncoordinated and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe, but it’s not the dancing that has the butterflies in your stomach whirring to life. Atop Jake’s head is a brown cowboy hat. It’s simple and a little worn, the exact same colour as the horse in the photos with young Jake. 

Holy fucking shit, does that man look good in a cowboy hat. 

You’ve never really considered yourself as having a ‘type’, but right now you couldn’t be more sure that this man is your type. The only person on planet earth that is your type. You can’t help the way your lips are pulled into a grin so wide it hurts, and the fast, uneven thud of your heart against your ribcage, threatening to crack bone. 

“Are you okay?” Bradley asks, startling you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. 

You sigh, feeling the pull in your gut that tugs toward the man in the cowboy hat. “No,” you reply, leaning into him, “I’m not okay.” 

His chest vibrates with laughter as you hide your face in it, keeping your arms slack by your side as you pretend to sob into your best friend’s shirt. His other arm wraps around you and his laughter doubles, one arm squeezing you tight while the other hand rubs circles on your back. Despite how much of an asshole he can be, you know that Bradley is always there for you when you need him. 

You pull out of his embrace when the music dies down and Bob announces that its dinner time. Your eyes easily find the cowboy, watching him walk toward the dining table where all the boxes of pizza are laid open. 

“Look at him,” you whisper-shout to Bradley. “Fucking look at him! Don’t you just want to lick-” 

“Nope,” Bradley interrupts before you can even finish. “I definitely do not want to lick any part of that man.” 

You roll your eyes playfully as he guides you toward the table of pizza. He hands you a plate and you start stacking a few slices on it despite your nervous stomach’s protests. When you glance across at Jake, his piercing eyes are already on you – like they so often seem to be of late – but he doesn’t look nearly as joyous as he had moments earlier. There’s a crease between his brows and tension in his jaw as he chews. 

Natasha pops up beside you and starts babbling about what game you should all play next. She’s always a chatty drunk, not at all annoying, but definitely more vocal than usual after a few drinks. You listen to her and Bradley squabble about games before Javy pipes in, declaring that it is his birthday so he should get to decide. 

After everyone has eaten their fill, Jake and Reuben pack away the leftover pizza while Bob and Mickey start making a round of cocktails. Meanwhile, Javy announces that he would like everyone to do a shot, which is when three of his mates who you have guessed are not navy make their exit. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Javy mutters, lining up all the mismatched shot glasses on the kitchen counter. “How many do we need?” 

You look at Jake, who is standing beside you and craning his neck to count the heads in the room. “Why do you have so many shot glasses?” you ask him. 

He pauses for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head. “You made me lose count.” 

When he looks down at you, it feels like your lungs constrict, forgetting once again how to do their one job. Your chest aches in the most deliciously painful way, because that ache radiates all the way down to the apex of your thighs. You don't just want this man, you need him. 

“I used to like to collect shot glasses,” he finally replies. “I’d try to get one in every city I visited but after about ten, I kept forgetting.” 

“We need eleven,” Javy announces, obviously having counted the room while Jake answered your question. 

“We’re one short then,” Jake states. 

You shrug, your inebriated brain quickly diving into devious thoughts. “Someone could do a body shot off me.” 

Every head in a two-foot radius snaps toward you. Jake’s eyes are blown wide, and a huge grin is pulling Javy’s mouth across his face. Bob looks shocked and Mickey looks amused, but Bradley is almost glowing with pride. 

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time, “I’m joking, guys. Calm down.” 

Jake’s shoulders sag as if he’s disappointed, but he huffs a short laugh out before picking up one of the bottles to start pouring liquid into the line of shot glasses. “I’ll go last,” he says, looking at Javy. “I’ll just use your glass.” 

At Javy’s request, everyone gathers around and picks a shot, clinking them together and spilling drops of amber liquid on the floor before tipping them up to their lips. It burns all the way down and sizzles angrily in your stomach. Sweat prickles the back of your neck as heat breaks out across every inch of your skin. You’re well on your way to being drunk, so you take advantage of the cheering to slip back into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. If anything, it might save your head tomorrow. 

Twenty minutes later, everyone has a full drink and a seat somewhere around the coffee table. Javy decided that it’s time for another game, and despite protests, he said that he has picked one and there will be no negotiations. You find yourself comfortably between Bradley and Natasha, trying not to ogle at the gorgeous man across the circle. He is no longer wearing his cowboy hat, having taken it off just before doing his shot, hanging it on the back of one of the dining chairs. 

“Alright, what are we in for?” Bradley asks Javy. 

Javy grins, “Truth or Dare.” 

There’s a mixture of cheers and groans, but everyone ends up giggling with each other since the whole group is very happily tipsy by now. 

“Okay, okay,” Natasha calls over the laughter, “what rules are we playing?” 

Javy and Natasha negotiate the rules of the game, deciding not to move the game in a circle but from player to player; whoever gets asked ‘truth or dare’ then gets to choose the next victim. You glance quickly toward Fritz, Harvard, and Yale, the three you don’t hang out with all that much, and wonder if they’ll ever get a turn. 

“And if you don’t want to answer the truth or do the dare,” Natasha says, “then you have to drink.” 

Everyone nods in agreeance before Jake announces from beside Javy, “Birthday boy goes first.” 

Javy’s eyes scan the circle before settling on Bradley. “Rooster,” he says, “truth or dare?” 

“We’ll start of lightly,” Bradley states. “Truth.” 

“Is it true that you and Y/N are just friends?” 

Your eyes widen and you immediately inch away from your friend, leaning into a giggling Natasha. 

“Yes!” Bradley exclaims. “It couldn’t be truer! Are you kidding me?” 

Laughter rumbles through the group, everyone but Jake finding Bradley’s disgust rather amusing. 

Javy chuckles, “Just checking! You two are pretty cosy.” 

You scoff, “He’s like my brother.” 

“Alright,” Javy raises both hands in surrender, “I won’t ever question it again.” 

“Good,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. 

Bradley clears his throat and the snickering dies down. He looks straight at Jake, “Hangman, truth or dare?” 

“Truth,” Jake replies. 

“Is it true that you’re totally hung up on someone right now?” 

Jakes cheeks turn bright pink and he immediately covers his face with his hand, hiding his sheepish smile. He sighs, “Yes, that is true.” 

Your stomach twists itself into a knot, threatening to eject everything you’ve consumed in the past few hours. The rest of the group start giggling again, teasing Jake and making stupid oohing noises as the poor man places his beer on the coffee table to bury his face in both hands. 

“Okay,” he chuckles, swatting at Javy as he makes kissy noises, “that’s enough.” 

Once everyone manages to mostly compose themselves, Jake asks Bob truth or dare. Bob chooses dare, which lands him in Bradley’s lap for the next ten minutes. Bob then asks Natasha truth or dare, and she picks truth, deciding to drink instead of admitting who she finds the most attractive in the room. You have a feeling Bob might already know the answer to that, which is why she flips him the bird before asking Mickey truth or dare. He picks dare, of course, and has to do a shot of straight vodka.  

After he’s finished coughing and hacking, he returns to his spot between Bradley and Yale, turning his attention to you. “Y/N,” he says with an evil grin, “truth or dare?” 

“Truth,” you respond. 

“Earlier tonight, you told Bradley that you wanted to lick someone; who were you talking about?” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, beating erratically as it tries to crawl up and jump right out of your mouth. Bradley bursts into a fit of laughter beside you, and Natasha coughs on the sip of drink she had just taken. You clear your throat before lifting your own drink to your lips, taking a purposeful sip and rolling your lips together. 

Mickey whines, “You’re no fun!” 

You scowl at him, “You were eavesdropping!” 

His grin turns sheepish. “Technically, I overheard.” 

You roll your eyes and let the laughter subside before scanning the circle, wondering who you could pick that might keep you safe in return. Your eyes land on Jake and you have to roll your lips again to keep from smiling. Sure, you could dare him to make out with you, but you’d rather not force yourself on him, so you settle your gaze on the man beside him, Reuben. 

“Payback, truth or dare?” 

His face lights up, “Dare.” 

“I dare you to give your WSO a big kiss on the lips,” you say with a grin. 

Mickey snorts, “You think we haven’t kissed before?” 

“Dude!” Reuben exclaims across the group as everyone loses it to laughter once again. 

Mickey giggles as he crawls into the middle of the circle and meets Reuben, who rolls his eyes before grabbing either side of Mickey’s head and mashing their lips together. It’s very brief, but it has the group hooting and hollering like high schoolers as the two blushing boys return to their respective spots. 

Reuben shoots you a scowl, “I’ll get you back for that.” 

You give him a wink before tipping your drink to your lips, realising that it’s empty. You push yourself to stand, “Drinks?” 

You and Bradley work on taking the empties from the group and retrieving fresh drinks for everyone while they start asking questions about Reuben and Mickey’s first kiss. When you settle back into your seat, you see Reuben crouched beside Javy as they whisper into each other's ears, their eyes watching you carefully and their lips curling into evil little smirks. 

Well shit. 

Once everyone is settled again, Reuben looks toward Javy. “Coyote, truth or dare?” 

“Hm,” Javy pretends to think, “dare.” 

“I dare you to prank call Maverick.” 

Everyone oohs as Javy pulls his phone out, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He switches off his caller ID before finding Maverick’s contact, and the group falls silent at the first dial tone. It rings and rings, but Mav doesn’t answer, so when his voicemail requests a message, Javy puts on his gruffest voice. “Maverick, it’s Admiral Simpson. I’ve had a few drinks, and I know this isn’t appropriate, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you.” 

He hangs up and wheezes with laughter. Everyone is folded over, some wiping tears from their eyes, because right now, Maverick’s inevitable scolding doesn’t seem to be a worry. 

It takes a little longer for everyone to calm down, but once they do, Javy’s eyes narrow on you. “Y/N,” he says, “truth or dare?” 

“Me again?” you ask. “I just had a turn.” 

He simply shrugs, awaiting your answer. 

You sigh, “Fine, dare.” 

You played right into his hand, and you know it by the way his lips have split into a Cheshire Cat grin. 

“I dare you,” he says slowly, eyes moving past you and across the room, “to put Seresin’s cowboy hat on.” 

You frown, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. It’s too simple. “What?” 

Javy nods toward the hat in the dining room. “Put the cowboy hat on.” 

“Coyote,” Jake warns, his voice low. 

“It’s just a hat,” you say, pushing off the couch and waving a hand dismissively. 

You walk quickly across the living space toward the dining table, taking the hat off the back of the chair and plonking it on your head. When you turn back around, Jake’s mouth pops open, Javy and Reuben giggle, and Mickey and Natasha look like they’ve just realised what the stupid joke is. 

“Oh, I get it!” Mickey announces proudly. 

You frown at him, “Get what?” 

He glances at Reuben, who makes the action of zipping his lips. Mickey turns back to you, “Sorry, I can’t say.” 

You roll your eyes. “Alright, Fanboy, truth or dare?” 

“Truth,” he says. 

“What’s the big joke about the hat?” 

“The hat rule,” he replies simply, as if it’s obvious. 

“What hat rule?” 

“The cowboy hat rule, you know-” 

“Nope!” Javy exclaims. “Technically, he answered the question, you can’t get another answer.” 

You huff, “Okay, whatever. Play your little games.” 

You lean back and cross your arms, the hat still propped on your head. Across the circle, Jake’s eyes are trained on you, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips. He looks mildly amused by whatever the joke is that you don’t get, but he also looks a little like he might be enjoying the way the hat is sitting on your head. The alcohol rushing through your veins gives you the courage to hold his stare as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth before pulling it back out slowly. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there before he swallows thickly and looks away. 

When you tune back into the game, you realise that Fritz is now asking Bradley truth or dare. You’re not sure what you missed, but you’re guessing it was one or two uneventful turns. 

“Dare,” Bradley says. 

“I dare you to walk out onto the balcony and make some weird, loud sex noises.” 

Bradley springs up, excitedly jogging toward the balcony doors, throwing them open and starting to honk and moan the second he steps outside. 

Jake chuckles into his hands. “You guys do realise that I still have to live here after tonight?” 

“OOH, FUCK YEAH!” Bradley shouts, at which everyone’s laughter doubles. 

Natasha nudges you, “Is this what you have to hear whenever he has a girl over?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” you say with a dramatic sigh. 

Another few seconds pass of Bradley’s terrible sex noises before Jake calls him back inside. He sits back down beside you with a satisfied grin, his cheeks bright pink and eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to Jake. “Hangman, truth or dare?” 

“Truth.” 

Bradley clears his throat and casts you a quick glance before looking back at Jake. “What is the cowboy hat rule?”’ 

Javy and Reuben start to giggle again, and Jake sighs, looking incredibly sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s uh- well,” he sighs, “you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” 

Your jaw goes slack and your mouth pops open, heart thundering in your chest. Bradley cackles beside you and Natasha snickers on your other side. The thought crosses your mind that if these people keep laughing so hard, they might explode. 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Javy says to you before turning to look at Jake. “Now the two of you can fuck and relieve us all of this stifling sexual tension.” 

Neither you nor Jake can muster a laugh. You simply stare at each other, thoughts racing as you wonder why Javy would do this. Is what he said true? Does Jake actually like you the way Bradley has always said? Is the tension between the two of you that obvious? 

Eventually, the game rolls on, and neither you nor Jake get asked again. Truth or Dare somehow morphs into Would You Rather, and soon Bradley is standing beside you offering another round of drinks to the group. You stand up beside him and rush into the kitchen, dying for a moment away from Jake’s piercing gaze. It’s not that you don’t like him looking at you, you just wish you knew what it meant. 

“You good?” Bradley asks as he steps into the kitchen after you. 

You nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Still got the hat on,” he notes, pointing at your head. 

You quickly take it off and plonk it on the kitchen counter before reaching up to the passthrough shutters and swinging them closed. No one seems to notice, and the small amount of privacy seems to help settle the butterfly disco currently happening in your stomach. 

Bradley rummages through the fridge while you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping it slowly and watching him juggle as many bottles as he can between his two hands. He raises his brows at you before he leaves, a silent question, and you nod, assuring him that you’re fine. He disappears around the corner right before Jake steps into the kitchen, making your heart leap dramatically. 

“Hey,” he says, seeming much more relaxed than you’re currently feeling. 

“Hi.” 

“Are you okay?” 

You nod again, “Of course.” 

“Coyote can be a little insensitive sometimes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

You shrug. “I’m tough. It was just a joke.” 

He frowns. “Which part do you think was a joke?” 

“The hat rule,” you reply, “right?” 

“Oh,” he chuckles, “yeah, I mean, that is a known rule but I’m not going to-” he hesitates, “I mean, I would never- oh, my God, this isn’t coming out right.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, dropping your gaze to your feet. “I know they were just having a laugh.” 

“No, I don’t mean it like that either,” he adds frantically. He steps forward, leaving very little space between your bodies. “What I’m trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that I definitely would do that with you, but not if you didn’t want to.” 

You look up, startled. “Would what?” 

He chuckles awkwardly, the pink in his cheeks turning red. “Let you ride me, if you wanted.” 

Looking up at his pretty green eyes is making your head spin, but you feel surprisingly stable. Something about his gaze is holding you steady, reassuring you the way a hug from your best friend does, and you quickly realise that this is the closest you’ve ever been able to stare into his eyes. They’re even more amazing up close. 

“You’re very pretty,” you blurt out, internally cursing all that liquid courage. 

He chuckles again, but its deep and breathy. “Thank you, but I’m nothing compared to you.” 

You frown now. “You don’t think your pretty?” 

“Well,” he shrugs, “I know I’m a little pretty.” 

You roll your eyes playfully. 

“But you are possibly the prettiest thing on this planet,” he adds, cupping your jaw in his hands. 

The contact lights your skin on fire, and your heart is practically vibrating in your chest. 

“Who’s the girl that you’re in love with?” you ask, once again unable to control that brain to mouth communication. 

He chuckles again, his eyes darting away from your face and finding the hat on the bench. He reaches past you, his breath fanning across your neck as he picks the hat up off the counter and plonks it on your head. 

“I’m in love with the girl wearing my old cowboy hat,” he says, hands holding either side of the brim as he adjusts the hat to sit perfectly. 

You don’t even wait for him to finish fixing the hat before you surge up onto your toes, pressing your lips to his. He responds immediately, hands abandoning the hat to find your hips and hold your body tightly against his. You’re almost positive you can feel his heart beating where your chests are pressed together, and it’s almost as erratic as yours. 

His lips move against yours gently, but there’s urgency in the way he holds your body, like you might disappear if he doesn’t hang on tight. Your own hands are gripping the hem of his shirt, fisting the material until you can feel your nails digging little half-moons into your palms. Maybe you feel the same, like if you don’t hold on, he’ll disappear, because you’re almost positive you’ve had this dream before. 

He pulls back for air, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his hands drop to the crease beneath your bum. In one swift movement, he lifts you onto the counter and stands between your open legs, the buckle of his belt pressing deliciously against the crotch of your jeans. You squeeze your knees around his hips and tilt your head back, letting his tongue slide past your lips. You sigh against his mouth, every ounce of tension from the past few hours leaching out of your body as his hands explore and squeeze your thighs. 

“You have no idea”- he speaks breathily against your lips -“how long I’ve wanted to do this.” 

You pull back, staring up at his puffy lips and lust-blown eyes. “Why did you wait, then?” 

He chuckles and relaxes, the buckle of his belt no longer pressed against you. “Have you seen the way you and Rooster act?” he asks. “You’re practically inseparable, always having your little inside jokes, and you basically live together. How was I supposed to know you wanted me when all you do is look at him?” 

You gnaw at your bottom lip, willing your foggy brain to sober up and try to picture things the way Jake would be seeing them. “I guess,” you say, resting your hands on his chest, “but I only look at him to avoid staring at you all the time.” 

He tilts his head, a quizzical frown set between his brows. “Really?” 

You nod. “And most of our inside jokes are about the fact that I’m hopelessly in love with you.” 

His frown melts into a grin. “Hopelessly?” 

“More or less.” 

“More, I hope,” he murmurs as he leans forward again. 

Your lips have barely touched when a bang startles you both. Jake holds you against his chest as you look over your shoulder to see the passthrough shutters blown wide open. Your friends are all gathered in the opening with stupid grins on their faces and laughter bubbling from their lips. 

“I knew it!” Javy exclaims. 

“That’s all it fucking took?” Bradley asks, his brows almost raised to his hairline. 

“If I knew that, I would have put a cowboy hat on you ages ago,” Natasha says with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, okay,” Jake says, his smile wide and cheeks bright red, “that’s enough from you lot.” 

He reaches around you to grab the passthrough shutters and swing them closed, despite the shouts and protests of your friends. When his eyes find yours again, you feel like the only two people in the world. The noise from the living room fades away and the only thing you can feel is his warmth, his body. 

“Where were we?” he murmurs, holding your face in his hands as he dips toward you again. 

A sudden spike of panic slices through you, and you pull back with wide eyes. “Wait.” 

His smile fades, worry creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’re not just saying and doing all this because you’re drunk, right?” 

The concern on his face dissolves just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced again by that dopey grin. “Baby, I’m not drunk. You are a bit drunk.” 

You frown indignantly. “I am not drunk, I’m tipsy.” 

“Okay, tipsy,” he chuckles. “Are you only kissing me because you’ve had a few drinks?” 

You shake your head fervidly. “No. I’m kissing you now because sober me didn't have the balls to.” 

He laughs again, a little harder. “Are you saying that you’re not going to kiss me again tomorrow?” 

“Oh, I’m definitely not saying that,” you reply. The corner of your lips lift into a smirk as your eyes fall to his puffy pink lips. “You’ve opened the flood gates now. I’m going to have to put my lips on every inch of your body.” 

When your eyes find his again, the pretty green of his irises is almost completely consumed by black, lust-blown pupils. “I’ll be right back,” he says, untangling his limbs from yours. 

You hold on to the waistband of his jeans, not letting him move too far from you. “What are you doing?” 

“Kicking everyone out so we can get to all the kissing and the licking,” he replies, as if it was obvious. 

A soft giggle slips from your lips and you tug on his jeans, pulling him back into your arms. “As much as I love that idea, we should probably get back to celebrating Coyote’s birthday. We’ve got all day tomorrow to kiss and lick and suck and fuck.” 

His jaw slackens and a soft groan rumbles from the back of his throat. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

“Not at all,” you reply with a cheeky grin. “Come on, let’s get back out there before they decide to come back in here.” 

He sighs heavily as you slide off the counter, but before you can exit the kitchen, his hand wraps around your wrist. “We’re going to have to wait a minute,” he says, looking down at his pants. 

You glance down to see a bulge in the dark blue denim at his crotch, the zipper almost straining against the pressure from the inside of his pants. You roll your lips to keep your giggles at bay, and to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you right here in the kitchen regardless of who can hear. 

As if on cue, Bradley’s voice resonates from the living room, “You two better not be fucking in there! My beer is getting low and I will be getting another one no matter how traumatising it might be!” 

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge. 

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.” 

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.” 

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.” 

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you. 

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.” 

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning. 

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign. 

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.” 

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.” 

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-” 

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.” 

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room. 

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.” 

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.” 

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes. 

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.” 

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls. 

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly. 

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.” 

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes. 

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?” 

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.” 

“Why don’t you ask one of them?” 

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.” 

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.” 

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going. 

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.” 

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown. 

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.” 

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?” 

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless—overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.” 

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed. 

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.” 

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?” 

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.” 

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?” 

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.” 

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?” 

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.” 

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?” 

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.” 

- 

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable. 

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.” 

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.” 

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.  

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.” 

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps. 

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed. 

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone. 

“Anytime, Captain.” 

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.” 

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.” 

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot. 

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.” 

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.” 

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.” 

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.” 

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?” 

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.” 

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-” 

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.” 

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you. 

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar. 

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him. 

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance. 

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker. 

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.” 

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest. 

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin. 

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day. 

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to. 

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.” 

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.” 

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.” 

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-” 

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.” 

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare. 

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.” 

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next. 

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration. 

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.” 

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.” 

And with that, he turns and walks away. 

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut. 

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock. 

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch. 

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake. 

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over. 

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it. 

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker. 

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing. 

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open. 

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.” 

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut. 

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams. 

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?” 

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending. 

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar. 

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?” 

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved. 

“Yup.” 

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-” 

“Please don’t say it.” 

“Jizz,” he says gleefully. 

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime. 

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both. 

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat. 

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.” 

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.” 

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly. 

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?” 

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.” 

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.” 

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear. 

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.” 

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off. 

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit. 

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.” 

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face. 

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.” 

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again. 

“You know it’s not true, right?” 

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-” 

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.” 

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.” 

He cocks his head. “You do?” 

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.” 

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe. 

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.” 

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.” 

- 

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that. 

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did. 

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help. 

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons. 

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat. 

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God. 

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time. 

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up. 

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor. 

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass. 

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself. 

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising. 

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite. 

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler. 

It’s now or never. 

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile. 

But then you see him. 

And you stop dead in your tracks. 

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion. 

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer. 

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind: 

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now. 

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago. 

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy. 

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband. 

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming. 

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid. 

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating. 

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before. 

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out. 

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone. 

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest. 

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into. 

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.” 

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.” 

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-” 

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops. 

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts. 

No. Fucking. Way. 

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?” 

Yes. A cat in heat. 

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.” 

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit. 

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat. 

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin. 

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest. 

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude. 

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you. 

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.” 

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood. 

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.” 

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.” 

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you. 

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.” 

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.” 

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart. 

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” 

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say. 

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.” 

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap. 

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.” 

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about. 

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.” 

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb. 

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him? 

You blink back the sting of tears. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net. 

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early. 

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner. 

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules. 

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens. 

Jake takes off his fucking shirt. 

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet. 

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you. 

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices! 

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots. 

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?” 

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.” 

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.” 

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic. 

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail. 

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up. 

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right? 

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil. 

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity. 

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off. 

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match. 

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.” 

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?” 

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you. 

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake. 

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?” 

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!” 

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!” 

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now. 

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush. 

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net. 

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated. 

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably. 

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy. 

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?” 

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it. 

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy. 

Wow, he really does not like losing. 

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance. 

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots. 

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan. 

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore. 

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs. 

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.” 

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.” 

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face. 

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him. 

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch. 

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out. 

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.” 

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?” 

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.” 

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction. 

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.” 

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.” 

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt. 

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-” 

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.” 

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing. 

- 

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin. 

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks. 

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit. 

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?” 

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.” 

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.” 

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.” 

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension. 

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you. 

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.” 

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real. 

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-” 

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final. 

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater. 

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.” 

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine. 

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway. 

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs. 

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask. 

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.” 

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision. 

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?” 

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?” 

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down. 

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say. 

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him. 

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.” 

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn. 

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap. 

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.” 

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort. 

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late. 

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully. 

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can. 

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.” 

Jake finally hesitates. 

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark. 

And this time—he listens. 

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs. 

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic. 

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…” 

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins. 

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout. 

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit. 

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.” 

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing. 

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world. 

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be. 

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying. 

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update. 

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin. 

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.” 

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.” 

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.” 

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.” 

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows. 

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.” 

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless. 

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-” 

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you. 

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin. 

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest. 

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him. 

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked. 

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?” 

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late. 

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes. 

“Jake, I-” 

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment. 

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word. 

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine. 

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not. 

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist. 

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart. 

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes. 

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely. 

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon. 

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train. 

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit. 

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?” 

“Do you see Mav?” 

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you. 

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.” 

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm. 

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight. 

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course. 

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid. 

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now. 

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe. 

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.” 

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore. 

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance. 

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.” 

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.” 

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you. 

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll. 

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane. 

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin. 

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!” 

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late. 

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!” 

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!” 

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake. 

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject. 

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air. 

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all. 

- 

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky. 

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude. 

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors. 

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!” 

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace. 

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room. 

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you. 

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.” 

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin. 

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence. 

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?” 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.” 

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?” 

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.” 

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought. 

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.” 

“Yeah,” you say. “That.” 

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air. 

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash. 

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin. 

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?” 

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?” 

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.” 

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.” 

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.” 

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.” 

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare. 

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.” 

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle. 

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-” 

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?” 

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?” 

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why. 

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.” 

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?” 

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.” 

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor. 

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up. 

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail. 

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-” 

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you. 

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him. 

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.” 

A flash of anger sparks in your chest. 

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?” 

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?” 

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.” 

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it. 

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. 

You can barely breathe. 

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.” 

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice. 

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.” 

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters. 

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away. 

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his. 

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again. 

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart. 

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare. 

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.” 

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.” 

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.” 

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.” 

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—” 

“Now.” 

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat: 

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.” 

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing. 

Comfort wasn’t part of your morning routine. This was different; no jet engines, no early calls, just the steady rhythm of someone breathing behind you.

You turned your head a fraction, glancing over your shoulder.

Jake Seresin’s arm was slung over your waist, heavy and warm. His chest rose and fell against your back, legs tangled with yours. 

Fuck. You really needed to stop drinking tequila.

Your mind caught up in stages. Last night at the Hard Deck, you had told Phoenix you were definitely not going home with anyone. Then, you had told yourself you were definitely not doing this again. And lastly, you had told Hangman, well, whatever it was that led him between your sheets. 

Again.

He never stayed the night. That was one of the two rules you had, the other being that you never ever acknowledged what you were doing. It kept your confusing cycle of getting drunk, fighting, and hate-fucking private from the inevitable judgment of your squadron. 

Yet here he was, evidently not gone. 

You lay there, very still, while irritation travelled up your spine. Of course, Hangman had to stay the one morning you needed him gone. His breathing was obnoxiously relaxed.

You shifted, and his grip tightened around you.

“Morning, honey,” Hangman mumbled against your shoulder, voice rough with sleep. His Texan accent was thicker in the morning, heavy like molasses.

Your eyes shut on instinct. Hangman’s morning voice was unfairly sexy, even as he used the condescending nickname he’d given you when you met. 

“Get out,” you snapped, no patience for civility. “We don’t do sleepovers. You were supposed to be gone by now.”

“Funny,” he hummed, kissing the bare skin of your shoulder far too casually. “You didn’t sound this mad when you were begging for me last night.”

Classic Hangman. You should have known he’d be petty first thing in the morning.

You pushed his arm off and sat up, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. “You need to go. Phoenix will be here any minute.”

“Phoenix already knows I sleep naked,” he said easily. “She’ll survive.”

“Hangman,” you warned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He said it with that lazy drawl that meant he wasn’t taking you seriously at all.

You climbed out of bed, grabbed the clothes on the floor, and tossed his service khakis at his chest. “Up! Clothes, now.”

Hangman caught them one-handed without sitting up. “Sweetheart, if you didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t have picked a fight with me last night.”

“You’re easy,” you scoffed. “That’s not my problem. And I was drunk.”

“You weren’t that drunk. You knew exactly who you were dragging home.”

“I made a bad decision after three drinks. You were sober. You knew not to overstay your welcome.”

Hangman laughed under his breath. “Don’t act like I’ve lost my mind. You can’t keep your hands off me.”

You bristled. “Don’t worry, this is the last time you need to worry about my hands being on you.”

“I’m not worried,” he murmured, eyes dragging down your body leisurely. “I know I won’t have to wait much longer.”

“I mean it, Hangman.”

He looked at you like you’d just said you were moving to Mars. “Sure you do. You’ll mean it next time, too.”

Annoyance flickered hot under your ribs. The worst part was that Hangman wasn’t entirely wrong, and that always made him intolerable. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of giving in.

“Screw you,” you shot back. “It’s never happening again.”

Hangman pushed up on his elbows, watching you with sharp, alert eyes. The shift of muscle in his biceps hit your stomach before you could ignore it. 

“Course it is,” Hangman said. “You always say the same thing. It’s cute; you pretending you don’t give me fuck-me eyes as soon as everyone’s gone.”

He moved slowly, like he was humouring you, and stepped out of the sheets. He was, regrettably, a glorious sight: all lean planes and long lines, muscles pulling tight under golden skin as he stretched. Every flex was a reminder of exactly how he’d used that strength to his advantage last night.

His mouth curved, his grin dangerous and knowing. “You always get real serious when you’re lyin’ to yourself,” Hangman added, smug as all hell. 

“Oh, please,” you snapped. “If I’m lying, you’re delusional. You strut around base like you’re God’s gift to naval aviation when most of the time you run on sheer dumb luck.”

Hangman’s jaw tightened. “Right. And you’re, what? The poster girl for righteous indignation? You start a fight with me every time you see me.”

“You think everything’s about you,” you said. “Typical.”

He closed the space between you in three steps, one hand cupping the back of your head.

“You really think this is the last time, honey?” Hangman murmured.

You should’ve pushed him away. You meant to push him away. Instead, you pulled him closer the second he pressed his lips to yours.

Hangman kissed you as if he were making a counterargument.

It was deliciously familiar: his lips expertly weakening your knees, his thumb sliding over your jaw. You hated the way your body answered before your mind did. Your hands were already on his shoulders, your mouth already opening against his.

He angled his head, chased your mouth, swallowed the tiny sound you made.

You broke away, breath unsteady. “You need to go,” you said, glancing at your alarm clock. “Phoenix is almost here.”

That earned you a slow, smug curl of his mouth. “Sure, Bee,” Hangman drawled. It was almost impressive how he made every nickname of yours sound patronising—even your callsign. “Whatever you say.”

He started dressing piece by piece, pulling on a tank top and then his trousers. He wasn’t touching you, but your body reacted like he was kissing his way down your neck. 

It didn’t matter how good the sex was. Or how Hangman looked right now. He was a bad habit, and you sure as hell weren’t going to let this happen again. Eventually, one of you was going to crash and burn, and it wouldn’t be you.

“See you at briefing,” you managed once he was dressed.

Hangman smirked, taking one last chance to sweep his gaze across your kiss-bitten lips. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

When he was gone, you exhaled hard.

New rules: no more tequila, no more Hangman, no more mistakes.

You walked into morning briefing with Phoenix thirty minutes later, pretending you hadn’t just made out with your sworn rival.

Hangman was already in his seat, leaning back like he owned the place. He caught your eye and smirked knowingly. You rolled your eyes and sat beside Rooster, because getting caught punching Hangman by your superior officer was frowned upon.

“Alright, today we’re running three-versus-one drills,” Maverick declared once everyone arrived. “Let’s see how many of you can work together to take me down.”

Cue the disgruntled groans. Fanboy mimed slamming his head against the table.

“You’ll be running mixed teams,” Maverick continued, ignoring your dramatics. “Team leaders have been selected for the day. First up,” he checked the clipboard, “Is Bee.”

The room looked at you in unison, nodding in collective respect. You were the only person in the room who could cut through everyone’s nonsense and get them pointed in the same direction without sounding like a drill sergeant or a babysitter. 

With you in charge, they flew cleaner, faster, and better.

That moment of silent affirmation was immediately shattered by a much louder complaint from Hangman.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, chortling. “Honey Bee?”

You rolled your eyes. “You should really work on your jealousy. It’s not very professional.”

“I’m not jealous,” Hangman fired back immediately. “I just think the team leaders shouldn’t be slow, overcautious, and afraid of a little risk.”

Phoenix kicked the back of his chair without glancing up from her pre-flight notes. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not in charge, Bagman.”

Maverick ignored all of you. “Bee, your team is Hangman, Phoenix, and Bob.”

The groans that rose from your side of the room were perfectly synchronised.

You slumped a fraction in your seat. Across from you, the light visibly faded from Bob’s eyes. Phoenix didn’t bother masking her irritation; she just kicked Hangman’s chair again, harder this time.

Beside you, Rooster whispered, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Prayers aren’t enough,” Bob said, shaking his head in resignation. 

Hangman smirked and tapped his pen on his desk. “Can’t wait.”

You resisted the urge to throw your binder at his head.

In the air, Phoenix tightened the formation around you without question, sliding neatly into place. Her and Bob’s trust in you was bone-deep. 

Hangman, on the other hand, never enjoyed taking orders from you.

“Team Leader, requesting permission to actually use my aircraft instead of admiring the scenery,” he drawled.

You smiled. “Permission denied. Stay on my wing.”

“You really get off on saying that, don’t you?”

“Only because it annoys you.”

Hangman huffed. “One day you’re gonna admit you like flying with me.”

“One day you’ll stop talking,” you replied sweetly. “And then I will actually like flying with you.”

Maverick’s voice sounded through the comms. “Team One, I hope you’re paying attention,” he said. 

Your breath sank low in your chest. It was easy to slide into the clean, dependable part of your brain that always focused when you were in the air.

“All right,” you said calmly. “Phoenix, left side containment. Bob, keep your eyes on the radar. Tell me the second you see Maverick. Hangman—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupted. “I’m the watchdog?”

You scoffed. “If I wanted a watchdog, I’d get one that barked on command, not whenever he feels like it. You’re right-flank aggression. Don’t you dare take that as permission to—”

Hangman launched himself forward like a missile. “Right flank engaged,” he announced.

“Hangman!” Phoenix barked. “You asshole!”

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw clicked. “Hangman, return to formation. Now.”

He made a low, playful hum. “Oh, Honey Bee. Your whole thing is patience. Let me be the excitement.”

“Your thing is getting everyone else killed,” you shot back. “Return to formation. That’s an order, Hangman.”

Maverick dove at you out of the sun. You rolled left, Phoenix sliding under you, the two of you syncing with the kind of ease that only months of practice could build.

“Sloppy,” Maverick observed. “Bee, you’ve got Phoenix covered, but you’re flying without a wingman.”

“Only because someone’s allergic to teamwork,” Phoenix quipped.

You steadied your breathing. “Hangman, tighten up. You’re leaving too big of a gap.”

Bob chimed in, gentle as always, “He’s coming around again—two o’clock, descending.”

You saw it cleanly: Maverick’s angle, his speed, that little off-kilter move he did to tempt you into lunging. But you’d practised this scenario before, and you were ready to face him.

“Phoenix, pinch him left,” you ordered.

“On it.”

“Bob, let’s get a lock on him.”

“Copy.”

You dipped low—just enough to look exposed and make Maverick think you’d gotten overeager. It worked. You tracked the tiny twitch in his angle, the micro-shift he always made when he thought he saw an opening.

Hangman chimed, “Careful, Bee. You’re pushing too close.”

Of course, he’d say that. King Reckless himself warning you about boundaries? You didn’t dignify it with a reply.

You just pressed the advantage, rolling smoothly back toward Maverick’s tail. 

“Come on, Bob,” you said, eyes locked on Maverick’s plane. “Give me tone.”

Phoenix shifted into position, and you knew Bob would be able to get you a tone with that clear line to Maverick. You nudged the nose of your jet another degree. Almost there. Almost—

You exhaled, ready for that sweet hit, when everything went to hell.

Hangman shot through Bob’s line without any consideration for all the work you’d put in, engines screaming loud enough to rattle your teeth.

“I got him!” he shouted.

You watched in a moment of awful, slow-motion clarity as Hangman blocked Bob’s perfect shot. Without a wingman to help you and without Bob getting a lock on Maverick, you were doomed.

“Hangman, don’t—”

The high-pitched squeal of Maverick getting a lock on you rang throughout your plane—a final, devastating blow. Maverick had slipped beneath Hangman with a single elegant roll, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment of idiocy. 

You were a sitting duck after playing bait.

“That’s a fail,” Maverick said happily, like he hadn’t crushed your soul. “Team One, you’re dead. Sorry, Bee. It would’ve worked if your entire team had followed your lead. Team Two, suit up.”

You sat in stunned silence for a beat, breathing hard as fury made your pulse spike. 

You had him. You had sacrificed yourself to give Phoenix and Bob the perfect shot, and you lost just because of Hangman’s typical self-interest.

This was why you couldn’t stand Hangman.

The flight back to the hangar was suffocating in its silence. Your jaw locked so tightly your molars ached. You weren’t sure which made you angrier: what Hangman just did in the air, or the knowledge that you’d let him put his mouth on yours that morning.

By the time you landed, your heart was pounding, your breath clipped and shallow. You tore your helmet off so fast that the chin strap scraped your jaw. You didn’t even wait for the ladder to settle before swinging a leg out, boots hitting the metal rungs with sharp, angry clanks.

You saw Hangman descending his own ladder with that maddeningly casual confidence. He didn’t seem to think he’d just blown your chance to finally best Maverick, but that wasn’t anything new.

Bob offered you a sympathetic wince before putting distance between himself and whatever volcanic event you were about to become. You just moved, boots hitting the ground with determined strides as you marched toward Hangman.

The second he spotted you, that infuriating smirk began to form. You didn’t give him the chance to finish it.

“You asshole—” you screeched, shoving Hangman so hard he toppled backwards.

“Woah, woah, woah!”

“Bee, chill!”

Rooster and Payback each caught an arm as they passed, steering you away. They were already headed out for their turn in the exercise, and the last thing they wanted was you getting written up—even if Hangman had it coming.

Bob reluctantly helped Hangman up.

“I can’t believe you—” you began, chest still heaving from anger.

“I almost had him,” Hangman interrupted, maddeningly calm.

“You sabotaged us! You flew directly into Bob’s shot!” You jabbed a finger at him, heat prickling across your face. “You just had to make it about you.”

He smirked. “It’s always about me.”

“Not when I’m in charge,” you corrected. “And not during a team exercise.”

“I was helping.”

“Yeah, helping Maverick kill me!” you snapped, your voice cracking upward into a pitch that made Rooster flinch beside you. “You undermined the chain of command,” you said. “You ignored formation. You showboated. You risked everything—”

“Look, you had a nice little plan going,” Hangman allowed. His gaze flicked to Rooster’s hand still around your arm before he dragged his attention back to you. “But if you hadn’t been crawling like you were driving your grandma to Sunday brunch earlier—”

“Do you seriously think you can blame me for this?” You stepped forward, and Rooster’s fingers tightened instinctively to keep you from closing the distance. “I played the bait, I had Maverick hooked!”

“And I had a better shot.”

You barked out a laugh so sharp it made Hangman’s shoulders tense. “Apparently, you’re delusional as well as a selfish bastard.”

“You’re welcome for trying to get us a win.”

“Us? Us?!” You yanked your arm free from Rooster, giving Hangman’s shoulders another shove. 

It made your skin crawl that you’d had him this close only hours ago. 

You laughed incredulously. “You threw the entire drill because you can’t stand someone else getting a hit first! It doesn’t matter who gets a lock on Maverick, but it does matter that you fucked it up for everyone else!”

Phoenix saved you. “Okay, let’s go hit the showers,” she said, ushering you off the tarmac. 

You let her guide you a few steps, your pulse still hammering in your throat. You turned to see Hangman raise his chin, already bracing for another round.

“You know what your problem is?” you said. “You’re terrified that if you’re not the one who gets the win, no one will bother noticing you at all. All that bravado,” you flicked a hand dismissively at Hangman, “is just you trying to outrun the idea that you’re only as good as your last solo victory. And God forbid anyone else shine for half a second.”

Hangman’s posture twitched just enough for you to notice.

“So do us all a favour,” you finished. “If you don’t want to be part of this team, put in for a transfer. At least then we won’t have to worry about you getting us killed on a real mission.”

Phoenix’s hand landed between your shoulder blades. “Bee,” she warned quietly.

Hangman exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so sharp. “Funny,” he said, his voice matching your cutting tone. “For someone who’s so damn sure she knows how to lead, you crumble the second anyone challenges you. That’s the real reason you’ll never be team leader outside of a simulation.”

His words punched harder than you expected. Not because they were true, but because he’d designed them to hurt you.

Phoenix tugged you away firmly this time, steering you off the tarmac before you could keep the argument going.

“You’re a saint for not killing him,” she muttered under her breath.

You hummed noncommittally, trying to ignore the sick twist in your stomach. 

Last night you’d had your hands in his hair, tugging him closer. Today, you’d used them to push him hard enough to lose balance. You hated being stuck in this cycle.

By the time the squad hit the Hard Deck that night, the teasing had already started.

“Here we go,” Harvard said, elbowing Yale. “Bee and Hangman. Round… whatever this is. Are we counting by years or fights?”

Coyote grinned. “I’m losing track. We should make it a drinking game. Every time they say something hurtful, take a shot. No, wait—every time there’s a physical altercation, take two shots.”

You exhaled and leaned against the rail. Everyone assumed you and Hangman would fall into the usual routine: fight, make some sarcastic quip, get aggressive, and argue until everyone went home. 

Little did they know what you used to do after all that noise.

The squadron kept teasing you, even though you’d already decided you were done with anything that involved Jake Seresin.

“Sober Bee,” Bob said, passing you the Coke you’d ordered. “I approve.”

“Thanks,” you said, accepting the glass. “I’m done getting tipsy and letting Hangman bait me into an argument.”

Bob grinned and raised his own Coke. “I admire your commitment.”

Fanboy overheard and groaned loud enough for half the bar to look over. “Sober Bee? Guess we’re starved for entertainment tonight.”

“Truly the end times,” Fritz said dramatically. 

Phoenix didn’t look up as she lined up a shot on the pool table. “Calm down, boys. It’s not like she gets drunk every week,” she defended you. 

Rooster smirked. “She’s only sober because she almost bagged Maverick today and wants to remember the glory in crystal clarity,” he said, pulling you into a side-hug so tight you almost spilt your drink.

“Your team almost had a kill shot,” Halo said, pointing at you like you were a celebrity. “If Maverick had been one second slower—”

You held up a hand. “Alright, children, let’s not rewrite the story. We didn’t bag Maverick. He Houdini’d out of our trap like he always does.”

“Yeah, but you rattled him,” Payback said, grinning proudly. “He seemed proud.”

The table erupted in agreement.

Halo gave you a look. “Face it, Bee. You’ve been flying better than all of us ever since the squadron became permanent. You’re the only one who can stay calm up against Maverick.”

“Unsettlingly calm,” Bob confirmed, nodding sagely. 

You chuckled. “Calm is good, Bob. Calm means no one ends the night with a black eye.”

“Hangman ends every night with a black eye,” Phoenix said. “Emotionally speaking.”

That earned her a round of delighted laughter.

Rooster tilted his head, conspiratorial. “Speaking of Hangman, he’s watching you.”

Coyote grinned. “He’s malfunctioning. Doesn’t know what to do when Bee isn’t screaming at him.”

You rolled your eyes at their dramatics. “I’m choosing peace from now on,” you declared. “If that means I don’t have to talk to his arrogant ass tonight, then I call that a win.”

Your squadron’s laughter, their drunken banter, and Hangman’s sidelong glances were background noise for the rest of the night. 

That is, until Bob ducked away toward the bathroom. Because who else would slide into the vacant space but the devil himself?

Hangman leaned one elbow on the rail, posture loose in that unbothered manner he’d perfected. 

“You’re behaving tonight,” he said, voice low and amused. “Should I be worried? It’s getting late. If you’re planning to start something, now’s your window.”

You held up your glass. “Sorry to disappoint. No hostile takeover scheduled.”

Hangman blinked at your Coke. “You’re sober?”

“Tragically.”

“Really?” He looked you over, slow and assessing. It infuriated you that it still made your spine tingle. “I mean, it’s not like you’re drunk all the time. But I thought after today…” You raised an eyebrow. “I just mean you aren’t usually glued to Bob all night long.”

“It’s called having a conversation,” you said. “You should try it sometime.”

His mouth curved. “I don’t do ‘conversation.’ I’m more of a hands-on communicator.”

And there it was—subtext thick enough to choke on. Heat shot low in your abdomen, annoying and immediate. You straightened your spine like that would shove the feeling back down where it belonged. 

You were frustrated at the effect Hangman’s words had on your body, and infuriated that he had noticed it. 

“Well,” you said sharply, “good thing I’m off duty. No ‘hands-on’ anything. No more… whatever this was.”

Hangman’s brows lifted in amusement. “Sure,” he said lightly. “We’re doing the whole ‘pretend to fight because people are around’ routine.”

“Hangman, I’m not pretending.” You heard the sharpness in your own voice. “We argue because we never agree on how to do our jobs. Not because other people are around.”

Hangman’s smirk faltered. “Come on, honey,” he murmured. “You’re still mad about this morning? You wanted to win your way, and I wanted to win the right way.”

“‘The right way’?” You gave a short, bitter laugh. “You tanked a team drill because you needed to be the hero.” 

“That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

Hangman leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost your cheek. “You think you’re the only tactician in that cockpit?”

“No,” you said, “but I was the team leader, and ignoring me made you a liability. When you’re a bad teammate, you’re a bad pilot.”

You knew that would hit its mark. 

Hangman’s shoulders tensed; his jaw flexed hard. His eyes darted to your Coke again, like he wished you were tipsy so he could recognise this behaviour as foreplay. But you weren’t drinking, and you weren’t starting a fight just to tear his clothes off later.

“So that’s it?” he asked, brows pulled together in mild confusion. “You’re done?”

“I told you this morning it was the last time,” you reminded him. “I meant it.”

“Thought it was just post-sleepover dramatics,” Hangman admitted.

Something flickered behind his green eyes; the memory of your warm hands on his shoulders and in his hair last night. You refused to acknowledge any of it.

He huffed out a laugh, but it came out thin. “So this is it?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a cooling-off period?”

“Nope.”

Hangman stood there, letting the silence stretch. His eyes kept drifting to your mouth in quick, guilty flicks he clearly didn’t mean to give away. You accidentally mirrored the movement before catching yourself. 

Nope. Not happening.

Hangman’s voice dropped low enough that you felt it in your ribs. “So we burn the whole thing down and walk away?”

“What’s there to burn?” you asked. “We don’t even like each other.”

His laugh was sharp and humourless. “Never said we did.”

“Exactly. I’m tired of waking up feeling like an idiot.”

Hangman nodded once, too sharply. “Right.”

Then he pivoted on his heel, swagger switched back on, and headed toward the bar to flirt with the nearest warm body. 

Bob returned a moment later, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, I think I’m done for the night. Did you want a ride home?”

You nodded, chugging the rest of your Coke. “Yeah, I’m definitely done.”

The change didn’t happen overnight. It was more of a slow radio static you kept trying to tune out until it got too loud to ignore.

A couple of days later, during morning drills, Hangman missed an opening so obvious it was practically outlined in neon. 

He was flying at Rooster’s five, perfectly positioned to take the clean shot Maverick had left open as bait, but he surprised everyone. Instead of swan-diving into the shot with that infuriating confidence, Hangman waited.

He just stayed there, keeping an eye on Maverick long enough for Payback to slip in and tag the target.

“Uh—thanks?” Payback said, confused.

Hangman just nodded. No bragging, no gloating, not even a sarcastic salute in your direction acknowledging his teamwork. Nothing. 

You felt a prickle on the back of your neck, but it was too early to understand what was wrong.

It wasn’t just the lack of gloating. Hangman was almost silent over the comms. And, fine, maybe you looked at him a half-second longer than necessary, purely because you were waiting for the punchline. He didn’t deliver one, and that alone was unsettling.

By the time you landed, you thought you’d imagined it.

But the next few days didn’t snap him back to normal. If anything, the errors got stranger. Hangman was a beat too slow here, hesitated awkwardly there. Twice, he overshot an angle he could’ve flown in his sleep. Another time, he clipped a pass so wide that Phoenix muttered about checking him for head injuries.

You noticed the other things no one else would’ve clocked, like the way his fidgeting changed. Most of the time, Hangman was all effortless swagger, fingers tapping on the table. Now his tells were silent: tight little flexes of his gloved hand, averted eyes.

Day five made it impossible to brush off.

You were halfway through a dogfighting sequence when Hangman chose the defensive angle over a ballsy opportunity he’d never ignore. His flying style was starting to resemble yours, one he often made fun of you for adopting.

You felt the disruption before you really understood it. Your instincts were reacting as they always did when Hangman was about to barrel through a gap, and you’d already adjusted your angle to make room for him. 

But Hangman didn’t take the risk, so you lost the positional advantage you’d built. Maverick slipped out of your trap and tagged Phoenix before she could blink.

On the tarmac, Phoenix stared at the sky in shock. “What the hell was that?”

Hangman pulled off his own helmet. “Didn’t want to compromise the team’s spacing.”

You and Phoenix exchanged a look that said Who is this man, and what has he done with Hangman?

But Hangman wasn’t being entirely unlike himself. He still muttered at Phoenix under his breath. He still rolled his eyes when Rooster was being overdramatic. He even smirked at you once, but it came out wrong, like his mouth had forgotten the shape of it.

You knew what Hangman’s real smirk looked like. You’d seen it on nights you pushed him far enough to end up in your bed, and you’d felt the shape of it against your neck. 

This one wasn’t it.

The next time the squadron hit the Hard Deck, you didn’t talk to him. You hadn’t interacted much since you decided to stop hooking up. There wasn’t a need for it; you weren’t friends, and you’d never tried to get to know each other.

By week two, the whole squad was convinced he had a virus of some kind.

You were running a tight-knit combat simulation when Hangman raised his hand during planning. “Maybe we keep Rooster on high cover,” he suggested. “Safer for the team that way.”

The entire room turned to look at him.

Fanboy began muttering, “He’s sick. He has to be.”

Rooster just stared at Hangman like he was possessed.

You were waiting for Hangman to throw a jab at you, bait you into arguing, or make some snide crack about your flight speed. But he never looked at you long enough for you to register anything on his face, so you had no idea what he was thinking.

After the simulation, the team regrouped on the tarmac. 

“Does anyone else think Hangman’s been replaced by an alien?” Fritz asked quietly.

Harvard sighed. “I miss when he was insufferable.”

You just sipped water and watched Hangman, who stood out of earshot, double-checking a checklist you know he’d memorised back in flight school. 

The picture of responsibility; the antithesis of Hangman.

He wasn’t doing anything, but that was the problem. Hangman’s worst qualities made him a pain in your ass, but his best qualities kept the team sharp. He was the idiot who risked someone else getting hit so he could make a clean shot.

You’d never realised how much of your own flying relied on reacting to Hangman—dodging his chaos, anticipating his arrogance. 

Without Hangman flying the way he always did, the team was failing. The little mistakes and miscommunications were starting to add up.

In week three, after a messy practice that would’ve gotten you all grounded if Cyclone had been watching, Rooster finally snapped.

“Okay,” he exclaimed, sweeping an arm toward Hangman, “what is going on with you?”

Hangman barely shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Phoenix muttered.

Bob elbowed her, reminding her to keep things light. “We’re just a little confused,” he said. “You’re not flying like yourself.”

You stood there, helmet under your arm, watching Hangman stare at the ground. His shoulders were strong as ever, but the set of them was too careful.

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t your problem, and you didn’t owe Hangman anything, but it was throwing everyone off. Even as you tried to shut it out, you couldn’t avoid the fact that the once well-oiled machine of your squadron was misfiring.

When Hangman finally looked up, his eyes flicked to you once before skittering away.

Phoenix pulled you aside and said what everyone had been tiptoeing around. “You need to talk to him.”

You frowned. “Why me?”

“Because you’re good at this,” she insisted. “You’re the one who fixes people when they’re screwing up. You did it for me at Top Gun, and you did it for Rooster last year before the Uranium mission.”

“Hangman and I don’t—”

“It doesn’t matter if you two fight every time you breathe in the same direction,” Phoenix cut in. “Someone has to get him back on track, and you’re the only person on the team he actually respects as a pilot.”

You knew she was right. Hangman was a crucial member of the team, and the team was falling apart. Unfortunately, you happened to be their glue.

Perfect. A heart-to-heart with the man you’d been avoiding for the last three weeks. What could go wrong?

You barely lasted ten minutes before approaching him. As you walked beside him after debrief, matching his pace, Hangman kept his eyes on the ground. 

Every step toward him was a battle with your frustration. Despite everything, you couldn’t let Hangman spiral. You had to be the Bee the team relied on, not the one who remembered all your reckless spats.

“Hangman,” you finally said, because someone had to say something.

Nothing. Hangman just blinked and kept walking.

You knew that slow and deliberate expression, the one he used when he was thinking too fast and trying not to show it. Only you had the dictionary of Hangman’s moves, the little provocations and glances nobody else ever endured.

Fine. You could be rude, too.

“You’re flying weird,” you declared bluntly.

Hangman exhaled. Not annoyed, more like he’d been waiting for you to bring it up so he didn’t have to. “I’m flying safe,” he corrected you.

“That’s the problem.”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk that never fully formed. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t appreciate you switching up the entire rhythm of the team without warning,” you said. “Nobody knows how to fly around you right now. Do you think that’s helping?”

Hangman didn’t answer. He just kept walking, boots scuffing against concrete, hands tight at his sides instead of swinging with that usual swagger. 

After ten paces of silence, Hangman spoke. “I don’t like the idea that my role on the team is to get people killed.”

You stopped walking. 

Hangman got a few steps ahead before he realised you weren’t beside him anymore. When he turned, his face was pinched.

You hated how much it mattered to you; how unwilling you were to let him falter, even if he’d never done the same for you.

“That’s not your job,” you said quietly.

Hangman tilted his head. “You’d know, right? Since you’ve always had such strong opinions about how I fly.”

“You make it very easy to have opinions,” you snapped.

He stepped closer, a little too casually. “Are you watching me that closely?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Didn’t say you liked what you saw.”

You glared. “For once in your life, can you not make this about your ego?”

“Is that what you think this is?” Hangman asked. His voice was calm and practised.

Your chest tightened.

“Tell me,” you said carefully, “What’s going on?”

He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m the one who takes the shots no one else can; the one who pulls the moves that’d get most people into trouble; the one who—” Hangman cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I don’t like that the only reason I’m useful to the Navy is that I’m willing to risk your lives.”

Something twisted behind your ribs. You’d said versions of that to Hangman’s face several times since you first met. You’d judged him for it, rolled your eyes at it, built half your rivalry on the assumption that he was a self-centred showboat with no concern for others.

It hadn’t occurred to you that he’d actually thought about the cost.

Suddenly, it felt like you’d been picking a fight with someone who’d already been bleeding.

Hangman scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “So I’m trying something different.”

“And it’s making the team fly worse,” you added, softer than you intended.

“Can’t win, can I?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You closed the distance. Hangman’s shoulders were tense, his posture tight.

“Hangman,” you said, and you hated the way your voice gentled automatically. “Being reckless isn’t the same thing as being careless.”

He blinked at you. It was the same look he used to give you at the Hard Deck, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to argue with you or pin you against the wall. 

“You fly instinctively,” you continued. “Aggressively. Sharply. Sometimes stupidly, yes, but you take the crazy shot so the rest of us don’t have to. That doesn’t make you a liability. It makes you important.”

His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

The air between you tightened in that annoying, hot way that made you acutely aware of the two weeks of silence and the history that came before it.

“Look,” you said, shoving the feeling aside, “you don’t have to calculate risks and think of what’s best for the team. That’s my job.”

Hangman’s head tilted. “Then what’s mine?”

You hesitated. “You’re the wildcard. You take the stupid shot, so the rest of us get the safer one. You’re still a pain in my ass,” you added, because you were well past lying to him. “None of this should give you a big head.”

Hangman chuckled. “Too late.” 

It tugged at something annoyingly low in your stomach, the same part that was overly aware that Hangman knew exactly how far he could push without hurting you. 

You exhaled. “Whatever this is,” you gestured vaguely at Hangman, “you need to knock it off. The team needs you to be you. No matter how much that seems to clash with me being me.”

Hangman didn’t answer at first. He just watched you, expression unreadable. But for the first time in weeks, he didn’t look away.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said.

You turned before he could see the way your conversation had rearranged every label you had on him.

Great, now you respected Hangman. The thought made you shiver in discomfort.

You walked toward the locker rooms, muttering “Idiot,” under your breath.

Behind you, you heard him reply, “Control freak.”

At least some things never changed.

You were pleasantly surprised that your conversation with Hangman actually made a difference. A few days later, he was flying like himself again: sharp, ballsy, and irritatingly confident—but less prone to throwing others under the bus to get his perfect shot. 

The team’s rhythm snapped back into place with the same neat click as a helmet visor locking.

There was one difference, though: you and Hangman weren’t fighting.

Sure, you still made comments under your breath, berating and cursing him. He still smirked when you screwed up the simulation timing by half a second. You still gave each other looks that said I could push your buttons if I wanted to, and you know I could.

But you never did.

Every time one of those almost-fights hovered between you, there was a strange little beat you didn’t know how to fill. Usually, you would’ve thrown a jab, or Hangman would’ve rolled his eyes. Now you both just looked away.

You pretended you weren’t thinking about it.

Maverick wanted you early to help set up for a multi-ship coordination drill, which meant deciphering his handwriting and loading flight paths before the others arrived.

When you rounded the corner of the hangar, you paused. Hangman was in the hangar beside his jet, too busy working to even notice you.

The side panel of his jet was open, one of his hands braced against the metal frame as the other tightened something inside the wiring. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, a smear of grease on his forearm, mouth set in concentration. 

Watching him like that made you feel like you’d stumbled onto something private. 

“Wow,” you said. “You’re doing manual labour? What’s next, hell freezing over?”

Hangman just glanced back, gave you an unimpressed once-over, and returned to the wiring. “Morning to you, too, Honey Bee.” 

You stepped closer before you realised it, drawn in by his quiet focus. “What are you doing?” 

He ignored your question, “Hand me the wrench.”

You blinked. “You’re trusting me with tools?”

“Trusting you to pass them to me,” he corrected. “Not use them.”

You found the wrench on the cart and gave it to him. Your fingers brushed, but neither of you acknowledged it. Hangman tightened something with clean, practised movements.

“Just some quick adjustments and tightening,” he said. “Saves the mechanics a few minutes.”

You stared. “Do you do this often?”

“Whenever I can spare a minute.” Hangman shrugged. “If something feels off in the air, I want to know I didn’t ignore it on the ground.”

You hadn’t expected that from him.

“That…” You hesitated. “…sounds like something I’d say.”

Hangman paused for half a second. Then he cleared his throat and kept tightening the bolt. You didn’t see the faint grin he tried to smother as he angled his face toward the jet.

He snapped the panel shut, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned to you. “You’re here early. Maverick rope you into cone duty?”

“He needs someone who can read the runes he calls handwriting,” you said. “Apparently it’s me.”

Hangman snorted. “Good luck with that.”

You nodded, then added, “I’m convinced it’s going to get the Navy in legal trouble one day.”

He cracked a genuine smile at that. You felt something in your chest unclench in relief. Hangman wasn’t quite back to normal with you, but at least he looked more like himself.

“So, you’re an unofficial mechanic now?” you asked.

“Only for the boring stuff.” He shook out his hand, though it looked suspiciously like he was shaking off nerves. “And before you say it, I’m not doing it to impress anyone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I know. If you were trying to impress someone, you’d be doing it shirtless.”

Hangman made a face. “It’s six in the morning.”

“Never stopped you before.”

You both chuckled. Yours fading a little quicker, Hangman’s dragged half a beat longer. The lack of unity made that extra moment stretch awkwardly.

You were both acutely aware of how new laughing without menace was for you both. You couldn’t remember if you’d ever had a conversation with Hangman that didn’t end with someone storming off or tossing insults like grenades. 

“So,” he said, tilting his head, studying you with that too-familiar focus. “Why’d Maverick need you early?”

“He likes to make me suffer,” you said. “It’s character building.”

Hangman scoffed. “You don’t need more character. You’re already annoying enough.”

His words didn’t land with their usual edge. Instead, he looked strangely friendly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to tease you gently yet.

“Says the man who colour-codes his clothes,” you shot back.

“I do not—”

You raised one eyebrow.

“…fine,” he muttered. “Once.”

“You mean you only got caught once.”

“By you,” he said.

You laughed, surprised because it wasn’t the you’re-an-idiot you usually aimed at him. You couldn’t remember the last time someone made you laugh like that, and you definitely hadn’t expected it to be Hangman.

He looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that he was laughing too, like he couldn’t help himself.

You started heading towards Maverick’s office together. 

“Honestly, I’m happy to be early,” you admitted. “Gets me out of 5am pickleball practice.”

Hangman groaned. “Don’t say pickleball to me. Coyote’s trying to recruit me like it’s a cult.”

“It is a cult,” you agreed vehemently. “If one more person asks me to ‘just try a game,’ I’m joining the Air Force.”

He smirked. “So we’re hiding out in the hangar until the cult loses interest?”

“That’s the plan.”

Hangman watched you with mild amusement, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. “Weird,” he said.

“What is?”

“Talking to you without you threatening to throw me off the carrier.”

You fought a smile. “I still might.”

“Good,” he said. “I was worried you might’ve gone soft.”

“You just admitted that you worry about me,” you pointed out, smug. “At this rate, I should be exhausted from how often I’m running through your mind.” 

Hangman huffed a laugh at your comeback, shaking his head. 

“Seriously, Hangman,” you went on. “Rent-free. Have some shame.”

“That sounds exactly like something my little sister would’ve said to piss me off growing up.”

You blinked. “Weird. Didn’t think I’d have anything in common with anyone in the Seresin gene pool.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “My sisters don’t let me get away with anything, and they definitely don’t take my shit.”

“You have sisters?”

“Both younger and a lot smarter than me.”

“That tracks.”

Hangman nudged your shoulder with his. “What about you?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m close with my family. I just don’t see them much.”

“Mine complain about the beach constantly when they visit,” he said. “Guess that’s what happens when you grow up far from it.”

“Right,” you said, smirking. “Texas farm boy. I get it, though. I used to get seasick just looking at boats—being on them was hell.”

Hangman chuckled, agreeing. “First deployment, I used to skip meals so I wouldn’t throw up.”

“Seriously?” you asked, a laugh already bubbling.

“Seriously,” he said. “I learned the hard way when my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt an Admiral.”

You burst into unrestrained laughter, and Hangman joined in naturally. For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed. It wasn’t even awkward, just surprisingly pleasant. 

“I should go find Maverick,” you finally said, glancing at your watch.

“Right,” Hangman said. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

You walked side by side to the other end of the hangar. 

You’d known Hangman for years, just not this version. You knew the pilot, the competitor, the guy who made a hobby out of getting under your skin. You knew the version you saw in the air and the one you fell into at night when you both should’ve known better.

You’d spent so long assuming Hangman was all sharp corners and ego. But you enjoyed it when you weren’t fighting. For years, you’d both been too busy competing to ever actually talk. Now that you had, every assumption felt a little off.

You didn’t make it three steps into the Hard Deck before your squadron shouted your name. It was loud enough that Penny shot all of you a warning look over the bar, which Fanboy ignored by whistling loudly.

“Beeeeee!” Coyote sang. “Our favourite early bird.”

Hangman, sitting beside him, smirked. “Maverick had her running errands before sunrise. You know him, never met a chore he wouldn’t outsource.”

The table dissolved in giggles. You dropped into the empty chair across from Hangman, who looked pleased that he’d made you laugh. 

“You think Maverick forces me out of bed just to annoy me?” you said lightly. “That was only half the reason tonight.”

Phoenix leaned forward. “If he had you in early for anything other than his horrible handwriting, it must’ve been important.”

You shrugged. “Well… he wanted to tell me before he told anyone else.” You tried to make it sound casual, even though your stomach had been doing Olympic-level gymnastics ever since.

“Tell you what?” Rooster asked, brow raised.

“Cyclone made me team leader for the upcoming mission,” you said, and the second the words left your mouth, the table went still.

And then all of them absolutely erupted.

Phoenix slapped both palms on the table so hard the salt and pepper shakers toppled over. Coyote launched halfway out of his seat. Rooster choked on nothing. Even Bob pushed his chair back in pure shock.

“Bee, holy shit!”

“Finally!”

You laughed as Phoenix grabbed your shoulders and shook you like a maraca. Bob beamed at you with shiny eyes, and you caught Hangman’s expression softening into genuine satisfaction.

“Mav said Cyclone was watching our last drill and thought it was time someone other than Mav took the lead,” you said. “And, more importantly, he already told Penny that drinks are on him tonight.”

Phoenix raised her beer. “To Bee! Our fearless leader!”

You felt your face warm despite trying to play it cool. You all toasted, clinking bottles and glasses happily. Somewhere in the noise, Hangman’s “to Bee” came in just half a second late.

Your eyes flicked to him on instinct, catching the faint smile he smoothed away before anyone noticed it. Something low in your stomach tightened.

Everyone was in a fantastic mood for the rest of the night.

You meant to enjoy the party, but you kept noticing things you’d never really paused to see before; things that had been happening right under your nose while you were too busy hating Hangman.

Coyote dragged you into a darts game, and you immediately sent your first throw wide enough to make him wince. He laughed, nudging your shoulder, and you were lining up your second shot when Phoenix’s voice cut across the bar.

“No way, Hangman, that’s a scratch,” she said, sharp, competitive, and fond.

“That’s called natural talent,” Hangman argued, grinning widely.

“You clipped the eight-ball.”

“I nudged the eight-ball.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes and reset the shot while Hangman leaned against the table, amused and unbothered. 

Your eyes tracked the loose curve of his posture before you caught yourself and looked away.

Hangman ceded the table with a little salute after Phoenix sank her next two shots in a row. She smirked, victorious. He smirked back, gracious enough to let her have it.

A little later, Rooster roped you into picking a song for the jukebox. As you scrolled through the options, he hovered like he wasn’t trying to influence you. You elbowed him, he shoved your shoulder, and you landed on a song you both liked.

When you turned around, you saw Hangman and Bob at the end of the bar. They were joking back and forth, Hangman pretending to be offended while Bob said something bone-dry enough that Hangman let out a loud cackle.

Your eyes tracked the shape of his grin like you were memorising it.

It was easy and comfortable in a way you hadn’t realised they’d become over the last ten months since the squadron became permanent.

“I’ll get the next round,” Hangman said like it was non-negotiable, patting Bob’s shoulder and grabbing nearby empty bottles with one hand.

Hangman was still arrogant, still insufferable, still absolutely capable of grinding your nerves into dust. But the more you looked, the more you noticed all the things you’d never given him credit for. 

As you let your eyes linger on his hands picking up the next round, you missed the way Hangman’s gaze kept flicking back to you. It was as if he was checking if you were still there, because he didn’t want to miss anything you did.

You forced yourself to look away before you started thinking about those hands in ways you absolutely shouldn’t.

When Fanboy’s attempt at doing a cartwheel forced you to rescue an airborne beer bottle an hour later, you went to the bar to get another round.

Penny smiled. “Congratulations, Bee.”

“Thank you,” you said, grinning.

Before you could ask for the drinks, someone slid into the empty space beside you. A tall, objectively attractive man you didn’t recognise, with an easygoing smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to interrupt. But your group’s been celebrating you for the last twenty minutes, so I had to come over and say congrats.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Thank you.”

He laughed. “You Navy pilots? Or just very enthusiastic bar patrons?”

You talked for a few minutes, just light, friendly small talk. The guy flirted softly, and you didn’t shut him down. You recommended your favourite coffee shop, and you politely laughed when he asked if you’d be there this week.

Across the bar, Phoenix slapped Rooster’s arm.

Yale murmured, “Uh oh.”

They turned to Hangman, waiting for the inevitable snark. The classic, she’s not worth your time, man, or she’s a walking red flag. 

Hangman surprised them all by saying nothing. His jaw was locked to hide the fact that seeing you flirt with some guy was affecting him.

If you’d been looking his way, you would’ve seen how carefully he inhaled and exhaled, like he was reminding his body to behave.

The guy at the bar leaned in a little—not close enough to overstep, but close enough to show he was interested—and that was enough for Hangman.

He didn’t storm over or square his shoulders. Hangman walked like a man doing something he had decided on long before his brain caught up.

“Hey, honey,” he said smoothly, sliding into your space.

The nickname, one you’d only heard him use condescendingly, was sugared and affectionate. It was claiming you in a way that made your blood warm.

Your heartbeat tripped at the sudden proximity. Partly because you knew what Hangman was doing and weren’t sure how you felt about it, but also because this was familiar territory.

Only this time, he wasn’t getting close to you to pick a fight.

Hangman gave the stranger a polite nod. “Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to make sure you had help carrying all the drinks back.”

The guy blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Oh, we’re not—” you started.

“Yeah, we are,” Hangman insisted.

Your heartbeat jumped hard enough that you felt it in your throat. Hangman wasn’t wearing the smug, heat-soaked look he usually used when he wanted to get under your skin. His eyes held yours like he was quietly pleading with you to hear him out.

The man picked up his drink and backed off with an easy smile. “Nice meeting you.”

You didn’t answer. Your focus was on Hangman. 

“What was that?” you asked.

Hangman took a slow breath, gaze never leaving yours. “Let’s step outside.”

“I’m not—”

“Please, Bee.” His tone wasn’t commanding but startlingly sincere. 

You followed him out to the back deck, where the ocean air cut through the heat of the bar. You crossed your arms, more for balance than defence, and took half a step back.

“You don’t get to swoop in like that,” you said, pulse still unsettled. “I wasn’t interested, but you don’t—”

“I know.” Hangman rubbed a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight. “I know you weren’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because I didn’t like watching it.”

There it was. A truth Hangman would typically have buried under three layers of arrogance.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I know.” His voice dropped into something quiet and aching. “But I was.”

Hangman stepped closer, not boxing you in, but closing the distance slowly. Close enough that you felt the warmth of his body through the cold wind.

“You and I…” He shook his head. “We spent so long fighting that it felt like the only way we knew how to talk. And it worked for a while. Until it didn’t.”

You didn’t move—your body refused.

“And once we actually talked, it changed things for me.” His voice softened. “I know I can be arrogant, and stubborn, and a pain in your ass. I know you have every reason to think I’m not worth the trouble.”

Hangman’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“But I also know that the more I get to know you, the more I’m sure I want you. And not the way I used to have you, when we’d argued so much that sex was the only way to relieve the tension.” He steadied himself. “I want you for real.”

You inhaled so sharply it was almost a gasp.

“I know I’ve messed up, and I know you’re not looking for a guy to fix. I’m not asking you for anything right now. I just…” Hangman hesitated, then confessed, “I think I could deserve you, if you gave me the chance to prove it.”

The wind rustled the string lights overhead. Inside, the jukebox changed songs again, its sound muffled through the glass.

You stepped toward him.

Hangman’s breath caught when you did. He didn’t reach out to you, even though you were more than close enough now. He just stood, waiting, eyes tracking every inch you moved.

“Jake,” you said quietly. 

His name on your lips did something to him. His chest rose sharply, his lips parted just barely, and his whole posture went attentive in a way that was entirely open to you.

“I don’t know what this is,” you told him honestly. “I don’t know how to do this with you.”

“Me neither.”

“But I want to try,” you said.

The breath he let out was shaky and reverent, like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

You didn’t rush it. You stepped close enough that your chest brushed Jake’s, and he dipped his head just slightly, waiting for permission. Lifting your hands, you curled them into the front of his shirt, and that was all he needed.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding himself together for weeks.

At first, it was restrained, almost careful, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he went too fast. His mouth was warm, steady, patient in a way he’d never kissed you before. He wasn’t trying to win, or provoke, or dominate.

And then you kissed him back.

Jake’s restraint broke like a wave. His hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse, not pulling you closer but holding you like you were something precious.

This kiss wasn’t like the drunken, angry ones in the dark corners of parking lots or your hallway or his truck. Those had been frantic, messy, born of adrenaline and frustration and the fastest route to forgetting why you hated each other.

You kissed him back with equal parts want and disbelief.

You slid a hand up the solid line of his chest and into his hair, and Jake groaned quietly against your mouth, pulling you flush to him. He angled his head, deepening the kiss with a low sound in his throat that almost made your knees buckle. 

Heat shot down your spine so fast you felt dizzy, the world narrowing to nothing but the press of Jake’s mouth and the way his fingers flexed at your waist.

He knew you too well—how you liked pressure, where you liked tension, the exact moment to ease off just enough to make you chase him.

When his tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, your stomach tightened hard enough that you had to brace your hand on his shoulder to keep steady. Jake responded instantly, tilting you back a fraction, kissing you deeper, slower, hotter. 

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard but steady, you kept your forehead pressed to his because pulling back felt wrong.

Jake whispered, voice rough, “Honey?”

You whispered back, breath still uneven, “Yeah?”

“That was…” He exhaled, chest rising against yours. “Wow.”

You huffed a breath of a laugh against his lips. “Shut up.”

Your pulse still wouldn’t settle. You weren’t sure it ever would around him again.

Inside the Hard Deck, the squadron had gone dead silent at the sight of you two through the back window. 

Payback slowly lowered his beer, eyes huge. “What the hell—”

Phoenix slapped a hand flat on the table so hard the darts jumped. “Absolutely not! No, just no!”

Rooster pointed at the window like a man who had just witnessed a crime. “Am I have a stroke?! Someone check my pulse. I think I smell burnt toast—”

Fanboy gasped, clutching the bartop. “I feel light-headed…”

Bob, who had been quietly sipping his Coke through a paper straw, shrugged. “I mean… they’ve been hooking up for, like, six months, right?”

Every single head snapped toward him in eerie, synchronised horror.

“What?!” the table exploded.

Bob blinked at all of them, unbothered. “I thought it was obvious. Why do you think they always fight until we’ve all left the Hard Deck?”

Outside, Jake huffed a quiet laugh, his forehead still against yours. You slid your hands down, looping them loosely behind his shoulders.

“Jake?” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth despite your best efforts. “You gonna drag me home and finish what we started?”

You meant it half as a joke, half as a challenge. 

“No,” he said, voice steady in a way that made something low in your stomach tighten. “I’m gonna take you out.”

That pulled you up short. “Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he said, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a barely-there pass. “A real one. Dinner. Walking you to your door. The whole thing.” His smile deepened. “We already know we’re good together in bed. Now I get to show you I’m worth more than that.”

You blinked. “You… want to take me on a date.”

“I want to take you on a hundred,” Jake murmured. “But I figured I should start with one.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re being serious,” you said quietly.

“I’m being very serious,” Jake said, meeting your eyes without flinching. “You gave me a chance. I’m not gonna waste it.”

Something warm and helpless pulled in your chest. You pressed your forehead to Jake’s again, smiling widely.

You shake his face away from your head. Today is not the day. You haven’t thought about him in a couple of months. There are things here on the island that remind you of him, spots you can never scrub free of traces of him, no matter how many memories you try to put in their place. 

Jake “Hangman” Seresin was a blessing and a curse. Once upon a time, you might’ve even considered him your best friend. The first time you met, he pulled all of his best lines to charm the pants off you. The only thing he left with was a hefty bar tab after he slid his phone on the bar counter to you, asking for your number. That bell ring is still the most satisfying one you’ve done to date. 

He ended up on North Island often, pulled in for special detachments and training. Eventually, he even started training his own batch of recruits. With the amount of confidence and sweet-talking he brought to you, it was no surprise that you ended up in his bed at some point. Well, him in yours mostly because your place had a lot more privacy compared to the apartments he shared with Bradley. 

And that one time turned into two and then three. After a while, you lost count of how many times you’ve come apart in his hands. It wasn’t only his witty remarks or playful banter that won you over. It was the quiet nights you shared when he told you about growing up in Texas, when you told him about what it was like growing up with both your parents in the military, when you both shared your secret fears and desires in the darkness of your room. 

Jake was all hard edges and sharp lines. He was a shameless flirt and an incorrigible asshole. But he was also a devoted son who visited his parents states away every time he had a weekend off, a good friend who apologized for missing a night with you when he had to comfort Javy after a breakup, a man who squeezed your hand through your nightmares and held you close. 

He was a man who was hard to miss in both senses of the phrase. Handsome. Smart. Loud. Loyal. 

Falling for him was inevitable. Even now, as you’re trying to distract yourself with chores for the day, the pain from that night still lingers. Your whispered confession, the flare of panic in his eyes. 

“I love you.” The words come out easily. They are ones that have been trapped in your chest for the longest time, restricting your heart from beating as freely as it should. You’ve known it for a while, choosing to bury them deeper and deeper until the feelings pile up again to the surface. With nowhere else to go, the only way to release it is to say it out loud. But saying it out loud makes it real and that terrifies you more than anything.

You and Jake are no secret to regulars. No official labels, but when he’s on the island, you’re his. Completely. It isn’t as if you’re sleeping around with anyone else, even when he’s gone. He’s rarely gone long enough for you to crave touch from someone else – not that you do. Jake has replaced the memory of every man before him, and spoiled you for every man after. 

The silence speaks volumes. You don’t dare look up, instead opting to withdraw from him in favor of slipping on your shirt. Another barrier between the two of you. A belated protective shield for you. 

When you finally chance a glance his way, there’s a storm of emotions clouding his eyes. You can recognize the ones you anticipate: disappointment, resentment, pity. He doesn’t move where he sits on your bed, still naked beneath your sheets. Your name comes out of his mouth like a scold. Your face crumples into a wince. 

After the first few times, you both agreed that this is meant to be clean. A no-relationship relationship. Just sex whenever he’s in town. It’s a win-win for him who’s constantly on the road and for you who can’t imagine yourself managing anything else beyond the bar. 

But who were you kidding? You never stood a chance with Jake Seresin. Nights with him aren’t just hours spent tangled in each other, chasing the sort of pleasure that only comes from familiar, experienced hands. They are midnight conversations and tender touches. They are your laughs encouraged by his kisses.  

“I know” is all you can muster. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Jake doesn’t. He can’t possibly give you a response that would remedy this situation. This relationship. 

“Look, forget about it. It was a mistake.” 

“You made it complicated, sweetheart. I told you I don’t do complicated.”

“I get it,” you snap back, a little harsher than you intended. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… it came out.” 

Jake licks his lips as his hand reaches up to run through his messy hair. Minutes ago, it was your fingers that rumpled through his blonde hair. It feels like a lifetime away now. His frustration is more palpable now. He grits his teeth when he coldly says, “Why did you have to go on and ruin a good thing?”

It’s like driving a stake through a gaping wound. “I fucked up, I’ll admit. But you don’t need to be an asshole about it. There are probably worse things in life than to have someone tell you they love you.”

A hoarse laugh escapes him. “Really? You think so? Because right now, it doesn’t feel like there is.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” 

“Well, I’m not the one that decided to fall in love with a fucking asshole.”

On some level, you’re probably aware that he doesn’t mean to be this cruel, throwing your feelings back in your face. It’s the heightened emotions and the exhaustion from a long day. However, you’re also the one who got rejected. The least he could do is be decent about it, be gentler. 

“Love isn’t a goddamn decision, prick.”

“Name-calling, darlin’? Not your best attack.” Your humiliation and sorrow are replaced by fury. As someone you once considered a close friend, mocking you in this very moment feels like a bullet straight through you.

You swallow thickly, looking away. Any more from him and you may break down in tears, and the last thing you want to give him is your vulnerability. Clearly, he doesn’t deserve it. Nor did he ever want it. 

“I should go.”

Looking at the darkness outside, you feel your heart soften. You’re pissed, but you’re not a complete monster. You won’t resort to being one like he did. “You should stay the night, it’s late. You can leave in the morning. Take the couch.”

A grunt. “You know that’s no longer a good idea. I’ll be fine.” He shrugs on his clothes quickly. The ticking clock on your wall feels like a bomb that’s about to explode. Only, you feel as if you’re already standing in the aftermath of it all. 

You walk him out quietly, standing a foot away when he opens the front door. The evening breeze chills your hallway and you immediately rub the goosebumps rising on your arms. Jake looks up at you one more time, those three so-easily identifiable feelings still etched onto the lines of his face. 

“I don’t think we should do this again.”

The final nail in the coffin. All you can do is nod in agreement. It hurts. Of course, it fucking hurts. But there’s nothing else you can do – he held up his end of the bargain and you let it fall apart in your hands. 

“Be safe,” you say in response. It feels like the only appropriate one. 

Jake nods and closes the door behind him. With the roar of his bike, he disappears into the night.

Two years. It’s been two years since that fateful night. Jake hasn’t been back since. It’s not just your bar that he avoids, it’s the entire base altogether. While you see some of his friends on occasion, his face is nowhere to be seen in the crowd. There are murmurs on where he’s located, even if people try to whisper it far away from you. But Jake isn’t one to stay under the radar for too long, his exploits are thoroughly discussed by many who pass through your bar. Last you heard, he is deployed in the Middle East somewhere on a long-term operation. 

Part of you is grateful that you don’t have to deal with the awkwardness of being half an ex; it stings even more when you think you’re not even really an ex. However, after months of constant texting and late FaceTime calls even when he’s gone, his absence is noticeable. The ghost of him is apparent in the echo of his laugh by the pool table, the shadow of his broad frame when he leans over your bar and shoots you a wink. 

But it’s been two years and you’ve moved on. Somewhat. You’ve seen other people since then – not only sleeping with them but actually going on dates in what hopefully would turn into something more. 

No such luck. 

The effort is exhausting and you find working at the bar much more rewarding. It’s small talk that is meaningful to you, building new relationships with soon-to-be regulars rather than vetting an unknown man to be your potential boyfriend. At this point, you can almost say for certain that there is not a lot of potential in the crowd you meet. 

After two years, the ground beneath your feet is steadier. You hold nothing against Jake. You knew what you signed up for with him and it was neither your fault nor his that you ended up losing someone close to you. You’re thankful that you were able to tell him your feelings before he disappeared; it’s comforting to you that at least he knows, wherever he is, that he has someone who cares about him. 

With that said, you also have no interest in reliving one of the worst moments of your life. Your embarrassment lives in the deepest corners of your mind. You’ve thought a lot about what you would do if Jake ever came back. 

You would play it cool. You would be friendly. Cordial. But you also have no interest in a fresh start. You and Jake are going to be complete strangers with a lot of mutual friends.

It’ll be fine. It will work. 

At least, that is what you tell yourself when you sense that familiar presence. You hate how attuned you still are to him. The sound of his footsteps, the laugh that the wind carries in, and even the way he opens the door. A slight creak that sounds almost thunderous in the sparse bar. 

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. You continue wiping down your glasses and chatting with Irene, who probably spends too much time here. However, her company in the present is much appreciated. Your back faces the door and you have an excuse to keep your eyes fixated on the woman in front of you, rather than the blonde who’s getting closer and closer. 

Andy – the second bartender you’ve hired since business picked up – is manning the side of the bar closer to the door. He can handle him. Irene’s voice blurs into the background and suddenly your heart is rushing in your ears and the only voice that slices through is Jake Seresin saying your name. 

Fuck.

Two years. Two long years without him and you still can’t get yourself together when it comes to him. 

Andy taps you on the shoulder, tells you someone is asking for you. You wish Irene weren’t so kind, wish that she would tell Andy to take care of the man himself. Instead, she leaves you to your misery with a comforting smile. 

Taking a deep breath, you urge your heart to slow. It’s just Jake. You were friends once. You can be friendly. 

You turn around. 

Nothing could have prepared you to see how much Jake has changed. He’s still undeniably and objectively handsome, those sharp features and bright eyes could appeal to any man and woman in the vicinity. However, the five o’clock shadow along his jaw and the healthy tan on his skin give him that rougher edge that his boyish self never had. He’s older, grown.

Even so, there’s a softness to his eyes that’s new. His gaze has always been hard when he dials up his flirting game. This tenderness – it feels like the work of a woman. 

Could it be? Someone has finally tamed the young and wild Jake Seresin? The thought hurls you with bitterness and annoyance. It’s been a few years. It’s entirely possible that in that time, he’s met someone who changed his mind about love. 

Your mouth dries at the thought and you internally curse your body for reacting this way. Be happy, be nice. You inhale a shaky breath as you make your way towards him, a small smile forced onto your face. 

“Jake Seresin.” Saying his name feels like a prayer and a curse.

He tips his head and then offers you that blinding grin. One that you’ve grown so used to receiving and have missed immensely. “How are you doing, darlin’?”

“Same old.” Your lips quirk up. “What are you doing back on this side of the planet?”

Jake leans over the bar, his large frame coming up too close to your personal space. The temptation to draw the invisible line that he cannot cross is there, but that would be a little too immature, even for you. His arms fold on top of the counter. “Looking for the prettiest girl on the planet.”

“Hm? Any luck?”

“Yeah, think I got it right on the first try.” 

Your heart does a backflip in your chest. Fucking Jake Seresin and his snake charming tendencies. It’s almost painful how easily the two of you fall back into old routines – the banter, the flirting. You neutralize your expression to ensure nothing gives away how difficult this is for you. You’re not giving him the satisfaction of showing him how affected you are by him. Still, even after two goddamn years.

“What do you want, Hangman?”

“Iced tea.” Your eyebrows jump at that. 

“Have I entered the twilight zone in which you don’t get drunk off your ass the moment you walk into this bar?”

That was a mistake, because you’re then rewarded by that full-bellied laugh. The one you grew fond of. Your heart does its thing again. 

“As much as I would love to clean out your stockpile of IPAs – you probably have a surplus at this point, I do have to head to base after this.” 

You take your chance to pull a fresh glass and prepare his drink, your back once again facing him. You run through the list of safe questions in your head. Don’t ask him how long he plans to be here, you’ll sound interested. Don’t ask him what he’s doing here, you’ll sound like you care too much.

You’ve learned the hard way that he hates that. 

Instead, you settle for a simple “got it.” 

Calm, cool, collected. That’s your motto for however long Jake has his fucking feet on this blasted island. 

You turn back around and slide the glass over to him as he hops onto a stool. He tilts it back and takes long gulps, like a parched man in the desert. He cleans out the drink and immediately asks for a refill. You oblige and hand it back to him. 

“How’ve you been?”

There are so many ways you can answer this question. Three C’s. Remember the three C’s. “Good, it’s been busy here. A lot of new faces but some familiar ones. Think Coyote was here a couple of weeks ago so you just missed him.”

“Yeah, he told me. The man’s getting married soon.”

Of course, he still talks to Javy. Why wouldn’t he? Unlike the two of you, they’re actually friends.

You mentally chide yourself for being so petty. On the outside, you nod. “Winter wedding. Good thing he’s doing it in Mexico City. That’ll be a fun trip.” 

“You’re going then?”

“Yeah, winter is actually pretty slow for the bar so think Andy has it covered.”

Jake nods slowly. You observe his thinking face, another question on the tip of his tongue that he decides not to ask. The serious expression disappears as he flashes you another smile. “I’ll catch you then for sure.”

“Best man?”

“Best best man,” he replies with a wink and you can’t even stop the laugh that comes out of your mouth. His eyes gleam a little brighter. Jake straightens a little, looking almost awkward when he asks, “Are you bringing anyone?”

The implicit questions are there. Are you seeing anyone? Are you dating anyone serious enough to bring to a wedding? A wedding where your ex-situationship is the best man?

You think of the limited number of ways you could avoid answering this question. “Thought it was a small wedding, didn’t think I would get a plus one.”

“Javy would definitely let you bring one if you wanted.”

“That would be nice of him.”

“So are you?”

Stupid Jake and his stupid ability to push. You could lie, but that means you would have to find someone by that time to actually bring to this destination wedding. That feels a little much, even if it’s to teach Jake a lesson. 

“Nope,” you shrug and your curiosity wins out, “are you?”

He seems to think about it for a bit, worrying his bottom lip. “No, not right now at least.”

Not right now. It definitely hurts more than it should. 

Jake quickly adds, “I’m not seeing anyone. I just – you know, things can change between now and December.” 

“Right, yeah, of course.” 

When you look at him again, he seems to be contemplating something. The thinking face is back on. “I’ll be here for at least a month,” he starts. You have a bad feeling about where this is going, but you already know your answer. Your resolution stands firm. Thankfully, he keeps it in safe territory. “Teaching a new batch of recruits with Bradshaw, actually.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him around in a bit so that’ll be nice.”

If you say nice one more time, you may actually choke on how nice you’re trying to be. 

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “It’s kind of crazy. To think they would trust me to teach other pilots.”

“Is it that crazy?” His eyes flare with surprise. “I mean, you and Bradley are probably the best aviators. You trained under Mav. Plus, you can be a tough teacher, but your confidence is something that gives other people confidence.” 

Jake lifts his glass to his lips again, saying nothing.

That’s when you realize– “Are you blushing?”

He immediately scoffs, still hiding behind his drink. The ice clinks against the glass as he jerks it up higher. “I don’t blush.” 

“Aw, Jake, you don’t have to be so shy about it.”

The tips of his ears turn a deeper shade of red as he rolls his eyes at you. “I’m not shy. I just… wasn’t expecting that from you.”

“Expecting what?” 

“I don’t know, a compliment?”

“Am I really that mean that you don’t think I could compliment you?”

“It’s not that,” he huffs, curling his fingers together around his cup as he stares down into it. “The way we left things off, I didn’t think–” he pauses, “–I wasn’t sure how you would feel about me being here again.”

Oh. You shift a little where you’re standing. “I’m an adult, Jake. I can take care of myself so you don’t have to worry. My feelings are not your responsibility. It’s also been two years, I’ve moved on. It’s fine.” 

His eyes flicker with something unknown. “I never apologized for—”

“You really don’t have to,” you interrupt, a coarse laugh slipping past your lips. “You definitely do not have to apologize.” 

“No, I do. At least for how I responded. I was a dick. The situation at the time wasn’t ideal, but you deserve better than how I reacted.” 

Your smile softens. “Well, thank you. The apology was unnecessary but appreciated.” 

Jake returns your expression. “I’ll be around. I have to head to base, just wanted to stop by and say hi.” He drops a few bills on the counter. Before he turns, he looks at you again. Those blue eyes that still spark something inside of you. “It’s good seeing you.”

“You too, Seresin.” 

With that, he’s gone and you’ve just survived your first interaction with Jake Seresin. 

–

Jake wasn’t kidding when he said he would be “around.” Without fail, every night, he is back at the bar with the trainees. They are a boisterous crowd, reminding you of the Dagger Squad years back, before you even took over for Penny. Most of them are always by the darts or pool table, bickering about who’s the better player, which apparently translates to who’s the better pilot. There are a few that Bradley drags over to the piano, belting out classic rock songs that he and Mav used to bond over. 

Even as a cocky pain in the ass, Jake has always been good at building connections. The peals of laughter following whatever story Jake tells reverberate across the bar, catching your attention and momentarily distracting you from whatever customer you were serving. 

It’s kind of heart-warming to see Jake with the next generation of fighter pilots. You’ve seen him grow into his skin. From being a thoughtless asshole to a confident, skillful team player, Jake Seresin has created a reputation of his own. Maverick’s name will live on at Top Gun forever, but Jake won’t be too far behind. 

Some nights, Jake would saunter over to the bar himself to grab the next round. He could’ve easily sent off one of his students with his credit card, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he likes showing off in front of you and them. 

“Next round’s on me, darlin’.” 

Before your heart can skyrocket traitorously, you snatch his card and ring him up for two rounds of beers for the entire crew. He doesn’t blink at the doubled amount, signing his check with a wink before whistling them over to grab their drinks. When one of them fails to thank you for the service, Jake will slap them on the back of their head and scold, “Manners.” 

Still polite as ever. 

“How’s your day going?” Jake asks as he slides onto a stool, taking a slow sip of his beer.

God, you know those eyes. That is a look that is all too familiar. That come-hither that has led you to the back room, his bed, a wall, and whatever remotely accessible surface he can press you against.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you really think I wouldn’t know that look on your face after seeing it for years?”

Jake smiles with feigned innocence. “I was actually hoping you would remember.” His eyes drag lazily from your face, down your neck, to your curves, before flying back up. His pupils are blown wide as he wets his lips. You resist the shudder that creeps up on you.  

Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you back up towards the bell. 

Jake’s expression falters fast as he looks down at his hand, where his phone is. “My phone didn’t even touch the counter,” he argues.

“That look you’re giving me is pretty disrespectful, Seresin,” you smirk as you ring it loud enough for the entire place to hear. His phone clattering to the bar should’ve earned him a second ring but you decide to show mercy.  

The room erupts into cheers, people – including his recruits – stopping by to give him a firm pat on the back. Comfort or gratitude, or maybe both. “Rookie mistake,” you pick up his phone and toss it his way. 

Even with a tab that’s slowly mounting, Jake doesn’t lose the smile on his face. “Anything to get you more business, sweetheart.” 

Shaking your head, you click your tongue. “I hope your credit limit has improved since the last time this happened.” Paying for the entire bar and getting thrown overboard was a memorable experience for him. 

“Trust me, sweetheart, I came prepared this time.” 

When the night comes to an end and you pull up Jake’s tab, all he can do is offer a sheepish look. 

“I’ll get you the remainder tomorrow?”

Even if the bar is closing soon, you max out his credit card on the majority of the tab but still have his recruits toss him out onto the beach. When you look at him splayed out, covered in sand, he still has a dopey smile on his face. “Take an economics class and learn about inflation before you come back tomorrow, Seresin.” 

Jake’s magnetism knows no bounds. It’s difficult not to be drawn and trapped into his orbit. Between his chiseled face and toned body (only half of which is visible, mind you), he also has the added appeal of that southern spell. The slight drawl to his syllables and the invisible cowboy hat. And this is all before he starts recounting stories of his adventures in the Navy with an added, “It’s all confidential, of course.” 

Once, you were on the receiving end of all of that. Back when he still needed to talk you into going home with him. Now, you can see the full force of his charisma when even some of your regular girls – ones you know are not the type to fall at the feet of the first hot man to walk in – fall at his feet. 

Even with all the attention on him, you find that his eyes always come back to you. 

There is something incredibly flattering about the way his stare peruses you lazily, the slow stroll of his eyes up your body until your gazes lock. He doesn’t turn away, nor does he even blink. He isn’t awkward about the fact that he has been caught looking. Instead, he flashes you that blinding grin again, the one where his lips stretch wide to reveal his perfect set of pearly whites. 

In another world, Jake probably could’ve been a model, like the ones on the cover of Vogue, with an equally attractive female companion. In this one, he’s a purely cocky and insufferable government asshole.  

You always break your gaze away first. Sometimes he stares at you so intensely with that look in his eyes. A second longer and you may be one of those people falling at his feet and you certainly cannot have that happening.

Again.

When you close up shop for the day, you find him waiting outside, leaning against your car. His arms are crossed over his chest, emphasizing how thick his biceps have gotten since you last saw him. You didn’t even think that was possible. A toothpick flips between his lips as he smiles at you. “Drive you home?”

“I can drive myself home, thanks.”

“Just want you to be safe, darlin’.” You narrow your eyes at him and he holds his hands up in defense, yet that stupid smile never leaves his face. “I’ll be good, scout’s honor.”

“Woe are your fellow men if you were ever a Boy Scout.”

“Don’t disrespect the organization. For your information, I was an Eagle Scout.” He puffs out his chest proudly. “And I did swear an oath to help other people at all times. Hence, here I am tonight. Looking to help.”

“And how will you get home after?”

Jake’s eyes twinkle with something mischievous that you immediately scowl at. He laughs, “I’ll get Bradshaw to come get me. He’s not too far.”

It’s been a long day and you can feel the exhaustion disintegrating deep into your bones. Rather than argue further, having a driver for the night doesn’t seem like the worst idea. You toss your keys over to him and watch as he swings open the passenger door for you. Once you’re settled in, he jogs over to the other side.

You forget how familiar he is with your car. He knows just the right wiggle to get the old thing to start purring, where all the knobs are, and even to avoid the cupholder on the driver’s side where you constantly spill your hot drink for the day. Before long, he is pulling out of the lot and starting the short drive to your place. You make a mental note that Jake still remembers where you live – admittedly, he has driven there many times before. Perhaps too many times. 

Jake always starts the conversation by asking how your day went. With anyone else, you keep it short with a “good” because they usually don’t actually care about your day, they want to get their beer. However, Jake actually does ask follow-up questions. Sometimes he asks you if you’re planning to change your beer selection for the season, or how work with Andy is going, or even if there’s anyone causing you any trouble.

“You let me know and I’ll handle it.”

You shake your head, a smirk tugging on the corners of your lips. “The only trouble in my bar is you, Seresin.”

“Me? Trouble? Never.”

“Isn’t it part of Scout’s honor to never lie?”

He laughs, head tipping back as he does so. “Don’t think they make us swear that oath. How do you think I got away with so much?”

“And again, I say, trouble.”

Jake turns to you for a brief moment, his eyes shrinking as his smile stretches wider. You raise your eyebrow at him in question. He lets out a deep sigh but the delight does not seem to leave his face. “It’s always you,” he murmurs quietly. 

You’re not sure if he intends for you to hear, but it might be best to ignore it. Your stomach is already fluttering uncomfortably, and you can feel your pulse racing, pressing against your skin. When your eyes fly over to his one-handed grip on the wheel, you can’t help yourself from studying the veins that run up his large hand. His other hand holds onto the gear shit, clutching tight. 

The breeze from the open window carries in the memories you’ve tried to bury deep. Long drives on summer evenings when you don’t feel like going home just yet. His hand on your thigh, large and imposing. Parking on the side of a deserted road where he pulls you onto his lap and has you ride him until you’re a whining mess. 

Fuck. 

You mentally bat the thoughts away. The last thing you need is to get turned on in Jake’s presence. You can already feel your thighs pressing involuntarily together and you just hope Jake doesn’t notice. 

Except, when you look up at him, his gaze is already trained on your legs where they are exposed underneath your shorts. It’s heated. There’s a weight to them that you can’t ignore. It only makes you shift even more. Your gaze shifts to his hands, his knuckles now white from how tightly he’s holding onto the wheel. Your eyes meet for a brief second and he follows the movement of your throat as you swallow the saliva that’s gathered on your tongue. 

Luckily, your house is already in sight. You pull your eyes away from him, clearing your throat to look at the road ahead instead. He slows to a stop in front and turns off the engine, leaving you both in the silence, accompanied only by the winds blowing from the shore. 

You pull yourself off the leather seat and get out of the car, hearing Jake do the same. Without giving him another glance, you walk up to your door. Your knees feel wobbly and you curse yourself for being so spineless. 

Two years without him and you were fine. 

Two years and your body still responds to him this way. 

As you unlock your front door, Jake calls out, “Not going to invite me in for a drink?” 

You stare at him from your front porch. He is again propped up against your car, arms crossed. Only this time, he isn’t smiling. He stares at you with that look. The one that reminds you of sex and regret. He looks like a man straight out of the movies. Good thing he never went into Hollywood. 

It’s all too tempting to say yes, tell yourself that one drink can’t hurt. 

But you always know where you end up with Jake.

“I think you’ve overstayed your welcome, Commander.”

Jake’s eyes shine with something dangerous. Desire. Want. He loves it when you call him that. He clenches his jaw. “You’re really going to leave me out here after addressing me like that?”

“Thanks for the ride, sweetheart.” You smile and disappear behind your door, breathing in deeply once you’re safe in the confines of your home.

If you were keeping score, you’d guess you’re at least a point ahead of him. 

–

It’s a gorgeous day. The kind that feels like a nice break before the chaos that will inevitably occur at the bar tonight. You enjoy quiet afternoons like these. The sun sits high in a cloudless sky, and seagulls soar lazily overhead, caws sounding in the distance. A light breeze drifts in from the ocean, salty and soft, just enough to cool the warmth that kisses your skin. 

You’re perched on one of the outdoor tables, your bar ledger in front of you as you’re scribbling down line after line of expenses. Each one makes you wince a little more. A bar is not the most profitable endeavor. While you enjoy the work, you know that you’ll never live a life of luxury running this place. It’s something you’ve come to terms with a long time ago. 

Releasing a deep sigh, you reach your arms up in a stretch. The bar is taking a toll on your savings and your back. Aging isn’t a kind process. 

While you mourn the numbers on your pages, you do have one good thing going for you.

Namely, the hooting and hollering happening down by the water. 

Touch football has become a tradition for the Navy, at least for those who had been part of the Dagger Squad. Maverick’s success lives on through this team bonding activity that the members now pass on to their trainees. It’s become a ritual for them to bring out a new team out here to get more comfortable with each other. You’ve seen a number of them throughout the years and each group is always more enthusiastic than the one before. 

You place your hand above your eyes, blocking out the sun so you can get a better look. Jake and Bradley aren’t difficult to spot. Two tall, muscular men running circles around their recruits. They seem to be enjoying the exercise much more than the people they’re supposed to train. The cheers and yells echo down to where you sit and you find your eyes following the silhouettes chasing after the footballs on the beach. Some of them fall over, rolling around in the wet sand, while others are tackled straight into the sea.

You can admit to yourself that you’re really only paying attention to one man. Since he’s been back, you’ve only seen him in uniform or in casual wear like denims and t-shirts. But it’s been a while since you’ve seen him shirtless. Even from this distance, you can see the shadowed lines of his sculpted six pack, his broad shoulders, and the curves of his structured arms. 

It’s no wonder Penny enjoyed sitting out here. She got a good look at Maverick while she did her accounting, you just inherited the habit from her. Your work is long forgotten now, pen useless in your hands as your eyes continued to follow his form traveling across the sand. 

Biting your lip, you replay all those times you’ve run your hands over that body, how much time you spent watching every muscle flex when he hovers above you. You could practically feel the whisper of his lips against your skin. 

Fuck, you really need to get laid. Soon. 

Not by him. Definitely not him. 

You’re about to bang your head against the table when Jake perks up and waves at you. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face and you can already see that wicked glint in his eyes hidden behind his shades. You force a smile and return the gesture before hunkering down on your work again. 

You curse your past self for thinking that manually keeping track of quantity and dollars would be a better idea than running the whole thing on a spreadsheet. Penny always liked the act of holding a pen and writing all of these digits down, said it made it more tangible. 

More like tangibly painful. As you wrap up the last of your receipts, you make a mental note that it’s time to join the modern world and dump this entire thing into a software that would make your life infinitely easier. 

Just as you’re about to stretch again, a figure steps up and obstructs your exposure to the sweltering sun. The brief reprieve from the afternoon rays is one you welcome, but not when you realize it’s Jake who’s shown up. The sun traces a glow around his figure, an unwelcome ethereal effect that makes him look more than human.

He shifts away and slides into the bench opposite you. A smug smile is still dancing on his lips as his chest and shoulders heave with heavy breaths. “Care to join?”

Your eyes fly to the crowd that’s still running around like headless chickens and back to him. “Absolutely not. Who do you think I am?”

Jake’s eyes begin to dangerously explore you. From your hair pulled away from your neck in a loose bun, strands messily swirling in the wind, to the shape of your smooth, exposed shoulders carrying the thin straps of your tank. His gaze trails down to your chest, where your cleavage peeks out from beneath the flimsy fabric that lifts and falls with the wind. You can’t deny that this top makes your tits look great, and no, of course you didn’t wear this just because you knew Jake was coming to the beach today. 

You definitely did not. 

That would be ridiculous. 

You tell yourself that that’s the truth, and it helps you sleep at night. 

Jake looks at you again, but his gaze has darkened. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you running around in a bathing suit,” he smirks. “Or if you prefer to run around wearing nothing at all, I don’t think I would mind, but let’s keep that for the bedroom.”

Scowling, you fling your pen his way and he easily catches it. Stupid Jake and his stupid military reflexes. “The only thing running around here is your imagination. Keep it in your pants, Seresin,” you snap. 

“That’s not what you said before.”

“Years ago,” you bite back, “I’ve outgrown you, Hangman. You and all your bravado. We all know why they call you that.” 

Jake laughs and you can’t help but drink in his sun-kissed skin. He looks golden. “You know full well I’ve outgrown that definition of my call sign. Now, Hangman just means something else – something you’re intimately familiar with.”

It takes you a second to divert your attention away from his radiant skin. When the realization of his words dawns on you, you involuntarily gag at his comment.

He opens his mouth and you cut him off before he could say a word, “If you even think about dropping a ‘that’s what she said’, I’ll personally ban you from the bar and charge you for every single drink from here on out.”

Jake doesn’t falter. He grins even wider, “Never took you for financial fraud, that’s kind of sexy.” 

You sniff, turning away from him and back to your papers. “Orange isn’t really my color so, again, keep it in your pants.”

“Every color is your color, darlin’. We can both agree on that.”

That’s the first compliment he’s given you in a while. You feel your cheeks warm but you blame it on the blistering afternoon sun. Perhaps it’s time to take your work back indoors. Before you do though, you snipe back, “Well, red isn’t really yours so put on more sunscreen.” You gather up your documents and move towards the entrance.

Of course, you don’t miss the last wink he throws at you and the blatant ogling of your ass as you walk away.

Okay, so maybe his staring can be a little flattering.

–

Ever since Jake came back, you’ve been a little more than sexually frustrated. When you close your eyes at night, the image of him shirtless above you appears. From the way his blonde hair falls over his eyes, mussed up from a workout, to the way his blue eyes glitter deviously. Your imagination – worse yet, your memory – carries you through the whole scene of Jake’s fingers in your hair, his grip around your thigh, his cock—

Fuck, you barely last more than ten minutes most days.

You end up frustrated with your hands between your legs, pleasured but not completely satiated. 

Jake Seresin is a blight you need to purge from your life. 

It certainly doesn’t help that he shows his face night after night, flashing that smile at you from across the room. You have to remind yourself that you’ve done that more than enough times, you can’t do it again. 

Instead, you focus your energy, including your insatiable libido that keeps growing, on your patrons. It’s not the best idea, especially when you start accepting and returning the flirty remarks you receive from men you usually wouldn’t glance twice at – not because they weren’t attractive (because they were), but because you simply had no interest in a full romantic commitment with any of them. 

Being a bartender means you’ve endured a good amount of flattery, some more appropriate than others. You’ve never responded to them. You just take their money and you run with it. If they ever get too disrespectful – well, you know the drill. 

Not tonight, though. You’re enjoying the attention you were getting, and the sources of said attention noticed that. When they flirt, you flirt back. You relish in the fact that you still have a little game left in you. It’s supposed to be fun, light. It helps ease some of the sexual tension that has you all wound up. 

The bar is particularly busy so you have some regulars who are surprised by how welcoming you are and newcomers who are more than happy to oblige. 

This behavior does not go unnoticed by Jake. His eyes are always on you after all. 

When you’re bending over particularly low over the counter or giggling more over silly pickup lines, you could feel his gaze burning into you. You don’t acknowledge him. Instead, you flick your hair over your shoulder and smile at whoever you’re talking to. 

The tip jar gets some much-needed love that night. 

When you do look over at him, his eyes are still stuck on you. He barely pays any mind to whoever’s trying to speak to him. There’s a strange, sick satisfaction in the way his knuckles pale when he grips the cue by the pool table, the way he grits his teeth with a stiff jaw. 

You add another point to your scoreboard. 

With his eyes on you, maybe you do exaggerate your game a little bit. You sashay your hips a little more when you grab a beer. You brush your fingers against theirs. Even Andy shoots curious looks your way, but thinks better than to question it. There is a ninety percent chance that you’ll regret leading on these people tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future you.

Current you enjoys the suggestive looks these men are throwing your way. 

Andy calls your name from the other side and tells you that you’re out of coffee liqueur behind the bar. “I’ll get it, keep these fellas company for me, will you?” You give them one last wink, receiving some excited howls, before heading towards the back. 

The stock room is dimly lit by the sun setting outside. The light has been broken for a while and you make your tenth mental note to get that fixed. One day, you’ll get around to it. 

When you hear the stock room door close behind you, you don’t need to turn around to know that Jake is standing there. His cologne and familiar footsteps reach you before his question does. “Having fun?” His voice slices through the muted rumbles of the outside. 

There’s a heaviness to his question that sends a shiver up your spine. Rather than turn around and look at him, you purposely take your time scanning through the boxes to find the bottle you’re seeking. You bend over low to grip the neck of one before slowly rolling up, pretending to inspect it. 

“What ever do you mean?”

Jake steps into your line of sight. His height towers over you, and you back yourself up against the supply. He leans over, palm pressed against the box near your head. He’s so close that you could smell the mix of beer and mint in his breath. You can feel yourself clench tight between your legs. He presses his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t like to share.”

Irritation pricks at your skin. You glare at him. “Newsflash: I am not yours, Hangman.”

“If you want me to take care of your little problem, you are.”

Your lips part in surprise. Frowning, you snap, “What are you talking about?”

A sour laugh bubbles up his throat. The sound isn’t comforting. It feels almost like a warning. “You think I haven’t noticed you sending me those fuck me eyes. How you press your legs together when you look at me.”

As if on cue, you instinctively press your thighs together. God, there’s always something about Jake when he’s more demanding than usual. The dark shadow across his eyes as he takes you in hungrily. 

You lick your lips, his eyes dropping to them before darting back up. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you simply say. 

“I know you better than you know yourself, sweetheart. You know this. So what is it that you want? Do you want me to take you here in the backroom? Because I could, it wouldn’t be the first time–” you gasped and he continues, “I could bend you over that bar outside, show those guys who you belong to. Who gets you this wet.” 

Air refuses to leave your lungs, but you manage to spit out, “I’m not fucking wet.”

Jake laughs, “You’re telling me that if I stick my hand up your dress right now, you’re not wet? I can smell you from here.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, you’d like that.” 

Your heart stutters in your chest. You refuse to back down but so does he. All your emotions feel heightened in that tiny room. The anger, the wanton need. It feels as if you’re about to combust. You can hear your blood rushing in your ears. 

Taking in a faltering breath, you grit your teeth. “I have a bar to run.” You move to pass him with your trembling knees, but not before he catches your arm. 

He keeps his message short and simple. “Anyone touches you again, I’ll knock their teeth out.”

Your eyes narrow at him. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

“Maybe, but you’d look good on my cock again.”

Fuck. Your breath hitches, and the sound speaks volumes in the quiet room. The fucking audacity of this man. You yank your arm away from him and march to the door, swinging it open. 

“I mean it,” he calls out, “I’ll knock out anyone who even tries with you tonight.”

Jake is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. He does not bluff. His confidence comes from a rightful place of pure experience and skill, both of which he has with you. Rather than risk a brawl, you decide to heed his warning. 

You no longer find excitement in how some of the men flirt with you, spending the rest of your night ducking away from their grasp and ignoring their teasing. The disappointment and confusion are clear, but all you can do is offer a sheepish look. They can blame the six-foot blonde keeping his eyes on you.

It’s not the fear of Jake starting a fight per se, but rather the way you revel in the way his gaze prowls over you. Constantly present, clear in your periphery. 

When you finally call it a night and shoo the last of your drunk visitors out, you lock up the bar and turn to find him standing there. There’s an air of ease around him, one that’s usually there, but it almost feels like there’s something more brewing. Something a little more sacriligeous. You tense when his eyes pull up from his phone to you. He quickly tucks his phone into his pocket and smiles at you.

“You always were a good listener.”

At that, you scowl. “That wasn’t for you. I just didn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”

His smirk only deepens. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He plucks the keys from your fingers and unlocks the car, swinging open the passenger door before you can protest. “Get in, darlin’. I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

“That’s a first, you make it seem like it’s your full-time job,” you mutter but slip inside anyway.

He slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the engine. When he backs out of the parking lot, he stretches his arm across the back of your seat and looks over his shoulder, leaning closer towards you. You catch a good whiff of his scent again. 

Fuck him.

He knows exactly what that move does to you.

When he finally backs out, there’s a knowing smile dancing on his lips. 

There’s a thrum of anticipation in the car. Soft jazz croons from your crackly speakers and the wind whipping through your hair is barely a distraction. Jake is tapping his finger against the wheel in a consistent beat, his other hand on the seat between the two of you. His fingers are so close to your thigh, but they don’t touch. If you shift even a little bit, you could probably feel him on your skin. 

However, you would not give him that satisfaction. You know that he wants you to do precisely that. To admit that you are as affected by him as he says you are. 

That stupid smile is still on his lips. “Having fun?” You mocked, imitating his question from earlier.

His blue eyes sweep to you. “What ever do you mean?”

A glower mars your features. “You’re such a prick.”

“You fucking love it.”

“Ego the size of goddamn Jupiter, I’m surprised the president hasn’t kicked you off this planet yet.”

Jake chuckles. “Missed that mouth of yours.”

“Give you my fist instead,” you grumble under your breath. 

“Not my thing, darlin’. But if you want to try, you know I always aim to please.”

You balk. “Kinky motherfucker.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Jake parks in front of your house, switching the engine off and drenching the two of you in silence. 

The ride is short, but the stillness stretches for miles. 

A heavy hush coils in the car again, thick with something unspoken. Still, all you can hear is the steady rhythm of Jake’s finger on the wheel,  like a clock counting down to what you both know is inevitable. Your heart pounds loudly in your ears, masking all the white noise around you until all you can focus on is him. 

Then, his hand shifts. Just an inch. Just enough for the edge of his pinky to brush the hem of your skirt. 

You freeze, breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your body wants to lean into the touch, but you hold still. His pinky strokes the bare skin of your thigh – so faint, it could almost be accidental. But it’s not. 

You know it. He knows it. 

When you don’t pull away, his touch turns deliberate. His entire palm glides over your thigh, slow and steady. You could practically feel his pulse against your skin. The sight of his broad hand on your leg makes your stomach flip, and you swallow hard, trying to resist the whimper clawing its way up your throat. 

“Darlin’,” Jake starts, voice rough and low, tinted with a touch of desperation. 

You chance a look his way and catch the tension in his jaw, the heat behind his eyes. Your gaze falls to his lap, and you see the length of him pressing against his jeans, clear and thick even through the denim. 

The sharp ache between your legs is sudden, insistent. This time, the sound that leaves you is impossible to hold back. A soft whimper that fills the car with heat. 

Jake’s tongue swipes across his lips. The movement draws your eyes to them. 

This is a bad idea, you remind yourself. 

But that voice, one that is all too familiar to you, a voice that is soft, sly, and unmistakably yours, whispers back that this might just be the best one you'vel ever had. 

His name is barely out of your mouth before he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and capturing your lips in his. You melt like molten lava into the seat of your car. His hands are fast to slide up your hips to cup your cheek as he presses his lips more insistently against yours. He tastes like bitter beer, sweet mints, and excruciating heartbreak. 

But you relish in the flavors. A recognizable mix that belongs to you and only you. 

The clouds curl between your thoughts, a delicious haze that has you pliant in his hands. He’s kissing you so intently, a determination and hunger that feels like homecoming. Every moan you let out, he swallows like it’s his last breath. 

“Fuck, you taste so good. Missed you,” Jake mumbles against your lips, nipping lightly.

You can’t bring yourself to respond when he begins peppering wet kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His hand slides down to cup your breasts, his thumb dragging lightly over your sensitive nipple over the fabric. “Shit, Jake,” you groan.

“Let me take you inside, sweetheart. Wanna take care of you properly.” 

Jake doesn’t wait for your response and hops out of the car. He circles to open your door and practically drags you out, your feet stumbling to keep up with his long strides. He presses you up against your door, one hand on your waist and the other buried in your hair. He tilts your head and slants his lips over yours again, tongue slipping into your mouth to tangle with yours. 

His grip on you is firm, holding you up even when you feel your foothold go unsteady. You turn to unlock your door and he’s close behind and you can feel the thickness of his erection against your ass. 

The room spins when he finally closes the door behind him and leads you to your bedroom. He scoops you up and tosses you onto the bed before climbing on top of you. He’s shrugging off his shirt in between kisses, flinging it somewhere across the room. Jake kisses you like tomorrow won’t come, like this is the last time he will get to indulge in the taste of you. 

He drags his tongue down your neck and sucks lightly on the skin until you feel the bite of a mark. He loves leaving his traces on you, a territorial seal that tells everyone else that you’re his. You forgot how much you love it when he does that. 

Jake leans back slightly, thumb against the blooming stain on your skin. “Fuckin’ gorgeous. All mine.”

He crawls down between your legs and hikes up your dress to your waist. He curses under his breath about how short these things are, how he could see your ass so clearly. However, his words taper off when he sees his favorite lace panties. 

So sue you, maybe you were expecting something to happen tonight – if not with him, then someone else.

Oh, who were you kidding? There’s no one else. It’s always been him. 

His finger slides down the damp line on your underwear and you clamp your legs together, embarrassed by how wet you are. How wet you’ve been the entire tonight. His large hands splay out on your thighs and pry them open again until he can see and smell you. “Shit, honey, your fucking pussy is dripping for me, isn’t it?” 

The force of his gaze has you twitching underneath him. 

He positions himself on his front between your legs, his mouth huffing hot hair too close to your sensitive skin. You’re so responsive to him, almost too responsive. He knows every little thing that makes you tick, every touch that makes you all too aware of his presence. 

His lips rake kisses up your thighs, and he pauses when you squirm in his hold. 

“You’ve never been shy,” Jake murmurs as he looks at you more closely, hooking his finger on your panties and slowly pulling them down to carelessly toss them aside. 

“It’s been a few years, alright,” you grunt, throwing an arm over your eyes to avoid looking at him in your vulnerable state. 

“A few years–” he stops, “Have you not–not since we last…” He trails off, the question dying in his mouth. 

You roll your eyes, “Of course, I have. Just–I haven’t had anyone go down on me in a while.” 

“Oh, darlin’,” he says it not in pity, but in a way that has your cunt seizing. Like he himself has waited too long for this moment. 

The first touch of Jake’s mouth on your pussy has fireworks exploding behind your eyes. There is no hesitance in his movements, not in the languid way his tongue strokes up your folds, not in how his fingers dig into your legs as he pulls you down closer towards him. Your breath jerks in your lungs as he dips his tongue in and drags it up to your clit. His moans vibrate throughout your body until you’re arching off the bed. 

God, Jake knows exactly where to put pressure, where to tease you. Your fingers cannot compare to the way his mouth moves on you, slow and anchored. He takes his time appreciating your taste and how you whine needily with every caress. Your hands fly to his head as he buries his tongue deeper into your cunt, collecting your juices and spreading it across your skin as he plants more kisses on your thighs. His mouth hones in on your clit as one finger slides into you.

“Fuck,” he groans, “you’re so fucking tight, darlin’. Like a virgin.” 

Your pussy flutters around his fingers as he pushes another one in. It’s been months since your last good fuck. 

You tighten around him again when he says, “God knows I’ve been in this pussy enough times before. Can’t wait to fill you up with my cock. Want to stuff you with my come.” 

“Jake,” you cry out as your eyes slide shut. An expletive leaves your lips as he begins leisurely sliding his fingers in and out of you while he sucks on the sensitive nub. 

It’s been so long. You’re so close. You could practically feel your orgasm clamoring to free itself. It’s so close but Jake doesn’t let you enjoy it that easily. 

He pulls his fingers out and climbs up to slip your dress above your head, using the fabric to keep your hands together as he ducks his head to pull your nipple into his mouth. “No bra, darlin’? You’re trying to get me to kill a man out there.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“All that bending over, you probably had people peeking on these pretty tits, sweetheart,” Jake growls, tightening his hold on your wrists. “Is that what you wanted, hm? Tease strangers just to get me jealous?”

Maybe. You turn your face away in lieu of responding. 

“You don’t need me jealous. You already have me. I would’ve fucked you if you just asked.”

“Go fuck yourself, Seresin.”

He laughs, “Missed this mouth. The things you say. The things you could do.” He kisses you again, and this time, there’s the tart tang of you on his tongue. His soaked fingers push back inside you and he traps every moan that leaves your lips. “So fucking wet for me. Could’ve had you warming my cock at the bar. Show all those guys who you belong to. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The mewls that escape your mouth are answer enough. The thought of him taking you in front of everyone, sitting on his lap with his cock buried inside you, has you clenching around his fingers again.

“Don’t come yet, darlin’. I want you falling apart on my cock. I’ve waited too long for this.” He drags his fingers out along with another protest from your throat. 

Jake finally releases your hands as he moves on top of you again. It’s straight out of your fantasies. This same image has plagued your every thought. When you’re alone at home and all you have are your fingers and this memory of him. You had imagined him pleasuring you so many times before that this feels like a fever dream. 

But Jake reassures you that he’s there with another kiss to your lips. The feeling is jarring, a delicious dose of reality. 

“Don’t think I can wait any more,” Jake pants, as he shoves off his pants. You tuck away a mental note that he goes commando. That’s new. “I’ve been thinking about this pussy for so long, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah?” You smirk, confidence settling back. “How long?”

“Since I walked back into your bar that day and saw you again. All I could think about was kissing you stupid and bending you over the counter. Imagined how wet your pussy would be for me. Then again and again whenever I saw you at the bar, at the beach, driving you home. I’d stop the car and fuck you by the side of the road if you asked.” 

Shit, you bite your lip and stare up at him with hooded eyes. He seems to enjoy that because he drags his tongue across his teeth again. 

“But you’re no different, are you? I can still smell you in these sheets. Been touching yourself? Have you been thinking about me?” 

A scoff that sits on the tip of your tongue falls when he runs his hand through your hair. 

His gaze is loaded, pulling the truth from your lips rather than a poorly concocted lie. “Yes,” you confess, “been thinking about this right here. You on top of me.” 

“Shit, honey, I could’ve been here all along taking care of you.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m here now, going to make sure you feel real good. It’s been so long, I don’t know if I’ll even fit inside of you.”

Before you can tell him off for his cockiness, he’s pushing the tip in. Your breath catches in your throat. He’s big. You forgot how big he is. He pushes in slowly, sweat beading his forehead as his biceps flex as he tries to carefully ease into you. You know he’s doing his best not to hurt you, but all you want is to be full of him. 

You lift your hips up to meet him, legs curling around his torso. “Fuck, darlin’, don’t do that,” Jake groans. “I’m gonna come too fast.”

“Please, Jake,” you whimper. “Just wanna be full of you.”

Another pleased sound escapes him. He pushes all the way in until he can’t fit anymore of himself inside you. It’s mindblowing how big he is. It takes him a few more thrusts before he can bury himself completely inside of you, your pussy stretching to accomodate his length. 

“Fuck, condom,” he pales when he realizes. His cock twitches inside of you. 

Oh. Oh, he likes being inside you without it. 

“I’m on the pill,” you admit.

“But–”

You cannot have him leave you when it feels this good. “I’m fine. I’m clean, are you?”

“Yeah, there’s been no one else.”

Those words catch you off guard but Jake is too distracted with fucking into you slowly. Your brain shortcircuits when he bends your knee so he can fuck into you deeper and harder. Your groans blend into a symphony in the quiet of your room, bouncing off the walls and echoing to amplify your pleasure. 

Jake presses into you, slow at first, like he wants to feel every inch of you around every inch of him. His mouth is everywhere, finding your lips, then trailing hot kisses across your chest. “Fuck, you feel so goddamn good, darlin’. So tight.” 

His voice breaks slightly as he tries to restrain himself from fucking too hard, too fast. He wants this to last, wants this to be as good for you as it is for him. 

“You were made for me,” Jake breathlessly whispers. It isn’t a question. It’s a prayer he speaks into an honest truth. The kind that you say in confessionals, a secret that only one other person knows. 

Your hips meet him greedily, chasing the friction and the stretch. He rocks harder inside of you at an angle that has you curving off the bed, the tip of his cock kissing the deepest parts of you. Every wet, desperate sound between your thighs interweaves with the shared moans and whimpers that fall from both your lips. 

You claw at his back, your nails scratching your own territorial lines down his back, red against his tan skin. The sting yanks another deep groan from his throat. 

“Do that again, sweetheart. Mark me. I’m yours.”

So you do, harder. Your fingers delving into the muscles of his back. He rewards you by snapping his hips forward, plunging himself so deep into you that you gasp. Everything feels like lightning striking the earth. 

“You like that? Like me ruining this pussy? No one else can have you like I do. I’ll ruin you for everyone else.” He says it like a promise, a threat. All you can do is nod, biting his shoulder to keep yourself from screaming.

His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit again with a precision that reminds you how familiar he is with you. Everything that makes you crumble under his touch. 

It’s all too much. You can feel the blood climbing and rushing. His cock is dragging against your walls and his filthy, private thoughts sounding too loud in the cacophony of your moans. 

You feel it building fast. Your orgasm curls tight inside of you. 

“Come for me, darlin’. Make a mess on me. Let go.” 

You obediently listen. Your body trembles, your ass lifting off the mattress in your final chase, as he follows with an urgent groan, hips stuttering with him holding you close. The orgasm crashes over you in waves, dragging you under.

But Jake is quick to breathe more life into you, kissing you deeply as the last of his come paints your insides. You feel the warmth spill into you as he holds you tight, tattered breaths against your lips. 

Your chest heaves as you come down from your high. You’re a sticky mess. Your hair is a frazzled nest on top of your head, your skin feels clammy, and your pussy is dripping the evidence of his pleasure. But you’ve never felt more alive. 

Jake presses a kiss against the side of your head before he slowly pulls out with a groan. He rolls off your bed and wanders into the bathroom, coming back with a warm, damp cloth. You lie there as he litters kisses all over you, drawing a laugh from your lips, as he wipes you down carefully. 

“‘M gonna shower anyway,” you mumble.

“In case you were lazy,” Jake smirks.

You peel yourself off the bed and jump straight into the shower. The hot water cascades down your skin, stripping away the grime from your prior activities. Jake steps in behind you, his lips on the back of your shoulder as he scrubs you down with soap, massaging your tense shoulders and lingering around your breasts. 

His moves are purposeful. When his fingers slip between your legs again, you come apart a second time under his touch. 

By the time you tuck yourself into bed and Jake slides in to spoon you, your eyelids are heavy with a pleasant, sated sort of weariness, the kind you haven’t experienced in a while. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart” is the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under. 

–

Waking up the next morning is easy. You feel sore in all the right places, but you feel satisfied. A sort of peace that you didn’t even realize you were missing. 

However, the regret washes over you all too fast. An overwhelming tide that pulls the rug out from under you. The weight of his arm across your middle and his face nuzzling into your hair as his light snores fill the room are reminders of what transpired. It’s proof of what you’ve just done. 

The one thing you told yourself you would never do again. 

Not after last time. 

You mutter a silent “fuck” to yourself. Calm down. It’s just Jake. This is a one-time thing and it will never happen again. Never. He’s going to leave again and not come back for a while, just like he always does. He’ll disappear from your life just like he did last time. 

Only this time, you won’t be pouring your heart out to him. You won’t be professing your love for him like a blind, lovesick fool. No matter how much your heart demands it of you. 

When you look down at him again, you observe how his long lashes brush against his cheeks. You run your fingers delicately over the stubble on his jaw. God, he’s fucking beautiful. 

The ache that haunts you from two years ago returns in full force. Your heart leaps in your chest as you swallow the realization thickly.

You’re still in love with Jake Seresin.

Two years have done nothing to diminish your feelings. It’s as if you buried them six feet under, only to dig them up again when he comes around. It’s a cycle that erodes the hope within you. 

Jake will leave again and you’ll have your bar in this small town. You’ll continue your life as if he never came back. As if you’ll never see him again. 

Seeing his smile and hearing his laugh in the bar. The echo of his overjoyed calls across the sand. You have just gotten used to having him around again. Not as yours, but almost adjacent. It’s a gut-wrenching thought. One you don’t let yourself dwell on too much as you painstakingly extract yourself from him,

The loss of his warmth is immediate. Your feet touch your cool floors to bring you back to the real world. Reaching for your t-shirt, you tug it on and pad downstairs to start the coffee. He always needs a cup with sugar and a splash of milk before he heads in to the station. 

You go through the motions numbly. Grabbing the instant coffee from the top shelf, filling your kettle with water, and then waiting. Jake never sleeps in too late and the clock on your wall signals that he will likely be up in the next ten to fifteen minutes. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you watch the kettle boil. The slow whistling and the smoke seeping into the air distract your mind from spiraling over what happened last night. You don’t want to think about what’s next for you and him. 

In fact, there is no you and him. 

You have work to get to. Restocking, ordering more supplies, figuring out bills for the end of the month. Then you have to work on Penny’s boat, which means you have to take it out to the yard and–

“Morning.” His voice is a low rumble behind you. That gravelly, break-of-dawn voice you once started your mornings with but now feels like a distant stranger. 

Your eyes flick to the wall again. He’s up earlier than usual.

“Coffee’s almost ready,” you say, opting not to turn around. God knows your resolve will falter the moment you see him. 

Jake doesn’t let your decision last for long as he saunters up to you. A strong arm winds around your waist to pull you close. He tucks your face into his chest and his lips find your temple in a tender kiss. 

He never plays fair.

He disregards your weak attempt to untangle yourself from him. “Missed you in bed,” he mumbles. Luckily, you’re saved from having to respond when the kettle screeches to completion. He moves to prepare his own cup of coffee. The only problem is that he keeps his arm around you as he navigates through your kitchen with too much familiarity. He finds the mug he gifted you a while back on the shelf above the sink, the sugar in your spice rack by the stove, and pulls the milk you always have in the right side of your fridge.

The entire time, he keeps his hold firmly around you. He maneuvers you around the kitchen with him as he works with one free hand. 

“Are you heading to work early?” He asks as he stirs his coffee. “I could drop you off and pick up my bike.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll drop you off at the station, then head to the bar. You can get your bike later.” 

You notice that he’s already dressed in the clothes from yesterday. He’s leaving. You know this already but seeing your worst concerns materialize still hurt. It’s mortifying how you’re still so hurt by something you’re already anticipating. 

Your eyes are glued to the buttons on his shirt, focusing on the one hanging on to a loose stitch. 

“Sweetheart.” There’s that drawl again. You hum in response, your eyes still fixated on his shirt. “Are you going to look at me at all this morning?”

Your throat dries. “Don’t feel like seeing your ugly mug this early,” you mutter with no bite.

Jake laughs and the sound is clear, resonating straight to your core. His chest rises as he does so, stretching the fabric across it even more. “Better sooner than later.” 

There is a split second of silence before you feel his fingers on your chin, drawing your face up to look at him. He searches your eyes for a moment, lips tightening at whatever he sees there, then he dips his head and places a soft kiss on your lips. 

You sigh into his mouth, tucking yourself closer in his hold. Your mouths move leisurely, soft in the early hours of the morning. There is no hurry in his movements, no agitation, nothing like last night. It’s as if you have all the time in the world to drown in each other’s company, quenching the parchness from two years’ worth of distance. He swallows your little whines and presses his fingers deeper into your hips. 

When his phone beeps, it’s like a cold splash of reality. He curses quietly against your mouth, reluctantly drawing away to yank his phone out and look at it. A deep sigh escapes him. “I have to go, darlin’.”

Oh. 

It’s bound to happen. You know this. So you nod quietly. “Yeah, let me get dressed and drive you over.” 

“Rooster’s picking me up.”

Right. “Oh, okay.”

Of course, he wouldn’t want an awkward drive with you, not after last night. His training is probably coming to an end soon, and he’s going to be deployed elsewhere, far away from the island. 

You avoid his eyes as you busy yourself putting things away. You hear him sigh again before he comes creeping back up behind you, his arm slipping around your waist again. There’s the feel of his mouth against the back of your head. “I’ll catch you later at the bar, hm?”

Unlikely. “Yep.”

“We need to talk.”

No, we do not. You do not need to rehash this conversation again. You’re a grown woman and you know when it’s time to let go. This is one of those times. Instead of saying this, you say, “Okay.”

He pauses for a moment, waits for something that never comes. Another sigh. You feel his lips on top of your head before he draws away from you, leaving a chill in his absence. The front door opens and closes, and you hear the crunching of tires on gravel growing distant by the second.

You slump against your kitchen counter, releasing a deep breath. This is fine. You have a lot to do today, so what’s an early start to the day?

Somehow, you keep your mind mostly off that dread that’s sitting in the pit of your stomach. You tell Andy not to come in too early so you have more to do to keep your hands occupied. Your arms are throbbing by the time you finish the prep work, and the real grunt work of running the bar hasn’t even started. 

Right as you’re fixing up the final touches on the bar before you open, the door swings open and you’re about to tell whoever it is that you’re not open for another… 5 minutes. It’s been a long day. However, your words vanish when you see it’s Nat by the door.

She pulls her sunglasses up on top of her head as you round the bar to greet her. 

“Nat! It’s been too long!” You wrap your arms around her in a deep hug. She laughs and returns the embrace. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Tell me everything.”

Nat left long before Jake did. It’s been years since you properly saw her. She is your favorite person from the crowd of Top Gun graduates so far. Fierce, fearless, and fucking fabulous. 

She grins, “Slow down, crazy. I am here for fun, I have been in a confidential location abroad that I will personally never return to. And yes, I’m doing great, how are you? How was sex with Hangman last night?”

“That’s great! And—” You freeze. “What? How do you—”

“I fucking knew it,” she hisses, laughing and clapping to herself. “I just knew when I saw him and his distracted ass that it was you again. It’s always you, isn’t it?”

You scowl. This reunion is no longer welcome at your bar, at least not with this topic of conversation. “No idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, come on. I walk into base today and Hangman’s fumbling over a guide he’s been teaching for fucking years? His recruits are convinced that the legendary Hangman is losing it and finally ready to retire.” 

You ignore the pinch in your heart at the mention of him. “I don’t want to talk about him, I want to hear about you.”

Nat offers a sympathetic look and it makes you feel shittier. “Alright, fine. Let’s sit and chat if you have time. I know you’ll get your crowd soon.”

That gets your spirits up as you two settle down. “First of all, who comes here for fun?”

–

Nat decides to abandon you when you can barely get two words out to her before a customer is flagging you down at the bar. The evening rush picked up fast and you can only send her apologetic looks that she waves off. She drifts over to the pool table where the recruits she met earlier are hanging around. 

Surprisingly, you haven’t yet spotted Jake in the crowd. It’s bitter to realize that, but it also comes as a relief because you’re not ready for the “I have to go and leave you again and cannot commit to you” conversation. This would be the third time – fourth if you include the tragic rejected “I love you” two years ago. 

You would think a girl would learn her lesson. 

You’re grateful that the groups keep you busy. Plenty of familiar faces – some coming in from out of town for a new assignment or training, and others, like Nat, who are apparently here for “fun.” You’re still not entirely sure what that entails when there’s barely anything to do around here. 

By the time the last customers leave and you’re wiping down the last table clean, you’re exhausted down to your bones. It is the kind of exhaustion you needed so you wouldn’t wallow in your self-pitying, woe-is-me thoughts before sleeping tonight. You had even sent Andy home early, preferring to do the grunt work yourself. That man’s been having a great week with your misery.

When you hear the front door creak open, you automatically say, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

“Even for a regular like me?”

Your head whips up to see Jake standing there, weariness evident in the shadows under his eyes. “Oh, you’re here late. What are you doing here?”

“Told you we needed to talk.”

Crap. Your heart drops to your feet at the thought. You drop the dishrag on the counter and cross your arms. It’s a small thing, but you feel more protected. A fence that separates the two of you.  “Look, I don’t really want to have this conversation again. It’s fine. I’m an adult, I don’t need you to give me the talk every time you fuck me and leave. I get it.” 

He grits his teeth and sighs. “That’s not why I’m here. I mean, that’s not what I was going to say.”

You tilt your head in question.

“Can you just come over here so we can properly talk?”

Chatting with him from this distance when he’s about to “break up” with you again is safe. Chatting with him with zero space for you to break into an escape between you feels like another incoming regret.

“I’m good.”

He closes his eyes for a second, exasperation radiating off him in waves. “Please don’t be difficult tonight. I just want to talk.” 

Part of you wants to be difficult, just to show him how hard it is to be with him when all he does is push you away. But you see the desperation in his eyes and you cave. You cave so easily. 

You go around the counter, maintaining a good two feet of distance from him. He looks at you, pained again, but lets it slide. 

“I’ve been thinking about us.” 

Frowning, you look at him in confusion. 

Jake stops, seeming to mull over his words. “I’ve been thinking about what to say to you, but I don’t think anything I say could make up for all the time I’ve hurt you.” He swallows thickly. “This time—it’s not like last time. I’m not here to fuck around and leave.”

You take a deep breath. “Jake, you really don’t have to. Look, I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.”

He quickly interjects, “That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t want you to take care of yourself. I want you to let me take care of you.” 

Uncertainty only sinks deeper into you. 

“I’ve left you behind so many times before, sweetheart. It’s been a fucking miserable two years, you know. I’ve been trying to avoid coming here because it feels like all my mistakes are rooted here—”

Tears prick the corner of your eyes. You’ve always known that he has regrets, but you never thought he’d look at you and see a mistake.

“That came out wrong,” he huffs, running his fingers through his wind-swept hair. “My mistakes are not you. You— you’re the best thing to happen to me. My mistake is that I let you go time and time again. When you told me you loved me two years ago, I ran. When I’m in the air, I feel fucking invincible. But that time, I couldn’t even say the words you wanted me to say back. I was scared shitless. I didn’t want to disappoint you. We had a good thing, I thought that it was the only way I could satisfy you. I couldn’t guarantee that you would be happy with me. So I ran. I ran from what could’ve been a great thing between us. 

“And being back here now, it just made me realize how much I miss all this, you. You’re all I ever wanted, and all I did was push you away because I was a coward. I want you to know that I want to try this time. I want to do right by you. I’m not leaving you again. I want to wake up every morning with you and go to sleep knowing you’re the last thing I see. I want to make you smile and laugh, but I also want to challenge you and tease you. Fucking highlight of my day when I get you all red and annoyed.” 

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help the smile on your lips. That elation that’s been concealed so far deep is climbing up your chest and curling around your heart.  

“When I came back here, I thought you would’ve… found someone else. Someone better. But there you were – same as always. Even after I hurt you all those years ago, you still smiled at me and welcomed me back. I want to say that you’ve always been my better half, but let’s be honest. You’ve always been a whole – you’ve taken up the entirety of my mind all this time.

“I wanted to wait until everything was settled before you know, we slept together again. I wanted to take you out to dinner and treat you right. Court you properly. Then you went ahead and showed me what I was missing, what I could lose when all those guys were flirting with you. God knows I’m a fucking asshole but I’m an asshole that loves you.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. It was implied in his words, tucked hidden between the vowels and the consonants. But there’s something about hearing it for the first time. The words that you’ve been waiting for so long, words you didn’t think you would ever hear. Your heart is in your throat as he goes on.

“I confirmed my full-time position as an instructor at the station here. It’ll be mostly for special detachments, and I’ll be mostly here. I might be deployed from time to time, but this will be my home base.” 

“You’re saying–”

“I’m saying that I’m staying, darlin’. I’m staying for you.”

All the words you had planned to say remain caught on your tongue. Your mouth is opening and closing, but nothing you say could even begin to express how you feel. 

Jake smirks, “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to give me a kiss? Thank me for all the hard work I did?” 

Even in the most romantic moments, he proves to still be an insufferable piece of shit. But you laugh, roll your eyes, and come up to him. 

“I’ll give you a kiss and a kick to your ass for putting me through all this. God, you owe me a really nice, expensive dinner. I know a good place in the city for that. Actually, maybe a lot expensive dinners for the years you put me through hell.” 

“Whatever your heart desires, sweetheart.” 

“You said you love me?”

“That should come as no surprise to you. You’ve always been the smarter one.”

“Yeah, all that time in the air probably sucked all the oxygen out of your brain.”

He laughs, kissing you deeply. “God, fucking love that smart mouth of yours, even better when it’s wrapped around my–”

Let’s end it there and say that you lived happily ever after. 

Or at least, as happy as you could be with Jake and that unbearable mouth of his. 

The one you love most, of course, when it’s telling you he loves you.

JAKE 'HANGMAN' SERESIN

multi-part series:

until next time ♢ ♡ ⚤ (ongoing)

A letter from you to your best friend read by the wrong pilot leads to a new connection and a surprising mail-based friendship.

one / two / three

✩ new perspectives ♢ ♡ ⚤ (ongoing) 

You and Jake Seresin have been inseparable since age ten... somewhere along the way you fell in love and when college and flight school rolls around you have to make the hardest decision of your life.

prologue / one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve

new perspectives universe one shots + drabbles

match ♡

Jake surprises you at your match day ceremony.

j&j wedding moodboard

easier ♢ ♡ (ongoing)

You secure your first confirmed air-to-air kill on your first mission as team leader... only no one told you how difficult it would be to process and the only person who can understand what you're going through steps in to help.

one / two 

move on ♢ (ongoing)

The love of your life vanishes in the middle of the night leaving you reeling and leaning on the only person you can still trust.

one / two / three

✩ real friends ♢ ♡ (on hiatus)

One day your competitive working relationship with Jake Seresin takes a hit and results in a pact between the two of you that you never saw coming.

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

shot through the heart ♡ / and you’re to blame ♡ ⚤ / you give love a bad name (mini-series)

Pushed together planning your best friends wedding your forced to notice someone you'd previously overlooked.

one-shots/requests:

✩ flygirl ♡ ⚤ (one-shot)

The Dagger Squad, and more specifically Jake Seresin, decide it's time their favorite bartender experience life in a Super Hornet.

✩ late ♢ ♡

A delayed period forces you to have a conversation you've been putting off with your boyfriend.

mistletoe ♡

Jake comes home to find you amidst a winter wonderland and can't help but fall more in love with you and your spirit.

✩ sunshine ♢ ♡

You and Jake are recalled to Top Gun... only problem? Jake has no idea you're in the Navy.

before he cheats ♡ (request)

While drinking away your breakup at the bar, Jake finds out about your extracurricular activities and steps in.

worry ♢ ♡ (request)

Stressed and overworked, your husband steps in to remind you to take care of yourself before taking care of others.

birdstrike ♢ ♡ (request)

Jake grapples with the thought of losing you after an accident in the air leaves him rattled.

family dinner ♢ ♡ (request)

You and Jake attend dinner with your parents, a diligent homemaker and retired Navy hotshot, and when your parents have their own ideas about your trajectory in life, Jake steps in to stand up for you.

into you ♢ ♡ (request)

Forced to watch the man you want and your best friend getting closer, you push them both away without bothering to clarify the situation.

NATASHA 'PHOENIX' TRACE

boyfriend ⚢ (one-shot)

Phoenix steps in to give you the attention you deserve when your boyfriend spends the night neglecting you.

at your pace ♢ ♡ (request)

Your relationship with Natasha has remained a secret as long as you've been in North Island, until her backseater puts the pieces together and gives her the nudge she needs to come out to her team.

BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW

firecracker ♢ ♡ (on hiatus)

When you and your childhood best friend are recalled for the same high stakes mission you have to navigate ever-changing relationships along with keeping your familial name a secret.

one / two

✩ longshot ♢ ♡ ⚤

A series of unfortunate events lead you back to your hometown and straight to the professor that's been on your mind ever since you graduated.

one

unexpected ♡ ⚤

An educational trip to the waterfront for Fleet Weeks ends in a handsome naval aviator asking you on a date.

one

DAGGER SQUAD

make the friendship bracelets ♡ (one-shot)

On a whim you decide to surprise the squad with a token of your appreciation.

JUNE, 2024

"Do you think that dreams are alternate realities?"

The question kind of came from nowhere. Well — it had been on your mind a lot, and especially recently. Especially on patrol, especially when you were sat, legs dangling off the edge of the high risers in lower Manhattan, with him sat next to you. You don't know why you thought about it more when he was around, you just did. And you could barely even explain yourself without giving everything away.

Spiderman turns to face you, mask covering his face because you don't know who he is, but you can still tell — he's got his eyebrows furrowed at you. He's confused. The two of you had been sat in silence for the past ten or even fifteen minutes and then suddenly you blurt that out. You couldn't even help it. It just… happened. And now you would be forced to explain yourself.

You don't know Spiderman. You know him in the sense of you fight crime together, you meet up on rooftops in the middle of the night and scout out people doing wrong and sort it out, save people from danger, etc.

But you don't know him. You don't know his favourite colour, or what he does for work, or hell, even school. You don't know his likes and his dislikes. You don't know who his friends are, what motivates him to get up in the morning.

You don't know who he is.

So then why do you feel like you do? It doesn't make any sense. It keeps you up at night, trying to figure it out. You don't know who he is and he doesn't know who you are, so why does it feel like you've been friends for years and years? Why does it feel like he knows you like the back of your hand? How you manage to work so smoothly together as heroes if you've only been doing it a month or two — it didn't make sense.

"What?" He asks, perched on the edge of the building next to you, literally on the edge, not worrying about falling because well — the spider thing, you know.

You shrug, stumbling over the beginning of your sentence, trying to figure out out exactly to word it without sounding crazy because if you were being honest… it was crazy. "Well… you know the theory, surely? That when we dream, we're just experiencing other realities in the multiverse that different versions of us are actually living. I mean — we know so little about the unconscious mind that I reckon it's pos—"

Spiderman chuckles a little, shaking his head but still not letting his eyes leave you. "Alright, okay. Yeah, I know the theory. What's brought this on?"

Here we go.

Because there's been this guy. That's all he is. You think. You don't know and — that's the problem. Around 85% of the dreams you've had in the past year or so (you know, you've done the maths), there's been this guy in your dreams.

Holding your hand, kissing your cheek, taking you on dates to the movies and sitting next to you in class. Laughing along with you, hell — even meeting your parents. And it all feels so real. It all feels like something you've experienced before. It all feels like something that has happened to you before and somehow your brain has just forgotten.

But how could you forget something like that? Something so incredible, so real, so full of love and care and everything you wish you could have.

You explain it to Spiderman, making sure not to look him in the eye because you think you would die of embarrassment if you saw his reaction. But who else were you supposed to tell? In fact, it was probably best for you to tell someone that had no idea who you were, because if you were ridiculed for this, made fun of by Spiderman — which would be crazy but you're ready for any reaction — you had no obligation to stick around with him.

Once you've finished, your voice calms, having rambled on for quite a bit, only stopping once you realised you've probably said a bit too much. You don't tell him everything. You don't tell him what this guy looks like, you don't tell him about the more… explicit dreams. You don't tell him about how whenever you wake up it feels like part of you has just been ripped away.

You keep it as… normal as this situation could possibly be.

Spiderman stays quiet for a moment. You're considering just getting up and leaving, never coming back, that whole ordeal. But something in you begs to stay and hear him out. Just for a little. Just to see what he thinks.

Then he speaks, just like normal. "And you're saying this guy is in like, 85% of your dreams?"

You nod, simple. "Yeah, I, uh… I did the maths. It's like 84.567% but rounding, you know." You stutter, blabbering on again. Fuck.

"Do you know his name?"

"No."

"You don't refer to him in the dreams?"

You shrug, finally looking at Spiderman. "Not really. If I do it's with some cringy petname or something. Like baby or sweetheart. Something sickly sweet, you know."

Spiderman hums, nodding slightly. He stops perching, instead sits down properly, not closer to you, exactly the same distance, but there's something different about it. Like he's less on watch and more interested in this conversation now. Then softly, he turns to you again, and you wish now more than ever that you could see what he looked like under the mask. "Do you know what he looks like?"

You blink, head whipping up from his hands to his face, so fast you would nearly have given yourself whiplash. "What?"

"Well sometimes people in dreams are just like… faceless blobs. Is he a faceless blob?"

Swallowing thickly, you turn away, gaze darting across the New York skyline, following as lights from different apartments turned on and off, the car lights driving down the streets. Anything but looking at him. "No. He's not a faceless blob. I— I know what he looks like."

"And?"

"Brown hair, brown eyes. Nice smile but I'm probably bias." You laugh your way through describing this mystery man, acting as if you thought it was so stupid as well, and that it was all bullshit.

Spiderman goes quiet. Just nods along.

Then you hear police sirens and you're both up and following the noise. The cars are on a street a block or two down and are heading towards a bank a mile or so out from your house. Spiderman is already moving so you follow, quickly and swiftly, just like you trained.

You shouldn't, but you're thankful for the distraction. Part of you regrets telling him anything.

SEPTEMBER, 2024

Peter didn't realise that you would be here. In fact, you were the last person he expected to be here. Sure, MJ and Ned, they were supposed to be here, it was an MIT building that the landlord rented out to students for a cheaper rate and without ever knowing Peter Parker, they had gotten into MIT with flying colours. But you?

You'd never showed interest in going to MIT. Did you know someone going to MIT? Who were they? Why had you even moved to New York? He supposed your dad still got ill, you still came here to live with your mother. Had you still been involved in everything with Thanos? Had you still known Tony?

Peter still had all his memories, the ones with you in them, the ones where you noticed him, where you liked him hell— even loved him. You didn't have those memories.

Peter didn't know if he was willing to relearn you. Not with the memory everything before.

Because there you were, in that gorgeous black dress, that fit you perfectly, that made his heart soar. You'd put make up on, a rare but brilliant occasion, with his favourite coloured eyeshadow, the specific shade that made your eyes pop, even in the darkness of the apartment. And— were you looking at him?

You're talking to MJ and Ned. You shook their hands, smiled and laughed at something Ned said, and Peter can only think of the first time he introduced you to the two of them. Then there's a glance, to your left, directly in his direction.

It happens as quick as it stops. Peter doesn't know what to do with himself.

When you finish the conversation with MJ and Ned, Peter watches you head straight towards the alcohol. Since when did you..? You never drank before. You refused, never went near even a drop of the stuff. Peter watched you b-line for the table, pour yourself a nice big glass of whatever you've chosen, take one more glance towards him before taking a big gulp. Peter can't figure out what the hell is going on. There has to be a reason you keep looking at him, he can't just be going crazy.

Now, Peter needs a drink. He's not stupid. He waits until you leave the table before heading over to it. He doesn't even know if he can ever work up the courage to talk to you again, especially this early on.

Courage. And what have you both just given yourself? Liquid courage.

It doesn't take long for the alcohol to kick in. An hour, maybe two. You've had a couple drinks by now, someone you've only just met dared you into a shot, and now you're sipping a lovely glass of wine. Not only have you had a lot, but you've been mixing, too. Bad idea.

Peter, on the other hand, isn't as bad. He's had a bit, he's slurring his words, attempting to talk to someone he didn't know previously, avoiding you, MJ and Ned like the plague. He's still not well-minded though. He's still glancing at you every time you walk into the kitchen and back out again, and he's definitely still noticing every time you stare at him. Spidey senses, or whatever. That's what he tries to tell himself it is, but Peter thought both then and now, that even if he had never been bitten, he would have found you either way.

Then suddenly, even though he's been avoiding you so much it's been killing him, you pop up behind him, and Peter realises just how drunk you really are.

"You're cute." You say, the first half of the sentence so slurred that Peter has to take a second to figure out what you said. Cute, yeah, he's fucked.

Peter's lips part, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at you. "Uh—" Fuck, what does he even say?

You hiccup, leaning against the doorframe like if you didn't have something to hold, you would be on the floor instead. "M'sorry, I don't even know you, y'just, cute. Had to say something."

"Thanks." Because, what else is he even supposed to say. If he even tries to string a sentence together, it'll come out all jumbled and while you certainly don't care about that, he doesn't want to risk spilling anything at the moment. Perhaps never.

"I've actua'y been avoidin' you al'night."

What?

"Didn' wanna say somethin' I shouldn't've." You shrug, smiling up at him with big eyes and Peter can almost feel his insides melt. It's the exact same look you used to give him when you'd convince him to do something he knew was a bad idea. Fuck. "But, then I stop'd caring'. Dunno why."

"Maybe the alcohol?" Peter squeaks.

Then you're gasping, the gleeful glint in your eyes only getting brighter as in your drunken haze, remember the existence of alcohol, even though it's running through your system like crazy. "Oh m'god-! Yes! Alcohol! Love it s'much. Need some more…"

Peter can't help himself then. He's so used to lending you a helping hand, comforting you when you need it, being by your side and doing anything for you that the second you mention more alcohol, he protectiveness kicks in. He grabs your hand as you attempt to run off towards the kitchen and you pause in your hastiness.

"Woah, maybe we should get you some water instead, hey?" Peter says, keeping his voice soft and trying to push through the less alcohol in his own system in order to help you.

You look up at him with those big eyes again and sigh dreamily. "Y'cute and carin'? Are y'single? There's no way you're single, right, cutie? Someone has to have… you know, ugh. I can never find the right guy."

Peter rubs a palm against your shoulder, doing his best to ignore your question. Of course he's single, he would never be able to be with anybody else. "Come on, towards the kitchen."

Carefully, Peter guides you towards the kitchen, grabbing an empty cup from the side and heading towards the tap. He makes sure it's cold but not too cold and hands it to you. He tries not to take notice of the way you can't stop staring at him. How he managed to get into this situation, he doesn't know, but all he knows now is that he can't just leave you, drunk out of your mind, with no way home.

It's late into the party now. A couple people have gone home but it doesn't look like it's going to quieten down any time soon. Peter takes a glance at the clock and is shocked by the time, any other day and he'd be perched on a rooftop beside you — without you even knowing it was him.

Still, you're here. Somehow, still with him. It was a joke you always used to have. You said it from the beginning of your relationship and it was the last thing you ever said to him, knowingly. We find each other in every universe. No matter what. And you were right.

Once you'd finished the water, you chucked the cup into the bin next to the sink and turned back around to Peter, a pout on your face that was going to be the death of him. You're leaning against the counter, but this time not out of drunkenness but instead with how tired you are. The hyper-ness of the alcohol has been very quickly replaced by sleepiness.

"I'm gonna go t'sleep." You murmur, leaning further towards Peter, your eyes fluttering shut.

Peter stops you, holding you up by the shoulders. "Can't sleep here, I'm sorry. Do you have a way to get home, sweetheart?"

You shake your head, the pout reappearing at both remembering how your friend abandoned you and how Peter didn't let you go to sleep. "M'friend was gonna drop me off, but she's gone home with a guy, I don't know."

"Okay, where do you live? I'm more than happy to walk you home."

"Upper Manhattan." You grumble, beginning to lean into Peter, rather than the counter and not realising that that was much too far away to walk and Peter couldn't afford you an Uber. He also didn't trust you on the other end of a taxi. "But, s'okay, right? Can just sleep at yours. Don't you live in th's buildin' cutie?"

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at you, genuinely concerned. "You don't know me."

You shrug, smiling up at him, trying to stay awake. "I dunno, feel safe around you. Feels like I've known y'longer than I actually have. And if you try anything, I'm a fantastic archer."

Yeah, he knows, Peter smiles at that. You were fantastic at everything but you always found most pride in the archery thing. Always looked up to people like Hawkeye, always helped as many people as possible with a skill so mundane, in your eyes. In Peter's eyes, it was the least mundane thing ever. He thought you were so cool, and he was so proud of you. Even if you had no idea anymore.

"Okay, sweetheart, let's go." He says, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone as he guides you towards the door. He only lives downstairs, so it doesn't take very long until you're standing in his apartment. You've never been in here before, it's weird. Though Peter always imagined that you had been. That you'd been here countless times, that he'd cooked you dinner, that you had your own drawer of clothes and your toiletries were in the bathroom.

Peter heads towards his drawer, grabbing some sweatpants and a spare shirt, a stupid nerdy one that has some dumb physics joke on it. When he reaches you again, he finds you looking at a photo on the mantle of a canal in Venice, it's bland, it's boring, but anything else would have to have had you in it. He only had one of them, and it wasn't going to leave that in his apartment.

"Here, go into the bathroom and change, there's a spare toothbrush in there. I, uh, don't have any make up wipes or cotton pads, I'm sorry." Peter stammers, letting you take the clothes he folded just to give to you.

You smile, still drunk, still tired, but something more real settled behind your eyes. "Thanks, this is more than enough."

Peter watches you stumble off to bathroom, unable to take his eyes off you. Even with everything that went wrong, you were still here with him. Different, and you didn't really know him, but you were in his apartment and you felt safe around him, even if you didn't know why, and Peter felt something settle in him. You'd be here. He'd be here. Always.

He drags himself to the bedroom, grabbing his favourite pillow (leave one for you) and the blanket he left draped at the edge of the bed, and headed back towards the sofa. By the time he had set everything up, you had come back out of the bathroom, make up a little cleaner with simply water, and in his clothes.

In his clothes.

Peter almost burst into tears in that exact moment. In another universe, you would be his. You would be wearing his clothes because you liked the smell, not because you were drunk and had nowhere else to stay. You'd be in his apartment because you would practically live there, not because you bumped into Peter at a party.

It dawns on Peter just now weird this situation actually is.

His heart aches, but he puts on a smile, and nods in your direction. "Bedroom's just through there. I'll be out here, if you need anything."

"Thanks." You mumble, eyes all cute and droopy. "See ya in th'morning."

And just like that, you're gone, off to sleep in his bed, without him.

When you wake, it's to a headache, and an apartment that isn't your own. It's to the sunlight streaming in through the window and bedsheets that smell like home, even though they aren't yours. It's that familiarity, like in your dreams, and suddenly you're sat up, looking around the room you find yourself in.

It's somewhat decorated, the walls are a simple cream but there's the odd poster, a corkboard with post it notes scattered on it, and the flooring is a dark wood with a simple rug half underneath the bed.

Then you start remembering everything.

It comes back in waves, it always does. First seeing him when you first arrive, introducing yourself to the host, MJ? You think. It's still blurry. Then seeing him throughout the night, watching him watching you. Why was he watching you so much?

And then… oh fuck. You've actually gone and fucked it now, for definite. Is this his fucking apartment?

Oh my god, did you sleep with him?

No, because where is he? You woke up in the middle of the bed, so he couldn't have slept in here with you. And you still had clothes on, not yours, true, but not the type you put on after sex. Proper clothes.

So where is he? You drag yourself out of bed, feet dangling over the edge of the bed while they adjust to the cold flooring. It's a particularly cold September.

As you swing the bedroom door open, a great weight is lifted off your shoulders as you spot the pillow and blanket made up on the sofa. The man is still nowhere to be seen, which scares you a little bit, but then you spot the piece of paper left on the kitchen counter.

His handwriting is messy, cute, all of that. Its a short message, scrawled onto an open page in the notebook he's left out and reads the following.

Morning, hope you're okay. Make yourself at home, there's painkillers in the bathroom if you need them and help yourself to some breakfast. It was nice meeting you last night, I would have stayed to meet you properly this morning but work calls. — "Cutie" as you called me.

You reckon you're actually going to end it. I mean, obviously you're not but you might as well. You've embarrassed yourself in front of this guy who you don't even know, but you've been dreaming about for the past year. Now you're sober and he's not even in the apartment.

It would be easy to leave, right now, it would. You could just get up, go, and it would mean nothing. You'd never have to see him again and you could forget all of this.

But then you catch it by the door. A worn leather wallet, on the counter by the door, left in a bowl. Jackpot.

Because even after last night, you didn't know his name. You didn't know who he was, but now you could find out.

You hesitantly step over to the door, picking up the wallet and letting it sit in your hand for a bit before opening it. This is a big moment, this isn't just a guy you met last night, this is a guy you've actually, non-metaphorically been dreaming about for the past year.

Slowly, you open the wallet. The first thing you see is his ID, perfect. Slipping it out of the folder, you scan through the information.

Peter Benjamin Parker. Born August 10th, 2001, Queens, New York. Aged 18.

After all this time, you had his name. Peter, of course. It made sense. He looked like a Peter.

But there was more. Something you had noticed immediately, too impatient to find out his name. All wallets had that little clear folder, made for a little photo. Usually loved ones, if you were a parent, it had a kid in it, or grand-kids, or just partners.

In that little folder, was a photo of Peter, next to you.

Not just a photo of you, a photo booth photo, with your lips pressed against his cheek, a grin on his face. It must have been a while ago, you only look 16, he looks a similar age too. And the worst thing wasn't even the fact that you were in this photo.

The worst thing was that you had this memory too.

You had dreamt about it. Last May, it must have been around the. He'd taken you on a date to the movies, and they'd just put in a new photo booth at the theatre and he insisted on getting a set with you, even though it was five dollars and he didn't have a job yet.

Oh, you need to sit down. You reach for the nearest chair, a single wooden, uncomfortable chair by the table, and you practically collapse into it. You can't stop looking at the photo, why does he have it? Why do you remember it? Have your dreams been real this whole time?

Then there's a jangling of keys on the other side of the door, and it swings open. There he is, in a jumper with his shirt collar hooked over the wool, backpack on one shoulder, cheeks heated and eyes stressed.

"Hey I forgot my wallet—" He cuts himself off when he sees you with his wallet. You stand from your seat.

"You're Peter Parker?"

He nods. "Yeah. Can I have- my wallet back?"

"Too late." You shake your head, turning it around. "Explain this photo to me, now."

Peter chuckles nervously, holding his hands out as be shuts the door completely. "Uhh, it's a photo?"

You blink, unfazed. "Why do you have a photo of me in your wallet?"

"Its complicated"

"I've got nowhere to be." You shrug. Peter doesn't quite know how to deal with this. You've never actually been angry at him before. You've been disappointed before, you've been worried that has manifested itself as angry, but never properly angry.

So Peter nods curtly, removes his backpack and sits it by the other chair. He drags it out and takes a seat, urging you to do the same.

You sit, sliding the photo out of the folder and chucking the wallet back to him. He's not getting that photo back unless he's got a completely valid reason.

"Okay, just under a year ago I made the biggest mistake of my life got into a lot of trouble. At first, everyone I loved was in danger and then the whole world was. So, a friend of mine, a sort of… sorcerer, had to bail me out, majorly. I owe him my life and he doesn't even know." Peter explained, eyes dashing between your gaze and where he hands were clasped on the table. "It was difficult, but he had to make everyone forget who I was. Everyone forgot the name Peter Parker."

You furrow your eyebrows at him, frowning. "Everyone?"

He nods. "Everyone. It was the only way I could save everything. So everyone forgot me."

"That sounds… lonely."

"It has been… well, there is someone but, again, complicated." Peter shrugs, and you have no idea who he is referencing, but for some reason, it makes your stomach twinge with jealousy. "Anyway, before he made the spell, I asked him one thing. Just one thing."

Your features have softened, no longer full of anger but instead just warmth. You couldn't be angry at him. "What was it?"

Peter sighed, looking down at his hands. "I asked him to keep this one photo, the one I kept in my wallet. That it would be enough and would get me by without anyone else. The photo of my and… my girlfriend."

"Your…"

"Girlfriend." Peter nods, finally looking up at you. "You were my girlfriend. For 3 years. I'm so sorry. I swear, I had no idea you would be at that party, I wasn't even planning on talking to you, and then you spoke to me and couldn't get home and I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I didn't help you."

"Peter." You speak, voice soft as you struggle to find the words. You don't know what a normal person would even say in this situation. There's nothing that makes enough sense, nothing that could help your brain process all of this. And you still haven't taken those painkillers. "You said there were painkillers in the bathroom?"

He furrows his eyebrows, but then nods. "Yeah, cabinet above the sink, help yourself."

"Thank you."

Swiftly, you get up and head to the bathroom, making it clear you don't want Peter to follow. There's nothing you can even conjure up that would even make a bit of sense. Hey, you know me really well but I don't remember much of that, only a couple moments, but you're still cute and we clearly get along so I'm willing for this to be a thing again?

What kind of nutter were you. Not only did you stand in the bathroom for ages while taking the painkillers, you also stood above the sink, splashing your face with water. You thought that maybe this was some form of dream, but it wasn't. It actually wasn't. This was real.

So, where to start? All of the dreams you've been having over the past year have been real. You haven't made them up, and you in another universe experienced them for real. But that version of you is you, and now you've met the guy that you apparently forgot. How much of your relationship had you forgotten? Were they just the main moments? Were they the ones you held dearest to your heart or were they just random?

Peter's explanation hadn't exactly been direct. He had told you what you needed to know in order for him to explain the photo but you could tell it hadn't really been everything. Because now you had two following questions, worse than any prior questions:

Why did he need everyone to forgot him?

How was he friends with a sorcerer?

And you need an explanation for these. The only sorcerer that people really knew about was Dr Strange, but then how would this random dude know Strange? You'd met him a couple years ago during a run in with a couple bank robbers, but he'd handled that. The only way you would be able to know Strange well enough for him to bail you out like that was if you were a superhero.

You sighed, took one last look in the mirror and left the bathroom, praying that the painkillers would kick in sooner than it said on the box. When you stepped out of the bathroom, you immediately spot Peter with his forehead against the wood of the table. He looked a little stupid but you can tell he's attempting to regulate his breathing. Then quietly, you hear him murmur, over and over under his breath,

"Stupid, stupid stupid. Just tell her. She's gonna find out either way. I mean, she's a genius, she'll find out eventually. And if you don't tell her now, she's gonna be so mad when you do."

You scoff a little under your breath, then say, louder, "Peter?"

He jumps up, sighing as he sees you. "Christ, scared me."

"Sorry." You murmur, sitting back down in your seat and fiddling with your hands in your lap. "What were you mumbling to yourself there, huh?"

Peter shakes his head, an internal debate over whether he should tell you. He must decide quicker than you had expected because then his lips are parting and he attempting to form the correct sentence. The correct way to say whatever he's planning on saying. Jeez, how life changing could this be. "There's more. That I should tell you, about… well, us, I guess. Well, me."

You nod, curt, unsure. "Go on."

"I know about your dreams. About me." He says, and then realises that he must sound like an absolute creep, so he stammers, trips over his words a bit before finding the correct foot again. "I mean, you've told me about them, but you didn't even realise it—"

Of course. There was only one way he would have been told about your dreams, if you had told him yourself. That's why it felt like you knew him better than you actually did. It's why he didn't want to take the mask off, he was the one that implemented that rule, not you. That was why he'd asked if you knew what he looked like, or his name. It's how he knew Strange. Everything had come together, so easily, so perfectly. How you hadn't realised in the first place, you didn't know.

"Are you Spiderman? "

Peter looks up at you, that warm, hopeful look settled into the brown of his eyes, and he nods, soft and sweet. "You were always a genius."

You blink at him, leaning forward in your seat because of course, everything makes sense now. "So that's how you know Strange? And that's why it felt like I knew Spiderman better than I should, because I did."

"Yeah."

"I mean, what are the chances the one person I go to tell about my dreams, just so happens to be the exact guy I'm dreaming about." You laugh to yourself, sitting back in your chair, head in your hands, partly embarrassed, partly unable to process this information.

"Yeah." Peter chuckles a little this time.

"So."

Peter pauses for a moment, just looking at you, who doesn't seem to be thinking. You'd just stopped talking, sat with everything for a minute. Peter cleared his throat. "So?"

You shrug, lips parted and brows furrowed hesitantly. "I don't know… where we go from here."

"That's fair."

Slowly, you lean forward in your seat, looking towards Peter, then away, then back at him; like you can't decide what to say, what to do. Like everything is still so jumbled but you don't seem to know how to even start untangling it. Peter understands. It's a lot of information to take in. Even if you just wanted to leave forever and never see him okay, he would understand.

And that was what you had realised. From your dreams, from the way he acted as Spiderman, from even just your conversation with him now. Peter cared. Deeply. Unlike anyone you'd ever met before. Even when he was still in love with you (—okay, you're assuming here, but to him, everything still happened, so), he cared for you. He would do whatever was comfortable with you, no matter what. He'd disregard his own feelings completely if it meant you were okay.

Which means something, especially considering everything he's gone through.

"If you want, I'll give you my number, and if you are ever able to properly process this and want… something out of it, friends, more, I don't know, I don't mind, you text me." He offers, showing his maturity, showing his politeness, showing how much he cares. "You don't have to, it's just a suggestion."

You look up at him, and for the first time, your eyes are soft. You're looking at him like you look at him in your dreams, like how you look at Spiderman. "No."

Peter nods. "Whatever makes you—"

"Shut up." He purses his lips, holds in a laugh, which makes you laugh as well, even if you're trying to hide it too. You've got a finger held up to him, supporting your statement, but you're still giggling as you speak. "Shut up. I… am willing to get to know you again."

You can see the way Peter's eyes light up just from pure hope at your words, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Okay."

Lowering your finger, you swallow thickly, still not completely sure if you're making the right decision here but still going through with it. "You're cute, I didn't lie to you last night. And… clearly we get along. I don't have very many people, not that I'm close with. And you seem funny, and I'd like to get to know you."

"Thank you." Peter breathes. "Take as much time as you need, we're going your pace, whatever makes you most comfortable, okay? And… I'll try not to be weird about knowing everything about you already. Just habit. Things I couldn't really forget—"

"Peter." You breathe, stopping him mid-sentence, reaching a hand over to rest against his which gives him no choice but to look you in the eyes. "It's okay."

He nods, sheepish, it being obvious there's still something on his mind. "Okay. Yeah. Thanks. And uh… it's really nice hearing you say my name like that again."

You smile, then, soft and warm.

Because maybe he knows more about you than you do of him, but that doesn't matter. You can see the care. You can see the potential. You have some memories of what the two of you used to be like and you can relearn him. You're willing to relearn him, after all this time. Even if it's a rocky start, even if there are problems, or you get frustrated with the knowledge differences.

You're willing to relearn him. Even with no memory of before.

The two of you share only two classes, with him being some sort of biology major you have one lecture and one lab together. Molecular chem is one of your lightest classes, you have quizzes fairly often but the answers are always on the slides. It's your instrumental analysis lab that's always giving you grief.

You're struggling to fit your textbook back in your bag and Peter stops on his way out. "Hey, your calibration curve was really solid." He flashes you a soft, earnest smile and reaches for your bag to help hold it open. "It was the dilution factor that I think tripped you up at the end."

Coming from one of the other guys in this class it would be condescending. Unfortunately, coming from stupid Peter Parker with his under his breath goofs and the way he always lets you use his pencil sharpener, you recognise it as purely an attempt to be kind.

"I just had a different approach," you say haughtily.

Peter's smile twitches like he's trying not to laugh. "Right, of course."

That's how the two of you have always been, really. The competitiveness had been immediate, sparked the moment he scored one percent higher on a prac and had the audacity to apologise for it. You push, he pushes back. You stay late in the lab after hours to perfect your results and when you get there in the morning he's already there.

He saves you a seat every time you share a class, has given you his laptop charger when you forgot yours in your dorm, and now here he is helping you with your stuff.

"Thanks for the notes from the experiment last week," he says genuinely. He'd missed morning lab last Thursday and hadn't told you why (not that he had to, you don't even care) and it's not fun for you to do so much better than him on a prac because he had to go to the doctors or whatever his excuse had been. "They were really helpful."

"No problem." The lab is mostly clear, but lab hours don't end for another three hours. Most of the equipment is kept under lock and your professor usually sits in her office, connected to the lab and made of glass for supervision. Some of the time the two of you sit there and run through hypotheticals with her or get her to supervise things, but most of the time it's just the two of you in the room.

You have your notebook and your laptop perched on the table and he seemingly has no intention of leaving. "Can you take me through your process?"

He offers you a spare pencil.

"I don't need help." You absolutely need help with it and unfortunately Peter is the only person you trust to actually get you results.

Peter rests his hand on his chin. "That's okay. I don't think you do need help. At least not my help. I'm a blank slate," he wipes a hand over his face. "Run me through the process, I'm not even here I'm some random guy."

You huff, flipping back through your notes. "You are some random guy," you mutter. "Who even invited you?"

"Student lab," he beams at you. "Swiped my card to get in and everything."

Annoyingly, going through your process with another person is your favourite way to fix your mistakes. You hate that he knows that.

"Don't interrupt."

He mimes a little zip motion over his lips.

You start talking and he nods along, eyes shining while he watches you mime with your borrowed pencil. Somewhere around the middle, you slow. "So when you plot the signal against the concentration it'll be stable but with mine deviating... wait."

Peter doesn't say anything, leaning down on the lab bench and swaying on his feet.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table. "Oh my god."

"Found it?" he asks, voice soft.

"I'm an idiot," you dispair. "I'm dropping out."

Peter leans down and drops his voice impossibly quieter. "I only knew that 'cause I made the same mistake on the prac a few weeks ago." That makes you feel a little better, you won't lie.

Last time the two of you had a quiz, you'd gotten three questions more than him. That smugness has well and truly worn off by now. There have been more than enough instances of you being the reason Peter passes things, both using your help and using your mutual competition as motivation that you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed by him watching you flub. But you can't say you don't absolutely hate it whenever he gets something you don't.

"I like it when we're the last ones here," he says, almost offhand. The only noise in the room aside from your talking is the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

"You just like having fewer witnesses when I do perform better than you," You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

That does it - he laughs, bright and unguarded. "You really did figure me out."

“And that’s Bob.” 

Bucky’s voice had cut through the hum of pre-mission chatter, booming off the walls and commandeering the space in a way only the Winter Soldier can. It came out tired, almost expelled as a sigh as his thumb pointed casually over his shoulder. Your eyes shifted over, fleeting and casual. It was an acknowledgement of Bucky’s words with as minimal attention as you can garner to avoid being accused of not paying attention. You hadn’t even lingered, flickering away from Bob as quickly as they landed. 

But then your eyes shot back. 

Because in the briefest of seconds that you had looked at him, Bob, whoever he was, smiled at you. 

The realization of it had your interest piquing, but by the time your eyes reached for him again, Bob’s gaze had already shifted elsewhere (namely, to the ground in front of him). 

The smile was small and polite. The kind that barely pulled at the corner of his mouth, but that was all it took for him to capture your attention. You don’t know what it was, maybe there was something about it—so quiet and sincere—but it held you for a second longer than it should have. 

You really think that if that was all the situation had to offer, a quick quirk of his lips in recognition, things wouldn’t be the way they were now.  

But then Bob had lifted his head again, and he caught your eye. Strangely enough, he was the one who had become flushed, as if he was the one caught staring when it so clearly should have been the other way around. 

It made you smile this time. 

It wasn’t much. Barely more than his own. A brief tug of your lips and a soft tilt of your head, but it was nice. 

Like you had said earlier: in the moment, you hadn’t thought much about it. But now, looking back, you can see it—the way his expression held something quiet and hopeful, like he hadn’t expected you to smile back. That was the moment the thread had snagged, when something invisible hooked between you and tugged. 

You remember how Bucky had kept rambling on, further explaining everyone’s roles in the mission in a no-nonsense cadence that you eventually learned to not be intimidated by, but it had shifted into somewhat of a persistent buzzing in your ear. You weren’t really listening anymore (not that you really were to begin with), and standing there, you found yourself oddly aware of the man tucked so subtly behind Bucky. 

He wasn’t supposed to be there, that much was obvious. You could tell in the way he held his hands, fingers wringing nervously around themselves as he listened intensely to every word. You caught it in the way Sam raised his brows, just slightly, and the way Bucky had given a small shrug that sort of said “I know, but we need him” when he was first introduced.

Bob clearly wasn’t part of the usual lineup, and you had wondered if he would even be able to handle the rush of adrenaline or the direct line of danger you’d likely find yourselves in. Something odd, like a sense of worry, flooded you—for a stranger you haven’t even really met. But the longer you watched him, the more you realized that maybe he had advantages of his own. Bob moved carefully. Deliberately. Like someone who really thought before speaking, like someone who didn’t expect to be heard at all, really. 

You remember the thought that plagued you in that moment, one that crept into the edges of your mind without your permission, how different he seemed from…

You had physically shook your head as the thought invaded you, forcing it out and effectively snapping your eyes away from Bob in the process. 

God it’s ridiculous, the way you felt your body naturally gravitating towards another’s in the room. You hated yourself for it…but you couldn’t help the way you snuck a peek through your peripherals anyways. 

There he was, standing off to the side with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, nodding along to Bucky’s briefing with that familiar crease in his brows—the one he always got when he was trying to commit something to memory. His mouth was set in a hard line, focused. Calm. 

Your eyes had lingered longer than you meant them to, different in the way they lingered on Bob, because this stare wasn’t just curious. No. It was instinctive. You swallowed a bitter taste in your mouth. It was longing. 

At that point, you and Joaquin still hadn’t spoken. With your bags hiked up over Joaquin’s shoulder and the townhouse door shut behind you, the two of you had left that night behind along with everything left unsaid with it. You barely looked at each other going through TSA, and exhaustion had crept up on the both of you once you were in the air. Landing in Washington made it easy to go your separate ways, back on the safe land of your home, and so you did. 

You forced yourself to look away, and it took more effort than you’d like to admit. Refocused on the rundown for the upcoming mission and Bucky’s clipped voice, you strain your ears to listen in on the dull droning. God, you really hoped this wasn’t anything that serious, but you had pivot your energy into anything but the weight of silence between you and Joaquin or else you’d go insane.

But just as you managed to tune into the outside world again rather than the thoughts in your head, you came to the realization that Bucky had already wrapped up. The room had begun shifting: people moving and talking, the murmur of multiple conversations casting a hum across the small space. Your eyes glanced back at Joaquin, who was now in a professional conversation with Sam about whatever it was that you were supposed to be listening to for the past hour, before they flicker over to Bob.

Bob, who was standing patiently against the wall. 

Bob, who was looking around strangely, with clear discomfort on his face. 

Bob, who you still haven’t said a word to. 

You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, catching his wandering gaze in the process. With his wide, shifting eyes, you could have sworn Bob pressed himself closer to the wall behind him. It made you laugh softly.  

“Hi,” you offered quietly, with an intentional care to not spook him once planted squarely in front of him. He so clearly seemed like the queasy type. 

He looked up, startled for a moment, before returning your smile with something just as gentle. “Hi,” you hear the hesitation in his voice. “I’m Bob.” 

Taking his extended hand, you shook his palm. The warmth spread through his fingertips to yours. After sharing your own name, you told him, “Looks like we’ll be working together on this one. It’s nice to meet you, Bob.” 

You didn’t think much of it in the moment. It was just another polite introduction, another warm hand. 

But later, in hindsight, when you reflect on the way the air between you two shifted and things started meaning more than you could’ve realized—you’d remember the way Bob looked right here. 

Like someone hopeful. 

Like someone who would never take your attention for granted. 

-

You were spending so much time at the Watchtower just to prepare for the upcoming mission, you swear. It had absolutely nothing to do with your new friend. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s nicer, more communicative, more outwardly happy around you than someone else who you’re still not speaking to. 

No, it has nothing to do with that at all.

You were simply being a good teammate. Diligently covering all your bases to ensure the smooth sailing of finding and arresting this new-found villain—as is your job. 

There’s no reason for anyone to be suspicious of you, right?

“Hey, there you are,” a soft voice snaps you out of your daze. You turn around to a face you’ve been all too familiar with this past two weeks, eyes zeroing in on the two cups he holds in his hands. 

“Bob,” you greet cheerfully, hand already reaching out for the blue whale mug you’ve designated as your own, stolen from the kitchen cupboard, “Good morning.” 

“You’re only being nice to me because I’m bringing you your coffee, freshly brewed,” Bob sighs as he takes a seat next to you, crossing his legs into criss-cross applesauce before swiveling his chair to face the monitor you’re seated in front of. 

You let out a quiet gasp in false offense. “I’m always nice to you!” 

Bob raises his brows in mock skepticism, holding the mug just out of your reach as a test of your friendship. The sight of your nose scrunching has him letting out a soft laugh, placing it squarely into your hands and you revel in the way the warmth seeps into both palms of your hands. 

The chuckle he let out is more of a huff of air than anything, the corner of his lips quirking upwards before Bob takes a sip of his tea. 

“Any news?” he asks, eyes tracing the side of your face before flickering to your screen. 

You sigh, turning to him with a pout. “No. This guy is impossible to track down; it’s like he disappeared into thin air. Last Bucky’s heard, he was at some motel in Michigan, but he was gone before we even landed.” 

“Oh,” Bob managed. When he looks down and begins to pick at the sleeves of his sweater, you can’t help but reach over, placing a gentle hand on top of his.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him eventually,” you reassure. 

All Bob can do is offer a timid, strained smile back. 

A loud SLAM has you jumping, drawing your arm back in a flash out of sheer surprise. With a swift turn, you and Bob search for the source of the sound, leading you to be met with a frowning Joaquin who wasn’t even looking in your direction accompanied by a chirpy looking Sam. 

The two of them move quickly into the room after making the door fly into the wall to announce their arrival. 

“Morning lovebirds,” Sam calls out, his quick, steady steps making their way towards you. 

The glare you shot at him was ineffective; all Sam does is laugh in satisfaction by your reaction. You turn to look at Bob with the same unamused glance only to be met with blushing cheeks. It’s so unsurprising of Bob to grow flush at such an innocent comment that you can’t help the smile that starts to build on your face. 

Joaquin trails wordlessly behind Sam, shoulders tense as he fiddles with something on his touchscreen pad. It’s impressive, really, how he’s capable of looking so irritated just by being within the same room as you, before you’ve even managed to even say anything. 

You’re so sure he was just chatting it up with Sam on the way up here. You just know it. Since your last mission, it’s become abundantly clear that Joaquin just has an aversion to you. 

“Morning,” you reply brightly, bypassing Sam’s lame attempt at a joke. You can see Bob offer a polite nod from your peripherals. 

“Get Bucky’s text?” Sam asks, not even bothering to give you a chance to answer before telling you anyways, “Briefing room in five, looks like we finally got something.” 

It doesn’t mean much to you, but from beside you, you can feel Bob’s posture stiffen. His shoulders start drawing closer to his ears as he processes Sam’s words.  

“Is it…did they find him?” Bob asked, quiet and tight, like he’s already bracing for an answer. 

Something in the air shifts with his question, and you watch the way Sam’s expression softens. Not in pity, just understanding. “No.” He doesn’t sugar coat. “But we’ve got movement. Missouri Highway patrol saw someone matching our BOLO heading South.” 

“Missouri?” Now you chime in, echoing in confusion. “That’s…far,” you frown before turning to look back at your monitor, checking to make sure you’re remembering the data right. “That makes four states in two days.” The nod of confirmation from Sam makes you sigh, hand coming up to rub against your forehead. A headache was already starting to form.

“There’s more,” Sam adds grimly. “They say he was cutting through the forest at about thirty miles per hour." He pauses. “On foot.” 

When Bob lets out a sharp exhale, your hand reaches out and lands on his forearm in an attempt to be a comforting presence. 

Joaquin’s eyes flicker to your movement, just for the briefest of seconds, before abruptly turning to address only Sam with his arms crossed over his chest. “Guess that Everford Serum’s more than some cheap knockoff.” 

The comment makes Bob’s forearm flex underneath your palm, and all you can do is squeeze his arm as a reminder of your presence. 

You watch as Sam gives Joaquin a chiding look, but no one says a word about Joaquin’s poor jest. Instead, he lets out a sharp exhale, announcing that there’s, “More details at the briefing. Let’s head upstairs.” 

“I’ll go help Bucky upload the coordinates.” It’s all Joaquin offers before he turns sharply on his heel, breezing out of the room with much more speed than when he was walking in. 

The room feels quiet after he leaves, and you know that it’s not just because there are fewer people in it. 

Bob shifts from beside you, his arm flexing under your palm, but you don’t move right away. You pretend it’s because he needs the comfort. You pretend it’s not because you do. 

The loud sound of Sam clapping his hands once is sharp enough to break the fragile stillness. “Alright. Five minutes means five. Move like you want answers.” With that, his sneakers squeak against the floor as Sam makes his exit. 

The sound of your and Bob’s chair wheels rolling against the polished concrete floor fills the room, and as you straighten, your fingers finally loosen from Bob’s sleeve. You watch as his hand twitch, just a bit, like he was bracing for the loss of contact. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. 

You shrug. “Not really. You?” 

He shakes his head. “No.”

-

“Jesus, these stupid planes never get any more comfortable,” you complain, shifting dramatically in your seat. The military jet vibrates jolts beneath you, as if it was retaliating against you for your grievances against it. The dumb thing is probably held together by duct tape and prayers. “Bucky’s fancy government privileges couldn’t get us a nicer ride or did he just not care because he didn’t have to fly on this death trap?” you gripe, hand clutching onto the thin fabric they had the nerve to call a seatbelt. 

“Could be worse,” Sam shouts over the loud engine, looking relaxed as ever, much to your chagrin. “You could be strapped to the outside,” he teases. 

“That an option?” Joaquin grumbles, but it cuts through the noise loud and clear. His gaze is focused on the tablet resting on his thigh, but the implication of his words, and who they were directed at, was not lost on you. 

You roll your eyes, but choose to bite your tongue. This bumpy plane ride was already giving you enough heart palpitations, the last thing you want to do is concern yourself where Joaquin Torres is involved.  

Beside you, Bob sits rigid, hands tightly clasped between his knees with his gaze solely on the metal floor beneath him. His heel is tapping a nervous, rhythmic pattern and you’re not sure if it’s the ride from hell that’s getting to him or the mission ahead. 

Leaning in, you murmur against his ear, “You okay?” A sense of deja vu hits you. It seems like that’s the question always being asked between you and Bob.

His eyes snap towards you, and for a split second his expression wobbles, like he wanted to hide the fear on his face but he wasn’t quite strong enough to do it. It makes your heart ache. Patiently, you wait for his answer. 

“I, um…I just. I haven’t seen him,” he nods awkwardly, “In years. It’s been years, and…” 

“You don’t know what you’re walking into?” you gently offer. 

Bob looks up at you, nodding in appreciation. “Yeah.” He averts his gaze, biting his lip as he admits, “He was nice before. Well, as nice as someone like that could be, I guess.” 

“So…not the kind of guy that the government has to chase through multiple states?”

He laughs at that, “No. He was a lot of things, but…not this.” 

After that, the two of you settle into a strained silence. You wish that there was more you could say, something perfect that might fix the distress that sits so clearly on Bob’s chest, but you can’t. 

You’ve never really had a way with words. 

Eyes flickering over to Joaquin, your heart sinks. 

Across the aisle, Joaquin shifts, leaning his head back with his eyes closed. His head rests against the wall of the plane, exposing the smooth skin of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and you find yourself having to gulp yourself.

It’s so, impossibly evil—how attractive you still find him despite the fact that he hasn’t even spared you a glance in weeks.

Your eyes shamelessly trail the sharp of his jawline, the one he so infuriatingly keeps clenching around you. It falls to the soft supple skin of his neck, the same territory you’ve familiarized yourself with again and again and your mind grows hazy from the flashbacks. Your gaze slowly makes its way up to his strong nose and your finger twitches with the need to trace it, and just when you’ve begun to admire his long lashes—

Tug. 

The abrupt interruption has you jumping, head whipping over to a timidly smiling Bob, whose brows were raised in blatant disbelief. 

You flush, cheeks growing rather warm at being caught in such a compromising position. Sinking deeper into the uncomfortable seat, you groan. This plane ride is really going to be the death of you. 

-

“Ugh,” you huff, foot sinking into the mushy mud beneath you. Fists clenched at your side, your teeth grit as you hold back another complaint. You were starting to get underneath everyone’s skin—you’re socially aware enough to know that much—but you don’t have enough self control to not bitch and moan. 

You can’t help it. You’re uncomfortable. And sticky. 

The Missouri Backwoods are disgustingly humid and you’ve been trekking through them for the better half of two hours with no definitive lead. It’s exhausting. 

Normally, you’d be a much better sport. You’re a combat field operative for Captain America for God’s sake; you’re trained well enough to hold your own. The real reason you’re being so miserable was not just because mosquitos the side of your fist are tearing up your ankles. 

Remembering the truth behind your sour mood makes you pause, eyes landing on the strong, rippled back in front of you. 

The way he managed to make a sweaty, fitted green military tee look like a five course meal should be illegal. Forget the psycho you’re after, someone throw Torres in a jail cell now before you lose your mind. 

The two of you had just landed back in Washington before Bucky called Sam (ergo calling you). The most you had was one much needed shower and approximately six hours bundled in your own comforter before you were dragged back to work. Talking to Joaquin wasn’t even an option, even if you wanted it to be. 

Though, realistically, even if you had the time, you’re not sure if anything would have been said. You don’t know what you were hoping for, honestly. After all, you and Joaquin swore that what happened in Arizona “changes nothing.” 

What a man of his word, he was.  

You scoff out loud.

It draws the attention of Bob, who looks over at you with a curious glance, and you jerk your head away from his gaze, embarrassed by the idea of being caught thinking about something Joaquin-related again. 

Tentatively, you sneak a gaze back to Bob to ensure his attention is facing forward once more before moving your eyes to Joaquin again. Striding ahead, he moves with purpose—like someone whose limbs aren’t aching and eyes aren't burning from lack of sleep.

He doesn’t look back. Of course he doesn’t look back. Joaquin Torres would be nothing if he wasn’t someone who couldn’t compartmentalize you into a neat, inconvenient little box. Which was fine at first, when the same could be said for you about him.

But that was at first. 

And like you admitted to him the night before everything went sideways…you bit off more than you can chew. 

Drunken nights and post mission celebrations turned into more, and much to your absolute horror, you actually started to like him in a way that was deeper than pure chemical attraction, more than just as a body to keep your bed warm at night. The thought makes your stomach twists painfully, and just when you’re about to expel another dreaded sigh—

Sam raises a closed fist, signaling everyone to slow. “The last thermal reading is here.” 

You glance around, met with nothing but trees and buzzing insects. Wiping at your cheek, you brush away moisture that you’re unsure is sweat or the air itself sticking to your face. Whatever lingering thoughts you had on your pathetic love life evaporated as soon as Sam snapped you back to the reality of where you are. 

Joaquin hums under his breath, “Drone picked up some body heat in this area about forty minutes ago.” He taps the tablet. “But nothing within a ten mile radius other than small animals now. Definitely no heat signature big enough for a super human.” 

“Great,” you mumble, kicking a small rock underneath your foot. “We just hiked through the Amazon’s redneck cousin for a ghost.” 

Sam shoots you a warning look over his shoulder. It’s not like he was particularly thrilled about it either—someone’s gotten particularly comfortable with flying instead, but that was an immediate no-go once you guys landed in this thick, dense blanket of trees. The only difference between you and Sam is that he hasn’t been constantly complaining about it.

“It wasn’t a glitch,” Joaquin continues, easily breezing over your words as though you hadn’t spoken up at all. “Somebody was definitely here.” 

“But they’re not anymore,” Bob says quietly to verbally accept the results of tonight.  

Everyone pauses, taking a minute to collect themselves after the strenuous effort it took to get here just to find nothing. 

Taking a deep breath, you work on gathering your own thoughts. “Alright,” you start, eyes closed as your brows furrow to take in the bad news. “Let’s think about this. We know that he broke out of Everford two weeks ago with nothing but the clothes on his back. Like, quite literally broke down the door and ran. Science experiment gone wrong. Superhuman strength. Weirdly enough, not a first for us,” you shrug at Sam and Joaquin, who just nod in agreement.

You pause to look around, squinting through the canopy of trees as if it might give you a clue before continuing on your verbal puzzle. “So far he’s had minimal contact with the public, opting for back alley rivers and swamp trails instead,” you describe with distaste. “So we know his goal isn’t to hurt people.” 

Gesturing at your surroundings, you continue to hypothesize, “He has no supply chain. No contacts. No tactical equipment. What the hell is his plan, what are we missing?”

Joaquin shifts his weight, propping one knee as he takes in your words. “To not get caught by the government, probably.”

You send him a deadpan look, not even having the energy to sarcastically thank him for pointing out the exceedingly obvious. 

“He’s probably just scared.” Bob interjects, voice soft but certain. When all attention turns to him, he shuffles uncomfortably. Swallowing, he states, “I don’t…think he’s trying to be strategic. He’s just running to survive.” Bob looks away, staring off into the distance, as if he can see the man you’re after, escaping through these very trees. “Running from something he doesn’t understand.” When he looks back at your trio and sees everyone staring at him, he quickly tacts on with bumbling words, “Probably. I don’t—I don’t know. I’m just guessing.” 

Everyone goes quiet, and something like sympathy twinges in the thick, humid air. 

You may have only just met Bob, but something about his comment is so exceedingly him. It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest, that out of you four, Bob would be the one to empathize with a man on the run. The crazy scientist injected himself with some basement kit made serum and turned into an anomaly, but Bob can see past that.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that the man he knew all those years ago likely doesn’t exist anymore, that whoever he was then and whatever he’s become now are so entirely different that Bob’s memories of the scientist have become just that: memories. Still, you shrug, offering with as much kindness as you can, “Maybe.”  

Looking back at you, Bob offers you a quirk of his lips that’s not much more than a strained grimace, seeing through your very poor attempt at humoring his theory. 

A beat passes, and you turn just in time to see something in Joaquin’s expression flickers. He masks it as soon as it flashes across his face, instead choosing to turn his tablet towards the three of you before outlining your target the same way you were. “Everytime we get close, he disappears into terrain no normal human can get through. Marshes, storm drains, flooded creeks.”

“Yeah, but he’s not normal.” It slips past your lips before you mean for it to, and you guiltily shoot your eyes over to Bob. 

Joaquin narrows his eyes at you, lips parting to expel what you have no doubt is some sassy remark, but Sam chimes in before he has the chance to. 

“Bob’s right. He seems desperate,” Sam states simply. You tilt your head to the side a bit—not exactly what Bob meant, but sure. “Mercer’s managed to survive this long. We can only assume that whatever he juiced himself up with can be thanked for that.” 

Everyone falls silent at the horrendous realization. It was a blatant reminder that you truly have no idea what you’re dealing with.

Looking upwards at the treetops, Joaquin announces with a defeated sigh. “There’s maybe twenty minutes of sunlight left until we’re hiking in pitch black.” 

“I am not navigating this death zone by a battery operated flashlight. Some of us aren’t making it out of here if a bear decides it wants to hunt them for dinner because—” you snap a look over at Bob, “—some of us don’t have superpowers.” 

He gives you a sheepish smile at that, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’d at least try to save you.” 

Sam lets out a laugh, “Man, so forget the rest of us then, right?” 

“You guys can fly,” you state plainly, defending Bob in a light hearted manner. 

“So can Bob, technically” Sam raises a brow. 

“Exactly, and he’s the only one who offered to heroically save my life,” you smirk, satisfied with your line of reasoning. Though light is limited, you can feel Bob getting redder with every passing second. “Isn’t that right, Bob?” It was just too easy not to mess with him.

Just as Sam parts his lips to offer a retort, Joaquin cuts him off.  “Let’s fall back,” he proposes, loudly, effectively bringing a halt to the conversation in a way that makes you roll your eyes. 

Someone obviously isn’t in a joking mood. 

Conceding to him, Sam lets out a long and resigned exhale, any sense of humor dissipating. “Yeah, alright. There’s a town a ways over. If we move fast we can make it before sundown.” 

That was all it took for everyone to fall in, trudging along without so much as another word. 

-

If misery had a Yelp page, this place would have five stars. 

From the peeling wallpaper that looks like it was last updated in the 70s to the fluorescent light that hummed quietly overhead like a white noise machine, you really have no choice but to rank this as one of the most bottom tier accommodations you’ve been forced into for a mission. 

Feet digging into the carpet, you grimace at how stained it was. Even the air smelled stale; it’s incredible how they’ve managed to accomplish that.  

Sam had left the three of you to idle in the dingy motel lobby while he walked up to the front desk to work on room arrangements, and to say the silence that fell over you was uncomfortable was a sheerly gross underestimate. 

Still, you were too exhausted to care. For a second, you even considered collapsing into one of the armchairs they had set on the floor, but upon second glance at the mysterious brown splotches and fabric so faded you’re sure it was manufactured before you were born, you decided to pass. Just when you were contemplating what diseases you’d contract if you sunk into the carpeted floor, Sam comes back holding two keys. 

“They’ve only got two rooms left,” he announces. 

You blink. Surely the exhaustion of today’s events has you mishearing things. “...Two?” 

From her place at the front desk, the older woman smacks her gum slowly and obnoxiously loud, as if daring one of you to say anything about it. 

“They can’t possibly be booked out, Sam.” You argue. “Seriously,” you wave your arms around. “Look where we are.” 

Turning back to look at the receptionist, your group watches as she files her nails. Not even bothering to spare your foursome a glance, she calls out, “Like I told him. Convention in town.” 

“For what?” Joaquin retaliates, the long day leaving his patience thin, too. 

Lazily, she glances over at him. With pursed lips, she looks at all of you impassively, “Tractors.”

“Oh my God,” your head falls into your hands. 

“You heard the lady,” Sam looks back at your rag-tag team. “We got a room with one bed and the other has two. So I—” he exaggerates, before tucking one key into his jacket pocket, “—will be in Room 6. Which leaves you three—” he slaps the remaining key into Joaquin’s hand, “—in Room 7. Good luck and goodnight.” 

It’s the last thing he offers before he starts breezes past you.

“Sam, wait, which room are you—” Joaquin shouts after him, only for Sam to hastily skittish out the doors, backpack on his shoulders as he exits through the lobby doors and toward the hall of rooms. With his actions speaking louder than any words could, Joaquin raises his arms outwards before dropping them against his thighs with a resounding clap, yelling after Sam. “Come on, bro! There’s no way!”

When Sam doesn’t bother to even glance back at your trio, Joaquin lets out a defeated sigh. Turning back, he offers you and Bob a quick glance before his eyes drops down to the brass key in the palm of his hand. 

Silence.

Bob clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. 

You can’t help but react similarly, scratching your elbow as you direct your gaze toward an ugly painting hanging on the wall. 

“Well,” Bob starts, brave enough to speak up first in his particularly humiliating situation. His lips roll inward as he offers a thinly amused smile, “Who’s ready to test the limits of human patience in a 200 square feet motel?”

No one attempts to answer Bob’s rhetorical question.

It’s the last of your exchange before the three of you wordlessly drag yourselves down the dim hallway. The patterned carpet crunching unpleasantly beneath your muddied boots like it’s been bathed in soda for several decades. Room 7 isn’t a far walk, as the motel itself isn’t exactly a grand resort. You do have to fight the urge to break down Sam’s door when you hear him snickering as you pass Room 6, though. 

Joaquin unlocks your door with a sigh before pushing it open, but he stands in the hallway to let you and Bob in first. 

Bob steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter the room. 

With tentative steps, you move forward.

The room is…fine. A simple room with two beds, the space filled with a boxy old TV sitting atop a rickety dresser. There’s a door to your right and you’d bet all your cash that it leads to some cramped, questionable bathroom with awful yellow lighting.

You walk further in, instinctively drawing the curtains shut and flickering on all the lights possible. Amidst your inspection, the sound of the door locking and the chain sliding into place is the only other noise that fills the room and you know without looking that it’s Joaquin’s doing. You can’t help the huff of air that leaves your nose - such a well oiled machine, the two of you. 

Once again it’s Bob who speaks up to break the tension. “Um,” he starts quietly, lifting a hand as though you were in a classroom, “I don’t mind the floor.”

Your head snaps toward him. “What? No. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean, I’d probably be fine. I don’t…sleep much anyway.”

You exchange a look with Joaquin, and the two of you share some silent agreement that the man’s been through enough trauma as is and should definitely not be relegated to beige motel carpeting that smells faintly like cigarettes.

“No,” Joaquin says firmly. “Two beds, three people. We’ll figure it out.”

Bob smiles softly, appreciative and a little shy, and sets his duffel down near the foot of one of the unclaimed mattresses. 

You toe off your boots and shrug off your bag, kicking them into one corner of the room without much care before testing out one of the mattresses with a cautious press of your palm. You shrug to yourself before turning back to look at the boys, who were already looking at you. “It could be worse.” 

Joaquin lets out something that was almost a laugh. Almost. You try not to think so hard about the way your heart skips a beat at the sound of it. Then, matching your own movements, he kicks off his own boots into the corner near the door before shrugging off his backpack and dropping it at his feet with a loud thud. Shrugging off his jacket, he flings it onto the dresser carelessly.  

Between the two of you, Bob just sits tentatively on the edge of the mattress that holds his duffel. 

Clearing your throat, you finally concede and bite the bullet everyone has been deeply dreading. “Okay, so…logically, two people on one bed and one person on the other.” 

Joaquin crosses his arm as he stands by the door and his biceps flex in a way that makes your mouth run dry, “Yeah.” 

You force your eyes away from the way they strain against the sleeve of his shirt. Gaze flickering between the two men, you start to propose, “So…you two could just…”

Before you even finish that sentence, Joaquin and Bob’s heads turn sharply towards one another. They share a look. 

One that’s immediate. 

One that screams that’s absolutely not happening. 

Bob’s eyebrows jump somewhere toward his hairline. “Oh! Actually…I really don’t mind the floor—”

Joaquin’s arms drop, hands starting to gesture as he half-heartedly explains, “I mean, the beds are pretty small. I don’t know. Just, I don’t think we’d fit—”

Your own sentence dies on your lips as the two of them overlap one another, eyes rolling at their childish behavior. “Alright,” you draw out. 

The humor in your chest dies as quick as it flickers, though, because now…that only leaves you two options. 

Your eyes slide over to Joaquin, who’s already looking at you. Humor in his eyes slowly shifts into something stormier, boring into your face as if he was trying to read you. You scan his features, trying to make something out of it yourself, only to be met with stoicism. Whatever amusement he found in sharing a bed with Bob was squarely gone as he expressionlessly stares at you in expectation, like you’re the one who holds all the power here.

God, since when was reading him so hard? It makes your stomach churn in a way that almost hurts, and you can’t help the frown that makes its way onto your face as you look at him. Quickly, you avert your eyes. 

You’re not used to doing this with Joaquin. 

It was always so easy before, back when the two of you were first introduced and you joined Sam’s team. Back when Joaquin Torres was just sunlight in human form to you. The worst parts of you start to ache, missing the way he used to smile at you and he’d crack jokes through the comms like you weren’t about to jump face first into the worst dangers. 

He was someone who made everything so simple. 

He was someone who was effortless to like. 

You swallow a bitter taste in your mouth, still not brave enough to look back at him. Joaquin is someone who’s so easy to understand when you’re not on the receiving end of his ire. But now the distance between the two of you was impossible to cross. 

Still, you know his heart hasn’t changed. You just wish he’d open it to you again. 

“I’m g’nna hit the showers.” Joaquin announces, voice tight. 

It snaps you out of your daze, blinking rapidly. You avert your eyes away from Bob, who accidentally became the victim of your stare as you daydreamed. That’s the third time Bob’s been tangled up in your Joaquin-induced trance today alone (not that he really noticed the latter two times), but you offer him a small apologetic smile anyways. 

He returns the smile—tentative, and a bit confused, but still kind in a way that makes you feel guilty for dragging him into the crossfire of whatever you and Joaquin are. Or…aren’t, you suppose. 

From across the room, Joaquin makes more noise than you think is necessary. Rustling through his backpack, he quickly pulls out clean clothes and hygiene supplies before striding into the bathroom and slamming the door shut so loudly it rattles the fragile infrastructure of the place. 

It’s as if he couldn’t get away from you sooner, as if the idea of sleeping beside you was so awful that he had to run away from you. Again. 

You huff, rubbing your eyes tiredly.

The tension doesn’t leave with Joaquin. If anything, it thickens, settling over the room like another layer of motel dust. 

You sit on the edge of the bed beside Bob and another sigh escapes before you can stop it. Next to you, Bob hovers for a second. He’s awkward and very unsure, as he usually is. The foot of space between the two of you doesn’t do a great job at hiding Bob’s nerves. 

He glances at the bathroom door before quickly looking back at you. Quietly, Bob asks with furrowed brows. “Is he…still mad?”

The confession about what happened between you and Joaquin came about three days after you first met Bob. One late night at the Watchtower going through piles of data and a plate of leftover lasagna that Bob made for dinner was all it took to have you unraveling. 

Technically, Bob had been the one to initiate it; you imagine that it’s easy to be perceptive when you spend most of your time silently watching others as Bob often finds himself doing. So when he asked you what the deal was between you and Joaquin and why it was so damn uncomfortable every time the two of you were in the same room—you cracked. 

You let out a small sigh, “Joaquin’s…complicated.”

Bob thinks about it for a moment. Then, with all the soft earnestness in the world, he asks, “...Is it something I did?”

You blink, stunned for half of a second, before you let a laugh escape. “No, Bob, trust me. It’s not you.” Your eyes glance over at the bathroom door, silently listening to the loud pattering of the water running. Biting your lip to stop them from trembling, you softly admit: “It’s me.” 

-

You let out a soft groan as you stretch awake, yawning as your mind quickly works to pull you out of your sleep induced haze. Peering past Bob curiously, you frown when catching sight of an empty bed with nothing but the crumpled motel blanket and rustled pillows. 

Joaquin is already gone. 

There wasn’t much of a discussion last night after Joaquin took the first shower. The exhaustion had gotten to everyone, and physical fatigue had overcome emotional turbulence, forcing you all to just do what needed to be done to get to bed. All anyone cared about was getting clean and into comfortable clothes. Bob had been courteous enough to let you shower next, and it wasn’t as if you could go sit with Joaquin on his bed while Bob was busy scrubbing the grime and dirt out of his hair. 

So…you opted for the empty bed. Which quickly became not empty once Bob came out. 

The pillow barrier he had politely placed between the two of you was sweet, even though it now lays abandoned on the floor. You’d try to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but Bob insisted anyway. 

Beside you now, he lays still, fast asleep. Curled toward you on his side with one arm tucked under his pillow, Bob looks the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. His breaths come out soft and steady, and you have to bite back a smile at how endearing he looks like this. Unburdened. 

Glancing toward the pillow on the floor, you sigh quietly through your nose. Bob had been apologetic almost, ears blushing faintly red as he placed it between the two of you. 

It’s all but dramatically discarded now—intentionally abandoned through the throes of sleep or by gravity naturally, you’re not sure, and against your better judgement, your thoughts flicker to Joaquin. 

Your mind flashes with the way he looked last night when he realized you and Bob would be sharing a bed. You may have imagined it. You probably did imagine it. But when Bob came out of that small bathroom, steam trailing behind him in a curl of smoke, and he took a seat at the edge of your bed while towel drying his hair…you could’ve sworn. 

You glanced over at Joaquin, morbidly curious and masochistically hoping for some kind of reaction. He froze. For a fraction of a second, something had flickered in his eye like he was reading too far into the space between you and Bob. His lip had twitched, as if about to form a scowl, and his brows had dipped, just a fraction of a centimeter. Joaquin’s eyes had flickered over to you, and you caught his gaze, unbashful in your staring due to exhaustion hazing your judgement. There was a moment, just a fraction of a moment, where it looked like he would actually say something. 

But it disappeared. 

And Joaquin parted his lips just to call out a strained goodnight to you both before laying down and tugging the blanket over his head as he turned to face the wall, away from you. 

Quiet rustling has you snapping out of your flashback, and your eyes rest on Bob again. The faint smell of motel soap is clinging to his skin, probably in the same way it’s clinging to yours. His hair is still damp from when he went to bed, and now curls slightly towards the ends. Not a deep of a curl as Joaquin’s—

You grit your teeth in frustration. 

Just as you’re about to chastise yourself for your constant delusion, Bob shifts slightly, breath catching before his fingers brush against your forearm in the smallest unconscious movement. It makes you feel bad about having to wake him. 

Still, the morning’s been long enough for you, and you still have a job to do. 

Reaching over, your hand lands on his warm bicep, squeezing slightly. “Hey,” you whisper, “Time to get up.” 

He blinks awake slowly, soft and harmless, before looking up at you with a sleepy smile. 

Morning affairs move as quickly as the two of you can manage, and by time you both got ready for the day, got all your things packed, and stepped outside, Sam and Joaquin were already in an intense deliberation in the parking lot. Though, intense might be an understatement. 

You and Bob surely couldn’t have slept in for that long, rays of sun were barely starting to peak through the horizon. Something must have gotten Joaquin riled up, quick. 

His shoulders are coiled tight, brows furrowed as he speaks rapidly. His hands wave animatedly, and you can’t help but trail along the vein on the back of his hand towards his long nimble fingers. Even though his head is tilted, eyeline landing below the brim of his cap, you could feel the conflict brewing in his eyes. 

You’re not close enough to hear words, but their tone certainly carries through the pavement and across the parking lot that’s made up of exactly one rusted pick up truck, your rental vehicle, and a vending machine that hums loudly in the corner. Tractor convention your ass. Their conversation floats, with Joaquin frustrated and Sam patient. 

But by the time you and Bob step up to them, the conversation snaps shut. 

Despite the thin fog and slightly chilly morning setting quite an ambient mood, Sam turns and flashes the two of you the biggest grin you’d ever seen. “Well how did you two sleep?” 

Bob, ever polite, nodded at him. “Really well, actually. Thanks.” 

Before you can ask the two of them what was going on, the lights on the car flash and a loud beep fills the air as Sam unlocks the doors.  “That’s great, Bob.” He acknowledges him before turning to Joaquin with the same, wide smile, “Breakfast anyone?”

The younger hero just looks away.

-

The four of you manage to squeeze into a corner booth at the back of the diner. Early morning sunlight filtered weakly through the large windows. Thankfully, the only other patrons were a couple of long haul truckers who were nursing black coffees and a waitress who looked like this shift would be the one to do her in.

“So what’s the plan?” Joaquin asked around a mouthful of pancakes and sausage. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting. But stupidly enough, you find it awfully charming in a way that makes you frustrated with yourself. 

Bob traces the rim of his tea mug. “Are we going back to New York now?” He’s hardly touched his own stack of pancakes, and you briefly wondered if he’d let you have a bite. 

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, fork reaching over to tear a piece of blueberry pancake before even asking. Not that he cares. Bob pushes the plate closer to you and you flash him a cheeky, grateful smile. “It feels like a waste of a trip,” you continue, “He might still be in Missouri.”

“I agree,” Sam added. 

You glance at him when he replies to you and almost miss the way he elbows Joaquin in his side. When you look over, Joaquin’s eyes meet yours for a split of a second. Just barely, like you were one second too late, before they snap down to his own pancakes which he’d suddenly abandoned.

Your brows furrow, curious, but Sam moves forward quickly, leaving you no time to analyze. “We should try to stay close to him. Flying back to New York and waiting for his next move will just get us further, not closer.” 

Bob exhaled, slow and tolerant. “Another night in that motel. Fun.” 

Bumping his shoulder, you ask half-jokingly, “Bet you wish you were with your actual team in Lithuania right about now, huh?”

He huffs out a chuckle, before responding with equal sarcasm, “And miss out on the great state of Missouri with you? Not a chance.”

You both knew it was a cover—humor, thinly masking the fear twisting in Bob’s stomach about facing Dr. Mercer again. It was the most support you could offer, and selfishly, trying to help Bob feel better gave you something to distract yourself from your own personal dilemmas. You could only hope it’s actually doing something to make Bob feel better. 

“Alright,” Sam says, pushing his empty plate aside. “Let’s regroup. Chat up some locals, maybe someone’s seen something.” 

When your face twists into a scrunch of hesitation, Sam quickly assuages your concerns. “I know,” he admits, “He’s been evading public spaces. But who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky.” 

“Why don’t we split up?” Joaquin chimes in to suggest. “Maybe some of us should look at the forest trail again, he might’ve left something behind yesterday that we missed.”

Sam perks up at the idea, turning slowly to Joaquin with a sly grin, “That is a great idea.” When his eyes glance towards you, your stomach sinks in anticipation. “Why don’t you two go together?” Sam suggests, tone light and casual, though you can deduct that it’s anything but. “Bob and I will hit up the locals.”

You don’t dare to look at Joaquin. 

You don’t have to. 

The tension in the booth shifting tells you everything that you need to know.

-

The woods are quieter than what you remember from yesterday. You wish you could blame it on the late morning, with the sun just beginning to cut through the canopy in thin, uneven ribbons, but you know it has nothing to do with the time and everything to do with your company for the day. 

Damp leaves cling to your dirty boots as you follow Joaquin along the narrow trail. It’s obnoxious how considerate he was being despite everything, going out of his way to hold large branches and wave giant spiderwebs out of your way as you cross. 

His kind actions were a sharp contrast to his words. Which, namely, were none. It infuriates you how easily he avoids your gaze and commits the two of you to silence whilst playing the gentlemanly role that he self-committed to. 

It’s about twenty minutes into your stifling tranquility before Joaquin manages to say his first words to you. “Watch out for that poison ivy.” 

You grind your teeth. God, he’s so frustrating! You step over the batch that you saw long before he commented on it without a word before following him over a rotting log. 

Stupid Sam and his stupid idea to pair the two of you up. 

A sharp huff is exhaled through your nose, fist clenching at your sides. You’re clearly projecting because, technically, it’s not a new idea. The two of you have been partners for the better part of some years now, but you know that Sam knows that you and Joaquin are not on speaking terms right now, so…Sam’s in the wrong. Figure that mental puzzle out. 

It’s defensive of you, you’re well aware, to morph your deep sense of embarrassment into anger towards Joaquin. Despite that, you don’t intend on changing your behavior. There was only so much patience you could practice before you started to retaliate against Joaquin in your own way. 

You were about halfway through your list of ways you could incapacitate him and leave him in the woods by his lonesome when the sound of Joaquin’s throat clearing snaps you out of your daydream. 

“I asked Sam to pair us up today,” Joaquin says without looking back. When your eyes furrow in confusion, he rushes to continue, as if he could feel how your gaze changed behind him. “This morning. Before breakfast.”

The confession makes you recoil in surprise, brows furrowing. Stupidly, your body reacts before you can stop it and your heartbeat stumbles in your chest, filling with something silly like hope. 

“Oh…?” It comes out like a question, and you wince at how uncomfortable it sounds. 

“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, equally as awkwardly. “I just,” he kicks a wooden stick out of your path, “I figured we’d have to learn to work together again eventually. It shouldn’t be weird forever, right?” 

Oh. 

Whatever expectations you conjured were squashed as rapidly as they appeared. You quickly swallow your own words about the annoyance of Joaquin’s silence, because you certainly felt a lot better stewing in your anger and being left in the unknown.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you wet your lips before letting out a quick, forcefully light-hearted, “Yeah.” 

You hate how small your voice feels, but there isn’t enough gusto in your spirit to rectify it, not when Joaquin’s so casually slid a knife right between your ribs. 

The two of you continue down the path in tense silence again after that. There was no other invitation for conversation, not when his words are weighing so heavy on your shoulder. You wonder if this was Joaquin’s way of saying this was it between the two of you. That whatever existed between you—whatever you had clung to in plain, stupid optimism—it all lands squarely in Joaquin’s past. 

You picture him pushing all of it—all your almosts, the heated moments after missions, the quiet confession in the dark of his room—into a neat little box to the back of his brain just to gather dust. 

Maybe you deserve it. It’s your own fault, after all, for being the idiot that wants anything more than what you both silently agreed to. 

Still. You wish it would hurt a little less. 

Only two minutes pass before Joaquin speaks up again. “For what it’s worth…” you hear him swallow. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird.” 

For a second, something in your heart aches. Because of course he wasn’t. Everything about this was cruel, but Joaquin wasn’t purposely trying to be. He never is. Still, you can’t help the small humorless laugh that escapes. 

“‘Weird’?” you quote sarcastically before pushing past him. “Why would it be weird?” 

It takes annoyingly little effort for Joaquin to catch up to you, his shoulders brushing yours as he falls into step next to you. “Don’t be like that. I just want us to be functional again.” 

“Well. You’re doing a great job,” you sarcastically applaud. Whatever walls Joaquin managed to tear down while in between your sheets those few weeks ago were slowly coming right back up. 

You feel his shoulders tense beside you before he glances over, briefly, just enough for you to see the frown on his face before he turns back around. “That’s not—” he huffs. Joaquin drags a hand through his hair before it falls back down in anger. “That’s not fair.”

You stop dead in your tracks, whipping over to stare directly at him. Fist clenched tightly by your side, you tilt your head toward him with narrowed eyes. Your voice is deep, filled with rage as you seethe. “‘Fair’?” 

The nerve of him! You can’t tell if it’s the frustration, hurt, or humiliation boiling under your skin that makes you ball your hands into fists at your side. You put yourself out there, made yourself vulnerable in more ways than one, and now he’s standing in front of you, telling you that you’re not being “fair”?

You step forward until you’re toe to toe with him. Pressing a stern finger into his chest, you declare to him. “You don’t get to say that! You shut me out.” 

Joaquin freezes, stumbling back for the briefest of seconds before quickly recovering, as if it was the surprise of it all that had him tripping over himself and not the pressure from your push. That only made you more annoyed. Shoulders squaring, he steadies himself, keeping the two of you toe to toe. 

Undeterred, you stay rooted where you stand, looking up at him defiantly with a glare on your face. 

When he finally manages to reach your eyes again, his jaw is clenched. For a moment, neither of you say anything. All he does is look—at the finger you have pressed against his chest to the frown on your face—Joaquin just stares. It shouldn’t make you angrier, but it does, his silence. 

Still, you don’t back down. Your pride is getting the better of you, and you don’t know truly what you two are standing off for, but you’d be damned if you stepped away first.

When Joaquin continues standing there saying nothing, you can’t help the way you grind your teeth together. 

It’s too much. You drop your hand with a frustrated huff when—

Warm, strong fingers grasp your wrist in a flash. 

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your throat when Joaquin holds you in place. Glare faltering, your expression morphs into something softer when he slowly, deliberately, loosens curls his fingers around your wrist. Not enough to let go. 

Firm.

Just enough to keep your hand pinned to his chest. 

“God, you don’t make anything easy.” He finally speaks, controlled through grit teeth. The words hit harder than you expect, and your chest tightens the same way his grip on your wrist suddenly does. “I know I’m not handling this the way you want,” Joaquin continues, slower and much more careful this time. 

Your heart is in your throat when his thumb lightly traces over the side of your wrist. His eyes are downcast now, and he ducks his head, lips almost brushing against your skin and you feel him breath the words, aching and soft, “But I’m trying.”

Trying. 

You swallow, pride evaporating into the dense forest air. His touch is familiar in a way that still knows exactly how to undo you. For one dangerous second, you almost let yourself believe him. Almost let yourself lean into the warmth of his grip, into the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, into him. 

Almost. 

“You’re trying,” you echo quietly, eyes flickering up to his face. Your eyes meet him now, as he lifts his head high enough for you to see a sliver of warm, honey brown, just underneath the brim of his cap. The same eyes that always just look at you, never saying anything more, never saying what you need. 

Jaw clenching, you break your gaze away from him. Abruptly, you tug your wrist away from his hold. It’s sharp and jarring, like stepping off something solid you didn’t realize you were standing on. “I didn’t realize my feelings were something that needed to be ‘handled’.” 

His brows furrow immediately, “That’s not what I—” 

“Oh, no?” you snap, already turning away from him as you start down the trail again. Your boots crunch louder now, steps uneven, betraying how unsteady you feel. “Because from where I’m standing, it kind of sounds like you’re apologizing for how inconvenient this has been for you.” 

“That’s not what I said!” Joaquin says angrily, footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. You can hear it in his voice now—tight and strained—like it always gets when you’re in the field and he feels like he’s quickly losing control of a situation. Matching your pace, you feel his stare on the side of your face, hands waving as he shouts, “You’re doing it again—”

“What?” you cut in, voice raising despite wanting to remain cool in appearance. “Not being fair?”

“Yes!” Joaquin fires back, seething through grit teeth. He looks stunned, genuinely stunned, like he didn’t expect this to explode the way that it has. “You’re mad, I get that! But you’re the one who started talking to other—”

CRUNCH. 

The sound is sudden and unmistakable underneath his boot. You both come to a grinding halt. A hand swings over to steady you instinctively with an irritatingly protective touch. You slap him off of you, and he just looks over with his lips pressed in a thin line and eyes that are screaming at you to be cautious. Slowly, he lifts his foot and the two of you take a step back in sync.

Broken glass. 

Whatever Joaquin was about to say hangs unfinished between the two of you, swallowed by the quiet of the woods, heavy and unresolved as you both stand there, breathing hard like you’ve finally hit something neither of you knows how to navigate. 

Your pulse spikes for a different reason now as adrenaline climbs up your spine. 

Joaquin looks around carefully before pulling out his phone with stiff posture. He makes quick work before confirming in a low voice, “No thermal heat signatures.” Other than yours—you fill in the unsaid.

You nod. “Okay,” you let out quietly, eyes scanning your surroundings with the utmost surveillance, “That’s…good.” Your eyes look at the trees, every rustle and shifting shadow. You hate how aware you are of Joaquin beside you—of the calm, steady presence he always becomes in moments like this. You wish he didn’t make you feel so…safe. 

“Hold on,” Joquin starts before crouching low, inspecting a patch of disturbed soil with light fingers. “There’s footprints. Fresh ones.” 

You step closer towards him despite the warning nudge he gives you, a poor attempt at holding you back. “Are they human?” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “But…the stride’s uneven. Like whoever left these were limping.”

“Or dragging something,” you pessimistically contribute, though you know that’s not something to be truly concerned with, as there were no other tracks to indicate such suspicions. Your stomach flips naturally in suspense, just for a second, but then…Joaquin stands and takes a step back, invading your space much closer than necessary. You don’t know if it’s intentional, but soothes your worries regardless. “You think it's Mercer?” 

Joaquin nods once, eyes scanning the treeline with sharp, focused eyes that you’ve seen more times than you can count on the field. He’s focused. Closed off. Wearing that same look that he always has on missions—one that leaves no room for anything personal. “Probably.”

Without another word, the two of you begin to track the footprints left in the dirt, off of the pathway. 

The silence is different now. 

Wherever you and Joaquin were heading before this new development arose remains unsaid, placed on the backburner as the two of you try to shift into a more professional dynamic. But it lingers. Tight, coiled in suspense, because the two of you know that it doesn’t end here. Just on pause, because something more dangerous demands your attention. 

Work mode takes over, but the tension doesn’t disappear. It’s just waiting. 

-

Trailing the new set of footprints doesn’t take long, and it’s only a few minutes later when Joaquin stops abruptly. “There,” he points. 

Following his finger, your eyes find a structure half-hidden by overgrown vines. The wood looks like it’s been consumed entirely by moss. It holds up a collapsed tin roof and a door barely hanging on by its hinges. 

A shiver skims down your spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with intuition, a certainty that something behind that door will lead you to Mercer. 

The two of you exchange a wordless glance. 

Your steps are quick as you move in, Joaquin reaching the door first and shoving it open with a strong tug. The wood lets out a groan of warning as he swings it open, but the two of you heed it no mind as you disregard the large “NO TRESPASSING” sign. 

It’s the smell that hits you first. 

Rot, wet wood and old, rusty metal. It’s enough to make you recoil and enough to confirm that the place hasn’t been touched in years. But there’s something else, faint enough to go unnoticed by the untrained nose. But you’ve done this long enough to know better. The distinct scent of copper: fresh blood. 

You step in right after Joaquin, boots silent on the warped floorboards. You do your best to squint, forcing your eyes to adjust since the only light available were slivers of sunlight peaking in through the cracked wood walls. 

Click.

A faint yellow light fills the small shed. You turn to Joaquin on your left, and you catch him just as he’s lowering his hand. A singular camping lantern strung on top of the metal roof swings precariously from his disturbance from when he yanked the thin chain to turn it on. 

With the shed now dimly lit, the full state of the place becomes painfully clear. 

Shelves overturned. Wooden crates split open. Dust and dirt scraped aside in chaotic, uneven streaks. 

You hum, “Sam was right. Someone was definitely desperate.” You drag a finger across a shelf, frowning at the dust before rubbing your fingers together to flick it off. Eyes gazing through the small space, your head tilts curiously when you notice a trail of red dots. Few short steps lead you to a bench holding a first aid kit that’s been ripped wide open with its contents nearly empty. 

“Desperate and hurt apparently,” you whisper to yourself. Moving closer, you move carefully to not disturb whatever pattern the blood left behind. The kit’s metal hinges are twisted, like someone pried it open with more urgency than strength. Gauze wrappers are shredded, antiseptic bottles are drained, and bandage rolls are unraveled into sad, limp ribbons. “He was bleeding pretty bad,” you murmur absently. 

“Yeah,” Joaquin replies, from the other side of the shed. “But he treated it. At least, he tried to.” The last part is offhanded and you nod absentmindedly in agreement. This rinky old shed isn’t exactly a level five trauma center; there was only so much Mercer could do here.   

Your gaze drifts across the space again to find another bench on the far side where Joaquin was standing. Bypassing the dusty jars of mysterious liquid, boxes of unknown content, and fishing equipment that looks like it's been around longer than you have, you manage to find what Joaquin is referring to. A strip of several pieces of gauze lie crumpled in the corner near the wall. Some of them were heavily soaked in a dark liquid you can only assume is more blood. You continue observing, scanning across until you see other pieces, soaked but not fully saturated. Until you land on the last piece: clean. Only its edges speckled. 

You exhale through your nose. “With an injury like that, he can’t have gotten far.” 

Continuing to compartmentalize your findings, you continue around to seek for anything else disarranged. Other than some tools he knocked over, a stack of old magazines scattered out of place, and a box of bait, there was not much else to note. 

It seemed clear enough. Mercer tore through the place with one objective and ignored everything that wasn’t directly useful. 

Taking another step, your foot nudges something thin and shiny beneath an old box. Instinctively, you crouch down and pinch the corner, sliding it out with ease. You trace the piece of paper cautiously, delicately touching its waxy surface. 

A folded map. 

“Joaquin,” you call out. 

“What is it?” he crosses the room in two quick steps before he even finishes asking his question, beside you immediately with his posture alert. 

“Not sure.” Flipping the paper over, you notice how crisp it is. Other than some slight wrinkles from being handled, there were no untorn corners, no stains. Definitely not coated in the same dust that’s now in your lungs. 

This was recently dropped here.

You and Joaquin share a look, coming to an understanding. 

Joaquin’s eyes narrowly watch as you unfold it, and you smile in satisfaction when you realize your assumption was right. Light from the lantern sways, creating patterns over the highways, borders, city names until your eyes reach something. 

Your eyes start to scan the page before they automatically draw to a thick red circle carved around a single point with such force that the ink bleeds through the back. Large and unmistakable and so criminally-predictable in a way that almost makes you laugh, you stare at the giant clue Mercer left behind. Seems like the mad scientist tied up his end goal in a giant box and placed a shiny bow on top for you to find, and Missouri isn’t his last stop. 

You turn to Joaquin slowly, holding out the map. “He’s not running from us.”  

Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and steady before lowly concluding with grim realization, “He’s running to something.” 

You can’t help the wide smile that makes its way on your face. It’s the first real lead you’ve had on the deranged scientist in weeks. “Looks like we’re checking out of that motel afterall.” 

-

The sound of gravel crunching underneath your feet starts long before you see Sam and Bob, the crumbly pavement of the street leading to the motel parking lot and excitement coursing through your veins makes it difficult for you to keep steady. 

You don’t look at Joaquin as you move, but you’re painfully aware of him anyway. His stride matches yours, close enough that you can feel the shift of air when he moves. It’s distracting. And irritating. But you force yourself the shove that thought aside, the excitement of moving forward with this godforsaken mission doing wonders to quell the nerves. 

When you round the metal gate, you find Sam leaning against your rental vehicle with his arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his nose in a way that makes him seem all-too casual. Strikingly contrasting him is Bob, who sits on the edge of the trunk with his shoulders hunched over, hands folded in his lap. 

“You were right,” Sam shouts from across the parking lot as the two of you approach. “Talking to the locals was a bust. No one’s seen or heard anything matching our guy.” 

Bob stands, hopping off of the trunk when the two of you had made it close enough. Relief brightens his features before he masks it with a small, polite smile. “You’re both safe,” he says gently. 

The knot wrapped so tightly around your chest loosens a bit. You offer him a small smile in thanks, his concern filling you with warmth despite the rest of the turmoil you feel. 

Turning to Sam, your adrenaline reasserts itself as you disclose what made you text the ‘911’ to meet back here. “We found something.” It comes out a little breathless from the brisk walk of anticipation you took. 

Sam’s brow raises, eyes sparkling in interest. You feel Joaquin shift beside you and you glance over just in time to catch the way his head tilts, sharp jaw clenching. 

“It’s a map,” Joaquin says, short and clipped. 

You don’t let his attitude deter you and the sound of rustling fills the air as you pull the piece of paper from your back pocket. As soon as you manage to unfold it, the sunlight disappears—Sam stepping closer, Bob leaning in, and Joaquin angling just enough that your shoulders almost brush. Your skin tightens at the proximity, bracing yourself for his touch in a way that you refuse to unpack right this moment.

“There was a shed,” you explain, words rushed. “Off the path we took. He was looking for medical supplies and dropped this.” 

Lifting the sunglasses from his face, Sam reads out-loud to himself, “El Paso, Texas?”

You nod excitedly. “El Paso, Texas.” Looking around, you note the lack of enthusiasm on everyone’s faces. The map slaps against your thigh in exasperation, “Guys, really? Nothing? If we leave now, maybe we can get there before Mercer. Come on, let’s hit the road.” 

You turn toward the car, already mentally calculating the drive time, contingencies, what you’ll do when you finally get him—

You only make it two steps towards the car before Sam’s spinning you back around to face everyone again. “Hold on, slow down.” He raises a hand in surrender, like he was declaring peace before you’ve even said a word. Flickering over to Bob and Joaquin first before he turns to you, Sam says with a sigh, “We need to think about this.” 

“What is there to think about?” you ask genuinely, confused by his interruption. 

Sam lets out a small chuckle, crossing his arm across his chest. “For one, how do we even know that the map is Mercer's?” 

You mirror his stance without thinking, arms folding tight in a similar manner. You don’t offer Sam a true answer, the deadpan look on your face does it for you. 

Rolling his eyes, Sam concedes with a half-smirk, “Alright, fair point. But even if that is his, there’s no way we make it there before he does. He’s had, what, a twelve hour head start?”  

“He was injured.” Joaquin chimes in with a short declaration. 

You point at him exaggeratedly, as if to say ‘exactly!’ without a word at all. “Who’s to say we can’t make up for lost time?” you state with raised brows. 

Sam raises his brows back, rocking on his heels. “Okay. Say we make it to El Paso. Then what?” He pauses for a split second, and you don’t even attempt to answer the clearly rhetorical question. “It’s a big city. Mercer’s proven that he can hide pretty damn well.” 

“We can figure it out once we’re there,” you argue in frustration, unable to comprehend Sam’s disagreement. “Like you said this morning, we should try to stay as close to him as we can.” Admittedly, Sam does have valid points, but it could all be resolved later, so long as you’re in the same city as the guy.

“It could be a trap,” he responds. “Maybe he dropped it on purpose, wanted us to find it.”

“I doubt it,” Joaquin steps forward, standing next to you in a way that was almost instinctive, but he stood far enough to signal just support, not personal alignment. “He was injured pretty bad. He’s erratic. I don’t think he’s thinking straight.” 

“You’re underestimating him. That’s a weak assumption,” Sam shakes his head. “We can’t speak to his sense of mind. With the super serum—”

“This is the only tangible piece of evidence we’ve found in weeks. We finally have something more than just catching a glimpse of this guy through some blurry CVV cam. Why are you so adamant against following this lead?” you push.

“I’m not saying I’m against it. We need to be logical, figure something out before we run to El Paso, guns blazing.” Sam retorts.

“I mean, it’s not really guns blazing if we take hours to get there,” Joaquin shrugs. 

Voices start to raise as you, Sam, and Joaquin all start to overlap one another. Contention about the next steps start to spill over, words stacking on top of each other until none of them mean anything at all. 

“It’s just a little bit reckless—” Sam starts.

The words were so eerily similar to what Joaquin said to your last mission, you can’t help but snap, “‘Reckless’? Really? Take that one from Joaquin, did you? This is bullshit, we can’t just sit here and wait idly for this guy—”

“Woah, what’s with the driveby?” Joaquin turns to you with a glare, “I’m on your side here—”

“We shouldn’t underestimate him, he might be smarter than we think—” Sam insists. 

Everyone continues to spiral, each sentence sharper than the last. The motel parking lot was already small in and of itself, but with the words that you throw at each other, it feels suffocating. Almost as if the open space isn’t able to hold it all. 

You grip the map in your hand, gesturing wildly as the paper crinkles under your grip. “This is so dumb! Let’s just go to Texas—”

“We will, I’m just saying let’s take a beat—”

“Come on, Sam. Do we really need to? This is the first time Mercer’s directly left us any sort of clue. I think we should go—” Joaquin prompts. 

“No, I don’t think—”

The map starts to tremble in your hand, though you don’t realize it until Joaquin reaches out, steadying your wrist. It has you swallowing your next words, hand dropping in defeat. Just when you start to turn your back, away from Sam and Joaquin, a quiet voice speaks up for the first time since the argument began. 

“I think we should go,” Bob whispers. 

The strife comes to an immediate halt. 

You turn back around to look at him. 

He stands a little apart from the rest of you now, seemingly rooted in the same spot as earlier whilst the three of you migrated away in the midst of your quarrel. Though he’s standing, Bob’s shoulders are still rounded, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jacket as if he was trying to make himself smaller. His voice wasn’t loud. You’re not sure Bob is even capable of being loud. But he cut through to all of you so clearly that all attention lies on him.

For a reason unbeknownst to you, Sam doesn’t seem to want to argue against Bob, leaving all three of you just watching him in silence, waiting for his next words. 

The parking lot still hums with distant traffic and the buzz of the vending machine, but none of it seems to touch this space that Bob’s carved out with just a single sentence. You scan his face, and though he doesn’t meet your eyes, you can see it: something heavy swimming inside them. 

You feel your grip on the map loosen as you wonder how long he’s been thinking about this before speaking up. 

Suddenly, the debate that was so heated feels smaller than it did before. 

“I think,” Bob starts before stopping himself, eyes squinting as though he recalled a bad memory. Shaking his head, he continues with more confidence. “I know why he’s in El Paso.” 

“How?” you’re the only one who dares to ask, gently, as you step closer to him.

Bob’s fingers tighten around his sleeve. For a second, you think he might shut down and retreat back into himself. 

But he doesn’t. 

Bob slowly exhales. Looking up, he meets your eyes as he admits. “He used to talk to me. At night. When he used to observe me he’d…ramble. There were these ideas that he just couldn’t let go of.” You watch as he swallows the lump in this throat, but he never looks away from you. “El Paso was one of those things.” 

You can hear Sam shift his weight from behind you, but he stays silent. Joaquin is impossible to miss, the way he’s watching your back instead of looking at Bob. Still, no one moves or speaks. 

“There was a lab there,” he continues. “It was his first one. Where he started—” Bob gestures awkwardly to himself, like he was making a poor attempt to bring humor to the situation, “—this whole experiment.” 

You part your lips, ready to offer some sense of comfort, but Bob strives forward before you can. 

“The antidote.” Bob clenches his jaw, snapping his gaze from you and choosing instead to look in the far distance. His arms wrap around himself as he finishes, “It’s there. I know it.” 

Everyone falls into complete silence. 

A car passes somewhere beyond the motel. 

The hallway light flickers. 

A soft breeze sweeps through the four of you. 

Sam lets out a long tired sigh. “Well why didn’t you just say so?”

-

The highway stretches out in front of you, long and dark. Its yellow lines blur together as mile after mile slips by. The dashboard clock glows, illuminating some ungodly hour of the night, and the inside of the car is dim except for the occasional wash of white from passing streetlights. 

No one said much after Bob’s grand reveal; everyone quietly slipping into the car without a word. It wasn’t out of anger, not at all, but truly because Bob’s confession left everyone’s minds reeling. There was just too much to think about—the reality of what’s in El Paso, the darkness of Bob’s backstory, all the unknown that’s waiting for you in this unregulated lab. 

It drained you so deeply that you didn’t have the strength to slip into that protector role for Bob. Though, you’re not sure he would even be receptive to it, with the way his face clouded and he tucked into himself the second he hit the backseat. 

Now, Joaquin’s hands are steady on the wheel and his stare is fixed solely ahead, which you only know by glancing at him through your peripherals. 

You don’t look for long. You think you’d die of mortification if he caught you actually staring. So, gaze averting, you look through the rearview mirror only to be met with Sam dead asleep in the back. Your lips press into a thin line, unamused by the way his head is tipped back against the window, mouth slightly open, one arm flung awkwardly across his chest. He looks ridiculously comfortable for someone who was putting up quite the commotion only hours prior. 

Somehow, Joaquin notices your look. 

For a second your heart lurches in your chest as you wonder if he’s going to say something about earlier, the almost argument. 

But he doesn’t. 

“It’s kind of impressive,” he starts, voice low as his eyes stay on the road. “Guy had an entire room to himself last night, probably got the best sleep out of all of us and somehow he still roped us into driving.” 

You snort before you can stop yourself. 

The sound feels strange—a bit too loud in the quiet car—and Joaquin’s eyes flicker towards you. Then a corner of his mouth lifts. It’s small. Careful. But it’s there. 

His words came at you in surprise, and his comment landed softer than you except. It was lighthearted, almost…casual. You can hear it in his voice, a careful balance he was treading, like if he said one word wrong, the two of you might go spiraling again. Joaquin is testing the waters with you. Reluctantly, you lean back in your seat, letting him. Like he said: he’s trying. Maybe you’ll let him.

A small pause follows.

Joaquin clears his throat as he shifts in his seat. 

The air between you now is certainly not uncomfortable, but it’s definitely uncertain. 

Matching his movements, you also shift in your seat again, pretending like you’re trying to settle when really you’re just moving around awkwardly. Looking away from Sam with a roll of your eyes before focusing on the crinkly plastic bag in your hand. The family sized bag of sour candy was quickly heading towards empty, much faster than you’d like to admit, and a flicker of hesitation flashes through you as you stare at the small, circular treats. 

Swallowing your nerve, you tilt the bag towards Joaquin in a silent offer. 

It feels strangely intimate for something so small, and for a split second you consider pulling back. 

He glances over at you when he catches your movements. 

Streetlight and starlight catch on the side of his face, softening the exhaustion etched there, and for a second, your breath catches in your throat. The harsh lines you’ve grown so used to seeing the past few weeks seem to melt away in the quiet. Dim lights smooth him out, turning him gentle again, the way you really remember him. 

You lick your lips when they suddenly feel much drier than they did before. It’s like this version of Joaquin only exists now, in this briefest of moments, when the world’s narrowed down to just the two of you in the front seat of this random car with nothing but the low whirl of road flashing by you. 

Joaquin’s lips curve into a small, crooked smile as he reaches into the bag, his fingers brushing against yours through the plastic in a way that makes your skin burn. 

It’s nothing. Barely even there. 

But still. It’s enough to send a quiet jolt up your spine.

“Thanks,” he quietly murmurs as he pulls out a handful. 

Instinctively, your brows furrow. “Take the whole damn bag, why don’t you?” 

Joaquin stares at you with wide eyes, shocked for a second before throwing his head back as he lets out a loud laugh, the sound cutting clean through the quiet of the car. 

For the first time in a long time, Joaquin sounds unguarded around you. Easy in a way that you haven’t heard from him in what feels like forever. It startles you just as much as it warms you. 

“Hey,” he grins, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror just in the briefest of movements when he remembers the two sleeping bodies in the back. “I need it. I have another six hours ahead of me. How are you going to justify going through half that bag just sitting in the passenger seat?” 

You huff, shaking your head as Joaquin resettles comfortably in his seat and shaking the fistful of candy in his hand so it rattles. 

“I don’t need to justify anything,” you retort. “I had the insight to pick a good roadtrip snack. Unlike some people.” 

He gives you a sharp glare. “Beef jerky is a perfectly respectable roadtrip snack.” 

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, popping another candy into your mouth as you turn to face forward again. “Enjoy gnawing on your raccoon meat.”

Joaquin scoffs, shaking his head, though you know there’s no bite behind it because it quickly morphs back into that smile, because Joaquin still gets you. The realization has your heart beating just a little too quickly in your chest. 

This conversation feels dangerously good. Like it isn’t weighed down by guilt or the unspoken frustration that’s lingered so insistantly between the two of you for weeks. For the first time, it was like you were really talking, in a way that isn’t in arguments or the pressure of the mission. 

Just the two of you, side by side. You can almost pretend that this is how it used to be, back when silence didn’t mean tension just…you and Joaquin. 

You glance at him again, catching the lingering smile at the edge of his mouth. 

“Thanks for having my back earlier,” you faintly confess. 

He turns to look at you, eyes sparkling as he says back just as quietly, “Always.” 

The word shouldn’t mean so much. You try to tell yourself not to reach for it, not to read in between his lines. Still, your chest tightens the way it always does around him.

For the briefest of moments, the two of you settle into this strange rhythm between you. 

One that almost feels normal. 

-

The gas station comes into view way before you actually pull up to it, the bright white fluorescents cutting through the dark like an artificial sun. It’s the first real break in the drive in hours, and given the unusual time, the building sits alone, humming against the emptiness around it. 

A soft click-clack click-clack fills the car as Joaquin turns his signal on, despite there being no one else on the road for miles, and the pebbles from the pavement crunch beneath the tires as he parks near the pumps. 

A sudden quiet fills the car as he cuts the engine. 

Joaquin exhales slowly, one hand lingering on the steering wheel like he hasn’t quite decided what to do with himself yet. You just watch him without a word. 

For a moment, it feels like the car is holding its breath with the two of you, windows quickly fogging up now that the ignition is off. 

He swallows, opening his mouth for the briefest of seconds before pressing them into a thin line, his tongue briefly pressing to his cheek like he’s rehearsing something in his head and he isn’t sure if it should be said out loud. 

Heart beating loudly in your chest, your fingers tighten around the edge of your seat in anticipation. 

Just when Joaquin parts his lips, Bob shifts suddenly, a soft grunt leaving him as he rolls against the door. 

It makes the gentle atmosphere snap.

“I’m g’nna grab gas,” Joaquin hastily announces, already unbuckling his seat belt, one hand on the door handle. 

You nod once, stiffly, reaching for your own door. “Bathroom.” 

For a split second, both your hands hover over the center console, Joaquin reaching for his wallet and you for the empty bag of candy to dispose of. 

You both freeze. 

With messy, quick movements, Joaquin swiftly snatches his wallet from beside your bag and rushes out of the car with a clear of his throat. The driver side door shuts behind him with a loud thud, the sound echoing in your ears. 

Lingering in the passenger seat for a moment, you watch him through the windshield as he starts pumping gas. He moves almost automatically, arms crossing across his chest as he stares as the numbers rapidly increase on the screen. 

He’s distant again. 

You frown before sighing quietly to yourself. Pushing the door open, the chill bites at your skin and the scent of gasoline hangs thick in the air as you head toward the 24/7 convenience store, not daring to look back at him. You wonder if that version of him in the car was real, or just something the dark road tricked you into believing.  

The bell chimes above your head when you step inside, the place empty save for the teenager behind the counter who doesn’t even bother to look up at you. 

You don’t spare it a second thought, heading straight for the bathroom.

The lock clicks behind you, loud in the too-small space. Bracing your hands against the sink, you stare at your reflection. Fluorescent lighting has never been kind to anybody, but it seems especially cruel to you now, washing you out in a way that makes it difficult to recognize yourself. The bags under your eyes are deep, but your eyes shine like they’re too awake. 

Your mind hasn’t caught up to the fact that you haven’t slept all night, too high strung from the energy of just sitting next to Joaquin, delighted in the almost camaraderie you shared. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

It’s stupid. So stupid to let a quiet drive and a handful of sour candy undo weeks of carefully maintained distance. As if one quiet laugh and brush of finger can change anything at all. 

Except it did. 

For you, at least. Because that’s all it takes from Joaquin to have your walls come crumbling down again. 

Splashing cold water on your face, you force yourself to be grounded. The sink creaks as you lean harder into it. 

Get it together. 

When you step back into the store, you start sweeping snacks off the shelves and pluck drinks from the fridge into your arms, both absentmindedly and hurried. 

Something chocolate. Another bag of jerky. Sour candy again because who cares if the inside of your mouth is already blistering. Some energy drinks.

Your arms fill quickly, and you drop the mountain of junk in front of the cashier who still doesn’t bother to look up at you. Finger tapping impatiently against the counter, you count down the agonizing seconds between each beep of his scanning. After paying, you let out a quiet thanks before scooping up the bags he hands you. 

When you open the door to exit, the cold hits you sharply. 

You find Joaquin leaning against the car despite the gas pump already nestled neatly into its respective home. One shoulder rests against the driver’s side door, arms crossed loosely over his chest with his gaze fixed on the concrete beneath him like he’s stuck in thought. 

The harsh station lights carve him into something sharper, much sharper than the way he looked in the car. Here, his edges are defined again and his posture is stiff. Whatever softness that managed to slip through on the highway has been tucked away again, locked up tight. 

You try to convince yourself that it’s easier to see him like this, that it’s easier to breathe around him this way if anything else. But the way the air constricts in your lungs tells you that you’re just lying to yourself.

Your footsteps crunch softly against the gravel as you approach, and he straightens when he notices you. Pushing himself off the car, his eyes flicker to the bags in your arms. 

Before he has the chance to say anything, you riffle through one of them. Holding up a bag of jerky, all you offer is a slight shrug before tossing it over the car for him to catch. 

He catches it easily, muscle memory taking over, and for a split second his eyebrows knit in surprise as he stares down at the bag in his hands. “...Thanks,” he says quietly. 

You nod once, noncommittal, before reaching for your own door. 

“Wait,” Joaquin calls out just as your fingers grasp the cold metal. “About before,” he starts, looking at you. 

Your chest tightens despite what you just told yourself to do in the bathroom mirror. Keeping your expression as neutral as you can, you wait for Joaquin’s next words. 

“Not just now but…” You watch his brows furrow, frustration etched on his face. “Before Arizona,” he stumbles over his words. A loud huff escapes him, wisps of cold air blowing out of his mouth. “Look, I’m just having a hard time with—”

A car door creaks open loudly. 

“Oh,” Bob groans, voice thick with sleep. “I thought my legs were going to cramp permanently.” He stretches as he steps out of the backseat, one arm braced on the roof of the car while the other presses into his lower back. He squints at the station lights like they’re personally offending him. 

You watch as Joaquin’s shoulders visibly tense, snapping tight like a reflex.  

Behind Bob, Sam stirs, peaking his head out from Bob’s side. Blinking blearily around the lot, he calls out, “Why are we stopped?” Sam is halfway out of the car before anyone can answer. “Please tell me there’s coffee involved.” 

You look back at Joaquin, who’s looking anywhere but you now. The moment collapses in on itself, whatever he was about to say clearly already gone. 

The sound of movement has you looking back over at Sam as he fully steps out of the car, rubbing his hand over his face with a stretch. 

Bob lets out a small, breathy laugh from beside him, already shuffling toward the entrance with his jacket pulled tighter around himself. “I think I see a machine inside,” he offers. 

“Thank God,” Sam mutters, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder as the two of them steer toward the door. 

Once the two of them disappear inside, bell chiming peacefully behind them, you and Joaquin are left alone again. 

Silence envelopes the two of you, except it’s heavier now, thick with unsaid words. 

Joaquin stays by the driver’s side, eyes fixed somewhere past the pumps like the answer to whatever stands between the two of you would be written out in the dark. He drags a harsh hand against his jaw, rubbing the tense muscle thoughtfully before it drops uselessly to his side. 

You shift your weight, plastic bags crinkling softly in your arms. Words are crawling up your throat, but they stay stuck there, because you don’t know what to say to him. “So,” you start, not exactly knowing where you’re going, “Coffee crisis averted, I guess…” You glance away from him, cheeks starting to grow warm despite the cold air in sheer embarrassment at your pathetic attempt at starting the conversation. 

You hear him exhale through his nose, that soft almost-laugh that he’s been doing. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “Lucky us.”

Another pause ensues. 

You shouldn’t push; you remind yourself of the pep talk in that small gas station bathroom. But then you look at him. 

The way his shoulders are still tight, the way his jaw keeps clenching like he’s biting something back, sharp and honest. It’s just so unlike him, and despite your better knowledge, you sigh through your nose. 

You just want the old him back. So quietly, too quietly to take back, you push. “You were saying something. About Arizona…?” 

Joaquin turns to you, and for a second you see it, his walls slipping. It’s in his eyes, the same unsettled look from the woods. One that screams he’s standing on the edge of something dangerous. His gaze lingers on you, unguarded, searching like the words are right there—

He swallows. 

“I just—” he starts. Then stops. Joaquin lets out a deep breath of his own, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jackets as he turns to fully face you. “I don’t want to mess this up more than I already have.” He shakes his head slightly, a small bitter smile on his face. “That’s all.” 

Your chest tightens painfully, like you’ve swallowed something too big to breathe around. Whatever this is between you, is or was or threatens to turn into, is already fragile. Lump forming in your throat, you wonder what his words mean, when you’ve already put yourself out there. 

Searching his face for something more, you wait for him to crack, give a confession that he doesn’t know how to give. 

The station lights are getting more painful by the second, and you can only imagine what your exhaustion looks like underneath them, but Joaquin’s eyes are fixed on you now. His gaze is soft, much softer than it has been for the better part of half a month. You’d recognize that change in him anywhere. It’s so subtle, you don’t think you would notice it if you didn’t know him the way that you did.

And suddenly, you realize he’s waiting. 

Your throat tightens, unable to give him the reassurance he’s seeking, because Joaquin keeps looking at you like you’re the one who has the answer here. Like you’re the one with the power. But you’ve done your part. You confessed. And he turned you down. 

You don’t owe him anything. 

A small shrug. “We’re fine.” 

Something flickers across his face—disappointment, maybe—but you can’t tell. 

You hate how badly you want to close the space between you, how natural it feels to want him close. 

Your fingers curl tighter around the plastic bags in your arms, grounding yourself after the clear lie you told. 

“Right,” he murmurs, a quiet concession. 

You think to yourself: ‘This is it. This is the end.’

But then you watch the way Joaquin’s hand flexes in his pocket. Then he stills. “No.” He suddenly shakes his head, laughing in clear disbelief. “I’m sorry, that’s just,” he looks up at you with a shrug. “That’s just not true. I can’t accept that answer. I know you—”

“The coffee here is disgusting,” Sam announces to no one in particular as he screams from across the parking lot. “I didn’t know it was possible to burn coffee, I mean,” he let out a loud scoff.  

Both you and Joaquin flinch at the sudden interruption. 

You respond as casually as you can, forcing your voice to be steady as you tell Sam, “I bought some Red Bulls.” Your eyes stay on Joaquin. It’s weird how you feel as though you’ve just been caught doing something wrong, when you and Joaquin are doing nothing more than barely having a conversation across the expanse of an entire vehicle, but the feeling is there. 

Still, you don’t look away from Joaquin. And he doesn’t look away from you.

The world narrows again, impossibly, to just the two of you standing opposite one another. His eyes search yours for something, but for what, you can’t tell.

“Isn’t that stuff, like, really bad for you?” Bob mumbles before tumbling into the car, the entire thing shifting underneath his weight.

This time, no one bothers to respond. 

“We should get going,” Joaquin finally murmurs, almost reluctantly. 

“Yeah,” you reply, just as quietly. 

“Hey,” he calls out, just as you look away. There’s something tentative in his voice that has you glancing back up at him. “We’ll talk later?” It comes out hopeful. Cautious. 

Your chest tightens again. Nodding once, you agree. “Sure.” 

A small promise for now. But maybe one that gets the two of you in the right direction.

-

Exhaustion still plagues you when you step out boots first onto El Paso soil. The few hours of sleep that you got did nothing to undo the weeks of all-nighters you’ve been pulling, and coupled with the non-conversation you had with Joaquin, your rest wasn’t particularly restful. You thank your lucky stars that you didn’t actually have to sit next to him for the remaining hours, Sam jumping in to take the wheel after his busted coffee break. Still, despite the increased distance, you got little respite from Joaquin’s stares as he constantly flickered to the backseat where you were trying to get some rest beside Bob. 

You look over at the disheveled, aforementioned man. Despite seemingly getting more sleep than you, Bob somehow looks worse. Not that you’re surprised. This mission has done nothing but open Pandora’s box for him and after weeks of turbulence and uncertainty, you’re now only minutes away from finally confronting the villain plaguing him.

There was a moment, in the car, when you leaned in close and tried to check in on him. But the space was small, cramped in a way that made it feel too suffocating, too intimate of a thing to discuss with Sam and Joaquin within arms reach. Bob had stiffened the second you came close, his gaze flickering to the window like he was bracing for impact. 

So you backed off. 

Now, standing under the relentless Texas sun, you regret it a little. 

Bob rubs his face with the heel of his palm, deeply, before letting out a shake of his head. He hasn’t said much since you arrived, and what he has offered came out so quiet and measured. 

“Almost there.” Sam looks back at Bob for confirmation, and the nervous man just offers a small nod. 

The lab sits a short distance away, low and nondescript against the desert stretch. Its concrete exterior is cracked and mossy, like it's been abandoned for a long while. No signage. No movement. Just a building that feels wrong in a way that settles deep in your gut. 

Your fingers tighten against the gun on your waistline. 

Joaquin steps closer, instinctive, his presence sliding into place at your side like it always does in times like these. You don’t need to look at him to feel him there, solid in a way that’s maddening. 

“Same pairing,” Sam murmurs. “You and Joaquin take point. Bob, with me.”

Joaquin shifts besides you just slightly, but you beat him to answering. “Copy,” you confirm, voice firm and professional. It lands like a closed door, with no room for dispute. 

Moving quickly, you advance toward the building with Joaquin falling into step beside you without argument. The air changes the closer you get, and heat presses heavier against your skin, the wind drops until everything feels unnaturally still. 

From your peripherals, you watch as Sam and Bob move slyly toward the back of the building, Redwing on their sixes. 

Pulse loud in your ears, you roll your shoulders once, just to loosen the tension that’s been living there for days—to roll off the unbecoming silence between you and your partner. 

It doesn’t work. But at least you tried. 

Reaching the entrance, you and Joaquin share a silence look with each other. The metal door hangs crooked on its hinges, scarred and rusted, as if something heavy tried to force its way through. 

Leaning in close, Joaquin hovers in your space just enough that you can hear him over your own breathing. “Slow and steady,” he encourages you. 

Nodding, you shift your weight as you angle your body toward the doorway with your weapon raised. Taking the opposite side, Joaquin’s shoulder brushes yours for the briefest of seconds before he moves. The contact is light, accidental, but it sends an unwelcome spark up your spine in a way that forces a sigh from you. 

Focus. 

Joaquin counts down from his fingers. Three. Two. One. 

He slams the door open with his shoulder and the two of you push inside, cold air slapping against your sweat-damp skin. The temperature change is jarring, enough to make your breath hitch for half of a second before you force it steady. 

The lab smells like chemicals and dust, sterile and rotten all at once. Some fluorescent lights flicker overhead, others dead, a few buzzing weakly, all casting uneven shadows down the hallway.

Your footsteps echo despite your care. 

You and Joaquin move in practiced meticulance; you sweeping right while he takes left, movements perfectly synchronized. Old equipment litters the floor from bare metal carts to scattered paperwork that are now yellow with age. Doors line the corridor with small windows granting views inward that you observe carefully, scanning for any potential threats. 

“This place is giving me the creeps,” Joaquin mutters. 

You can’t help but smile at his commentary. “Eyes up, Torres,” you reply, rolling your own. 

It wasn’t so unsafe to engage in work banter—that the two of you could do. 

As you pass the rooms one by one, something catches your eye. Slowing just a fraction, you peer through cracked glass. Inside, a metal gurney bolted to the floor with restraints hanging loose. Dried blood stains the dark surface. Dark, but not dark enough. 

Deeper inside, the air hums faintly, electricity running somewhere in there. 

Stomach turning, your grip on your gun tightens. 

“Do you hear that?” Joaquin asks quietly. 

Before you can answer, a crash rings out from somewhere ahead, and you and Joaquin whip toward the source. The sound echoes down the hall, metal against concrete, followed by a sharp strangled noise that raises every hair on your body. 

“Sam,” you press a finger to your comms. “Status.”

Static crackles for a second too long when suddenly— 

“Contact,” Sam snaps, voice strained. “Mercer’s here. He’s—shit!” Another loud crash. “Shit, he’s not right!” his voice yells. 

Joaquin turns towards you, eyes blazing with motivation before he calls out, “Go.” 

Matching him instantly, the two of you break into a run, boots pounding down the path you just took as adrenaline floods your veins. Every argument, every unsaid word between you and Joaquin disappears under the weight of the moment because there’s only one mission now. 

But somewhere, in the back of your mind, uninvited and unwelcomed, a single thought lingers: What if you don’t get a chance to say what you’ve been avoiding? 

-

Multiple sharp turns lead you to what used to be the lab’s main testing floor. You recognize it immediately—not because you’re that good, but because it’s clear. Large, overturned metal tables littered all over the space like discarded bones. Equipment smashed beyond recognition. Monitors cracked and blinking with dying lights. 

At the center of it all: Mercer. 

He’s on his knees, hunched over like his own body has betrayed him. With one hand braced against the floor, the other claws uselessly against his chest. Vials lie shattered all around him, green liquid spilling all over the floor. One syringe still dangles from his fingers, empty. 

“No,” he chokes, voice raw and cracking. “No, no, no.” 

His body convulses. 

You don’t hesitate, moving in closer. “Mercer! Hands where I can see them, now!”

He lets out a laugh. Or maybe a sob. The sound is twisted enough that you can’t tell the difference. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Sam and Bob at the opposite entrance—Sam with his weapon raised, Bob frozen behind him. “Bob, stay back,” you hear Sam whisper to him. 

Mercer looks up then, and you see how whatever is left of him completely fractures. 

“You,” he gasps, staring straight at Bob. “I—” His eyes are bloodshot, wild, veins standing out violently along his neck as his face contorts into something like horror. “You were there. You were the first! You—” 

Before anyone can react, Mercer slams his palm into the ground and the entire floor shudders. Everyone is thrown off balance, stumbling in the wake of his actions. He moves fast, too fast for anyone to truly realize what’s happening before it’s too late.

You hear Joaquin shout your name as Mercer launches himself toward your direction, body moving wrong, joints snapping into place with sickening precision. You fire instinctively, shots ringing out as Mercer barrels past, clipping a table hard enough to send it skidding into the wall. 

“Take him down!” Sam yells. 

And the room explodes into chaos. 

You and Joaquin split without another word, flanking on opposite sides as Mercer slams Sam into a supportive beam with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. Bob ducks instinctively, scrambling backward as debris rains down around him. 

Mercer turns, locking eyes with you. 

For a split second, you see something almost human flicker in them. 

Then it’s gone. 

He charges and you brace for impact, firing again. The shots stagger against him, but they don’t stop him. Colliding into you, you fly into a wall, hard. Pain blooms across your shoulder as your grip on your gun falters. 

But then Joaquin is there. 

He tackles Mercer from the side, the two of them crashing into a metal door at the far end of the room. Joaquin grunts as Mercer fights back viciously, punching and elbowing him hard enough to draw blood. 

“No!” you scream, the adrenaline from watching him go down enough to snap you out of your daze. You raise your gun again, but the two of them are simply a blur of bodies as the two of them battle each other. 

You stumble forward, vision swimming, forcing your focus through the ringing in your ears. Joaquin and Mercer are locked in a violent tangle of limbs—too close, moving too fast. Joaquin’s shoulder slams into the door again with a metallic groan as Mercer drives into him, teeth bared like an animal. 

“Joaquin!” you scream again, voice cracking raw. He hears it. You know he does, because his head snaps just enough for his eyes to find yours through the mayhem. That’s all the warning he needs. “Down!” 

He drops instantly—pure instinct, pure trust. 

You fire. 

The shot cracks through the room, deafening. Mercer howls as the onslaught of bullets tear through his side, the impact snapping him backward with a force that should have dropped him. 

Except it doesn’t. 

Instead, Mercer screams—an unhinged, furious sound—and something in him completely snaps. He roars, veins standing out violently as he surges forward again, grabbing Joaquin by the collar with impossible strength. He throws him, not away from you, but through you. 

Joaquin slams into you just as you’re mid-step, the force knocking the two of you clean off your feet. You crash together into the adjacent room, bodies a mix of limbs as you hit the floor hard. 

Then suddenly—

SLAM.

A heavy metal door crashes shut. You hear the locks engage immediately, one after another in sequence before the last one clicks like a final verdict. It resounds through the room.

You gasp, breath punched from your lungs, sprawled beneath Joaquin as alarms scream somewhere beyond the walls. Dust rains down from the ceiling as the building shudders again and you can hear Sam shouting at Mercer whilst Bob yells out your names. It’s all muffled, distant. 

From above you, Joaquin groans, bracing one arm beside your head as he tries to push himself up, only to hiss sharply and freeze. “Shit—” 

“Don’t,” you exhale, hand coming up to automatically steady him, fingers gripping his jacket, coughing out the words. “You’re bleeding.”

He exhales, hard, forehead dropping briefly toward your shoulder before he forces himself to shift just enough so he’s not crushing you anymore. You’re still close, legs tangled, with his weight warm and solid against you. 

His eyes find yours in a way that’s wild and intense, still brimming with adrenaline. 

“You okay?” he breathes, like nothing else matters. 

Chest heaving, your heart tries to claw its way out of your ribcage. “Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah I—” you swallow. “Are you—”

Another violent impact slams into the door from the other side, Mercer’s roar reverberating through the metal. Joaquin’s hand comes up to shield you without thinking. He angles his body instinctively, like he can still put himself between you and the danger even with a metal door in the way. 

The sound fades, footsteps pounding and voices shouting orders, but it all starts to feel distorted, swallowed by thick steel. Whatever is happening out there, it’s no longer something you can reach. 

Your ears ring as alarms continue to wail, red lights flashing overhead in frantic pulses that make the room feel smaller with every second. 

Sucking in a breath, you try to move, only to be answered with immediate pain. A sharp, protesting ache blooms through your side as you shift beneath Joaquin, forcing a quiet gasp from your throat. He feels it, instantly. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tension snapping through him as he stills. “Easy.”

He moves off you carefully, easing more of his weight away as he rolls just enough to brace himself on his good arm. The space between you widens by inches, but it feels too far, when you’ve gotten so used to his warmth atop you. Almost as if he can sense your thoughts, Joaquin chooses to keep close, your knees still brushing and your shoulders barely apart. 

You blink harder this time, vision finally starting to clear as you fully take in the room. It was a simple four concrete wall space, no windows. A control panel is by the door, its screen glowing a dark red. Thick locking mechanisms are embedded into the frame, unmoving and unresponsive. 

Sealed. 

“Okay,” you breathe out, pushing yourself upright despite the protest from your entire body. “Okay, let’s move. We need to get that door open.” 

Joaquin nods once, already scrambling his feet and you try not to let his wince of pain go straight through your heart. Adrenaline is still rushing through your veins and you have to put it to use. 

The two of you hobble over to the door and Joaquin grabs the handle before attempting to yank with all of his body weight, letting out a loud groan of effort. You think his efforts are futile, so you focus on the panel instead, tapping insistently on the screen that just flashes at you in disamusement. 

Joaquin tries again, harder this time, muscles in his forearm standing out as he throws everything he has into it. “Fuck,” he grunts, nearly slipping backwards. When the door doesn’t budge, he turns to you with a boyish look, already knowing that he’s going to be stating the obvious. “Yup. Definitely locked.” 

Another crash echoes from somewhere beyond the wall—voices shouting, boots pounding, chaos so clearly spilling through the lab. 

Frantically, the two of you begin to look around the small room. Other than a bunch of overturned equipment and a set of cabinets built into the wall that contains God-knows-what with a countertop covered in nothing but debris, the room offered no help. 

Scanning the walls, you try to find something, anything that can lead you out to the next room. Maybe you and Joaquin can climb some vents again, for old times sake. 

Quickly, you process that you and Joaquin are stuck in some glorified supply room, which could only mean one thing. 

“Damn,” Joaquin curses, coming to the same realization at the same time. 

There was no way out. 

“Sam!” you yell, fist pounding against the door as a last resort. “Bob!” 

Joaquin joins you, the two of you yelling for attention as your fist rap desperately against the metal. 

The sound of greater commotion, one that seems much louder than when you two were in the room trying to take Mercer down, has the two of you turning to each other with a grim look. 

Several minutes go by with the sound of doors being broken down, gunshots, and horrific shouts, all of them drowning out the sound of you and Joaquin calling out for help. Just when you’re about to give up and try to find another way, footsteps skid to a stop on the other side. “Hey! Hey—are you, are you two good?” A shaky voice calls out, cutting through the door loudly and urgently. 

“Bob!” you shout in excitement, hope radiating through you at the sound of his voice. “Yes! Yes, we’re okay. Are you—”

“Where’s Mercer?” Joaquin cuts in, unintentionally, as he panics breathlessly. 

“Don’t worry. He’s down!” Bob manages to stutter out, like he had to look around the room to confirm first. “Backup,” he attempts to explain, “And Bucky. Bucky’s here, too, now.” 

Relief floods you first—sharp and dizzying at the confirmation that Mercer is down, that the immediate threat is over—but it quickly morphs into guilt, hot and heavy in your gut. You weren’t there, not when it mattered most. You can only imagine how Bob feels. 

“Bob,” you call out softly, voice dipping unintentionally. “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause on the other side of the door. You can hear fabric shifting, sneakers scuffing against the tile like he doesn’t quite know where to stand. You hear it all, focused only on Bob on the other side. 

“Yeah,” he answers, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, almost more honestly, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You shut your eyes, forehead resting briefly against the cold metal. You try to ignore Joaquin watching you from just one step away, close enough to notice the way your shoulders sag and the way your hand curls into itself at your side.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, not even sure if Bob can hear it through the door. “I should’ve—”

“No.” Bob cuts in, hurried. “No, it’s okay.” Another shuffle. “I’m just glad you guys are okay.” 

The sigh you let out is resigned. 

Before you can settle into the silence, begin unpacking between the lines, footsteps approach the door. Much faster than Bob’s, swift with purpose. 

“Everyone okay over there?” Sam pounds on the door once, in solidation. 

You push away from the door slowly, arms folding across your chest like you need something to hold you together. Joaquin steps in without hesitation, positioning himself closer to the door, between you and whatever's coming next. 

“We’re…” you can feel Joaquin’s eyes flicker to the side of your face. “Stable. Some minor injuries. What’s going on out there?” 

“You sure?” Sam asks. 

Joaquin glances you another look before answering with false confidence. “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Sam accepts. “Listen, I’ve got good news and bad news. Good news is we got Mercer. Bucky got Joaquin’s message when we were on the road and sent some guys down. They’re taking him to a secure facility just a few minutes from here.”

Your shoulders loosen just a smidge, the weight of stress diminishing just a bit. 

“And the bad news?” Joaquin presses.

When you hear Sam let out an audible exhale, you tense back up, suspicion creeping up your spine. Slowly, you step back up to the door. “Sam…?” 

Cautiously, Joaquin asks in slow words, “What’s the bad news?”

“So…look—”

You and Joaquin let out loud, painful groans, your partner even going as far as slamming his forehead against the door in fake anguish, dramatically. 

“Some security override kicked in when Mercer tossed y’all in there,” Sam tries to explain. You can imagine him now: with a twisted smirk on his lip, finding the situation funnier than he should. “And we’re a bit preoccupied right now.” 

As Sam has the universe on cue, a loud slam echoes through the building followed by the rustling of metal chains. 

“So what does that mean for us, Sam?” Joaquin asks dreadfully beside you. 

Your shared mentor takes longer than you’d like to answer that question. “It means,” Sam starts off strong, voice loud and clear initially before slowing down in a way that you did not like. Quiet and rushed, words almost slurring together, Sam spits out, “We can’t get you out of there any time soon.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Joaquin asks.

“Huh?” your voice overlaps his without meaning to, the both of you unable to hear him clearly. 

“I think Sam’s trying to tell you,” you hear Bob gulp, “Get…comfortable.” 

“‘Comfortable’?” Joaquin questions, brows furrowing in confusion. “As in—?”

“Through-the-night kind of comfortable,” Sam grimaces. 

A moment of silence as you let the words wash over you, settling until your stomach drops. “You’re kidding,” you breathe out in a near-whisper. 

“Wish I was, kid.” He doesn’t offer any other comfort, just a straightforward, “Try not to kill each other. We’ll be back in the morning.” 

“Wait, back in the morning?” Joaquin clings to the door desperately, as if Sam could see him through the inches of steel. 

You hear Sam let out a chuckle because even though he can’t see Joaquin, he can definitely hear the sheer despair in his voice. “Relax. You two are safe. Blueprint shows that the room you’re in is isolated. It was just used as storage.”

“Are you sure about that?” Joaquin yells out, brows raised as he looks around the room. “I don’t know, man,” he expresses, shifting around you to jab at the now locked screen that was previously flashing. “These locks are, like, pretty excessive for just a supply closet.” 

“Well, he did store some pretty valuable stuff in there,” Bob chimes in sheepishly. 

“His serums,” Sam cuts in with an efficient explanation. “He stored his test serums in there.” 

You and Joaquin meet each other’s eyes in mutual panic before slowly turning around to take in the room, as if another botched Super Soldier was hiding behind the red biohazard trashcan. 

Instead, you were met with an overturned mini fridge in the corner, toppled over on its side with its sad extension cord laying limply beside it. The front glass of the door gave you insight to the empty fridge. Eyeing the thick layer of dust covering the entire thing, you know that its position on the floor wasn’t a consequence of the fight.

“That thing looks like it’s been here longer than Mother Time,” you deadpan, only meant for Joaquin to hear. 

“There aren’t any more,” Sam explains, oblivious to your comment. “Obviously.” A small pause before he resumes, “Alright, well, have fun you two. Locks aren’t lifting anytime soon, so try not to get jabbed with any mysterious liquids in the meantime. Bob and I gotta go; gotta keep an eye on Mercer.”

Frustrated, you groan. “We survived Mercer just to be defeated by a glorified panic room.”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Bob attempts to assuage. 

“See?” Sam piggybacks. “You’ve got it.” 

“Sam,” Joaquin starts, exasperated. 

“Goodnight,” Sam cuts him off much more cheerfully than you think is warranted. 

It’s the last you hear from the pair before footsteps retreat down the corridor. 

Time passes in a blur after that. The sound of voices, boots, radios—all of it fades slowly until there’s nothing left but the low hum of the facility and the ringing quiet that often follows after a storm. 

You can’t tell how long it takes for everyone to clear out. All you know is once everyone’s truly gone and the flashing lights in the room finally shut off, leaving just a cast of red light, you and Joaquin share one unified, knowing look. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

-

“Maybe…another month?” he answers after some careful consideration. 

Raising a brow, you don’t hesitate to point out, “Sam’s held longer grudges for much less. Remember when you took Redwing for a joyride, broke both his wings, and Sam didn’t talk to you for two months?”

Joaquin’s head tilts, hand coming up to rub his jaw in lighthearted inquisition, “Yeah, you have a point.” You watch as he shudders before murmuring to himself, “That was rough.”

You hum, head tilting to stare at the wall in thought. “I think he’ll give Bucky hell for another year before he even considers getting back together.” 

He gives you a horrified look, “A year?”

Shrugging, you lightly double down. “Minimum.”

The conversation comes to a dwindling stop as the two of you fall into a comfortable silence again, the same way it’s been picking up and falling back down for the better part of an hour. 

From across from you, Joaquin presses his back into the metal door, head dropping back as he lets out a tired sigh. 

After the hustle and bustle had settled down, the two of you found yourself in a mirroring position, only with your back pressed against the counters. In between the constant radio chatter and aftermath silence, you and Joaquin had come to a mutual, unspoken agreement. The night would be too long if the two of you continued on the way you were before, and for the sake of a relatively peaceful night, you came to an armistice. 

Your legs are outstretched in front of you, same as Joaquin’s, and you try to not let the proximity get to you. You don’t know if the room is just small or if Joaquin is big, but your boots almost brush against each other, so close you could nearly touch. For your sanity, you’ll pretend it’s the room size. 

A couple minutes pass where neither of you say anything, and for the first time in a long while, neither of you feel like you have to fill the silence.  

The red emergency light casts everything in low contrast, softening the sharp edges of the room that it almost makes you forget that you’re stuck in some deranged scientist’s facility. Suppressing a shudder, you force the thought away. 

Joaquin exhales slowly. “So,” he says after a beat, head tilted with lazy curiosity. 

“So,” you copy, drawing out the word without much thought, focused instead on rolling your shoulders to alleviate some of the aches and pains while you await his query. 

“How are…things?” he finally draws out. 

You roll your head, chin tucked down as you stare at him through hooded eyes. “‘Things’?” 

He chuckles, licking his lips. Adjusting his position, Joaquin’s boots scrape against the metal floor as one knee bends just enough for him to prop an elbow on it. The movement draws your attention much easier than it should. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Things.” Joaquin shrugs. “You know. Work, life, just…things.” 

Casting him a look of hesitation that’s shrouded in humor, you don’t offer a real response. 

When Joaquin catches your gaze, he shrugs an innocent shrug, corner of his lip lifting as he holds back a smile. “I’m trying.” 

The words soften you in a way it shouldn’t.

You realized it when Sam said it, that you and Joaquin would have unbuffered, uninterrupted time together in a way that you haven’t even come close to in the past couple weeks, and it stirred up a nauseous feeling in your stomach. But now, in this moment with him, you feel…safe. 

Almost like for the first time in a long while, you can breathe. 

And maybe it’s the after effects of the adrenaline talking, or maybe it’s a foolish illusion, casted by how deeply you yearn for you and Joaquin to be okay again, but part of you can tell he feels the same way. 

You flex your fingers once before letting your hands rest loosely on your thighs. “Things are…” you start, quietly, but honest. “Fine.” You shrug, not looking at Joaquin. “Same as always. Work has been a lot of this,” you gesture around. 

“What? Getting locked in some decrepit building because Bucky sent us on a mission as an excuse to break ‘no contact’ with Sam?” Joaquin jests. 

“Exactly,” you laugh. 

He lets the moment settle, chuckling alongside you before it draws to an end. 

There isn’t much else you’d like to add, but just when you thought the two of you would fall into the stillness again, giving you a chance to sink into your thoughts, Joaquin calls out—

“And Bob?” 

His tone is casual. Almost too casual. 

Brows furrowing, you look up at him with a confused frown. “What about Bob?”

Joaquin shifts, boots scraping again as he adjusts himself against the door. “Just asking.” 

‘Asking?’ you wonder. You blink at him once. Then twice. Processing. If this was some kind of subtextual question, it’s sailing right past you. 

“He’s…good,” you answer slowly, thinking through it as you go. “I think. This whole Mercer thing has been a lot for him, but,” you scratch your elbow as you give Joaquin another shrug, “It’s been a lot for all of us.” 

Gaze drifting, you’re unfocused as you add, “He sounded okay earlier.” You glance back to Joaquin, searching his face for agreement, “Don’t you think?”

His jaw tightens, just enough that you notice. Nodding slowly, Joaquin gives you an unofficial answer, like he’s weighing something much heavier than the question you thought you were answering. 

“Yeah,” he finally says after a moment too long. 

Your heart sinks. Something in his voice feels off. Not like he’s upset, but it’s thinner. Less certain than it had been a few minutes ago. 

Cautiously, you wonder, “Why are you asking me about Bob?” 

Joaquin exhales through his nose, a half-laugh that doesn’t quite land. “No reason.” 

His answer doesn’t sit right with you. You watch as he drags a hand down his face, fingers briefly catching at his mouth before it drops back to his lap. His knee bounces once, then stills once he realizes what he’s doing. 

It clicks. 

“Joaquin,” you say carefully. “If there’s something you’re trying to ask me—”

He looks up at you then, really looks at you, and his mask slips. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.” Joaquin looks right at you, deep brown eyes shrouded in a mask of red, but he still sees through you. “That’s all.” 

A pit forms in your stomach. “I’m okay.” 

“Okay.” 

Joaquin tries to let the moment pass, you can tell by the way he looks away from you, fingers drumming against his propped up knee as he stares anywhere but your face, and for a second you think you just might let him. 

But you can’t look away. You feel like this mission has aged you by years, and you can see it on Joaquin’s face. The dried blood dotting his hairline and the split skin at his knuckles crack you open in a way you know it shouldn’t. There’s tension in the slope of his shoulders that haven’t fully left since that night before Arizona, even now. 

It’s not just awkwardness, or bad timing, or too many near-misses. The past few weeks have been a constant of both of you pretending like if you don’t name it, it’ll go away eventually. And you can’t do that anymore. 

“Joaquin…” 

“We should get cleaned up.” He cuts you off cleanly, efficient, as he hastily jumps to his feet from his seat. “Here,” he offers quietly, extending a hand out to you as he effortlessly pulls you from your spot in a way that was all too gentle for your liking. 

Joaquin moves towards the cabinets behind you, the same ones you were leaning against just a second ago. The sound of hinges squeaking and wooden doors opening and shutting are the only noises that fill the room now. You watch him rummage, movements sharp and purposefully like if he keeps moving, he can brush off your words. 

“Joaquin.” You try again, resound in the small room.

A cabinet slams shut as he straightens himself up to his full height. The muscles in his back ripple through the shirt, tense as Joaquin lets out a short exhale. “I know.” A hand runs across his face as he breathes out, “Just give me a second, please.” 

You fall silent.

You offer no assistance as Joaquin continues to look through with little consideration for being methodical. Instead, he practically tears through the miscellaneous items until he finds whatever he deems useful. 

A curt exhale and a slam on the countertop reveals a large medical kit that Joaquin quickly pops open. 

Seems like this Godforsaken room is providing just everything you need. Gauze. Antiseptic. Decreased proximity between you and Joaquin. 

“Here,” you say, finally moving forward and pushing him out of the way. “Let me.” 

He doesn’t bother to resist, perching himself atop the counter without a glance your way, like it was safer to stare anywhere else than look directly at you. 

You reach for the alcohol swabs, tearing one open with skilled fingers. “Take your shirt off.” 

Joaquin’s head snaps upwards in a look of pure shock, making you roll your eyes. 

“You’re bleeding.” You point with the wipe in your hand toward his stained suit, a patch of dark blood that had been slowly seeping through the fabric for the past few hours. 

His eyes flicker down to his shoulder, as if double checking your statement before letting out a defeated sigh. He peels his suit jacket off slowly. Then his shirt follows, tugged up and over his head with a quiet grunt before he drops it somewhere near your feet. 

It’s prudish, you know, but you can’t help the way your eyes avert up to the ceiling at his movements. It’s also illogical, given that you so selflessly offered to patch him up and you were seconds away from touching the skin you suddenly find yourself too shy to even look at. But there you were, analyzing the tiles above you as the stoic man sits patiently in front of you. 

Joaquin calls out to you, your name coming out as a low whisper. 

Before he can say anything else, you clear your throat and step into his space. You try to ignore the way he spreads his thighs, making space for you to stand between them as if it were a second nature.

“This is going to sting.” The words come out quieter than you mean for them to, and with mechanical movements you dab the wipe onto his wound. 

If it hurts, Joaquin does a great job at hiding it, not even doing so much as flinching at your less than hospitable bedside manner. 

The cut isn’t too deep, superficial at best, so it takes little effort to clean. Of the hundreds of wounds you’ve stitched for him, this one was certainly the least troubling. 

So why were you moving so slow? 

You’re sure time passes in a similar way, the seconds ticking by tediously as you gently tended to Joaquin. The silence that envelopes is different than the one from before—no longer comfortable, now charged with words that linger between the two of you. You try not to let the frustration get to you; the constant ups and downs with Joaquin these past few weeks was growing to be too much. 

Joaquin calls your name softly, so quietly that you might have just missed it if it weren’t for the way his hand reaches up to grasp yours so gently it feels like whispers against your skin. His fingers wrap against yours, pulling your hand down, away from his chest, but almost as if he couldn’t bear to let go, he clutches your hand tightly in his lap. “Stop. I can’t keep doing this.” 

Your heart hammers rapidly in your own chest, his words mirroring so closely to the thoughts in your head that for a second you wondered if he could see right through you.  

His words come out steady. “I can’t keep pretending like I’m okay with this.” 

A frown tugs at your lips, heart sinking at his words. You’re not sure how you’ll make it through the night with him if he rejects you once more.

“I want you to be happy. And I know…” He hesitates, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he tries to find the words. He shakes his head, as if to start over. “Bob—” His mouth tightens as he exhales the name, like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “—seems nice. But I don’t know how to be this close to you when you’re—”

You yank your hand away from his like he’s just burned you. “Bob?” you ask in confusion. ‘What the hell is he bringing Bob up for?’

Joaquin flinches at his name, leaving you even more confused. “I get it. I messed up, okay?” the words come out almost pleading. “That night before Arizona when told me you—” he huffs, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he abruptly stops himself. 

A beat of silence passes and something heavy settles in your chest. 

“Is it so bad?” you can’t help but whisper, taking a step back from him. The words leave your mouth softer than you expect, landing heavy. “Accepting that I have feelings for you?” 

His head snaps up, eyes widening in complete shock, his hand reaches out as his eyes search your face but you move just a fraction out of his reach. “Bad? What? No…that isn’t—”

“Then what is it?” You press, hating how small your voice is, but there’s nothing that you can do in the moment. You're tired, in every single way. Chest tightening, you try to ignore the sharp presses against your ribs. “Because you’re standing there acting like me having feelings for you is something so…awful.” 

“It’s not! Hold on, wait. That’s not what I’m doing,” he says quickly, hopping off of the counter and stepping into your space. Joaquin’s hands find yours, gripping them desperately, but you pull back. 

“You didn’t say anything,” you press, unable to hide your hurt as it bleeds through. “I told you how I felt, Joaquin. Yes, I know we said we’d keep things casual but it stopped being that way for me a long time ago and I thought you were owed the truth. Was that so wrong?”

“No!” he refutes, “It wasn’t!”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” you shout, pushing him away from you. There was only so much misdirection that you can take from him before finally snapping. 

“I didn’t have a chance to,” Joaquin pleads. “Let’s pause for a second, okay? You did nothing wrong. I messed up, I see that now. I shouldn’t have let you walk out that night and I regretted it the second I did, but then Arizona happened, and then Bob—” 

“Bob?” you intercept. “Why do you keep bringing up Bob?” You resist the urge to scream! Are you going crazy? 

He freezes, like he was confused about your confusion. “Because,” he exhales sharply, growing frustrated with himself. “You and Bob…after Arizona…” he lets the words trail off. 

For a second you just stare at him. 

Then it finally clicks. 

And something in you snaps. 

With your heart beating loudly in your chest, you can’t stop the disbelieved scoff you let out. 

“You know what?” You start to stutter, shaking your head. It’s finally your turn to glance away, anywhere but Joaquin, “I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk to you.” You try to ignore the slight tremor in your hands as you turn your back to him, preoccupying yourself with tidying, though you don’t actually organize much, more like slamming things around. “I don’t want you,” a huff is let out, a lump forming in your throat as you brace yourself for the hard conversation, “I don’t want you to do this here. Now. Just because you’re stuck in here and you’re having some sudden guilt of conscience or something.” 

“That’s not why I’m—”

“Isn’t it?” you shout, turning back to him with a sharp glare. Your eyes soften without meaning for them to, because they always do when you stare at Joaquin, you let the heavy silence settle over the two of you for a second that felt too long. “You never talked to me about it, Joaquin. That’s the bottom line,” you shake your head at him in defeat. 

“But…there wasn’t any time…”

“Oh fuck off with that,” you scoff. “Message received, okay? I don’t need you to say this just because you think I’m seeing someone else, which I’m not—” 

“You’re not?” Something like hope twinges his words and all it does is makes you angry. 

“You are unbelievable, Torres!” you shout. “I put myself on the line for you and you gave me nothing. And now you’re standing here like a kicked puppy because what? You think I moved on?” 

For once, the talkative man is stunned into silence. The expression on his face is truly nothing short of looking like a kicked puppy as you’ve said, brows furrowed as his lips turn downward into a deep frown. 

You pay it little mind, needing to get it all off of your chest. Glare sharp, you throw out the words that have been weighing heavy in your chest. “I’m the one who put myself out there. I’m done humiliating myself for you. You want to be normal? Fine, I can be normal. Just partners, like the past few years never happened. Just like you want—” 

“I’m scared! Alright?” his words cut through like a blade. “All the time!” he screams, not at you. No—Joaquin would never. But his words bounce off the walls, voice bleeding in a way so desperate and unlike the usual confident, carefree man that you have no choice but to recoil backwards, taking his words in. 

“Since the day I’ve met you,” your name falls off his lips with a cracked voice. “I’m The Falcon, I’m supposed to be brave. But you…you’ve plagued me, every part of me. God you’re so intoxicating, you’re in me. Every time we get in the field, do you know how terrified I am that something will happen to you? Do you know how  it feels to see you walk into something I know I can’t control?” He chokes out, hands flexing by his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Out there, if I’m one second too slow, make one bad call. You’re—” 

He cuts himself off, like even saying it out loud would be too much for him. 

“And if that’s how you make me feel, just as partners. Just as professionals, I—” Joaquin shakes his head, a humorless smile on his face as he recalls, “And that one drunk night happened a few years ago and I thought ‘maybe I can do this. Maybe I can have you at arms length because’…”

Your anger falters, something else taking its place instead. 

“If I love you…if I love you—I’ll never stop,” Joaquin pants, locking eyes with you. His expression is dark, his usually soft brown eyes a shade much darker, much more dangerous. His next words come out breathless, in a whisper that rushes out, “But I guess it’s too damn late for that now.” 

With that, he surges forward and before you and blink, his hands are in your hair, pulling you into him with such desperation, as if he doesn’t feel you on him now, right now, he won’t make it. 

He presses his lips to yours, breathing in your air like it’s the only thing he needs to keep him alive. 

For a split second, you’re frozen and you know he feels it too in the way Joaquin hesitates. But you’ve never been good at pushing him away, it's what got you here in the first place. The idea of him pulling away sends you into a panicked spiral and before you can think, you’re kissing him back. 

He exhales into your mouth, a moan and sigh of relief all into one. 

You tell yourself it’s not because you want it, it’s because of how much he does, but the way your stomach flips and an oh-so familiar tingle begins to build tells you otherwise. 

It all crashes into you all at once, the force of it. His desperation is undeniable. Weeks and weeks of restraint and distance snap clean in his grip as one hand tightens its hold on the back of your head while the other glides down your body like he just needs to feel you, squeezing anything he can before it settles on your waist. He tugs your body into his with one sharp pull, pressing you flush against him so that you can feel just how much he means what he’s confessed. 

He anchors you to him, and you’re sure you need it, convinced that without him holding you upright you’d sink straight to the floor. But Joaquin doesn’t mind, not at all, with the way he groans into you, biceps flexing as he keeps you up and against his limber body. 

The kiss turns sloppy quick, and you try not to let the sound get to your head when Joaquin whines at you pulling away, just so you can take a breath. Your chest heaves, his scent already clouding your mind and making all rational thought go out the window. 

He doesn’t let you get far, breaking the string of saliva between the two of you as he trails his lips down the side of your throat. The heat of his mouth makes your heart thud loudly in your chest. 

It’s a familiar dance, the two of you like this. Joaquin knows your body in a way that’s infuriating, his lips hovering over the junction of your neck and shoulder, just the way you like it. 

But this wasn’t your usual hookup. 

And you both knew it. 

The air was charged with something far more sinister than it usually has, the guise of “no strings attached” no longer protecting the two of you from your very real, very unfiltered feelings. 

No more hiding. Not this time. 

“Just let me make it up to you. Please,” his voice cracks as he begs, the breath tickling over the one spot he knows makes you weak. He wets his lips, and he’s so close to your skin that his tongue touches the curve of your neck in a way that makes you shudder. Warm and wet, he continues. The choice is yours. It always is. “I can make it up to you, I promise. I can’t lose you, I—” 

“Shut up,” you gasp, finally snapping out of your daze. Your hand comes up to his cheeks, grabbing his face in both of your hands as you smash both of your lips back together. It’s aggressive, bruising almost. But neither of you mind. 

It doesn’t take long before his lips are gliding past your lips and takes even less time for you to let him in, no permission needed. His tongue is hot and heavy in your mouth, swiping inside before he takes your tongue into his mouth and sucks. 

The moan you let out is involuntary, and he lets go with an obscene smack, pulling his tongue back before he kisses you over and over and over. 

He moves faster than you can think, leaving you a hot mess. The patch of wetness in your panties only continues to grow when he hikes you upward, forcing your legs around his waist. 

Before you can process it, Joaquin has you pressed against the cold metal door. He’s angled you just so, his bulge brushing right up against you, but not enough so that there’s real pressure, just the subtlest of skims, so that you know he’s there. It drives you crazy, and you can’t help the displeased whine that you let out. But he just shushes you. 

“I know, pretty girl, just let me…” his words trail off, his lips preoccupying themselves with your collarbone instead. 

The cool door is a stark contrast to the blazing heat that your bodies were letting off, so you throw your head back against it, trusting him to take over as you breathe through this. 

You don’t even smack him away like you usually do when you feel his teeth come out to nibble on your skin, and you feel his lips curve into a smile when he realizes. No marks, you had always said. But this time isn’t like the rest. 

He takes the opportunity you give him, sucking and biting, leaving evidence of himself all across any skin he can reach before Joaquin decides he needs more. 

Pulling his torso back, he props you up against his knee. With quick movements, Joaquin peels off your shirt with mechanical practice. His lips press against your exposed skin in appreciation, kissing any spot he sees before licking a long strip from the dip of your cleavage to the base of your neck. 

It’s obscene. 

You're slick with sweat and grim from your mission but Joaquin doesn’t care, letting out a loud moan at the taste. Pressing into you again, he presses his face between your breast, leaving hickies all across the exposed swell while his nimble fingers back quick work of unclasping your bra. 

“Joaquin,” you pant from above him, fingers digging into his thick curls as you try to pull him back, the sensation growing to be too much. 

“Please,” he just begs, letting you pull his head back. His lips are swollen and red, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. Joaquin’s eyes grow teary, like being away from your skin for this long is wrecking him, like he needs to be back on you. Both of your chests are heaving, your bra straps being held up by the crook of your elbows. It barely covers your chest anymore, but Joaquin doesn’t care. He needs more, because it’s not enough. It’s never enough when it’s you. 

The way he looks up at you has your blood rushing to your head, a sick sense of power taking over when you come to the realization that Joaquin really does need you in the way he said he does. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but you can see that he doesn’t have the words right now. Eyes half lidded, staring down at him, you swipe your thumb over his bottom lip, pressing down, appreciating how red and puffy they’ve become. 

It doesn’t help your power trip when Joaquin’s lips part silently, taking your finger into his mouth, sucking on the appendage like he has something to prove. You draw your thumb out, his lips letting go with a pop! 

Not breaking eye contact with him, you slowly drop your arms. Your bra falls to the floor in near-silence, but it’s loud to the both of you. You watch as Joaquin’s breath grows heavier, not daring to look away from you and toward your chest like you know he wants to. 

Taking mercy on him, the hand that grips the back of his head slowly guides him to the place you know he wants to be most. It takes nearly no effort from you at all, his head moving on his own accord once Joaquin realizes that you’ve given him permission. It’s all he needs, the slight nudge of your hand, before his lips wrap around your left nipple and he lets out a loud moan. 

One of his hands comes up to massage your other breast, rolling the nub between his pointer and thumb whilst his tongue swirls circles around the other nipple. 

It makes you moan right along with him, arching your back into his face as Joaquin buries himself into his chest. His hips buck upwards like he can’t help himself, pressing his thick, aching cock right against your clit. You feel it, feel him, even between all your layers of clothes. 

He doesn’t stop, can’t stop, his tongue flicking over your nipples again and again as he sucks like his life depends on it. It doesn’t take long before he’s switching sides and your entire chest glistens with his spit. 

Hands clasped on his shoulders, your head is thrown back in pleasure as he ravishes you. The damp spot on his pants quickly mixes with yours, and after only a few minutes you’ve decided you’ve had enough. You need him now. 

It takes more effort than you had in you, to pull him off your chest. But after a few weak shoves, Joaquin finally gets your message and pries himself off of the spot above your breast that he had been sucking a hickey into. 

His lips don’t stray far from your skin, though, as he trails it back up towards your face and envelopes your lips in his as Joaquin slides you down until your feet meet the floor again. If he notices the way your knees buckle, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he rasps against your lips, “Sit on my face.” 

It was a demand, not an ask, and any other day you’d be more than happy to comply. But not today. 

Maybe it was the weeks without feeling his touch, or maybe it was the words he said to you earlier that ignited something in your stomach, but you needed him now. And you told him as such. 

“No,” you whisper in between kisses, hands pressed against his chest to push him away from you. You try to ignore the whimper he let out, trying to stay strong in your own pursuit. “I need you, Joaquin. I need you in me now.” 

The words trigger something in him, Joaquin freezing for the briefest of seconds before he lets out a choked, “Okay, yeah. We can do that, baby. That’s not a problem.” 

With little regard for the catastrophic room you’re in, you and Joaquin quickly make work of taking off your remaining fabrics. Normally you’d wince at the way your panties stick to you, so wet in a way that almost makes you feel embarrassed, but when your eyes flicker to Joaquin and the way his thick, heavy cock slaps against his stomach, tip dripping in precum, you can’t find it in yourself to care. 

Before you’ve even managed to fully step out of your pants, boots discarded somewhere in the room, Joaquin is on you again. He’s being helpful, he’ll claim later, as he nearly rips the remainder of your dangling clothes off of you to press your naked body against his. 

Like it was instinct, your thighs part, letting his weeping cock slide between them. His beads of precum act as lubricant, pushing in between your thighs like it was made for him. The groan Joaquin lets out is pornographic, all from the feeling of your plush legs wrapped around him, and he thrusts before he can stop himself. 

It makes you moan too, the feeling of him between you, tip nudging against your clit when he pulls back. 

His hands are back in your hair, lips on yours in an instant, your moans mingling together as Joaquin fucks your thighs. 

“I missed this,” he pants, biting your lower lip. “I’ve missed you,” he grunts, “So, so much.” Joaquin emphasizes each of his words with a thrust. “So perfect for me,” his curious hands trail down to your waist, squeezing you there in a way that makes you yelp. He swallows the sound, smacking your ass with a strong palm before massaging the cheek in apology. 

“Joaquin,” your nails dig into his back. Pathetically, you whine. You’ve had enough of his teasing, “Need you now.” 

He lets out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss into your neck. “Alright, baby. Alright.” 

Joaquin maneuvers you until you're flat on your back, laid on top of your pile of clothes that he managed to push all together in between your heated moments. He’s quick to climb on top of you, barricading your head between his thick biceps. 

Quick, flushing movements turn into something softer with the weight of him on top of you and you on your back like this. As if it were second nature, your legs wrap against his waist, arms coming up to circle around his shoulder, playing with the hair on the back of his head. You softly twirl his curls in the way you know he loves, and love it he does as he bites back a choked groan. 

With a steady hand, Joaquin softly brushes your hair out of your face, revealing yourself to him in your entirety. 

Gazing down at you, chin dipped, Joaquin whispers, “You’re so beautiful.” His lips come down, pressing sweetly against your cheek and his face nuzzles against you, “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” He trails, slowly, to tell you the words soft and slow against your ear before playfully biting the lobe. 

It shouldn’t be so easy—him making you melt like this, but you can’t find it in yourself to resist him. Despite everything, you trust Joaquin. He might not have all the right words all of the time, but he’ll never tell you a lie. So you let him whisper sweet nothings against your skin, growing warm and wet as he says all of the right things.  

One of his hands softly finds purchase against your outer thigh, supporting you and pulling you flush to his waist, as if he needed all parts of you pressed against him. It makes his tip nudge against your entrance, and all you can do is let out a quiet moan, arching into him. 

Joaquin lets out a quiet chuckle, the hand on your thigh coming up to press your hips back down. “Not yet, pretty girl,” he mumbles. “Been a while since we’ve done this. Gotta get you all ready for me, yeah?” he asks. It’s rhetorical, you know it is, the way his voice is teasing, but you nod helplessly anyways. “Yeah, I’m g’nna get you nice and ready for me.” 

It’s the last thing you hear before his warm, calloused palm slides toward where you need him most. With experienced fingers, he spreads your lips apart with such ease that you’re almost bashful. But that thought quickly dissipates when his finger nudges itself against your tight, wet hole. 

When he finally slides his middle finger in, both of you let out a loud moan. 

“So fucking wet,” Joaquin comments, the feeling of you gripping against just one finger alone enough to send him into a frenzy. “She missed me, huh?” he asks, and you don’t have the energy to give any response this time, moaning as he makes quick work of thrusting that single digit in and out. His hand curls, palm coming up to rub against your clit as his middle finger works you open in a way that has you preening against him. 

The sound of it is absolutely obscene, the squelch of your wetness against him as he silently adds another finger. You roll your hips, needing more. It felt so good, your mind is growing hazy until all you feel is Joaquin. 

“Look at that,” Joaquin mumbles against your throat, sucking on your skin in a way that’s dizzing. “This pretty pussy’s made for me, fucking dripping all over my hand right now.” 

You have to ground yourself, so your nails dig into his shoulders, but Joaquin doesn’t care one bit, too preoccupied with the way you pulse around him and the way your tits bounce with every thrust of his fingers. 

Your body hums with pleasure as he skillfully works you open. Eyes shooting open, you gasp when you feel his lips wrap around one of your nipples. Instinctively, your hand grasps the top of his head and yanks his hair by the root. He lets out a pained grunt but truly pays no mind, continuing his ministrations. 

“Joaquin!” you moan, the onslaught of him fingering you within an inch of your life and suckling at your tit was just too much.

With a loud gasp, you announce, “G’nna cum, g’nna cum—” 

That seems to get his attention and he quickly pulls his fingers out without another word, detaching from your breast with a displeased hum. Just when you’re about to pout in protest, he cuts you off with a kiss that takes your breath away. 

“None of that, baby.” He declares, voice husky with need. “Need you to come around my cock, need you to cream all over me, yeah? Been too long,” Joaquin’s nose nudges against your cheek, like he’s asking you for permission, when in reality he’s already decided for the both of you. 

With that, one of Joaquin’s hands grips the back of your knee and presses it deep into your chest. He slides his pulsing cock into you with one slow, smooth thrust. It enters with much more ease than you’re willing to admit, but it fills you so well that any complaint dies in your throat. 

Buried to the hilt, Joaquin drops his head against your knee as the two of you let out a simultaneous groan. 

“Fuck me,” he mumbles under his breath. “You’re g’nna be the death of me.” His blunt nails dig into your knee before he sets a brutal pace. He pulls all the way out before slamming back into you again in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. 

It takes only a handful of thrusts before Joaquin finds his rhythm, his balls slapping against your ass again and again and again as he sets a consistent pace. The tip of his cock hits that spongey center inside you each time, and all you can do is lay beneath him, letting out a gasping moan whenever his hips connect with yours again. 

Your thighs shake, stomach tight as he turns you to putty in his hands. One hand grips the clothes beneath you, twisting the fabric as you grapple onto it for dear life. The other finds his hair, sadistically pulling on his curls.

Salicious sounds fill the room and the air in the room turns humid as your wet slick and Joaquin’s precum creates the best lubricant, making each of his movements slip with ease. 

“God,” Joaquin throws his head back, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he pounds into you. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he groans, words coming out hurried but no less sincere. “I’m so, so sorry.” Each word enunciated with a thurst. “I fucked up, yeah? Such an idiot,” Joaquin groans above you. 

He drops your knee and you don’t realize just how much it was aching until he shifts you. Dropping so either of his elbows bracket your head, his sweaty forehead meets yours. The two of you huff, moaning as Joaquin continues to pistol into you. 

“Forgive me,” he pants into your mouth. His lips come crashing into yours as his movements start to get more sloppy. “Please,” Joaquin moans into your mouth. “Don’t know what I’d do without you. Need you so fucking bad,” he practically chokes. 

The kissing is messy, saliva dripping down the side of your face as you’re too slackjawed to truly say anything. 

His large palm finds itself on the top of your head, pushing any hairs that stick to your sweaty forehead away as he anchors himself on you. With every slap of his hip, Joaquin applies slight pressure to the top of your head, forcing your body down to meet his cock halfway as he sets the brutal pace. 

“Joaquin,” you call out, clenching down tightly on him. 

“Say you forgive me,” he asks of you, sounding so debauched you nearly lose your mind. It’s as if he needs to hear you say it. 

Fingers finding themselves back on his shoulders, your nails dig into him as he bounces you on his cock. “I—” you start before being cut off by a loud moan crawling up your throat. “Fuck,” you cuss, eyes squeezed shut when his thumb finds itself on your clit. 

“Say it,” he demands, panting above you. 

“I—” You feel it now, the familiar coil in your lower stomach, and your hips move on their own accord, trying to chase that high. He’s mean with it, making consistent circles against the sensitive button while he continues to thrust into you with a brutal pace. 

“Please!” he begs you, moving faster as if he has to prove something to you.  

“I forgive you!” you all but shout. You’re going to leave scars on his shoulder, surely, with how tight your hold is on him. You come with a startling gasp, waves of shock tingling from the tip of your head all the way down to your toes. You’re loud, so loud with it as Joaquin continues his brutal pace. 

“Shit!” Joaquin comes right after you, just as loud as you are as he fucks you through both of your orgasms. 

It leaves you delirious, the feeling so all-consuming that you practically see stars. You get addiction now, because here? Coming on his cock like this? God, you don’t think you’ll ever get enough. 

His shoots thick, warm ropes of cum into you, you can feel it. It fills you in a way that leaves you speechless, even more so in the way he continues at his quick pace. 

It’s almost too much, letting out a whine as you try to pull back. 

But Joaquin doesn’t let you. Instead, he grips your waist with both of his hands, pulling you back onto his cock as he fucks you through it. It’s good, too good. You moan and gasp as he fills you up, mercilessly thrusting into you.

After however long it takes for him to finish cumming, Joaquin finally begins to slow. 

The sound of him finally pulling out of you is filthy, and even though it was so overwhelming, you can’t help but frown when he’s out. God, you’re aching, but you wish that he was still inside you, filling you in a way only he can. 

Joaquin’s chest is heaving as he planks on top of you. He lets out another string of curses, as if he’s still feeling the aftermath, as his head finds its home in the crook of your neck. 

Gently, he places a kiss there, making you shudder. 

Rolling over so he was also on his back, Joaquin let out a loud breath, needing to fill his lungs with air.

In a condition not much different than him, you lay still there, catching your own breath. 

For a second, fear flashes through you, but then Joaquin’s hand finds yours. Without a word, he interlocks your fingers in his…and it grounds. 

And when he brings your interlaced fingers up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand in a way that can only be described as sweet, you know that there was truth to it: you forgive him. 

-

The sound of loud machinery and heavy grunting was the last thing you heard before the giant metal door swung open with a groaning creak. 

On the other side, you’re greeted with a heaving Sam and behind him, a timidly peaking in Bob. 

“Well, good morning, you two,” Sam greets, stepping into the room. “Glad to see you both alive and well twelve hours later. Not so bad, I assume?” 

You and Joaquin had already been awake, not that the two of you had gone to sleep in the first place, really. After everything, the two of you had sat and talked for what felt like hours about it all. Where you would go from here, what it would mean for the team—in the span of a few hours, you resolved what the two of you had avoided for weeks. Just two idiots, the both of you came to realize. After all, it was so simple. You love each other. What more was there to it? 

“Sure. You could say that,” Joaquin retorts as he lends you a helping hand, pulling you up. 

You only offer him a coy smile, Joaquin’s eyes sparkling at the inside joke the two of you were hiding. 

“Wait,” Bob speaks up quietly. “Is that…” he squints at you, head tilted inquisitively. “Are you wearing Joaquin’s jacket?” 

All you can do is cast Joaquin a knowing look, only for him to shrug at you in response. Too wrapped up in gazing at each other, neither of you can hear the loud groan that Sam lets out, nor do you see the bright blush that coats Bob’s face.