#miles teller

“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!” 

Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad. 

“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones. 

“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.” 

“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey. 

You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit. 

“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.” 

“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.” 

“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.” 

You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.” 

“But I’m wearing you down, right?” 

You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.” 

“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.” 

There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go. 

Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist. 

You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering. 

When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame. 

You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?” 

He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.” 

“That so?” 

He nods. 

You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?” 

His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.” 

You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head. 

Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could. 

It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one. 

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.” 

Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?” 

“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug. 

Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him. 

The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason. 

You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad? 

“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?” 

He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?” 

You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do. 

He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared. 

“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.” 

“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.” 

He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.” 

“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door. 

You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name. 

Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower. 

Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock— 

“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.” 

You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker. 

“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?” 

She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?” 

- 

Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it. 

Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block. 

You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs. 

You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn. 

You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.” 

He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water. 

He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?” 

You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush. 

“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?” 

He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.” 

You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.” 

His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?” 

Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself? 

The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name. 

You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard. 

The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas. 

The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house. 

You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on. 

“You alright?” 

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.” 

He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.” 

“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?” 

He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.” 

Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes. 

Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house. 

There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck. 

It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday. 

“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.” 

“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back. 

“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says. 

“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word. 

You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh. 

“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.” 

Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul. 

“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.” 

You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?” 

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.” 

Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.” 

“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?” 

Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.” 

Jake’s eyes go wide. 

“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening. 

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.” 

Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?” 

Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.” 

Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck. 

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing. 

“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?” 

“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing. 

Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.” 

You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley. 

You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.” 

Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?” 

You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said. 

You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink. 

Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk. 

“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?” 

You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think. 

“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask. 

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.” 

Bradley tips his head. “Fair.” 

He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms. 

Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive. 

“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?” 

Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.” 

You nod. “That’s true.” 

“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?” 

You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.” 

He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat. 

“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder. 

“Yes, please,” she replies. 

You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid. 

You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?” 

His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?” 

He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.” 

You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours. 

“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?” 

You choke on absolutely nothing. 

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it. 

“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?” 

He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently. 

You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?” 

His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods. 

“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.” 

His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue. 

Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head. 

The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done. 

Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture. 

You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost. 

You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash. 

“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?” 

There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table. 

“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak. 

Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.” 

Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?” 

Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?” 

“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage. 

“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.” 

Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink. 

Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?” 

You nod. 

He smirks. “Got a date?” 

You nearly drop your fork. “A date?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?” 

You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.” 

“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate. 

Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches. 

You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better. 

“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.” 

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation. 

Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you. 

Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought. 

You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him. 

You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused. 

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary. 

You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing. 

Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away. 

After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-” 

“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate. 

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.” 

His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show. 

After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?” 

“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.” 

He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.” 

You arch a brow but keep quiet. 

“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard. 

“Would you prefer I blame you?” 

“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?” 

“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?” 

He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.” 

Jake gasps. “For free?” 

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.” 

“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin. 

“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.” 

Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-” 

“Make me two,” Jake cuts in. 

“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.” 

Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?” 

You roll your eyes. Duh. 

“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.” 

“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly. 

“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.” 

Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?” 

Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.” 

You frown. “What? How would that help?” 

“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.” 

Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?” 

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.” 

“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.” 

Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love. 

“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.” 

Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.” 

“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.” 

He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?” 

You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-” 

“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?” 

Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.” 

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?” 

You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.” 

He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out. 

Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all. 

Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.” 

Neither you nor Maverick respond. 

Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.” 

Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind. 

You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat. 

Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment. 

The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler. 

Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this. 

You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car. 

You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars. 

“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?” 

You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful. 

He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?” 

You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.” 

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place. 

The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been. 

“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?” 

The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts. 

“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.” 

He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is. 

With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light. 

“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road. 

You shake your head. “No, you’re just…” 

He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?” 

“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen. 

You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy. 

Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do. 

It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you. 

How the fuck did he move that fast? 

“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close. 

“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.” 

You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit. 

You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.” 

He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you. 

“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud. 

“You know what it means.” 

You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name. 

“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—” 

Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static. 

“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady. 

Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell. 

You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away. 

His gaze drops to your mouth. 

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips. 

Is this it? 

But then—he stops. 

His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath. 

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.” 

The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them. 

And just like that, the moment shatters. 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut. 

Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning. 

Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops. 

You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart. 

- 

You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open. 

“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open. 

You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.” 

He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?” 

“I don’t grovel.” 

He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?” 

You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry. 

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips. 

Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?” 

“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.” 

He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?” 

You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?” 

“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.” 

His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?” 

“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast. 

He just arches a brow and waits. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.” 

Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.” 

You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.” 

“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?” 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.” 

“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.” 

You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head. 

“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.” 

You tip your head, brow furrowed. 

Jake sighs. “You.” 

“Oh.” 

He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer. 

“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says. 

Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?” 

His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.” 

“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering. 

He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.” 

“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.” 

Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?” 

You shake your head. “No.” 

“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.” 

You pull back slightly, grimacing. 

“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.” 

You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope. 

“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?” 

- 

Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical. 

You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far. 

Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background. 

Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him. 

That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question. 

Still, the seed had been planted. 

On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat. 

Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly. 

So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top. 

You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene. 

The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over. 

You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun. 

And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident. 

He’d taken the bait. 

“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning. 

You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice. 

Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long. 

Now? You get to pull the strings. 

You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit. 

Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time. 

Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned. 

You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley. 

“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.” 

He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.” 

When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror. 

Except Bradley. 

He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing. 

Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-” 

“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.” 

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension. 

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?” 

The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks. 

Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer. 

Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else. 

By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool. 

“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell. 

You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-” 

“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you. 

It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours. 

“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.” 

You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle. 

He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time. 

“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.” 

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig. 

Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.” 

You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.” 

Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?” 

You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?” 

You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.” 

“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.” 

“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.” 

His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation. 

You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight. 

Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed. 

Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie. 

Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips. 

You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and— 

The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot. 

“Shit,” you mutter. 

You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe. 

You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground. 

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.” 

You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.” 

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?” 

“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.” 

“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel. 

“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.” 

She frowns. 

“Get Hangman.” 

Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?” 

You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.” 

She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck. 

A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil. 

“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. 

You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.” 

He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.” 

He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.” 

With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms. 

When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting. 

Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms. 

“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.” 

She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later. 

You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand. 

“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake. 

“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.” 

Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist. 

“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?” 

You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.” 

Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting. 

“Jake?” he echoes. 

“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.” 

Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line. 

His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.” 

Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides. 

He doesn’t even glance back. 

Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out. 

- 

One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone. 

“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.” 

“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.” 

You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.” 

“And what if you accidentally drown?” 

You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.” 

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.” 

You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?” 

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.” 

Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine. 

“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.” 

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.” 

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.” 

“So what if there is?” 

The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-” 

“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.” 

There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.” 

“Good.” 

“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?” 

“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?” 

She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?” 

“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.” 

There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches. 

“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides. 

“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.” 

“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.” 

“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.” 

“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk. 

She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up. 

You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic. 

Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good. 

You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you. 

The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded. 

You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect. 

The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach. 

You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then— 

“Hello?” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater. 

“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through. 

You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags. 

“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?” 

“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door. 

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?” 

You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help. 

“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?” 

You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding. 

“You want me... to come in there?” 

You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.” 

“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain. 

Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free. 

And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale. 

It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying. 

He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad. 

“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.” 

He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.” 

He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained. 

You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline. 

“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.” 

He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room. 

“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh. 

His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer. 

“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.” 

Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen. 

He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself. 

“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you. 

“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. 

He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears. 

You don’t dare turn around. 

Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second. 

You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together. 

And then he touches you. 

His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely. 

Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus. 

Your eyes flutter shut. 

His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch. 

You feel exposed. 

And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide. 

He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest. 

“Bradley…” you whisper. 

You don’t even know what you’re about to say. 

But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?” 

Your whole body tenses. 

You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things. 

Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?” 

He hesitates. 

“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.” 

You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder. 

“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous. 

And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.” 

Bradley goes still. 

You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged. 

He doesn’t speak. 

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move. 

Come on, Bradshaw. 

“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.” 

The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs. 

Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you. 

But no. 

Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to. 

The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say. 

You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz. 

He doesn’t speak. 

And neither do you. 

But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene. 

Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck. 

It’s methodical. Careful. 

But it still feels like worship. 

And he still hasn’t said a word. 

When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.” 

You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing. 

He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip. 

And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread. 

“You good?” he asks, voice tight. 

You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.” 

He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—” 

He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.” 

And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it. 

When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers. 

You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’ 

- 

“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-” 

You shake your head. 

“Not so much as a-” 

“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.” 

“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-” 

“He’s not a priest, Hangman.” 

He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.” 

You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee. 

“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.” 

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.” 

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?” 

You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?” 

“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.” 

You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself. 

When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week. 

That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home. 

The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him. 

Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot. 

Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.” 

Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.” 

“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.” 

You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.” 

The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin. 

Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps. 

Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…” 

Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell. 

And then there’s Bradley. 

He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch. 

His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic. 

You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo. 

Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare. 

“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.” 

Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.” 

She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips. 

“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth. 

You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.” 

“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.” 

Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room. 

“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.” 

You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.” 

He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.” 

Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows. 

Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all. 

You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore. 

This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work. 

So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen. 

How does any of this make sense? 

“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne. 

You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth. 

“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.” 

“I don’t blame him,” you mutter. 

“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.” 

You frown. “What’s it?” 

His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.” 

“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone. 

You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning. 

After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here. 

Almost. 

Until— 

“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?” 

You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar. 

“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face. 

“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?” 

Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?” 

“Too late.” 

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.” 

Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-” 

“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.” 

Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry. 

No. They look hurt. 

“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady. 

Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?” 

“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.” 

Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.” 

Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall. 

Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.” 

Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack. 

“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal. 

Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.” 

Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears. 

“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.” 

“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-” 

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-” 

“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.” 

Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-” 

“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?” 

Your voice cracks—just a little. 

“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.” 

You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put. 

You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’ 

Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak. 

Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days. 

By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers. 

The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks. 

At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much. 

You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously. 

You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door. 

You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling. 

You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door. 

You open it—and there he is. 

Bradley. 

His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear. 

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.” 

You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them. 

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.” 

Your throat tightens. 

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.” 

He takes a shaky breath and steps closer. 

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.  

“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.” 

He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?” 

You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.” 

His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?” 

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.” 

His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?” 

You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.” 

“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling. 

You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.” 

You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux. 

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.” 

You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave. 

His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. 

You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies. 

And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens. 

“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late. 

He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever. 

You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.” 

You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?” 

His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.” 

You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.” 

He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.” 

A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly. 

His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on. 

You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.” 

He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.” 

“You’re not wrong,” you hum. 

With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric. 

Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for. 

His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.” 

You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands. 

He doesn’t hesitate. 

His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated. 

And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well. 

Over. And over. And over again. 

“Mmm.” You groan back, still half asleep. 

Bradley leans down to press a kiss to your bare shoulder. Another on your neck. Another behind your ear. He feels you shift around a little.

“M’gonna make breakfast.” His lips pressed against your ear. 

“Not yet.” You finally turn in his hold and take a possessive claim of him by wrapping your arms around him. He settles in a little more, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. He looks around your room while soaking it in for a few more minutes. He listens to you fall in and out of sleep with uneven breaths. 

You have books piled high on your dresser, a receipt tucked in between the pages as a bookmark. One of his sweatshirts you’ve borrowed and never returned is tossed on the chair with obvious frequent wears. There’s a couple plants that lean closer to the window. He’s sure once you're actually awake you’ll claim it’s untidy and it’s a mess you meant to clean before he got back, but to him it’s divine. He’s never spent so much time in someone’s place that felt so clearly like home. 

He knows it’s a privilege to be here. To be in your room. To be in this small piece of heaven. 

“You know,” He starts, waiting for you to pick up your head to show that you are in fact awake, “I think this is my favorite place.” 

“Really?” You grin, “My bedroom?”

He smirks, looking down at you.

“Your bedroom.” He confirms, “Your sheets. Your pillows. You.” 

You laugh and Bradley soaks it in. He would say anything to get a laugh from you. “I’m glad I made the list.” You slide your hand against his bare chest. You use it to pull yourself up closer until your noses almost brush. It feels intoxicating to be so close. You both have been craving this for weeks. Months.

“Twelve weeks felt like forever.” He confesses. 

“I’m glad it wasn’t just me counting down the minutes.” 

He shakes head, taking advantage of the short distance to press a slow kiss to your lips. 

“I finally feel like I’m home.” 

A small piece of heaven.

Two weeks before Bradley’s deployment…

“Wanna fly out to Virginia with me this weekend? I’ve got some storage stuff to go through… and I wanna show you my parents place.” 

Bradley’s question was completely out of the blue. So much so that you almost dropped your morning coffee over the question. He blurted it and immediately turned back to face the stove.

“You want me to meet Virginia-Bradley?” You tease, setting down your crossword and the drink you nearly spilled.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I really do.” He admits, setting down his spatula and facing you again. 

You get up from the stool you were sitting on at the counter and make your way around to him. You're just wearing his shirt and a pair of panties, he slides his hand under the bottom of the hem to rest on your ass.

“If you want me there, I’m there.” You place a hand on his chest.

"I want you to come."

That’s how you ended up on a last minute flight out East to Bradley’s hometown. You had heard stories and seen pictures but in the months you’ve been dating you had never been out. Bradley said he doesn’t go back that often, just to check on the house and get things out of storage when needed. 

Natasha had confessed to you months ago that he’s never brought a girl back to his parents house. This was in fact a big deal. 

They rented a car and drove it to the small town that he called home. He pulled in the driveway and pulled out a set of keys with a familiar ease. It was easy to forget that he didn’t live here full time. He just had his parents' old house and whatever base living arrangement he had been assigned. He hasn't been one to have much of a landing pad.

“Brace yourself, it’s pretty much the same as when my mom was still around.” 

He swings open the front door and you’re met with a clean house that looks picture perfect the same as you're sure it looked nearly twenty years ago. 

In the hallway, Bradley’s school pictures line the wall. 

“Oh my god.” Your hand flies to cover your mouth in awe of the young version of him, “Look at baby Brad!”

“Oh this is just the beginning. My mom was a hoarder.” He shakes his head, but his smile is still proud. 

He was not wrong. Scrapbooks. Boxes of pictures that they sort through. Little league trophies. Model airplanes. 

“I think we have enough to get a good Bradshaw museum started.” You hold up a picture of him with a saxophone, posing with the middle school band. 

“Put it away.” He pushes your hands away and you fight back a snort. 

Together, you go through more, eventually finding his parents' wedding scrapbook that brings tears to your eyes. 

“They look so happy.” You sigh, fingers tracing the edge of the page.

“They were. Happiest people alive.” He sighs, studying the image. He knows their story was cut short, but it was a hell of a good one. His mom made sure he knew that. 

You go through a few more boxes, setting aside some things to mail back and take with them. 

“You’re the first person I’ve ever brought back here.” He looks over your shoulder as you flip through a stack of loose pictures. 

“What does that mean?”

He knows that you’re aware. Nat has always had loose lips with the girls in his life that she actually likes. You? He knows the two of you are thick as thieves. 

“It means you matter, and that this is the closest I can do to bring you home and meet the parents.” He scratches the back of his neck, unsure of himself. 

“Hey,” You set down the stack to place a hand on each side of his face, turning his full attention to you. “I’m really glad you asked me to come. There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”

They continued to go through things. Check on the house and make sure everything is still in good shape. He brings you into town and shows you a couple spots. The place he used to play baseball. The old makeout spot where he got his first hickey. The lake his Grandpa would take him fishing at. 

The weekend goes by fast but it’s nice, you get to play house for the weekend somewhere much bigger than your apartment. Bradley rakes up the fall leaves that are starting to crunch while you wash the dishes from last night's dinner in the sink. It feels like a whole other life over here. A different kind of heaven. 

Present day.

They lazily stayed in bed for nearly another hour before Bradley’s stomach growled too loudly to ignore. He quickly hopped out of bed to get started on breakfast, you promise to be close behind, just needing to get dressed. 

Bradley chuckles seeing his tool box lined up against the wall by your front door. He did tell you that you could borrow them because you had claimed you needed to hang some things and who actually has a level? He does. He told you to please use your key and break in so when he came back after deployment he wouldn’t be staring at a crooked wall. 

He takes a step closer to admire your handiwork, he’s not surprised to find it looks great. He also wants to see what pictures you picked. Pictures of your travels, sunlit oceans, your friends, a few pictures of him have managed to make their way all the wall which warms his heart. One from when you were first getting to know each other, at the Hard Deck. Another that’s more recent, you kissing his check and he’s blushing like he was caught doing something naughty. He keeps scanning to recognize the faces, his heart fully stalling when he lands on one. He stops. His parents. 

A simple frame. Goose with his iconic and massive grin that is contagious. Carole is half laughing and half trying to wrangle him into behaving for the picture. They look young, happy, and so full of life. 

It’s one of his favorite pictures of them. It was clear to see how in love they were. 

“Bradley?” You notice his still build taking in the wall in front of him. You know exactly what picture caught his eye.

He clears his throat, but his voice still cracks when he finally speaks, “Where… Where did you get this one?” 

You hesitate, taking a step closer to look at the wall by his side. His eyes unwilling to leave his parents. 

“When we were in Virginia I had some of those boxes to be sent out sent here to my place. It didn’t feel right to just have them sit in base storage while you were gonna be gone.” 

His breathing stills. 

“I just thought… it felt right. Like they should be here with you when you came home.” 

Home. 

He turns to face her, eyes glassy, chest tight with both an ache and warmth building. 

“You hung them on your wall.” His voice a whisper, "You made space for them in your home.” 

You bite your lip, “Is it too much?” 

He cups your cheek with a callused thumb brushing across your cheek. 

“Nobody’s ever done something like this for me. Nobody’s ever loved the parts of me that hurt.” 

You lean into his touch, eyes starting to shine with his. 

“I love all of you,” You whisper, “Even the parts you think you have to protect.” 

That undoes him. Bradley swallows, he’s sure his voice would betray him if he tried to respond right this instance. He just holds out a hand for you to turn and both look at the picture of the young couple on the wall. 

“I wish they knew you.” Bradley’s voice, softer than you’ve ever heard. 

“I know.” You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder, “I feel like I did by knowing you. I have no doubt you wouldn’t be half as charming as you are if they weren’t so amazing.” 

He chuckles, wiping a stray tear from the top of his cheek before it has the time to slide further down. 

Before the uranium mission he hadn’t had a home base. He bounced all over the states wherever they needed him to be. The last year and a half have been the longest he has been anywhere since joining the Navy. He spent the first year living on base, and the last few months at Mav’s house. He’s been looking to get his own place, but he was hoping it would actually be your place too. 

Bradley thinks for the third time that morning. 

This must be what heaven feels like. 

“C’mon.” You pull on his arm after hearing his stomach yet again, “Let me feed you.” 

“Anything is better than what the Navy’s been reheating the last few weeks.” 

“Exactly. You need real food.” 

You shuffle into the kitchen with bare feet. You move around each other with the ease of people who have done this a hundred times together. You’re pulling eggs from the fridge, Bradley places one hand on your hip from behind and uses the other to take the eggs. 

“I thought I was cooking.”

He doesn’t answer with his words, he simply presses his lips against yours. It lasts a little longer than he intends, but your hands find his hair and it’s way too delicious to end sooner than he has to. You eventually pull away with a laugh. 

Bradley steps around you to start cracking eggs into a bowl and begin whisking them. You make your way to the living room and turn on the old radio that sits on your bookshelf. A go to whenever the apartment was feeling a little quiet. Or on mornings like these when you are both slow to get out of bed. 

You get started on making coffee while he stares at the eggs in the pan like they hold all the answers. 

It’s too soon. Way too soon. You have only been dating for a few months. It hasn’t even been a year yet. You are both still finding new things you love about each other. 

But.  If you asked him to marry you tomorrow, he would say yes before you could even finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to rush. He doesn’t want to pressure you at all, but he wants to be ready. 

Which is why when you were both back in Virginia he got something else out of storage. Something he was too afraid to risk mailing and had to tuck away rolled up in his socks in his carry on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

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

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

“I can’t let you-”

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

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Welcome home.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, right.” She grinned. 

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

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

As a rule, you avoided it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t get one past Penny.”

You turned toward him. “That so?”

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

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

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

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

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

He clinks your glasses together, “Touche.” 

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

“I’m Bradley.” He offers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re usually right.”

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

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

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

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

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

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

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

“I think we’re getting kicked out.”

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

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

“Goodnight, Penny.” You wave goodbye. 

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

“Stay out of trouble, you two.” 

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

You smile. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

A low whistle escapes him. “No way.”

You glance back. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m guessing that’s yours?”

He turns, following your gaze.

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

“That obvious?”

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

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

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

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

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

You answer by closing the distance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s your bedroom?” He pants. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’gonna cum.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s not much to remember after that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded, falling into step behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, hey.”

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

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

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

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

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Bradley.”

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

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

By Monday morning, it already felt like another life.

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

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

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

“You sure about this, old man?” 

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

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

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

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

That immediately drew a few curious glances around the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick only smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She jerked the jet up, “What?” 

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

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

“Hi, everyone.” You chuckled. 

Every head snapped downward.

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

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

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

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

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

You immediately lit the burners.

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

“Tone, tone, tone.”

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

Bradley groaned loudly enough for everyone to hear.

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

“That, everyone… is Shadow.”

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

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

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

“Hell of an entrance, Y/n.”

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

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

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

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

A few quiet laughs moved through the group.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They can’t keep up-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just that good, sweetheart.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked with exaggerated innocence. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he asked, laughing again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

”I agreed, Shadow.”

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

“Goodbye, Rooster.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t know that-“ 

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

”We made it to the target.” 

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

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

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

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

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

”In F-18s?”

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

”Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You son of a bitch-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, Bradshaw.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fraternization code of conduct states-“ 

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

He was quiet, waiting for an explanation. 

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

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

“Your turn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I figured.”

“I hate that he got to you.”

You turn in confusion, “Hm?” 

He sighed, still watching the water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You heard me.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole.” 

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

You nod quietly, but let him continue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

“Bradley, Bradley, put me down!-“ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swung it open harshly, “W-what?”

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

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

“Bradley?”

“I can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed, burrowing yourself into him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He raises a brow. “Do what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got yours.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another alarm screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Payback speaks, “He’s gone, Rooster.”

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

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

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

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

“Dagger, Comanche, bandits thirty east.”

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

Please don’t leave me too. Please. 

His shoulders barely moved as he took one slow breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t look back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shadow-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did he do that?”

No one answered immediately.

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

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

You squeezed her hand harder, willing the tears away. 

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

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

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

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

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

You sit up, almost immediately 

“What?” 

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

“You’re joking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room erupted around you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kiss was anything but gentle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you said-“ 

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

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

“Bradley. I’d love to be yours.”