Bradley felt ridiculous. He was supposed to be on his way home—ten minutes ago. 

Instead, he’s ducking behind his Ford Bronco in the supermarket parking lot–drowning in his own sweat from the sweltering afternoon heat, as he eavesdrops on an exchange between two strangers. Bradley imagined that by now, he would’ve been kicking back in his armchair–with a fan blowing in his face and a spoonful of ice cream hanging out his mouth–if only his curiosity didn't get the best of him. 

Maybe this was a sign to stop spending all his free time with Hangman and Coyote. The duo is starting to rub off on him in the worst way possible–Bradley could’ve swore he wasn’t this nosy prior to hanging out with them.

“Look buddy,” you sigh, shifting the paper bags into one arm. “Actually–hold this real quick,” you carelessly demand the stranger–with pursed lips, thrusting your bags of groceries into his chest.

The man stumbles back, groaning at your peculiar strength. Yet you pay him no mind, pulling your aviators up into your hair–already facing your car again. 

Bradley laughs under his breath, watching you use the man as a mule–popping open your trunk, unbothered by the fact that he’s still trying to regain his balance. If he was going to plant himself next to you, why not make use of him? 

When Bradley first came walking out with a tub of rocky road in hand–he didn’t look twice at the scene, strolling right past you two with a clear objective in mind–get home–put on a movie–and rip open the frozen treat, that he’ll pay the price for later. 

But, that was until his ears tuned into the man’s pathetic efforts towards getting your phone number–stopping Bradley right in his tracks. This would make a good topic of conversation for the locker rooms tomorrow. 

You flap your fingers into your palm–still not looking at the man, signaling him to pass your stuff back with the off-handed gesture. 

Bradley smirks behind the hood of his truck, catching sight of the guy’s twitching eye–not believing the way you’re easily commanding him.

The curious pilot wonders how often you had to deal with sleazebags like him—because you’re doing a hell of a job at kicking him down.

Seeing that he’s taking too long to pass back tonight’s dinner ingredients–you start to casually pluck each bag out of his hands, transferring it into your trunk, unconcerned by his offense. 

“So, can I get your number now?” He asks tightly, annoyance leaking into his voice. 

You pause at the question, taking the time to scan the man up and down with raised brows. “If you’re hitting on someone wearing essentially the same outfit as you,” your voice is sweet, despite the harsh punchline you’re beginning to deliver. “Maybe it’s time for some deep reflection,” your lips stretch into a sarcastic smile, causing the man to fully display his irritation with you. 

Technically you weren’t wrong—you both had on a identical white tank top and shorts.

“I’m all for self love,” you raise your hands up in defense. “Maybe, you should try looking in the mirror next time you–” you shamelessly look down at his crotch. “..take care of yourself– it might be eye opening for you.” His mouth parts at the way the explicit suggestion leaves your mouth. 

It takes all of Bradley’s self control to stifle his laughter, not wanting to give himself away from where he’s crouched. 

“You’re fucking weird—holy shit. I’m done,” he scoffs, harshly throwing the last bag into your trunk. 

You feign ignorance, watching him walk backwards–distancing himself from you. “Don’t want my number anymore?” you ask with a pout, pulling out your phone–waving it in the air.

“Fuck No. You’re crazy,” he huffs, jaw stretching in disbelief. 

Your face completely falls–and horror is written all over the man’s face as your flat expression is slowly replaced with a menacing smile.

Just to watch him flinch, you lift your arm–pretending to chuck the device at him. 

The guy immediately breaks into a sprint, startled by your warning–causing Bradley to finally break into laughter. 

Realizing he broke his silence—Bradley stills, putting a pause to his amusement—hoping you didn’t hear him.

“You think he’s ever gonna talk to another woman again?” you ask–back turned to the new stranger, knowing the cute guy you clocked from earlier was currently tucked behind his truck.

Bradley sheepishly smiles, awkwardly standing up at your question—you knew he was there the whole time. “Nope–you got him real good. How does it feel knowing you’re keeping the ladies of the town safe?” he asks amusingly, stuffing a sweaty hand into the front pocket of his shorts. 

In one swift movement, you shut your trunk and turn to face him–sweeping Bradley right off his feet once you make eye contact with him.

You start to laugh at his joke, bringing a hand over your mouth—shyly covering your smile.

Holy shit. No wonder that guy was on your case about getting your number–you’re stunning. 

Bradley realizes he barely put an ounce of his attention onto your face this whole time, too distracted by the way you were tearing down the previous guy. He swallows, not sure if he can keep his composure now that you’re looking right at him. You’re probably the prettiest girl Bradley has ever encountered in his life. It makes him sweat harder at the thought.

“Feels good actually,” you nod, pleased with yourself. “Oh–hey nice shorts,” you call out, pointing a finger at his pants.

Bradley blinks at you, not able to get a single word out. 

“Where’d you get those bad boys?” You follow up with another smile. 

Bradley forces himself to snap out of it, looking down at his Levis and then back up at you. You have on the same pair of shorts as him. 

They’re slung loose on your hips and stretch down to your knees. The frayed hems just slightly sway at the rare summer breeze passing through the parking lot.

He lets out a breath–that he wasn’t even aware that he was holding in the first place, before finally answering you. “Oh–they’re from a thrift shop down by the main road.” 

“You gotta take me there then–maybe we can find another pair of matching shorts?” You offer, heart thumping at your own bravery.

“Sure can,” he nods, kicking the gravel under his feet nervously. “Promise not to throw that phone at me if I come over and ask for your number?” He jokes, hoping he didn’t look too ridiculous from how hard he’s smiling to himself.

“Not unless you share some of that ice cream with me, pretty stranger,” you wave him over, pulling down your sunglasses. “Hey, mind teaching me how you grew that stache? Been trying to get me one of those things,” you tease, brushing two fingers over your upper lip.

Bradley lightly laughs, walking around the front of his truck. “You’ll look like my dad if you do,” he replies, stopping right in front of you. Bradley braces himself, waiting for the gut-wrenching feeling to quickly brush through his heart at the mention of his father, but to his surprise—it never comes. 

“I like your dad already,” you softly answer, handing your phone over to him.

He would definitely like you too, Bradley thinks.

thank you for reading, and as always-reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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