#topgun

But as the carrier drew closer and you saw the landed planes on the deck, the San Diego sun sent a warmth through you instead of a jab through your skull. The other families waiting all cheered as they spotted servicemen waving from the side of the ship and you let yourself wave back, unable to spot Bradley but knowing he was there. Knowing was enough.

You watched as the naval officers all walked past you and families were reunited with their loved ones. Then the aviators came out, dressed in their uniforms and obviously cleaned up from the mission. Bradley was at the start, sunglasses glistening in the sun and his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for you.

As soon as he spotted you, he broke from his group and started running, a huge smile breaking onto his face. You step out of the crowd as he reaches you, sweeping you into his arms and holding you to his chest, breathing in your scent.

“Roo!”

“Baby!” He shouted back at you and refused to let you go, squeezing you again.

You finally pull away, fussing as you run your hands through his hair, visually checking him for any injuries he didn’t tell you about. “You’re okay?”

“We’re all okay. Everyone got out.” He hesitated, like he was something he was afraid to say. “Look, there’s something I didn’t tell you.”

“What? What is it?”

“I- I may have had a little detour running after Mav but-“

“A detour going after Mav? Maverick? Bradley.” You hardly used his full name but the situation demanded it. “That Maverick? Maverick Maverick?”

Bradley was suddenly very interested in his shoes as he nervously glanced around, trying to spot the man you were asking about. “Yeah…” He finally spotted Mav staring back at him, mouth wide open as he recognised the woman he was stood with.

In Mav’s mind, thoughts were travelling a mile a minute as he watched Bradley run towards his daughter and greet you with a kiss. It was only then that he spotted the ring on your finger and remembered the chain Bradley wore always tucked beneath his shirt.

You see where Bradley’s looking and see your father’s eyes staring into yours, the same eyes you haven’t seen in person since you graduated college. “Dad…”

He made his way over, eyes wide as he was still processing your presence. “Y/N? You’re with Rooster?”

“Are you okay? Roo said he had to run after you-“ You stop yourself, realising you don’t actually know what happened. “What actually happened?”

“Uh…” Mav rubbed a hand on his neck nervously. “My plane went down and Rooster came after me. He really saved my ass.”

“Right after he saved mine. It’s what my dad would’ve done.”

Silence hangs between you all as you try to process what’s actually happening. You’re married to Rooster. Rooster has been flying with your father. Your father is standing in front of you for the first time since college. Your father is finding out you and Rooster are married.

“You-“ Mav sounds choked up as he speaks. “You’re married.” He’s speaking to you, begging to reach out but afraid you’ll push him away.

He wouldn’t blame you for pushing him away, he deserved it. Throughout you’re whole childhood, you had reluctantly been pushed second to flying and Mav could never forgive himself for that. There was no way to replace the time of had missed and it took you until college to realise what love and affection you’d been missing out on.

You and Bradley had grown up side by side, your Dad having to leave you with Carol more than he’d like. From a young age, you barely spent a day without seeing that boy and he was the only face you wanted to see in the morning.

Through your teenage years, you’d grown past the awkwardness and finally confessed the lifelong love you felt for him and your relationship was bliss. Then, your father ruined the one good thing you had. He pulled Bradley’s papers for the Naval Academy and overnight, everything crumbled. In an instant, your only constant in life was missing and your father could offer no reason behind his actions.

There was a rage bubbling in your chest every time you looked at the man that was supposed to raise you. Instead, he had been too busy with his work, chasing a ghost of a man who’s family still cared about him. He parcelled you off to the Bradshaw’s and then ripped that family from you when you were in the final formative years of your life. You loved your father, yes, he was a good man. But he was the worst father you had ever met because he wasn’t really one in the first place.

After cutting you off, unintentionally, from Bradley, you moved away from college and slowly cut contact with your father and made your own way in the world. But your mind would constantly remind you of the world you used to have.

Then you run into Bradley in a packed bar and started talking. You had begged for his forgiveness, cried about your father in a drunken state and confessed that you never wanted to lose him again. Brad had held you close to him, whispering into your hair the whole night as you realised what you now had in the world.

There was no need for you to cling on to the spectre of your father that you had because you had Bradley and the chance to make more friends and make your own family for the future. You cut your father off, showing him the same care and attention he had showed you and although the guilt wrecked you, you had to pick yourself up and move on, for your own sake. If you had stayed clinging on to childish hopes, you would never be able to grow up.

“Yeah… I got married. It was nice, small. We had a courthouse wedding a week after Roo graduated Top Gun.” You tell him, hoping he won’t take it too personally.

Bradley loops his arm around you, not taking his eyes from you. “I should’ve told you Mav. But then Y/N couldn’t make it out until right before we left and I thought we should’ve told you together. But then I didn’t;t end up telling either of you.”

“It’s alright. I get it, completely.” Mav quickly replied. “I’m glad you’re happy kid.”

Neither of you could figure out who the last sentence was aimed at. But that’s because it was meant for both of you. Only now Bradley was as much his son as you were his daughter.

Your eyes dropped to the dangling chain around his rearview mirror—an old St. Michael medallion. His good luck charm. He never deployed without it.

You swallowed. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong or just keep pretending everything’s fine?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s not that simple.”

You scoffed under your breath and looked back out the window.

It never is with you, Floyd.

⸻

The safe house was buried in sand and sagebrush, tucked between two small cliffs like it had been forgotten on purpose. The only visible structure was the rusted tin roof. Bob pulled the truck around the back, headlights cutting through dust clouds, engine humming low as he parked beside a half-collapsed fence.

You hopped down from the passenger side, boots crunching gravel. The sun was just starting to dip behind the mountains, casting an orange wash over the cracked landscape.

Bob killed the engine, grabbed his bag, and moved toward the door without a word.

Inside, it smelled like time. Dust, stale air, and something metallic. You cleared the entryway with practiced ease while Bob checked the back windows. Clean sweep. Empty rooms. One bedroom.

One bed.

You dropped your bag at the foot of the couch in the living room and looked up just as Bob reappeared in the doorway.

You tilted your head. “Don’t even say it.”

He raised a brow. “Say what?”

“You’re not sleeping on the damn couch.”

His shoulders tensed.

“It’s fine,” he said softly, already turning to unzip his duffel. “I’m used to it.”

You stepped toward him. “You do this every time.”

He didn’t look up. “You can take the bed.”

“Bob—”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

You stared at him. The weight of everything unsaid—the night in Berlin, the missions since, the hotel rooms, the almosts, the goodbyes—hung heavy in the air.

“You’re not doing me a favor by acting like I’m some teammate you barely know,” you said, voice low.

Bob’s hands stilled on the zipper.

“…I don’t barely know you.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

⸻

The bathroom had no mirror. Just a cloudy piece of glass bolted to the wall, too scratched to show anything clearly. You scrubbed the day off your face, ignoring the way your reflection blurred and bent around the lightbulb’s flicker.

The last time Bob kissed you, it was raining. You were soaked to the bone, laughing in a back alley in Berlin after barely escaping a tail. He pulled you under the awning, hand on your cheek, forehead pressed to yours before he whispered “I can’t not want you.”

Then the next morning, he’d zipped his jacket, saluted you, and walked out like nothing happened.

You hadn’t brought it up since. Neither had he.

You grabbed one of the rough, scratchy towels and dried your hair before slipping out into the hall. You’d changed into an old Navy shirt—his, from a few months back. The faded blue one you’d stolen after a night at your place.

When you entered the living room, Bob was crouched near the open floorboard, pulling out a lockbox. He was shirtless—back lit by the orange glow of the setting sun through the broken blinds. Dog tags swayed against his chest, catching a flash of light as he looked up at you.

He froze.

You didn’t move.

Then, voice sharp, he muttered, “I told you not to wear that around me.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head.

“Why?” you asked. “It’s not like we’re anything… right?”

He looked like you’d hit him. But he didn’t argue.

That hurt more than if he had.

⸻

You climbed into the bed alone. The mattress was stiff and smelled like dust, but it was warmer than the couch.

In the silence, you could hear him shifting in the other room. Hear the couch creak. Hear the sigh he let out when he thought you were asleep.

You stared at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest.

Then you heard it—soft, quiet, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud:

“…I still think about that night.”

You didn’t move.

“What night?” you whispered.

A pause.

“You know what night.”

You closed your eyes.

“Then why do you pretend like it didn’t matter?”

Silence.

Not even a breath.

Because it did.

And you both knew it.

———

The morning sun crawled in through the slats of the blinds, striping the room in gold and shadow. You sat on the edge of the bed, lacing your boots in silence, the tension from the night before still pulsing between your shoulders.

Bob was already up. You’d heard him moving around at dawn, heard the rustle of fabric, the grind of coffee beans, the soft creak of the floorboards under his slow steps. You hadn’t said a word when you passed each other in the hallway. Just brushed shoulders.

Like strangers.

Like you hadn’t slept with your face in his neck three missions ago.

Like he didn’t murmur your name like a prayer when he thought you were asleep.

You tightened the last lace and stood, grabbing the folded briefing papers from the dresser. Your cover identities were printed in block font: spouses, married five years, no children, honeymooned in Puerto Vallarta.

The photo IDs clipped to your files had been doctored: you in a white sundress, him in a loose shirt with sunglasses. Smiling. Fake.

You tossed his folder on the kitchen counter. “We’re due in twenty. Let’s not be late, sweetheart.”

He didn’t flinch at the sarcasm—but he didn’t smile, either.

Just grabbed his keys and headed for the truck.

⸻

The target meet was in the backroom of a sleepy café just outside town. Clean, civilian, low visibility. You and Bob sat in a booth near the window, your hands folded on the checkered tablecloth. He kept glancing at the door like it might grow teeth.

Across from you, the local intel contact hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.

She was watching you both. Hard.

Finally: “How long have you two been married?”

You forced a smile. “Five years next month.”

The woman nodded, unimpressed. “What’s his worst habit?”

Bob’s brow lifted slightly. You didn’t skip a beat.

“He leaves the bathroom door open and sings in the shower.”

The woman snorted. “What does she cook that you pretend to like?”

Bob gave a smooth little grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Her lasagna.”

You shot him a glare. “My lasagna’s great.”

He tilted his head, smirking slightly. “Sure, sweetheart.”

Your pulse stuttered.

He never called you that unless he was trying to get under your skin.

Or into it.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You fight a lot?”

You didn’t look at him when you answered. “Only when he sleeps on the couch.”

That one landed. He turned his head, just slightly, jaw flexing.

“…I like the couch,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said, still smiling at the contact. “He says that a lot.”

⸻

Back at the safe house, the air was heavy.

You peeled off your jacket and tossed it on the arm of the couch. Bob followed behind you, silent as ever. His boots thudded across the floor as he moved to the fridge, cracked open a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting.

You turned.

“So that’s how we’re playing this?”

He blinked. “Playing what?”

You walked toward him slowly, toe to toe. “You’ll flirt with me in front of her, call me sweetheart like it’s a game, but God forbid we talk about anything real.”

His jaw clenched.

“Y/n—”

“Don’t.”

He looked at you, eyes searching. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Your voice broke a little when you laughed. “From what? From feelings?”

He looked away.

You took a step closer.

“You kissed me. You touched me. You begged me to stay that night. And now we’re stuck in a house with one bed, pretending to be husband and wife, and you won’t even look at me.”

A long pause.

Then: “Because if I look at you too long, I’ll forget it’s supposed to be pretend.”

You stared at him. Words stuck in your throat. He looked like he hated every syllable coming out of his own mouth.

“I’ve never been good at keeping lines straight,” he said. “And I don’t want to cross one that’ll get you hurt.”

Your heart cracked in your chest.

“I already got hurt, Bob.”

He inhaled sharply.

Then, softer than you expected: “I know.”

⸻

That night, he didn’t sleep on the couch.

But he didn’t touch you either.

He laid in the bed beside you, facing the opposite wall, breathing like every inhale was a battle.

You reached over once. Just your pinky brushing his.

He didn’t pull away.

———

The day started simple.

You and Bob were split for surveillance—two locations, two earpieces, one mission. You were tailing the courier. He was tracking the handoff point.

“Comms on,” he’d said that morning, eyes flicking up from the mission file.

“Always,” you’d replied, bumping his knee under the table before slipping out the door.

That was five hours ago.

Now?

His voice was gone. Static. Silence.

You were pacing the alley behind the warehouse where he was supposed to check in. Your comm buzzed with white noise, your fingers clenched around the receiver.

“Bob, come in.”

Nothing.

“Bob, I swear to God, this isn’t funny.”

Still nothing.

Your heart was hammering now. Your stomach twisted. You’d seen movement on the security feed—someone rushed out the side door two minutes ago.

You didn’t know if it was him.

“Bob. Answer me.”

And then—finally—

“I’m here.”

You nearly collapsed.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Had to move locations. Comms dropped. I’m okay.”

You were already running. “Where are you?”

⸻

You found him two blocks down, sitting on the tailgate of the truck, one arm hanging low, blood trailing down to his wrist.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jesus, Bob—”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, wincing. “Just a scrape.”

You shoved his hand out of the way and peeled back his sleeve. Deep gash. Right through the forearm. Bleeding more than it should’ve been.

“This needs stitches,” you muttered, grabbing the med kit from the backseat.

He watched you quietly as you worked. Your hands were steady, but your breath wasn’t. Your cheeks were flushed, your lip trembling the longer you kept your head down.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You didn’t look up.

“You disappeared. I didn’t know if you were dead, or captured, or—”

Your throat caught.

“—I thought I lost you.”

Bob didn’t move for a second. Just stared at you.

Then he reached out with his good hand, cupping your chin, lifting your face until your eyes met his.

His voice was quiet. Steady.

“You’d never lose me.”

You swallowed hard. “You can’t promise that.”

“I’m promising it anyway.”

⸻

That night, you sat on the floor of the safe house, your knees against his as you cleaned the last of the blood off his arm. He hissed once, more out of frustration than pain.

Your fingers brushed his as you wrapped the bandage.

Neither of you moved.

“I hate how scared I get,” you admitted.

He leaned forward. “I hate how scared I make you.”

You looked up. “Then why do you keep pushing me away?”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

Then, eyes dark, voice low:

“Because I already love you. And if something happens to you—if you get hurt because of me—I won’t survive it.”

You blinked. Your breath caught. He hadn’t said that word before. Not once.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

You shook your head. “No—say it like you mean it.”

He leaned in.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you touched my dog tags and asked if I thought they made me hot.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat. You were crying. Of course you were.

You whispered, “They do, by the way.”

He kissed you.

Slow. Desperate. Honest.

And when you climbed into bed that night—he held you like he wasn’t letting go again.

———

The base looked exactly the same.

White walls. Fluorescent lights. Boots echoing off concrete.

But you felt different.

Walking down the corridor beside Bob—three feet apart, not touching, not looking—you felt like your skin didn’t fit right. Like your body rememberedhis hands. His mouth. His whispered I love you tucked between bruised ribs and stitched skin.

You’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep since the intel drop. He’d held you the whole time. Woke up before you. Kissed your temple. Then acted like none of it happened the second you both stepped out of the truck.

Now, you were back on base. And pretending again.

You hated pretending.

⸻

Debrief was held in Cyclone’s office. No windows. One file folder. Two chairs.

Bob sat perfectly straight beside you, hands in his lap. You sat the same, mirroring him—but your knees bounced. Not visibly. Just enough that your thigh kept brushing his every other second.

He never moved away.

Cyclone glanced between you like he was reading a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“You two spent ten days in the same safe house,” he said finally, looking up from the mission folder. “Any conflicts? Tensions? Anything I need to be aware of?”

You blinked. “No, sir. We operated smoothly.”

Bob added quickly, “Efficiently. No issues.”

Cyclone’s brow twitched. “Interesting. Considering the photos your contact submitted.”

He slid a file across the table.

Inside: six surveillance shots.

Four standard.

One at the alley.

One from the café.

One—

You felt your blood freeze.

It was a photo of you and Bob. At the truck. You were bandaging his arm. Your hand was on his jaw. His forehead was pressed to yours.

Way too close.

Way too tender.

Way too obvious.

Your breath caught. You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

Cyclone raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to ask you this once,” he said. “Is there anything going on between you two that could compromise the mission—or future assignments?”

You forced your voice not to crack.

“No, sir.”

Bob didn’t blink. “Negative, sir.”

Cyclone studied you both.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, he closed the file.

“I expect clean lines,” he said. “Dismissed.”

⸻

You didn’t speak again until you were outside, the wind catching your hair as the doors swung shut behind you.

You turned to Bob.

“That was close.”

His jaw was tight. “Too close.”

“I told you it was stupid to stay so long at the truck.”

“You kissed my forehead,” he muttered.

You stopped walking. “You told me to.”

“I didn’t know someone was watching.”

“You think I did?”

He stared at you. Breath short. Like he wanted to argue but didn’t know how.

Then you felt it—eyes on you.

You both turned.

Phoenix. Standing near the hangar, arms crossed, watching you like she was studying a slow explosion.

Next to her? Hangman.

Smirking.

Oh god.

He knew.

⸻

That night, you sat on your bunk trying to clear your head, but nothing helped. Not the afterburner hum from the runway. Not the too-bright ceiling lights. Not even the cold silence that settled over the base after 2200.

Your phone buzzed.

[Bob]

Kitchen. Now.

⸻

You found him alone, elbows on the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

You leaned against the opposite wall.

“You want to tell me what this is?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“This is me losing my mind.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pushed off the counter. Walked toward you.

“I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to follow the rules. Trying to protect your career and mine.”

“Bob—”

“But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He stepped closer.

“In the air, on the ground, in my truck, in the damn safe house—every second, it’s you. And I thought I could fake it. Thought I could pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding now.

“But I don’t want to pretend,” he said. “I don’t want to sit across from you in a mission brief and act like you’re not the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

“And if that means people find out—if that means they see—I don’t care anymore.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shook your head once. “You’re not serious.”

He reached for your hand. “I am.”

The kitchen door creaked.

You both turned fast—

Phoenix. Leaning against the doorframe. Raising an eyebrow. A slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“Took you two long enough.”

———

Word spreads faster than either of you expect.

You make it through two more morning drills before the first whisper hits the locker room.

“She came back from the mission and hasn’t looked at anyone but Floyd.”

“Floyd’s been different. Quieter.”

“Phoenix knows something. Look how she looks at them.”

And then, the blow that cracks the whole dam open:

Hangman.

He says it like a joke at first. Grinning. Loud. The absolute worst kind of smug.

You’re grabbing a protein bar from the break table, and he walks past Bob with a snort.

“Didn’t know safe house assignments came with turn-down service.”

You freeze. Bob stiffens.

Hangman turns around slow, like he’s so proud of himself. “What? I’m just saying—heard you and Echo were real cozy in the desert.”

Silence.

You look up and meet Bob’s eyes across the room.

The squad is watching. Everyone. Rooster. Coyote. Fanboy. Even Payback puts down his phone.

Bob sets his coffee down.

Real slow.

Walks right past Hangman—doesn’t shove him, doesn’t say a word—and stops in front of you.

His voice is calm. Steady. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I’m not gonna let someone else speak for me.”

You blink. “Bob—”

He takes your hand.

“Yeah. We were in the same safe house. And yeah—we shared a bed. Because we love each other.”

Gasps. Groans. One “holy shit.”

Hangman blinks. “Damn, man, I was just messing—”

“We’re not hiding anymore,” Bob says simply.

And just like that, it’s done.

The worst kept secret in Top Gun is officially out.

⸻

Cyclone calls you both in later that day.

He’s calmer than you expect. Eyes sharp. Hands steepled under his chin.

“You lied to my face,” he says.

Neither of you deny it.

He sighs. “This puts us in a difficult position.”

You nod. “We understand, sir.”

His eyes flick between you. “I can’t undo the mission. I can’t prove anything happened that compromised security. But this doesn’t look good. Not to Command. Not to anyone watching.”

Bob clears his throat. “Then reassign us. Temporarily. Separate missions. We’ll comply.”

You glance at him. That wasn’t part of the plan.

Cyclone studies you both.

Then finally—reluctantly—he nods.

“Two months. Separate deployments. No contact. If you want to keep your records clean and your careers intact—you’ll make it work.”

You both nod. You salute. You leave the room.

⸻

Outside, the sun is setting again. Another golden horizon. Another end to a day that stretched like rubber and snapped like wire.

You lean against the truck and cross your arms.

“So that’s it?” you ask. “We go our separate ways?”

Bob steps in front of you. Leans down. Kisses your forehead.

“No,” he says. “We go do what we need to do. And then we come back.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“And if I don’t come back?”

His jaw ticks. “You will.”

You stare up at him. “Say it again.”

He leans in closer.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Not in secret. Not just after hours. I love you when the sun’s up. When we’re at base. When we’re in front of the damn squad.”

Your chest tightens.

“And I’ll still love you in two months,” he says, “when you walk off that plane and I get to kiss you like I’ve been starving.”

You blink fast. “You always talk like that?”

He grins. “Only with you.”

⸻

That night, he drives you home in his truck.

You lean your head on the window. His fingers brush your knee.

The radio hums something soft and twangy.

At a red light, he looks over at you and says quietly:

“Thanks for not making me hide anymore.”

You reach over, lace your fingers with his.

“I never wanted to be a secret. I wanted to be yours.”

“You always were,” he whispers.

————

Two months.

That’s how long it’s been since you saw him.

Since you touched him.

Since he whispered “I love you” against your skin.

Sixty-two days of early mornings, coded reports, lonely barracks, and falling asleep with your hand clutching the side of your pillow like it was his chest.

You counted every one.

But today?

Today, it ends.

The cargo plane touches down just after 1800. The airstrip outside North Island is still hot, hazy from the sunset. You gather your gear slowly, heart hammering as you descend the ramp with the other returning officers.

You don’t expect a welcome committee. Not for low-priority transfers.

But when you step off the stairs and look up—

They’re all there.

Phoenix. Fanboy. Coyote. Payback. Rooster. Hangman (begrudgingly).

And at the very front of the line, in his perfectly pressed uniform and aviators pushed into his hair, is Bob Floyd.

You stop breathing for a second.

Because he’s smiling. That soft, slow, only-for-you smile. And in his hands?

A little navy blue box.

Your bag drops before you even realize it.

You run.

Boots pounding the pavement, heat curling up your spine, the sound of Phoenix shouting “GO GET HER, FLOYD!” echoing behind you.

Bob doesn’t move. Not until you slam into him—arms around his neck, your mouth already crashing into his.

He catches you like you weigh nothing. Lifts you clean off the ground. Kisses you back like he’s making up for lost time. Like there weren’t sixty-two nights of silence between this moment and the last one.

When he finally pulls back, he sets you down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Told you I’d be waiting.”

You laugh through a tear. “You’re late.”

He grins. “Had to pick something up.”

Then he drops to one knee.

Gasps behind you. Phoenix shoving Rooster. Hangman muttering “I’ll be damned.”

Bob looks up at you, cheeks pink, heart in his throat.

“I don’t want to love you in secret. Or only when the world’s not looking. I want to love you in daylight, in uniform, in every damn country they send us to.”

He opens the box. Simple gold band. Elegant. Soft sparkle.

“Will you marry me, darlin’?”

Your hand flies to your mouth.

Then slowly, you lower it.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Of course I will.”

The squad cheers. Fanboy actually wipes a tear. Rooster takes a photo. Hangman says “About damn time” under his breath.

Bob stands and slides the ring onto your finger.

You wrap your arms around him and whisper into his ear:

“We didn’t just survive the mission. We made it home.”

⸻

That night, you curl into the passenger seat of his Ford truck, fingers tracing the new ring on your hand while his slides along your thigh.

“You still like my shirt on you?” he asks.

You look over, smiling. “Still drives you crazy?”

He kisses your hand.

-

The moist, muggy air made your hair stick to your neck in the most annoying and overstimulating fashion, instantly regretting how lazily you put your hair up before leaving your home. Breathing in the heavy air with a light breeze once every few beats. You could taste the sea salt from the ocean behind you. Warm bar lines flickered and made the area even warmer. Looking up and seeing the all-famous “Hard Deck” sign above you.

You heard the rumble of laughter and voices muffled behind the wall of the building, checking your watch, okay, you were maybe a little late. You'll call it fashionably late, like your navy uniform was much to be called for “fashion”.

The sound of the old wooden deck groaned with each protest of steps, one coming up right behind you pretty quickly. And then you hear a familiar voice behind you speak your name.

“Who would have thought this reunion would happen here?” Bradley said, without a second, before pulling you into a tight hug. A nice, firm hand rubs your back before he pulls away with a reminiscent smile that you'd never be able to forget from college.

Your eyes scan his face, noticing all the changes from the last time you two had seen each other. Bradley wore his suave, cool-guy sunglasses, sandy curls, and smile. 

“The mustache is… a choice,” sheepishly you tell him.

“Nice, why don't you just call me butt-fuck ugly next time?” Bradley teases, shaking his head down at you. 

“That's not what I meant, I mean, you look like you need to be in an 80s porno with that caterpillar on your upper lip.” 

Bradlery snorts, sporting a more than smug look on his face. “Yeah, you wish you could see me in a porno.” 

Visibly, you cringe, face all scrunched at the mere thought of that. Smacking his chest before you turn to walk into the oh-so beloved bar. “That's just gross, Bradshaw.”

“It’s Rooster now!”

Bradley caught up to you, ready to make both of your grand entrances to see whoever got called back from the last half-decade of Top Gun graduates. Before the door swings open, the thought crashes in your mind, eyebrows furrowing before your gaze flickers over to Bradley, “Hey, how come I missed you at Top Gun? We should have been in the same class? Did you take a gap year or something?”

A sour look crosses his face. definitely a tough spot, but he could never be upset with you for just being concerned. You regret the decision to bring this up when you recognize the emotion on his face. 

“I don't wanna talk about it.” 

Nodding, you take that for what it is, for now, trying to shake the sudden mood. “You're here now with the elites, so who cares? Let's party.”

That's enough to bring a smile out of him before you two swing past the bar's entrance and stride inside. Already, you are both trying to recognise the other faces of the people sporting active uniforms. Before you can even clock the group camping around one of the pool tables, you hear the call of both of your call signs from another familiar pilot.

“Hey, guys.” You greet them all, making your way over to the group. Making sure to get a profile for all the people you know and don’t, and most importantly. “Phoenix! Oh my god, hey

Instantaneously, each of you goes for a warm hug. You hadn’t seen her since graduation, and the brief meetup you had after trying to keep up to promise to stay in touch. Looking to your side, you notice Bradley getting his reintroductions in to his classmates. 

“This is fanboy and coyote; they were a few years below us.” Phoenix introduced the pilots, “and you know payphone.”

“Yes, I remember you.” You smile fondly, looking around and only seeing the best pilots you could think of, anxiety growing inside your chest for whatever this mission is calling for. “And of course, hello Jake.”

“Hangman,” he corrects, wearing that flirty smile across his face. “Nice seeing you too.”

“Bagman.” Phoenix coughed, he shot her a glare, and she responded by looking lost. “Who said that?”

From behind you, a quiet voice calls out your name. Everyone’s eyes catch the boy sitting beside you, a familiar face with new glasses, nursing a cup of peanuts.

“Oh, right.” Phoenix starts, “This is Bob, no call sign, just Bob.” 

“I’m still thinking baby on board, oh, what about big old-“

Hangman’s voice is suddenly tuned out as you lock eyes with the blonde boy sitting in front of you, almost not believing your eyes, that couldn’t be him, right?

“Huh,” you smile under your breath, hoping no one would notice. Bob does, he tries not to think about it too much, getting insecure and dropping his head slightly. “Hey, Bob.”

You go to offer your hand, Bob's eyes flicker down before shaking it. As if you guys were meeting for the first time, then he smiles, and you couldn’t have been more sure. Yep, that’s him. Yet, not at all.

How could this be the same kid you only knew as you underclassman for so long? Bob had gone to your high school, he had briefly even tutored you, and actually was the one to strike your interest in piloting and the possibility of engineering in the future.

That Bob was a stark contrast from this one that sat before you. 

This Bob is… hot.

“Long time no see.” You look him up and down. You see Rooster to the side of you, noticing the less-than-quick glance over.

“You know him?” Phoenix asks you.

“Yes, we went to high school together.” You respond, yet your gaze hadn’t shifted. It still held Bob's figure; you watch him grow more nervous under your eyes. “Bob was a year younger than I, but we ran in some of the same circles.”

You were still in disbelief. Bob used to be, and in the nicest way possible, a twig with thick black nerdy glasses. Now he’s filled out, eyes glance to his muscular arms and full thighs, spread out. Damn. Somehow, it got even warmer in this bar than before.

“Well, I’m glad we are all caught up. Now it’s time I show Bradshaw here how to execute the best dead stroke his eyes will ever witness.” Hangman interrupts your thoughts, playing with the pool stick in his hands and sending a cheering wink towards you. It’s good to know at least he hasn’t changed at all.

“Is that how the girls remember you by?” Rooster quips back, earning a good round of laughs from the other pilots. 

All while Bob plagues your mind, still trying to process his new look, at least that’s what you’ll call it. Your brain is doing callbacks from the year you briefly hung out, half expecting Bob to go to some of the many high-level universities he got accepted into, never guessing he would make it out for the Navy.

Bob notices your glance as he tries to focus on the game of pool, already not making an awesome impression. Considering every time he caught the feeling of you watching him, to see your eyes trained all over him. He fucked up a shot, gaining nothing but teases from the rest of the guys.

Giving up the game of pool, Bob breaks off from the group to the bar to grab another drink.

There goes that saying, Curiosity kills the cat. It’s how you ended up striding your way to him mindlessly, trying to get alone time to catch up. 

“Hey, stranger.” You slightly startle him as he turns to face you, that same nervous smile painting his face from before. 

Bob had always been cute; the whole nerdy persona used to go well for him. Of course, Bob had changed quite a lot physically. He still had the same charm from high school, and you could pick out that smile and kind eyes from a lineup of a thousand men.

“Hey,” he looks you down, “how’s it been?”

“Real good, didn’t ever think I’d see you here.” You comment, “This seat taken?”

You point to the empty barstool beside him. Quickly, Bob shakes his head and even scoots over in his chair to give you more room, and then turns his body to face you. “By you, perhaps?” Your heart swells a tiny bit at the small gesture, taking your seat. 

“I didn’t think so either, but the Navy called. It’s a good segue to other things later on.”

“Truth to that,” you laugh, “it’s still crazy to see you here, part of the elites, huh?”

You ask for another bar from the women working the bar gorgeously. Bob responds shyly, “Don’t flatter me, I’m just a SWO.”

“Still takes guts and brains to get here, though.” You gaze at his icy blues. You keep the stare for one too many beats.

The bartender clanks both your and Bob's beer on the counter, breaking whatever trance you both had for a moment. She strikes you with a look and a wink as you thank her for the drinks.

“I expect nothing less from you,” Bob says, trying his best to keep eye contact. “Always the best at everything you do.”

You laugh, Bob brings the bottle to his mouth, and you shamefully watch as his lips connect with the top to take a drink. Involuntarily, you lick your dry lips before you speak, “maybe not in this case, but I try. It’s taken me far enough in life.”

“Yeah?” Bob's curiosity also possesses him, nervously he asks, “You still uh, with that assh- that guy from senior year?”

Your face scrunches up instantly, “No, and thank god.”

“Oh.” Bob relaxes slightly, hopeful as ever, seeing that opening far in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

“Please, Bob.” You reassure him, “It was a while ago, found out he was cheating like 3 years after school. It was fine, though, I’m all moved on.”

You flash a smile, and he returns it. By all means, Bob could have warned you about that. Remembering the way that asshole would have his grimy arms around you in the halls while catching glances at the other cheerleaders. So cliche.  “I’m glad to hear that- uh, I mean not that you've been cheated on!”

Bob stumbled over his words, scrambling to make it sound correct. Shit. Your head cocked to the left, biting back a smile. “I mean, that you are okay and uh, moved on and all that. Not being cheated on, on doing well-“

“Thank you, Bob.” You cut off his rambling; it’s truly a relief that much hasn’t changed besides his appearance.

Which, by the way, keeps getting better somehow. After a few games of pool, his hair has gotten messed up a little. The moisture in the air was messing up however he had styled it, the familiar curls starting to form on his forehead. His face decorated with a tint of pink from the alcohol and warmth, the colorful lights decorating the bar only made you notice how sharp his features had gotten over the year. The lights highlight his strong jaw and nose that grew better to suit his face.

Thank god for puberty.

“You know, anyone’s a fool to cheat on someone as beautiful as you.” Bob shoots the statement out like a secret to confess, “I hope you know that.”

“Again, thank you.” The air between the two of you had shifted slightly, and the slight tension had gotten heavier. You swear you saw Bob’s eyes flicker down your face, maybe it was the lighting. But you knew you felt yourself trying to get closer to him.

“Anytime.” Bob's voice drips with that accent from your hometown; it brings a steady warmth to your chest and stomach. 

“You know you're not too bad yourself, Floyd.” You shook back.

Bob's head falls slightly, trying to find the grin and flushed pink on his face. “No, no, not me.”

Your head ducks in suit with his, trying to search for his eyes. Bob catches that glance and holds sit steady, “yes, yes, you.”

Bob's face scrunches up, doubting your word, but he can't seem to shake that contagious smile from his face. You keep talking, “I've always thought you were cute.”

“Thought?” Bob teases.

“Well,” you held your beer in hand, swirling it around. Looking Bob up and down, biting the grin back. Your head tilts to the side, taking a sip before you say, “You’re definitely a lot more than just cute, Robert Floyd.”

The full name caught in his chest, making his stomach feel light and his breath heavy, “You haven't changed, you've always been gorgeous.”

Your eyes flutter, half not expecting such a blunt statement, Such an in-your-face flirt from Bob. He'd always been shy and awkward in school. When you were a junior and he was a sophomore, the summer in between the two school years. You remember you were both at the same party at the same time, in different circles. It was shameful to admit that you ran with a more conceded crowd than Bob did. The entire party, you were desperately trying to get the attention of a boy who didn't deserve it. Bob was aware of you the entire night. Trying to gain some sort of courage to talk to you outside of a school setting. 

When that same boy left you heartbroken and your inconsiderate friends left you abandoned, thanks to the lovely idea of carpooling. Bob showed up like a savior dressed in blue jeans and some movie t-shirt you'd never heard of, always sporting those stupid glasses. 

Bob drove you home, asking about work just to fill the space. You were just happy to have someone. You had convinced yourself Bob was going to kiss you that night, but Bob was only trying to muster up the energy to even flirt with you. He never did, and it ended there.

One month later, Bob saw you with those same friends and that same boy, yet you still stole glances from him that day.

Bob held your gaze all through those memories, almost like he knew what was going on in your head. You gulped, “Bob, why didn't you ever ask me out in high school?”

He laughed, “because Tyler got to you first.’

You cringe at even the mention of your ex's name, “If it weren't for him?”

“You intimidated me,” he confessed.

“What about now?”

A tight-lipped smile graces his lips, “you know the answer to that.’

“No,” you lean in close, “tell me.

“I thought about it since the night I brought you home from Cecilia's pool party, always regretted it,” Bob whispers, a bad idea among the growingly larger crowd at The Hard Deck, but you still understood him clearly as the day. 

Your eyes flickered to his lips, “I'll give you one free do-over,” Bob leans in closer, you could feel his breath on you, “ if you promise to take me home now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You didn't believe in fate, or miracles, or being lucky. Things had always worked out for the better or the worse through action, through hard work, or unfortunate choices. Things were never meant to be, when the boy who you mistakenly took as your “meant to be” broke your heart; you knew then it wall all just a cause and effect at the end of the day. You were naive and childish back then, Bob was insecure and too kind for his own damn good. These facts still stand today, but now you were in a rented pickup, with a much older Bob next to you, driving you back to your temporary home for the Top Gun team trials.

Looking over, you still saw every aspect of the boy who drove you home that summer night. He still looked nervous as hell with the kindest eyes, but you were both older now. 

Bob pulled the car to a full stop, parking the vehicle in an almost empty lot, all of the pilots being rounded up at the Hard Deck for their much-anticipated welcome back. Once again, you felt like you were in high school, secretly hoping that Bob would just make a move.

You guys were much older now, because then he did. Bob's lips gently found you’re, he leaned across the center console of the trunk and placed a hand on the back of your head to bring you into him. He was so sweet, the way his lips tasted and the way he held you. 

As Bob brought open your car door, chest rising up and down, out of breath from your kiss and the excitement brewing in his stomach. To finally have you.

Maybe this was fate, maybe this was a miracle, you thought to yourself as you made your way into the bare boned apartment. Grasping at Bob's uniform, practically begging him to get close to you. To touch you more.

It had been so many years, and you somehow missed Bob at Top Gun the first time. Now, after being called back, it was like no time had passed, barely being caught up on each other's lives, and Bob's soft hands were already cradling your face as he kissed you deeply. So maybe it was fate that you were here with him. 

“Bob,” you whispered in between kisses. He pulled away quickly, eyes frantically searching you for any sign of wanting to stop. Bob could barely believe he was even here with you, getting to do the thing he had thought out for so long in high school. 

“Yes?”

“Please.”