Careful what you wish for!

Now, at North Island, you made it your mission to fix that mistake. Every flight, every mission sim, every stat—they were yours to dominate. You made sure Rooster would always be just behind you, chasing your contrail like a dog with clipped wings. He might’ve had his moment at Top Gun, but that was history. You were the now.

You were Raven. Unmatched, unshaken, unforgiving in the air. You flew like the night—silent, fast, deadly. He was a rooster. Loud. Proud. Predictable.

But he was also the only one who ever kept up.

And maybe that’s why you hated him most of all.

The briefing room buzzed with chatter, boots scuffing polished floors, flight suits half-zipped and lazy with heat. Then your name was called. Raven. Clear, sharp, no hesitation. You rose, indifferent. A few heads turned—Payback raised a brow, Halo smirked. And then—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bradley muttered under his breath.

You didn’t even look at him. Just smiled, slow and mean, like a blade being unsheathed.

“Miss me, sunshine?” you asked, sauntering past him, your shoulder nearly brushing his. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact, but you could feel his glare burning between your shoulder blades like heat from an afterburner.

He followed you out of the room, jaw clenched, strides long enough to keep pace. The second you rounded the corner into the hall, his voice snapped like tension wire.

“Don’t act like this is a surprise,” he said, tone sharp. “They always bring in the second-best to make the top guy look better.”

You stopped in your tracks, slow and deliberate, then turned on your heel. “Funny,” you said, crossing your arms. “I didn’t realize they needed dead weight to make a mission more impressive.”

Bradley scoffed, stepping closer. “You’ve always had that mouth on you. Maybe if you spent half as much time refining your maneuvers as you do sharpening your insults, you’d actually stay on top.”

Meanwhile, you tilted your head and smiled like it was your favorite game. “Maybe if you didn’t fly like a billboard for daddy issues, you’d stop ending up right behind me.”

He laughed, cold and humorless. “Right. That’s why I was first at Top Gun. Remind me again what that felt like, Raven. Oh wait—you wouldn’t know.”

For a moment, the hallway pulsed with silence. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. You simply leaned in a fraction and said, voice low and lethal, “One time. You got me once. The rest? I’ve owned you. And you know it.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was always this thing with him—this righteous anger, this fury that you existed as proof that he wasn’t untouchable. That someone younger, sharper, hungrier had clawed her way to the same sky he thought belonged to him.

Then, just to twist the knife, you added, “Besides, we both know why you were held back. Daddy’s friend clipped your wings for a reason.”

His face darkened instantly. You saw it happen—like cloud cover swallowing sunlight. For a second, you wondered if he’d say something that couldn’t be unsaid. But instead, he smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You can keep circling me all you want, Raven,” he said, “but just like every other bird in the sky, you’ll always be in my rearview.”

You leaned back, slow and measured. “Rearview’s a funny word coming from someone who keeps eating my dust.”

Before he could answer, a voice crackled through the overhead comms, summoning you both to the hangar. You turned without waiting for him, boots striking the floor like a countdown. The mission hadn’t even started yet, but the war?

It never ended.

The hangar doors yawned open as you stepped into the sun-bleached space, the scent of jet fuel thick in the air. Mechanics moved like ghosts in the distance, but the tension followed you like a storm. Rooster trailed just a few paces behind, boots heavy, presence louder than it needed to be. You could feel him watching your back, and it made your jaw clench.

“So what’s the play, Raven?” he called, his voice echoing too loud in the hangar. “You gonna try and pull rank again? Talk your way into lead position like you always do?”

You stopped and spun to face him, expression flat but eyes flashing. “I don’t talk my way into shit, Bradshaw. I earn it. Every time. Just because you think walking around with your chest puffed out counts as qualification doesn’t mean the rest of us are buying it.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You really believe your own bullshit, huh? That little fantasy where you’re better than me?”

“I don’t believe it,” you snapped, taking a step closer. “I know it.”

Bradley shook his head, scoffing as he looked away, hands on his hips like he needed somewhere to put all that arrogance. “God, you’re exhausting. Everything’s always a fucking competition with you.”

“Because it is,” you shot back, refusing to give ground. “Because every time I’ve had to prove myself, it’s been with you breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been coming for me since day one.”

“Because you needed to be taken down a peg!”

His head tilted back, laugh harsh, almost wild. “Right, and you’re the one to do it? Just because you flew cleaner in college? Congrats, you were good at theory and simulations. Try doing it with real pressure.”

“I have, Bradshaw,” you said through clenched teeth. “I’ve done the same shit you’ve done, sometimes better, with less time, less backup, and half the fucking grace you were handed. But I guess it’s easier for you to pretend I’m just riding some lucky streak than admit I might actually be better.”

“Better?” he repeated, scoffing. “You’re a pain in the ass with an attitude problem. You think that makes you elite?”

Meanwhile, your blood boiled, fists clenching at your sides. “You think your fucking legacy makes you better than me? You think Maverick grounding you was the worst thing that ever happened to you? Grow the hell up.”

That one hit—his expression flickered, just for a second. Then he stepped into your space, chest brushing yours, heat rolling off him in waves. His voice dropped, quieter but sharper. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

You didn’t flinch. “I know you’ve been chasing my tail for the last year and pretending it’s the other way around.”

He let out a slow exhale, biting down on the inside of his cheek before replying. “You really are a piece of work.”

“And you really are full of shit,” you said coolly, before turning back toward your jet. “Now get the hell out of my way before I make you look bad. Again.”

You didn’t look back as you walked, but you could feel him seething behind you—burning alive in the wake of your calm. It wasn’t over. It never was.

By the time you reached the rest of the squad, the hangar had started to hum with pre-flight motion. Cyclone’s voice echoed faintly from the tower, and jets glinted under the California sun like loaded promises.

Maverick stood by the briefing screen, arms crossed, aviators on, wearing that smug little expression that made people nervous for reasons they didn’t understand. You’d known him long enough to know he saw everything—especially tension.

Phoenix spotted you first, nudging Bob, who followed her line of sight and visibly tensed when Rooster appeared just a few steps behind you. You didn’t need to see him to feel it—his heat, his scowl, the way his energy invaded whatever space you claimed. It was always like that. He never learned how to stay in his own lane.

Maverick raised an eyebrow behind his shades. “Raven. Rooster. Something I should know about?”

You smiled without warmth. “No, sir. Just friendly conversation.”

Rooster made a noise under his breath. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The others exchanged glances. Payback leaned over to Coyote, muttering something with a grin. Fanboy just mouthed yikes behind his coffee cup. Even Phoenix, unbothered as ever, gave you a look that said, Again?

Maverick didn’t react—at least, not outwardly. He gave you both a slow once-over, like he was mentally calculating how much damage this would cause in the air. “Glad to see the team’s spirit is alive and well,” he said dryly, then gestured toward the screen. “Briefing starts now. Save the pissing contest for after wheels-up.”

You and Bradley moved to opposite ends of the lineup like magnets flipped the wrong way. You didn’t speak, but the air between you practically crackled. Meanwhile, Maverick clicked through the tactical overview, the tone of his voice calm, efficient, utterly detached.

You tried to focus on the mission—two-man formation drills, low-altitude flyby over rough terrain, testing out a new maneuver pattern—but you could feel Rooster’s eyes burning holes into the side of your skull.

Then Maverick added, almost casually, “And for this run, Raven’s in lead. Rooster, you’re her wing.”

You turned your head just enough to see Rooster stiffen like someone had just punched him in the ribs. Phoenix let out a soft, almost-silent “oh shit.”

Rooster didn’t say anything. Not at first. But when Maverick moved on to the next slide, he muttered, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick looked up. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

Rooster’s jaw was tight. “No, sir.”

You didn’t gloat. Not outwardly. But your smile curled at the edges as you reached for your helmet. “Try to keep up, Rooster,” you said lightly. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

He met your gaze for half a second. No smile. Just pure defiance.

“I don’t follow birds that don’t know where they’re going,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, just enough for only him to hear. “Good thing I always fly straight,” you said, voice cool. “Unlike you.”

Phoenix cleared her throat loudly, dragging both your attentions back to the room. Maverick sighed and looked at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every life choice that brought him to this moment.

“Get suited,” he said. “You’ve got thirty minutes. If one of you ends up on the deck, I swear I’ll ground you both.”

You turned on your heel and headed for the lockers, pulse already spiking. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The sky over North Island was clear, cloudless, unforgiving. Your F/A-18 roared as it sliced through the open blue, a beast of steel and fire. The mission was textbook—paired formation runs through low-altitude terrain, staying tight through simulated enemy radar zones. Easy. If it weren’t for the jackass flying just behind your six.

“Raven, your spacing’s off,” Rooster’s voice came through the comms, smooth and sharp like the edge of a scalpel. “You banking left on purpose or just showing off again?”

You rolled your eyes behind the visor and adjusted slightly. “I’d rather show off than fly like a damn drunk pelican. Tighten your spread, Rooster. You’re lagging.”

“Instructor’s notes say I fly clean,” he shot back, heat in his tone. “Can’t help it if you’re allergic to standard formation.”

Meanwhile, Phoenix’s voice cut in, low and dry. “Jesus. You two even breathe without arguing?”

Up ahead, Payback and Fanboy were leading the other two jets in the diamond formation, keeping it tight, professional. Phoenix and Bob flew to your right flank. Coyote and Hangman trailed just behind. Everyone could hear everything, and everyone was listening.

“Copy that, Phoenix,” Bob chimed in, soft and painfully neutral. “We’re all just trying to maintain situational awareness... and peace.”

You smirked, then dipped slightly under a thermal draft, riding the shift like it was part of the plan. “Peace is overrated.”

Rooster cursed under his breath, but it still crackled through. “This is why no one likes flying with you.”

“Correction,” you replied smoothly, flipping a switch with practiced ease as the canyon loomed ahead. “No one likes flying behind me. Because it’s hard to keep up.”

He came in tighter behind you, clearly ignoring Maverick’s earlier warning. His jet loomed just under your tail, too close for protocol. You felt it, a breath behind you. He was pushing. Testing. Typical.

“You keep flying that cocky,” he said, “and you’re gonna eat dirt when your ego clips a ridge.”

You grinned, fingers steady on the throttle. “And you keep flying that close, Rooster, and we’ll be making out mid-air.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone kissed your ass,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you wanted to,” you fired back, before switching channels to direct comms with command. “Raven to tower. Approaching waypoint delta. Beginning canyon descent.”

“Copy that, Raven,” came the response. “Maintain current heading and spacing.”

“See that, Goldilocks?” you said, flicking a glance down at your HUD. “Command likes what they see.”

Rooster exhaled a sharp breath. “You always gotta have the last word?”

You banked into the descent, steady and surgical, skimming the canyon’s edge with textbook precision. “Only when I’m right.”

Above, Hangman crackled in. “This banter’s fun and all, but maybe save it for the locker room, lovebirds?”

You and Rooster answered at the same time.

“Shut up, Bagman.”

Hangman laughed. “Damn. Synchronized now. Should we be worried?”

But you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because Rooster had just slipped too close again—his wing tip flirting with danger.

“Rooster,” you snapped, jaw tight, “back the fuck off. This isn’t a measuring contest.”

He didn’t answer. Just flew tighter. Closer. Like he needed to prove something, even if it got one of you grounded—or worse.

Meanwhile, your heartbeat was steady, trained. But somewhere under that cool surface, your blood ran hot. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him, or kill him straight through the cockpit glass.

The canyon narrowed, rock walls rising like jagged fangs on either side. Your jet sliced through the gut of it with surgical grace, the throttles singing under your palms. You kept your altitude steady—ten feet off the deck, your usual. You’d flown this exact run a dozen times. Hell, you could probably do it blindfolded. But what you couldn’t account for was the hot-blooded maniac on your six.

“Rooster, tighten up your line, not your ego,” you said, eyes flicking from the HUD to the terrain ahead. “You’re drifting into my slipstream.”

“I’ve got you,” he replied, voice clipped. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you muttered, adjusting pitch. “You're the one treating this like a dick-measuring contest.”

Then it happened.

A gust slammed down between the walls of the canyon—stronger than forecasted, bouncing turbulence off the stone like a ricochet. You adjusted instantly, compensating with a small bank right. Textbook correction. Nothing unusual.

Except Rooster didn’t bank.

He tried to stay locked on your six, tried to match your move before committing to it. And that half-second of hesitation? That goddamn stubborn pride? It nearly killed you both.

His jet suddenly surged forward, nose rising fast—way too close.

“Rooster, break off!” you barked, voice sharp through the comms.

But it was too late.

You caught the shift in your peripheral as his wingtip skimmed under your tail. A hair’s breadth more and he would’ve ripped off your stabilizer and sent you tumbling into the rock wall. Your entire jet jolted from the force of his jetwash, alarms screaming in your cockpit like banshees.

“Raven’s bird just caught turbulence—she’s banking hard!” Payback’s voice cracked through the channel, panic loud under the surface.

Your heart shot into your throat as your jet dipped, the nose dropping below safety altitude. A rock outcropping loomed ahead, coming up fast.

You reacted without thinking.

“Raven, pull up!” Bob shouted.

“Shit—I know!” you growled back, already wrenching the stick toward you, throttles screaming as your engines strained under the forced climb. G-forces slammed into your chest like a freight train. Vision blurred. You gritted your teeth and pulled.

The jet screamed upward just in time, skimming the ridge by a whisper. Dust and grit splattered across your canopy as your bird barely cleared the stone.

“Holy shit,” Coyote breathed. “She cleared it by, like, five feet—maybe.”

“Raven, report,” Maverick’s voice cut in, all steel and control.

You panted into the comms, throat dry. “Bird’s stable. Nose got pulled. I’m recovering.”

Meanwhile, your hands shook on the controls, but you held them firm. You’d trained for turbulence. You’d trained for emergency pull-ups. What you hadn’t trained for was flying with someone who’d rather risk a mid-air collision than admit he was tailing too close.

“Rooster, what the hell was that?” Phoenix snapped, tone biting.

“She dipped early,” Rooster argued, but his voice lacked conviction now—he’d seen it, felt it too. He knew.

“Bullshit,” Hangman cut in, sharp. “That was your nose in her business. You clipped her wash and threw off her bird. That could’ve been a fucking fireball.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the sky felt quieter.

Maverick’s voice came in next, low and tight. “Both of you—return to base. Now. Rest of you continue the run. Rooster, you’re grounded until further notice. Raven, if your jet checks out, I want you back in the air tomorrow. We’ll debrief when you land.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You were too busy breathing like you’d just sprinted through hell. Then, finally, you keyed your mic.

“Copy that, Tower. Raven returning to base.”

You didn’t wait for Rooster’s response. You pulled out of the canyon, climbed until the sky opened up above you again, and pointed your jet back toward the tarmac.

Your chest was still tight. Not from the Gs. From the rage.

And somewhere in your peripheral radar, Bradley Bradshaw followed behind—silent, for once. For now.

The moment your boots hit the tarmac, the squad was on you like flies to a flame. Phoenix was first, jogging over with her helmet still under her arm, eyes wide and sharp. Bob followed close behind, saying your callsign like it was a prayer. Hangman whistled low, muttering something about how you’d threaded a needle no one else could’ve even seen. Payback gave you a once-over like he wasn’t convinced you were whole. They were circling you, their voices overlapping—questions, jokes, concern wrapped in sarcasm—but you barely registered the words.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. Your voice cut through the noise like a knife, slicing off their momentum. “Back off.”

Phoenix raised her hands and took a step back. “Alright, alright, damn.”

Jake, surprisingly, didn’t say a word. He just fell in beside you, not smirking, not preening. His usual charm was stripped away, replaced with something quieter. Steadier. He kept pace with you all the way into the building, only speaking once the others peeled off toward the locker rooms.

“You scared the shit outta me, Raven,” he said, not teasing—just honest.

You didn’t answer. Your jaw was clenched so tight it felt like your teeth would crack.

The debriefing room was cold with recycled air and tension. You took your usual seat in the front row, closest to the screen. Jake sat beside you without asking, elbows on knees, unusually still. The rest of the team filed in slowly, murmurs low and clipped. Every eye flicked toward the door, waiting for Rooster. He wasn’t there. Not yet. Of course not. Coward.

Then, finally, the door opened.

Maverick stepped in first, posture stiff with restrained disappointment. Behind him came Bradley Bradshaw, helmet tucked under his arm, face unreadable except for the tightness in his jaw and the guilt he couldn’t quite mask.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at Maverick. Then the team. Then, finally, at you. His eyes dragged across your face and landed on the bruised pride you wore like armor. And when he rolled his eyes?

You nearly launched across the table and throttled him.

“Sit down,” Maverick ordered, voice cold. Rooster obeyed with a grunt, slumping into the chair across from you and Jake. The tension in the room turned solid. Jake shifted slightly, as if to anchor you, but still didn’t speak. That silence of his said more than a monologue.

Maverick didn’t waste time.

“What happened today was unacceptable. Every single one of you should know better. Formation flying isn’t a suggestion—it’s doctrine. But what I saw out there?” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “Was ego flying your birds, not discipline.”

He turned his gaze directly to you and Rooster, pinning both of you under the weight of his scrutiny. “You two should know better than anyone. You’ve flown long enough. You’ve trained longer than most of the people in this room. And that kind of reckless behavior could’ve gotten someone killed.”

“Oh, what, so now it’s both our faults?” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice metal. Jake’s head tilted slightly toward you, but he didn’t interrupt.

Maverick’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Rooster. “I’m not here to take sides—”

“No?” you snapped. “Because it kinda sounds like you are. Maybe it’s easier for you to scold me and keep coddling your golden boy.”

Across from you, Rooster let out a harsh breath. “Here we fucking go.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You almost killed me today, Bradshaw.”

“It was turbulence!” he barked.

“It was your damn pride!” you shouted back, finally turning to face him fully. “You pushed too close, flew too tight, ignored protocol—and for what? To prove that you can ride my ass in the air too?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped, standing suddenly.

You stood too. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see my bird drop because of you. You nearly sent me into a goddamn mountain!”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice boomed over both of you, but you weren’t finished. Not even close.

“Oh, what, am I not supposed to yell?” you threw back, arms wide. “Am I supposed to keep my mouth shut while your precious godson puts me in a body bag?”

“He didn’t mean to—”

“Intent doesn’t mean shit when I’m a split-second from crashing,” you bit out.

Rooster’s voice cracked, rough around the edges now. “You think I wanted that to happen?”

“No,” you hissed, leaning over the table, “I think you didn’t care enough not to.”

“You think I didn’t care?” Rooster snapped, his voice pitching just enough to crack under the fury he was barely keeping leashed. “You think I was just joyriding behind you for the hell of it?”

You leaned across the table, heat boiling up your throat, too fast to stop. “You weren’t flying like someone who gives a shit, Bradshaw! You were flying like someone who wanted to prove a point more than he wanted to finish the fucking mission!”

Phoenix stood up, eyes flicking between you both. “Okay, both of you, just—take a second.”

“I don’t need a second,” you barked, shrugging off her voice like static. “I need him to own what he did instead of throwing out excuses like a goddamn child.”

Rooster stood again, pushing the chair back with a screech against the floor. “Excuse me for not rolling over and letting you win like everyone else does. But we all know you love being the only one with teeth.”

“And we all know you love being Maverick’s little shadow,” you spat, unable to stop. “Flying with that name stitched to your chest like it’s supposed to mean something. Like it makes you fucking untouchable.”

“Hey!” Maverick barked from the head of the room, finally standing too. “Watch it.”

You whipped toward him, all the restraint you had left crumbling like ash. “No. You watch it. Because every time he screws up, you’re right there ready to sweep it under the rug like it’s not your own guilt bleeding all over the rest of us.”

“Raven, enough—” Jake said, voice low, hand starting to reach for your arm, but you weren’t hearing anyone anymore.

“Is that what this is, Rooster?” you sneered, turning back to him. “Trying to earn back the ghost of a man who’s never coming back?”

His face changed instantly—color draining, jaw tightening, fists curling so tight his knuckles went white. The silence was deafening. You saw it. You felt it. The moment your words sliced through something far deeper than ego.

“Don’t you dare—” he started, but his voice broke.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You almost killed me just to hear someone say your name louder than his. You want the legacy so bad, you’re choking on it.”

Rooster’s chair flew back as he stood so fast it clattered to the floor. “Shut the fuck up!”

You stepped forward, fists curled, ready. “Or what, you gonna finish what you started and crash me into a wall on foot this time?”

“Bradshaw, stand down!” Maverick shouted, cutting across the room, but Rooster didn’t budge. His chest was heaving, eyes wild, like he was one second from lunging.

Jake was already on you, stepping in, grabbing your arms, pulling you back hard. “Hey—hey! Raven, stand down. You’ve said enough—”

“Let go of me!” you snarled, trying to wrench out of his grip.

“Not happening,” Jake bit out, arms locked around you like a vise. “You are not throwing hands in a damn debrief.”

Meanwhile, Payback and Coyote had moved toward Rooster, corralling him back toward his chair. He was seething, hands trembling, lips pressed into a line so tight it looked like it hurt to keep them shut. But his eyes never left yours. They burned with something worse than rage.

Betrayal.

“You crossed the fucking line,” Rooster said hoarsely, voice shaking.

You glared right back. “Then draw a new one. One where you don’t almost kill me, maybe.”

Maverick slammed his hand on the desk, making everyone flinch. “That’s enough! Both of you—outside. Now. Separate hangars. I don’t care. I don’t want to see either of your faces until you’ve cooled the hell down.”

But your eyes were still locked with Rooster’s. Your pulse was still thunder. Your lungs were still catching fire.

This wasn’t over.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

“Fuck you, Bradshaw. I hope the next time you wanna prove something, you crash into a fucking mirror instead of me.”

And then you were gone—out of the debriefing room, the door slamming behind you with enough force to rattle the hinges. Your boots struck the hallway floor with clipped, sharp steps, each one a punch against the storm still raging in your chest. You didn’t care if they were watching. You didn’t care if Maverick shouted after you. You didn’t care if Rooster burned in that seat until the damn sun exploded.

Somewhere behind you, you heard another pair of footsteps—slower, steadier. Jake.

You didn’t turn around.

“Raven,” he called, voice quieter now, less Hangman and more Jake. “Just—wait.”

You stopped, just outside the locker room, shoulders rising and falling like your body was still inside that cockpit, still gripping the stick, still moments from being scattered across canyon walls. Then you said, without turning around, “Back off, Jake. I swear to God.”

There was a pause. Then silence. He listened. You heard his steps fade away.

You pushed the locker room door open with your shoulder and stepped inside like you were walking into a war zone. No one else was there yet. Good. You didn’t want witnesses.

Then, without hesitation, you slammed your helmet down on the bench, popped open your locker, and hurled your gloves inside with a force that knocked your flight logs to the floor. Your hands were trembling. Not in fear—no, never in fear—but in that tight, brittle way adrenaline bites into your nerves after it’s done keeping you alive. Like your body didn’t know what to do with the leftover electricity.

You leaned forward, bracing both hands on the edge of the open locker door, breathing hard. The metal was cold beneath your fingers. Grounding. Anchoring. It helped. Barely.

Meanwhile, your brain was spinning like your jet had never landed. The flash of canyon walls, the shriek of alarms, the sudden loss of lift—the drop. It had been seconds. Maybe less. But you remembered the exact shape of that ridge. The color of the stone. The moment your bird’s nose dipped and you felt gravity claw at your ribs like it wanted to drag your bones into the dirt. You remembered the way your breath had caught in your throat—not fear, not exactly. Just... reality. The sharp, clear realization that you were seconds from dying. Again.

Because you knew what that felt like. Too well. Once was enough, but it had never just been once. You had survived things people didn’t walk away from. Your body carried it in the twitch of your fingers, in the steel in your spine, in the way you never flinched when the world tilted on its axis.

But this? This one had been close.

You stared into the dark metal of your locker like it might give you answers. Then you blinked. Once. Twice. No tears fell. You wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not for him. Your throat was tight, your chest burning—but you kept your eyes dry, kept your face hard, and forced the storm to stay where it belonged: behind your teeth.

No one would see you break. Especially not him.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, forehead nearly touching the inside of your locker, chest still heaving like you’d run a goddamn marathon with your ribcage on fire. Your gloves were on the floor. Your gear was half-stripped. Your thoughts were a mess of sharp edges you couldn’t dull.

The door creaked open again, and for a second, your body tensed, bracing for Rooster—maybe another round, maybe more yelling, maybe just the final straw that would push you into swinging.

But it wasn’t him.

“Hey,” came the soft voice. Bob.

You didn’t look at him, just let your eyes close for half a second. Then you muttered, “If you’re here to play mediator, don’t.”

“I’m not,” he said simply, like truth was the easiest thing in the world. “I just... wanted to check.”

You sighed, finally turning your head toward him. He looked like he didn’t want to take up space. Like he was trying to shrink himself smaller than usual—which was saying something. In his hands were a water bottle and a small protein bar. Classic Bob move.

You blinked at the offering. “What is this? A bribe to keep me from committing murder?”

“Maybe,” he said, gently stepping forward and placing the items on the bench beside you. “Though if you do murder him, I’ll deny I helped you hydrate first.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your nose—something half a laugh, half a bitter huff. “God, Bob. I want to kill him. I want to break his nose. Then shove him into an afterburner and salute his crispy ass.”

Bob gave a small shrug. “I mean, I wouldn’t stop you, but we’d definitely lose flight privileges.”

That time, the laugh came easier. Small, tired, but real. You sank down onto the bench and grabbed the water, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers you hoped he didn’t notice. He didn’t mention it. He just sat beside you, close but not crowding, presence warm and grounding like a campfire on a cold night.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you took a small bite of the bar, swallowed hard, and said lowly, “He almost killed me, Bob. Like—not just ‘oh no, I might’ve lost the lead’—like dead. Stone-cold, splattered-on-a-rock, body-bag kind of dead.”

Bob nodded slowly, like he understood without needing to say much. “I know.”

“And he just rolled his eyes in the debrief,” you went on, voice rising slightly. “Like I was being dramatic. Like my life is a fucking inconvenience to his ego.”

Bob didn’t respond right away. Then, carefully, he shifted just enough to let your shoulder touch his. You let it. You didn’t lean, not at first. But a few seconds passed, and your body moved on instinct—slowly lowering your head until it rested on his shoulder, the flight suit crinkling under your cheek. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just sat there, letting you exist next to him, like he knew you were holding too much in and didn’t want to make you carry it alone.

“I would’ve pulled you out of that canyon myself if I had to,” Bob said after a long pause, voice low, sincere. “Just so you know. You’re not alone up there. Not with us.”

You blinked once. Twice. The tears didn’t fall, but they were close—burning behind your eyes like smoke after a crash. Still, you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t give the universe that satisfaction.

“Thanks, Bob,” you said eventually, voice quiet. “But next time... just keep a shovel ready. I might need to bury a body.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Noted. I’ll bring gloves.”

The next morning, the hangar smelled like jet fuel, old coffee, and the kind of silence that followed a storm no one wanted to mention. You walked in with your flight suit already zipped, collar stiff, hair twisted into a no-nonsense knot that screamed do not even try me today. Your helmet dangled from your hand, your boots hit the floor in a rhythm as sharp as your jawline, and no one—not even Hangman—said a damn word.

The squad was already gathered near the whiteboard, Maverick standing at the front with a marker in hand. His expression was unreadable, which was somehow worse than when he looked disappointed. You caught Phoenix’s eye for half a second. She gave a small nod—acknowledgment, maybe apology, maybe just quiet respect—and then looked away. No one mentioned yesterday. Not directly.

Jake glanced your way but said nothing. He was back to his usual lean-against-the-wall posture, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it might keep him from talking too much. But his eyes tracked you, subtle and steady, like he was waiting to see whether you were made of steel or glass today. You didn’t flinch. You were both.

Meanwhile, Bob stood close to Phoenix, but he offered a small smile when you passed by him, a silent reassurance that hadn’t dulled overnight. You took the spot next to him, brushing his sleeve briefly with your shoulder—not on purpose, not for comfort, just a quiet thank-you that didn’t need words.

Rooster was already seated. Of course he was. Head slightly bowed, hands resting on his knees like he thought playing the calm card would earn him moral high ground. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He didn’t deserve your eyes.

Maverick cleared his throat, bringing the squad to attention. “Today we’re running mixed pair maneuvers. You’ll rotate partners mid-air. Simulating damage, loss of communication, change in command. You don’t get to pick who’s in your backseat or on your wing.”

The room shifted slightly—spines straightening, glances darting. A tactical shake-up. You knew what this was. A reset. A forced one.

Then, Maverick looked straight at you. “Raven, you’ll start with Coyote. Rooster, you’re with Payback. We’ll rotate in pairs after two passes. Got it?”

You gave a single nod. Coyote grinned and bumped your shoulder as you walked past. “Try not to show me up too hard, ace.”

“Just try to keep up, cowboy,” you said without smiling.

As the briefing wrapped up, Maverick called after the group. “And Raven—hang back a minute.”

Your stomach tensed, but you didn’t let it show. You waited until the rest had filed out, until it was just you, Maverick, and the weight of yesterday hanging like fog in the room.

He crossed his arms, staring at you like he was searching for the right thread to pull. “You need to get your head back in the cockpit.”

“My head never left the cockpit,” you said sharply. “Ask anyone. My bird’s fine. My flying’s fine.”

“But you’re not fine,” he said, voice firm. “And I’m not gonna pretend like I didn’t hear what you said yesterday.”

You met his gaze, jaw clenched. “What part? The truth?”

Maverick didn’t blink. “I get it. You were pissed. He was reckless. But there’s a line, Raven, and you flirted with the edge of it. Don’t let your anger compromise your control.”

You inhaled deeply, exhaling through your nose. Then you muttered, “I almost died yesterday. You telling me to smile through it now?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m telling you not to let him take more from you than he already almost did.”

You didn’t respond. You just nodded once—sharp, cool, finished. Then you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, already rolling your shoulders back, already bracing for the weight of the sky.

The sun had barely burned through the coastal haze by the time you and Coyote taxied out onto the runway. The sky was wide and blue and blinding. You pulled your oxygen mask into place with a practiced snap, eyes flicking over the instruments with calm, clinical rhythm. Everything read green. No faults. No noise. Just the low hum of your own heartbeat reminding you that this time, you were in control.

“Raven, Coyote—cleared for takeoff. Tower requests altitude cap at twenty-five hundred ‘til cleared past traffic,” the voice crackled in your comms.

“Copy, Tower,” Coyote replied, his tone light despite the stiffness you could hear under it. “Raven, you good?”

“Affirm,” you said, adjusting your throttle. “Wheels up in five.”

You rolled down the tarmac in perfect sync, your jets carving twin shadows over the concrete like two wolves in lockstep. The second your wheels left the ground, you pulled into a clean climb, leveling at twenty-five hundred just as the tower cleared you to push to flight level 180. You and Coyote settled into your holding pattern while Payback and Rooster joined formation from the west, flying tight, their vector steady. The sky was quiet but tense, the kind of hush that makes your skin crawl.

“Alright, team,” Maverick’s voice came over the squadron channel, steady and clear. “You’ll run the switch maneuver on my mark. Raven, you’ll initiate. After break, Rooster’s team takes lead.”

You tapped twice on the yoke, hands steady. “Copy, Raven ready.”

“Coyote, ready.”

“Payback ready.”

There was a long pause before Rooster’s voice cut in. “Rooster. Ready.”

You ignored the way his voice landed in your ear like a knife pressed flat against skin. Not cutting—just reminding you it was still there.

Maverick continued. “At the break, Raven and Rooster trade wingmen. Simulate a failed comms link mid-run. Visual confirmation only.”

You took in a slow breath. Visual confirmation. No radios. Just hand signals and formation cues. You hated that. You hated giving him any reason to get that close again.

“Three. Two. One. Break.”

You peeled hard left as Coyote shot right, engines screaming as the two teams split and crossed, the mid-air ballet executed in a clean, sharp arc. You banked until you saw Payback fall into position behind your jet, his angle crisp, his nose tucked right where it should be. From your peripheral, you caught Rooster sliding in near Coyote, just as planned.

The maneuver was smooth. Technical. Precise. But your hands were still tense on the stick, muscles locked, ready for anything. Rooster’s recklessness lived like a ghost in the back of your skull—no matter how clean the flight looked on radar, you remembered what it felt like to almost not land.

You kept your eyes forward, scanning the terrain below. The simulated enemy radar was mapped across the ridges like invisible tripwires. You adjusted trim slightly and gave a quick flare of your tail fins—a signal to Payback to tighten up. He responded instantly, his jet tucking in.

Meanwhile, the comms remained quiet. Everyone knew the drill. No chatter unless you were shot down or spotted something. The silence felt louder today.

You dove low, cutting through the ravine like you were threading a needle, banking left, right, then pulling into a quick climb that pressed Gs down your spine. The F/A-18 held steady beneath you like a trusted blade. This bird never failed you. Only people did.

Then you glanced up—just for a second—and spotted Coyote and Rooster in a mirrored maneuver above you, their jets banking to intercept the simulated radar arc from the south. You couldn’t hear his voice, but you knew Rooster was barking orders in his cockpit, probably overcorrecting just to feel like he had control. It made your jaw clench.

You turned back to your own run, preparing for the next switch. In ninety seconds, you’d be paired with him. You’d have to fly side by side, nose to nose, wing to wing. No barriers. No separation. Just muscle memory and fury.

Your breathing deepened, steady, mechanical. You could do this. You had to do this

The timer ticked down in your HUD, blinking red: SWITCH IN 00:05:00.

You steadied your grip, knuckles white beneath your gloves. Payback gave a short signal—a flash of his wingtip—then peeled off smoothly to the left, heading toward Coyote to complete the partner rotation. You eased into a right bank, leveling out just in time for Rooster to slide into place beside you.

His jet hovered there, too close for comfort, too perfect to be accidental. He was making a point, probably trying to prove he could fly tight without clipping you this time. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even twitch. You just locked into formation, spacing at textbook distance, throttle adjusted by instinct.

“Visual confirm,” Maverick’s voice crackled over the channel, watching from above like a hawk. “Raven, Rooster—you’re now a pair. Complete the radar sweep together, then punch vertical for final maneuver.”

You didn’t answer. You just toggled your comms twice—your silent acknowledgment.

Rooster’s jet matched your speed. Matched your pitch. Matched everything. It made your skin crawl.

Meanwhile, the canyon ahead narrowed, and you dipped into it first, leading the dance. Rooster followed, your jet casting a brief shadow across his canopy before the sunlight hit again. You descended quickly, just feet off the deck, your altimeter screaming warnings you ignored out of muscle memory. He stayed close.

Too close.

The bastard was mirroring you exactly, like a reflection you couldn’t shake. You pulled left to test him, dipping toward the ridge. He followed, perfect. Then you spun right, sharp, watching him catch the roll just a millisecond behind.

He was trying to prove something. That he could match you. That yesterday meant nothing.

It made your blood boil.

You flared your speed brakes for a heartbeat, forcing a tiny gap between your jets, then surged forward again. Rooster matched the move again—but this time, a little slower. You caught it. You knew he’d flinched.

“Altitude drop in ten seconds. Hard bank left. I’ll take point,” you finally said, breaking radio silence.

There was a pause. Then his voice cut in—calm, too calm.

“Copy. Following your lead.”

You wanted to scream. That tone. Like he hadn’t almost sent you to your death. Like this was just another drill.

Instead, you dove.

Your jet dropped fast, gravity grabbing you with open arms. You leveled just above the ridge line and sliced through the simulated radar zone like a blade. Rooster followed, sharp and silent.

Then, suddenly, he shot forward—too fast, closing the gap again. Your proximity alarms chirped.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you growled into the comms, forgetting the protocol.

“Helping you finish the run,” he shot back, voice like gravel.

You grit your teeth so hard your molars ached. “You want to help me, Bradshaw? Try not being glued to my goddamn ass.”

“You want distance? Say the word. I’ll give you miles.”

Your hand hovered near the throttle, tempted—so tempted—to punch forward and leave him in the dust. But you couldn’t. Not with Maverick watching. Not with the mission clock ticking down.

So you stayed. Tight. Focused.

The final maneuver was a vertical climb followed by a snap roll, simulating a break from enemy lock. You hit the climb first, engines roaring, Gs pushing down on your spine like a tidal wave. Your stomach dipped, your blood felt like static, and for a split second the sky narrowed to tunnel vision. But your hands never wavered.

Rooster was still with you—slightly off angle now. Probably realizing too late that you were willing to fly higher, faster, and harder just to get away from him.

You broke off after the maneuver, wings leveling above the clouds. Rooster pulled up beside you, but you didn’t turn.

You just stared forward, lips pressed into a thin line, heart hammering like war drums in your chest.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Landing procedures were routine—at least, they were supposed to be.

You kept it textbook. Your descent was smooth, airspeed clean, alignment perfect. Rooster was still flying your wing, and you could feel it like a pressure on your neck, like a weight on the back of your helmet that wouldn't lift until the wheels were down and you were clear of him. He said nothing over the comms, and you didn’t even acknowledge his presence. The tower guided you in, and you hit the deck like a damn professional, your bird settling onto the tarmac with grace you didn’t feel.

“Raven, cleared taxi Bravo to North Ramp,” came the controller’s voice. You responded with a clipped, “Copy,” and turned toward the line, watching the ground crew marshal you in with orange batons and dead eyes. The moment your canopy popped, the sound of the engine winding down filled your ears like a slow exhale, but it didn’t help. Not really.

You climbed down without looking at Rooster’s jet. He landed seconds after you and taxied in beside you, as if nothing had happened. You didn’t even spare his aircraft a glance. The second your boots hit the ground, you unclipped your helmet, ripped off your gloves, and started toward the hangar, heat still radiating off your skin like you were burning from the inside out.

Coyote met you halfway, helmet in hand. “You alright?”

You nodded once, jaw locked. “Yeah.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. “You were clean up there. Even with... that.”

“I know,” you said, already brushing past him. “I always am.”

Bob was waiting by the lockers again, arms folded, back to the wall like he’d been holding the whole place together in your absence. When you walked in, he straightened up immediately.

“I saw the tail cameras,” he said quietly, as you tossed your helmet into the locker with a metallic clang. “You flew perfect.”

You didn’t answer, just started stripping out of your gear. Your zipper caught on your collarbone, and you yanked it harder than you needed to.

“I mean it,” Bob said, taking a step closer. “He was pushing. Too close. You didn’t break formation once.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “He was trying to get in my head.”

“And he didn’t,” Bob said, voice firmer now. “That matters.”

You finally looked at him. His gaze was steady, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed but ready—like he knew you were still barely holding it together and wouldn’t let you snap alone.

“I don’t trust him,” you said. “I don’t. Not in the air. Not anywhere near my six.”

Bob nodded. “You don’t have to. You just have to outfly him. Which you did.”

There was a pause. Then you muttered, “I wanted to leave him in the damn sky.”

Bob gave the smallest smile. “Yeah. I figured.”

You sat down on the bench, elbows on knees, still simmering beneath the surface. Bob lowered himself beside you, offering that same steady presence you’d grown to count on more than you’d ever admit.

For a long moment, you just sat there—gear half off, sweat cooling on your back, heart still kicking in your chest like it hadn’t landed with the rest of you. Meanwhile, Bob pulled out another water bottle, cracked it open, and held it out without a word.

You took it.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“No problem,” he said, his shoulder just barely brushing yours. “I’m always in your corner.”

The locker room door creaked open just as you were pulling your undershirt over your head, hair damp with sweat, flight suit peeled halfway down to your waist. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

You felt him before you saw him.

Rooster.

He stepped in with the kind of slow, careful walk that said he knew he was stepping on a live minefield—but did it anyway. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because he was a stubborn, overgrown man-child with the emotional intelligence of a wet sponge.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

Bob stiffened beside you immediately, shifting subtly like he was ready to put himself between you and Bradley again. You didn’t need protection. You needed blood.

“I came to—” Rooster started.

“Oh, fuck right off, Bradshaw.”

Your voice cracked through the space like a sonic boom. Sharp. Loud. Immediate.

He blinked. Paused in the doorway. You still hadn’t turned to face him, but you heard the silence settle thick around his shoulders. Good. Let him carry some weight for once.

“I’m serious,” you said, standing now, turning slowly, flight suit hanging at your waist, tank top clinging to your spine. “Whatever you're about to say? Shove it. Right up your self-righteous, overhyped, chicken-shit ass.”

Rooster frowned, jaw ticking. “You really want to do this again?”

You stepped forward, water bottle still in hand, grip tight like you were debating whether to throw it at his damn head. “Do what, Bradshaw? Get almost killed by your recklessness and then have to listen to you pretend you were doing me a favor?”

His hands went up in mock surrender, but you saw the edge in his eyes, that infuriating smirk trying to claw its way through his guilt. “I wasn’t trying to outfly you.”

“No,” you snapped, voice rising. “You were just trying to remind everyone that you're still the golden boy—even if you have to drag me into the dirt to prove it.”

“I followed the maneuver.”

“You crowded my tail. You pushed inside my safe zone, and if I’d made one wrong correction, I’d be a splatter on canyon rock. That’s not flying, that’s fucking arrogance.”

Rooster’s voice dropped. Low. Defensive. “I had you covered.”

“Bullshit. You had your ego covered,” you spat. “You had your little redemption arc playing out in your head like some goddamn Top Gun fantasy where everyone claps for you and forgets you almost killed me.”

Bob finally stood between you both, hands raised, voice careful. “Okay. Time out. This isn’t the place.”

“No, Bob, let me.” You shoved your finger toward Rooster’s chest. “You think just because you wear his callsign on your sleeve, you get to fly like him too? Hate to break it to you, rooster-boy, but you don’t have the instincts, and you sure as hell don’t have the discipline.”

Rooster’s brows shot up. That stung. Good.

“You’re really gonna throw that at me?” he asked, voice rising.

“You’re damn right I am,” you hissed. “Because I’m tired of watching you make reckless calls and act like your intentions are enough to clean up the fallout. You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.”

The tension was so thick now it felt like the walls were closing in. Rooster stared at you like he’d never really seen you before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe all he ever saw was competition.

“Say what you really want to say,” he said finally, his voice a low challenge.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t trust you. And I don’t forgive you. And if it were up to me, you’d be grounded until you grew the hell up.”

You stared at Rooster, chest rising and falling like you were still in the cockpit, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were back on solid ground. The locker room felt small now, claustrophobic, the kind of space where someone either walked out or a fist got thrown.

Bob glanced between you both, visibly uncomfortable, clearly torn. He opened his mouth, maybe to calm things down again, maybe to step in. But you beat him to it.

“Bob,” you said, your voice low and flat, not cruel, not loud—just final. “Get out.”

His brows furrowed immediately. “Raven…”

You turned to him, sharp. “Please. I need him alone.”

Bob hesitated, glancing at Rooster like he was considering whether it was a good idea to leave you two unsupervised. Like he wasn’t sure Rooster would survive it. He looked at you again, weighing the fire in your eyes.

Then, slowly, he gave a single nod. “I’ll be just outside.”

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t look back. The moment the door clicked shut behind Bob, the air dropped about ten degrees, even though the heat was still pounding in your chest.

Rooster crossed his arms, leaning back against the row of lockers like he was pretending to be casual, like you hadn’t just ripped into him in front of half the squad. But his jaw was tight, and he couldn’t quite meet your eyes for more than a second.

“You done yet?” he asked.

You took a step closer. “Not even close.”

His eyes flicked to yours, defensive again. “You made your point.”

“Oh, no, Bradshaw,” you snapped. “I made a point. But I haven’t even started making the point.”

Rooster scoffed, looking away like he was trying to summon some patience from the ceiling tiles. “You just love being pissed at me, don’t you?”

That did it.

You stalked closer, boots heavy on the tile. “You almost got me killed, and you think I’m doing this for fun?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Meaning doesn’t matter up there,” you cut in, voice sharper now, hotter. “Intentions don’t count for shit at Mach 1 when I’m flying with someone I can’t fucking trust.”

Rooster stepped forward now, matching your energy, the cocky smirk finally gone, replaced by something darker—wounded, maybe, but not apologetic. Never that.

“I’m not the only one flying aggressive. You banked us into that canyon.”

“And you didn’t leave me space to recover if it went wrong. That’s the difference between flying aggressive and flying like a goddamn liability.”

“You think you’re so perfect,” he muttered.

“No, I think I’m alive,” you said, breathing hard. “Which is more than I should be, thanks to you.”

He flinched, but you didn’t give him time to come back from it.

“You don’t get to act like the victim here, Bradshaw. You’ve been trying to outfly me since day one. Like my existence is some kind of personal insult to you.”

He threw his hands up. “Because you walk around like you invented Top Gun!”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, fury boiling just beneath your voice. “I walk around like someone who earned it. Like someone who bled for it. Unlike you—who was gifted the legacy and still can’t fly without dragging someone else down to feel tall.”

That hit him. You saw it.

He clenched his jaw again, looked away—then looked right back at you, eyes hard now, fire catching.

“You don’t know shit about what I’ve earned.”

“Bullshit, I don’t,” you said, spitting the word like venom. “I’ve been next to you this whole time. Same academy. Same airspace. Same course. I’ve seen what you do when you’re not the golden boy. You crash. You choke. You fuck up. And then you hide behind your last name like it’s supposed to mean something.”

The silence that followed was different. He didn’t speak. He just stared. Like no one had ever said that to him before. Like it landed somewhere deep. But not deep enough to humble him.

Not yet.

You could see it in his eyes—that flicker of shock, that brief stutter in his breath when your words hit just a little too deep. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t even pause. You saw the crack and you pushed.

“You want to talk about what you’ve earned?” you said, voice low, poisonous. “Fine. Let’s talk about the first time I almost died because of you.”

Rooster stiffened, brow furrowing like he hadn’t expected that direction. Of course he didn’t. Men like him never do.

You took another step forward. You could hear your pulse in your ears now, but your voice stayed level—cold, surgical.

“Flight school. Third year. T-38 Talon. You remember?”

His silence was answer enough.

“I was flying lead. You were supposed to be my goddamn wingman. We were in a mock intercept and you decided to cut the corner, to ‘gain advantage,’ you said. But what you really did was cut me off, broke formation, and forced me into a nose dive to avoid clipping wings. You remember now?”

His mouth opened, closed, like he was trying to fish for the right excuse. You weren’t giving him time.

“I went down. Thirty-two seconds of dead air, no control. Ejected at the last second and fractured two ribs when I slammed back to Earth. And you—you—stayed in the air like nothing happened. Didn’t even check your goddamn radio until it was over.”

“That’s not how I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare try to rewrite it, Bradshaw,” you snarled, finally jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve lived every second of that flight. I still wake up in the middle of the night hearing that wind ripping past my canopy as I dropped like a stone. I remember begging my bird to respond while you were busy trying to win a pissing contest that no one was even judging.”

Rooster backed a step, but you followed. You weren’t done. You were finally letting the venom out of your veins.

“And you know what’s worse?” you said, voice quieter now, sharper. “You never apologized. Not once. I got pulled from the flight roster for six weeks while you went on like nothing happened—still grinning, still cocky, still thinking your halo was just a little shinier than everyone else’s.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he muttered, guilt cracking through his words.

“Bullshit you didn’t,” you snapped. “They told you. Maverick told you. The whole damn base was talking about how the ‘hotshot godson almost took out the prodigy.’ You knew, Bradshaw. You knew and you just... moved on. Because it was easier to pretend I bounced.”

He said nothing.

You inhaled sharply, chest rising with the weight of that memory. Then, voice thick with the kind of cold restraint that only comes after years of swallowing fire, you said, “That’s the difference between you and me. I never forget the people I almost killed. You forget the people you almost did.”

Rooster’s jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. The weight of your words landed, but instead of backing down, he finally snapped.

“Jesus Christ, Raven,” he growled. “You act like I meant for any of that to happen. You think I wanted to screw you over? You think I haven’t carried that shit, too?”

You didn’t flinch. You waited, arms crossed, eyes locked on him like crosshairs.

“I made mistakes,” he said, voice rising now. “Yeah, I fucked up in flight school. Yeah, I flew too close yesterday. But I’ve been trying to prove myself every damn day since then, and you—you treat me like I’m the enemy. Like I’m just waiting to take you out.”

“You said it,” you muttered. “Not me.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve owned up to my shit. What about you, huh? You ever think maybe you’re not invincible? That maybe you fly like you’ve got something to prove, too?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “You’ve been carrying this grudge for years. I fucked up once and now I’m the villain in your whole damn narrative.”

You stared at him for a long, breathless second.

Then you said, “Because I know how dangerous this job is, Bradley. I know what I signed up for. But it was my dream. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The words echoed off the locker walls, cold and soft and breaking.

“But I wasn’t ready to die,” you added, voice quieter now, but sharper, slicing through whatever protest he was about to throw at you. “Not then. Not now.”

Rooster froze. His breath caught. But you kept going. This wasn’t about flying anymore.

“I still want to live. I want to fly until I can’t. I want to grow old without a helmet on my head. I want—fuck—I want a house, Bradshaw. Somewhere in North Island, but not too close to the beach because the salt messes with the hinges. White picket fence. Big-ass windows. A porch swing.”

You laughed again, but it was a hollow, broken thing.

“I want kids. A family. I want to come home to someone who makes me feel safe. You ever think about that? That maybe I didn’t come here just to prove I’m the best—that maybe I came here to build something when I’m done?”

Rooster was still. His expression had shifted—no more anger, no more fire. Just... something raw. Something crumbling.

But you didn’t stop. You weren’t done bleeding.

“I can’t do any of that if I’m dead, Bradley,” you said. “And you? You almost ended all of it before it could even start.”

Bradley didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, rooted to the floor like your words had struck somewhere he didn’t know existed until now. His arms had dropped to his sides, fists unclenched, the fight bleeding out of him.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice low and hoarse. “That you wanted that.”

You shook your head, scoffing bitterly. “Yeah, well, maybe you would’ve known if you ever looked at me as more than your fucking scoreboard.”

“That’s not fair.”

You turned to him fully now, eyes blazing. “No, Bradley. What’s not fair is that I have to plan my life around not dying because of you. What’s not fair is watching everyone treat you like you walk on air while I’m just trying to land with my own damn wings.”

“I see you,” he said, quietly this time. “I’ve always seen you.”

“Then you’re blind,” you snapped. “Because if you did—if you really did—you’d fly like it. You’d have flown with me, not against me. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have nearly killed me. Twice.”

Bradley took a cautious step forward, like he was reaching for something invisible between you. “Look, I’m trying, alright? I know I’ve been a dick. I know I’ve let my pride get in the way. But that wasn’t about you. That was me trying to prove I wasn’t just some legacy pilot riding a dead man’s wake.”

You scoffed again, shaking your head, voice tight. “Don’t you dare make this about your daddy issues.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m serious, Bradshaw. Don’t. You. Dare.”

His jaw flexed. He swallowed hard, but stayed rooted where he was. “I just... I don’t know how to make this right.”

“You can’t.”

The words came out fast, final, like a slammed door.

“You can’t make it right. You can’t go back and undo the times I almost fucking died trying to dodge your shadow. You can’t take back the fact that every time I go up now, I hesitate. I hesitate, and I never did before you.”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him, but you weren’t done.

“You know how dangerous that is? To fly with doubt? To wonder if the guy next to you is gonna screw up again?”

He opened his mouth, and you cut him off before the first word left.

“And I don’t want your guilt, Bradley. I don’t want your puppy-dog eyes and your sad-sack remorse. I want my safety. I want the one thing I’ve earned, which is to not feel like I’m one mistake away from a fucking memorial flyover.”

Bradley looked like he’d been carved down to nothing. But that was his problem now.

You were done holding it in.

The silence after your last words hung heavy—thick and final, like the air after an explosion, where nothing stirs and everything aches.

Bradley didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at the spot where you’d been looking straight through him, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to speak but knew better. His hands hung useless at his sides. No fight left. No defense worth giving.

You blinked slowly, jaw tight, chest still rising and falling like you were back in the jet, like you hadn’t come down at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Then, without another word, you turned.

Boots against tile. Echoes trailing behind you like ghosts.

You passed him without looking. You didn’t want to see his face. Not like this. Not when it was finally registering just how badly he’d fucked it all. You reached for the locker room door, pulled it open with a sharp tug, and stepped out into the hallway where the air felt different—cooler, quieter, distant.

Behind you, he didn’t follow. Good. You didn’t need him to.

You walked steady, shoulders squared, eyes forward. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you refused to let him see that it did.

You weren’t ready to forgive. And he wasn’t ready to be forgiven. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And if he had anything left to say, he’d have to say it to your back. Because for now, you were gone. And you weren’t looking back.

- Bradley, Rooster -

The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence hit like Gs in a flat spin.

Bradley didn’t move. Couldn’t. It was like every molecule in the room had frozen with your exit, like the fire you'd lit still lingered in the air, crackling around the lockers and burning under his skin. His jaw was clenched tight, arms stiff at his sides, but it wasn’t anger holding him together now—it was shame.

You’d told him everything. Every brutal, ugly truth he'd been too proud or too stupid to see for himself. He hadn’t just failed you in the sky. He’d failed you years ago. And the worst part? He’d forgotten it. Buried it so deep that it had stopped feeling real to him. But not to you. Not ever to you.

“I wasn’t ready to die.”

The words looped through his head like comms feedback, sharp and constant and impossible to ignore. He thought he could walk in, take the heat, say sorry in that way people like him always said sorry—tight-jawed and low-voiced, a little too late and never loud enough. He thought maybe, just maybe, you’d give him the benefit of the doubt again.

But you’d looked at him like he was a loaded gun pointed at your chest.

And damn it, maybe he was.

He sank down onto the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. All it gave him was the image of you, standing there in your half-zipped flight suit, fire in your eyes, telling him you wanted a house. A family. Kids. A white picket fence somewhere on North Island, not too close to the beach, but close enough to feel the breeze. You said it like it hurt to say, like you hadn’t dared believe you were allowed to want things like that.

And he’d almost taken all of it away. Again.

The first time—Jesus, the first time—he remembered now. The Talon. The maneuver. The way you spun out and the ground came up too fast. He’d heard the report. Read it. Knew you walked away with busted ribs and bruises down your spine, and he hadn’t said a damn word. He told himself it was a fluke. A training accident. Nothing he needed to carry.

But you’d carried it.

You always did.

He leaned back against the locker, head hitting the cool metal with a dull thunk. The ceiling swam above him, but all he could see was your face—tight with rage, eyes too bright, voice cracking around the edges but never breaking. You didn’t cry. Of course you didn’t. That would’ve given him something soft to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him the truth.

You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.

And the worst part? You were right.

You always fucking were.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble catching under his palm, like pain might jolt him back to reality. But no. You were still gone. And everything you’d said still rang in his ears like a damn bell he couldn’t unring.

Bradley had always known you were sharp. Known you were faster, colder under pressure, more precise with a stick than anyone else in the room. But he never realized how long you’d been flying with a target on your back—his target. And now? He didn’t know how to separate pride from shame anymore. It all just blurred.

You were four years younger. Everyone knew that. The prodigy. The talk of your class. The one who made instructors blink twice during debriefs and had the rest of the academy scrambling to keep up. And yeah, at first, it was envy. That tight, stomach-clenching envy that burned right behind his ribs when he saw your name climb above his on the board. It wasn’t supposed to bother him, but it did. Every. Damn. Time.

So he’d tried harder. Pushed further. Flew faster. He told himself it wasn’t about you—it was about proving he deserved the callsign. That he wasn’t just a name stapled to a legacy. But deep down? He knew.

It was always about you.

It was about the way you rolled your eyes when he smirked. About the way you flew past him in formation like you didn’t even see him in your six. About the way you made him feel small without ever saying a word.

He hated that. And somehow, he hated that he needed your approval even more.

And now—God—he hated himself for ever thinking this competition was harmless. That you were unshakable. Untouchable. Like you didn’t want the same things he did. A future. A home. A life.

He’d never pictured you wanting all that. Not because he thought you didn’t deserve it—he just... didn’t let himself imagine it. Didn’t want to put soft edges on the one person he needed to keep sharp in his head. But hearing it from you, out loud, in that furious, breaking voice—it gutted him.

He’d flown like an idiot. That much was clear. You were on his wing, and instead of holding formation, instead of watching your six, he dove in like a hero in a movie he wasn’t qualified to star in. And for what? Some imaginary point? To prove he could still be top dog?

You could’ve died. Right there. Mid-air. A flash of fire, a blackout screen, and a headline with your name.

And then what?

What the hell would he have done then?

He exhaled again, this time shakier. His fingers dug into the edge of the bench, gripping it until his knuckles went white. He wished he could go back. Say something different. Fly different. He wished he could stop being the guy who hurt you. Who scared you. Who nearly killed the one goddamn person who could ever meet him head-on and still leave him in the dust.

But wishes didn’t mean shit in the Navy.

And you were gone.

It hadn’t always been like this.

He remembered the first day he met you—flight school orientation, crisp khakis, sun glaring off the tarmac, everyone fresh-faced and hungry. You’d stood a few rows behind him, already with a name people whispered about. “The Raven,” some muttered, not even your callsign yet, just the reputation. The kid prodigy. Top of her undergrad class. The one who flew solo before most people learned how to park a car.

Bradley had looked back and seen you smiling politely at some poor bastard who asked if you were actually here for pilot training. You answered with grace, a little tilt of your head, voice soft and sweet. You didn’t even roll your eyes. And that made him mad.

He didn’t know why. Not then. But it pissed him off—the way you were so damn calm about it. The way you acted like being better than the rest of them didn’t come with weight. Like you weren’t carrying a whole spotlight on your back and somehow making it look effortless.

And when you introduced yourself? All handshakes and "nice to meet you," eyes warm, tone gentle? He shook your hand and said something stupid. Something sharp. Something like, “Well, let’s see if you can keep up, sweetheart.”

You had blinked, just once, like you were weighing whether to clap back or let it slide. But you didn’t. You just gave him a smile so polite it almost stung and said, “Hope you brought your A-game, Bradshaw.”

And then you beat him. Over. And over. And over again.

At first, it was little things—sim scores, formation grades, instructor praise. You never gloated. Never rubbed it in. You offered to study together once, back when you still thought maybe you were on the same side.

He’d scoffed. “I don’t need tutoring.”

You’d nodded, like you expected that answer. Like you were used to boys like him reacting that way. And then you left him alone.

But you never stopped shining. You never stopped rising. And he never stopped resenting the way people gravitated to you like you were gravity itself.

It became muscle memory. Resent you. Compete with you. Cut corners when you were near because losing to you felt worse than losing to anyone else.

And all the while, you just kept flying.

Meanwhile, he tried to tell himself that you weren’t that good. That maybe you were just lucky. Maybe someone up the chain had a soft spot for prodigies. Maybe if he flew riskier, faster, harder, he’d outrun your shadow.

But even now, looking back?

He remembered the day you got your first perfect solo evaluation.

And he remembered how much he hated you for it.

Not because you didn’t deserve it, but because you did.

He still remembered the day the Top Gun scores came out like it had happened this morning. The sun had been brutal, baking the runway, sweat collecting under his collar even before he saw the board. The squad was gathered around it, jostling for space, hearts in throats and egos on the line.

And then someone shouted his name.

“Bradshaw—first. Holy shit.”

It echoed like an explosion in his chest. He didn’t believe it at first. He blinked, stepped closer, read it again. Bradshaw, B. At the top. Number one. Above you.

He turned before he could stop himself, already seeking your face in the crowd. And there you were—calm, composed, unreadable, just like always. Standing a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, your expression neutral. Too neutral.

And for one brief second, he swore he saw it. A flicker of something behind your eyes. Disappointment. Pain. Like you hadn’t expected to lose. Like maybe for the first time, you were struggling to breathe.

You hadn’t said anything. You just gave him a tight nod and walked away.

Meanwhile, everyone else was clapping him on the back, congratulating him like he’d just saved the world instead of barely outscoring someone who usually left him in the dust. They called it a win. They called it proof. But in the pit of his stomach, something soured.

Because deep down? He knew.

You flew better that week.

Your runs were cleaner. Your shots tighter. You pulled out of the low-alt maneuver smoother than he ever had. But you got docked points for something small—a missed comm, a second too late in your roll—and suddenly, that was the margin. That was how he won.

He told himself he deserved it. Told himself he worked harder. That maybe you needed to be knocked down a peg.

But God, he could still see your face. Blank. Distant. Like you were already a hundred miles away from this place. And he hated how empty the win felt without your respect stamped onto it.

He’d joked about it later, played it off like he always did. “Hey, first time for everything,” he’d said with a smirk, leaning on your locker as you stripped off your flight suit. You didn’t even look at him.

“You flew well,” you said, voice flat. “Enjoy it.”

Then you walked away. Again.

And he held onto that one win like it was carved in gold. Because he knew it would probably be the last.

The Hard Deck was loud, like always. Laughter echoed off the walls, music humming from the jukebox, and the familiar clatter of bottles and boots filled the space like static. The others were already halfway into their drinks—Phoenix tossing peanuts into Fanboy’s glass, Coyote nursing a whiskey, Jake leaning smugly against the bar like he owned the damn place. Bradley slid in like a ghost. Quiet. Disconnected.

He didn’t want to be here. Not really. But showing up was easier than sitting in his apartment, staring at the wall, replaying your voice in his head like a damn flight tape on loop.

So he grabbed a beer. Didn’t even taste it. Just held it in his hands like it gave him something to do.

Nobody asked about what happened.

Not directly.

There were glances, sure. Halo caught his eye once and gave him a small nod. Not quite sympathy—more like, you good? He didn’t nod back.

He leaned on the edge of the pool table, watching Payback line up a shot, pretending not to notice how many empty spaces there were in the room. How your spot at the bar, the one two stools down from Phoenix, was vacant. Untouched. Like everyone had the sense not to sit there.

He didn’t ask where you were. Didn’t look around. Didn’t let his eyes scan the room like they wanted to.

But Bob, soft-spoken and way too goddamn perceptive, wandered up beside him and murmured, “She stepped out. Took a call ten minutes ago.”

Bradley’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t ask,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“I know,” Bob said, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t dropping a depth charge in the middle of Bradley’s already fraying nerves. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

Bradley took a sip of his beer. Still didn’t taste it.

Ten minutes. That meant you were probably gone. Maybe pacing outside. Maybe already halfway home. Maybe you just needed space—which was fair, considering how close he’d come to ruining your entire future twenty-four hours ago.

He should’ve apologized.

He should’ve chased after you when you left that locker room.

But what the hell was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I nearly got you killed again, and also sorry that I made your dream feel like a death sentence instead of a calling? There weren’t words big enough to patch that kind of damage.

So instead, he stood there, shoulder pressed against the table, pretending he wasn’t scanning the door every few seconds.

And pretending that ten minutes didn’t feel like a goddamn eternity.

Bradley slid his beer onto the bar, half-finished and sweating. No one noticed. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he eased away from the table and headed toward the door. The jukebox kicked into a Tom Petty track just as he slipped out, the air outside cooler, quieter, sharp with salt and sea.

Only one person noticed—Bob. Sitting near the window with a seltzer and his usual unreadable expression. Their eyes met for a split second. Bradley gave him a nod, subtle. Bob didn’t say anything. He just went back to his drink.

Outside, the wind was soft, brushing past like a whisper. The night had a haze to it, moonlight bleeding across the sand. And there you were.

Down near the shoreline, pacing slow, bare feet sinking into the damp sand. Your flight suit was tied at your waist, tank top catching the sea breeze, and your voice—light, polite, controlled—drifted through the dark like a radio signal.

He stopped a few yards back, just behind a dune, out of sight. He wasn’t proud of it. But something about the curve of your shoulders, the way you weren’t pacing fast or frantic, but with this eerie kind of calm—that had him frozen.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you were saying. Your voice was low but clear, just loud enough for the waves not to drown it out. “No, I just needed to step out for a bit. Long day.”

Bradley felt something squeeze in his chest. He couldn’t tell if you were talking to a boyfriend, family, someone back home. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. But there was a warmth in your voice that he’d never heard aimed at him. Not once.

You stopped, turned toward the water, and exhaled. “Yeah… I still think about it. Sometimes. The house. The stupid fence. I know it’s dumb.”

Bradley’s breath caught. Your voice had shifted—smaller, quieter, like you were pulling the edges of yourself in.

“I just thought, maybe someday. You know? Somewhere off-base. Near town but not too far. One of those little ones with the blue shutters and a fence so white it hurts your eyes. Not a big place. Just something that’s… mine.”

There was a pause. A silence so thick it muffled even the waves. Then you said, almost too quietly:

“Guess it’s not really realistic anymore.”

Bradley’s stomach dropped.

You weren’t angry now. You weren’t screaming or glaring or spitting fire. You were disappointed. And somehow, that hurt worse.

You shifted the phone to your other ear. “No, I’m okay. Really, Mom. Just tired. I’ll be back soon.”

He backed away then. Slowly. Like he’d intruded on something sacred. Because that version of you—the soft one, the dreaming one, the one who still believed in white fences and front porches and safety—that wasn’t meant for him.

And maybe it never had been.

It had been three weeks since you last yelled at him. Three weeks since your voice had laced through the Ready Room like razor wire. Since you told him—told the whole damn room—that you weren’t ready to die. That you wanted a house. A fence. A life.

And you hadn’t said a word to him since.

No snarling. No cursing. No storming out of locker rooms. No fire, no fight. Just silence. Cold and clean, like the distance between two aircraft flying the same path but refusing to sync up. You sat on the far side of the room now, same row as him, but two chairs over. Always two chairs over. Just far enough to make it clear that whatever fragile thing had cracked open between you was now buried.

He looked at you now—just a glance. Your arms were crossed, jaw set tight, eyes forward as Maverick stepped into the room, flight suit half-zipped and clipboard in hand. The tension in the air shifted as everyone straightened up.

“All right,” Maverick said, voice firm. “Mission brief starts now. Eyes up.”

The screen behind him flickered on, showing a grainy aerial map with tight, looping canyons stretching across a hostile zone overseas. Words blinked in red: OPERATION IRON DAGGER.

“We’ve been tapped for a coordinated strike package—high-risk, high-payoff,” Maverick said, clicking the remote. “Our objective is a hardened weapons facility buried within this canyon system, located in disputed territory. Intel confirms it’s manufacturing advanced ballistic systems outside international regulations. The brass wants it gone.”

He pointed to a choke point on the map, a narrow zig-zag of cliffs and blind corners. “The airspace is saturated with radar. SAM sites along the ridge lines, anti-aircraft guns in fixed bunkers, and a rotating patrol of enemy fighters—likely fourth-gen models, MiG-29s or Su-35s. That means we stay low, fast, and quiet.”

Phoenix let out a soft breath. “So it’s another sneak-in-sneak-out scenario?”

“Exactly,” Maverick said. “You’ll be flying below radar detection. Altitude will stay at or below 300 feet AGL for most of the route. That’s less than a football field. One mistake, one overcorrected pitch, and the SAMs light you up like a Christmas tree.”

Bradley shifted in his seat, glancing at the others. Payback was leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin. Fanboy scribbled something in his notebook. Bob was stone still. And you—of course—you didn’t flinch.

“The target itself is buried in reinforced concrete,” Maverick continued. “You’ll need to hit it with precision. Double payloads. Two rounds of tandem penetrators. One pass only. There’s no second shot.”

Hangman raised an eyebrow. “And what about air patrols?”

“Two enemy patrols confirmed,” Maverick said. “One operating south of the ridge, one on the far east flank. You will be seen on exit. That’s a guarantee. Which means your egress window is tight. Rooster, Raven, you’re team lead. You’ll fly point, drop first, and punch the gap.”

Bradley blinked. He looked toward you. You didn’t even glance at him.

“Seriously?” Hangman scoffed. “Them? Flying lead? Together?”

“It’s not up for debate,” Maverick said flatly. “They’ve both logged more canyon-flight hours than the rest of you combined. They’re our best shot.”

Bradley’s mouth was dry. The silence was crushing. Still, you said nothing.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “What’s our comms protocol post-bomb drop? In case we get separated.”

Maverick clicked again. A new slide appeared: CALL SIGN FREQ CHART.

“You’ll be split into pairs. Phoenix and Bob, Hangman and Coyote, Payback and Fanboy. Comms will be encrypted. After drop, you switch to alt-freq Zulu-3 to rejoin at Rally Point Echo. Time from target to extraction is under three minutes. If you’re not at RP Echo by then, exfil will proceed without you.”

Bradley swallowed hard. He could feel the weight settling across his shoulders. The same creeping dread he felt before every mission that went just a little too real.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“What’s the eject threshold altitude post-impact?” you asked, tone razor-sharp. “Assuming a hit during egress. Jet compromised. No time to climb.”

Maverick didn’t blink. “Two-fifty AGL minimum. Any lower, and the chute might not fully deploy. But you already know that.”

You nodded once. Your expression didn’t change.

Bradley felt the chill then. The clinical way you asked it. Like you weren’t afraid to die—just prepared.

He hated that it came from him. That silence between you had taught you how to be this detached.

Maverick scanned the room, pausing just long enough to let your question settle. Then he clicked again, switching to a diagram of the canyon run. Every inch of the terrain was unforgiving—jagged ridgelines, sudden drops, hairpin turns. One screw-up, and you'd be scraping metal off the walls.

“You’ll hit your ingress point at oh-four-hundred,” Maverick continued. “Weather forecast shows minimal cloud cover, wind from the north at twelve knots. Good visibility, but that means the enemy’s got it too. We can’t guarantee a clean in-and-out.”

Bradley caught the shift in Bob’s posture—rigid, focused. Next to him, Phoenix gave a quiet nod. Hangman leaned back with his arms crossed, trying to play it cool, but his jaw was locked. Even Payback had stopped chewing his gum.

“Raven and Rooster will lead the first strike pair,” Maverick said, like it was already carved in stone. “Phoenix and Bob, you’ll follow. Hangman and Coyote, you’re on air cover once the payloads are dropped. Payback and Fanboy, standby team—watch our six.”

Bradley could feel it now. The weight pressing down on everyone. But none of it hit harder than the fact that you hadn’t even twitched when Maverick said his name next to yours. Three weeks ago, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Scoffed. Bit out a sarcastic “figures.” Now? You didn’t even blink.

He hated this version of you. Not because you were cold—but because he’d made you cold.

Maverick took a step toward the screen again, tapping a highlighted route. “This section here—Bravo to Delta—is your most dangerous leg. It’s a ninety-degree turn at speed with less than 250 feet of vertical clearance. That’s where the last drone strike attempt failed. They clipped the wall and never made the drop.”

Bradley’s pulse kicked up. He’d flown turns like that before. Once. In training. And even then, it damn near made him black out.

Hangman whistled low. “So we’re supposed to make a laser-precise drop at Mach 1 while threading a needle at canyon depth. Nice.”

“You’ve done worse,” Maverick replied dryly. “And I’m still here to remind you.”

That pulled a small chuckle from Payback, but it didn’t last long.

“What about alternate evac?” you asked suddenly. “If RP Echo’s compromised. We get pinned down by enemy patrols—what’s plan B?”

Bradley turned slightly, trying not to be obvious about it, but he looked at you. You were sitting forward now, elbows on your knees, focused in that lethal, surgical way you always were when things got real. No trace of fear. No hesitation. Just mission mode.

Maverick clicked once more. A backup route appeared—longer, more exposed. “Evac option B is RP Whiskey. Takes you thirty klicks off the canyon system, but it’s out of the radar net. If you’re forced to break formation, that’s your window. You get there, you get out.”

“And if we don’t?” Phoenix asked quietly.

Maverick looked her dead in the eye. “Then you better hope to hell your chute opens.”

A heavy silence followed. The kind where nobody moved. Nobody even breathed. Just the dull hum of the projector and the distant whine of jets on the tarmac outside.

Bradley’s hand twitched against the armrest. He wanted to say something—ask something—but he didn’t even know what. All he could think about was the last time he saw a jet go down. The smoke. The screaming. The sick, twisting silence afterward.

And now you were flying point with him, because of course you were.

Maverick let the silence breathe for just a beat longer, then set down the clicker and folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t sugarcoat it. This mission’s tight, dangerous, and one misstep away from turning into a goddamn funeral procession. You’re the best we’ve got. That’s why you’re here. But this isn’t about glory—it’s about precision. About trust.”

At that last word, Bradley felt his stomach tighten.

Trust.

Right.

He chanced another glance toward you. Still silent. Still composed. But he knew better now. Knew that silence was never blank—it was armor. And you were wearing it like a second skin.

Hangman leaned forward, tongue in his cheek. “Sir, with all due respect—if we’re pulling Mach 1 through canyon turns and going against SAMs and fourth-gen fighters, we should at least be equipped with newer countermeasures. These birds are running old-gen flares. We flying or praying out there?”

Maverick didn’t flinch. “New systems are en route. You’ll be flying with upgraded ECM pods—jamming capabilities, enhanced decoys, everything short of invisibility. And praying doesn’t hurt either.”

Coyote chuckled under his breath. “Guess it’s time to hit church.”

Payback nudged Fanboy. “You still carry that lucky coin?”

Fanboy patted his chest pocket solemnly. “Always.”

Bradley let the chatter roll for a second, but his focus was still zeroed in on you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken again since your evac question. You were watching Maverick, your expression unreadable.

Then you leaned back in your chair, voice low and measured. “Do we know if the enemy’s updated their radar since the last recon pass?”

Maverick looked straight at you. “Not confirmed. Last sweep was two weeks ago. Intel says no. But you plan like they have.”

You gave a single nod, that sharp, exact motion you always used when you were filing something away. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment. Cold. Calculated.

Phoenix shifted beside Bob, who was scribbling notes with his usual quiet intensity. “And how long do we have on target?”

“Fourteen seconds,” Maverick said. “From entry point to payload drop, max. You get in, you stay steady, you release. Raven, Rooster—you’ll have to mirror each other’s flight paths exactly. No deviation. If one of you pulls off-axis, you’ll both miss.”

That landed like a lead weight in the room. Bradley didn’t need to look to feel it. You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

Because three weeks ago, you would’ve called him reckless. Said he couldn’t hold a formation if his life depended on it. But now? You weren’t even wasting the breath. You’d just fly the damn line and pretend he wasn’t there.

Maverick grabbed the last slide, a table of call signs and order of operations, then set the clipboard down. “We launch at 0400. You’ll be wheels-up before first light. Flight briefings and aircraft assignments go out in thirty. Dismissed—unless you’ve got questions.”

Bradley sat still. Part of him hoped you’d say something else. Start a fight. Call him out. Anything to break this cold front between you.

But you just stood up, straightened your flight suit, and walked out.

He caught you outside the hangar thirty minutes later, just as the squad began to scatter across the tarmac, filtering toward lockers, briefing rooms, and checklists. The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the concrete, throwing gold over everything but you.

You stood near the fence, arms crossed, posture tense like a coil ready to snap. He hesitated for a beat—long enough to consider backing out—but then he forced himself to move.

“Hey,” he said quietly, like testing the wind before a hurricane. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t look at him. For a moment, he thought you’d ignore him entirely. But then you gave the smallest nod, turned halfway toward him, and muttered, “Five minutes. That’s all.”

Bradley stepped in, suddenly aware of how loud his boots sounded against the pavement. Everything about you looked like a wall—rigid spine, clenched jaw, eyes locked on some distant point just past him.

“I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he started, voice already shaking. “For what happened. That flight—three weeks ago. I wasn’t looking. I got reckless. I thought I had the shot—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in sharply, still not looking at him. “You didn’t have the shot, Bradshaw. And I almost paid for it with my fucking life.”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer, voice low and raw. “I know that. I live with that every day, and I hate myself for it. I keep going over it in my head—I should’ve peeled left, should’ve watched the damn six, but I—”

“But you what?” you snapped, finally turning toward him with fire in your eyes. “But you thought you knew better? You always think you know better. You’re so goddamn obsessed with proving yourself that you never stop to think about the people flying next to you.”

Bradley flinched. Your voice cut deeper than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true. You had always known how to find the soft spot beneath the armor.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” he said, but the words felt hollow. “I just—I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You weren’t,” you said, and your voice cracked just a little. Not in volume, but in restraint. “You don’t get to nearly kill me and call it a mistake.”

He felt his breath catch. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.” You stepped in now, just barely, but enough for him to see how tightly your fists were clenched. “You always do, whether it’s the air or the ground. You can’t stand it when I’m ahead of you. You hate it. You’d rather burn the whole damn sky down than see me beat you.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, voice rising. “That’s not—God, that’s not fair.”

“No?” Your laugh was bitter, humorless. “Tell me then. Tell me why every time I pull ahead, every time I get recognition or lead the squad, you act like I stole something from you.”

Bradley shook his head, jaw tight, trying to keep the emotion from cracking wide open. “Because I respect you. Because you push me. Because when I see your name ahead of mine, I want to be better.”

You scoffed, stepping back. “That’s a lie you tell yourself to sleep at night. The truth is, you hated me from the moment I showed up. You couldn’t stand that the ‘golden boy’ wasn’t always number one.”

“Jesus Christ, you think I give a shit about rank?” he snapped.

“Yes!” You shouted it now, full volume, no restraint. “Because you always did. Because the one time you beat me—Top Gun, remember?—you never let me fucking forget it. You carry that one win around like it’s your damn dog tags.”

Bradley looked down. Swallowed hard.

You stepped forward again, voice lower now, but far more dangerous. “You almost got me killed, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to figure out if I hate you more for that, or for how easy it was for you to walk away from it.”

He looked up at you, eyes bloodshot. “I didn’t walk away from it.”

“You sure as hell didn’t face it either.”

The silence between you burned hotter than the shouting ever could. Wind from the airfield swept past, kicking up the scent of oil and smoke and sun-baked concrete.

You glanced at your watch. “Time’s up.”

He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came. You turned on your heel, walking back toward the hangar without a single look back.

And Bradley just stood there, the sunset throwing his shadow long across the asphalt, knowing he’d fucked it up again.

The hangar felt colder than usual that morning, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The sky outside was still bleeding from night to morning—hints of gray and violet brushing the horizon, the sun nowhere in sight. Inside, the air was thick with silence, only broken by the occasional zip of a flight suit or the metallic clink of gear being prepped.

Bradley sat on the bench beside his locker, boots planted, elbows on his knees, helmet between his hands. He stared at the same floor tile for what felt like ten minutes, but time wasn’t real anymore. Not today. Not when every tick brought them closer to wheels-up.

Around him, the squad moved like ghosts. Phoenix didn’t crack jokes. Hangman wasn’t strutting. Payback and Fanboy spoke in hushed tones, and even Coyote—usually the first to throw sarcasm into the air like confetti—was quiet. And Bob... Bob looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He kept checking his watch, then his checklist, then your empty locker across the aisle.

You hadn’t shown up yet. Not late. Just... not there yet. And it made something twist in Bradley’s chest, tight and sharp.

This mission felt different.

And not just because of the SAMs or the canyon or the fact that the egress window was barely wide enough to squeeze through without brushing death. No, it was you. It was knowing you’d be flying beside him again, trusting him again—whether you wanted to or not. And after everything he said, everything he did or didn’t say... the idea of that trust made him feel even sicker than the mission itself.

“Hey.”

Bradley looked up. Maverick stood there, arms crossed, flight suit zipped, expression unreadable. Just the same calm he always wore when the storm was about to hit.

“Got a second?”

Bradley stood, nodding, following Maverick a few steps down the corridor where the others couldn’t hear. It felt like walking into a confessional.

“I know what this mission is,” Maverick said, voice low. “I know how it looks on paper. I know how it feels in your gut. I’ve flown enough of them to know when someone’s not just afraid of dying—they’re afraid of watching someone else not come back.”

Bradley didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just stared past Maverick, eyes fixed on a vending machine that had been broken since last winter.

Maverick stepped closer. “You’re not afraid for yourself, Bradshaw. You’re afraid for her.”

Bradley finally looked at him. His throat was dry. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter.”

“I screwed it up,” he muttered. “I almost got her killed. And I—God—I haven’t even said what I should’ve said. Not really. And now we’re flying this death trap together and she’s acting like I’m invisible and maybe I deserve that, but if something happens—if I lose her today—”

Maverick shook his head. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Maverick admitted. “But I know her. And I know you. And I know what it looks like when someone’s in love and too damn proud to admit it.”

Bradley let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think she wants to hear that from me.”

“Maybe not,” Maverick said, voice softer now. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t owe it to her. If this is the last mission you ever fly together, don’t let it end with silence.”

Bradley nodded, slowly. Then faster. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to say. Or how. But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity—

He couldn’t lose you today.

And when he turned back down the hall and saw you finally walking in, flight bag slung over your shoulder, eyes sharp and distant as ever, his heart damn near stopped.

You were here.

And he had one last chance not to fuck it up.

The call came over the PA—crisp, no-nonsense, final. “All pilots, suit up. We launch in fifteen.”

That was it. No more waiting. No more chances. Whatever Bradley thought he might say to you before takeoff dissolved in the roar of movement—flight suits zipping, lockers slamming, helmets in hand. Everyone moved with quiet urgency, the weight of what they were about to do keeping the usual pre-mission chatter at bay.

He watched you from across the room as you tied your hair back, methodical and cold. Your expression hadn’t changed since you walked in, jaw locked tight and eyes unreadable behind that icy shield you’d perfected. You didn’t look at him once—not while you strapped on your vest, not when you checked your gloves, not even when you passed within three feet of him heading to the tarmac. Just silence.

And honestly, that hurt more than yelling ever could.

Meanwhile, Phoenix gave Bradley a short nod as she slid her gloves on beside Bob, who looked like he wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words. Hangman was unusually quiet, flexing his hands and staring down at his boots as he walked. Coyote gave him a quick pat on the back, unspoken support in the gesture, while Payback and Fanboy jogged ahead, already in full pre-flight focus mode.

Out on the tarmac, the jets sat like beasts in cages, lined up and gleaming under the rising sun. Ground crew moved like clockwork around them—last checks, fuel lines, engine calibrations. There was no more time to think, no time to doubt. Just action.

Bradley pulled on his helmet, adjusted the chin strap, and walked toward his bird—his legs heavy but sure. As he passed your jet, he caught sight of you climbing the ladder, moving with absolute precision. Not a hitch, not a tremble. You were in it. Mission mode. And the fact that you were flying lead with him again, after everything, made his stomach twist with something close to guilt—and fear.

He climbed into his cockpit, settled into the seat, and began flipping switches with muscle memory as his only guide. The radio check crackled in his ears, Phoenix calling out her confirmation, Bob’s voice clear behind hers, then the rest of the squad checking in one by one.

Then your voice cut through the comms.

“Raven, checking in. Let’s get this done.”

Bradley exhaled slowly. That was the only time you said his name—or rather, his call sign. But it was something. It meant you were still here. Still fighting. And for now, that had to be enough.

The engines roared to life one by one, the ground vibrating under the jets as they powered up. Canopies lowered, cockpits sealed. The tower gave them the go.

“Dagger Team, you are cleared for launch. Wind is calm. You are green for runway zero-nine.”

Bradley’s heart pounded as he taxied forward. The jet responded to his touch like it had been waiting for this, eager to rise. He glanced to his left as your aircraft pulled up beside his. Even with the helmets on, he knew your eyes were forward, unflinching.

Then the tower crackled again.

“Dagger One, Raven. Dagger Two, Rooster. You’re up.”

He pushed the throttle, wheels beginning to roll. The runway stretched out before him, long and narrow, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Behind him, the rest of the team lined up. Bob. Phoenix. Coyote. Hangman. Payback. Fanboy.

But it all came down to you and him.

And God help him—he wasn’t ready.

The nose of his Super Hornet surged forward, and Bradley felt the familiar pressure slam into his chest as the jet took off—wheels leaving the ground, gravity falling away beneath him. Beside him, your jet matched speed perfectly, sleek and steady, climbing into formation like you’d done it a thousand times. And you had. But not like this.

Not after everything.

The early light turned the clouds amber and gold, washing the squad in something almost holy as they rose through it, punching toward altitude. One by one, the rest of Dagger team joined them, locking into formation with practiced grace. The comms stayed clean—just call signs, coordinates, altitude reads. No jokes. No distractions.

“Dagger One, leveling at Angels twenty. Adjust heading one-eight-zero,” Maverick’s voice came through clear in the comms. “Maintain visual. Prep for descent in thirty.”

“Copy,” you said, your tone sharp as a blade.

Bradley echoed, “Copy.”

And that was it.

Meanwhile, Phoenix and Bob pulled into place behind them. Hangman and Coyote took high cover. Payback and Fanboy trailed the rear, scanners running hot. It was tight, controlled, and tense as hell. Every second they flew deeper into enemy airspace, every knot they pushed, brought the danger closer.

Bradley adjusted his throttle, eyeing his instruments, stealing a glance at your bird. You were holding formation with surgical precision, every move by the book, every turn crisp. But he knew you. Knew the way you flew when you weren’t on fire with anger. This was different. You weren’t just sharp—you were locked down. Like you’d built a cockpit inside your cockpit and sealed yourself in.

He wanted to say something. Hell, he almost keyed his mic. But the words jammed in his throat. What was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I shattered whatever was left of your trust—now let’s go dodge missiles together?

Right.

Ahead, the canyon yawned open beneath them, jagged and waiting. The target zone lay past its edge, buried deep in shadow and surrounded by SAM installations that could shred a jet in seconds. It was beautiful in that terrifying, cruel way war always was.

Maverick’s voice cut back in. “Approaching descent marker. Final checks. This is it.”

Bradley ran his eyes over the console one last time. Fuel: green. Weapons armed. ECM online. Heart rate—fuck, he didn’t want to look. Then he flipped the intercom to your channel, hesitated, and finally spoke.

“Raven… you good?”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Stay in your lane, Bradshaw. That’s all you need to worry about.”

It stung. Even through the helmet. But he swallowed it, flicked the switch back to squad comms, and nodded to no one.

“Dagger Two ready.”

Below, the canyon loomed.

And there was no turning back now.

The ridge line appeared on the horizon like the edge of the world. Steep, jagged, dusted with shadow, and unforgiving. Below it, the narrow canyon path curved like a blade, waiting to slice them in half if they dared to hesitate.

“Dagger team,” Maverick called out, voice cool but firm in the comms, “committing to canyon run. Adjust altitude to Angels 2.5. Weapons hot. Keep spacing tight.”

One by one, call signs answered, low and focused. “Copy that.” “Dagger Three committing.” “Dagger Four on your six.” “Dagger Five locked in.”

Bradley’s jet dipped low, throttle steady beneath his palm. The descent pressed into his ribs like a second heartbeat. He saw your bird sliding into place ahead of him, crisp and deadly in your movements. No hesitation. No overcorrection. Just pure, cold skill.

You always made it look easy.

He tightened his grip on the stick. “Rooster, committing. On Raven’s six.”

The canyon swallowed them whole.

Instantly, the sky disappeared. Walls rose up around them, tight and jagged, like flying through the ribs of some ancient beast. Every turn required perfect alignment. Every twitch of the wrist had to be calculated. There was no margin for ego here—only instinct, only execution.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. The Gs started to kick harder with every turn. And yet, through the chaos of motion and comms, all Bradley could focus on was the distance between his nose and your tail.

You flew like you didn’t care about him at all.

And maybe you didn’t.

“Two klicks to primary target,” Bob’s voice broke through, cool and sharp.

“Radar’s still clean,” Fanboy added. “No bandits yet.”

“Jinx it one more time and I’m ejecting you myself,” Phoenix muttered under her breath.

Ahead, the canyon narrowed again. Maverick’s voice snapped through. “Coming up on choke point. Two-hundred-foot clearance. Watch your damn wings.”

Bradley dropped just beneath the turn, matching your movement, feeling the canyon press closer, like the world was trying to squeeze them into vapor. Dust kicked up along the walls. The sound of wind grew sharper. His HUD flickered slightly—but steadied again.

And still, you didn’t say a word.

He swallowed. “Raven, you copy?”

You finally replied, clipped and cold. “Focus on flying, Rooster. Don’t get sentimental on my six.”

The bite in your voice was acid. He wanted to curse back. He wanted to defend himself. But instead, he took a breath and locked into formation tighter. Because there was no room for anything else now—not anger, not guilt, not regret. Only the mission.

“Coming up on target marker in one klick,” Maverick called out. “Get ready. We only get one shot at this.”

Bradley checked his systems again. Everything lit green. His pulse was a metronome in his ears. His eyes never left you.

You led them forward like death couldn’t touch you. And all he could do was follow.

The target marker lit up on his HUD like a warning flare. Thirty seconds to drop. The canyon veered sharply left, then cut back to the right, narrowing so tight he could feel the pressure in his teeth. Maverick’s voice crackled through, taut with command.

“Approaching strike point. Line it up, Raven.”

Your voice was steady, almost too calm. “On it.”

Bradley fell into perfect sync with your path, his breath shallow behind the mask. You leveled the jet, armed your payload, and held that line like your bones were carved from steel. He barely blinked.

And then—you released.

The target erupted in a flash of light and smoke, the bunker collapsing beneath the strike with a thunderous boom. The canyon walls shook. Dust exploded upward, choking visibility. Static hissed in the comms.

But it wasn’t over.

“Missile lock! Two o’clock high!” Fanboy’s voice snapped through, panicked.

Bradley’s HUD screamed red—enemy radar pinging like mad. “Break! Break! Break!”

Jets scattered in all directions, peeling out of formation. Bradley turned hard, pulling Gs sharp enough to crush breath from his lungs. “Shit—shit!”

But you didn’t break.

You turned late. Just a second too late. He caught a glimpse of your bird banking upward to dodge, trying to shake the lock, and for a heartbeat—he thought you were going to make it.

Then everything went white.

A missile slammed into your jet’s undercarriage with a deafening explosion. The fireball was instant, blooming like a sunburst just feet in front of him. Debris spun out wildly—metal, smoke, parts of your tail—and the shockwave slammed into his jet so hard it rattled the entire frame.

“Raven’s hit!” Phoenix yelled. “She’s hit!”

“I’ve got no visual—shit! Shit—there’s no chute!” Hangman barked, voice rising.

“Raven, do you copy?” Maverick called, but it was dead air.

Bradley’s throat closed. He was spinning, trying to level out, scanning every inch of sky through the haze and static. Nothing. No chute. No signal. Your aircraft plummeted below the canyon line, and there was nothing.

“Do we have eyes on her?” Bob shouted.

“I—I saw the hit, but I didn’t see an ejection!” Payback said, his voice cracking.

“Raven, come in! Come in!” Bradley was yelling now, his voice wrecked with panic. “Eject, eject—fuck—do you copy?!”

But there was nothing but static.

“Abort,” Maverick barked. “All Daggers, abort! Pull out and RTB—now!”

“No—no, we can’t—” Bradley’s grip shook. His eyes were still searching, darting across every corner of the sky. “She might be down there—she might’ve made it out, we didn’t see—”

“Rooster, that's an order. Fall back!” Maverick snapped.

But Bradley was already banking his jet, against every protocol, against every rule. His hands moved on instinct, shoving the throttle forward. He wasn’t leaving you down there. Not again.

And then—

“Missile lock!”

Another tone. Another beep. And he knew he was out of time. He pulled the handle. The ejection sequence ripped him from the cockpit in a violent jolt, the sky turning end over end as he shot upward. Then—silence.

His jet exploded behind him. And all he could think was—Please let her be alive. Please.

The first thing he felt was cold.

Not the kind that prickled the skin—but the kind that punched straight through to the bone, hollow and unrelenting. Snow crunched beneath his back. His body ached. His head was pounding like someone had dropped an engine block on it. The second thing he felt was pain—a burning, sharp throb in his left shoulder and ribs.

Bradley opened his eyes slowly, blinking against flakes of snow drifting down from a gray, heavy sky. The forest around him was quiet, like death was holding its breath. Tall, naked trees stretched upward like spears, their branches coated in frost. The wind whispered low through them, a ghost with teeth.

He groaned, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt like they’d been filled with cement. His parachute was tangled behind him, half-buried in the snow, torn on a branch above. He reached up and unhooked the harness with trembling fingers, gritting his teeth when a bolt of agony shot through his shoulder.

“Shit…”

His voice was hoarse. He coughed, and blood slicked the corner of his mouth. Great. Internal bruising, maybe a cracked rib or two. But he was alive. Barely.

And then the memory came flooding back.

The canyon. The hit. The explosion. You.

He pushed himself upright, ignoring the ice that stung every exposed inch of skin. His helmet was gone. His gloves were torn. He had no radio—just the emergency beacon strapped to his vest, blinking red like it knew help wasn’t coming fast enough.

Bradley looked around. The snow was fresh, but something about it felt… wrong. It wasn’t just cold. It was unfriendly. The kind of terrain that didn’t want visitors. The kind that made sure you stayed lost. Visibility was low, and the forest twisted in every direction like a maze designed by God on a bad day.

But none of that mattered.

You might be down here.

He forced himself to his feet, staggering at first, but managing a few slow steps forward. He scanned the treetops, the sky, the snow-crusted floor. No smoke. No wreckage in sight. But he’d seen where your jet went down. Somewhere east—maybe northeast, judging by the angle before he punched out.

He turned that way. Started walking.

Every breath he took turned white in the air. Every step sent a fresh bolt of pain up his spine. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“C’mon, Raven,” he muttered under his breath. “Be out here. Be alive.”

Branches cracked under his boots as he moved through the trees. He passed a shattered piece of metal—a chunk of his own jet, scorched and half-buried. No sign of yours. No sign of you.

He kept going. Snow began to fall harder. And somewhere, beneath the aching cold and the rising dread, was a single thought echoing in his skull:

I can’t lose her. Not like this.

The snow was falling harder now, thick wet flakes that clung to his lashes and blurred his vision. The forest didn’t end—it just kept going, tree after tree, shadow after shadow, like a cruel joke. Bradley’s boots dragged through knee-deep powder, legs stiff, back screaming. His left arm had gone mostly numb, pain radiating from his shoulder with every step like a lit fuse.

He should’ve stopped. Sat down. Waited for pickup, assuming the beacon was even working through the storm.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

What if you were more hurt than he was? What if you hadn’t ejected in time? What if you were lying somewhere alone, freezing, bleeding, maybe already—

No. He wouldn’t let his brain finish that sentence. So he kept moving.

Then his foot caught on something—maybe a root, maybe nothing—and he pitched forward into the snow hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The impact jarred his ribs. He let out a strangled groan and stayed there for a second, cheek pressed into the cold, white ground.

He closed his eyes. His body begged him to stay down. Just for a minute. Maybe five. Maybe forever. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, faster and louder than the wind in the trees. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.

But then, he saw your face.

Not in front of him. In his head. That glare. That fire. The way you rolled your eyes when he made a joke. The way you bit out his name like it offended you just to say it. The way you screamed at him in the locker room. The sound of your voice on the comms today—steady, unflinching, strong.

If you were down... if you were out here...You’d never forgive him for stopping.

Bradley forced himself up. Hands shaking. Chest tight. Snow stuck to the bruises on his face, but he didn’t care. He used a tree to steady himself and pushed forward again, limping harder now. He wasn’t even sure which direction he was going anymore—just that it felt right.

Then he saw something in the snow ahead. Black against white.

He stumbled faster. Closer. It was a panel. Torn metal. Jagged edges. Burned black. From your jet. His heart kicked hard in his chest. He scanned the area, breath catching, and—there. Tracks. They weren’t clean. They were shallow, staggered, like someone dragging their feet through the snow. Like someone hurt. Bradley broke into a limping run. You were out here. Alive. And he was going to find you if it killed him.

The trail of blood in the snow was faint but unmistakable—small dots at first, then streaks, smeared like someone had stumbled and tried to crawl. Bradley followed it with panic rising in his throat, the cold forgotten, his injuries numbed by pure adrenaline. His breath came in ragged clouds. His shoulder burned. But his eyes were locked ahead.

Then he saw it.

Your body—curled up against the base of a tree, half-covered by windblown snow. You were slumped sideways, limp, pale, your helmet off but your flight suit zipped tight. One arm was tucked beneath you at a strange angle, the other loosely draped over a pack marked with a red cross. Your emergency bag. Your boots were scraped and muddy, your lips slightly parted. You weren’t moving.

“Jesus—no, no, no, no—” Bradley dropped to his knees beside you, his hands clumsy and frantic as he reached out. “Hey—hey, come on. Come on, Raven, don’t fuckin’ do this to me.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

A pulse. Weak. But there.

He nearly collapsed with the relief.

“You stubborn little shit,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your frozen forehead. “Goddamn you, you better wake up and scream at me. You better.”

Meanwhile, the wind cut sharper, and the snowfall thickened. Bradley knew this was a race now—not just against the dark, or the cold, but against time. You were alive, but you wouldn’t be for long out here. Neither of you would. Not without shelter. Not without heat.

He hoisted your emergency bag over his shoulder, then maneuvered your unconscious body slowly onto his back. The pain that tore through his ribs was blinding—he bit down on a shout, staggering under the weight. You were bleeding. Heavy. And your suit was soaked through from the snow.

“Hang in there,” he muttered, his voice barely audible through gritted teeth. “I swear to God, you better wake up and punch me in the face for this.”

Step by step, he pushed through the forest, following the only path he could see—the one that looked like it might go anywhere but here. Time blurred. His legs trembled with every stride. His boots slipped on ice. At one point, he fell to one knee and stayed there for a moment too long, snow creeping under his collar, exhaustion clawing at his spine. But the weight on his back kept him grounded.

Then—like some goddamn miracle—he saw it.

A cabin. Nestled between trees like it had been waiting for someone to come back. The windows were fogged over. The front steps were buried in drift. But the door was intact.

He stumbled to it, kicked it open with the last of his strength, and nearly collapsed onto the wooden floor. Inside, it smelled like old pine and dust. The furniture was rustic, untouched for months. A single bed sat near a stone fireplace. Firewood stacked in a basket nearby. A metal kettle on the stove. Someone’s vacation home. Abandoned.

Thank God.

He gently set you down on the bed, heart in his throat the entire time. You didn’t stir. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, but there. He grabbed a blanket off a nearby chair and threw it over you, then tore through the emergency bag—gauze, trauma scissors, a pressure bandage, thermal wraps, adrenaline injectors. Enough to stabilize you.

He worked quickly, cutting away the worst of the blood-soaked gear and dressing your shoulder, your ribs, your side. He moved like a man possessed. Meanwhile, he stripped off his own vest and outer jacket, hanging them near the fireplace as he loaded logs and struck a match with shaking fingers. The flame caught. Heat finally breathed into the room.

And through it all, he kept glancing back at you.

Still out. Still too quiet.

He sank down next to you, resting his forearm on his knee, staring at your face like it might flicker back to life if he willed it hard enough.

“You better wake up soon,” he murmured. “You better scream at me, or throw something, or tell me I fly like shit. Because if you die after all that yelling... I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

The wind howled outside. The fire popped gently. You didn’t move.

Bradley sat back against the side of the bed, exhaustion crashing into him like a wave. But he didn’t close his eyes. He just watched you. Waiting.

The fire crackled softly now, casting golden light that danced across the wooden walls of the cabin. The heat finally pushed back against the cold that had sunk into his bones. Bradley sat on the floor beside the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on your motionless form. He couldn’t feel his left shoulder anymore. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But none of that mattered.

You were still breathing.

He glanced down at the emergency bag you’d somehow managed to drag out of the wreckage with you. Classic you—organized, stubborn, always prepared for shit to go sideways. Inside, tucked neatly in plastic compartments, was everything they should’ve packed in his kit. Mylar blankets, antibiotics, tourniquets, even a collapsible kettle and water purifiers. Hell, you had caffeine gum and glucose tabs.

He exhaled, almost laughed. “Always the overachiever, huh?”

Then, suddenly, you twitched.

Not much—just a wince, a shift of your hand—but Bradley shot upright so fast the pain nearly knocked him over again. You let out a soft, cracked sound, low and pained, like your body was waking up before your mind could catch up.

“Hey,” he said quickly, moving to the side of the bed. “Hey—easy. It’s okay, you’re alright. Don’t move.”

You groaned again, brows tightening, mouth parting in discomfort.

He reached for the bag, pulling out a bottle of saline and a clean cloth. He soaked it and carefully dabbed it against the shallow gash on your temple, wincing at how cold your skin still was. You flinched, just barely.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know. I’m trying to go easy, okay?”

Then he checked the dressing on your ribs, peeled the edge of the gauze back slowly to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Still clean. Still holding. He replaced it gently, then adjusted the blanket to cover more of your shoulder.

Meanwhile, he grabbed one of the emergency mylar wraps, shook it open, and tucked it over your body, tucking it under your chin like some kind of broken-winged nursemaid. His hands shook the entire time.

You shifted again, your lips forming a faint grimace.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You're in a cabin. You crashed. I found you. You're safe.”

No answer. Just more stillness, more shallow breaths. But at least you were reacting now.

Bradley rose slowly, ignoring the sharp jab in his side, and returned to the fireplace. He fed in another log, using the lighter from your bag to ignite one of the long-burning starter cubes. The flames snapped higher, dancing shadows across the wall.

He sat back again, arms resting on his knees, glancing between you and the fire. You hadn’t screamed at him yet. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. You’d probably say bad.

“I meant it, you know,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You better fucking wake up. I didn’t drag you through the snow just for you to lie there looking peaceful like some angel who never called me a cocky dipshit.”

Your head tilted slightly. Another soft breath escaped your lips. Still no words. But it was something.

So he stayed by the fire. Tending it. Tending you. Waiting for the storm to pass.

The fire cracked beside him, throwing long shadows across the cabin walls, but all Bradley could hear was the slowing beat of your breathing. Shallow. Uneven. Too slow.

He moved to your side in a flash, heart leaping into his throat. His hands hovered over your chest, over your wrist, over the fragile pulse that fluttered there like it was threatening to disappear.

“Shit,” he muttered. “No, no, no—not now. Come on, Raven, don’t fucking do this.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck again. The pulse was faint. Too faint.

His chest caved. All the tension, all the fury, all the sharp-edged pride cracked right down the middle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, gripping your arm like it might anchor you to this world.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, do you hear me?” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to go out like this—not after everything, not after all the shit we’ve been through.”

His breath hitched, and suddenly it was like all the air in his lungs turned into water. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop it, but the tears came fast and hot anyway, burning tracks down his dirt-streaked cheeks. His shoulders shook.

“I should’ve been faster,” he choked. “I should’ve stayed closer—I should’ve been there before that missile—before the goddamn canyon even curved—” He paused, gasping, eyes red, lashes wet. “This is my fault. Again.”

Outside, the storm had turned brutal. The wind screamed against the walls. Snow clawed at the windows like it wanted to bury the whole fucking world.

“I know you hate me,” he whispered. “I know you think I’m a reckless, selfish asshole. You were right. I’ve been a goddamn coward. And you—you’re the best fucking pilot I’ve ever seen. And the strongest person I know. And I swear to God, if you wake up, I’ll stop trying to one-up you, I’ll stop acting like I’ve got something to prove. I’ll shut up for once. I’ll listen. I’ll—hell, I’ll slam my head into the wall like you told me to that one time if that’s what it takes.”

His hand slid into yours, desperate, pleading.

“You always said I couldn’t handle you, right?” His voice cracked again. “But the truth is I need you. I—I need you more than I ever wanted to admit. And if you die out here before I get to say that to your goddamn face—”

You moved.

Not much. A flicker. A twitch. A low groan from deep in your throat.

He froze.

Your lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before your eyes slitted open—just a fraction. Your mouth barely moved, lips cracked and voice dry as sandpaper.

“God,” you rasped, low and croaky. “You really are an idiot.”

Bradley’s breath caught hard—somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He dropped to his knees at your side again, grabbing your hand in both of his, knuckles white.

“Jesus Christ—you’re awake.”

You didn’t even look at him. Just kept that same, tired smirk. That barely-there, half-dead glint in your eye. Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Crying over me like a little bitch.”

Bradley let out a breath like he’d just broken the surface after nearly drowning.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he whispered, voice shaking, eyes bright. He squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him now. “I swear, if you pull this dying shit one more time—”

“Then what?” you mumbled, one eye cracking open a little more, lazy and unimpressed. “You gonna propose?”

He blinked at you. You blinked back. Slow. Exhausted. Still very much bleeding.

And then—despite himself—he laughed. It was breathless. Shaky. Like something had snapped loose in his chest. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you or collapse right there on the goddamn floor.

“You are the worst,” he murmured, brushing your hair gently back from your face.

You groaned faintly, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Takes one to know one.”

Bradley stood slowly, his knees cracking as he rose from the floor beside you. His body felt like a crumpled aircraft schematic—nothing where it should be, everything either bruised, strained, or screaming. He held his side as he moved to the emergency bag again, pulling out one of the compact medical kits and a pair of trauma shears. With a grimace, he peeled off his flight suit from the waist up, revealing the deep, dark purple bruising that ran across his ribs and shoulder like spilled oil beneath the skin.

He muttered a soft curse as he cleaned the abrasions on his side, gritting his teeth while wrapping the gauze tightly. The adhesive tape tugged at his skin, and the burn of antiseptic made him suck in a breath. Still, he worked methodically, like going through the motions might keep his brain from short-circuiting again. Then he checked his arm—nothing broken, just swelling and stiffness. Probably sprained. Maybe worse. He didn’t care.

When the bleeding was managed and the trembling in his hands eased just enough, he pushed himself toward the small propane stove tucked in the corner of the cabin’s kitchenette. He pulled one of the ration packs from your emergency bag—of course it was alphabetized and vacuum-sealed in perfect, obsessive order—and set it to heat in the small metal pot. The smell of chicken and rice rose with the steam. It wasn’t gourmet, but right now, it was goddamn salvation.

He glanced back at you.

You were still in bed, eyes barely open, your breathing raspy but steadier now. Your fingers twitched slightly under the mylar blanket, adjusting it more snugly against your chest. You watched him with the same kind of look you used to throw across briefing rooms and cockpit huddles—half amused, half daring him to say something stupid.

He turned back to the food.

“Y’know,” he said, voice hoarse but casual, “this emergency bag of yours might’ve actually saved our asses.”

You didn’t miss a beat, even with your voice still ragged. “God forbid a woman be prepared.”

Bradley let out a short, huffed laugh. He shook his head, stirring the rations with a spoon you’d also somehow managed to pack.

“Guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me five,” you croaked, eyes narrowed slightly. “One for the canyon, one for the crash, one for dragging me through a forest like a sack of potatoes, one for sobbing like a rom-com lead, and one in advance for whatever dumbass thing you’re gonna do next.”

Bradley looked over his shoulder at you, lips tugging upward despite the exhaustion heavy in his bones. He didn’t argue. You were right.

He finished heating the meal, split it between two reusable plastic bowls from the pack, and limped over to your side. He sat down carefully at the edge of the bed, handing you one of them.

“Don’t spill it,” he warned. “I’m not cleaning shit up tonight.”

You took the bowl with a shaky grip, staring down at the steaming food. Then you raised an eyebrow at him.

“You heated it wrong.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

But you were both smiling now. Just barely. Just enough. The cabin groaned quietly as the storm raged on outside, but inside—there was warmth. A little silence. A little breathing room. And for once, you weren’t yelling. Yet.

The food sat warm between them, mostly untouched now. The first few bites had been out of necessity, but after that, neither of them had the appetite to keep going. The adrenaline was gone. The cold was gone. What remained was silence—slow, fragile, and heavy. The kind that settled into your bones when there was no more screaming left. No more fire to throw.

Bradley sat beside you, hunched forward slightly, his bruised ribs flaring with every breath. His bowl rested on his knee, cooling fast. He hadn’t looked at you in a minute. Not really. Just stolen glances, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

The fire crackled gently behind them.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were soft. Barely more than breath. But they landed with the weight of an avalanche. You didn’t look at him at first, your eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Your hands gripped the edges of the blanket, fingers tight and white.

“I mean it,” he continued, his voice cracking around the edges. “For everything. For Top Gun. For pushing too hard. For flying like I had something to prove. For the canyon. For the first time I almost got you killed. And for the second.”

You still didn’t say anything, but your jaw clenched. Your throat bobbed like you were trying to swallow down something sharp.

Bradley exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I thought if I was first, it would matter more. That it would mean something. But all it did was piss you off. And hurt both of us. And I just—I didn’t know how to stop. You made everything harder. You always have.” His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating, hopeless. “And easier. At the same time.”

Finally, you turned to look at him.

Your face was pale, streaked with dried blood, your eyes bloodshot and half-lidded from exhaustion. But when you looked at him, really looked at him, it made him feel like the floor had dropped out.

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered, voice gravelled and tight. “For never letting up. For fighting you on everything. For...for that day in the hangar. For what I said.”

He shook his head, quick and pained. “No. You had every right. I was reckless. I almost got you killed.”

“And I was scared,” you admitted, the confession like glass dragging across your throat. “I knew what this job meant. I knew it could end like that. But I—I didn’t think it would almost end like that. Not with you.”

Your voice cracked, and you looked away. The tears started quietly, slipping down your cheeks without warning. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. You were too tired. Too done pretending it didn’t matter.

Bradley set his bowl aside. Then he turned toward you fully, his good hand reaching for yours again. He didn’t take it, not yet. He just let it hover there.

“I couldn’t breathe when I saw your jet go down,” he said, voice raw and trembling. “I thought—I thought I lost you. And I realized I would’ve traded every ‘first,’ every top score, every kill, just to get you back. Just to hear you insult me again.”

You let out a choked laugh that sounded like a sob. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I know.”

Then you slid your hand into his, and it was the gentlest thing either of you had done in years. He gripped it like it meant everything—because it did.

And finally, you both cried. Together.

The fire kept burning. The storm kept raging. But in that little cabin, two stubborn hearts started to thaw—slowly, painfully, and with everything they’d never been able to say before now.

The silence between you stretched, no longer bitter, no longer cold—just full. Full of everything left unsaid and everything that had already been spoken in ways neither of you were ever brave enough to admit. The air felt thick, like it had shifted from smoke and frost to something warmer. Denser. And when your fingers curled around his, it wasn’t just forgiveness. It was surrender.

Bradley looked at your hand in his, then up to your face. Your lips were chapped, bruised in places, dried blood at the corner. Your cheek was swollen from where your helmet hadn’t caught the brunt of the crash. You looked like hell.

You looked perfect.

Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you like a pulse—hot, aching, and inevitable. Maybe it had always been coming to this. Maybe all the insults and shouting matches had been foreplay in disguise. Maybe somewhere between trying to outfly each other, you'd started orbiting too close. And now here you were. Burned. Broken. Breathing.

He leaned in slowly, not to test the waters—but to let you stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched just once. Then your eyes flicked down to his mouth. And that was all it took.

Bradley closed the distance, his mouth crashing into yours like it had been fighting gravity for years. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw—like a gasp, like a scream, like everything they hadn’t been allowed to feel until now. Your hands tangled in his flight suit collar, dragging him closer with a desperation that nearly unmade him. He felt the sting of your busted lip against his, the scrape of a healing cut across his cheek as your palm slid up to cup his jaw. He didn’t care. He leaned into it.

Meanwhile, the fire flared behind you both, casting long, molten shadows that flickered across your faces. The heat didn’t come from the flames anymore.

Bradley groaned softly against your lips, like he’d been holding it in for years, like he’d just let go of something heavy that had been dragging behind him. Your fingers curled tighter, and he felt your body arch slightly, broken ribs be damned. He caught you with one arm around your back, mindful but firm, grounding you in his hold.

Then, finally, you broke the kiss. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to let your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling.

“I fucking hate you,” you whispered, but your voice was trembling and your mouth brushed his when you said it.

Bradley smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

You leaned in again, slower this time, lips pressing to his with something more like reverence now. The heat was still there, simmering just beneath the surface—but it wasn’t fury anymore. It was fear. Relief. Longing.

Maybe even love. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer. But in the space between breath and burn, you both knew something had changed.

The kiss didn’t end so much as dissolve—like it had melted into your mouths, slow and heavy, as heat curled low in your belly. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, throwing shadows across the walls, but the burn between your thighs was hotter. Bradley didn’t pull back. He didn’t stop to ask again. He just held you tighter when your breath hitched and your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his flight suit, your touch gentle but need begging just beneath it.

He moved like it hurt—because it did. He winced as he knelt beside the bed, his body aching from impact, scraped raw from the crash. But that pain barely registered when your eyes flicked up to meet his, half-lidded and dark, when you whispered “Are you sure?” with a voice that already knew the answer. And he nodded, chest rising and falling like he was winded just from looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “I just… I need to be inside you. That’s all I want right now.”

You pulled at his shirt with trembling fingers, tugging it off like unwrapping something sacred and ruined. His skin was mottled with bruises, dirt still smudged across his collarbones, but your hands didn’t hesitate. You ran your palms down his chest, your thighs pressing together as arousal coiled tight in your gut. Bradley watched your pupils blow wide as he stripped, your gaze raking down his body like you were already picturing how it’d feel when he finally filled you up.

He slid into bed beside you, and you rolled to meet him, teeth clenched against the soreness in your ribs. But the ache of your injuries couldn’t drown out the ache between your legs. Your hand drifted down his stomach, brushing over the trail of hair below his navel, fingers curling around the thick length already straining against his boxers. He hissed at the contact, hips twitching. “Jesus,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your thumb teased the head, already leaking, slick and hot against your skin. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching the muscles in his stomach tighten with each pass. “You’re shaking,” you whispered. He smirked, breath ragged. “So are you.”

His hand slipped beneath the blanket and cupped your heat—no preamble, no teasing—just his fingers pressing into your soaked panties and groaning when he felt how wet you already were. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice gone low and rough. “You’re dripping for me. All that from a kiss?”

You nodded, breath hitching, thighs parting for him. “I’ve been wet since you touched my waist.”

That made something snap in him. He shoved the blanket down and yanked your underwear aside with one hand, baring you to the cool air. His fingers slid through your folds, slick and messy, before two plunged inside without hesitation. You gasped, back arching, hand still wrapped around his cock. He curled his fingers expertly, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

You moaned, louder this time, grinding down against his hand. Your grip on him tightened, pumping his cock harder now, your wrist flicking with every stroke. The bed creaked under the weight of your need, the scent of sex already thick in the air.

“Condom?” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. “No. Need to feel you. Need to be raw with you. Please.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was finger-fucking you, not with the way your orgasm was already building—tight and hot and ready to blow. You pulled him on top of you, whispering, “Then do it. Fuck me, Bradley. I want to feel you come inside.”

He growled at that—an honest-to-God growl—and lined himself up with trembling hands. He pushed in slow, agonizingly slow, watching every second of your face as his cock sank into your dripping heat. You were soaked, and still it stretched—thick and overwhelming, making you bite down a whimper as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, forehead resting against yours. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good.”

He pulled back and thrust again—slow, deep, filthy. The wet slap of skin echoed in the cabin, joined by your gasps, your curses, his ragged breaths. He fucked you with reverence and hunger, hips grinding in a rhythm that was somehow both tender and obscene.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, forcing him deeper. His pelvis ground against your clit every time he bottomed out, and your moans turned to whines, breathless and needy. “Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he panted, his voice wrecked. “I’m gonna fill you up. You want that? Want me to come inside you, leave you dripping full of me?”

You nodded frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Bradley. Please.”

He started thrusting harder, faster, but still holding himself back enough not to hurt you. Your bodies moved like you were built for this—like you were made to survive and then fuck each other back to life. He kissed you through it, tongue sliding into your mouth, catching your moans and swallowing your cries. You were close—so fucking close—and he felt it in the way you clenched down around him, fluttering with every stroke.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice raw. “Want to feel you come on my cock. Come, baby.”

You shattered. Loud, messy, back arching and hips jerking as you came around him, gushing slick down his thighs. He didn’t even make it a full thrust after that—he plunged deep, groaning loud into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped back out around him.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Bradley collapsed onto you, still inside, still pulsing weakly. You were shaking. He was shaking. His face buried in your neck, your fingers in his hair, both of you panting like you’d just run miles.

He kissed your temple. “Still hate me?”

You laughed, breathless, sated, ruined. “Ask me again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll let you do that again.”

His laugh was broken and full of wonder. The fire popped, the world outside frozen, but inside that bed you were burning alive.

And finally—finally—he let himself sleep. Still buried in you. Still holding on.

Bradley didn’t sleep for long. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Just long enough for the sweat to dry on your skin, just long enough for the fire to settle into a low, pulsing warmth around you both. He stirred against you, brow furrowed like his body refused to believe it was over. You were already awake, eyes half-closed, thighs sticky where his release had started to seep out of you and onto the sheets.

You shifted slightly, and that tiny movement—just the drag of your bare thigh over his hip—made him groan low in his throat. His cock twitched where it still rested, soft but thick, pressed against your inner thigh. You weren’t sure who moved first, but soon enough his mouth was at your neck again, slow kisses turned wet and open-mouthed, his hand creeping down to your ass to pull you closer.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin. “I’m still hard for you. Didn’t even mean to be.”

You smirked, pressing your hips forward just enough that his length slipped against your slit, catching in the mess he’d left inside you. “You didn’t pull out,” you whispered. “I’m still full of you.”

That made him groan—deep and broken—and he pulled back to look at you, eyes blown wide and dark. “Say that again.”

You leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, voice all silk and sin. “You came so deep inside me, Bradley. I can feel it dripping out every time I move. You gonna fix that?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your hips, rolled you onto your stomach, and pulled your ass up into the air like it was instinct. You gasped as your cheek pressed into the pillow, arms tucked beneath you, body still sore but aching in a whole new way now. He slid behind you, spreading your thighs with rough hands, and let out a choked moan when he saw the slick mess between your legs—his come still leaking from your swollen pussy, glistening in the firelight.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at that. Look at what I did to you.”

You tried to lift your head, but he pushed it gently back down. “Stay just like that, baby. Let me clean it up.”

You expected his fingers. You got his tongue.

Bradley dove in without warning, mouth sealing over your cunt as he licked his own cum out of you with slow, filthy precision. His tongue lapped through your folds, circling your clit before dipping back in, tongue-fucking you while groaning into your pussy like it was his last meal. You cried out, hips bucking, hands clutching the sheets as your body lit up all over again.

“You taste like us,” he muttered between licks. “So fucking sweet and dirty. Bet you’d let me keep you like this, wouldn’t you? Keep you leaking for days.”

You whined, breathless, wrecked. “Bradley, please—fuck, please, I need you again.”

He pulled back, spit-slick and shameless, and stroked his cock—already fully hard again, glistening at the tip with fresh pre-come. “Yeah?” he panted. “You need me to fuck it back in? Fill you up again until it’s running down your thighs?”

You nodded, dizzy with it. “Yes—God, yes, do it, don’t be gentle this time, just fuck me—”

He didn’t hesitate. He lined up and shoved back in with one deep, brutal thrust that had you crying out into the pillow. The sound he made—guttural, lost—was pure filth. You were already so wet, so open, he slid in to the hilt in one stroke, and then he started moving.

No slow build-up this time. No worship. This was raw and carnal, fast and mean. His hips slapped against your ass as he pounded into you from behind, one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. You were babbling now, words slurring into moans, your pussy fluttering around him with every thrust.

“You wanted this,” he growled, leaning down to bite at your shoulder. “Wanted me to ruin you. Wanted me to fuck my come back into you like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you gasped. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m so yours, Bradley.”

He snapped his hips harder, angle brutal, tip hitting your cervix with every thrust. “Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“You gonna let me breed you?” he snarled against your ear. “Let me fuck you full until it takes?”

You came so hard your vision went white.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body convulsing around him as your pussy clenched down hard, milking him with wet, obscene sounds. Your scream was muffled by the pillow, and Bradley wasn’t far behind.

“Shit—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—”

He slammed in one last time, burying himself to the base and spilling inside you again. Hot, thick, endless. His cock twitched deep in your cunt, pumping rope after rope of come into your already-filled pussy, and neither of you could breathe.

When he finally collapsed, it was on top of you, still deep, both of you sticky and shaking. His lips brushed your ear.

“That’s twice,” he muttered. “You really want me to ask you again in the morning?”

You groaned, completely fucked-out. “Ask me before breakfast. I might be ready for round three.”

And in the faint, smoky light of the dying fire, Bradley laughed—low and satisfied—and kissed your spine like you were the only thing left in the world worth surviving for.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time you both stopped shaking. The room smelled like sex and smoke, like sweat and survival, like the kind of love that doesn’t ask for forgiveness because it never needed to. You stayed tangled together, his cock still nestled deep inside you, warmth spilling from between your thighs with every breath.

His chest rose against your back, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other curled protectively around your thigh like he didn’t trust the night not to steal you. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Because whatever this was—this wreckage, this worship, this filthy, fevered clinging to each other in the middle of nowhere, you didn’t bother pretending it was anything else.