Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.
The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.
I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.
These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know.
Notes: This story takes place in 1986 up to the Top Gun: Maverick timeline. I will try to get it as accurate as possible. There may be some mistakes, so please don't hold that against me.
The week unfolded more gently than either of you expected.
Friday morning, Tommy woke up before sunrise and barreled down the hallway to make sure his father hadn’t disappeared overnight. Tom was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched. When Tommy launched himself at him, Tom caught him easily, steady and solid.
The three of you went to breakfast at the small diner near the lake — the one with vinyl booths and chipped mugs. Tommy insisted on sitting next to Tom, talking nonstop about school, spring break plans, and how he was going to beat Dad at mini-golf this year. Tom listened like every word mattered. Because it did.
Saturday, Tom fixed the loose cabinet hinge you’d been meaning to tighten for months. He didn’t ask. He just noticed. Later, he helped Tommy tune up his bike in the driveway, sleeves rolled up, grease on his hands. You watched from the porch, something tight in your chest loosening without permission.
Sunday was Easter. Tommy woke you both before seven, already half-dressed, clutching his basket. There were eggs in the yard, laughter in the cold morning air, and a photo you took of the two of them — Tommy grinning wide, Tom crouched beside him, one hand steady on his son’s shoulder. That evening, Riley joined you all for dinner and it was like the good old days. Happiness and laughter.
Monday blurred into the kind of ordinary that once defined your life together. A trip to the park. Tommy insisting Dad push him higher on the swings. Ice cream afterward, even though it was still too cold for it. That night, Tommy fell asleep on the couch halfway through a movie, and Tom carried him to bed. He lingered in the doorway afterward, watching your son breathe.
Tuesday was quieter. Tommy spent the afternoon at a friend’s house, and for the first time all week, it was just the two of you in the kitchen. You moved around each other carefully at first, like reacquainting yourselves with shared space. At some point, your hands brushed reaching for the same dish towel. Neither of you pulled away immediately.
You talked. About work, Wisconsin, Virgina, and about how strange it was that Tommy was already old enough to ride his bike down the driveway. It wasn’t tense or easy either, but it was honest.
Wednesday brought the awareness of time running out. Tommy grew quieter whenever the subject of Tom’s flight came up. That night, the three of you played a board game at the dining table. Tommy accused both of you of cheating. Tom laughed — really laughed — and the sound caught you off guard.
Later, after Tommy went to bed, the house settled into that deep Midwestern stillness. You found Tom in the guest bedroom, suitcase open on the bed, clothes folded with military precision.
He looked up when you stepped into the doorway.
The week had softened him. You could see it. The edges weren’t as sharp.
"Thank you for washing my clothes," he said.
You shrugged. "It was no problem."
“I’ve enjoyed this,” he said quietly.
You leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely. “It’s been a nice week.”
He nodded once. His hands rested on the edge of the suitcase, unmoving.
“It’s reminded me of… things,” he added.
The air shifted. Not tense. Just heavier.
You held his gaze. “Of what?”
Tom exhaled slowly. Not like a man bracing for impact — but like one choosing not to run.
“Of what we are,” he said. “And what we need to talk about.”
The house was silent around you as you stepped into the room.
Tom closed the suitcase, not latching it — just resting his palm on top of it like he needed something steady beneath his hand.
“What do we need to talk about?” you asked carefully.
He met your eyes. Direct. Controlled. But not distant.
He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I made a decision.”
Your stomach tightened, though you couldn’t have said why.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he continued. “For you. For Tommy. For… everything that’s been strained between us.”
You folded your arms loosely, more to hold yourself together than anything else. “Tom.”
The word didn’t register at first.
“Filed for what?” you asked automatically, still trying to connect it to something logistical. Something temporary.
You went still, as if the air had been knocked from your lungs.
“You filed,” you repeated, because it didn’t sound real.
“And you were going to tell me… when?”
“After a week of—” You stopped yourself. You weren’t even sure what you were about to say. After a week of family dinners? Of family photos? Of him fixing cabinet hinges and carrying your son to bed?
After a week of feeling almost normal?
“The papers are in my suitcase,” he said, not defensive — just precise. “I just need you to look them over.”
“In your suitcase,” you repeated, your voice thinner than you intended.
The same suitcase that had sat open on the floor all week. The same one you’d stepped around in the living room. The same one Tommy had climbed over looking for a sweatshirt.
The papers had been there the entire time.
You went still, as if the air had been knocked from your lungs.
“You brought them here,” you said slowly.
“I didn’t want to do this over the phone,” Tom replied. “And I didn’t want to ambush you when I got back to Virginia.”
“So you thought this was better?” Your eyes searched his face, looking for something to anchor to. “Waiting until the night before you leave?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “I wanted us to have the week.”
The honesty of that almost hurt more.
“You wanted one last normal week,” you said.
“No.” His voice was firmer now. “I wanted to see if I was wrong.”
He stepped closer, not invading your space — just closing the emotional distance.
“I needed to see you here,” he said. “In this house. In your life. With him. I needed to know if what I’ve been feeling is distance… or just fear.”
“And?” you asked quietly.
Tom’s eyes flickered with something unguarded.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
The confession hung there, fragile and real.
You let out a shaky breath. “You slept under the roof of my house knowing those papers were ten feet away from you every night.”
“And you didn’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “None of this was pretend.”
“That almost makes it worse,” you whispered.
Silence settled between you again — heavier now, threaded with hurt.
“Y/N. I know I'm your safe space. I've known that since we met,” he said more softly. “I don’t want to dictate your future, but you're the one who chose to leave our marriage for this job."
You crossed your arms, holding yourself together. “So what are you asking?”
“For you to look at them,” he said. “To think about it. To tell me if you think I’m wrong.”
You looked at him. “And if I do?”
His throat worked once. “Then we figure out what trying again actually means. Not just surviving. Not just co-parenting from different states. But actually choosing it.”
“And if I don’t?” you asked.
His composure slipped — just slightly.
“Then you sign them, if you agree, and we figure out everything with Tommy.”
Not anger.
Not bitterness.
Just a line in the sand drawn with shaking hands.
You looked toward the suitcase again, as if you could see through the fabric to the decision folded neatly inside.
A week of laughter, shared glances, of feeling almost like yourselves again.
“I have to admit. I didn't even think about it,” you said quietly.
You lifted your eyes back to his. “You were the first who showed me what love really is.”
That almost made it worse.
His throat worked before he spoke. “And you were the first person who made me want to love,” he responded quietly as he walked over and placed a finger under your chin.
You didn’t flinch at that.
You knew what that meant.
He told you about his childhood. Felt the chill in it. You’d stood in your apartment doorway years ago when his father showed up unannounced — sharp, critical, unimpressed — and you’d held your ground while Tom was halfway across the world in a cockpit.
You knew what kind of silence raised him.
You stepped closer, your voice soft. “I know how hard that was for you.”
His jaw tightened slightly — not defensive, just exposed.
“I wasn’t built for it,” he admitted. “Not the way you deserved.”
“You weren’t broken,” you said immediately. “You were just… never taught.”
A flicker passed through his eyes at that. Gratitude. Pain. Memory.
“You taught me,” he said.
You felt them like a hand steadying you from behind.
Before you could second-guess it, you reached up and touched his face — your thumb brushing along his cheek, familiar and careful, like muscle memory.
“I didn’t teach you,” you whispered. “You chose it.”
He leaned into it — just slightly.
“Because of you,” he said.
And that was the tragedy of it.
This wasn’t a marriage that failed because there was no love.
It was a marriage built from hard-won love that grief had slowly hollowed out from the inside.
You exhaled, unsteady. “We did everything we knew how to do.”
His hand came up then, covering yours where it rested against his face. Not to move it.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The space between you felt thin — fragile — like one wrong movement would shatter it.
Tom’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
The words dissolved into the space between you, unfinished. He watched you for a heartbeat longer, then leaned in and kissed you.
The kiss wasn’t urgent at first.
His lips moved over yours with a tenderness that felt like a confession, his hand cupped your face, his thumb stroking the line of your jaw.
You kissed him back, letting your fingers tangle in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left for doubt.
He responded with a low hum of approval, his hands sliding down to your waist to draw you fully against him.
The kiss deepened, becoming a slow, thorough exploration that left you breathless and aching.
When he finally pulled back, his green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "Stay," he whispered, the word a rough plea against your lips. "Just for tonight."
You nodded, unable to find your voice, and he kissed you again — deeper this time, not reckless but intense enough to steal the air from your lungs.
Even as you leaned into him, a quiet, practical thought flickered through your mind: you would have to slip back into your bedroom before Tommy woke up. You couldn’t let him see this and mistake it for something it wasn’t.
Just a goodbye neither of you knew how to say any other way.
The thought was a cold current beneath the warmth of his touch.
You pushed it away, focusing instead on the feel of his mouth on yours, the solid heat of his body anchoring you towards the bed.
His hands moved with a new kind of urgency, as if he too sensed the dawn approaching, a deadline the two of you couldn't ignore.
He laid you gently onto your back, his weight settling over you in away that felt both familiar and heartbreakingly final. This time, there were no words, no questions.
His movements were a silent language of memory and regret, each touch meant to be memorized, each kiss a brand upon your skin.
His lips traced the shell of your ear, his breath a warm, unsteady whisper that sent a tremor down your spine.
"I've missed this," he murmured, the admission so raw it felt like a crack in the ice he wore so perfectly in the world.
His hands mapped your body with reverence that spoke of absence, every touch a rediscovery of a landscape he once knew by heart.
You arched into him, your own hands sliding beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt to feel the taut muscles of his back.
A quiet sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a surrender, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply as if to commit your scent to memory all over again.
The room was silent save for the sound of your mingled breaths and the soft rustle of sheets.
He lifted his head, his gaze searching yours in the dim light, the usual cool detachment in his green eyes replaced by a vulnerability that made your chest ache.
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, a slow, thoughtful gesture.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Because if you don't, I don't think I can."
You didn't tell him to stop. You couldn't. Instead, you pulled him back down to you, sealing your answer with a kiss that held all the words you'd been afraid to say for months. It was a conversation of sighs and trembling touches, a language of skin and memory that needed no translation. Every slide of his hands, every shift of his hips, felt like a desperate attempt to rewrite a history that was already written in stone.
He helped you out of your shirt, his hands slow and careful, and you reached for the hem of his, lifting it over his head with the same quiet familiarity.
In the quiet dark, the distance of months and legal paperwork seemed to dissolve. His skin was warm under your palms, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your own. He kissed you again, this time with a deep, aching sweetness that felt less like passion and more like a farewell.
The careful tenderness fractured. A shuddering breath broke from him, and he captured your mouth with a new, desperate hunger, his hands tightening on your hips as he shifted to settled more fully between your thighs. The slow exploration became a consuming fire, each touch no longer a question but a claiming, each gasp swallowed by the other as if the air itself was too precious to waste.
You met his intensity with your own, nails scraping lightly down his back, earning a low, rough groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours. He dragged his mouth from yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, across your collarbone, his teeth grazing sensitive skin in a way that made you gasp and arch off the bed.
He moved against you, the friction a perfect, agonizing promise, and you could feel the rigid proof of his desire pressed insistently against you. Every nerve in your body was alight, singing a chorus that drowned out every rational thought of tomorrow.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned your name into the hollow of your shoulder, the sound strained and broken. His control, that famous, unshakeable discipline, was unraveling strand by strand in your and hands, and the power of it was as intoxicating as his touch.
"Look at me," he breathed, and when your eyes found his, the raw need you saw there stole the air from your lungs.
His hips rolled in a slow, deliberate rhythm that was pure torture, the thin barrier of your remaining clothing the only thing separating you from what you both desperately wanted.
"Tom," you gasped, the word a plea and a prayer all at once.
He stilled, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts that mingled with your own. For a long moment, he simply held himself there, suspended, his entire body trembling with the effort. The, with a reverence that belied the fevered pace of moments before, he peeled away the last of your clothes, his eyes drinking in the sight of you as if he were a man seeing the sun after a long, cold winter.
You unbuttoned his jeans as he traced the line of your hip, his calloused fingers a familiar contrast to the softness there, before he finally shed his own jeans, opened a condom, sheathed himself, and moved back over you.
This time, there was no hesitation. He entered you in one smooth, deep stroke that made you cry out, a sound he caught with his mouth. The feeling was a homecoming so profound it bordered on pain, a perfect, devastating fit that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
He stilled, buried deep, his body rigid above you. "God," he choked out, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn't name.
You moved together with a rhythm born of years of intimacy, a silent, desperate language that spoke of love and loss in every measured thrust.
The world outside -- the divorce papers, the miles apart, the looming, lonely future -- shrunk to nothing. There was only this: the slide of skin on skin, the hitch of his breath when you tightened around him, the way his eyes never left yours, holding you captive in a shared, private universe.
The pressure built, a coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly, each movement pushing you closer to the edge.
He seemed to sense it and his pace shifted, one hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back so he could kiss the frantic pulse at the base of you throat.
When the release came, it was not a quiet surrender but a shared, shuddering cataclysm that tore through you both. His cry was a raw broken sound against your skin, and you clung to him as the waves crashed over you, your own sob muffled against the sweat-damp hollow of his shoulder.
For a long time afterward, he didn't move, his weight a grounding, solid comfort as your heartbeats slowly fell into sync. The room was filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the scent of salt and sex and him hanging in the air.
He finally shifted, rolling to his side and pulling you with him. He took off the condom before tucking you against his chest with an arm possessively draped over your waist. His fingers traced idle, absent patterns on your bare arm.
The quiet felt different now — not tense like earlier in the night, but fragile. Like something sacred had passed between you and neither of you quite knew how to handle the aftermath.
Your cheek rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was slower now, calmer, but every now and then his fingers would pause against your skin as if his mind had drifted somewhere else entirely.
“You always did this,” you murmured softly.
His fingers stilled. “Did what?”
“Trace patterns,” you said, your voice thick with sleep and emotion. “When you couldn’t turn your brain off.”
A small breath left him — almost a laugh, but not quite.
“I guess some habits stick.”
You tilted your head slightly so you could look at him. The dim light from the hallway cut across his face, softening the hard lines you’d grown so used to over the years. Without the uniform, without the distance, he looked younger. Almost like the man you’d first fallen in love with.
“You’re thinking about tomorrow,” you said quietly.
Tom didn’t answer right away. His hand resumed its slow movement along your arm, but the patterns were less absent now, more deliberate.
“Yeah,” he admitted finally.
You both knew what tomorrow meant.
His flight.
The suitcase.
The papers.
Everything that would come after.
You shifted closer without thinking, your leg brushing his beneath the sheets. “I wish things had turned out differently.”
Tom’s arm tightened around your waist.
The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years — deployments, missed anniversaries, hospital rooms, the quiet grief you’d never quite managed to share.
After a moment, he pressed a slow kiss into your hair.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured.
You lifted your head slightly. “About what?”
“About you teaching me how to love.”
“You gave me the best years of my life,” he continued quietly. “You and Tommy.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of him soak in, knowing even as you did that it couldn’t last.
“Then why does this feel like we’re throwing it away?” you whispered.
Tom’s chest rose beneath your cheek.
“We’re not throwing it away,” he said softly. “We’re just… admitting we can’t hold onto it the way we used to.”
The honesty in his voice hurt more than anger ever could have and you looked at him.
“What?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together slightly as his green eyes searched your face.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“Nothing,” you said softly, shaking your head a little. “I was just thinking…”
You let out a quiet breath, your fingers absently brushing along the line of his chest.
“Well,” you said with a faint hint of humor, “if this is how my love life ends, at least I can say I hooked one of the hottest and most sought-after Top Gun pilots.”
Tom blinked at you, clearly not expecting that.
For a moment, he just stared.
Then a quiet huff of laughter escaped him, the sound low against the pillow.
“That’s quite a legacy,” he said dryly.
You shrugged lightly, though your eyes softened. “I mean, come on. Tom Kazansky? I did pretty well for myself.”
He shook his head, but there was warmth in his expression now.
“You didn’t hook me,” he said. “I volunteered.”
That made you smile for real this time.
Tom studied your face for a moment longer, the humor slowly fading back into something gentler, something deeper.
“You deserved someone better than a Navy pilot who disappears half the year,” he said quietly.
You reached up, touching his cheek again.
“No,” you murmured. “I deserved you.”
For a moment neither of you spoke, the weight of that simple truth settling between you.
Then you rested your head back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart as your hand moved across his chest, memorizing it for the last time, both of you knowing the morning was coming whether you were ready for it or not.
The next morning, you stood in the kitchen in worn jeans and a soft T-shirt, a flannel thrown on over it. Your hair was pulled into a loose French braid that ran down the middle of your back.
The house felt too quiet—like it was holding its breath, waiting for something that wasn’t coming.
You wrapped your hands around your mug of coffee, though you hadn’t taken a sip yet. It had long since gone lukewarm as you stood there, your mind drifting back to last night—every word, every touch, every moment you knew you shouldn’t replay… and couldn’t stop yourself from revisiting.
You had slipped back into your bedroom before the sun came up, careful, quiet. Tommy hadn’t stirred. The house had stayed still, unchanged—like nothing had happened at all.
Finally, you lifted the mug and took a small sip, the bitter, cooled coffee grounding you just as footsteps sounded behind you.
You didn’t need to turn around. You knew those steps instinctively. You always had.
“Coffee’s on. I’m sure you know where the mugs are by now,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt as you turned, leaning back against the counter like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
And for a second—just a second—you saw the man you married.
Tom stood in the doorway in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. There was something unreadable in his expression, something quieter than the tension that had filled the room the night before.
Silence stretched between you, thick but no longer suffocating—just… heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.
He finally moved, crossing the kitchen to the cabinet without asking, like muscle memory guided him. Like some things between you had never really changed.
You watched him as he reached for a mug, your fingers tightening slightly around your own.
You exhaled slowly, pushing yourself off the counter just enough to stand a little straighter, even if your heart wasn’t nearly as steady.
“About last night…” you started, then paused, searching for the right words—and realizing there weren’t any perfect ones.
Your eyes met his again, and this time you didn’t look away.
The words came out quiet, but certain. Grounded in something deeper than impulse or loneliness.
Tom took a sip of his coffee. “Neither do I.”
The words settled between you, quiet but solid—like something finally said out loud that had been understood long before now.
Your shoulders eased, just barely, as if you hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until that moment.
A breath you didn’t know you were keeping slipped free.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
You just stood there, looking at each other over two mugs of cooling coffee, the weight of the past still there—but not crushing. Not like before.
“I don’t… expect anything to come from it,” you added after a moment, your voice softer now, more careful. “I’m not trying to blur lines or make things harder than they already are.”
Tom’s jaw shifted slightly, his gaze dropping to his mug before lifting back to you.
“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “And I’m not… looking to rewrite anything either.”
You nodded once, accepting it for what it was. "Well, I'm glad we finally agree on something." You took a sip of your coffee. "I also want you to know that it mattered," you said, almost to yourself — but not quite.
Tom stilled at that and his eyes softened, something familiar flickering there — something you hadn't seen in a long time.
"Yeah," he murmured. "It did."
Tom leaned back slightly against the counter across from you, close enough to feel familiar, far enough to keep the space you both knew you needed.
You took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I'll take a look at the divorce papers you drafted up and let you know Sunday night what I think. Just leave them on my office desk."
Tom’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, like he was trying to read something you weren’t saying out loud.
Then he nodded once. “Alright.”
Like you were discussing anything other than the quiet dismantling of your marriage.
His fingers tapped lightly against the side of his mug before he took another sip, eyes drifting briefly around the kitchen—taking it in, or maybe just giving himself something else to focus on.
“You don’t have to rush it,” he added after a second, his voice measured. “Take the time you need.”
You gave a small shake of your head, your grip tightening slightly around your coffee.
“Since I'm the one who left,” you said quietly. “I've had more than enough time.”
Your eyes flicked up to meet his again.
“I just don’t want it dragging out any longer than it has to.”
Something in his expression shifted at that—subtle, but there. Not quite hurt. Not quite agreement. Just… understanding.
“Ok,” he said again, softer this time.
Another pause settled in, quieter now, almost careful.
“Last night doesn’t change that,” he added, his voice steady but lower, like the words mattered more than he wanted to admit. “I don’t want you thinking it does.”
You held his gaze, searching it, weighing the truth in it.
That was the strange part.
"You're more than welcome to make breakfast with Tommy when he gets up," you said, your voice returning to something more grounded and practical. "i know he likes doing that with you."
Tom nodded, straightening slightly. "Thanks."
But neither of you moved right away.
And of the fact that, somehow, even here—standing on opposite sides of the end—you still understood each other better than anyone else ever could.
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