Here's everything I've written for Bradley Bradshaw so far! Enjoy!
ROOSTER X READER ONE-SHOTS LIST:
the perfect first date | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader
Rooster watches you go on failed date after failed date, often being the one to rescue you with a ride home at the end of the night. When you tell him you've never experienced proper romance, he's shocked, and makes it his mission to take you on the perfect first date, he just wasn't planning on falling for you in the process.
ROOSTER X READER SERIES LIST:
the bodyguard | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x famous!reader au
After joining Maverick's security team once he left the navy, Rooster had become the best bodyguard around. All until your assignment came along. Suddenly his biggest threat might not be the stalker watching your every move, but rather trying not to fall for the world's biggest pop star. (16 part series - completed)
aloha again | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader
You and Bradley haven't been in the same room for more than an hour in two years, not since the bitter divorce anyway - but when your kids ask for one last family vacation, you end up in paradise... with your new partners tagging along, and your kids scheming to get their parents back together. (10 part series - completed)
the mummy | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader au
The year is 1927 and famed archeologist Bradley Bradshaw is running on whiskey and the last of his reputation, until you show up with a sharp wit, zero patience for his ego, and a lead on finding the Lost City of Nefertari. Rumoured to be full of gold, jewels and one vengeful mummy, the city might kill you - or make you rich. The mummy is one thing, but can you both survive each other? (10 part series - ongoing)
stuck on the past | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x ex girlfriend!reader
You never thought you'd see Bradley Bradshaw again, especially the way things ended between the two of you. So what happens when he's suddenly back for a special mission and is determined to win you back too? (8 part series - completed)
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas. Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that. (10 part series - completed)
the bradshaw arrangement | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader AU
It's 1814, and after failing to find a suitor, your parents decide to intervene. You never wanted to marry, but when your family forces you into a union with Lord Bradley Bradshaw, a man haunted by loss and duty, both you and Bradley come to find that perhaps this arrangement might not be so bad after all. (10 part series - ongoing)
It's 1814, and after failing to find a suitor, your parents decide to intervene. You never wanted to marry, not like this, not to a man you barely knew. But when your family forces you into a union with Lord Bradley Bradshaw, a man haunted by loss and duty, you find yourself trapped in a cold marriage neither of you asked for.
What begins as resentment slowly softens into something real, and both you and Bradley come to find that perhaps this arrangement might not be so bad after all.
length: 3.4k
masterlist
A few weeks had passed since the wedding, slipping by in a quiet, steady rhythm.
Bradshaw Manor, once an intimidating echo of stone and silence, had begun to feel… not quite like home, but no longer foreign. You had walked every corridor, traced your fingers over the carved banisters, learned which floorboards creaked and which windows stuck when opened. You knew the smell of each room, the library’s leather-bound warmth, the rose-scented drawing room, the faint scent of beeswax lingering in the long gallery.
And through it all, Mrs. Beckett had become your constant companion. She was gentle and patient and you took morning tea together if Bradley was absent, which he usually was. Mrs. Beckett told stories of the manor’s renovations, the best flowers for drying, and the antics of Bradley as a boy. You found yourself laughing more often than expected, the initial loneliness easing into something gentler.
It was mid-morning on a quiet day when you left the kitchens after helping Mrs. Beckett arrange a tray for the nursery. (Empty though it was, you had insisted it be cleaned and opened for light; it seemed wrong to leave any room shuttered.) Your footsteps echoed softly down the hallway, the manor peaceful in that rare, contented way that large houses sometimes managed.
Then you passed the door to Bradley’s study and stopped.
Soft music threaded through the wood, the unmistakable, aching notes of a piano.
You blinked. Bradley played piano? Played it well too?
You had hardly seen him at leisure these past weeks. He attended breakfasts and dinners out of necessity, spoke politely but sparingly, and often disappeared into his study with ledgers and estate papers long into the night. He was a ghost of responsibility, a man shaped entirely by duty, that much was clear.
But this... this was not duty.
The melody was gentle, lilting, touched with a sadness you couldn’t quite name. Not a grand, polished performance, more like the unconscious playing of someone who needed the music as much as breath.
You moved closer, careful not to make the floorboards creak. Your hand hovered over the doorknob but didn’t touch it, you simply listened. Bradley’s playing was beautiful. Soft and controlled, a side of him you had not yet seen, wrapped in vulnerability he kept tightly buried.
For a moment, you imagined entering the room, imagined him looking up, startled, flustered even. But, of course, you didn’t. This moment felt too private, not meant to be interrupted.
When the music faded, replaced by the faint scrape of the piano bench, you stepped quickly away from the door and continued down the corridor, heart beating a little faster for reasons you did not fully understand.
You were curious now. Not about his title. Not about your role. But about him. About the man who carried the world on his shoulders yet needed a piano to set it down, even briefly.
And as you walked toward the sunlight streaming through the south windows, you realised something quietly unsettling:
For the first time since your arrival, you actually wanted to know him. Truly know him.
Not because society demanded it and not because marriage required it. But because there was something carefully hidden behind those cool, steady eyes, something you felt, suddenly, a powerful desire to understand.
--
You found Mrs. Beckett in the small morning parlour, folding linens with practiced efficiency. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the warm glow. The peaceful domesticity of it grounded you, something familiar in a life that had recently become anything but.
“Mrs. Beckett,” you said softly, stepping inside.
The older woman looked up, face brightening. “Good morning, my dear. You’ve been wandering again, I can always tell. You have that look in your eye like you’ve discovered a new hallway.”
You smiled, though your thoughts were elsewhere. “I… passed Lord Bradshaw’s study.”
“He was playing the piano,” you said, careful and hesitant. “I wasn't aware that he played.”
Mrs. Beckett’s expression softened into something warm and sorrowful all at once. She set the linens down and motioned for you to sit beside her on the cushioned bench, like she was about to tell you a secret.
“He rarely lets anyone hear him,” Mrs. Beckett said gently. “Music was something he shared with his mother. She taught him when he was very small.”
Your heart tugged. “I didn’t realise.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Mrs. Beckett replied. “He guards that part of himself fiercely.” She folded her hands in her lap, a wistful smile touching her lips. “Bradley was a lively boy. Always running, climbing trees he shouldn’t, begging the stable boys to let him ride before he was tall enough to mount a horse.”
You tried and failed to picture the solemn man you had married as a mischievous child. “He sounds very different from the man he is now.”
“Grief changes people,” Mrs. Beckett said simply. “And he has known more of it than most.”
You leaned forward, voice soft. “Mrs. Beckett… will you tell me? About his parents?”
The housemaid hesitated, not with reluctance, but with respect for old wounds. After a moment, she nodded.
“His mother died first,” she said. “A fever. Quick and cruel. Bradley was sixteen, old enough to understand, but still far too young to lose her.” Mrs. Beckett’s eyes glistened at the memory. “He adored her. She was the gentlest soul I ever knew, a lovely woman.”
You folded your hands, listening quietly.
“His father died only a few months later,” Mrs. Beckett continued. “An accident with a horse on the north road. Bradley was barely twenty when the title and the estate became his.” She let out a slow breath. “Too much responsibility for a young man with no time to grieve.”
You felt your throat tighten. Bradley’s reserve made sense now, the distance, the control, the way emotion seemed like a luxury he no longer allowed himself.
“He’s been alone ever since?” You asked.
“Alone,” Mrs. Beckett agreed, though her voice held a note of tenderness. “Except for this house, and the people who care for him. But affection… that he keeps close. Locked away.”
You thought of the piano music, soft, aching, private, and your chest squeezed. “I don’t wish to intrude on his pain,” you murmured. “I simply… I want to understand him. We are married now, after all.”
Mrs. Beckett’s smile warmed, gentle and knowing. “And that, my dear, is exactly why you will understand him... in time.” She patted your hand. “He is not a cruel man. Only one who learned too young that love can be taken from you.”
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “I won’t push him.”
“You won’t need to,” Mrs. Beckett said. “Just be yourself. He notices more than he lets on.”
You weren't sure why your heart fluttered at that, but it did.
You sat in the quiet sunlight, absorbing everything you had learned. Bradley Bradshaw was no longer simply the man you had been forced to marry. He was a boy who had lost too much, too young. A man who buried himself in duties because the alternative was remembering what it felt like to have something to lose.
And suddenly, understanding him felt less like a responsibility… and more like a calling you had not expected to feel.
--
The late afternoon sun clung to your hair as you returned from the stables later that day, boots dusted with earth, cheeks flushed from the crisp air. Riding had become a small sanctuary for you, the one place where you felt entirely yourself.
As you stepped into the foyer, unbuttoning your riding jacket, you nearly collided with Bradley.
He stopped abruptly, papers in hand, clearly on his way to the study. His eyes flicked over you, not with judgment, but with a quiet, assessing awareness. The kind of look that saw things, though he pretended not to.
“My apologies,” you said, feeling flustered as you stepped back.
“No,” Bradley replied, clearing his throat, “it is I who should apologize. I didn’t hear you coming.”
There was a beat of silence and you expected him to continue on, to disappear behind the study door as he always did.
Instead, he said, a little awkwardly, “I have asked Cook to prepare lemon syllabub this evening,”
You blinked. “Pardon?”
Bradley looked slightly uncomfortable, as though regretting the admission even as he made it. “You… seem to prefer it to the heavier puddings.” His eyes darted away. “You ate more of it at last week’s supper than anything else.”
“Oh,” you said softly, surprised and oddly warmed. “I do like it. Very much.”
He gave a small nod. “Then it will be served more often.”
It was such a simple gesture. But in the weeks you had known him, Bradley had never offered anything resembling personal consideration. It struck you more deeply than you expected.
“Thank you,” you said, voice gentler than intended. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
He stiffened slightly, as if compliments were unfamiliar territory. “It’s nothing.”
You smiled. “It isn’t nothing.”
His gaze flickered to you, briefly, almost involuntarily. For the first time, you saw something unguarded in his eyes. Not warmth exactly… but the hint of it. The awareness of you. The possibility of something more.
He shifted his papers, breaking the moment. “I hope your ride was pleasant.”
“It was,” you said. You hesitated, not wanting to frighten him off, then decided to go for it. “Would you like to join me sometime? The trails behind the east hill are lovely at this hour.”
Bradley paused and for a heartbeat she thought he might refuse instantly. Instead, he looked… unsure. Thoughtful, as though the invitation tugged at some place inside him he didn’t often visit.
“I have estate matters to attend to,” he said at last, the words careful but not dismissive. “But… perhaps another day.”
You nodded, keeping your disappointment gentle. “Another day, then.”
Bradley inclined his head and moved past you toward his study. Then, after a few steps, he paused.
Without turning, he said, “I’m glad you enjoy riding here.”
And though the words were simple, you heard what lay beneath them:
I’m glad you are finding a place in this life.
When he disappeared into his study, you remained in the foyer for a long moment, your hand resting lightly on the banister, and your heart unexpectedly warm.
He noticed you, just like Mrs. Beckett had said.
Maybe more than he meant to.
And perhaps… more than he was ready to admit.
--
The dining room felt softer that night, the candles glowing warmly, the scent of roasted herbs drifting through the air, and a small vase of late-autumn flowers placed at the centre of the table. You couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Beckett had added them for you, or perhaps… someone else had noticed that you liked fresh flowers.
You took your seat, smoothing down your skirts. Bradley arrived moments later, still in his waistcoat, sleeves rolled neatly, as though he’d come straight from work. He gave a brief nod of greeting, but something in his manner felt less distant than usual.
The first course was served, and conversation was initially light, estate matters, the weather, nothing remarkable, as always.
It wasn’t until the dessert arrived, the lemon syllabub, that something shifted.
You looked up with a smile as the bowl was placed before you, creamy and pale with just enough zest on top. Bradley, having seen your expression, cleared his throat.
“I trust it is prepared to your liking,” he said.
“It is,” you replied, warmth blooming in your chest. “Thank you again.”
He gave a small nod, as if embarrassed to be acknowledged, and turned slightly toward you. “There is something else I ought to discuss with you.”
“Oh?”
“The annual Bradshaw ball,” he said.
You blinked. “Your family hosts a ball?”
He almost smiled, a faint trace, barely there. “It has been a Bradshaw tradition for three generations. My parents hosted it every year. After my father’s death… I continued it as best I could, but unfortunately, it was never the same. I don't have the... talent of hosting.”
You noticed the slight strain in his voice at the mention of his father, but he continued evenly.
“This year, of course, will be your first as Lady Bradshaw.”
The spoon froze halfway to your lips. “My… first?”
“The mistress of the house oversees the planning,” Bradley explained. “Invitations, décor, menus, musicians… all of it.”
Your eyes widened. “All of it?”
He nodded. “Mrs. Beckett and the staff will assist you, of course. But the final decisions will be yours.”
A flutter of nerves ran through you, along with something else. Excitement.
“Oh,” you breathed. “Well... I’ve never planned a ball before.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Bradley said gently. “You will learn. You’ve taken to managing other affairs of the manor rather naturally.”
You blushed faintly. You hadn’t expected praise, not from him.
“I only do what needs doing,” you said softly.
“Exactly,” Bradley replied, his tone warm for just a moment. “Which is more than many in your position would attempt.”
You looked down, smiling despite yourself. “Then, I shall do my best.”
He met your gaze for a heartbeat, steady and sincere. “That is all I ask.”
For a moment, silence fell, but it was comfortable, not strained. The kind of quiet that felt like… possibility.
You finally spoke. “When is the ball held?”
“Four weeks from now.”
“So soon?”
“Preparations usually take an entire season,” Bradley admitted, “but I postponed announcements this year until after the wedding. I did not wish to thrust you into society immediately.”
You blinked, surprised. “That was… considerate.”
Bradley shifted in his chair, as if unused to being recognized for kindness. “I simply thought it best.”
“Well,” You said, lifting your chin with determination, “I shall do everything I can to make the event worthy of the Bradshaw name.”
He studied you for a long moment, not with skepticism, but something like admiration held behind a careful wall. “I have no doubt you will,” he said quietly.
The candlelight flickered between you, casting soft shadows and warming the air.
For the first time since the wedding day, you felt something steadying between you, a foundation, maybe. Not affection, not yet… but respect. Perhaps, even friendship.
A beginning.
--
The following week unfolded in a flurry of activity.
You had expected the planning of a grand estate ball to be daunting, but you really hadn’t expected to enjoy it.
Mrs. Beckett proved invaluable from the very beginning.
You stood with a swatch book in your hands, turning page after page of silks and ribbons. The great hall stretched wide around you, its tall windows spilling pale morning light across the polished floors.
“Gold or ivory for the table runners, Mrs. Beckett?” you asked, biting your lip.
The housekeeper examined both with a thoughtful hum. “His late mother always preferred ivory. But…” She glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Gold would bring warmth back into this room. It’s been some years since that was wanted.”
You smiled. “Gold it is.”
From the doorway, a figure paused. Bradley. He hadn’t intended to interrupt; you could tell by the slight shift of his posture.
He watched for only a moment, just long enough for you to lift your head and meet his eye. He nodded once, something unreadable but not unkind passing through his expression, then he moved on.
But you noticed, and Mrs. Beckett did, too.
Several days later, you both sat at the long writing desk in the morning room, invitation lists spread before you like a sea of names.
You tapped your quill thoughtfully. “I have never imagined there could be so many families who must be invited.”
Mrs. Beckett chuckled softly. “A Bradshaw ball is a social event of the year, my lady. Declining an invitation is seen as an insult, and forgetting someone…” She gave you a mock-dramatic sigh. “Positively catastrophic.”
You laughed, a bright, sincere sound. “Then let us make certain we forget no one.”
As they worked, you slowly grew into your role. You asked questions. You listened. You chose flower arrangements, decided on musicians, debated over whether the supper should be served or offered as a grand buffet.
And each time you made a choice, Mrs. Beckett’s approving smile grew just a little wider.
“You’ve a good head for this,” the housekeeper said proudly one afternoon.
You flushed. “I hope so. I am trying.”
“I know,” Mrs. Beckett replied warmly. “And so does he.”
You blinked. “Lord Bradshaw?”
“Indeed.” But Mrs. Beckett offered no further explanation.
One early evening, you and Mrs. Beckett were inspecting the ballroom’s chandeliers, deciding if new crystal drops were needed. A ladder stood open, and swaths of fabric hung over your arm as you considered the draping.
Bradley passed through again, silently at first, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping the room in his instinctive, managerial way.
But it lingered, just for a moment, on you.
You were turning slowly in a circle, brow furrowed in thought, the gold sample fabric held up against the wall. Your expression held no worry this time, only gentle concentration.
“You plan to redo the drapery?” Bradley said finally.
You jumped slightly; you hadn’t realised he’d stopped beside you. “Oh, only for the ball. Mrs. Beckett suggested it.”
Bradley studied the fabric, then the room, then you. “It suits the space,” he said. “You've chosen well.”
You blinked in surprise. Praise from him was rare and quietly precious.
You offered a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
Bradley hesitated, as though he wanted to say more. Then, with the careful restraint so characteristic of him, he simply nodded and left.
Mrs. Beckett leaned close once he was gone.
“He notices,” she murmured.
You pretended you hadn’t heard, but your heart fluttered anyway.
--
Bradley closed the study door behind him with a soft click, shutting out the distant hum of servants preparing the manor for the upcoming ball. The fire was low, embers glowing steadily, casting the room in warm amber shadows.
He exhaled slowly.
The day had been… longer than he intended. It had begun with estate accounts, then a meeting with the steward, then an attempted respite, which he’d ruined by walking straight into the ballroom and finding you there, laughing softly with Mrs. Beckett, holding fabric against the window like you belonged there.
Like you had always belonged there.
Bradley moved to the desk. His father’s desk. He still felt strange behind it, even after all these years. As though he were only waiting for the real master of the house to appear and correct him.
He leaned both hands on the polished wood and let his head bow.
Why was it becoming difficult to keep the necessary distance?
He was accustomed to duty. To silence. To expectations pressing at his shoulders. He had lived years learning not to want anything beyond what was already required of him. Wanting, he’d learned early, led to loss.
His parents’ portraits watched him from above the mantle, his father stern, his mother softened by the artist’s brush into the woman he remembered dimly now. A blurred memory of warmth.
He did not want affection. He did not want attachment. Those things had only ever been taken from him.
Marriage had been another duty. Another box to tick. You were meant to be a business arrangement, not… whatever this faint stirring was, this inconvenient awareness of your laughter, your careful choices, your sincerity.
You moved through the manor as though you were trying to breathe life back into it, and damn him, he noticed.
He sat down, rubbing the space between his brows.
Perhaps distance was no longer entirely possible, and that frightened him in a way he had not expected.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Enter,” he said, composing himself.
Mrs. Beckett slipped in only far enough to speak. “My lord, Cook is sending up supper shortly. Will you eat here tonight?”
Bradley hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
The housekeeper lingered a moment, her eyes gentle, knowing in a way that made his chest tighten. “You’ve a good wife, my lord,” she said quietly. “Whether or not it was choice.”
He stiffened. “That is not-”
“I only meant,” she added softly, “that she is trying. Very hard, in fact.”
Mrs. Beckett bowed her head and withdrew, leaving him alone with the firelight and the weight of her words.
Bradley turned toward the window, where night pressed against the panes, thick and endless.
“She is trying,” he murmured to himself.
And for the first time since the engagement was arranged, he found himself wondering, truly wondering, whether he ought to start trying as well.
It's 1814, and after failing to find a suitor, your parents decide to intervene. You never wanted to marry, not like this, not to a man you barely knew. But when your family forces you into a union with Lord Bradley Bradshaw, a man haunted by loss and duty, you find yourself trapped in a cold marriage neither of you asked for.
What begins as resentment slowly softens into something real, and both you and Bradley come to find that perhaps this arrangement might not be so bad after all.
length: 4.4k
masterlist
You stood perfectly still as your mother adjusted the last row of tiny pearl buttons along the back of your wedding gown.
The room was quiet except for the soft rustling of silk and the muted clatter of horses being harnessed somewhere outside. The dress was beautiful, painfully beautiful; your parents had insisted on the very best, of course. A soft ivory silk that pooled like water around your feet, embroidered with delicate threads that your mother assured would “photograph well in the portraits.”
It should have felt like a dream. Instead, it felt like a costume.
Your mother stepped around to face you, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle over your shoulder. “You look radiant, darling.”
You kept your gaze fixed on the floor-length mirror. “I look like someone else.”
“Nonsense.” Your mother’s voice was bright, but her eyes betrayed her, sharp with anxiety, the way they always were when appearances mattered. “Your hair turned out beautifully. Everyone will remark upon it.”
You didn’t answer. Your corset felt tighter than usual, as if even the dress wished to silence you.
Your mother caught your chin gently and lifted it. “You must smile today.”
You blinked. “Must I?”
“Yes.” The answer came quickly, firmly. “Society accepts an arranged marriage far better when the bride looks… pleased.” Your mother forced a soft smile. “People must believe that you and Lord Bradshaw are-”
“In love?” You finished, unable to disguise the edge in your voice.
Your mother hesitated. “Compatible.” Then, in a quieter tone: “Happy enough.”
You turned back to the mirror. The girl in the reflection looked poised, elegant, and entirely out of place. Your face was composed, your hair swept into an intricate arrangement of curls, your dress luminous in the candlelight. But your eyes were the same eyes that had stared back at you after your father’s announcement: wide, uncertain, flickering like a candle caught in a draft.
Your mother moved behind you again, adjusting the veil so it cascaded in a soft sheet down your back.
"My darling," she murmured, gently running her fingers through the veil as if to comfort you, "I must... advise you. A husband has… expectations on the wedding night. You must do your duty, dear, even if it frightens you.”
You frowned, holding her gaze in the mirror, "Expectations?"
You had a feeling you knew what she meant, something you'd heard maids gossip about when you shouldn't have been listening.
Expectations were the polite word for it.
She sighed, “You will walk down that aisle,” she said softly, “and you will smile. People will be watching. Lord Bradshaw’s friends, the county families, the newspapers, everyone will make note of how the new Lady Bradshaw behaves.” She paused, hands resting on your shoulders. “If you can appear happy, they will believe the marriage is a love match. And that will make your life easier, trust me.”
You swallowed hard, and your voice came out small. “And what if I cannot pretend?”
Your mother’s grip tightened, comforting and urgent all at once. “Then pretend for my sake,” she whispered.
Your chest ached. For all your bitterness toward the situation, you loved your mother fiercely. Loved her enough to try.
You inhaled slowly, lifting your chin. “Very well.”
A soft knock came at the door before your mother could say more.
“Five minutes, Miss,” a maid called, her voice trembling with excitement. “The guests are all seated.”
You closed your eyes.
Five minutes until you become someone’s wife.
Five minutes until you ceased to exist, and Lady Bradshaw took your place.
You opened your eyes again and stared at your reflection.
You practised a smile.
It did not reach your eyes.
--
The church smelled faintly of roses and beeswax, its stone walls glowing warm in the late-morning sun. Guests filled every pew, wealthy families, titled neighbours, distant cousins, all craning their necks for a glimpse of the bride and the reluctant young lord who’d finally agreed to marry.
You paused just beyond the doorway, your arm linked through your father’s. The murmur of voices died as the organ swelled, signalling your arrival.
Your father whispered, “Remember to smile.”
So you did.
You lifted your chin, smoothed your shaking hands against your gown, and stepped into the aisle.
A collective sigh passed through the church. Your gown shimmered softly, your veil trailing behind you like a stream of light. You smiled, a small, practised thing, and it seemed to satisfy the curious eyes following your every movement.
But all the while, your gaze drifted toward the man waiting at the altar.
Lord Bradley Bradshaw stood stiffly beside the vicar, his shoulders squared in impeccable military posture, his expression solemn to the point of severity. He did not force a smile. He did not soften his eyes.
He looked… resigned, and people noticed. Whispers fluttered along the pews like wind stirring fragile paper.
“He looks rather grim, doesn’t he?”
“Is he unwell?”
“Perhaps he did not wish to marry after all-”
“Hush, he can hear you!”
Your heart thudded painfully. You kept your smile in place, though your cheeks burned with the effort. If Bradley saw your attempt, he gave no sign. He watched you approach with the same cool composure he’d worn during your first meeting, though something in the tightness of his jaw betrayed discomfort, not at you, but at the spectacle.
You reached the altar, and your father placed your hand into Bradley’s.
His hand was warm and steady, but he did not squeeze yours.
The vicar began the ceremony.
You recited your vows carefully, smiling when required, projecting the image of a bride content with her fate. Bradley delivered his vows evenly, voice quiet but unwavering, each word spoken as a duty to be fulfilled rather than a promise made of choice.
When the vicar announced, “You may seal this union with a kiss,” You felt your body tense.
Bradley stepped closer. His eyes met yours, dark, unreadable, and for a brief moment, you sensed hesitation, as though he wished to offer reassurance but did not know how.
He slowly lifted your veil and kissed you lightly, a polite touch of lips with no warmth. No pretence of passion.
The whispers returned immediately.
“Good heavens…”
“How formal.”
“Barely touched her!”
“Well, it is a marriage of convenience, so I hear.”
You lowered your gaze, cheeks hot in the midst of gossip.
Bradley offered his arm. “Shall we?”
His voice was soft, unexpectedly gentle, not warm, but considerate. You nodded and looped your arm through his.
As you walked down the aisle together, hand in hand, you tried to convince yourself that appearances were what mattered. That your smile, however fragile, had done its job. That the whispers would fade.
But as Bradley opened the church doors and sunlight shone over you, you could not escape the truth settling like a stone in your chest:
You were married now.
Two strangers bound together by obligation, stepping into a life neither had chosen, under the watchful eyes of a world eager to judge.
--
The reception was held on the lawn outside the church, canopies draped in white, tables overflowing with summer flowers and pastries glazed in pale pink icing. A string quartet played softly while guests mingled, whispering behind gloved hands, eager to dissect every detail of the new marriage.
You did your best to maintain your composure. Your smile felt like a mask held in place with pins. Bradley, beside you, stood with military stillness, nodding politely but offering little else.
Every so often, you saw guests glancing at him, then at you, murmuring.
“Is the groom unwell?”
“He looks rather… detached.”
“Poor girl.”
Their pity stung more than you expected.
After nearly an hour of polite torture, Bradley gestured toward a quieter corner of the terrace. “Would you care for some privacy, Lady Bradshaw?”
Lady Bradshaw. The name still felt foreign.
You nodded, grateful for the momentary escape. You stepped away from the crowd, settling beneath a stone archway covered in climbing roses. For the first time all day, you allowed your shoulders to relax.
Bradley remained stiff, hands clasped behind his back. “You appear… fatigued,” he said politely.
“I am fine,” you replied. “Though I suspect you’d rather be anywhere else.”
He blinked, taken off guard. “I did not say that.”
“You did not have to.”
He exhaled quietly, gaze drifting toward the guests. “I am… unused to such attention.”
“And yet you looked like you hated every moment of it.”
He turned back to you sharply, surprised at your candour.
You lifted your chin. You had promised yourself that you would not shrink in this marriage. “Forgive me if I am too blunt. My parents have always said I lack the proper softness expected of a lady.”
“I do not require softness,” Bradley said. Then, “Only honesty.”
That admission startled you more than it should have.
You gathered your courage. “Then I will be honest.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “You must at least pretend to be pleased with this marriage when we are in public.”
A flicker of something, irritation or confusion, passed across his face. “Pretend?” he echoed.
“Yes.” Your hands twisted in your skirts, but your voice held firm. “Because whether you realise it or not, every frown, every distant look, every sigh... it falls on me. Not you.”
His brows drew together. “How so?”
You stared at him, momentarily speechless. “Because I am the woman, the wife. Because the story they will tell is not that Lord Bradshaw is reserved but that his bride has failed to please him.”
Bradley opened his mouth, inhaled to respond, then closed it.
You pressed on, emboldened. “Men may be cold or solemn or distracted, and society excuses it. They call it temperament. They call it dignity.” You swallowed, heat rising in your cheeks. “But if a woman’s husband is unhappy, everyone blames her. They will think I have already disappointed you.”
Silence settled between you. The weight of your words seemed to catch him off guard, as though he had never considered the difference, never had reason to. His gaze shifted, focusing on some point beyond your shoulder, processing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I did not realise the burden fell so unevenly on you.”
You folded your hands, your heartbeat loud in your ears. “I know this marriage is an obligation for you. It is for me too. But if you cannot show warmth, at least show willingness.” You hesitated. “For both our sakes.”
Bradley’s jaw tightened, not with anger, but with something like reluctant respect. “You speak boldly,” he said.
“I always have.”
“And plainly.”
“So I have been told.”
“And you are correct.”
You blinked.
He met your eyes fully for the first time all day. Not with cold detachment, but with the faintest flicker of understanding, perhaps even admiration.
“I will make more of an effort,” he said. “I cannot promise charm… but I can promise civility that appears warmer than I feel.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. “Thank you.”
Your gazes held for a moment, the smallest crack forming in the wall between you.
Then a voice called from across the terrace, “Lord and Lady Bradshaw! Your first dance!”
Bradley offered his arm. A fraction of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, brief and subtle, but genuine. “Shall we give them something worth gossiping about?” he murmured.
Despite yourself, you felt a tiny smile bloom. “Yes,” you whispered, slipping your hand into his. “Let’s.”
The quartet began the opening notes of a waltz as you and Bradley stepped onto the polished wooden floor. Conversations dimmed. Heads turned. All eyes fell on the newlyweds.
You swallowed. Your palms felt warm against Bradley’s gloves. He stood before you, posture impeccable, expression carefully schooled into something that was almost pleasant.
He placed one hand at your waist, lightly, as though afraid to startle you, and took your other hand in his. “Ready?” he murmured.
“No,” you whispered, but you lifted your chin. “Let's proceed anyway.”
A faint huff of a breath escaped him, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make you glance up in surprise. His face returned to composure almost instantly.
You moved into the dance. Bradley led with steady, deliberate steps, guiding you across the floor with surprising gentleness. He wasn’t smiling, not truly, but the coldness from earlier had thawed enough to give the impression of effort, of attentiveness, and society noticed.
“Oh, would you look at that-”
“Lord Bradshaw looks almost… warm.”
“Well, she is quite lovely.”
“Perhaps it will be a good match after all.”
You felt his hand tighten slightly at your waist, a silent reassurance that he was trying.
So, you allowed yourself to breathe. “You’re doing much better,” you said quietly as you turned.
He arched a brow. “Better than what?”
“Better than a man being marched to the gallows.”
He raised a brow, “I was not that grim.”
“You were,” you muttered.
His mouth twitched, the closest he’d come to a smile.
Your steps glided in a smooth, practised rhythm. Guests watched, satisfied now, whispering approval instead of pity. You kept your own expression composed, the faintest pleasant smile resting where tears or dread could have been hours before.
“You were right,” Bradley said suddenly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “About the inequality.”
You looked up at him expectantly.
“A husband’s reputation rests on his own conduct,” he continued. “A wife’s seems to rest on her husband’s mood.”
The acknowledgement sent a ripple of surprise through your chest. You hadn’t expected him to think further on it; you hadn’t expected him to listen.
“I appreciate you saying that,” you replied softly.
He didn’t look down at you, but you felt the slight tension in his shoulders ease. “I cannot promise warmth I do not possess,” he said. “But I can promise discipline. And consideration.”
“That is more than enough,” you said.
The dance carried you through a slow turn, skirts whispering against the floor, candles flickering across your faces. To the onlookers, you appeared composed. Harmonious. A couple stepping into married life with grace.
But in truth? You were two strangers forming a fragile truce, warm enough to pacify society, distant enough to protect yourselves.
As the final notes died, Bradley released your hand but did not immediately step back. He bowed, and you curtsied. Applause washed over you.
“Thank you,” you whispered as you straightened.
“For what?” he asked.
“For trying.”
Bradley held your gaze for a moment, a long, unreadable moment, before offering his arm again.
“For today,” he said, “trying is the least I can do.”
You walked off the dance floor together, not as lovers, barely as friends, but as two people who had begun, in the smallest of ways, to understand one another.
--
The carriage rumbled up the long drive, gravel crunching beneath its wheels as Bradshaw Manor rose into view, a grand stone estate with climbing ivy, tall chimneys, and windows glowing faintly in the late-afternoon light. Beautiful, imposing, and overwhelmingly unfamiliar.
You sat rigidly, hands clasped in your lap. Bradley sat across from you, posture straight, gaze fixed out the window.
He had spoken little since the wedding. Not cold, simply quiet and reserved. As though the weight of the day pressed heavier on him than he cared to admit.
The carriage slowed, and a footman opened the door.
Bradley stepped out first, then turned to offer you his hand.
You placed your gloved fingers into his. His touch was steady, but brief, a formality more than a gesture of affection.
“This is home now,” he said softly, almost to himself.
You swallowed as you stepped onto the drive. Home. The word felt like a stone dropped into deep water.
Before your thoughts could drift, the great oak doors swung open, and an older woman hurried down the steps, petite and round-faced, eyes bright with warmth. Her apron was immaculate, her hair pinned neatly beneath a lace cap.
“Mrs. Beckett,” Bradley said.
“My lord.” She offered a curtsy, deeper than necessary, more affectionate than formal. “Welcome home.”
Then she turned her gaze to you, and her face softened even further. “And this must be the new Lady Bradshaw.”
You felt something loosen in your chest at the genuine kindness in the woman’s voice. “You may call me by my first name, if you wish,” you said.
Mrs. Beckett’s smile widened. “Then it shall be. Oh, my dear, you must be exhausted. Weddings are such grand affairs, even for those who enjoy crowds.”
Bradley cleared his throat. “Mrs. Beckett, if you would show her to her rooms-”
“Of course, my lord.”
You glanced toward him. “You won’t be joining us?”
He hesitated only a fraction. “I have business in my study. There are estate papers requiring attention.”
Mrs. Beckett shot him a look that said plainly, Estate papers can wait, but Bradley ignored it, or pretended to.
You nodded gracefully. “Very well.”
Bradley inclined his head, a small, stiff farewell, and disappeared into the manor with long, purposeful strides.
Mrs. Beckett watched him go, hands settling on her hips. “That boy carries the world on his shoulders,” she murmured.
You blinked. “Boy?”
Mrs. Beckett gave a fond, misty-eyed smile. “I’ve known him since he was small enough to hide beneath the kitchen table and steal biscuits. He’s grown tall, but he’s still that child to me.”
You couldn’t help a small smile. “He is… very reserved.”
“Reserved,” Mrs. Beckett repeated delicately. “A polite word for it. But he listens, when it matters. And he cares more than he knows how to show.”
The sentiment warmed you more than you expected.
“Come now,” Mrs. Beckett said, looping her arm through yours with gentle authority. “Let me show you the house. It’ll feel less imposing once you’ve walked it. Brick and stone become friendlier when you know their corners.”
You let yourself be led up the steps and through the grand foyer, its marble floor gleaming, its high ceilings echoing softly.
Mrs. Beckett pointed out the drawing room, the formal dining hall, the library with its towering shelves. Warm lamps flickered. Portraits of Bradshaw ancestors watched from the walls with stern, painted eyes.
“It’s… beautiful,” you said.
“Mm,” Mrs. Beckett agreed. “But beauty can feel lonely until it becomes yours.”
You reached a wing adorned with rich carpets and a softer, homier warmth.
“These will be your rooms,” Mrs. Beckett said gently. “The late Lady Bradshaw chose the colors. Bradley insisted nothing be changed.”
You stepped inside. Soft greens. Pale golds. A balcony overlooking the south gardens. Peaceful and untouched, as if waiting for something. For someone.
You exhaled shakily. “It’s lovely.”
Mrs. Beckett squeezed your hand. “You’ll make it lovelier.”
Footsteps echoed faintly somewhere in the manor, Bradley, pacing in his study.
And you realised, with a quiet, trembling certainty, that this house held as many ghosts as it did rooms. Perhaps, with time, you might learn to walk among them.
--
The dining room at Bradshaw Manor was a cavernous, high-ceilinged space, lit by a glittering chandelier and warmed by a fire that snapped and murmured in the hearth. The long table, far too large for two people, had been set with silver, crystal, and a modest but elegant supper.
You sat at one end; Bradley at the other, a polite distance away. A formality, you supposed. Or perhaps simply habit.
Mrs. Beckett and a footman drifted in and out with quiet efficiency, along with a few maids. You noticed Mrs. Beckett watching both of you with soft concern, like a hen assessing two rather nervous chicks.
The first few minutes were silent, save for the clinking of cutlery.
You cleared your throat lightly. “Mrs. Beckett showed me my rooms. They are lovely.”
Bradley nodded once. “Good.”
Another pause.
You traced the rim of your glass with your fingertip. Your mother’s words from the night before your wedding echoed in your mind, mortifying and impossible to ignore:
“A husband has… expectations on the wedding night. You must do your duty, dear, even if it frightens you.”
You swallowed, and your cheeks warmed. “I noticed,” you began carefully, “that your room is… across the hall from mine.”
Bradley looked up, vaguely puzzled. “Yes.”
“I only wondered…” You hesitated, worried he must think you foolish. “I mean, I suppose I thought, well, most newly married couples…”
Understanding dawned in Bradley’s eyes, followed immediately by a guarded coolness. “I see.” He set down his fork. “You are worried about... our wedding night. What is... expected of us.”
You fought the urge to shrink into your chair. “I only wish to know what you expect of me,” you said honestly. “I have not been taught much about… such matters.”
Mrs. Beckett, passing behind Bradley’s chair to refill a decanter, paused in the smallest, subtlest way, listening, observing, not intruding.
Bradley’s jaw tightened. Not with anger, something heavier. Wearier. “This marriage,” he said evenly, “is not a love match. We both know that.”
Your heart dipped. “Yes.”
“I do not intend to force expectations upon you. We have separate rooms because it is easier that way. Clearer.”
Your breath left you in a soft, relieved exhale, though the coldness of his tone stung. “I see,” you said softly. “Thank you for your honesty.”
Bradley looked down at his plate. “I mean no unkindness. I simply believe it best to keep to what is required of us.”
“Society required us to marry,” you said, lifting your chin. “But it does not require us to be strangers.”
Mrs. Beckett’s eyebrows twitched upward in approval.
Bradley’s expression flickered, a brief, wry surprise at your boldness, but he hid it quickly. “Perhaps not. But I am not a man practised in affection.”
“I did not ask for affection,” you said. “Only civility. And… perhaps effort.”
He went still.
Effort was a word no one had dared ask of him in years.
Mrs. Beckett set down the decanter gently, her voice warm as summer when she spoke. “My lord, the lady is right. A household thrives when those within it try to meet halfway.”
Bradley shot her a look, not angry, just resigned, as though this was not the first time she had nudged him toward humanity.
You managed a faint smile. “If we must host dinners and attend society events together, I would prefer not to stand beside a man determined to look miserable.”
His lips pressed into something that was not quite a frown, or perhaps a suppressed laugh. “I will try,” he conceded quietly.
The air between you softened, only a fraction, but enough for you to breathe easier. “Thank you,” you said.
You finished the meal with small, cautious conversation, the gardens, the stables, your fondness for riding, and Bradley’s responsibility for the estate’s tenant farms. Nothing intimate, nothing dangerous. But something like ground shared.
When the plates were cleared and candles burned low, Bradley stood. “If you need anything,” he said, tone still quiet but less detached now, “Mrs. Beckett will see to it.”
You nodded. “Goodnight, Bradley.”
He hesitated, as though the word goodnight was something he had forgotten the shape of. “Goodnight,” he said at last, and left the room.
Mrs. Beckett lingered behind, watching you with a soft, knowing smile. “He is not unkind,” she said. “Only afraid of being needed.”
You looked toward the door where he had disappeared. “I suppose,” you murmured, “we are all afraid of something.”
Mrs. Beckett touched your arm gently. “And fear softens, my dear. With time. With patience.”
You hoped so.
Because Bradshaw Manor was very large and very quiet, and being a stranger in your own life was a lonelier feeling than you had ever imagined.
--
Your room was warm when you returned, the fire crackling softly, casting gentle light over the pale green walls and the elegant four-poster bed. Mrs. Beckett had arranged your night things neatly: a cotton nightgown laid across the coverlet, a brush resting beside a silver mirror.
You shut the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment, letting the silence settle.
Just a few days ago, you had been you. Stubborn, as your mother liked to say.
Now you were Lady Bradshaw. The title felt foreign on your skin, like a gown tailored for someone else.
You moved to the dressing table, unpinned your hair, and brushed through the remaining curls. Your reflection looked the same, same eyes, same mouth, same determined brow, yet the girl staring back felt entirely different.
You thought of dinner, of Bradley’s measured tone, his distance, the careful way he spoke of expectations. Not cruel, not dismissive, simply guarded. Like a man afraid to promise anything more than duty.
Your mother’s warnings echoed again, but you pushed them away. Tonight, at least, you were safe in your own room. Your own bed. He had made that much clear.
You folded your wedding gown with gentle hands, running your fingertips over the fabric. It felt symbolic somehow, like a bridge burned behind you.
Life would not go backward.
Edges of doubt tried to creep in. What if this house remains cold? What if you never belong here? But you straightened your spine, refusing to be swallowed by uncertainty.
“I will not wallow,” you whispered to your empty room. “I will learn. I will adapt.”
You had not chosen this marriage, but you would not let it shape you into someone small or silent.
The estate needed a lady. Society expected one. And if Bradley Bradshaw wished to bury himself in ledgers and solitude, then you would simply step forward and fill the spaces he neglected, the household, the tenants, the gardens, the duties that required a regular presence. You had never been trained to be ornamental; you would not start now.
The fire crackled gently, almost in approval.
You slipped beneath the blankets, letting the warmth surround you. Tomorrow you would wake in Bradshaw Manor, your manor, and begin learning its rhythms, its people, and its hidden corners.
Tomorrow you would begin the long and quiet work of becoming Lady Bradshaw.
And perhaps, in time, this unfamiliar life would stop feeling borrowed and start feeling like your own.
With that thought, steadier than you expected, you closed your eyes, letting the day fade into darkness.
It's 1814, and after failing to find a suitor, your parents decide to intervene. You never wanted to marry, not like this, not to a man you barely knew. But when your family forces you into a union with Lord Bradley Bradshaw, a man haunted by loss and duty, you find yourself trapped in a cold marriage neither of you asked for.
What begins as resentment slowly softens into something real, and both you and Bradley come to find that perhaps this arrangement might not be so bad after all.
length: 2.3k
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You were summoned to the drawing room with the sort of urgency usually reserved for disasters, barn fires, sudden illnesses, or surprise visits from the vicar.
That should have been your first warning that something big was coming.
Your mother’s message had been delivered by a breathless maid who could give no explanation beyond, “Your presence is requested at once, miss.”
You had been in the stables when the summons came, boots muddied and hair escaping its pins. Your father would hate to see you like this, but you couldn't say you cared very much. Riding the horses was the most freedom you'd been allowed outside of the large family estate, aside from the usual balls and dinner parties, neither of which you enjoyed.
You tried to tidy yourself as you walked, but the anxiety rising in your chest made your hands clumsy. Your parents only summoned you like this when they were about to scold you, or worse, arrange something.
The drawing room was unusually quiet when you entered. Your father stood by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the garden. Your mother sat stiffly on the edge of the settee, fingers twisting a lace handkerchief into knots.
Perhaps she was just as anxious as you, which definitely wasn't a good sign.
“Dear,” your father said without turning. “Please, sit.”
Your stomach sank, but you obeyed.
Your mother inhaled shakily. “We have… news. Important news, darling.”
“Concerning your future,” your father added sternly, at last facing you. “And the future of this family.”
Your heart beat faster. “What is this about?”
Your parents exchanged a look, the kind that meant they had already argued, already decided, and were now presenting the outcome as though it were inevitable.
Your mother spoke first, almost resigned to the situation. “Dear, you are twenty-two years of age. Many young women of your standing are married by now.”
A familiar heat rose in your cheeks. It always came back to this. It seemed they were terrified you would end up a spinster, which obviously wouldn't look good for the family. But the thought of settling down with someone purely for status didn't sit right with you.
You sighed, “Many young women are meek and mild, content to be seen and not heard.”
Your father’s brow furrowed. “You know that is not the issue.”
It was entirely the issue.
Your outspoken ways had been the whispered reason behind every failed courtship and every withdrawn offer. You spoke your mind too freely, questioned things women weren’t meant to question, and had a tendency to argue when you believed yourself right.
Suitors had been interested at first, charmed, even, until they discovered that your pretty face came attached to a spine made of iron.
Your father cleared his throat. “Your… difficulty in securing a match has placed us in an unfortunate position.”
You stiffened. “A position you intend to correct, I suppose?”
This time, your mother’s voice broke. “Lord Bradshaw has made an offer.”
Your mouth fell open.
Of course, you knew your parents were bound to take matters into their own hands soon enough, but you never expected them to set up a whole marriage for you. A courtship, maybe. But a marriage? Already?
You blinked, finally finding your voice. “Lord… who?”
“Lord Bradley Bradshaw,” your father said sternly. “Of Bradshaw Manor. A respected man of considerable means and standing.”
You stared between them. “But... But I do not know him.”
“He knows of you,” your mother said quickly, as if that solved the matter. “And he has agreed to the arrangement.”
Arrangement. Not courtship. Not proposal.
A cold, sharp dread slid down your spine.
Your father continued, “He inherited his estate upon the death of his parents. Society expects him to take a wife. You will fulfil that role.”
You suddenly shot to your feet. “A role?" you huffed, "I am not a role! I am a person-”
“Lower your voice this instant.” Your father snapped.
“No!” Your voice shook with fury and you gestured wildly. “You cannot force me to marry a man I have never spoken to for convenience! For appearance!”
Your mother stood, eyes wet. “Dear… we have no choice. Our family’s financial situation is… precarious. Lord Bradshaw’s offer is generous. It will secure your future and ours.”
The room felt airless. You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth. “This is not my future,” you whispered. “This is my prison.”
Your father’s jaw clenched. “You will meet Lord Bradshaw tomorrow. The engagement will be announced shortly after. It is all arranged, so I suggest you stop trying to argue the matter.”
And just like that, your fate was sealed.
You sank back into your chair, the fight draining from you as swiftly as it had risen. You felt the walls of the drawing room closing in, felt the weight of a life you did not choose settling onto your shoulders.
Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes, as if the world itself protested the decision on your behalf.
But inside, the matter was decided.
You were to become Lady Bradshaw.
Whether you wished it or not.
--
The morning of the meeting arrived far too quickly for your liking. You spent the hours prior pacing your chamber, trying in vain to imagine what sort of man Lord Bradley Bradshaw might be.
Arrogant? Cold? Desperate?
Your father’s repeated assurances that Bradley was “a steady man of respectable breeding” did little to comfort you. The same had been said of half the suitors who had fled after witnessing your true temperament.
Lord Bradley Bradshaw arrived at your estate promptly at eleven, announced by the rumble of wheels along the long, tree-lined drive. You stood beside your father in the front hall, trying to appear composed despite the churning in your stomach.
You had imagined him countless times since you'd gotten the news, serious, pompous, older, but the man who stepped through your family’s tall oak doors was none of these things.
Lord Bradshaw was strikingly young for a man with so much reputation attached to his name. His posture was impeccably straight, and his expression carefully neutral, like a man who had trained himself not to reveal too much. He was younger than you expected, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, with hair combed neatly back and a composed expression that suggested he had prepared himself carefully for this meeting. His clothing was fine but not ostentatious, the kind worn by a man who understood wealth yet did not parade it.
He bowed to both you and your father. You offered a small curtsy, noting how his eyes flickered briefly, quietly taking you in. Not with eagerness, more like calculated observation.
You were ushered into your father's study, a room Bradley inspected discreetly, as though gathering facts the way a soldier surveys new terrain.
Your father wasted no time. “Lord Bradshaw, I trust your journey from Bradshaw Manor was uncomplicated.”
“It was pleasant enough,” Bradley answered. His voice was calm, controlled. “Your estate is well kept.”
Your father cleared his throat approvingly. “We do our best. Now-” He lowered himself into his chair. “There is the matter of my daughter’s dowry.”
You stiffened instantly. Your father had promised to behave, but men discussing your future like you weren’t present had become depressingly familiar.
Bradley’s gaze flicked to you, just briefly, before he answered. “I am content with the stated amount. But allow me to be clear-” His voice softened, gaining depth. “My intention is not to purchase a wife.”
You blinked, surprised. It was the first thing he’d said that sounded wholly sincere.
Your father, slightly thrown, nodded. “Naturally. Still, arrangements must be precise.”
“They will be,” Bradley replied.
You dared a closer look at him, at the controlled posture, the deliberate patience in his responses. He did not seem thrilled by the situation, yet he was not curt or unkind. Rather, he carried an air of obligation, as if this marriage were simply another item on a list he had to complete.
Your father steered the conversation onward. “I understand you inherited Bradshaw Manor quite young.”
“Yes,” Bradley said, a flicker of tension passing beneath his calm exterior. “My parents passed within months of each other. Their loss left the estate… in disrepair. The manor required extensive repairs. I have spent much of the last years restoring what I can. But a proper household requires… stability.”
His tone grew quiet at the mention of his parents, not emotional, but carefully contained. As though even the memory was something he handled with gloves.
“And a wife provides that,” your father concluded.
Bradley didn’t contradict him. You wondered whether he believed it, or merely accepted it.
Your father continued discussing arrangements, property, wedding timelines, and expectations, but you tuned out. Instead, you watched Bradley’s expression each time your father spoke. He was impassive, yes, but occasionally something else flickered, a quiet weariness? A hint of caution? Or perhaps just careful restraint.
When your father finally paused, Bradley turned directly to you for the first time.
“Miss,” he said, his voice measured, “I am aware this arrangement is not of your choosing. Nor is it,” he added after a breath, “something I sought with particular enthusiasm. But I intend to be respectful. I hope you will find Bradshaw Manor a comfortable home. I will do what I can to ensure the transition is agreeable.”
You drew a breath. It was not affection. Not warmth. But it was considerate. It was the first thing he’d said that felt like a glimpse of the man beneath the obligation. “Thank you, my lord,” you managed.
When your father rose, signalling the meeting’s end, you stood as well. Bradley bowed politely.
As he prepared to leave, you glanced back at him. He stood straight, hands clasped behind him, his face a mask of calm responsibility.
Is he as lonely as he looks?
The thought startled you.
Your eyes met for the briefest moment, and in that instant, you felt the weight of your future settle more fully upon you.
This was the man you were to marry.
Mysterious, restrained, unreadable, and now, inescapably tied to your fate.
--
The carriage jolted as it began the descent from your estate, but Bradley hardly noticed. He sat back against the leather seat, gloved fingers resting loosely on his knee, eyes fixed on the blurred countryside rolling past the window.
The meeting had gone as expected. Straightforward. Civil. Transactional.
Exactly what marriage was supposed to be.
And yet, that brief moment when you had met his eyes lingered stubbornly in his mind. A flash of defiance. A guarded vulnerability beneath it.
You did not want this any more than he did, he knew that straight away.
Duty. Obligation. Expectation. They had been the pillars of his life since the day the manor became his and his parents’ rooms fell silent forever.
A wife was simply the next responsibility to accept.
By the time the carriage turned onto the long drive of Bradshaw Manor, dusk was settling over the grounds, dusting the estate in fading gold. The great house rose before him, solid, stately, a little lonely.
Mrs. Beckett waited at the entrance as she always did, hands folded in front of her apron, her lined face softening into relief as soon as he stepped down.
“There you are, my lord,” she said warmly. “Thought you might be staying overnight.”
“No,” Bradley said, shrugging out of his coat and handing it to her. “It was a brief visit to finalise the terms.”
She studied him with the perceptiveness only someone who had watched him grow from boy to man could possess.
“And how did it go?” she asked carefully.
“As these things go.” He began moving down the corridor, Mrs. Beckett falling into step beside him. “Arrangements were discussed, terms agreed upon.”
“And the young lady?” Her tone was gentle, prying without being intrusive.
Bradley hesitated only a moment. “She seems… well-mannered. Intelligent.”
Mrs. Beckett gave a small hum. “Pretty, I expect.”
He cleared his throat. “I did not take particular note.”
She hid a smile. “Of course not.”
They reached his study, but Bradley stopped short of entering. His gaze drifted toward the window, to the darkening sky.
“This marriage, Mrs. Beckett,” he said quietly, “is an obligation. Nothing more. The estate requires stability. Society requires appearances.” His jaw tightened. “I will give my wife respect and comfort. But affection is… unnecessary.”
Mrs. Beckett’s expression softened with something like sorrow.
“You’ve had too much taken from you, child,” she said gently, her voice slipping into the maternal tone she’d used long before he inherited the manor. “Your heart’s been kept in cold storage since your parents passed. But hearts are stubborn things. They thaw when you least expect.”
Bradley exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I assure you, mine is quite frozen.”
Mrs. Beckett just patted his arm. “We shall see, my lord.”
--
Two days later, the engagement was formally announced.
A printed notice appeared in every respectable drawing room and gentlemen’s club from London to Hampshire:
“Lord Bradley Bradshaw of Bradshaw Manor is pleased to announce his engagement...”
Society buzzed with curiosity, and whispers fluttered like ribbons in parlours and post offices.
A wealthy young lord is taking a bride, after years of mourning, to a spirited young woman known for being difficult to match.
Some called it a sensible arrangement, whilst some called it a peculiar one. All agreed that society would be watching closely.
And neither Bradley nor you, in your separate homes, surrounded by family and expectation, could escape the feeling that your lives had just shifted in ways neither of you could control.
The fate you had not chosen was now officially set.
--
A/N: Thanks for reading part 1! let me know your thoughts so far!
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 2.2k
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New Year's Eve
Bradley woke up with a groan, the sun sneaking lazily through the blinds. His apartment smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine from his decorations, and for a moment, he half-expected to hear the chaos of Penny and Amelia somewhere in the house. Instead, there was just silence, the kind that made him realise how quiet his own Christmas had been.
Christmas Day had been… fine. Maverick, Penny, Amelia, the usual chaos, everyone laughing, arguing, over-eating. He’d tried to bring his usual energy, but half the time he found himself distracted, thinking about… you. About the way you’d smiled at the airplane ornament, the ice skating, the market, the way you’d laughed at Elf, even when you swore you weren’t really into Christmas.
And now here he was, alone, sipping on leftover coffee, wondering: had you gone home after Christmas? Were you already unpacking boxes at your next office? Were you maybe curled up watching a movie, thinking about the month, thinking about… him?
He shook his head, trying to refocus, but a small smile tugged at his lips anyway. He’d always teased Maverick about how he and Penny were basically a walking Christmas card couple, and now… he realised he kind of wanted that. Minus the chaos of Penny’s family, maybe. Okay, probably not minus the chaos, he liked that part too.
Bradley ran a hand through his hair, letting out a low chuckle. “Alright, Bradshaw,” he muttered to himself, “New Year’s Eve. Time to shake off the Christmas blues… or at least make them more interesting.”
He grabbed his coat and keys, glancing at the calendar. Hard Deck tonight. Party, music, friends, maybe a little champagne, definitely a little mischief. But, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew one person was missing from all of it, one person who’d made this December… different.
--
Your apartment was quiet, boxes stacked neatly against the wall, the last traces of the month’s work packed away. You moved slowly, taking in the empty space, the echo of your footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Then, the airplane ornament caught your eye, perched on the shelf. You picked it up, turning it over in your hands, and couldn’t help but remember the small shop, the old lady’s gossip, Bradley’s grin when you recognised it.
This month had been… different. Somehow, the days had moved faster, lighter. You’d laughed more than you thought possible. There had been moments of chaos, ridiculousness, and warmth, all of it tied up with Bradley.
The memory of ice skating lingered, the awkward stumble, the way he’d steadied you, the soft giddiness that had followed. The movie nights, the Christmas market, the cookie baking, even the debates over silly decorations, all little sparks of a normalcy you hadn’t realised you’d been missing.
It struck you then, quietly, how lonely the previous Christmases had been, how much of yourself had gone unnoticed in the routine of work and paperwork. And yet, these past weeks had been… somehow fuller, though complicated in ways you weren’t ready to untangle.
You set the ornament down carefully, staring at it for a long moment. For the first time in a while, you felt the edges of your world shift, subtle but unmistakable. The month had left its mark, and something inside you whispered that things wouldn’t, couldn’t, be the same again.
--
Bradley pushed open the doors of the Hard Deck, the warm buzz of music and laughter hitting him immediately. He dropped his coat on a chair and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a low sigh. Christmas was over, New Year’s Eve was here, and he’d already scoped out a quiet corner… mostly for himself.
“Bradshaw!” Penny’s voice cut through the music as soon as she spotted him, and Maverick followed with a mock salute. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, flashing a grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He made his way over, carefully dodging a group of dancers.
“You look… subdued,” Penny teased, plopping a cup of punch in his hand. “Christmas didn’t break you, did it?”
Bradley raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Maybe a little. Or maybe I’m just conserving energy for the big countdown.”
Maverick elbowed him lightly. “Conserving energy or brooding over someone you can’t stop thinking about?”
Bradley shot him a look, half amused, half annoyed. “Really, Mav?”
“Really,” Maverick said, grinning. “You’ve been mopey since Christmas Day. Don’t pretend we don’t notice.”
Bob appeared beside them, more straightforward than teasing. “So… where is she?” he asked casually, glancing around the crowded room. “You didn’t happen to drag her along?”
Bradley shook his head slowly, taking a sip of his punch. “I… don’t think she’s coming,” he said, a little bitter. “She’s moving on, transferring to her next office. I just figured… she’d already be gone.”
Penny clapped him on the shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”
Bradley groaned, already anticipating the chaos of the night ahead. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, a little spark of hope lingered, because if she was anywhere near here tonight, things might finally… change.
Bradley wandered through the Hard Deck, trying to blend in with the crowd. The music pulsed around him, laughter and cheer bouncing off the walls, streamers falling from the ceiling, and somewhere someone popped a confetti cannon. Normally, this would be his element: chaos, celebration, energy. But tonight, even the sparkle of New Year’s Eve couldn’t shake the knot in his chest.
He grabbed a drink from the bar and leaned against the counter, scanning the room. Couples were laughing, friends were dancing, and groups were making the countdown bets: who would kiss at midnight, who would spill their champagne first. Bradley forced a small grin and took a sip, trying to convince himself that he was enjoying it.
Maverick and Penny circled back periodically, nudging him into conversations, and the squad kept trying to drag him toward the dance floor. Bradley nodded, laughed when appropriate, even offered a few playful jabs, but it was all a little half-hearted. He could feel the golden retriever in him itching to join fully, to bounce, to laugh, to tease… but part of him was stuck, distracted, waiting.
“Come on, Rooster,” Penny said as she tugged him toward a group singing along to a cheesy holiday mash-up. “It’s New Year’s Eve! You can brood later. Celebrate now!”
Bradley chuckled softly, letting himself be pulled into the crowd, spinning and laughing, but his eyes kept scanning the entrance, flicking toward the door every few seconds. He told himself he wasn’t expecting anyone, that you probably weren’t coming, but still, a part of him refused to settle entirely.
He joined a quick toast, clinked glasses with a few of the other Top Gun instructors, and even danced a little, too stiffly, maybe, but enough to draw a laugh from Maverick. The room was alive with energy, full of anticipation for the countdown, but somewhere inside, Bradley felt a quiet impatience, a small tug of hope that the night had one last surprise in store.
The music slowed slightly, replaced by the rising buzz of conversation and the ticking anticipation of midnight. Bradley glanced at his phone, thumb hovering over your contact name.
Should he call? Just to… say something? Check in? Maybe wish you a happy New Year?
He shook his head. No. Not now. He wasn’t ready to risk the conversation going wrong. Not with everyone around, not when he didn’t even know if you’d come.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and leaned against the railing, watching the room. People laughing, his friends teasing each other, Penny waving excitedly to someone across the floor. The countdown was almost here, everyone buzzing with energy, full of warmth and cheer.
Bradley took a slow breath. Alone in the middle of it all, he felt… both calm and restless. Excited for the night, but restless for one person in particular.
Then, just as the first chime of the countdown began, the doors at the far end of the room swung open.
And there you were.
The crowd barely registered you at first, a few heads turned, murmurs of surprise, but Bradley didn’t notice anything else. His gaze locked on you immediately.
You moved through the room, confident, smiling, a little mischievous, and completely aware of the effect you had on him. His heart kicked up a notch, the tension in his chest melting into something warmer, brighter.
Bradley’s friends shouted over the music, caught up in the countdown, but he barely heard them. All he could see was you.
His chest felt like it might burst as you weaved through the crowd. He grinned like an idiot, all giddiness and pent-up frustration, because there you were, standing right in front of him, and yet, the thought of you leaving soon still tugged at his mood.
“Finally,” he said breathlessly, letting some of his excitement and exasperation bleed into his voice. “You show up and you pick New Year’s Eve? Really?”
You laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that made his chest tighten. “I figured it was time to finally see what all this fuss about New Year’s is,” you said, glancing around at the decorations, the twinkling lights, the chaos of celebration. “And maybe… to see what all your Christmas nonsense has been about.”
Bradley huffed a laugh, leaning a little closer. “You’ve officially surrendered, haven’t you?”
You grinned, a little sheepishly, but there was light in your eyes he hadn’t seen before this month. “Maybe I have,” you admitted. “Maybe I’m done being alone for the holidays. And… maybe I like Top Gun after all.”
Bradley froze for a heartbeat, a grin creeping wider across his face. “You mean… you might stick around?”
“Maybe,” you said, smirking, letting the words hang teasingly in the air. “For tonight, at least, I’m here. And who knows… maybe more.”
He felt something inside him loosen, a mix of relief, excitement, and lingering frustration all rolled into one. “You do realise,” he said, voice low and teasing, “this makes me dangerously happy… and dangerously aware that you were going to leave me hanging?”
You nudged him playfully, ignoring the tension in his tone. “Tonight, I’m not leaving. And that’s enough for now.”
Bradley’s grin softened, a little lopsided, and he felt his heart race. “You’ve made Christmas… better,” he murmured, leaning closer. “And maybe… New Year’s too.”
Your eyes flicked to his, warm and slightly mischievous. “You’ve made me better,” you said simply, voice gentle. “More than I thought possible.”
For a moment, the music faded around you, the party, the countdown, the room, everything but the two of you. Bradley reached for your hand, careful but deliberate, and you didn’t pull away.
Finally, as the final seconds of the year ticked down, he leaned in, slow, a little awkward, completely full of feeling, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
When you pulled apart, just slightly, you both laughed softly, the warmth between you brighter than any lights in the room. Bradley’s grin was goofy, triumphant, and entirely sincere, and for the first time all month, you felt like you didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to be alone, and didn’t have to hold back.
"Happy New Year, Bradley." you murmured.
He smiled softly and squeezed your hand, "Happy New Year, sunshine."
The music shifted, and a ridiculously cheerful Christmas song started playing, the kind you would have rolled your eyes at a few weeks ago.
Bradley didn’t hesitate. He held out his hand with a grin that was equal parts confident and giddy. “Dance with me?”
You raised an eyebrow, mock suspicious. “This one?”
He shrugged, mock-offended. “It’s a classic. Besides, you said you wanted to see what all my Christmas fuss was about, didn’t you?”
You smirked, letting him pull you into the middle of the floor. The crowd melted away, the lights blurring into soft glows around you, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, swaying awkwardly to the overly cheerful music.
“Not too bad,” you admitted, laughter bubbling from your lips. “I might even… like this.”
Bradley grinned, spinning you gently, a little too fast, and catching you just in time. “Might even like Christmas?” he teased.
“Careful,” you shot back, laughing. “Let’s not get carried away.”
But you didn’t pull away. You let yourself sway with him, hands in his, smiling in a way that felt like you were finally letting yourself enjoy something you’d spent years avoiding.
Bradley’s heart raced, but it wasn’t just the holiday cheer or the music; it was the feeling that this, right here, might be something real. Not rushed, not forced, just… you.
The song ended, but you stayed there a moment longer, shoulders brushing, foreheads nearly touching, the world around you still spinning with celebration.
And as the next track began, equally cheesy and loud, neither of you moved away. Maybe tonight, maybe this month, maybe… longer than that. But for now, it was enough just to be here, together, laughing, dancing, and letting the magic of the season do its work.
New Year’s had never looked so bright. And maybe… just maybe, neither had Top Gun.
In the spirit of the holidays, the incredible works shared this year, and the talented, gorgeous, funny, sexy, beautiful writers I've met, I present to you my Shelf of Stars — a collection of my favorite reads (+ my unnecessary commentary) for the year! ⊹₊⟡⋆
.ᐟ note that this does not even begin to capture all of the delicious stories i've read this year. for a more comprehensive list of my reading, refer to my library .ᐟ
Bucky Barnes
Bucky Bossa Nova by @houseofhyde ; congressman x performer au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
i dont think this fic gets talked about enough because i was rolling around on the floor deliriously crying over how delicious this was. soft fuck buddies is my weak spot and this just hit in all the right places. i deny this fic being only pwp because then how did it hurt my heart?!?! also as always a special shoutout to your problem child manchild because it's how i found you
Cult Bride by @danysdaughter ; cult au — ꩜ ၇୧
everything lizzy touches turns to gold but this fic got me literally tripping on sidewalks with goosebumps all over me. the build up was so so good, my ass was clenched so tight, and the finale was a chef's kiss performance. i have so many of lizzy's fics still on my tbr and i cant wait to inhale them
Dollhouse by @heldbybarnes ; mob au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
kennedy actually invented the english language with this story. this fic is my hyperfixation. i wrote a love (thirst) letter to every single line in this story because it was so stunning. their dynamic is so delicious. every piece of dialogue in this fic is pure poetry. this is what i love most in bucky.
Made to Match by @54nboo ; farmers market au — ‧₊˚
i cant believe this child came out of the human that is erin. this was so incredibly fluffy, i was grinning like an idiot the entire time reading this (which also makes sense because thats how i always am around erin) i loved this so so much
No Roster, Just You by @salem-s; fwb au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
whenever i feel like getting punched in the gut (lovingly), i just click the link above. it's heartwrenching in all the right places. the kind of comfort fic that i go to on cold winter days when i feel like feeling something. literally all of my favorite tropes in one story <3
On the Clock by @witchywithwhiskey ; werewolf ceo x assistant au — ꩜
this fic converted me into a werewolf fucker and i cant even be ashamed of it. the premise is so sexy, the writing is chef's kisses. so so so good, i cannot even begin to find the words to describe how delicious this was.
Starling [Completed Series] by @deja-you ; neighbors au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
one of my absolute absolute favorite series of the year!!! i sat my ass down and locked in and cleared the entire thing out in a few hours when i was supposed to be working. the dialogue? godtier. the tension? ass-clenching. gorgeously written, i am obsessed with the characters and their dynamic and the delicious plotline. im also very much in love with their ongoing The Devil You Know series which is a delicious, hilarious, sexy mob au!!!!
Suburban Legends by @lunexiax ; friends to lovers au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
how do i even begin to describe this fic. nearly bit my man's head off for interrupting me in my reread. so delicious. all of my favorite things in one place. bucky as my best friend and a yearner??? im getting spoiled so hard. the pacing, the writing, the emotional impact. if i could marry a fic, i'd do it. i also have a very special place in my heart for tough pill my adopted child
The Merger by @chateaubarnes ; ceo x assistant au — ‧₊˚ ꩜
everything aluri writes is scrumpdiddlyumptious but this is the first fic that introduced me to her writing and i think about this fic more times than should be deemed healthy. ceo lavishing me with expensive gifts and then railing me in the office??? what more can i ask for. special shoutout to sin eater my beloved too.
To Have and to Hold by @unificsation ; mob arranged marriage au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
i dont even want to start describing how fucking fantastic this fic is because i fr could never do it justice. uni has such a way with words that leaves you completely breathless and has you falling in love with every character. can you please arrange my marriage to him next thx. not to mention her graphic work???? yum. im so excited to spend my january inhaling your masterlist!
White Coat Syndrome by @firingstars ; doctor au — ꩜ ၇୧
incredible story. the tension and the escalation. mind the tags but can guarantee that you're in for a wild ride with gorgeous prose and heart-clenching tension!!! hits all of the right spots inside of me
Ya gotov otvechat' by @blowingbarnes ; soldat stalker au — ꩜ ၇୧
dark and delicious is my favorite combination and bbl has delivered. i love soldat sm. i love bbl's brain as always but this one just stuck to my brain like a lil itch i continue to scratch. dont even get me started on your horny ramblings in the chat, all of them are my favorite <3
You're Lost and I'm Insane by @mcrdvcks ; asylum au — ꩜ ၇୧
if perfection was a fic, this would be it. everything from start to finish. every section, every paragraph, every line. i was on the edge of my seat. i was nervously laughing throughout that entire fic because of the discomfort and being so turned on the entire time??? the dialogue in this made my brain go brrrrr.
Misc. Sebastian Stan
Our Little Secret by @stanmarvelous ; lee bodecker stepdaddy au — ꩜ ၇୧
anyways so im a little freaky and this is one of my favorites for the year. reignited something in me that i forgot existed. short, delicious, gorgeous. i think about this lee more times than should be healthy! a very honorable mention goes out to Second Helping because you know how i lost my mind over how many times you mentioned his belly here.
Under the Influence by @phoenix-in-writing ; lee bodecker stepdaddy au — ꩜ ၇୧
[cue my nervous laughter] why yes i do have two stepdaddy lee's in this list of favorites. dont look at me. but aly's writing always gets to me and this is one of my favorites. i would be remiss to not also highlight Sirens & Skates which is equally delicious!
Bite the Hand by @nonotwithoutu ; steve kemp hospital au — ꩜ ၇୧
my favorite kind of dynamic in a psycho like steve. tense, stalkerish, a little bit perfect. the level of tension and unease keeps you going throughout. so gorgeously written. sarah did such a superb job with steve here.
DC Universe
Academic Rivals [Ongoing Series] by @njghtiee ; dick grayson yj gotham academy au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
everything user njghtiee writes is perfection but i am particularly obsessed with this series because it's so coming-of-age coded with a sprinkling of spice and cute scenes. so so excited for the rest of the stories!
Congratulations on Your New Improvements by @cursedheartsclub ; dick grayson childhood friends au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
never thought i could fall more in love with dick grayson but i have been shown that nothing is impossible. this dick is so fun, so charming. everything i love in dick amplified. no words needed, you just gotta read it to experience it. (im terrified and thrilled for your future dick fics)
Fly to Your City (Excited to See Your Face) by @rosesaints ; clark kent friends to lovers to exes to lovers au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚 ꩜
went through all the emotions reading this in my morning commute. this is clark kent at his finest. the relationship dynamic, the writing, the formatting — everything just culminates into this beautiful fic that i cant seem to put down!
I Get Wet at the Thought of You (Being a Responsible Guy) by @pinksplace ; clark kent sexy adulthood pwp — ‧₊˚ ꩜
this was so stinkin cute. ohmygod. when i tell you i want a responsible man, this is exactly who i'm talking about!!!! pink baby you always do clark kent so well (ha). this was so so good, i thoroughly enjoy your characterization. you truly never miss. i also so so so love emt!clark in save the world (or go to work). i cant wait to eat up your bucky fics!!!
Lapsus Linguae by @kryptidfiles ; clark kent married hurt/comfort — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
omfg jae absolutely destroyed me with this story. it includes all of my favorite tropes with insecurities and a very, very loving, adoring, strong clark kent. i wept, i wiped my tears, and i cried again. i can't wait to devour the rest of the mrs. kent series
Three Steps Forward by @/cursedheartsclub ; jason todd childhood friends au — 𐙚 ꩜
when i tell you i know nothing about jason todd but i trust whatever this author writes. this fic was so good, i ended up reading a little bit about him in the canon comics and his characterization was so so good here. the level of denial, the hurt/comfort. ugh, perfection.
The Bear
Burn Your Life Down [Completed Series] by @nolita-fairytale ; luca chef!reader au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
one of the first series i read on this blog and it's still one that sticks with me to this day. i remember binging this super early in the morning and how it pulled my heart in all the right ways. this fic had me falling in love with luca all over again.
Top Gun
Playing Games by @geminiwritten ; bradley bradshaw best friends au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
my early foray into top gun fics and i was lucky enough to land on bee's work. there was no turning back. fell in love so quickly with all of her fics but this one has a special place in my heart because i love a good yearner with jealousy. delicious, sexy. and jake being a manipulative little shit? my favorite flavors
Executive Decisions [Completed Series] by @se7entyrell ; bradley bradshaw political au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
one of my favorite series of all time. this truly dragged me into the fandom. it's so so good. if you love good banter, group dynamics, and a fully-fleshed out universe, this is it. actually found it through the alternative ending first before i read the full thing and im so glad it brought me to this bradley! bradley also won my heart over in Easy Silence the perfect hurt/comfort!
Aloha Again [Completed Series] by @bradshawshawaiianshirt ; bradley bradshaw divorced parents au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
i usually dont touch unfinished fics but i literally had dropped everything and read this story whenever a new chapter got posted. i love their dynamic. i love a good divorced parents au. this is so fun and heartwarming <3
Twisters
All Yours by @/geminiwritten ; tyler owens secret pregnancy au — 𐙚
every time i reread this story, it still sucker punches me. you know that itchy feeling in your heart when something hurts so good and it just gets to you, thats how i kept feeling reading this. still one of my favorites to this day.
Bad Blood by @roselites ; scott miller exes au — ‧₊˚ 𐙚
no one can come between me and a good exes to lovers. this was the peakety peak of this trope. deliciously complex, emotionally charged, and a scott with lots of depth. wonderful beautiful perfection.
There are so many incredible fics that aren't included here because I haven't read them (there aren't enough hours in a day). Please check out all of the authors' masterlists for some bangers! In the meantime, I will also be going through my tbr list here — feel free to peruse and show the writers more love!
🩶 For my personal year-end recap, please see here!
a/n: i tried to be so aesthetic with this, please appreciate my efforts (and all the creators listed below). i've been slowly working through this list for months inspired by @/unificsation and @/chateaubarnes, who do their own delish recs! the true stars are all the authors who have produced even a single piece of work on this platform, you've made my 2025 immensely brighter!
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 1.8k
masterlist
Christmas Eve
Bradley sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, a roll of wrapping paper half-unspooled, tape dangling uselessly from his fingers. The airplane ornament, the one he’d secretly bought for you weeks ago at the little shop with the chatty old lady, sat on the carpet, gleaming under the soft lamplight.
“Why is wrapping an ornament this hard?” he muttered, sighing dramatically.
Bob, perched on the edge of the couch with a mug of coffee in hand, raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re overthinking it. And maybe because you’re secretly emotional about giving it to her.”
Bradley froze, looking at him like he’d been caught mid-espionage. “What? No. I’m just… making sure it’s perfect. Very professional wrapping standards, okay?”
Bob smirked knowingly. “Uh-huh. You’re nervous. Admit it. You like her.”
Bradley’s eyes flicked toward the ornament. “I… I mean… maybe I… maybe I just want her to like it. And me… in some non-terrible way.”
Bob laughed softly, taking a sip of his coffee. “Non-terrible is a low bar for you, man. But seriously, are you gonna ask her to-?”
Bradley cut him off, face heating. “I… uh… I was thinking about asking her to go to the New Year’s Eve party at the Hard Deck. As… my date. You know, just casual, totally fine.”
Bob grinned, nudging him. “Casual, huh? Sure. And the ornament is… what, your way of bribing her into saying yes?”
“Absolutely not,” Bradley said immediately, swatting the ornament like it was alive. “It’s… it’s thoughtful. Very thoughtful. And yes… maybe a little ‘convincing.’”
Bob shook his head, laughing. “Man, you’re a disaster. But she’s going to love it, and probably you too, if tonight is any indication.”
Bradley huffed, trying to refocus, wrapping the ornament with exaggerated care and muttering, “Professional… wrapping… standards…” while secretly grinning like a kid.
“Don’t mess it up, Bradshaw,” Bob warned, standing. “This isn’t just an ornament. It’s… you, in tiny, sparkly form.”
Bradley froze for a moment, staring at the ornament as if it had suddenly become more important than anything else in the world. Then, with a small, mischievous grin, he carefully taped the final edge. “Perfect,” he said softly. “Absolutely perfect. Tonight’s my chance.”
--
Bradley pulled his coat tighter around himself as he walked across the base, the crisp winter air biting at his cheeks. In his pocket, the small wrapped airplane ornament rattled slightly, a constant reminder of the mission ahead.
He paused, muttering under his breath. “Okay… okay… just walk in, be cool… no big deal… smile… casually slide the ornament across the desk… maybe say something like… ‘So… want to be my date for New Year’s?’… yeah… casual, smooth… not like I’m completely panicking.”
He practiced it again, faster this time, walking with exaggerated confidence:
“Hey… I got you… a gift… for Christmas… not that you care… but maybe… uh… so… New Year’s Eve… with me…?”
Bradley grimaced. “No. Definitely not like that. Too awkward. Too much ‘uh.’”
He tried again, whispering to himself, hands in his pockets: “So… Christmas ornament… New Year’s Eve… together… easy, casual… cute but not… overly giddy…”
He stopped mid-step, exhaling, then muttered, “Giddy’s fine. Giddy’s good. Just… don’t trip over words, idiot.”
As he approached your office, he saw the warm glow of the lights through the windows and the familiar sight of you at your desk, hunched over your evaluation reports. You looked… completely in your element, serious, meticulous, and completely oblivious to the chaos of his thoughts.
Bradley paused for a second, just watching you, and couldn’t help but grin. “Yep… definitely my problem now,” he muttered to himself, adjusting the ornament in his coat pocket.
He straightened, squared his shoulders, and rehearsed one last time:
“Hey… Merry Christmas! I got you this… uh… thought you might like it… also… want to go to the New Year’s Eve party with me?”
“Perfect,” he whispered under his breath, a little too loudly. His lips quirked into a small, almost mischievous smile as he headed inside, ready to face whatever banter, laughter, or chaos awaited him, and maybe hoping for a little Christmas magic of his own.
Bradley pushed open your office door, small ornament clutched in his hands. “Hey… Merry Christmas,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, though his chest tightened nervously.
You looked up from your reports, your expression softening as you saw him. “Bradley…” you murmured. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he said quickly, holding out the tiny wrapped airplane ornament. “But I wanted to. Just… a little something.”
You took it from him, carefully unwrapping it. When your eyes fell on the ornament, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “The airplane… from the shop?” you asked softly. “I… I love it.”
Bradley exhaled, a little relieved. “Thought you might. Thought… it’d be, you know, nice.”
You turned the ornament over in your hands, examining it thoughtfully. “Thank you, really. I’ll take this with me to my next office,” you said casually.
Bradley froze. “Wait… next office?” His voice tightened. “What… what do you mean next office?”
You looked up at him, trying to keep your tone calm. “I’m being transferred,” you said softly, still handling the ornament. “I’ve been evaluating Top Gun for years… It’s just time to move on. Take this Christmas spirit with me to wherever I go next.”
Bradley’s brow furrowed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You’re… leaving? And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I thought you knew,” you said, growing more confused. “I figured it was obvious. You’ve spent all this time with me this month… I just assumed you realised.”
Bradley’s jaw tightened, frustration bubbling over. “Obvious? This isn’t obvious! You… you just casually drop it on me like it’s nothing!”
“I’m not saying it’s nothing!” you said, eyes wide. “Bradley, I’m just… I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been doing this job for years. It’s not like I planned to shock anyone, it’s just the way things are!”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a small circle. “The way things are? You’re leaving, and I have no warning? And I… I was going to ask you to New Year’s and now… now I can’t?”
You frowned, confused by the intensity of his reaction. “I… I don’t understand. Why are you angry? It’s just a transfer. It’s not like-”
“No! It’s not ‘just a transfer’!” he snapped, stepping closer, voice rising with frustration. “It’s you! And you’re just… acting like it’s normal, like it’s fine, like it doesn’t matter!”
You took a step back, raising your hands slightly in placation. “Bradley… I didn’t realise-”
“You didn’t realise?” he cut in sharply. “I’ve spent all month… trying to make you smile, trying to… trying to give you Christmas, and now you’re leaving?”
You looked at him, soft but firm. “Yes. And I’m grateful for everything, Bradley. I really am. But this is my job, my life… I have to move on.”
Bradley’s fists unclenched slightly, but the tension remained, coiled tightly in his shoulders. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “I… I can’t deal with this right now.”
He grabbed his coat and muttered, almost bitterly, “Merry Christmas.”
Then he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving you sitting at your desk with the ornament in your hands, the soft glow of the lamp reflecting off it, and the undeniable tension of everything left unsaid.
--
Bradley got home and kicked off his boots, flopping onto the couch and letting the soft glow of the Christmas lights wash over him. Normally, he’d be bouncing around, singing along to cheesy carols, maybe attempting some questionable wrapping techniques. Tonight, though, he was… quieter. A little reflective.
He ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath, “Great job, Bradshaw. Way to ruin your own Christmas cheer.”
The office argument replayed in his mind: your soft smile when you opened the ornament, the casual way you mentioned taking it with you to your next office. And of course, his reaction… maybe a little over-the-top frustration, definitely not his usual playful charm.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he picked it up to see Maverick calling.
“Hey, you still coming tomorrow?” Maverick’s voice was upbeat, teasing. “Penny, Amelia, the whole gang. Christmas chaos and all that.”
Bradley leaned back, smiling faintly. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll be there. Just… not sure I’ll be my usual ridiculously festive self.”
“Oh, come on,” Maverick said, playful but knowing. “Bradshaw, the man who decorates the tree like it’s an Olympic event, suddenly ‘not festive’? I don’t buy it.”
Bradley chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. I’ll be there. But if Penny roasts me for my tinsel technique again, I’m blaming you.”
“You’ll survive,” Maverick said, laughing. “And hey, just enjoy it. Christmas is supposed to be fun, not emotionally hazardous.”
Bradley hung up and leaned back, letting out a soft sigh. He looked around at the faint glow of his lights, the quiet apartment, and for a moment, he let himself just… be. A little lonely, sure, but also content in the smallness of it. No big drama, no stakes, just soft twinkling lights and the faint smell of cinnamon from the candle he’d lit earlier.
He ran a hand over his face, shook his head, and grinned. “Alright, Christmas chaos it is. I can handle a little cheer… even if some of it’s missing.”
Bradley was still there. A little wistful, a little frustrated, but mostly ready to bounce back tomorrow.
--
Later that night, you were at home, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a small box of your things from the office. The airplane ornament gleamed softly in the lamplight, a little reminder of the day and of… him.
You traced a finger over the tiny wings, a smile tugging at your lips. Despite everything, the argument, the frustration, the transfer, you couldn’t help but feel a warmth in your chest. He’d managed to sneak a little Christmas spirit into your life this month, whether you’d meant to let him or not.
Carefully, you placed the ornament on the shelf near the window, where it could catch the twinkle of the city lights outside. Then, shrugging out of your coat, you padded over to the TV and pulled up a copy of Elf, the very same movie you’d watched with him.
Settling onto the couch with a blanket tucked around your shoulders, you pressed play and let the familiar story fill the room. You laughed quietly at Buddy’s antics, humming along with the songs, feeling… light. Christmas didn’t feel quite so lonely tonight. Not entirely, anyway.
Bradley had brought a little magic with him this month, whether he realised it or not. And for the first time in years, you let yourself enjoy it.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 2.3k
masterlist
December 20th
Bradley was slouching against his locker, still half-distracted by the morning’s flight schedule, when a familiar voice cut through the hum of the squad.
“Hey,” Phoenix said, peering over his shoulder, her arms crossed and a playful smirk on her face. “What’s this?”
Bradley froze mid-motion, hand hovering over his flight gloves. She was pointing directly at the painted ornament tucked inside his locker, the one he’d sneakily taken from you at the market.
“Uh… that?” he said, trying to sound casual while failing spectacularly.
“That’s hers, isn’t it?” she pressed, stepping closer. “You didn’t steal it, did you?”
“Steal?” he asked, blinking innocently. “No! I’m… uh… safeguarding it. For… morale purposes.”
Phoenix raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Sure. ‘Morale.’”
Bradley sighed, giving up on pretending. “Okay, fine. I… I kind of like it. And… maybe I like the person who made it too.”
Phoenix’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Finally. Took you long enough.”
Bradley groaned, brushing his hair back. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, smiling genuinely this time. “Your secret’s safe. But, speaking of festive stuff… you taking her anywhere soon? Because she deserves more than just glittery, festive chaos.”
Bradley perked up, a grin spreading across his face, that unmistakable golden retriever energy lighting him from the inside out. “Funny you mention that… I am taking her ice skating. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
Phoenix laughed, shaking her head. “You're ridiculous. But I hope she says yes.”
Bradley’s eyes softened. “She will.”
--
Streetlights cast a soft glow over the quiet street as you sipped a mug of tea, scrolling through emails in your apartment. A familiar rumble outside made you frown. You pulled back the curtain to peek out the window and saw Bradley’s Bronco parked in your driveway. He was leaning casually on the hood, hands in his pockets, a small, easy grin on his face. Almost like he knew you'd come out to find him.
“Bradshaw…” you muttered, even though a small smile found its way to your lips.
You hurried downstairs and opened the front door. Bradley looked up, “Evening, sunshine,” he said, voice calm, like this was perfectly normal. “Get dressed. We’re going skating.”
You glanced down at your pyjamas, sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, and groaned. “I… I’m not dressed for-”
He held up a hand. “Then invite me in while you change. I’ll wait.”
You blinked. He wasn’t pressuring you, wasn’t bouncing around. Just… there. Somehow, it made it harder to say no.
“Fine,” you said, stepping aside. “But don’t touch anything.”
“I won’t,” he said, slipping inside. “Scout’s honor.”
You hurried into jeans and a sweater while he leaned casually against the doorframe, glancing at his phone, giving the occasional quiet, teasing comment about your outfit choices. “Those shoes will work,” he said at one point. “Can’t have you falling on your face the first five minutes.”
“Thanks,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, but smiling.
Once you were ready, you stepped back outside into the crisp evening air. Bradley held the car door open. “Ready?”
“Ready,” you said, surprising yourself by how easily you’d agreed.
You had no clue where he was taking you, and he'd shown up out of nowhere, but despite it all, you were starting to get used to Bradley Bradshaw's festive antics.
He nodded, starting the Bronco and pulling into the quiet streets. The hum of the engine and the faint glow of the city lights made it feel… normal. Comfortable. Like, maybe this evening could actually be fun.
--
The rink was lit with strings of warm white lights, twinkling against the night sky, and the faint smell of hot cocoa and roasted chestnuts drifted from nearby stands. A small crowd of families and couples skated around, laughter echoing over the scrape of blades against ice.
Bradley parked the Bronco and stepped out first, holding the door for you. “Okay, scene set,” he said, scanning the rink like a kid checking out a playground. “Lights? Check. Music? Check. Cocoa? Eventually.”
You followed, tugging at your scarf and eyeing the skaters nervously. “I haven’t skated in years,” you said. “You might be taking advantage of my lack of coordination.”
He smirked. “That’s fine. Falling is part of the fun. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t crash into anyone important.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You mean yourself?”
“Maybe,” he admitted with a small shrug, looping an arm casually behind your back as he guided you toward the skate rental. “But mostly you.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “How did you know I didn't have plans tonight? God, I don’t know why I agreed to this.”
“Because you trust me,” he said simply, holding the skate in one hand, helping you slip into it. “And maybe because you secretly like a little holiday chaos.”
“Secretly?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes.
He chuckled softly. “Okay, not so secret. I know you 'hate Christmas'-” he rolled his eyes as he said the words, "but I thought you'd enjoy this."
By the time you stepped onto the ice, the chill nipped at your cheeks, and festive music played over speakers, classic holiday songs that made even the most hesitant skater tap a foot in rhythm. Bradley skated beside you, steady and patient, offering a hand when you wobbled and teasing gently when you overcorrected.
“You’re… actually not bad at this,” he said after a few laps, eyes scanning your expression. “Better than I expected.”
“I’m a professional evaluator,” you said, mock-serious. “I evaluate carefully.”
“Clearly,” he said, grinning. “And clearly you’re enjoying yourself too.”
You glanced at him, caught mid-smile, and felt a small warmth in your chest. He wasn’t over-the-top. He wasn’t bouncing or trying too hard. He was just… there. Funny enough, teasing enough, steady enough that the moment felt easy.
“Okay, one more lap,” he said, looping an arm behind you like a casual guide, letting you cling to him if you needed. “And then hot cocoa. I promised cocoa.”
“Fine,” you said, laughing, letting yourself get pulled along. “But if I fall…”
“You won’t,” he said, steady. “And if you do, I’ve got you.”
And somehow, in the glow of lights, the soft scrape of blades, and the warmth of the evening air, it felt like this could be exactly the kind of Christmas memory you’d been missing.
--
You’d been cautiously making your way around the rink, trying to keep a graceful posture while Bradley skated beside you, his presence steady but light.
“Careful,” he said with a small grin, glancing at your feet. “Remember, the ice is slippery.”
“I’m very coordinated,” you said, smirking, though your next step immediately betrayed you.
One slip, too quick, too clumsy, and suddenly you were tumbling forward. Before you knew it, you landed, quite literally, on top of Bradley, and he fell back onto the ice.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, his voice a little higher than usual, arms reflexively wrapping around you to keep you from hitting the ice completely.
You froze, face inches from his chest, hair brushing his shoulder, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the crisp winter air. “Uh… sorry,” you muttered, heart racing.
“Uh… it’s… fine,” he said, a little too quickly, voice tight. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before he tried to set you upright, feeling a little heat creep into his face.
You laughed nervously, stumbling onto your knees, brushing off snow from your sweater. “I guess I really trust you… enough to fall on you.”
Bradley blinked at that, the words hitting him harder than expected. “Right. Of course. Totally… understandable.”
Inside, his brain was panicking. You like her? Yes. You’re touching her? Definitely. She’s… smiling at you? Calm down, Bradshaw. Don’t make it weird.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, trying to regain his usual composure. “Let’s… uh… let’s stand up. Carefully.”
You slowly stood up and stepped back, cheeks pink, both from the cold and… something else. Bradley adjusted his scarf, running a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly conspicuous in a way he hadn’t felt all evening.
“Are you okay?” he asked, still keeping a slight distance, though his voice betrayed a flicker of concern.
“I’m fine,” you said, smiling. “But maybe… maybe you can catch me next time before I hit the ice?”
He nodded, trying to play it cool, even though internally he was screaming.
You skated on, a little closer now, the playful, festive mood tinged with a quiet, awkward tension neither of you quite knew how to handle, except that both of you were enjoying it far more than you expected.
--
The rink had emptied slightly, the evening air crisp and still. You and Bradley leaned against the railing, mugs of steaming hot cocoa warming your hands. The lights from the rink reflected in the chocolatey swirl, casting a soft glow over both of you.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” he said, taking a careful sip. “You only nearly fell three times.”
“Three times is still pretty impressive,” you shot back, rolling your eyes with a grin. “You, on the other hand, nearly collided with a kid dressed like Santa.”
Bradley laughed softly, shaking his head. “They were aggressive skaters. Tiny, ruthless Santas.”
You sipped your cocoa, watching his expression light up in the glow of the lights. For a moment, he was quiet, looking at you like he wasn’t sure whether to speak or just enjoy the silence.
“You know…” he began, his voice a little lower than before, hesitant. “I wasn’t sure how this would go. But… I’m glad we came out here.”
You raised an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? You seemed pretty confident back at the driveway. In fact, you've seemed pretty confident this whole December.”
“Yeah, confident,” he said, smirking slightly, “but… you never know. Maybe I’d embarrass myself. Or make you hate skating forever.”
You laughed softly, leaning a little closer without thinking. “Well… you haven’t made me hate it yet.”
There was a pause. You could feel it, the quiet space between you, the warmth of the cocoa, the glow of the lights. Bradley shifted slightly, catching your glance, heart thumping faster than usual.
“I… uh…” he started, then stopped, suddenly aware of how close you were. Don’t make this weird, don’t make this weird, he thought, fumbling with his mug. “Anyway… I’m glad you’re here.”
You smiled, fingers brushing against your mug nervously. “Me too.”
A small laugh escaped him, awkward but soft. “I… probably shouldn’t be admitting this,” he said, voice quiet, “but… I like being around you. More than I probably should.”
You blinked, heart fluttering, but said nothing, just looked at him, the corners of your lips twitching into a shy smile.
And for a moment, the cold evening air, the rink, the lights, the cocoa… none of it mattered. Just the two of you, awkward, a little embarrassed, but undeniably close.
Bradley cleared his throat, breaking the tension before either of you could overthink it. “Uh… we should probably finish these before they get cold.”
You laughed softly, nodding, but both of you knew something had shifted. That playful, festive evening had opened a door neither of you wanted to close, not yet.
--
Bradley’s bronco rolled quietly to a stop outside your building, engine idling in the crisp night air. The rink, the cocoa, the laughter, it all still lingered in his chest, warm and buzzing. He killed the engine, then leaned back in his seat, grinning a little too widely.
“Skating champion, exhausted and happy,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head. “Yep, nailed it.”
You slid open the door, cheeks still rosy from skating. “You mean ‘slightly less clumsy than expected,’” you teased.
“Details, details,” he said, hopping out. “Come on, let’s walk you up. I’ll even carry your scarf like a responsible gentleman.” He fumbled with it for a moment, and you laughed at the slightly awkward way he draped it around your neck.
“Responsible… huh?” you said, smirking. “Not like the guy who nearly ran into a Santa or that tiny toddler?”
He waved a hand, sheepishly grinning. “All part of the charm, okay? You can thank me later.”
You walked beside him up the sidewalk, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the pavement. You were quieter than usual, but not tense, just… comfortable. He seemed to sense it, his tone dropping a notch in warmth.
“Tonight was fun,” he said, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I mean, you know… skating, cocoa, almost falling on top of me…”
“Almost falling on top of you?” you repeated, laughing softly. “You mean the part where I did?”
He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. That. Totally counts as memorable. Very memorable.”
The two of you reached your door. Bradley stopped, turning to face you. “So… thanks,” he said, quieter now, a little hesitant. “For… tonight. For coming along. For… laughing at me.”
You smiled softly. “I... actually didn't mind.”
He leaned just a little closer, eyes flicking down at your lips for a split second before back to your eyes. The moment stretched, awkward, sweet, and entirely magnetic.
“I…” he started, then stopped, clearing his throat. “Uh… anyway.”
You blinked at him, heart fluttering. The space between you felt electric, and Bradley’s usually confident grin faltered just a bit. He leaned in slightly, and you leaned in too.
Then you pulled back ever so slightly, smiling nervously. “Anyway… goodnight,” you said softly.
Bradley nodded, stepping back with a small, awkward laugh. He waved briefly, hands fumbling in his pockets, before turning toward the bronco. His walk back was a little stiff, self-conscious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d handled it well.
Once inside the car, though, he couldn’t contain it. His grin widened impossibly, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter, and he let out a soft, gleeful whoop. “Oh… wow,” he muttered to himself, still chuckling.
He leaned back in the seat, hands gripping the steering wheel like he’d just won some invisible contest, replaying every second of the night with a ridiculous, happy energy.
And for the first time all evening, he allowed himself to fully enjoy it.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 2.9k
masterlist
December 18th
The break room smelled like burnt coffee and candy canes, which was about as festive as Top Gun ever got. You were halfway through stirring sugar into your mug when Hangman’s laugh hit your ears, loud, smug, and followed by Phoenix rolling her eyes.
“So it’s settled,” Jake was saying. “Hot chocolate, roasted chestnuts, and Coyote’s losing the ugly sweater contest for the third year in a row.”
“It’s not losing,” Coyote argued, as the group wandered into the break room. “It’s spirit.”
You considered making a quick escape and retreating to your office, but it was already too late, you’d been spotted.
“Well, if it isn’t the Ice Queen herself,” Hangman drawled, smirking as he grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee. “Come to shut down Christmas, too?”
“Only if you keep talking,” you said sweetly, brushing past him to refill your coffee.
“Ouch,” Phoenix muttered with a grin.
Bradley leaned against the counter with that infuriatingly easy smile and turned toward you. “Morning, sunshine.”
You nodded, taking a careful sip. “Bradshaw.”
He tilted his head, pretending to think. “So, you’re coming tonight, right?”
You blinked. “Coming where?”
“The Christmas market,” he said, like it was obvious. “We’re all going. You said you’d come.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Pretty sure you did.”
“Pretty sure I didn’t.”
He grinned, unfazed. “Must’ve been implied.”
“Nothing about me implies that.”
He shrugged, unbothered, and before you could move away, he slung an arm casually around your shoulders, like this was the most natural thing in the world. You froze mid-sip.
“She’s in,” he told the others, tone so certain that you could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“I’m not-” you started, but Bob, ever the quiet voice of reason, piped up gently.
“It might actually be nice,” he said, offering a small smile from where he sat with his notebook. “They’ve got this booth with hand-painted ornaments. You’d probably like it.”
You hesitated. Bob was… well, Bob. He wasn’t one for teasing or games. If he thought you’d like it, maybe...
You sighed. “Fine. But if any of you even try to get me on one of those tacky rides, I’m leaving.”
Phoenix raised her cup in salute. “Noted.”
Hangman grinned. “I’ll get you some mistletoe instead.”
You didn’t even blink. “Try it and you’ll need dental reconstruction.”
Coyote laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
Bradley just squeezed your shoulder lightly before letting go, his grin softening in a way you didn’t catch. “Atta girl,” he said. “You’ll thank me later.”
You doubted that.
--
The sound of a car horn jolted you from your thoughts. You glanced out your window to see Bradley’s Bronco idling at the curb, the headlights cutting through the evening fog.
You were dressed casually, jeans, a long coat, a scarf, normal. Which, apparently, was a problem, because the moment you stepped outside, Bradley leaned across the passenger seat, grinning like he’d just gotten away with something.
“Evening, sunshine,” he said.
“Bradshaw.” You crossed your arms. “Why are you here? We’re supposed to meet at the market.”
He shrugged, clearly pleased with himself. “Carpooling saves gas. Very responsible. You like responsibility.”
“That’s not-”
“And,” he interrupted, holding up a paper bag, “I come bearing gifts.”
You eyed the bag suspiciously. “What kind of gifts?”
“The festive kind.”
You sighed but got into his car anyway, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary. “If this is mistletoe, I’m walking home.”
He laughed. “Not mistletoe.” He handed you the bag. “Open it.”
You gave him a sceptical look but pulled out the contents, a soft red Christmas sweater covered in embroidered snowflakes and… little fighter jets.
You blinked. “What is this?”
“Your uniform for the night,” he said proudly. “Squad rule: ugly sweaters mandatory.”
“There’s no such rule.”
“There is now.”
“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You wrote it.”
“Someone had to.” He gave you a sidelong look as he put the Bronco into gear. “Besides, I got everyone one. Even Bob’s wearing his.”
That made you hesitate. “Bob’s wearing one?”
Bradley grinned, catching your doubt. “Absolutely.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged, eyes on the road as he pulled away from the curb. “Guess you’ll have to wear it and find out.”
You held up the sweater. “You expect me to put this on?”
“You’ll look great,” he said without missing a beat.
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s definitely part of the point.”
You tried to fight the smile threatening your face but failed, shaking your head instead. “You’re insufferable.”
He glanced at you, his grin softening. “Maybe. But admit it, I make the holidays more interesting.”
You rolled your eyes but said nothing, pretending to study the sweater again. It was actually… nice. Cozy, even. Someone had clearly spent time choosing it.
The car ride fell quiet for a moment, save for the hum of the heater and faint Christmas music crackling through the radio. You caught him tapping the steering wheel to the beat, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Fine,” you muttered finally. “But if I find out Bob isn’t wearing one, you owe me a hot chocolate.”
He laughed, that warm, easy sound filling the car. “Deal.”
--
The Bronco rolled into the market’s lot, headlights illuminating strings of lights draped across the stalls and the faint shimmer of fake snow drifting down from sprinklers above.
Bradley practically bounced in his seat. “Look at this!” he exclaimed, throwing open his door before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt. “Lights everywhere. Hot chocolate stands. Roasted chestnuts. That guy juggling candy canes! And oh! That one has little elf hats. We have to see them!”
You groaned, hoisting your bag over your shoulder as you shifted in the Christmas jumper. It was actually comfortable, but you'd never tell him that. “Bradshaw, I’m not… I don’t-”
“Come on!” he said, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the first row of stalls. “You’re going to love it. Look at that one! They’re selling ornaments shaped like fighter jets. Can you believe it?!”
You blinked, caught off guard by his enthusiasm. “You’re obsessed with this, aren’t you?”
“Obsessed is my middle name,” he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “And look, over there!” He pointed toward a tiny carousel, where children in matching scarves squealed on wooden horses. “We could totally ride it. I mean, maybe not ride ride, but just look. Look! Lights! Joy! Peppermint everything! Don’t you feel it?”
You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous is a compliment in this case,” he said seriously. “And you’re smiling. That counts as participation.”
He darted from stall to stall, pointing things out like a kid showing his favorite part of a theme park. “Ooh! Hot cocoa with whipped cream! They have peppermint sticks! That little dog! She’s wearing antlers! Look! That old couple’s holding hands! See the twinkle lights over there?”
You found yourself following, shoulders relaxing, your earlier grumpiness melting under his energy. He jabbed at the air toward a display of ornaments. “That one’s perfect for you! Look, it’s red, very festive! Wait, no, that one! The snowflake! Or maybe the little jet. It’s patriotic and Christmassy!”
“Bradshaw,” you said through a laugh, “I’m not taking all of them.”
“Fine,” he said, hands in the air in mock surrender. “You can pick one. But only one! And it has to be the funnest one you see. Deal?”
You rolled your eyes, smiling anyway. “Deal.”
He let out a triumphant whoop. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. You’re officially in the Christmas spirit.”
You tried to argue, but he had already grabbed your hand again, tugging you toward the next stall like a golden retriever excitedly leading someone to their favorite park spot.
“Look at the snow globes!” he called. “And the tiny gingerbread houses! And, oh! That guy’s playing a ukulele and singing ‘Jingle Bells’ wrong, but it’s adorable! You have to watch!”
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up from your chest, and for the first time this month, you felt a little… light.
Bradley’s grin was impossibly wide. “See? This is why Christmas is awesome. And you? You’re finally seeing it too.”
“I’m not,” you said, though your lips twitched into a smile.
He nudged your shoulder. “Sure you’re not, Scrooge. But I’ll take this little smirk as a win.”
And he did, because in his mind, every small laugh, every glance you allowed him, was a victory worth more than all the Christmas lights in the world.
--
Bradley practically dragged you to a small tent lit by fairy lights, where tables were lined with little wooden ornaments, paintbrushes, and pots of glitter. The tent smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, soft fairy lights draped above the tables, giving everything a warm glow. He practically bounced as he pulled you towards one of the tables.
“Here we go,” he said, plopping a red-and-gold ornament in front of you. “Your very own masterpiece.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t painted anything since kindergarten.”
“That’s perfect,” he said, grinning. “Zero expectations. Pure chaos. Exactly how I like it.”
You sighed, picking up a brush, trying not to scowl. “I’m a professional evaluator, not an artist.”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning close so his shoulder brushed yours. “That’s why it’s fun. You’re not thinking about rules or perfection. Just… us, and this.”
You felt your stomach twist slightly at how close he was, but tried to focus on the ornament. Bradley, of course, wasn’t helping. He was already a mess of colours, streaks of green over gold, glitter in places glitter should never be. He held it up proudly.
“Look at this!” he said, holding it out so you could see. “It’s… festive chaos. Kinda like my life. Or maybe yours, under all that sternness.”
You snorted, shaking some silver glitter over your ornament. “I’ll have you know my life is very organised.”
“Sure it is,” he said, leaning slightly closer again, so the warmth from his sweater brushed your arm. “But you’re enjoying this chaos, I can see it. Look at your hands... trembling with excitement. Totally enjoying yourself.”
You rolled your eyes, but the laugh that escaped was genuine. Bradley’s grin widened. “See? That’s the smile I’ve been after all month.”
You felt him glance at you, eyes soft, lingering longer than necessary when he handed you a brush. You held it slightly longer than needed too, just so your fingers brushed his, a touch that made your chest skip.
“You know,” he said quietly, almost conspiratorially, “I’ve loved Christmas my whole life. And now… I get to do it with someone who, honestly, is way more fun than she admits.”
Your hand froze mid-stroke. The words hit in a way that made you blink, and you found yourself staring down at your ornament, pretending to concentrate.
Bradley, oblivious, laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I didn’t just say that to make you smile. Well… maybe a little. But seriously, you’re killing it. I might have to enter you in the ‘Best Ornament’ contest.”
You shook your head, glitter falling from your brush. “I’m not competing.”
“Of course not,” he said, leaning closer so your shoulders brushed again. “You’re above that.”
For a few quiet minutes, you worked side by side, only the soft scratching of brushes against wood and the occasional laugh filling the space. Your hands brushed more than once, and each time, it felt electric. Yet, neither of you commented, letting the closeness hang, almost like a shared secret.
Then, just as the warmth of the tent settled over you, the soft glow of the lights and the quiet thrill of being together made the moment feel… different. You looked up at him, about to say something, anything, when Bradley’s head turned sharply.
“Uh… one second,” he said, tugging slightly on his sweater. “I’ll be right back.”
You frowned. “What?”
He flashed you a quick grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes before weaving out of the tent.
You exhaled softly, but in that moment, your chest was warm, your hands glittery, and you couldn’t deny that something had shifted.
--
Bradley ducked out of the tent, ostensibly “adjusting his sweater,” but really trying not to look like a total goof. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the squad leaning against a nearby stall, smirking and whispering to each other.
Bradley waved a brush nonchalantly. “Uh… yeah. Cozy. Totally professional. You didn't have to spy on us, ya know.”
Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “Professional? Really? That’s what we’re calling it?”
Bradley gave a dramatic cough. “I, uh, yes. Exactly. Professional. Don’t read into it.”
Jake leaned in, grinning. “Oh, we read into it, Bradshaw. Big time. You like her.”
Bradley’s eyes widened. “Like her? Me? No way! Absolutely not! That is… ridiculous! Preposterous!”
“Uh-huh,” Hangman said, clearly amused. “That’s a very convincing denial.”
“Very convincing,” Phoenix echoed, smirking.
Bradley waved his hands wildly, brushing off the comments. “I-no! I am totally neutral! Completely impartial! This is just… uh, festive cheer. Yes, that’s it! I'm trying to make her festive! Nothing else!”
Bradley’s hand hovered over his ornament, the brush suddenly heavy in his grip. Every time he looked at it, he caught himself glancing toward you, the way you’d laughed, the way your hands brushed his, the tilt of your head as you focused. He could feel his face heating up.
“I’m… I’m going back to the ornament painting now,” he said finally, spinning on his heel and marching back toward the tent like he was retreating from a battlefield.
The squad exchanged grins, clearly enjoying the show.
--
Bradley plopped back down at the ornament table, trying desperately to look like nothing had happened. He grabbed a brush and pretended to “adjust” some stray paint on his ornament.
“So…” you said, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “What was that all about?”
Bradley froze, brush mid-air. “Uh… what was what?”
“That,” you said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the squad. “The rushing-out-of-the-tent thing. You disappearing. The whole-”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, too quickly, brushing his hair back and grimacing at his own panic. “Yeah… um… I was… making sure the ornament… wasn’t… contagious?”
Your brow shot up. “Contagious?”
“Yeah! You know… glitter can be… highly contagious. Very dangerous. I… uh… read that online. Science.”
You stared at him, unamused, while he pretended to inspect his ornament. He cringed internally, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
“Right,” you said finally, shaking your head with a tiny laugh. “Of course. Science. Totally makes sense.”
Bradley exhaled quietly, thankful you didn’t press further.
You returned to finishing your own ornament, paintbrush in hand. When you were done, you sighed, looking at it critically. “Yeah… that’s… fine. I’ll just leave it here.”
Before you could take another step, Bradley’s eyes flicked down at your ornament and then back up at you. Something in his chest tightened, a little pang of something he hadn’t quite admitted to himself yet.
As soon as your back was turned, he casually slipped the ornament into his coat pocket. Just a little souvenir.
He held it there, fingers brushing against the smooth wood, and realised something startling. The way his chest warmed at the thought of your laugh, the way he couldn’t stop looking at you…
Yeah. He definitely liked you. The squad had a point.
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath, cringing at the honesty.
He shook his head and turned back to his own ornament, trying to focus on glitter placement while sneaking glances at the back of your head, smiling to himself.
Christmas was the perfect time for romance, after all.
--
The market was winding down, the streets emptying around the glowing stalls as you and Bradley walked back to his Bronco. The lights overhead flickered softly, and for the first time all evening, the cold didn’t feel as sharp.
“You ready to call it a night?” he asked, hands in his pockets, scarf slightly askew.
You nodded, tugging your sweater around you. “Yeah… thanks for dragging me along. I mean, I might have enjoyed myself.”
“Might?” he teased, grinning. “I’d call that a win.”
He held the Bronco door for you, and you slid in, brushing off imaginary snow from your coat. The ride back was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the faint jingle of his keychain.
When he pulled up outside your place, he killed the engine and turned to you. “Here we are,” he said softly. “Safe and sound.”
You unbuckled your seatbelt and hesitated, looking at him. Something in the night, the glow of lights, the soft cold, the warmth of laughter lingering in your chest, made the thought cross your mind.
You almost invited him inside. Almost.
Instead, you shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks… for everything tonight.”
He grinned, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. “Anytime. You know where to find me.”
You stepped out, your hands tucked into your coat pockets, and turned toward your door. “I’ll… see you next time.”
He watched you go, hands resting on the steering wheel of the Bronco. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, a little wistful. “Next time.”
And as you disappeared inside, he lingered for just a moment longer, already thinking about the next chance he’d get to see you laugh.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 1.9k
masterlist
December 15th
You were halfway through signing off another stack of flight evaluation reports when the knock came, three sharp raps, far too chipper for the hour.
You didn’t even look up. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, if this is another baked-goods emergency, I’m calling security.”
“Not cookies this time,” came his voice, full of that infuriating sunshine you’d come to dread. “It’s a field trip.”
You frowned, finally glancing up. He was leaning against your doorway, still in his flight suit, grinning like a man who’d just gotten away with something.
“A what?”
“Field trip.” He stepped inside, holding up his car keys like a magician presenting the next act. “I need help picking out Christmas gifts for the squad.”
You set your pen down slowly. “I’m sorry, you need what?”
“Help,” he repeated easily. “I’m terrible at shopping. You, on the other hand, seem like someone who color-codes her grocery lists.”
“That is not a compliment.”
“It’s meant as one.”
You stared at him for a long moment. “Bradley, I seriously have work to do. I'm almost done with evaluations and-”
“Which you’ve been doing non-stop since you got here,” he countered, unfazed. “Come on, it’s for morale.”
“Morale, that's always your excuse,” you echoed, deadpan.
He nodded solemnly. “Christmas spirit boosts productivity. Proven fact.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
You exhaled through your nose, crossing your arms. “I’m not going Christmas shopping with you.”
“Not even to make sure I don’t buy Jake something wildly inappropriate again?”
You frowned. “Again?”
He grinned, all teeth. “Last year I gave him novelty socks with jets on them. He wore them to the bar. Every night.”
“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”
“Exactly why I need your help.” He jingled the keys again. “You’re off-duty. One hour. Promise.”
You stared at him, entirely unconvinced.
He tilted his head, that boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Unless you’re scared of having fun.”
That did it. You rolled your eyes, snatching your coat from the chair. “Fine. One hour. And if this turns into another cookie catastrophe, I’m writing you up.”
He grinned, already backing toward the door. “Deal.”
--
It turned out your definition of “one hour” and Bradley’s were not the same.
You’d been wandering through downtown for nearly two, juggling shopping bags, and still hadn’t reached whatever imaginary finish line he’d promised. The whole street glowed with string lights and tinny carols, and you were fairly certain the smell of roasted chestnuts was permanently seared into your coat.
“Bradshaw,” you warned, stepping aside as a toddler nearly impaled you with a candy cane. “You said one hour.”
“I said about one hour,” he corrected cheerfully, adjusting his aviator sunglasses despite it being very much nighttime. “You can’t rush art.”
“You’re buying gifts, not painting the Sistine Chapel.”
He stopped to pick up a snow globe from a vendor’s stall, one of those cheap plastic kinds that somehow manage to leak glitter if you even look at them wrong. “What about this for Hangman?”
You deadpanned. “You want to give Jake a snow globe?”
He shrugged. “It’s got a fighter jet in it.”
You peered closer. “That’s… definitely a commercial airliner.”
“Details,” he said, shaking it and watching the fake snow swirl. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Your thought process terrifies me.”
“Oh, come on." He laughed, "Look at you, shopping. That’s practically festive.”
“I’m here under duress.”
“Still counts.”
You were about to argue when he grabbed a Santa hat from a display and plopped it on your head before you could stop him.
“Absolutely not,” you said flatly, reaching up to remove it.
He caught your wrist midair, grin widening. “Just for the photo.”
“What photo-”
Click.
You blinked as he lowered his phone. “You did not just-”
“Too late,” he said smugly, sliding the phone into his pocket. “It’s for the scrapbook.”
“There’s a scrapbook now?” You couldn't help but smile slightly.
“There will be. Title page: ‘The Time You Smiled and Pretended Not To Like Christmas.’”
“I’m confiscating your phone,” you muttered, stalking toward the next stall.
Behind you, his laugh rang out, warm and easy, the kind that drew looks from passersby. He caught up to you in a few strides, falling into step.
“Okay,” he said after a beat, “but seriously. What do you get for a guy like Coyote? He’s too nice for gag gifts.”
You sighed, giving in just a little. “Something practical. Like gloves.”
“Gloves,” he repeated thoughtfully. “You’re good at this.”
“I’m efficient.”
“Efficient is good,” he said, shooting you a sidelong look that made your stomach twist for reasons you refused to acknowledge. “But you’re allowed to have fun, you know.”
You ignored him. “Let’s just finish your list.”
“Whatever you say, Scrooge.”
“Keep talking and I’ll prove it.”
He chuckled, ducking into another shop, one that smelled strongly of cinnamon and chaos, and you followed, muttering under your breath that this was the last time you’d ever agree to “help” Bradley Bradshaw with anything festive again.
--
The next store was a tiny boutique tucked between a bakery and a florist, its window full of twinkling lights and hand-painted ornaments. A bell jingled above the door as you stepped inside, and the warmth hit instantly, all cinnamon and clove, the air practically humming with nostalgia.
“Now this is festive,” Bradley murmured, brushing past you to look at the shelves. His shoulder brushed yours, and you hated how aware you were of it.
“You’re like a magpie,” you said dryly, watching him gravitate toward anything shiny.
“Compliment accepted.” He grinned.
The shopkeeper, a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Hallmark movie, grey curls, red cardigan, smile like she’d seen this scene a thousand times, appeared from behind the counter.
“Well, aren’t you two adorable?” she said warmly.
You blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Christmas shopping together, matching smiles…” Her eyes twinkled. “How long have you been dating?”
You opened your mouth to correct her, but Bradley got there first. “Not long enough,” he said, without missing a beat.
You turned to him, scandalised. “Excuse me?”
He just grinned, the picture of innocence. “You heard the nice lady.”
The shopkeeper chuckled knowingly, clearly delighted. “First Christmas together, then. Oh, I’ve got just the thing for a couple like you.”
Before you could protest, she bustled off toward a shelf. You glared up at Bradley. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” he said, utterly unbothered. “It’s part of my charm.”
“I should revoke your clearance.”
“You wouldn’t. Who else would buy you peppermint mochas?”
You stared. “You’ve never bought me a peppermint mocha.”
“Not yet,” he said, mimicking the shopkeeper’s tone.
You groaned, turning toward the shelves just to escape the grin you could feel aimed at you. Something on a lower shelf caught your eye then, a small ornament shaped like a paper airplane, hand-carved wood painted gold, a red ribbon looped through the top. You hesitated, thumb brushing the surface.
It reminded you, just faintly, of something. Maybe home. Maybe childhood. You weren't sure.
“You like that one?” Bradley asked softly behind you.
“It’s… nice,” you said, setting it back quickly. “Let’s just finish up.”
“Sure.”
You didn’t notice him slip it off the hook after you walked away.
When you went to wait by the door, pretending to scroll on your phone, Bradley lingered by the counter, pulling out his wallet.
The old woman smiled knowingly as she wrapped the ornament. “Told you, first Christmas together.”
He laughed under his breath. “Not exactly.”
“Not yet?” she teased, tying the ribbon.
He hesitated, just long enough to make her smile widen, then said, “Yeah. Not yet.”
--
By the time you stepped out of the shop, the sky had dipped into twilight. The street was alive with gold light and laughter, carollers’ voices weaving through the hum of the crowd. Your arms were full of shopping bags, his shopping bags, technically, and your patience was hanging by a thread.
“Next time,” you muttered, “I’m making you do this alone.”
“Next time?” he repeated, grin spreading like he’d just caught you admitting something.
You glared. “Figure of speech.”
“Sure it was.”
Before you could retort, he stopped beside a little pop-up coffee cart wrapped in tinsel and fairy lights. “Two peppermint mochas,” he said to the barista before you could protest.
You raised an eyebrow. “You just ordered for me.”
“Yeah,” he said simply. “You like peppermint.”
You blinked. “I never said that.”
“Didn’t have to,” he said, handing you the cup a moment later. “You always steal the peppermint candies off the front desk.”
You stared at him, caught off guard. “You notice that?”
He shrugged, eyes dancing. “I notice stuff.”
You didn’t quite know what to do with that, so you focused very intently on the cup in your hands. The whipped cream was melting, and the scent of mint and chocolate curled around the cold air.
You found a bench tucked under a streetlamp, a view of the main square where families passed, kids darting between legs with candy canes, couples holding gloved hands. Bradley sat beside you, elbows resting on his knees, watching it all with an easy smile.
“Alright,” he said finally, nodding toward a couple walking past, an older man with a tiny dog wearing reindeer antlers. “What’s their story?”
You frowned. “What?”
“Them,” he said. “Go on. You’ve got that serious evaluator brain, use it.”
You sighed but played along. “They… go on a walk every night. The man hates the dog, but his wife loves it.”
“Wrong,” Bradley said, shaking his head solemnly. “The dog is his best friend. His name’s...” He squinted. “Definitely something dramatic. Like Sir Biscuit.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself, quickly hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup.
He grinned. “Aha! There it is. Actual joy. I knew you were capable.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you said, still half-laughing.
He nodded toward another pair, a teenage boy and girl carrying matching shopping bags, both awkwardly pretending not to look at each other. “Alright, your turn. What’s their deal?”
You hummed, thinking. “He’s been trying to work up the nerve to ask her out for weeks. Bought her a gift, probably something small and thoughtful. She’s already guessed what it is, but she’s pretending she hasn’t.”
Bradley grinned. “Look at you, all romantic.”
“Just observant.”
“Sure.”
Then he pointed at a man sprinting down the street, arms full of wrapping paper and ribbons. “And him?”
You smirked. “Forgot his wife’s present. That’s panic shopping.”
Bradley chuckled. “Brutal. But accurate.”
“Experience,” you said simply, and when he looked at you curiously, you added, “My dad once forgot my mom’s gift. We had to unwrap the toaster and pretend it was new.”
Bradley laughed so hard he nearly spilt his drink, and you couldn’t help but join in. It was ridiculous, the cold air, the lights, the strangers with their little stories, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like something to roll your eyes at.
He finally caught his breath, still smiling at you. “You’re good at this, you know.”
“At what?”
“Letting yourself have a good time when you want to.”
You looked away, cheeks warm, and took another sip of your mocha. “Don’t make it weird, Bradshaw.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He nudged your shoulder lightly, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the warmth beside you, the sound of his laugh mixing with the music drifting from the nearby speakers.
“This doesn’t mean I’m becoming festive,” you said eventually.
“Sure it doesn’t,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself that.”
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 1.4k
masterlist
December 12th
By five-thirty, the base was quiet. Most of the staff had gone home, the corridors lit only by the low amber glow of the exit signs. You were still in your office, as usual, papers stacked neatly in front of you, pen tapping rhythmically against the page.
You were halfway through a report when someone knocked.
“Come in,” you called, without looking up.
The door creaked open, and that familiar voice followed, “Evening, sunshine.”
You didn’t have to look to know who it was. “Bradley.”
“You busy?” He grinned.
“Yes.”
He stepped inside anyway, hands in his pockets, that insufferably easy smile already spreading. “Perfect. I need your help.”
“That sentence never ends well,” you muttered with a sigh.
“Relax,” he chuckled, moving closer to your desk. “No trees, no tinsel, no heavy lifting. I swear.”
You looked up then, skeptical. “What is it this time?”
He paused dramatically. “Cookies.”
That got your attention. You blinked at him. “Cookies.”
“Yeah. You know... round things, sweet, people enjoy them. Big hit around the holidays.”
“I’m aware of what cookies are,” you said dryly. “Why are you talking about them in my office?”
“Because I’m going to make some.” He stepped further in, holding up a grocery bag. You caught sight of flour, sugar, and… an aggressively festive red mixing bowl. “For the admin staff. They work hard, and I figured it’d be nice to do something for them.”
You arched an eyebrow. “And why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” he said, lowering the bag onto the edge of your desk with a dramatic thump, “I need supervision.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Supervision.”
“Yeah.” He flashed that too-easy smile. “And I know how much you love supervising.”
You stared at him for a long moment. His audacity was astounding. “I’m not baking cookies with you.”
“You’re not,” he agreed easily. “You’re supervising.”
“I have actual work to do.”
“Perfect." He shrugged, "You can bring it with you. You can sit there and judge me. You’re great at that.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose, the faintest twitch of amusement threatening at the corner of your mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he said, already backing toward the hallway, “you’re going to follow me in about thirty seconds because curiosity will eat you alive.”
“I will not.”
“Sure you won’t.”
He left before you could answer, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. You sat there, staring at the door, trying very hard not to smile.
You made it four minutes before grabbing your coat.
--
The officers’ lounge kitchen was small, barely enough room for two people to stand without knocking elbows. Someone had tried to make it festive: a string of half-burnt lights drooped along the cabinets, and there was a tiny tree on the counter, leaning slightly to one side like it had given up.
Bradley was already there, sleeves rolled up, trying to figure out how to work the oven timer.
You crossed your arms and leaned against the doorway. “This seems wildly unsanitary.”
He jumped slightly. “You came.”
You scoffed and slowly stepped into the small room, “I came to make sure you don’t set the base on fire.”
“Great,” he said, grinning. “That’s what I call holiday spirit.”
You leaned against the counter, watching him wage war with the mixing bowl. There was already a streak of flour on his cheek and a light dusting of sugar on the floor.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” you asked, one brow raised.
“Absolutely not,” he said cheerfully. “But I have heart.”
“That’s not an ingredient.”
“Should be.”
You sighed, stepping closer despite yourself. “You can’t just dump all the butter in at once, Bradshaw.”
He grinned. “Oh, so you do bake.”
You gave him a withering look. “I know how to follow directions.”
He held up the spoon like a peace offering. “Then, by all means, supervise me.”
You took it from him, and within fifteen minutes, supervising had turned into actual mixing, measuring, and, eventually, laughing when he tried (and failed) to crack an egg with one hand.
“You’re hopeless,” you said, fighting a smile as he picked shell fragments out of the batter.
“I’m learning under pressure,” he countered, smirking. “You evaluators love that, right?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “That’s not how it works.”
The oven beeped. The kitchen smelled like sugar and cinnamon and a little bit of chaos. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you, both of you dusted with flour like you’d survived a snowstorm.
“See?” he said. “Festive.”
“Messy,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
You shook your head, laughing softly, a sound you didn’t even realise had escaped you until he looked over, smiling in quiet victory.
“You don't quit,” you muttered, trying to hide your smile.
He shrugged. “It’s Christmas.”
“You take that seriously.”
“I do.” He hesitated, then turned to face you fully. “My parents… they loved it. They made it a big thing every year. Even when it was just the three of us. My mom would bake, my dad would hang lights. I don't remember a lot of it with my dad around, but even after he passed, my mom would make it a big thing. It wasn’t about the presents, it was just… good. You know?”
You nodded, suddenly quiet.
He continued, “When she died, I didn’t want to lose that.” He looked down, thumb brushing a smear of flour off his wrist. “Keeping it up… it makes it feel like they’re still around. Like the good stuff didn’t go with them.”
You swallowed, your throat a little tight. “That’s why you like it so much,” you said softly.
He smiled, not as wide this time, smaller, real. “Yeah. Guess so.”
The oven beeped again, and he turned to pull out the tray, slipping on an oven mitt that looked two sizes too small.
“Hey,” you said after a moment. “These smell… good.”
He glanced over, mock-surprised. “Was that a compliment?”
“Maybe.”
He grinned, setting the tray down. “You’re staying to try one.”
You pretended to think it over, then grabbed one off the tray anyway. It burned your fingers, but it was good. Warm, sweet, and imperfect.
“Not bad,” you said around a bite.
He beamed. “That’s practically high praise coming from you.”
You rolled your eyes again, but this time, there was no real bite behind it.
--
By the time you finished cleaning up, or rather, by the time you decided the mess was at least acceptable, the base was nearly dark. The halls echoed faintly with your footsteps, and the air outside bit with December chill.
Bradley walked you to your car without being asked, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, the faintest trace of flour still in his hair.
“You don’t have to escort me, you know,” you chuckled.
He shrugged. “Can’t have the base evaluator getting jumped by a rogue cookie crumb on her way out.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t tell him to leave.
He leaned a shoulder against your car as you rummaged for your keys, his gaze catching on the small ornament dangling from your rearview mirror, a faded glass snowflake, edges chipped from years of wear.
He nodded toward it. “That yours?”
You glanced up, following his gaze. “Yeah.”
“It’s old.”
“It is.” You hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the door. “It was my mom’s.”
He looked at you then, not teasing, not smug. Just… soft. “It’s nice,” he said quietly.
“Sentimental,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Not when I’m right.”
You turned to face him fully, and for a second, it felt like the rest of the base fell away. The yellow floodlights from the hangar glowed behind him, catching the faintest spark of gold in his hair. The air between you was sharp with cold, but you didn’t move.
He did. Just a step closer, enough that you could smell the sugar and cinnamon still clinging to him.
“Goodnight, Bradley,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
He smiled. “Night, Scrooge.”
You got in the car, shut the door, and told yourself the strange flutter in your chest was just from the cold.
But as you drove off, the lights of the base fading behind you, that old glass snowflake swayed gently on the mirror, catching the glow of the dashboard, scattering tiny flecks of gold across the dark.
And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t mind the quiet.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 2.2k
masterlist
December 10th
The smell of burnt coffee and jet fuel was practically the official scent of Top Gun. Bradley didn’t mind it, especially not this morning.
He was in a suspiciously good mood, humming under his breath as he poured himself a cup of the terrible break room coffee, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
It hadn’t been a date exactly. The movie night was just… friendly morale building. Totally professional. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you’d tried not to laugh when Buddy the Elf ate cotton balls.
It was cute. Adorable, even.
“Someone’s awfully chipper,” Hangman drawled from the couch, feet kicked up on the table like he owned the place. “What’s got you singing Christmas carols before sunrise, Bradshaw? Win the lottery? Find a comb that works? Finally decide to get rid of the 'tache?”
Bradley ignored him, stirring sugar into his coffee. “Just feeling festive, Seresin.”
“That’s not festive. That’s weird.” Phoenix leaned against the counter beside him, raising a brow. “You usually hate mornings. Always too eager to get flying.”
“Maybe mornings are starting to grow on me.”
“Uh-huh. Has this got anything to do with our favourite evaluator being on base?” She slowly sipped her coffee, clearly unconvinced. “And your friendly movie night?"
That earned a few snickers from the others.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” Hangman added, eyes gleaming. “You like the Ice Queen.”
Bradley rolled his eyes. “She’s not really an Ice Queen.”
“She makes Scrooge look like Santa Claus.”
“She’s just… focused.” Bradley scoffed.
Coyote smirked. “Focused on making you sweat every time she grades your maneuvers.”
Bradley took a long sip of coffee, pretending not to care. “She’s just doing her job.”
Phoenix exchanged a look with Hangman. “So, what was the deal with movie night? Bob said you two-”
Bradley cut her off quickly, almost panicked. “It wasn’t a thing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
Hangman leaned forward, grin widening. “Bradshaw, if this is your idea of flirting, you’re in for a long December. No one can melt the Ice Queen.”
Bradley just smiled into his mug. “Maybe. But I’ve got time.”
Hangman blinked. “Time for what?”
“None of your business.”
That only fueled the teasing, of course. Hangman clutched his chest dramatically. “Gentlemen, he’s smitten!”
Phoenix snorted. “God help her.”
Bradley didn’t respond, he just grinned wider and walked out of the room, ignoring the laughter that followed him down the hall.
If they wanted to tease, fine. Let them.
They didn’t need to know that he’d already decided what came next.
Today, he was going to make you pick out a Christmas tree.
Even if it killed him.
--
Your morning had been blissfully quiet, at least, until Bradley Bradshaw appeared in your doorway holding a travel mug and another candy cane like some sort of overgrown elf.
“Good morning, sunshine!” he announced cheerfully.
You didn’t even look up from your paperwork. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Technically,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “I’m everywhere on this base. Public property.”
You looked up slowly, expression flat. “That’s not how that works.”
He smiled like it absolutely was. “I come bearing gifts.” He held up the candy cane.
You raised an unimpressed brow. “Another one? Is that supposed to bribe me?”
“Maybe.” He placed it on the corner of your desk with exaggerated care. “I’m also here on official business.”
“Official business,” you repeated, deadpan. “Bradshaw, if this is about your flight scores-”
“Nope.” He grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “This is about Christmas spirit.”
You blinked. “That’s not a regulation.”
“It should be.”
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Bradshaw, I already did your Christmas movie night. Now, I have work to do.”
“Perfect. You can multitask.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
He leaned on your desk, eyes dancing. “Helping me pick out a Christmas tree.”
You stared. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. The break room needs one. Base morale and all that. Maverick's orders.” Bradley grinned, knowing you couldn't say no to Maverick.
You folded your arms. “You’re telling me Top Gun, the Navy’s elite fighter pilot school, doesn’t have anyone else capable of acquiring a Christmas tree?”
“I mean, they could, but then they’d miss out on your impeccable taste in seasonal foliage.”
“Bradshaw.”
He just grinned, rocking back on his heels. “C’mon, it’s for the good of the team. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for crushing everyone’s Christmas spirit, would you?”
You stared at him, unamused. “I’m starting to understand why Hangman calls you a golden retriever.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Of course you will.” You hesitated for a long moment, long enough for him to smile knowingly. “Fine,” you said finally, glaring. “But only because I need coffee anyway... and Maverick's my superior, I don't wanna disobey orders.”
He brightened instantly. “That’s the spirit!”
“This is not the spirit,” you said flatly, gathering your coat. “And if you so much as hum a carol, I’m leaving you at the tree lot.”
He waited until you were walking past him before whispering, “Jingle Bells.”
You shot him a look so sharp it could’ve downed an aircraft.
He just grinned wider.
--
The Christmas tree lot sat just off the main road, a patchwork of firs and pines under strings of golden lights. The air was sharp and cool, filled with the smell of pine sap and laughter from a few families wandering between rows.
You stopped just inside the gate, hands in your coat pockets, taking it all in with your usual unimpressed expression. “You realise we’re supposed to be on base, right? Not… here.”
Bradley gave you a bright grin. “This is a morale-building exercise. Completely sanctioned.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
You gave him a look, but there was a flicker of amusement there now, faint, but visible.
He pushed a cart toward you. “You pick. You look like the kind of person who knows the difference between ‘too full’ and ‘classic cone shape.’”
“I’m the kind of person who doesn’t care,” you huffed, following him anyway.
“That’s impossible. Everyone cares a little. You just don’t want to admit it.” He watched as you wandered between rows of trees, occasionally brushing a gloved hand across a branch, as if testing its texture.
You stopped at one and tilted your head. “This one’s fine.”
Bradley crouched down to check the base. “Fine? That’s the highest praise you’ve ever given anything Christmas-related. I’m honored.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s symmetrical. It’ll do.”
He looked up at you from where he was crouched, smiling softly. “You really don’t do Christmas, huh?”
You hesitated, then shrugged. “Didn’t stick around long enough to make it a habit.”
He straightened. “Stick around?”
You sighed, glancing away. “My parents worked a lot. They’d try, sometimes, a small tree, a few gifts. But it was always rushed. I’d wake up to find half the decorations still in the box.”
Your tone wasn’t bitter, just matter-of-fact, like you’d told the story before and didn’t expect anyone to care much.
Bradley’s grin softened into something quieter. “That sucks.”
You gave a half-laugh. “Not exactly a tragedy.”
“It still sucks,” he said simply. “Everyone deserves at least one good Christmas.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. The sincerity in his voice threw you off balance; there was no teasing, no smug smirk, just that steady, gentle tone.
He looked around, then nudged the tree you’d picked. “This one’s perfect.”
You glanced at him, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “For the break room, right?”
He hesitated, just a beat too long. “Uh-huh. Definitely the break room.”
You squinted. “Bradshaw.”
“Look, it’s a big base. You can’t expect me to remember which room is which.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
He nudged your shoulder playfully. “And yet you keep hanging out with me.”
You sighed, shaking your head, "Not out of choice."
But when he wasn’t looking, you reached out and brushed a bit of pine sap off your glove, staring at the tree.
It was the first time in years you’d actually helped pick one out.
It didn't feel as bad as you'd thought.
--
Bradley insisted on carrying the tree himself. Of course he did.
He hauled it down the hallway with one arm, pine needles shedding across the floor like breadcrumbs, grinning proudly while you followed behind, utterly exasperated.
“Bradshaw, I swear-”
“Almost there!” he called over his shoulder, nearly bumping into a wall. “You know, this thing’s heavier than it looks.”
When he finally got it into your office, you froze in the doorway.
There were boxes, two of them, stacked neatly by your desk. Bright red and green, labelled in Bob’s careful handwriting: Decorations.
"I thought Maverick wanted this tree in the break room-" You paused, and your eyes narrowed. “You planned this.”
Bradley dropped the tree with a thud and leaned on it, trying to catch his breath. “I prefer to think of it as a collaborative effort.”
“You dragged me across town.”
“Accurate.”
“You lied about where this tree was going.”
“Also accurate.”
“And you recruited Bob.”
He grinned. “He’s a good man. Can’t say no to Christmas spirit.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then sighed instead, hands on your hips. “You’re impossible.”
“Been told that before.” He rubbed his palms together. “Alright, boss, where do you want it?”
You stared at him for a long moment before muttering, “By the window.”
The words surprised even you.
Bradley’s grin widened. “Yes, ma’am.”
It started awkwardly, mostly because you kept insisting you didn’t care how the ornaments were hung, but then quietly adjusted each one after he turned around.
He noticed, of course. “You do care,” he said, voice teasing.
“I just prefer symmetry.”
“Uh-huh. Totally not festive perfectionism.”
“Don’t make me fail your next evaluation.” You muttered, smirking slightly.
He raised both hands in surrender, chuckling. “Noted.”
But when he accidentally dropped a handful of tinsel on your head, you laughed, really laughed, a quick, startled sound that made him forget what he was doing for a second.
“There it is,” he said softly.
You blinked. “What?”
“That laugh. I was starting to think you didn’t have one. It's cute.” He said, eyes focused on the ornament he was hanging.
You rolled your eyes, but there was warmth behind it now. “Don’t get used to it.”
He grinned. “Too late.”
By the time the last ornament was hung, your office looked completely transformed, the sharp lines of your desk softened by twinkling lights and garland. You were given the same temporary office every month, and every December, you'd never bothered to decorate it.
You were regretting that now, even if you didn't want to admit it.
Bradley crossed his arms, admiring your work. “See? Looks great.”
You tilted your head. “It’s… not awful.”
“High praise.”
He fished his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. The opening notes of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree filled the air.
You frowned immediately, stepping away from him. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Turn it off.”
He didn’t. Instead, he started swaying dramatically in time with the music and clicking his fingers. It was dad-dancing at its finest.
“Bradshaw-”
“C’mon,” he chuckled, holding out a hand. “One dance. For morale. I did just help you decorate your office.”
You hesitated, but there was something disarming about the sheer joy on his face. He wasn’t teasing now, not really. Just asking.
So you sighed. “One.”
He grinned, gently taking your hand. His other hand brushed your waist, carefully, not lingering, as he spun you once, and your laughter bubbled up again, bright and uncontrollable.
The tinsel rustled, the lights flickered, and for the first time in a long time, you forgot about reports and regulations and rules.
Bradley watched you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d found his favourite Christmas tradition.
The song faded into another, something slower and softer. You stepped back first, adjusting your sleeves like nothing had happened. Bradley let you go without protest, a faint smile still on his face as he reached over to switch the music off.
Silence filled the room again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable this time. Just quiet and warm.
You turned to the tree, straightening one of the ornaments. “It’s crooked.”
“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice low and certain.
You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for just a heartbeat too long before looking away. “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“Nope.”
“You’ll exhaust yourself trying to make me festive.”
He grinned, leaning against your desk. “Worth it.”
You shook your head, but the corners of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
You pretended to focus on adjusting a string of lights, hiding the tiny smile that crept up before you could stop it.
The glow of the tree reflected in the window, soft gold and green. For once, your office didn’t look like a sterile workspace. It looked alive.
“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.
Bradley turned, surprised. “For what?”
You shrugged, still not looking at him. “For the tree. For...” You gestured vaguely. “All of this.”
He hesitated, then smiled. “You’re welcome, sunshine.”
It wasn’t flirty. Not teasing. Just simple and genuine.
You nodded once, then cleared your throat, suddenly awkward. “Alright. That’s enough festivity for one day.”
He grinned, backing toward the door. “You say that now, but it’s only the tenth.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“See you tomorrow, Scrooge.”
You didn’t respond, but after he left, you found yourself standing there a while longer, just watching the tree lights blink on and off, a strange warmth settling in your chest.
You told yourself it was just because the heater had finally kicked in.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 1.8k
masterlist
December 8th
Bradley had learned two things in the past four days.
One: you were terrifyingly organised.
Two: you somehow got prettier when you were annoyed.
He tried not to think about the second one too much.
By mid-morning, he’d already flown one training run and been yelled at twice by Phoenix for humming Christmas songs in the locker room. None of it stopped him from marching down the hall toward your office, whistling “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
He paused outside your door, straightened his jacket, and knocked once.
“Come in,” you called, clipped and professional as ever. Bradley expected nothing less.
You didn’t even glance up when he entered. Papers were spread across your desk like a crime scene, and your pen was moving in sharp, efficient strokes. The faint hum of a heater filled the silence.
“Lieutenant Bradshaw,” you said without looking up. “If you’re here about your evaluation, it’s not finished yet.”
“Not here about that.” Bradley chuckled.
You did glance up then, just long enough to see the small red-and-white candy cane he'd placed neatly on top of your report.
You frowned. “What is this?”
“It’s a candy cane.”
“I can see that.”
He grinned. “Then we’re halfway there.”
You stared at it like it might explode. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, why are you putting sugar on my paperwork?”
Bradley shrugged casually, “Because you need a little sweetness in your life.”
You blinked slowly, almost speechless. “Do you ever not talk?”
“Not often,” he said cheerfully, leaning on the edge of your desk. “Anyway, I came to invite you to something.”
You sighed, rubbing your temples tiredly. “If it’s another flight demonstration, I’ll pass.”
“Not a flight demo.” He crossed his arms, that stupid smile never once leaving his face. “A movie night.”
You stared. “Excuse me?”
“Movie night,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Christmas classics. ‘Home Alone,’ ‘Elf,’ maybe a little ‘Die Hard’ if you behave.”
“Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.” You scoffed.
He gasped dramatically, hand over his heart. “You take that back.”
You levelled a look at him that could’ve stopped a moving jet. “Lieutenant, I agreed to one festive thing. Singular. I have not forgotten.”
“Yeah, about that…” He grinned, all dimples and audacity. “This is it.”
You raised a brow, completely unimpressed. “You’re calling a movie night an entire day?”
“Movies are long.” He shrugged.
“Do you ever stop twisting logic to get what you want?”
“Nope.”
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. One movie. Then you’ll leave me alone?”
“Scout’s honor,” he said again, that same infuriating sparkle in his eye.
You reached for the candy cane, staring at it for a moment before setting it carefully beside your mug. “If I get cavities from this, it’s on your report.”
He grinned. “Fair trade, sunshine.”
As he turned to leave, you called after him without thinking. “Bradshaw.”
He paused, looking back, fully expecting you to yell at him for calling you 'sunshine' again.
But instead, you cleared your throat awkwardly and said, “You’re paying for the popcorn.”
His smile grew impossibly wider. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
--
You almost didn’t show up.
You told yourself half a dozen times that it was ridiculous, that you had reports to finish, evaluations to file, and absolutely no interest in spending your evening watching whatever overly cheerful movie Bradley Bradshaw considered a “classic.”
But the base was quiet. Too quiet. When you caught sight of the candy cane still sitting on your desk, untouched but oddly… persistent, you sighed, grabbed your coat, and drove to his address anyway.
He opened the door before you could even knock twice, wearing a faded Navy sweatshirt and a grin that could light a runway.
“You came,” he said, sounding almost surprised.
“I said I would,” you replied, brushing past him into the living room before you could change your mind.
The place smelled faintly of pine and popcorn. There was a small artificial tree in the corner, strung with mismatched ornaments and one slightly crooked star. A blanket was draped over the couch, and a stack of DVDs sat on the coffee table like a mission lineup.
You stopped short. “You own this many Christmas movies?”
He shut the door, shrugging. “A man’s gotta have traditions.”
“I’m not watching all of them.”
“Didn’t say you had to.” He moved past you, picking up the remote. “We’ll start with an easy one. Warm you up.”
“I’m not cold.” You muttered.
“Emotionally, you are,” he said, deadpan.
You shot him a look sharp enough to slice through his humour, but he just laughed and flopped onto the couch, patting the seat beside him.
You hesitated. “I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.” He pressed play, and the opening credits of Elf flickered onto the screen.
You tried not to react. You lasted maybe ten minutes before muttering, “He’s eating cotton balls. That’s unsanitary.”
“That’s the point,” Bradley said, grinning. “He’s an elf in the human world. It's comedy.”
You rolled your eyes, “That’s not an excuse for poor hygiene.”
He chuckled, holding up a bowl of popcorn, as if tempting you to finally sit down next to him. “You always this much fun on movie nights?”
“I don’t usually attend them.”
“Shocking.”
You ignored him, reaching for the popcorn just to have something to do with your hands as you finally caved in and sat down beside him.
The movie played on, laughter and ridiculousness filling the silence between you. As much as you tried to focus on your irritation, the absurdity of the whole evening and Bradley's persistent audacity, you found yourself… relaxing. Just a little.
The couch was warm. The room smelled like butter and pine. And Bradley kept laughing, big, genuine laughs that somehow made the whole thing harder to hate.
At one point, he looked over, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re smiling.”
You immediately stopped. “No, I’m not.”
“You were. I saw it.”
“That was a grimace.” You scoffed.
He grinned wider. “Sure it was.”
You turned back to the screen, fighting the smallest hint of a smile tugging at your mouth.
By the time Buddy the Elf started running through Manhattan, you’d given up pretending not to be invested.
You still made the occasional comment. “That’s not how escalators work,” or “There’s no way that snowball scene was OSHA compliant," but Bradley could tell. You were watching, and you were enjoying it too.
He leaned back against the couch, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Told you it wasn’t so bad.”
You didn’t look at him. “It’s tolerable.”
“That's high praise coming from you.” He grinned when you rolled your eyes, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in them. It was small, quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not him. Almost like he'd been waiting for it a long time.
When the credits finally rolled, the room fell quiet except for the faint pop of the heater. Bradley turned the TV volume down and glanced your way. “So,” he said lightly, “what’d you think?”
You were quiet for a beat, debating whether to be blunt or at least try with the persistent Lieutenant. Eventually, you said, “I think Will Ferrell needs professional help.”
He laughed, that deep, warm laugh that filled up the room. “You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.”
A pause lingered, just long enough for the humour to settle. Then he said softly, “You really don’t do any of this, huh?”
You glanced over, brows pulling together. “Any of what?”
“Christmas. Movies, lights, trees. The whole deal.” He waved his hands around as he spoke, like it was obvious.
You hesitated. “No.”
“Why not?”
You shifted, crossing your arms. “Because it’s just another day. And I have work.”
He tilted his head. “That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s mine.”
Bradley studied you for a moment, the defensive tone, the way you suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes. He wanted to ask more, but something in your posture told him not to push. So, he didn’t say anything else. He just leaned back, the soft glow of the TV flickering across his face, and for the first time since you’d met him, the silence between you felt easier.
When he finally clicked off the TV, you stood up and stretched, trying to shake the stiffness from sitting too long. “Well,” you said briskly, brushing imaginary popcorn crumbs off your pants, “that was… done.”
He tilted his head, amused. “You mean fun?”
“I mean over.”
Bradley laughed, standing too. “I’m calling that progress. You didn’t storm out halfway through.”
“Because you blocked the door,” you muttered.
“Exactly. See? Teamwork.”
You shot him a look that could’ve stripped paint. “Don’t get used to it.”
But he was grinning, that same wide, easy grin that made him look about five years younger. “Oh, I’m definitely getting used to it. You, me, festive bonding-”
You held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Festive bonding is not a thing.”
“Not yet. We'll make it a thing.”
You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temples. “Bradley, I said one night. One festive activity. Singular. You can’t just… expand the deal.”
He feigned innocence. “Sure I can. We never signed anything. No written agreement, no signature, nothing binding.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” You huffed as you headed for his door.
“Then I’m winning.” He grinned, following behind you.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re infuriating.”
He grinned, leaning slightly closer, voice low enough that you felt the warmth in it. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You exhaled, incredulous, and stuttered over your words. “You’re- I'm not agreeing to this. Festive bonding isn't- I won't-”
“Yeah, you will,” he interrupted with a grin. “Because you’re smiling again.”
You opened your mouth to deny it, but he was right, there it was again, small and fleeting, but real. More amused at his audacity than anything.
At least, that's what you told yourself.
You ignored the way your stomach flipped. “I’m leaving before you start quoting Christmas carols.”
“Too late,” he called as you grabbed your jacket and swung open his front door. “Don’t be a mean one, Miss Grinch!”
You turned, glaring. “You’re not funny.”
“Disagree.”
He was still laughing when you walked out the door, shaking your head and maybe, maybe, the corners of your mouth twitched once before you reached your car.
Inside, you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.
He was ridiculous. He was pushy. He was… kind of charming when he wasn’t talking.
You immediately scolded yourself for that thought and turned the key in the ignition.
Back inside, Bradley dropped back onto the couch, still grinning to himself. He’d meant it as a joke at first, just a little challenge, a way to make you smile. But now, looking at the space where you’d been, your voice still echoing in his head, he realised something dangerous.
He actually wanted to make you like Christmas.
Not just because it would prove him right, but because he wanted to see you happy.
And that realisation hit him harder than any dogfight.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 1.8k
masterlist
December 4th
Your alarm went off at six sharp.
You didn't need it. You'd already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the base as the city came to life.
Routine was comfort. Coffee first, a quick shower, clothes pressed and folded with military precision. Not because anyone would notice, but because order was easier than silence.
You moved through your small temporary apartment like a ghost in your own space. No clutter, no photographs, no decorations. Just the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the faint smell of cinnamon from a candle you'd lit days ago and never relit.
The Christmas card from Command sat unopened on the counter, a little bent at the corner. You told yourself you'd read it later, even though you wouldn't.
Your phone buzzed once, a reminder about today's checklist and evaluations. No texts.
There hadn't been for a while.
You slipped on your jacket, checked your watch, and glanced at the empty kitchen table. The silence followed you out the door like a shadow.
The cafe near base was warm, at least, soft jazz playing over the low murmur of conversation, baristas in red aprons humming along. You liked this place whenever you visited Top Gun because no one bothered you here. No one tried to talk, no one asked you what your plans were for the holidays.
At least, they hadn't until today.
--
Bradley Bradshaw prided himself on two things: his flying and his instincts. Right now, those instincts told him that if he was going to make you enjoy Christmas, he needed a plan.
A tactical plan.
Step one? Find you outside of work. Catch you off guard. Maybe somewhere public, where you couldn't glare him into submission.
So, naturally, he showed up to the cafe just outside the base, the one Bob had oh-so-casually mentioned you frequented every morning.
You were already there, seated in the corner with a black coffee, a stack of folders, and the kind of focus that could scare a lesser man. You didn't notice him at first, which gave Bradley a few precious seconds to grin to himself and mutter, "Target acquired."
Then, he strolled up like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Fancy seeing you here, sunshine."
You looked up, unimpressed with the new nickname. "Lieutenant Bradshaw."
"Ouch. So formal before caffeine? That's cold."
"I'm working," you replied flatly.
He glanced at the pile of files. "It's seven in the morning."
"That's when work starts."
He leaned over your table slightly, hands braced on the chair opposite. "So, are you gonna invite me to sit, or am I just supposed to stand here like a Christmas decoration?"
You sighed. "You wouldn't make a good decoration."
"Wrong," he grinned, dropping into the seat anyway. "I'd make an excellent tree topper. Very festive. Great hair."
Your look could've curdled milk.
He smiled wider, completely unbothered. "So. Big week, huh? You all done evaluating us yet, or are you saving the best for last?"
"Actually, I was saving the most talkative for last," you said dryly.
"Ouch again," he said, putting his hand over his heart. "You're on a roll this morning, sunshine."
Bradley waved down the barista and ordered himself a coffee, black with two sugars, and, to your horror, a gingerbread cookie shaped like a pilot.
He caught your stare. "What? It's festive."
"It's ridiculous."
"Ridiculously festive," he countered, breaking the cookie's arm off and popping it in his mouth.
You rolled your eyes, clearly done with the conversation, but Bradley wasn't giving up that easy. He leaned in, chin resting on his hand.
"So," he started, tone deliberately casual, "what are your big holiday plans?"
"Work," you said, not missing a beat.
"That's not a plan, that's a cry for help."
You shot him a look that would have silenced anyone else. "I enjoy working."
"Sure you do," he said, unconvinced. "But you also need some Christmas spirit. Ever hang a stocking? Watch a movie? Drink eggnog?"
"I don't drink things that look like melted candles."
He grinned. "Alright, that's fair. But I'm serious. You can't go the whole month without at least trying to enjoy it, sunshine. It's Christmas, for crying out loud!"
"I don't see how that's any of your business, Lieutenant." You paused, "And stop calling me sunshine."
He leaned back, that cocky half-smile tugging at his lips. "It's my business now. I've decided to make you festive."
You blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I wanna give you some Christmas spirit," he said proudly. "Mission parameters are simple: by December twenty-fifth, you'll be humming carols and smiling at strangers."
"Lieutenant Bradshaw," you said evenly, gathering your files, "If you so much as hum near me again, I'll fail your next evaluation."
He gave a mock salute. "So that's a no to caroling?"
You stood, straightening your jacket. "It's a no to everything."
Then you walked out, leaving him sitting there with his cookie and his grin, which only grew wider as he watched you go.
Because as far as Bradley was concerned, 'no' was just phase one of the mission.
--
By the time you reached the base, your coffee had gone cold and your patience was wearing thin. The last thing you needed was more interaction with Lieutenant Bradshaw.
Unfortunately, fate (or whatever cosmic force enjoyed tormenting you) had other plans.
The squad was already gathered near the hangar when you arrived, each pilot standing at a mostly-straight line, their usual swagger dimmed by your clipboard. You caught snippets of conversation before they noticed you:
"Think she smiles when we're not looking?" Hangman muttered.
"Maybe once," Phoenix replied. "In 2009."
Bob coughed quietly. "She's not that bad."
You stepped into view. "Good morning, Lieutenants."
They immediately straightened, Bradley included, though his grin was impossible to hide.
"Morning, ma'am," he said brightly, like the golden retriever he was.
You didn't look up from your clipboard. "Let's try to keep today's flights professional, shall we?"
"Always are," Hangman said, just as Bradley added, "Define professional."
You finally glanced up. "Not whatever that was."
That earned a snicker from Phoenix.
You ignored it, making notes as the morning progressed. From the observation deck, you watched them take off one by one, the roar of the engines filling the hangar, the kind of power that most people found thrilling.
You found it predictable. Orderly. Safe.
Except when Bradley was in the air.
He wasn't reckless exactly, just confident. Showy. Like he knew someone was watching. Which, of course, he did.
"Is he always like that?" you asked quietly, half to yourself, as his jet curved in a perfect arc over the coastline.
Bob, standing beside you, smiled. "That's him on a good day."
You hummed, making a note on your clipboard even though you weren't sure what for.
Down on the tarmac, after the final landing, Hangman sauntered over first, helmet tucked under his arm. "That good enough for you, ma'am?"
"It was fine," you said, checking something off.
"Fine?" he repeated, feigning offence. "That was art."
You arched a brow. "I've seen art. It doesn't usually involve breaking formation."
That shut him up. Phoenix snorted.
Bradley walked past then, sweat-slick and grinning, giving you a little nod. "See? Perfectly professional."
"Barely," you said.
"Hey, I followed all your notes from last time."
You lowered your clipboard just enough to meet his eyes. "You also waved at the tower mid-flight."
"Yeah, but that was me saying hi."
"Lieutenant, you're not supposed to 'say hi' at Mach one."
He shrugged. "I multitask."
Phoenix groaned. "For the love of God, can we go debrief before you two start flirting?"
You froze. "We're not-"
Bradley, on the other hand, just laughed, the sound rich and easy. "Relax, Phoenix. She doesn't even like me."
"I don't," you confirmed. Too fast.
That only made his grin widen.
After the debrief, the hangar began to empty. You lingered, sorting through reports. From the corner of your eye, you caught Bradley still there, leaning against a jet, pretending to check is gear while really just watching you.
You looked up. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
He grinned. "Nowhere better than here."
You clicked your pen. "If you're hoping to improve your score by annoying me into submission, it won't work."
He pushed off the jet, sauntering past you toward the exit. "Who said anything about improving my score?"
You watched him go, exhaling through your nose. He was infuriating. Loud. Distracting.
And somehow, you realised as his laughter faded down the hall, your day didn't feel quite as dull as usual.
--
The mess hall was loud, as usual. Forks clinking, boots echoing, the faint hum of country music leaking from someone's phone. You preferred to eat early, before the main rush, less noise, fewer distractions.
You'd just sat down with your tray when the seat beside you scraped across the floor.
"Afternoon, sunshine," Bradley said, dropping his tray with a clutter.
You didn't look up. "Lieutenant Bradshaw."
"Hey, that's twice today you've said my name. Careful, people might start thinking you like me."
You jabbed your fork into your salad. "What do you want?"
He leaned on the table, smile far too bright for someone who'd already flown two drills that morning. "Nothing. Just thought we could have lunch. You know, since we're practically best friends now."
"We're not."
"Right, right," he said, nodding. Then, he started humming.
Softly at first. Then louder. It took you a second to recognise it.
Jingle Bell Rock.
You froze mid-bite. "You're not seriously-"
"Oh, I am," he said, tapping his fingers against the table in rhythm. "What, don't like Christmas classics?"
You gave him a flat look. "Not when they're sung off-key."
"I'm wounded," he said dramatically. "You're gonna crush my holiday spirit."
"Good."
He grinned, undeterred. "You know, for someone who's supposed to evaluate pilots, you're doing a terrible job at evaluating the joy of the season."
"That's not in my job description."
"Well, maybe it should be." He leaned closer. "Come on, tell me you've got something planned for Christmas."
You sighed, setting down your fork. "If I tell you, will you stop talking?"
"Depends on the answer."
"Fine. I'll be here. Doing paperwork. Alone. Happy?"
He blinked. "You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"Thats-wow. Okay. That's tragic."
"Lieutenant-"
He cut you off, still smiling. "You can't just spend Christmas with forms and pens. That's illegal in some countries."
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I am this close to putting you on probation."
He chuckled, low and warm. "Tell you what. One day, just one, you do something even remotely festive with me. And if you hate it, I'll drop it. No questions asked."
You stared at him. "You're serious."
"Deadly."
"Fine," you said finally, exasperation bubbling over. "One day. Then you'll shut up about it?"
"Absolutely."
"You promise?"
"Scout's honour."
You didn't know why you said yes. Maybe it was to end the conversation, maybe it was just easier than fighting him, or maybe it was because, for a split second, you caught that spark of genuine excitement in his eyes.
"Good," you said briskly, standing and picking up your tray. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
He watched you walk away, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Oh, this is gonna be fun," he muttered to himself, already planning absolutely none of the calm, quiet, professional activities you were expecting.
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
length: 1.5k
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December 1st
The break room smelled like burnt coffee and Hangman's cologne, two things that made mornings at Top Gun worse than they had to be.
Bradley nursed his mug of coffee and leaned against the counter while the others picked at doughnuts. It was a normal morning, and Bradley was even looking forward to his day. He's been calmer since becoming an instructor along with the rest of the squad.
The low hum of the vending machine filled the silence until Coyote sighed, glancing at the clock. "She's coming today," he muttered.
The collective groan that followed could have rivalled jet noise.
Everyone knew who he was talking about, of course.
You.
The civilian evaluator who appeared monthly, ready to write long reports on everything they were doing wrong.
Even Bradley felt his earlier optimism dampen slightly.
Hangman flopped dramatically into a chair. "The Ice Queen herself, ruining morale one checklist and evaluation at a time."
Phoenix shot him a look. "She's just doing her job."
"Yeah, but she enjoys it," Hangman fired back. "I swear she smiles when she grounds people."
Bob, quiet as ever, stirred his tea. "She's not that bad," he said mildly. "She's thorough. Fair, even."
Bradley forced a grin, always one to at least try to be positive. "Bob's right. She only scares you because you can't charm her."
"I can charm anyone," Hangman said, affronted. "She's immune because she has no pulse."
"Or," Bradley countered, "she just has standards."
The room broke into laughter, and even Phoenix cracked a smirk. But as the chatter picked up again, Bradley found himself glancing toward the window, where sunlight glinted off the tarmac.
Right about now, you'd be stepping out of your car, hair pinned neat, clipboard in hand, the picture of efficiency and zero tolerance for nonsense. He'd seen that look before. Hell, every month when you'd made your usual visit to Top Gun, he'd been on the receiving end of it more times than he could count.
He'd tried to be nice the year you got assigned to Top Gun, when you became the new evaluator. He'd even bought you coffee. But it was difficult to make conversation with someone who didn't seem to care. No, every month, you stuck to your temporary office, didn't socialise, and barely cracked a smile.
Whatever.
Bradley wasn't going to let it get to him this month. It was December 1st, not long until his favourite holiday: Christmas.
And Bradley Bradshaw always made the most of Christmas.
--
By the time they made it out to the hangar, the December air was getting colder. You were already there, going over maintenance logs with a mechanic, voice calm but commanding.
Bradley slowed his stride, curiosity winning out, while the rest of the squad carried onto the tarmac.
"You're missing a torque check on line four," you said, flipping a page.
The mechanic blinked. "Ma'am, that's from last-"
You looked up. "Then you're missing it twice."
Bradley had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He leaned a little closer, voice low and teasing. "You always this charming before takeoff?"
You didn't even glance at him. "Only when pilots are eavesdropping instead of prepping. Good morning, Lieutenant Bradshaw."
He smirked. "Good morning, Ma'am. I'll be prepped. Just making sure you are."
That earned him a look, sharp, assessing, and utterly unimpressed. Just what he'd expected.
"I'm always prepared, Lieutenant. And don't think relying on charisma will get you through your evaluation."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Noted."
As you walked away, clipboard tucked against your chest, Bradley called after you, "You ever try smiling one of these days? Might improve morale!"
Without turning around, you said, "Morale isn't part of my checklist."
Phoenix, walking past, muttered under her breath, "You walked into that one, Rooster."
--
Out on the tarmac, Maverick was waiting, arms folded and grin firmly in place. The squad gathered around, all eager to get into the air.
"You all know the drill," Maverick said. "And you all know our lovely civilian evaluator."
Every pilot turned to see you standing beside him, crisp white shirt tucked into tailored slacks, aviator sunglasses gleaming, expression unreadable. The clipboard completed your image.
"Good morning," you said, tone professional enough to make even Hangman stand straighter. "I'll be here throughout December to observe you. I'm sure you already know how this goes. You're all great instructors, but there are always things we can improve." You paused, glancing at each one of them behind your aviators. "I'll be observing standard flight evaluations today. Procedures haven't changed, but I expect all reports I request to be submitted promptly."
You didn't need to say unlike last time, but Bradley heard it anyway.
Hangman gave you a too-slick smile. "Always a pleasure, ma'am."
"Lieutenant Seresin," you replied evenly, "let's see if your flying matches your mouth this month."
Phoenix snorted and Bradley bit back a laugh.
Your gaze flicked to him next. "Lieutenant Bradshaw."
"Ma'am," he said, too brightly. "How's that clipboard holding up?"
"It would hold up better if pilots submitted reports on time." you replied back, in that icy tone Bradley knew all too well.
Fanboy murmured, "Oof."
So sometimes he was a little late with his reports, he couldn't help it.
Bradley gave a half-smile. "I'll try to pencil that in between saving the Navy's reputation and decorating my Christmas tree."
You raised an unimpressed brow. "Let's hope your flying's better than your jokes."
The flights went off mostly without issue, Hangman showing off as usual, Phoenix steady, Bob precise. Bradley, of course, made sure to play it just right. Smooth, confident, a little daring. Enough to remind you why his file always had glowing flight notes... along with an extra paragraph on "attitude".
When they landed, you stood with your clipboard and a faint crease between your brows, the sun catching in your hair. Bradley wanted to make you laugh just once, he had a feeling it'd sound like something worth chasing.
But all you said was, "Lieutenant Bradshaw, good control on your final turn. Still overconfident on the roll."
He grinned and shrugged. "Ah, c'mon, that's just personality."
You didn't even blink. "It's poor judgement. Don't mistake one for the other."
Then you walked off, heels clicking against the tarmac like punctuation marks to a conversation he hadn't realised he was losing.
Maverick chuckled from beside him, "Every month you try, and every month, you crash and burn." he laughed and patted Bradley's back as he followed after you.
Maybe Bradley was being naive, but he had never met someone that he couldn't make smile, or laugh at his silly jokes.
You were an anomaly, and he didn't know whether to be intrigued or spooked.
--
Later, in the locker room, steam curling through the air, the squad unwound. Hangman was already recounting his 'perfect landing', which most of the squad was ignoring.
Bradley was deep in thought, barely listening, thinking of you and how stern you were. Had you always been that way?
Bob glanced up from beside him, "You okay, Rooster?"
Bradley huffed and shrugged, "I just don't understand her."
"What's to understand?" Hangman called out, "I told you. She's the Ice Queen. Just let her freeze in peace and stay out of the way."
The group laughed, but Bradley just rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Bob, in his quiet way, said, "She's different, you know. She stays late after everyone's gone."
Bradley glanced over, trying to act uninterested. "Doing what?"
"Paperwork," Bob shrugged. "Last year she told me she spends Christmas with her reports and hot chocolate, doesn't see the point in celebrating it. She just... works. Alone."
That made Bradley freeze.
Alone? On Christmas? He couldn't even fathom the thought.
Sure, he'd spent a few Christmases alone, before he reconnected with Maverick. But even then, he always had a tree, always watched cheesy Christmas movies, and always tried to bring Christmas spirit wherever he could.
Bradley Bradshaw loved Christmas. He'd happily admit it. How could you not?
Hangman scoffed, "Not surprising."
But Bradley wasn't listening anymore.
He could picture it too easily. You in that neat office, lights low, papers stacked around you like barriers. No music, no laughter. Just silence.
When he left the locker room, the December air bit cold against his skin. He spotted you across the lot, walking to your car, posture straight, face unreadable, the faintest trace of exhaustion in your step.
Bradley watched you pause by the driver's door, checking something on your phone, before you slid behind the wheel. There was a single ornament dangling from your rearview mirror, faded and homemade, probably old. A lonely little attempt at cheer.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, something clicked.
Maybe it was the challenge, or the curiosity. Or maybe it was the way he couldn't stand the thought of you spending Christmas buried in forms.
Either way, as your car disappeared down the road, Bradley shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and shook his head with a quiet laugh.
"Alright, Grinch," he muttered under his breath. "Let's see if we can fix that."
---
A/N: Thought I'd upload this part slightly early because I'm in a Christmas mood haha, more parts coming soon throughout December!
I just wanted to say I am so excited for the arrangement, the description already looks amazing and best believe I will be refreshing everyday for updates (after I reread all of your tower fics of course) thanks for writing :)
festive flight risk | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader
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COMING DECEMBER 2025
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
part 1 | december 1st
part 2 | december 4th
part 3 | december 8th
part 4 | december 10th
part 5 | december 12th
part 6 | december 15th
part 7 | december 18th
part 8 | december 20th
part 9 | christmas eve
part 10 | new year's eve
bonus chapter | all i want for christmas...
A\N: I know it's only just November but thought I'd tease this one! Will be uploading all through December (not on those dates though, that'll make sense soon!)
