summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far
notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)
warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything
word count: 17266
your callsign is chick
You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.
With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself.
Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.
He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.
You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.
And the worst part?
You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.
But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.
“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!”
Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad.
“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones.
“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.”
“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey.
You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit.
“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.”
“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.”
“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.”
You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“But I’m wearing you down, right?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.”
“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.”
There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go.
Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist.
You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering.
When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame.
You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?”
He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.”
“That so?”
He nods.
You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?”
His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”
You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head.
Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could.
It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one.
“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.”
Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?”
“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug.
Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him.
The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason.
You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad?
“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?”
He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?”
You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.”
A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do.
He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared.
“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.”
“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.”
He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.”
“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door.
You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name.
Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower.
Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock—
“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.”
You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker.
“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?”
She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?”
-
Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it.
Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block.
You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs.
You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn.
You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.”
He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water.
He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?”
You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush.
“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?”
He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.”
You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.”
His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?”
Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself?
The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name.
You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard.
The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas.
The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house.
You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on.
“You alright?”
Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.”
He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.”
“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?”
He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.”
Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes.
Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house.
There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck.
It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday.
“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.”
“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back.
“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says.
“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word.
You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.”
Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul.
“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.”
Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.”
You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?”
“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.”
Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.”
“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?”
Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.”
Jake’s eyes go wide.
“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening.
“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.”
Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?”
Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.”
Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck.
Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing.
“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?”
“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing.
Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.”
You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley.
You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.”
Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?”
You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said.
You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.”
Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink.
Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk.
“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?”
You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think.
“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask.
Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.”
Bradley tips his head. “Fair.”
He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms.
Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive.
“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?”
Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.”
You nod. “That’s true.”
“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?”
You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.”
He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat.
“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes, please,” she replies.
You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid.
You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?”
His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.”
You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?”
He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.”
You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours.
“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?”
You choke on absolutely nothing.
Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it.
“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?”
He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently.
You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?”
His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods.
“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.”
His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue.
Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head.
The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done.
Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture.
You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost.
You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash.
“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?”
There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table.
“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak.
Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.”
Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?”
Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?”
“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage.
“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.”
Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink.
Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?”
You nod.
He smirks. “Got a date?”
You nearly drop your fork. “A date?”
“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”
You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.”
“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate.
Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches.
You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better.
“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.”
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation.
Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you.
Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought.
You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him.
You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused.
You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary.
You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing.
Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away.
After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-”
“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate.
He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.”
His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show.
After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?”
“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.”
He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.”
You arch a brow but keep quiet.
“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard.
“Would you prefer I blame you?”
“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?”
“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?”
He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.”
Jake gasps. “For free?”
Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.”
“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin.
“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.”
Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-”
“Make me two,” Jake cuts in.
“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.”
Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?”
You roll your eyes. Duh.
“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.”
“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly.
“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.”
Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?”
Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.”
You frown. “What? How would that help?”
“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.”
Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?”
You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”
“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.”
Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love.
“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.”
Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.”
“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.”
He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?”
You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-”
“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?”
Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.”
Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?”
You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.”
He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out.
Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all.
Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.”
Neither you nor Maverick respond.
Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.”
Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind.
You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment.
The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler.
Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this.
You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car.
You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars.
“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?”
You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful.
He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?”
You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.”
He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place.
The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been.
“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?”
The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts.
“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.”
He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is.
With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light.
“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road.
You shake your head. “No, you’re just…”
He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?”
“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen.
You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy.
Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do.
It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you.
How the fuck did he move that fast?
“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close.
“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.”
You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit.
You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.”
He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you.
“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud.
“You know what it means.”
You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name.
“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—”
Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static.
“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady.
Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell.
You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips.
Is this it?
But then—he stops.
His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.”
The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them.
And just like that, the moment shatters.
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut.
Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning.
Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops.
You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart.
-
You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open.
“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open.
You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.”
He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?”
“I don’t grovel.”
He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?”
You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips.
Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?”
“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.”
He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?”
You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?”
“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.”
His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?”
“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast.
He just arches a brow and waits.
“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.”
Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.”
You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.”
“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.”
“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.”
Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.”
You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head.
“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.”
You tip your head, brow furrowed.
Jake sighs. “You.”
“Oh.”
He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer.
“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says.
Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?”
His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.”
“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering.
He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.”
“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.”
Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?”
You shake your head. “No.”
“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.”
You pull back slightly, grimacing.
“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.”
You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope.
“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?”
-
Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical.
You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far.
Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background.
Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him.
That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question.
Still, the seed had been planted.
On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat.
Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly.
So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top.
You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene.
The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over.
You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun.
And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident.
He’d taken the bait.
“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.
You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice.
Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long.
Now? You get to pull the strings.
You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit.
Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time.
Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned.
You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley.
“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.”
He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.”
When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror.
Except Bradley.
He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing.
Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-”
“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.”
You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension.
“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?”
The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks.
Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer.
Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else.
By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool.
“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell.
You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-”
“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you.
It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours.
“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.”
You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle.
He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time.
“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.”
“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig.
Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.”
You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.”
Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?”
You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.”
His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?”
You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.”
“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.”
“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.”
His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation.
You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight.
Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed.
Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie.
Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips.
You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and—
The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot.
“Shit,” you mutter.
You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe.
You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.”
You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.”
Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?”
“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.”
“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel.
“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.”
She frowns.
“Get Hangman.”
Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?”
You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.”
She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck.
A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil.
“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.”
He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.”
He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.”
With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms.
When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting.
Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms.
“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.”
She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later.
You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand.
“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?”
He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake.
“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.”
Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist.
“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.”
Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting.
“Jake?” he echoes.
“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.”
Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line.
His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.”
Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.
He doesn’t even glance back.
Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out.
-
One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone.
“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.”
“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.”
You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.”
“And what if you accidentally drown?”
You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.”
“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.”
You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?”
She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.”
Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine.
“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.”
You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.”
You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”
“So what if there is?”
The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-”
“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.”
There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.”
“Good.”
“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?”
“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?”
She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?”
“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.”
There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches.
“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides.
“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.”
“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.”
You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.”
“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.”
“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk.
She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up.
You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic.
Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good.
You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you.
The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded.
You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect.
The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor.
“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach.
You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then—
“Hello?”
Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater.
“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through.
You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags.
“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”
“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door.
“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?”
You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help.
“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?”
You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding.
“You want me... to come in there?”
You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.”
“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain.
Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free.
And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.
It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying.
He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad.
“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.”
He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.”
He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained.
You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline.
“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.”
He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room.
“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh.
His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer.
“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.”
Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen.
He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself.
“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you.
“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.
He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.
You don’t dare turn around.
Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second.
You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together.
And then he touches you.
His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely.
Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus.
Your eyes flutter shut.
His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch.
You feel exposed.
And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide.
He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest.
“Bradley…” you whisper.
You don’t even know what you’re about to say.
But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?”
Your whole body tenses.
You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things.
Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?”
He hesitates.
“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.”
You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder.
“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.
And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.”
Bradley goes still.
You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged.
He doesn’t speak.
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move.
Come on, Bradshaw.
“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.”
The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs.
Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you.
But no.
Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to.
The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say.
You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz.
He doesn’t speak.
And neither do you.
But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene.
Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck.
It’s methodical. Careful.
But it still feels like worship.
And he still hasn’t said a word.
When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”
You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing.
He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip.
And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
“You good?” he asks, voice tight.
You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.”
He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—”
He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.”
And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it.
When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers.
You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’
-
“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-”
You shake your head.
“Not so much as a-”
“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.”
“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-”
“He’s not a priest, Hangman.”
He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.”
You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee.
“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”
“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?”
You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?”
“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.”
You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself.
When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week.
That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home.
The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him.
Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot.
Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body.
“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.”
Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.”
You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.”
“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.”
You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.”
The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin.
Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps.
Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…”
Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell.
And then there’s Bradley.
He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch.
His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic.
You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo.
Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare.
“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.”
Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.”
She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips.
“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.
You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.”
“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.”
Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room.
“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.”
You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.”
He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows.
Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all.
You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore.
This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work.
So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen.
How does any of this make sense?
“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne.
You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth.
“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.”
“I don’t blame him,” you mutter.
“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.”
You frown. “What’s it?”
His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.”
“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone.
You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning.
After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here.
Almost.
Until—
“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?”
You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar.
“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies.
You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face.
“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?”
Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?”
“Too late.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.”
Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-”
“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.”
Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry.
No. They look hurt.
“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady.
Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?”
“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.”
Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.”
Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall.
Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.”
Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack.
“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal.
Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.”
Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears.
“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.”
“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-”
“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.”
Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-”
“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?”
Your voice cracks—just a little.
“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.”
You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put.
You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’
Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak.
Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days.
By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers.
The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks.
At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much.
You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously.
You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door.
You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling.
You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door.
You open it—and there he is.
Bradley.
His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear.
“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.”
You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them.
“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.”
He takes a shaky breath and steps closer.
“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”
A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.
“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?”
You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.”
His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.”
His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?”
You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.”
“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling.
You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.”
You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux.
“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.”
You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave.
His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.
You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies.
And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens.
“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late.
He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever.
You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.”
You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?”
His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.”
You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.”
He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.”
A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly.
His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on.
You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.”
He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.”
“You’re not wrong,” you hum.
With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric.
Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for.
His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.”
You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated.
And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well.
summary: you're a bartender at the hard deck with a huge crush on rooster, and rooster (very cheesily) uses karaoke friday to confess his own feelings to you
notes: this goes in SO many different directions and i'm so sorry about that, but i still had so much fun writing it! i hope y'all enjoy even though it is super cheesy (but i tried really hard not to make it cringe) and kinda, super long... please let me know what you think! i really love feedback
warnings: swearing, very poor us navy knowledge (as usual), lots of drinking and drinking on the job, SUPER CHEESY, italics, switching povs (kinda), there's a little bit of 'mean-girl-ness', and it's pretty fucking horny in some places so 18+ PLEASE!!!
word count: 11336
“Do I need to add ‘putting your ass on my bar’ to the sign?” Penny emerges from the bar’s back of house door, her arms wrapped around a case of beer and her best disapproving mum glare painted on her face.
You smile sheepishly and push yourself off the bar, landing on tingly feet from how long your legs had been dangling as you chatted with Maverick. “Sorry Pen.”
“It’s my fault,” Maverick pipes up. “She was replacing a light bulb, and I distracted her.”
Penny heaves the case onto the bar with a huff before looking back at you. “What are you doing replacing my lights on your day off?”
“I noticed it was out the other night, and I knew I had a spare at home so I thought I might as well donate it.” You pick up the busted lightbulb by the bayonet and toss it into the bin behind the bar. “Also, it’s not my day off.”
Penny frowns, tipping her chin forward as she takes a moment to think. You wait patiently, because you’ve worked almost every Friday night for the past three years, and you know she’s probably just forgotten what day of the week it is.
“Well, anyway.” Mav slides off the stool on the other side of the bar. “I better get back to work.”
You turn to him with a frown. “Isn't everyone at their advanced first aid training today, or something?”
“Yeah, but I have a meeting.” He rolls his eyes as he says the last word, as if doing anything in his job description except for flying is just unimaginable. “A lieutenant from another squadron wants a chance to join my squad but won’t take no for an answer until I meet with her.”
Your frown slowly morphs into a scowl as you connect the dots. “Are you talking about-”
“Her callsign is Giggles.”
The next noise that leaves your lips is a mix between a groan and a gag.
Maverick raises a brow. “Not a fan?”
“She’s horrendous, Mav, and she only wants to join your squad to get closer to Rooster.”
“Wait a minute,” Penny pipes up. “Are we talking about that bottle blonde that comes in every Friday night and follows Rooster around like a lost puppy?”
You nod. “Yup.”
Mav chuckles as he slides his aviators up his nose. “Well, regardless of her ulterior motives, she’s not joining the squad. My hands are full as it is and I’m not sure she could cut it.”
You can’t help the small, satisfied smirk that lifts the corner of your lips as you turn toward Penny and her half-empty case of beer. You already know Giggles isn't good enough for Bradley, but hearing Mav say that she isn’t good enough for the squad is a small piece of validation that might help get you through tonight’s shift.
“Anyway,” Maverick says as he moves toward the door. “I’ll see you both later tonight.”
You look back over your shoulder at him. “Are you coming back for a drink?”
He nods, his lips tugging into a grin. “I would never miss watching my godson embarrass himself on karaoke night.”
Realisation hits you and you groan, dropping your head into both of your hands as you crouch down beside the case of beers. “Fucking karaoke Friday.”
Penny laughs softly. “That’s right, it’s the last Friday of the month. I completely forgot.”
It’s not that you hate karaoke, you just hate sober karaoke. If you were seven tequila shots deep and on the other side of the bar, you’d no doubt have the microphone and be attempting to sing some overplayed ABBA song with one of your friends. But no, you’re sober and behind the bar. Watching in horror as wasted patrons embarrass themselves in a hot and crowded room full of sweaty bodies.
Now that you think about it, maybe half your hatred for karaoke Fridays stems from the fact that it is almost always the busiest night of the month.
“Guess you’re not getting out early tonight,” you tell Penny as you slide the last of the beers into the fridge.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Not a chance.”
You often encourage Penny not to stay until close on weekends, because she deserves a little time to herself. Whenever possible, she’ll help you with the evening rush before ducking out for a late dinner or adult sleepover with Maverick. You don’t mind being left to close on your own, because you’re never really alone.
On the nights when you’re the last one behind the bar, Bradley is always the last one on the other side of it. Most of the time, the squad will stay until last call, but then Bradley will bid them goodbye and sit himself in the same stool at the end of the bar. Almost like he's guarding the swinging wooden doors that separate you from your patrons. He usually just asks for tea or water, and when you’re not serving, he talks to you about anything and everything. Then at the end of the night, he waits for you to lock the doors and make it safely to your car before he walks to his.
You’re not sure why he does it. You assume it’s because he has literally been trained to keep people safe, but sometimes you let yourself read more into it. You imagine that he might fancy you, not pity you, and he stays because he likes getting a little bit of alone time with you.
You can still remember the night you first met Bradley like it was yesterday, not nearly four years ago. He had just graduated the Top Gun programme and was celebrating with what felt like every naval officer based on North Island. He was very drunk and hardcore flirting, but only with you. There were throngs of women practically begging him to look at them, but his eyes stayed on you.
You stole his keys out of his pocket that night, not trusting him after the number of drinks you’d watched him sling back. He eventually passed out in a booth, and at the end of the night a couple of his friends stuffed him into a cab. You forgot all about his keys until the next morning when you returned to clean the bar. He was waiting by the door, looking very hungover and very sheepish.
He apologised for everything except the flirting, which he wanted to make abundantly clear. You blushed and waved him off before making him a greasy breakfast and telling him to sit at the bar while you started cleaning. After his nausea wore off, he started helping you despite your protests. You talked and flirted all morning until he announced that he had to go to the Top Gun graduation ceremony.
After that, he spent every night at The Hard Deck until he left North Island, and once he was gone, you had a hard time convincing yourself you hadn’t imagined the whole thing. You were so young at the time and Bradley was older, his career was just taking off. Why would he be interested in a bartender who has no idea where her life is going?
So, despite having exchanged numbers to stay in touch, you resisted the urge to text him. You saw a couple of updates on his social media that you followed, but they were very vague and mostly just signs of life every few months. You let yourself file Bradley away in your brain as something too good to be true, because there was no way someone that perfect really existed.
Years, boyfriends, heartbreaks, and a lot of shifts at The Hard Deck later, Bradley Bradshaw walked back into your bar. Your heart floundered as it tried to break free from your chest and deliver itself to the boy who claimed it all those years ago. He looked fucking good.
You picked up exactly where you’d left off, and so routine became ritual. Every Friday night, Bradley and his friends came to The Hard Deck, waited until last call, and then Bradley would guard you like a K9 Unit German Shepherd until you closed the bar. Eventually, you got to know his friends too, and finally found a group of people you could be yourself with.
After their mission, the squad were asked to stay on North Island as a special operations unit, training under Maverick for specialised assignments. You hang out with them when you can, but it isn’t easy with such conflicting schedules, which is why your late-night closes with Bradley are so precious. The only thing nagging at you these days is your future; what it holds and who will be in it. But you do your best not to think about it, to live in the moment and appreciate every second you get to spend staring at Bradley Bradshaw’s gorgeous face.
“Are you alright if I duck out for a bit?” Penny asks, her voice dragging you out of your thoughts.
You nod. “No worries. I’ll getting everything stocked up.”
“You’re the best.” She slings her purse over your shoulder. “I should be back in about two hours.”
Once she’s out the door, you find your own purse under the bar and grab your headphones. You slip them on, crank the volume on your phone, and start bopping along to the music while you haul cases of alcoholic beverages from the back of house to behind the bar.
- Bradley -
Twenty naval officers file out of the conference room, down the hall, and out into the Friday afternoon sun. Their postures relax the moment they’re out of sight from their superiors, and they all slowly separate into their squads, moving in different directions across the base.
“Well,” Jake sighs as he stretches his arms above his head. “That’s a day I’ll never get back.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Yes. Because learning vital skills that could save lives, including our own, is such a waste of time.”
Jake smirks. “My sentiments exactly.”
Bradley slides his sunglasses up his nose as he walks a little faster to get in between the two aviators glaring at each other. “So, are we going to-”
“The Hard Deck,” Reuben interrupts, a smirk stretched across his face.
“For beers,” Mickey adds with a dramatic wink.
“No other reason, of course,” Natasha joins in the teasing. “Right, Rooster?”
Bradley takes a deep breath of warm, ocean-scented air before sighing it out as his friends snicker around him. “When are you lot ever going to leave me alone?”
“When you grow a pair and ask the girl out,” Jake replies, and Bradley doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s smirking. “Before I do.”
There’s a chorus of oohs from the squad, but Bradley simply rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. Jake might be a flirt, but he’s not a full-blown idiot, and he knows better than to hit on you.
“Maybe I will tonight,” Bradley says with a shrug, trying to seem nonchalant.
Natasha scoffs. “That’ll be the day.”
“Willing to bet on it?” Reuben asks, stepping up beside Bradley with a grin stretched from ear to ear. This boy loves a bet.
Bradley’s eyes narrow as he considers his friend’s outstretched hand, his heart thumping faster than usual within his chest. Maybe it is time he makes a real move on you. Afterall, you’re only getting more gorgeous with every passing day and if he doesn’t act soon... well, he doesn’t want to think about what might happen.
He grips Reuben’s hand in his own, shaking it once. “Deal.”
“Oh, shit,” Mickey giggles. “Tonight is going to be good.”
“And it’s karaoke night,” Bob points out.
Mickey shakes his fists excitedly. “I fucking love karaoke night.”
They all launch into an animated discussion about what songs they should perform tonight, and even Bob makes a few suggestions, but Bradley isn’t paying much attention. He can see his Bronco up ahead, and he is itching to get to the bar. To get to you.
“Rooster!”
A voice that he doesn’t recognise makes his head snap to the left, and there’s a collective groan amongst the dagger squad as a grinning blonde bounces toward them.
“Hey Giggles,” Bradley says, trying not to sound as unenthusiastic as he feels about her presence.
“Did you just finish your first aid refresher?”
He nods, offering her a half-assed smile as he realises that he doesn’t actually remember what her given name is. His brows furrow as he tries to picture the letters stamped on the side of her jet, but then he realises that he can’t remember the last time he saw her in a jet. Up close, at least. The dagger squad train almost exclusively on their own. They rarely interact with other squadrons.
“I did mine last week,” she says. “If I knew which day you were scheduled, I would have definitely tried to join today’s group.”
Bradley nods once, unsure what to say to that but still lost in his thoughts trying to figure out what her actual name is.
“Anyway.” She flips her hair off her shoulder. “I just had a meeting with Maverick.”
“Oh,” is all Bradley responds with.
“Yeah, I’ve been wanting to work with him for– like –ever. He’s just legendary, you know?”
Bradley’s lips tip up into a smirk. “I think notorious would be more accurate.”
She giggles, because that’s what she does. “Well, he said I could fly for him and try out for your squad.”
Bradley freezes, and the whole squad comes to a screeching halt.
“Try out?” Jake echoes, before snorting a laugh. “This isn’t a cheerleading squad. We were selected and trained as a specialised unit. This isn’t something you can try out for.”
“Hangman,” Natasha warns. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, she’s being delusional.”
“Excuse me?” Giggles props her hands on her hips.
Bradley turns to Natasha with a quizzical frown, but she just shrugs. He looks back at Giggles. “Look, I’m sure whatever you spoke with Mav about will be great for your career. So, good luck.”
He offers her one last clipped smile before continuing toward the parking lot. Jake winks at the angry blonde before Javy puts a hand on either of his shoulders and steers him away.
Natasha quickens her pace to match Bradley’s. “You don’t think Mav would really consider-”
“No.” Bradley shakes his head. “There’s no way.”
It’s not only that the squad are not particularly fond of Giggles, but it’s also the fact that none of them are keen on the idea of adding to the team. They’re all too close and too comfortable, and they work exceptionally well together. Changing that dynamic could seriously impact their functionality and in turn, damage any one of their careers that they’ve worked so hard to achieve. They’re all exactly where they want to be, and they don’t want their positions to be challenged by anyone.
Bradley pauses before breaking away from the group. “Six o’clock?”
They all nod and mumble their agreeance.
“Does anyone need a lift?”
“You’re driving?” Reuben asks. “I thought you were going to ask your girl out tonight.”
Bradley frowns. “I can’t do both?”
Reuben chuckles. “Well, you’ve had plenty of sober chances to ask her out, so I assumed you’d need a little liquid courage to actually do it.”
Mickey laughs so suddenly that he snorts.
Bradley rolls his eyes playfully and points a finger at Reuben. “You just lost your ride privileges.”
Reuben groans in protest and Mickey laughs even harder as Bradley turns on his heel and walks toward the Bronco. He pops the door and falls into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition. As he drives home, his left knee bounces nervously. He’s always thought about asking you out, but actually doing it? He has no idea how he’s supposed to muster that kind of courage.
- You -
The clock on the wall opposite the bar taunts you. Its hands move slowly, creeping around its face at a painfully slow pace. You know exactly what time Bradley and your friends usually get here on a Friday night, and it’s still forty-five whole minutes away.
“You know,” Penny says, “staring at it won’t make it go any faster.”
You drop your gaze down to the glass you’ve been drying for at least a couple of minutes now. “I know, but if I don’t try then I’ll never know if I’ve magically developed superpowers.”
She laughs softly and takes the glass from your hands. “Why don’t you see if you have super lime slicing powers, hm?”
You roll your eyes playfully and tuck the tea towel into the back pocket of your jeans – the ones you know make your butt look incredible – before turning toward the small cardboard box of limes on the bench. You take a chopping board out from under the bar and a pairing knife. You set up a little station where the box of limes is on the right of the chopping board, and a bowl for the slices is to your left.
“Why don’t you just ask Rooster out?” Penny asks right as you cut the first lime in half.
Your cutting hand slips but you’re quick enough to flinch away before the knife slices your fingers. “Jesus, Pen. Could you learn a thing or two about timing, please?”
She rushes toward you, her brows crease with worry. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “I’m fine.”
She relaxes once she sees that your fingers are unharmed, taking a step back and casually leaning her hip against the bar, waiting. Her gaze bores into the side of your face, but you stubbornly focus on the limes.
She waits until you drop the slices into the bowl to ask again. “So, why don’t you?”
You sigh. “If it was an easy thing to do, I would have done it a while ago.”
“What’s so difficult about it?”
You put the next lime on the chopping board and hesitate, frowning down at the little green fruit as if willing it to give you an answer that doesn’t sound as whiny as what you’re about to say. “Because he’s him, and I’m me.”
She quirks one brow, silently asking you to elaborate.
“He’s just”– you wave the knife in the air, at which her eyes widen slightly –“you know? He’s gorgeous and successful. He’s got every chance in the world and every damn woman on this island after him. Then there’s me, and I’m just” – you gesture down at the short black apron tied around your waist –“this.”
Penny’s brows pinch together, a mixture of confusion and curiosity painting her face. “What’s wrong with this?”
You sigh again. “I’m a bartender, Pen.”
“So am I.”
“No.” You drop the freshly sliced lime into the bowl. “You own a bar. There’s a difference.”
“Honey.” She pushes her hip off the bar and takes half a step toward you. “That boy doesn’t look at you like a bartender. He doesn’t see the girl who pours his beer. He looks at you like you hung the moon just for him.”
You feel the bridge of your nose pinch and your eyes sting, but you decide to blame it on the citrus instead of your own emotions.
She sighs and bends down to take a shot glass out from under the bar. “Here,” she says, pouring tequila into the small glass. “I know you’d rather be on the other side of the bar, but try to have a little fun tonight. On me.”
Your eyes widen as you look at the shot and then at Penny, who’s lips are pulled into a smirk. Without a second thought, you snatch the shot glass off the bar and tip it to your lips, grimacing as the liquid burns down your throat.
“You know what,” she says as she fills the glass up again, “I think I’d like to have a little fun too.”
You can’t help the laughter that bubbles from your lips as she tips the tequila into her mouth and winces. You don’t necessarily want to be a bartender forever, but you find it hard to think about the day you’ll have to hand your resignation in to Penny. She’s a pretty cool boss.
You continue cutting limes while Penny serves an influx of customers. Once the whole box of limes has been sliced, you cover the bowl in plastic wrap and place it at the bottom of one of the fridges. The bar is filling up slowly but surely, and you start pouring drinks while Penny handles the cash.
After you hand a beer to the last customer of a small rush, the light overhead – the one you replaced earlier – blinks and dies out. “Shit,” you mutter, staring up at it. “Maybe I didn’t screw it in properly? Mav kind of distracted me before, I didn’t double check it.”
Before Penny can protest, you kick the small, folding stool toward where you need it and step onto it. You brace your hands on the bar and bring one foot up, focusing all your balance and coordination on standing up straight and getting your other foot planted on the bar.
“Please be careful,” Penny says, her voice laced with worry.
“I’m fine, don’t stress.”
More voices join the chatter in the bar, and you can hear Penny greet the new patrons as you crane your neck to look up at the dead bulb. You reach up, silently praying to any god who might listen that you don’t get electrocuted. Your fingers gently grab the bulb and twist, it blinks back to life and delivers a small shock of electricity to your hand. It’s nothing more than a zap, but that’s enough to make you startle. You shift your feet without thinking and the heel of your boot comes off the edge of the bar. You quickly lose balance and fall.
You yelp, but you don’t hit the floor. A strong pair of arms catches you – one around your back and the other behind your knees. Your saviour makes a soft ooft noise as he takes all your weight and holds you against his chest. When you look up and see the stupid grin stretched across Bradley Bradshaw’s face, it feels like every inch of your skin has been lit on fire.
The bar erupts into cheers and claps as Bradley chuckles. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you breathe out.
You stare into his eyes for a moment, appreciating every fleck of brown and gold as he stares back. Then he clears his throat and gently lowers your legs, his other arm helping you stand upright.
“Thanks,” you say as you right your skewed apron.
“Anytime.” He chuckles again. “Like, seriously. Anytime you want to fall for me, I’m right-”
You roll your eyes and swat a hand at his broad chest. “Oh, shut up.”
You turn to the rest of your friends and greet each of them, taking every sarcastic comment that they throw at you. Once you’ve given them each a hug or a high five, you walk the rest of the way around the bar to get back through the swinging wooden doors.
Penny looks at you with her mum glare. The unimpressed one.
“Sorry?” you offer sheepishly.
“Next time, leave it.”
You roll your lips to hide your smile as you bring your fingers to your forehead in a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shakes her head and turns toward the other side of the bar to serve someone that isn’t your friends, knowing you would prefer to serve them. You take a few short strides toward the beer taps, dust your hands on your denim-clad butt, and pick up a glass in each hand. You know their orders, you don’t have to ask.
“How was first aid?” you ask Natasha, because she’s the one right in front of you now.
Bradley is a step back from the bar, leaning toward Reuben and speaking too low for you to discern.
“It was fine,” Natasha replies. “Although, Hangman had some other thoughts.”
Jake drops a forearm on the bar and leans in. “I’m not saying it was totally useless, but a whole day to teach us what should already be common sense?”
“Something which you have very little of,” Natasha retorts.
You snort a laugh as you slide their drinks across the bar. “I’m not going to lie, Seresin. If you think first aid training is useless, then you’re my last pick to be stranded on a desert island with.”
Instead of acting offended, his smirk curls a little further and the mischievous glint in his eye twinkles. “Oh, come on. You know we’d have some fun.”
Bradley clears his throat and steps into Natasha’s place as she scoops her drink up and vacates with an amused grin on her lips.
“What kind of fun are we talking, Hangman?” Bradley asks, his brows raised in question.
Jake draws a long sip of foamy beer before turning his body toward Rooster. “Come on, Bradshaw. Use your imagination. There are a lot of things for two people to do when they’re alone.”
Your eyes bounce between the two men as they stare each other down. Jake’s lips are still pulled into a smirk, but Bradley’s are set in a firm line beneath his moustache, and the outline of his clenched jaw is more defined than usual.
“Well,” Jake sits his beer back on the bar, “we could-”
“Play Hangman!” you interrupt excitedly, deciding to cut the imaginary tether of tension that had been pulled taught between them.
Jake’s smirk breaks into a soft laugh. “That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
He winks at you, and you roll your eyes playfully before turning your attention down to the glass you just finished filling with beer. It’s a little too full, the foam on top threatening to overflow as you raise it up to place on the bar in front of Bradley. When the heavy bottom of the glass hits the hardwood bar top, the froth spills and drips down over your fingers.
“Oops, sorry,” you say, eyes flicking up to meet Bradley’s.
His usual soft brown gaze is so much darker than usual, and something about it is making the little hairs rise on the back of your neck.
“That’s alright,” he says, his voice low and a little raspy.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the glass, and when you pull your hand back, you suck your middle finger between your lips to clean the beer off. You’re not sure why you do it, and you don’t even realise what you’ve done until you drag your finger out of your mouth. All the while, keeping your eyes locked with Bradley’s.
“Really?” Jake’s voice slices through the tension. “You two are unbelievable.”
You blink a few times and the noise of the bar returns, as if getting lost in Bradley’s eyes had silenced the rest of the world. You can feel the apples of your cheeks burn, and you quickly dust your knuckles on your apron before picking up another glass.
Bradley clears his throat and opens his mouth to say something, but he stops. You hear Jake chuckle and Bradley sigh, but you don’t let yourself look up again. By the time you finish pouring two more beers, Mickey and Reuben are standing in front of you with ear-to-ear grins.
- Bradley -
Jake slides into the booth beside Natasha while Bradley slides in next to Bob, but his eyes are still trained on the bar. Or more specifically, the bartender.
“Oh, my God.” Jake smacks a hand against the table. “You two should have seen what I just had to witness.”
Bradley sighs and drops his head, staring at the swirls and knots in the wood tabletop.
“I have never experienced such blatant eye-fucking!” Jake exclaims, a little too loudly. “I mean, seriously. That felt more explicit than watching porn on a public bus.”
Natasha, despite the amusement on her face, nudges Jake in his ribs. “Keep your voice down, Bagman.”
Bob chuckles and turns to Bradley. “Did you ask her out?”
“No!” Jake replies before Bradley can.
“Well, you better do it quick.” Natasha says. “It looks like you’re not the only interested party here tonight.”
Bradley’s eyes snap back toward the bar, narrowing on the man standing in front of you at the beer taps. He’s tall and broad, with close cropped blond hair and a smug smile painted on his face. His thick forearms are resting on the top of the bar, and he’s leaning so far forward that if he turns too abruptly, he might smack his nose on one of the taps.
“Is that Romeo?” Bob asks.
Bradley doesn’t respond, but he can see Natasha nod from the corner of his eye. No, this guy’s parents didn’t hate him so much that they gave him some lame Shakespearean name. It’s his callsign, and it's not too hard to guess how he got it.
Bradley doesn’t like the way you’re smiling at the blond man. In fact, he hates it. He doesn’t like the way your cheeks turn pink when he leans in a little further in, or the way you shyly tuck an imaginary piece of hair behind your ear. He does, however, very much like the way your eyes flit toward him every couple of seconds, as if checking that he’s still there.
He realises after a minute that you’re not acting shy, you’re uncomfortable with this guy, and that makes him feel a little less explosive. The pink in your cheeks and the timid movements aren’t because you’re feeling bashful, but because you feel awkward. Bradley is your security, your guard dog, and all you’d have to do is nod for him to leap out of his seat.
“Down boy.” Reuben chuckles as he slides into the booth beside Bradley. “He’s trying to flirt but she’s shutting him down.”
Javy takes a seat in the booth beside Jake while Mickey steals a chair from another table and sits himself at the head of the group.
“You know,” Mickey says thoughtfully, “I’ve always thought that Romeo and Giggles would make a good couple.”
Natasha snorts a laugh. “Yeah, maybe they can produce one braincell between the two of them.”
Jake gasps dramatically. “Phoenix! Don’t be rude.”
She rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t count when they can’t hear.” She then turns her attention to Bradley, who is taking a very generous sip of his beer. “Speaking of Giggles, did you talk to Mav?”
Bradley sculls half his drink before plonking it back down on the table. “No. I was going to call him, but he texted me to say he’d drop by the bar tonight. Thought I’d just ask him then.”
“Good.” She nods. “I have enough shit to stress about. I don’t need to worry about that airhead joining the team and blowing up everything we’ve worked for.”
The group start a half-hushed discussion about what Maverick could have possibly told Giggles to make her think she’d have a chance at joining the squad. Bradley hardly listens though, aside from giving the occasional head nod or chuckle when he catches a word or two. He keeps his eyes trained on you. The way you move around the bar, performing your job effortlessly. Everything is muscle memory; from the way you pour a beer to the way you shake the cocktail shaker.
When the crowd at the bar dies down, you say something to Penny before turning around and walking through the swinging wooden doors. He can’t help but ogle your ass in those jeans; the way it moves as you walk and bend toward tables, collecting empty glasses. The jeans hug you in such a way that makes him jealous – yeah, he’s jealous of denim now. They pinch into the crease between your cheeks and your thighs before stretching down your legs – those legs that would look perfect thrown over his shoulders as he buries himself inside of you.
The cuffs of those mouth-watering jeans are tucked into boots. Big black boots with scuffed toes and frayed laces. Bradley has never seen you wear any other shoes at the bar. They’re your chosen uniform, and he’s thought way too much about fucking you in nothing but those boots.
An idea pops into Bradley’s head as he watches your booted foot shove an unoccupied chair out of your way. He nudges Reuben. “Move, I need to check something.”
Reuben frowns as he slides out of the booth, freeing Bradley.
“Get another round while you’re up, would you, darling?” Jake calls after him.
Bradley waves a hand in acknowledgement as he beelines toward the other side of the bar where the karaoke machine is. There’s a thick, tattered binder sitting atop the machine that lists every song available to be sung. He flips it open and starts searching.
It only takes about ten seconds to find the song he’s looking for, and his heart starts pumping a little faster. He’s going to need a lot more drinks to pull this off.
“Bit early to start that, isn’t it?”
Bradley flips the binder shut and turns to Maverick, who is standing beside him wearing that signature smirk. He drops the binder back atop the machine. “I need to talk to you.”
Maverick sighs. “What have I done now?”
Bradley leans an arm on the top of the karaoke machine as he explains the squad’s earlier interaction with Giggles. Maverick doesn’t look shocked or sheepish, he looks exasperated by the time Bradley finishes.
“This woman is relentless.” Mav presses two fingers against his temple.
“So, she’s not trying out for-”
“Of course not.” Maverick says. “That’s not even something she could do. This is an elite unit of specially selected and trained aviators. Giggles barely graduated TOPGUN. I’m not even sure how she qualified for the programme.”
Bradley tips his head curiously. “Then what did you tell her?”
“She wouldn’t let up unless I gave her something, so I said I’d fly with her. One weekend, we’d do a quick drill and I could give her some pointers. Maybe give her a reference if she impressed me.”
Bradley chuckles. “You really have an excellent way of communicating with women.”
Mav scowls at his godson, though it’s much less intimidating than he’d like given the height difference. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear.”
“Obviously not.”
Mav sighs again. “Obviously.”
At that moment, the devil herself walks into the bar. Her blonde locks bounce as she walks, her eyes scanning every face in the room as she searches for something. Or someone.
“Maybe you should talk to her now,” Bradley says quietly to Mav. “Better to set things straight before she tells every naval officer on North Island that the elite dagger squad is holding try outs.”
Maverick chuckles. “Good idea, Rooster. I think you should join me. Maybe you can clear something else up for her too.”
Bradley’s brows pinch into a frown, but before he can protest, Giggles has spotted the two of them and Mav is waving her over.
- You -
It’s almost like your body is connected to Bradley’s in some intrinsic way. You can’t not be aware of him, his presence and where he is. You’re the North to his South, like two magnets being held close enough to make each other move but not yet close enough to snap together. Though you’re not sure how much longer you can resist his pull.
“In the next lull, I’m going to grab some more vodka.” Penny’s hip bumps yours as she fills a glass of beer beside you.
You nod. “Grab an extra bottle for me, yeah?”
She laughs softly as she leans forward and places the beer on the bar. You dance around each other easily, having worked together for so long that you know exactly how the other is going to move. You feel at peace behind the bar, despite how busy the place is getting. Your movements are easy and familiar. You fill beer glasses, you pour shots, you fill short and tall glasses with ice and soda, and you take cash and swipe cards.
You’re so in tune with the bar that you almost feel the main door swing open, revealing a gorgeous blonde bombshell wearing a tiny pink sundress. Your stomach sinks and your feet freeze. You’d have to be an idiot not to think she’s attractive – albeit a little annoying – and you don’t blame anyone in the bar for craning their necks to stare at the Barbie doll that just entered.
“Here.” Penny slides a shot glass across the bench below the bar. “I’m going to get some more bottles. Are you good?”
You lift the shot to your lips, not caring who sees, and swallow the tequila without so much as wincing. You drop the little glass into the sink. “I’m good.”
You try hard not to watch Giggles approach Bradley and Mav, but it’s hard when you don’t have anyone to serve. The rush has died down, and most people are now seated with their friends, chatting and sipping happily. You wipe down the bar top and the bench, you fill the dishwasher and start a cycle, and you restock the napkins and straws, but your eyes still wander back over to Bradley. You need a distraction.
“Hey, beautiful,” Romeo – you have no clue what his real name is – says, leaning forward on the bar.
You take a deep breath. Not that distraction.
“Another one?”
He nods, sliding his empty glass toward you.
“Same?”
He nods again as you take the empty glass, put it in the sink, and grab a fresh one.
“Saw you sink that shot just now,” he says, lips pulled into a smirk. “Do you get off early tonight? Maybe we can have some fun.”
You shake your head, eyes glued to the golden liquid filling the glass. “No. Just trying to get through the night.”
“That’s a shame.” He leans forward even further, and you worry for a moment that he might actually climb over the bar. “What time do you get off?”
“Late.”
He remains undeterred by your clear disinterest. “How late? Maybe I could give you a lift home.”
You plonk the beer on the bar in front of him. “Too late.”
You hear a shrill giggle, and you can’t help it. Your eyes snap toward Bradley, and you see Giggles’ perfectly manicured hand wrapped around his bicep as she leans in way too close to him. Your stomach ties itself in another knot.
“I see.” Romeo pushes himself off the bar and grabs his beer. “You’ve got a thing for birds.”
You turn back to him, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “What does that even mean?”
He rolls his eyes as if you exasperate him. “Just so you know, she’s joining his squad. They’re going to be together every day while you work your flat ass off for minimum wage every night. So, good luck competing with that.”
“Excuse me?” Penny snaps, appearing beside you with a box full of large liquor bottles. “You better apologise before I kick your ass out of here.”
Romeo scoffs, his mouth popping open to retort when two other patrons step up to the bar.
“Got a problem here, ladies?” Jake asks, a challenging smirk stretched across his lips as he turns to face the blond idiot whose face is getting redder by the second.
Penny raises her brows at Romeo. “Do we?”
He takes a deep breath, eyes bouncing between Penny, Jake, and Javy. “No, we don’t.” He looks at you and mumbles, “Sorry.”
The four of you watch as he turns and stalks toward his table of friends, not daring to look back.
Penny shakes her head. “I can’t believe that asshole said-”
“It’s okay, Pen,” you quickly interrupt. “He was just throwing a tantrum because I turned him down.”
Javy chuckles. “I don’t think Romeo ever has been turned down. Might have to give him a new callsign.”
You grab two clean glasses and start pouring your friends another drink each. “I think ‘assface’ sounds good, and it’s definitely more fitting.”
Jake nods. “His face does resemble an ass. A bad one.”
The corner of your lips tip up as you slide the two beers across the bar. When Jake tries to hand you his card, Penny pushes it away. “This one’s on the house.”
“Penny, my dear,” Jake says. “You are too kind.”
Javy tips his head in thanks as they both turn and head back toward the booth where the rest of your friends are.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Penny asks as you start unloading the box of liquor.
You nod once. “Yeah, fine.”
You know it isn’t convincing, but she doesn't have time to press you as another wave of thirsty patrons approaches. You let her serve and handle the payment while you make the drinks, silently sliding them across the bar until the small rush dies down. When you both have another moment to catch your breath, Penny turns to you, hand on hip and mouth poised to speak, but she stops. Her eyes move to something behind you.
You glance over your shoulder and your stomach flips up into your throat. How is it fair that Bradley can elicit such responses from your body simply by standing there?
You turn to face him. “Another drink?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
Always so polite. You wonder for a second if he’s that polite in bed, or if he- Nope. Stop that.
You pick up a clean glass and start filling it, watching the golden liquid even though you can feel his eyes boring into you. When you look up, he’s wearing the same dark expression as before.
Your fingers brush his as you take his card, and your tongue darts across your bottom lip. You turn to the machine, ring up the drink, swipe the card, and turn back to him. You almost drop the card from the way you’re handing it to him, trying to avoid his touch.
Another shrill giggle makes you flinch, and you instinctively look over to where Mav is stuck in conversation with Giggles. He looks tired and like he needs saving.
You can’t help yourself when you turn back to Bradley. “I hear you’ve got a shiny new teammate.”
His brows pinch. “Where did you hear that?”
You shrug one shoulder, not really wanting to explain your earlier altercation with Romeo. “The grapevine.”
“Well, the grapevine is very wrong.”
You frown at him. “What?”
He takes a long sip of his beer, draining almost a third of it. “She got a little confused with what Mav said earlier today. To be honest, I’m not sure she’s even heard what he’s said to try and clear things up. She just keeps giggling.”
You laugh softly, rolling your lips to stop yourself from giggling. “Well, she certainly lives up to the name.”
He nods. “That’s for sure.”
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and press both palms on the bench beneath the bar, leaning forward. “Do you live up to yours, Rooster?”
He tips his head curiously, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “How do you mean?”
You shrug again and relax your weight back onto your feet. “You tell me. How did you get the callsign?”
He hesitates, and you can hear the dishwasher beep to signal it’s finished cycle. You step toward it, not too far from Bradley, and pop the door open.
He still hasn’t replied, so you decide to prompt him. “Are you an early riser? Do you like to sing in the mornings?” You pull out a rack of glasses and carry it to the bench right in front of him. You place it down and lean forward again. “Are you particularly vain? Or do you just have a massive cock?”
“Excuse me.” An older woman standing to the side of the bar calls for your attention. “Where are the toilets?”
Bradley’s cheeks are flaming, his eyes like saucers, and you have to control your laughter as you turn to face the woman. “Just that way.” You point at the very obvious sign.
Two more patrons step up to the bar, and you turn to Bradley with a wink. “Saved by the bell.”
You leave the stunned man to serve the other customers, and when Penny returns with armfuls of empty glasses, another rush kicks in. It’s that time of the night when everyone starts to stock up on liquid courage, slinging back drinks and shots and getting themselves ready for the karaoke.
You’re not sure how much time passes as you pour drinks and make jokes with Penny. You’re feeling a lot lighter about being on this side of the bar with a bit of tequila in your system, and you honestly feel like it’s making you even better at your job. You’re more bubbly, more willing to talk nonsense with chatty patrons, and you’re actually looking forward to seeing your friends perform some embarrassing karaoke.
“Okay, gorgeous.” Jake thrums his hands against the bar. “We’re going to need a round of shots to get Fanboy up there kicking the night off.”
You smile at him and nod. “Go sit down, I’ll bring it over.”
Penny is already arranging a tray with a bunch of shot glasses on it. You count them. “Eight?”
She nods. “I’m turning a blind eye tonight.”
You wedge a bottle of tequila under one arm and take the tray with both hands. “You know what, Pen? I think you would have been an absolute blast in your twenties.”
She rolls her eyes playfully and places a hand on each of your shoulders. “Trust me, I was.”
You can’t help the giggles that bubble from your lips as she turns you around and steers you toward the swinging wooden doors. You carefully make your way weaving through the groups of people toward your friends, who all cheer when you drop the tray of shot glasses on their table.
Bradley is sitting on the end of the booth seat to your right, and your knee brushes against the outside of his thigh as you bend over to start pouring the tequila. You can feel his eyes on your profile, but you don’t dare look his way. You’re too close and he’s had too many drinks. You lost count about half an hour ago and made a mental note to swipe his keys as soon as you get the chance.
“Alright, boys and girls.” You slide the tray into the middle of the table. “No funny faces. I want you all to swallow like Seresin on a Saturday night.” You pick up your own shot, shoot a wink at Jake, and tip it to your lips. The liquor hits the back of your throat and burns all the way down before sizzling in your empty stomach. You should really try and eat something soon.
When you look back at the group, they’ve all got their heads tipped back and the little glasses pressed to their lips. Your eyes fall immediately to the man beside you, watching the column of his tan throat as he swallows. With the tequila swirling through your body, you’re starting to feel a little feral, like you could just sink your teeth into him right here. Right now.
“Okay, one more!” Mickey exclaims, slamming the shot glass back on the table. “Then I’m doing Dancing Queen.”
There’s a mixture of groans and laughter from the squad.
“Dancing Queen?” Jake echoes. “That’s so overdone.”
Mickey throws him a scowl. “I don’t care. I’m feeling young and sweet, only seventeen.”
You laugh through your nose as you concentrate on pouring another round, leaving yourself out this time. You have to lean a little further over the table, and thanks to the most recent nip of tequila rushing to your head, you almost lose balance. But before you can fall forward, a warm hand grabs the back of your thigh, just above your knee. It squeezes tight, almost too tight, and holds you steady.
All the air leaves your lungs in one quick whoosh. You know who’s hand it is, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. He’s too delicious right now. A little drunk, hair mussed, sunglasses perched low on his nose, and that stupid, gorgeous grin tugging at his lips. Yeah. If you turn around, you might not be able to stop yourself from mounting him right here in front of everyone.
“Here you go.” You stand back up straight, but his hand doesn’t move. Not even as he reaches forward, picks up a shot, clinks it with the others, and tips it into his mouth.
The squad, now very well lubricated, launch back into discussion about whether or not Dancing Queen is a good enough debut song for Mickey tonight. You laugh along with them as you gather the glasses onto the tray, but when you go to wedge the tequila bottle under your arm again, Bradley stops you.
He grabs the bottle and stands up, forcing you back a step from the table. “I’ll give you a hand.”
You nod and turn on your heel. You’ll let him give you a hand, however he wants to lend a hand. Literally, any way he wants to give you a hand, you’re willing.
As you walk back toward the bar, you internally scold yourself for letting your thoughts run rampant. Part of you blames the tequila, and another part blames Bradley for how downright sinful he is looking tonight. But you know it’s mostly yourself who’s to blame. Your own stupid brain that too often fantasises about what it’d be like if Bradley felt the same way about you that you feel about him.
You stop at the back end of the bar, away from where Penny is serving, and put the tray of glasses down before turning to Bradley. “Thanks for that.”
He nods. “Anything for you.”
You take the bottle and put it on the bar. “Anything?”
He nods again, his eyes half hooded behind his sunglasses. You roll your lips and let your eyes trail down the front of him, appreciating the deep neckline of the singlet beneath his open Hawaiian shirt, and the smattering of hair that peaks out just below his clavicle.
You take half a step forward, eyes trailing back up. “Anything at all?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips and his head drops to look at you. “Anything.”
“Well...” you sigh, your voice barely above a whisper. “What to pick.”
There’s less than two inches of space between your bodies, and you have to concentrate to stop your hand from trembling as your fingertips dance along his belt. His chest is starting to rise and fall a little faster, and you can’t help the smirk that stretches across your lips as you dip your hand into his pocket.
He draws a quick, sharp breath, and you pull your hand back out with his keys pinched between your fingers. “Looks like you’re catching a cab tonight, Bradshaw.”
He lets go of that breath and chuckles, his whole body relaxing. “You wanted my keys?"
You nod and take a step back, trying to ignore how hot your cheeks are.
“You could have just asked."
You shrug one shoulder as you turn to walk away. “I like getting you all flustered.”
You can feel his eyes on you as you retreat toward the doors that lead behind the bar, so you let your hips sway a little extra from side to side. You don’t know it yet, but you’re definitely going to pay for that little stunt later.
You step up beside Penny and immediately start serving, keeping your focus on the customers in front of you rather than thinking about the way Bradley had just practically melted under your touch. It’s only because he’s drunk, right?
After a minute or so, you see Mickey stand up and walk across the bar. The squad are all cheering and gathering their drinks to follow him. He doesn’t look apprehensive or worried, he looks excited. You watch him turn on the karaoke machine and don’t bother going to help, because he’s done this over a dozen times before. Jake walks past his friend toward the jukebox and unplugs it. The music cuts out and every head in the room turns to Mickey. He grins, clears his throat into the microphone, and then the iconic opening to ABBA’s Dancing Queen blasts through the speakers.
It barely takes ten words for the rest of the bar to start chanting along, and you realise that this might have been his plan all along. He’s not stupid, he knows the drunks can’t resist ABBA, and what better way to break the ice than to get the whole room singing along.
The song eventually ends with Jake and Reuben up beside him, all shouting into the microphone without an ounce of talent. You make a mental note to tease Jake about this later. Overdone, my ass.
You lose yourself to pouring beer once again as people demand more drinks so they can get up and embarrass themselves too. The squad practically man the karaoke machine, and more often than not end up alongside the singer toward the end of the songs. They’re all so drunk and so happy, you can’t help but laugh.
Mickey and Natasha sing Bonnie Tyler’s Holding Out for a Hero, and then Jake and Javy sing Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten. There’s a lot of ABBA and Queen from patrons you don’t recognise, and then the squad cause a huge scene trying to get Maverick up for a song. He refuses until they drag him up to the bar for another round of shots, and then they all perform Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me.
After that, Mickey, Natasha, and an adorably drunk Bob sing Cherry Bomb by The Runaways. You’re not sure you’ve seen Bob drunk more than once before, but it’s possibly the cutest thing in the world to see him red-faced and stumbling over words while bopping his head to the beat of the song.
You’re cleaning a glass and giggling when Bradley and Reuben step up to the bar. “Beer or tequila?”
Reuben chuckles, his grin looking strangely conspiratorial. “Both.”
You tip your lips into a downward smile and nod your head. “Trying not to lose momentum?”
“Rooster has a big number coming up.” Reuben elbows a very sheepish looking Bradley. “He needs his liquid courage.”
You nod, a soft laugh leaving your lips. “I was wondering when I was going to see you up there. You’re usually one of the first.”
He chuckles, but you can sense that he’s nervous. About what, you have no idea. Bradley is one of the only ones with a modicum of talent. He’s that charming guy with a decent voice who everyone regrets inviting to karaoke night because he actually sounds decent.
“Well,” you say, sliding two shots across the bar, “good luck.”
They both sink the shots and scoop up their beers. Reuben pays, winks at you, and clasps Bradley on the shoulder as they walk back over to the group. You want to wonder more about why Bradley could possibly be so anxious, but you don’t have any time before Penny hands you a slip of paper for an order of cocktails.
Another two songs pass while you make the drinks and deliver them to the table where Giggles and her friends are waiting. She has a twisted smirk on her face as you place the glass in front of her, and a part of you wishes you’d known so you could have spit it one of the cocktails.
You give her your widest, cheesiest smile before turning around and walking back toward the bar. You’re about halfway there when you see Reuben shove the microphone into Bradley’s hand and push him toward the front of the crowd. He doesn’t look so nervous anymore – he still looks like sex on legs – and he’s laughing as the sound of tambourines fill the speakers.
You cheer along with the crowd, holding the empty drinks tray under one arm so you can clap. You’re only a few feet from the front of the bar, so you look at Penny with raised brows as if to ask if she needs you, but she shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand, silently telling you to watch the show. But the smirk on her lips makes you think she might know something you don’t.
When you look back at Bradley, he’s got Natasha up on one side and Mickey on the other. They’re dancing like loons as the drumbeat kicks in, and then they all start playing the air guitar as soon as the familiar riff blares through the speakers.
Bradley’s glasses are perched low on his nose, his grin so wide you can’t help but grin too, and as he brings the microphone up to his lips, you wonder if this man might have been a rockstar in another life. “So one, two, three, take my hand and come with me, because you look so fine, that I really wanna make you mine.”
Something between a giggle and a shriek leaves your lips when Jake and Reuben pop up beside you. Reuben grabs your wrist and drags you forward into the crowd, while Jake yanks the drinks tray from under arm. You go with them willingly, dancing and laughing with your friends who you’ve never seen so carefree. You could definitely get used to being on this side of the bar.
The rest of the squad are up beside Bradley now, playing the air guitar and banging their heads like maniacs. You stop right in front of him, staring up at him like he’s a god, and he turns to look right at you as he sings. “Now you don’t need the money, when you look like that, do ya, honey?”
Another shriek splits from your lips when he grabs your hand and yanks you toward him. You almost crash into him, but he’s too smooth to let that happen. He lets go of your hand and wraps an arm around your waist, catching you and holding you against him.
“Big black boots.” He tips his head and winks at you over his sunglasses. “Long brown hair.” He leans back as Javy leans over his shoulder, and they sing together. “She’s so sweet with her get-back stare.”
The others crowd around as the chorus kicks in, and you all shout the lyrics along with the rest of the bar. But Bradley doesn’t let you go. He keeps his arm around you, still allowing you to dance but not without rubbing a part of your body against his.
The chorus finishes and the room goes quiet except for the backing track. Bradley drops his head forward again, watching you over the frame of his sunglasses as he sings. “I said, are you gonna be my girl?”
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you know your cheeks are redder than a maraschino cherry. The room cheers and Bradley chuckles. Everyone starts dancing and playing the air guitar again, and Mickey and Reuben lean toward the microphone to sing the start of the next verse with Bradley.
There’s another quick guitar break where Bradley turns back to you, a light sheen of sweat covering his exposed skin. “I say you look so fine, that I really wanna make you mine.”
Your head spins. If it weren’t for his arm, you’re almost positive you’d be passed out on the floor.
Mickey and Reuben join back in for the next verse, but their voices are lost in the sea of singing from the whole bar. You don’t dare look out at the crowd though, you’re already nervous enough being held against a very sweaty and very delicious man.
When the verse ends, the whole squad turn to you, point at your feet, and shout-sing. “Big black boots!”
You roll your eyes and laugh before joining in on the chorus. But just like before, when the chorus finishes, everyone stops singing along as if they’ve been told to. Bradley squeezes you even closer, sounding a little out of breath as he sings, “I said, are you gonna be my girl?”
The guitar returns almost immediately, and Bradley finally lets you go to clap along with the song. The squad all clap too, and the whole bar claps and stomps their feet to the beat. You can feel the floor shaking.
Bradley holds the microphone up to Mickey and he shouts, “Oh, yeah!”
Bradley then moves it along the line to Reuben. “C’mon!”
The clapping and stomping doesn’t stop. The energy is so high, you’ve never experienced a karaoke Friday like this, and you know it’s not just the tequila to blame. Something about tonight is a little bit electric.
For the final chorus, everyone shouts as loud as they can. Bradley holds the microphone, but it's useless at this point. The only reason you can hear him is because he’s right next to you, an arm wrapped around your waist again.
“Be my girl,” the room shouts.
Bradley winks at you, and everyone echoes again, “Be my girl!”
He holds the microphone above his head as everyone screams the final line of the song. “Are you gonna be my girl, yeah!”
The backing track fades and everyone cheers, louder than you’ve ever heard. You can’t stop giggling, and you can’t look at anything except the gorgeous man grinning down at you. The noise from the rest of the bar fades away as you stare at him, tracing the lines on his face and licking your lips when you see a small droplet of sweat fall from his hairline.
Then the noise slowly returns. It’s different from before, louder somehow. Organised. It’s a chant. The whole bar is chanting. At you.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Your heart is beating so violently against your ribcage, it’s making your whole skeleton shake. Your eyes are wide and your cheeks are red. You’re paralysed. You want to reach up, but you can’t. You want to kiss him, but you can’t make yourself for the fear of rejection.
Bradley chuckles, his voice raspy from singing. “I like getting you all flustered too.”
Then his lips are on yours, hard and soft all at once. He urges against you and then eases back, letting you fall into him. He tastes like beer and sweat, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted in your whole life. His other arm wraps around your body to pull you impossibly close. There’s cheering, but you can barely hear it over the thrum of your pulse in your ears.
Your hands find their way up his body and into his hair, threading your fingers through his locks. He pushes forward again, forcing you to tip your head back so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slips past your lips and you moan softly. But then he’s gone. He stands up straight and chuckles again, because you’re wearing the most indignant frown. To him, you look adorable.
“As much as I’d love to keep going,” he rasps, “maybe not in front of the whole bar.”
The reality of where you are comes crashing down, and you quickly pull yourself out of his arms. He catches your hand though, linking your fingers together as he follows you out of the spotlight. He stops you before you can slip through the bar’s wooden doors, tugging on your arm so you turn to face him.
“So,” he says, brows raised. “What’s your answer?”
You frown. “Answer to what?”
He nods back toward where you’d just been singing your hearts out, and your eyes go wide.
“Wait, you were-”
Before you can finish, he surges forward and captures your lips again. You stumble but he catches you, one large hand on either side of your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before, stealing your breath and making your stomach do a whole gymnastics routine.
When he pulls back, your head spins. All you can do is blink at up with a confused frown. “You meant all that?”
He shrugs, his smile turning sheepish. “Why do you think I was so nervous?”
You tip your head back and stare at one of the model planes hanging from the ceiling. “So that’s why you drank so much tonight.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, sober Bradley couldn’t ask you out.”
You nod slowly, your lips tipping up into a smirk. “Is that so?"
He nods.
“Well then, which Bradley do I need to ask to fuck my brains out? Drunk Bradley? Or do I have to wait until-”
“Both,” he interrupts, his voice low and his eyes dark.
His expression is dead serious now, aside from the pink in his cheeks. He almost looks feral as he towers over you, pupils blown with lust and lips puffy.
“Good.” You pat a hand on his chest. “Then if you stick around, I’ll drive you home.”
You turn and step through the doors into the bar, feeling his eyes burning into your backside as you sway your hips. You work the rest of the night with a smirk on your lips and an ache between your legs. Your friends come and go with teasing comments, but you let them, because all you can think about is Bradley’s predatory stare. He doesn’t let you out of his sight all night, and he looks even deadlier when Romeo approaches for another round of drinks. But the rest of the night passes without incident, and when it finally comes time to close, you actually have to kick a few patrons out.
Bradley waits leaning against the passenger door of your car as Penny locks up. You promise her you’ll be there in the morning to help clean, but the knowing smirk on her lips when she sees Bradley at your car definitely means that she doesn’t believe you.
You give her a little wave as she heads off toward her car and you walk toward yours. When you walk past Bradley, he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you toward him.
“Hey,” he says quickly, before kissing you again.
You push up onto your toes as you kiss him back.
“You know,” he murmurs against your mouth, “this isn’t just one night.”
Your heart kicks into overdrive again, trying to crack your sternum.
“I want you. All of you. I have for God knows how long, and I’ve been too chickenshit to do anything about it. But I need you to know that this isn’t a onetime thing and it’s not just because I’ve had a few drinks. This is it. You and me.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to convince yourself that you’re not dreaming. When you open your eyes and look up at him, your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst.
“I want you too. All of you.”
He grins and swoops down to kiss you again, only quickly. “Good. Now let’s go, I have to fuck your brains out, remember?”
You roll your eyes despite your burning cheeks. “Yeah, you do.”
As you walk around the front of your car on wobbly legs, he adds, “Oh, and you should probably tell Penny that you won’t be here in the morning. You’ll still be getting your brains fucked out.”
summary: rooster exploits having you as his emergency contact to get you away from hangman
notes: okay, i am so sorry if this is rushed but i had to get it out before i start my new job (and maybe won't have so much time to write)... i really hope y'all enjoy it!!! please let me know, i really love all kinds of feedback! (p.s. this is also super lame and cheesy but that’s just my genre now)
warnings: swearing, very poor us navy knowledge (i literally just do some very brief googling), very minor and probably inaccurate medical descriptions, text chat screenshots, use of y/n (which is a warning now?), and a kind of rushed ending
word count: 9129
“Damn.” You stop just before stepping into the sun, tipping your head forward so you can see over the frame of your sunglasses. “I should come here more often.”
Fighter jets line the tarmac in two neat rows, and in the middle under the shade of one of the jets are your friends, the dagger squad. They’re all on the ground, half of them in a sit up position and the other half doing push ups. All looking absolutely fine.
Maverick is talking to someone a little off to your right, but you’re more than happy to wait for him while you ogle the pilots performing their punishments. Hondo is standing over the seven of them, counting repetitions loudly and correcting their forms.
“Hey,” Maverick calls, his voice echoing into the hangar.
You turn to see him tuck his helmet under one arm as he walks quickly toward you. “Hey Mav.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I had a day off, so I thought I’d finally get my pre-enrolment sorted out for my DBIDS card.” You hold up the ID badge hanging on a lanyard around your neck. “You’re my sponsor, by the way.”
He frowns. “Aren’t I supposed to be escorting you, then?”
You hike your thumb over your shoulder toward where you’d entered the hangar. “Warlock vouched for me and said he’d get you to take me back to the VCC and sign everything then.”
Maverick glances passed you, giving a short wave to the rear admiral who had stopped to talk to a couple of other officers. “Well then, I better wrap this lot up,” he says. “Are you alright to wait a bit?”
You nod, letting your lips curl into a smirk as your eyes slide back over to the squad. “I am more than happy to wait.”
His gaze follows yours and he chuckles. “They’ll start showing off if they know you’re here. Why don’t you come over and say hello?”
You push the bridge of your sunglasses further up your nose. “I would love to.”
Mav leads the way to the squad, into the sun and across the hot tarmac. It’s unusually warm today, and you can feel your skin start to perspire after only a few steps out from under the hangar’s shade. Or maybe you’re just starting to sweat because of the scene you’re approaching.
You’ve never seen the squad in their flight suits before. You’ve seen pictures and videos, but you’ve never seen them in person. On a hot day. Half unzipped and tied around their waists. As they drip with sweat.
Your eyes find Bradley’s head of tousled golden-brown locks immediately, and your heartrate ratchets up a few notches, your breath catching in your throat. He’s doing push ups, his dog tags touching the concrete on every dip and his back muscles rippling under the black material of his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
Your knees almost wobble when you stop beside Maverick, and Jake is the first to notice you as he comes up for his next sit up. “Hey gorgeous,” he calls out, that signature smirk plastered across his flushed face.
“Hey.” You let your eyes wander over the rest of the group before settling back on Bradley. Your sunglasses slide a little further down your nose and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard to try and distract yourself from the way Bradley’s biceps are bulging and straining.
When he glances up at you, your head spins. His face is flushed and his brows furrowed, but there’s still a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “Hey sweetheart.”
“Eyes down, Rooster,” Hondo barks.
Bradley’s head snaps back down, but the next push up he does seems a little firmer and a little lower. Your mouth waters as you trace the outline of his broad shoulders, letting your gaze slide down his back to his butt, lingering there as his muscular body moves up and down.
“Phoenix, you’re done,” Hondo announces, startling you out of your trance.
Natasha lets out a whoosh of air as she finishes her sit ups and falls back against the concrete. She shields her eyes with one hand, squinting toward you and waving her other hand in the air.
You wave back just as Hondo announces, “Hangman, Coyote, you’re done.”
Javy falls back the same way Natasha had, his hands holding his abdomen as he works on catching his breath, but Jake doesn’t stop. He maintains perfect form as he sinks back and sits up, winking at you before lowering himself back again.
Natasha scoffs. “Show off.”
Maverick catches your eye and smirks before taking half a step forward. “What’s your goal here, Hangman? Are you trying to hurt yourself?”
“No sir,” Jake replies, his expression full of steely focus. “Just trying to impress the lady and outlast these chumps.”
Mickey chuckles as he lowers himself into another push up. “Since when is Y/N a lady?”
“Hey!” you exclaim.
Laughter rolls through the squad, and even Hondo cracks a smile as he says, “Bob, you’re done.”
Bob finishes his sit ups with a sigh and wraps his arms around his knees, chuckling softly through his ragged breaths.
You look at Maverick, tipping your chin in Mickey’s direction. “Can I sit on him?”
Mav chuckles. “As much as I'd love to see that, not with Warlock standing twenty feet away.”
You roll your eyes and sigh, turning back to face the group.
“You can sit on me,” Jake says as he rises into another sit up. He lowers himself back with a shit-eating grin before sitting up again. “Later tonight.”
Javy, Mickey, and Reuben snicker as Natasha rolls her eyes, but Bradley stays silent. You can see little droplets of sweat soaking into the concrete below him, and your first thought is ‘what a waste’. Great, you’re officially creepy enough to want to drink his sweat.
“Alright,” Hondo says. “That’s enough, the lot of you.”
Mickey and Reuben groan as they sit back on their haunches and turn their heads up to the sky, breathing in the warm afternoon air, but Bradley keeps going.
“Rooster, Hangman, that’s enough,” Mav says, his voice stern despite the smirk on his lips.
“I can last as long as you can, Bradshaw,” Jake taunts.
Bradley lets out a harsh breath as he pushes himself up again. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Seresin.”
A chorus of ooh’s fills the air as the rest of the squad watch the two stubborn boys, eyes bouncing between them. You have to keep reminding yourself to look over at Jake, to not make it so obvious that half the reason you’re here is to drool over Bradley.
“Come on, boys,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough.”
Neither of them let up, and Hondo chuckles to himself as he strolls into the hangar.
Maverick clears his throat. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, Lieutenant Seresin, that is enough.”
They both stop and quickly get to their feet, their faces red and glistening with sweat. You can’t help but wonder if that’s what Bradley would look like after a good few hours of sex. You definitely plan on finding out one day, if you can ever find the courage to make a move.
“No debrief this afternoon,” Maverick announces. “So, unless anyone has anyone questions, you’re all dismissed.”
Bob quickly pipes up with a question about one of the exercises they performed earlier in the day, but you can barely hear the discussion between him and Maverick. Your eyes are all over Bradley, because seeing him in his flight suit is doing something to you, something more than usual. He’s standing wide, those big black boots planted further than shoulder-width apart, making his legs look even longer and more powerful than usual. His arms are crossed, his biceps straining against the black fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. It’s clinging to every inch of his muscled torso, tucked into the flight suit that is tied around his waist. The gold in his hair is shining beneath the hot sun, his tan skin is glowing with sweat, and his slutty sunglasses are perched a little too low on his nose. This man is walking sex, and it’s becoming a health hazard because you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
A voice suddenly breaks through your Bradley-induced trance. “Is that okay?”
You blink a couple of times, refocusing on Maverick who is now standing between you and the squad with his eyebrows raised in question. “Is what okay?”
He rolls his eyes, lips quirked into a small but knowing smirk. “I’m just going to have a quick shower before taking you back to the VCC. Is that okay?”
You nod. “Yeah, of course.”
“Good.” He claps a hand on your shoulder. “You go ahead and get back to that daydream. By the look on your face, it was getting good.”
You scowl at him as he chuckles and walks away, heading in the same direction that Reuben and Mickey are walking. The rest of the squad are still standing in front of you, chatting about something that you assume came up from Bob’s earlier query.
Jake breaks away from the group, stepping toward you with a wide grin. “What brings you out here, gorgeous?”
“Getting my pre-enrolment sorted out,” you reply.
“For a DBIDS card?”
You nod.
“Why do you need to be able to visit unchaperoned?” he asks, that usual cocky glint making his green eyes sparkle. “I’ll gladly be your chaperone whenever you want to visit.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “As much as I would love to be personally escorted by you, Hangman, I thought it would be smart in case I ever need to enact my emergency contact duties.”
He frowns. “Who’s emergency contact are you?”
“That would be me,” Bradley says, slinging an arm around your shoulders.
You bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling so wide as you look up at him, but you know your bright red cheeks are already giving you away.
“I thought your emergency contact was Mav?” Jake asks.
“He was,” Bradley replies. “But then I thought that if I’m ever in an emergency situation, there’s probably a good chance that Mav is in that situation with me.”
Jake nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” A beat of silence passes before he turns his attention back to you, that flirty smirk reappearing as he claps his hands together. “Anyway, are we all set for tomorrow?”
“Yep,” you respond. “Are you still sure you want to spend your day off helping me?”
“Of course. Any day with you is a day well spent, whether it involves manual labour or not.”
You asked Jake a few weeks ago to help with the delivery and assembly of your new bedframe and mattress and getting rid of your old stuff, since the last time you did it on your own you nearly ended up in the hospital with a slipped disc. Normally, you would ask Bradley for help with this kind of thing, but your crush has been so stifling the last couple of months that you know it would be counterproductive to have Bradley sweating and moving heavy things in your bedroom. Besides, Jake happens to have the day off because he’s owed an RDO, and he insists that he doesn’t mind helping you out. It’s a win-win situation; you get a new bed, and no one ends up in the hospital with a broken back. Not that you would mind if Bradley broke your back.
“What’s tomorrow?” Bradley asks, his brows pinched into a frown.
“I’m helping her in bed,” Jake replies quickly, his grin downright evil. “I mean, with her bed.”
You roll your eyes at Jake again, before looking up at Bradley. “I’m getting a new bedframe and mattress, remember?”
“Right,” he says, brows still furrowed. “I thought I told you I’d help you with that?”
The way he’s looking down at you is making the butterflies in your stomach riot. He looks like a scolded puppy, wondering what he did wrong to deserve this punishment.
“You did, but Jake has the day off and you’ve already done enough slave labour for me.”
“But I like being your slave,” he says, the corner of his lips tipping up slightly.
It takes all your strength not to groan out loud. He is not making this easy.
“And you will always be my favourite slave, Bradley.” You pat a hand on his chest. “Which is why I need to give you a break every now and then.”
You pull your hand away quickly, immediately regretting the fact that you just felt up his firm chest and damp shirt, because now you’re getting that familiar ache behind your hipbones. The ache that only your vibrator and fantasies of Bradley can satiate, but even that hasn’t been enough lately. You need the real thing.
The sound of your name echoing through the hangar draws your attention, and you look over your shoulder to see Maverick with spikey, wet hair waving you toward him.
“That’s my cue.” You turn back to Jake. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you”- you look up at Bradley -“on the weekend.”
When you slide out from under Bradley’s arm, it suddenly feels like this very hot day has turned cold. It takes all your strength to keep your feet moving one after the other away from him. You’ve had a crush on Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you first met him, but it’s called a ‘crush’ for a reason, because now it is crushing you. He’s the first thing on your mind when you wake up, and the last name on your lips before you fall asleep.
“Are you alright?” Maverick asks once you reach him, and you know it’s because your cheeks are bright red.
“Yeah, just a bit hot out here.”
He nods as you both start walking toward the door. “It’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow.”
Back at the Visitor Control Centre, Maverick signs everything he needs to in order to grant you unchaperoned access to the base. After that, he walks you to your car and bids you farewell. You’re more than grateful for your car’s aircon as you take a moment to collect your thoughts, the ones that are running wild with fantasies about Bradley in that damn flight suit.
Eventually, you make your way home and immediately hole yourself up in your room. You spend over an hour in there to trying to satisfy that ache below your belly, but the incessant messages from the group chat popping up on your phone screen make it difficult. Only when your stomach starts to grumble do you give up and head into the kitchen, reading through the messages you’d been trying to ignore.
You hit send on your last message and smack your phone face down on the kitchen counter. Your cheeks are red and your heart is racing, and you’re not hungry anymore because your stomach has twisted itself into one big nervous knot.
You know that whatever it is between you and Bradley is no secret. You assume it’s because you drunkenly confessed to Bob, Mickey, and Natasha one night that you had a huge crush on him, and since then the rest have seemingly caught on. You don’t mind the teasing – at least, you didn’t at first, but it’s becoming more frequent and making you more nervous. Bradley rarely interacts with it, and all you do is tell them to shut up or butt out. You can’t figure out if they’re simply teasing because they can, or if they actually see something between the two of you that is real.
There have been a couple of times when you’ve wondered if Bradley might feel the same way. You even almost made a move once, before chickening out and refusing to look him in the eye for two weeks straight. You know you’re being a little bitch about it, and you hate yourself every day for being like one of those characters in your romance books that pines and pines, despite their broody love interest being obviously smitten. But you still can’t stop yourself from being a chicken. You justify it by telling yourself that it's to protect your friendship and the group’s comfortable dynamic, but you know that deep down, you’re scared. You’re scared that Bradley only wants that one thing, while you’re nothing short of hopelessly in love with the man.
-
You wake up to the sound of your phone vibrating on your bedside table. You know it’s too early for your alarm and way too early for the delivery driver to be calling you, so you’re not surprised when you see Jake’s goofy contact photo lighting up your phone screen.
“Good morning, Hangman,” you say groggily.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he replies cheerfully. “Did I wake you up?”
You sigh and roll onto your back. “Yes.”
He chuckles. “Oops. How’s about I make it up to you with breakfast?”
You sit up quickly. “You’re already on your way here?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, throwing your bed covers back.
“Just the usual?” he asks.
“Make it a double shot.”
You toss your phone onto your bed before hurrying into your ensuite, quickly stripping down as the shower heats up. You brush your teeth in the shower and scrub everything as quickly as you can before wrapping yourself in a towel and starting to pull all the bedding off your mattress. Just as you’ve finished shoving it all into your already overflowing hamper, your apartment intercom buzzes.
You hitch your towel higher as you step out of your room and press the button on the intercom to unlock the lobby door. There’s an affirmative beep and a click, and then you walk toward the front door and double check that your towel is covering you.
As soon as you hear footsteps, you pull the door open with a scowl. “Since when did I tell you to get here at the ass crack of dawn?”
His green eyes widen as he takes you in, that signature smirk painting his features. “I thought it would be good to get an early start, but this”- he nods at you -“is an unexpected bonus.”
You roll your eyes and step aside, allowing him in. He stops at your kitchen bench and places the cup tray of two coffees down alongside a paper bag filled with deliciously greasy smelling breakfast.
“Give me five minutes,” you say, before walking back into your bedroom.
You quickly change into a pair of exercise tights and an oversized shirt – one that you’re not sure even belongs to you – before fixing your hair and doing a very quick version of your morning skincare routine. When you reemerge into the main area of your open-plan apartment, Jake is seated on the lounge with your breakfast laid out across the coffee table.
You flop beside him and take a hashbrown. “So, what’s the plan?”
He turns to you with a frown. “Why do I have to come up with a plan?”
“I wouldn’t need your help if I had a plan, would I?”
He chuckles softly. “I guess not.”
You spend the next five minutes inhaling your breakfast while Jake asks a few logistical questions. Once you're both finished eating and quietly sipping on your coffees, he pushes himself off the lounge and walks toward your bedroom.
He pauses at the door. “Can I go in?”
You nod, and the door squeaks as he nudges it open. He takes one step in and stops, cocking his head thoughtfully before continuing in. He assesses the area and walks further in, at which point you decide to join him. He’s standing on the opposite side of your bed when you get there, and he’s wearing the type of shit-eating grin that you know comes with some sort of teasing or offensive remark.
“So,” he says, “this is where you touch yourself and fantasise about Rooster every night.”
Your stomach drops and you splutter against the lid of your coffee cup, spraying half a mouthful of it across the room. You can feel your face turning red as you cough, but you know it isn’t just the lack of oxygen to blame.
Jake gasps, laughter bubbling from his lips as he rushes around the bed to you. “I’m so sorry,” he says between giggles. “Are you okay?”
You continue to cough, holding a hand against your chest as you try to blink back the tears in your eyes. It takes almost a minute for you to compose yourself, but Jake takes even longer to quell his laughter.
He sighs loudly and wipes the corner of his eye while you turn to him with a scowl. “Who told you?”
He bats his eyes innocently. “Told me what?”
You hesitate, your eyes narrowed as your mind races to send the right words to your lips. “That I might have a small crush on Rooster.”
He snorts a laugh. “No one had to tell me anything. Any idiot who spends enough time with the two of you can clearly see that you’re obsessed with each other.”
“What? No.” Your frown indignantly. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Please.” He rolls his eyes, still chuckling. “I can practically see you cataloguing your spank bank every time you stare at him.”
Your eyes grow wide and your skin burns. You have to look away from him to stop yourself from smacking that smug smile right off his face.
“You know what,” you say, sparing him only a glance. “I don’t think I want to have this conversation with you, so can we please get back to the bed.”
He sighs wistfully. “If only Rooster heard you say that to me. He’d be ropable.”
You roll your eyes and take another sip from your coffee, ready to turn away from him when realisation hits you. “Wait. Is that why you’re always flirting with me, just to piss off Bradley?”
He shrugs, but his smile is sheepish. “I flirt with you because you’re gorgeous, but annoying Rooster is a small plus.”
“You are unbelievable.” You turn on your heel and walk back out of your room, finding your phone on the couch to check if there are any updates on the delivery of your new furniture.
“Hang on a minute.” He follows you into the living space. “I could help you, you know?”
You scoff. “With what? Moving my new bed in? Because that is why you’re here. Not to make me feel shitty about some stupid, unrequited crush that is apparently pretty fucking obvious.”
He rolls his lips to hold back another laugh. “I could help you make a move,” he clarifies. “Because I’ll tell you this, it is not unrequited. Rooster is as crazy about you, as you are him.”
Your heart stutters, but your walls stay up. “How do you know?”
“Just believe me,” he says. “That man’s right forearm is thicker than his left because of you.”
You frown and cock your head, processing his words until the meaning hits you and your mouth pops open.
“Anyway.” He claps his hands and rubs his palms together. “Let’s get this old mattress out of here and start pulling apart the bedframe. I’ll give you some advice while we work.”
For the next few hours, you let Jake tell you what to do. You hold things, you move furniture, you unscrew things, and you listen to his surprisingly sound advice on what to do about Bradley. The more he speaks, the more confident you feel, because something about Jake’s charisma is infectious. You know you might not feel the same when face to face with Bradley’s big brown eyes and pretty smile, but it at least feels good to talk to someone about it. Even if that someone gags every time you start swooning.
- Bradley -
Today is hot, almost too hot. Bradley has pushed his body to the limit before, it’s basically in his job description, but today feels different. He feels sick. His flight suit is too heavy and his muscles are shaking. His stomach is twisting and gurgling with every sharp move, and his head is spinning.
Bradley is only in the sky – flying like a rookie – for an hour before Maverick grounds him, giving him a brutal workout to do while the rest of the squad finish their drills. Even Hondo has taken shelter in the hangar, watching Bradley complete his exercises from afar with a damp towel wrapped around the back of his neck.
The concrete is hot, and Bradley is pretty sure he’s getting second-degree burns on his palms as he pushes himself up into his twenty-fourth burpee. His flight suit is tied around his waist, and he can feel an excess of sweat gathering in the bunched-up material there. His dog tags are jingling as he jumps up and down, occasionally smacking him in the face when his moves are too jerky.
“That’s enough,” Hondo calls out. “Have a break. Drink some water.”
Bradley stops and swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. He can see the squad getting ready to land now, so it must be time for lunch. He waits for them inside the hangar, his heart beating loudly in his chest even after twenty minutes of standing still. Eventually, the group stroll in and head toward the lockers, grabbing their personal items before going to the mess hall.
Bradley finds a seat while everyone else continues to get food. He’s not sure his stomach can handle anything right now, even his water bottle remains untouched. He pulls his phone out and brings up the group chat that has five new messages.
His insides twist at the sight of Jake in your apartment. It’s not like he hasn’t been there before, but he’s never been there alone with you. Bradley clamps his teeth together and wills that sick feeling in his gut to fuck off. This isn’t the time nor the place to vomit about the fact that the girl he likes is spending the day with one of the most charming men he knows.
“You look pale,” Bob says as he puts his tray down on the table.
“But also kind of red,” Natasha adds, a frown pinching her brows. “You look like you’re trying not to hurl.”
Bradley swallows hard and sits up straighter. “I’m fine, just a little wrung out from the heat.”
The rest of the squad join the table and conversation flows easily. A couple of them reply to you in the group chat, but Bradley doesn’t want to know anything else about what’s going on, so he lets his phone buzz face down on the table. He stares straight ahead at the space between Bob and Natasha’s heads, zoning out and imagining a much worse scenario than what is actually happening at your apartment.
He pictures you both sweating and giggling together, bumping into each other as you move and assemble furniture. Then he sees you both on the new mattress, flopping down exhaustedly after finally sliding it onto the new bedframe. You’d stop giggling with a sigh before turning to face one another, locking eyes, expressions turning serious as Jake’s hand comes up to caress your cheek. You would roll onto your side to get closer to him, and he’d only have to move an inch toward you to press his lips against yours. That kiss would unlock something in you, igniting your attraction to this man and making you climb on top of him. Clothes would be torn off, teeth and tongues clashing, and the bed would quickly be broken in.
“Rooster.” Natasha snaps her fingers in front of Bradley’s face.
He blinks a couple of times before refocusing on the woman in front of him. “Huh?”
“Jesus Christ, dude,” she says. “What is wrong with you today?”
Bradley looks to his left and right before spotting the rest of the squad making their way out of the mess hall. He jumps up from his chair. “Shit, that went quick.”
“Well, you were off with the fairies the whole time.”
He tries not to look her in the eye despite her intense stare. The journey back to the hangar is silent, but he can tell Natasha is studying him, scrutinising his expression until they both approach the rest of the group waiting with Maverick.
Mav takes the floor and announces that today is the perfect day to test limits. He starts explaining the workout that he has planned for the squad, because they may have to face extreme heat on their next assignment, and it’s important to be prepared. Everyone groans in protest, even Hondo, but Mav ignores it. He’s almost excited to torture his lieutenants.
An hour later, everyone is absolutely dripping with sweat. All flight suits are at least half off, some discarded entirely as the squad run, jump, and swerve through the makeshift fitness course Mav set up. It feels more like torture than conditioning, but no one has the energy to even speak up.
“Alright,” Mav calls out. “That’s enough. Take a break, have some water, then come inside and take a seat.”
They all slowly drag themselves toward Hondo, who is handing out towels and cold bottles of water. None of them can muster a single word, they all just huff and puff and groan when they wipe their skin with the wet towels. Bradley is the last to approach Hondo, his gaze fixed on the outstretched water bottle as he wonders when the last time it was that he had a drink.
“Rooster.” Hondo takes a step toward the lieutenant. “Are you alright?”
Bradley blinks slowly, looking up as one Hondo turns into two. His surroundings blur and his limbs start to tingle. His head feels heavy and his stomach sinks, his eyes fluttering shut as his body goes limp.
- You -
“Harder,” Jake grunts. “Push harder.”
You let out a puff of air before tensing your muscles and shoving as hard as you can. The mattress slides along the carpet slowly, making your blood boil with frustration. “Why is this thing so fucking heavy?”
Jake chuckles. “I just assumed you bought an extra sturdy one so you and Rooster can fuck as hard as- woah!”
You push with all your strength, sliding the mattress into an unsuspecting Jake. He laughs as he rights himself and guides the mattress further into your room.
“If I knew that annoying you would give you super strength, I would have started earlier,” he says, leaning around the mattress to show you his cheeky grin.
You roll your eyes. “You’ve been annoying me all day.”
“It’s called bonding.”
“Whatever, just get this thing on the frame.”
After a short argument on how you should manoeuvre the mattress, and a string of cuss words as you heave the thing into place, you finally manage to get the mattress sitting snuggly on the new bedframe. You both fall onto it immediately, facing the ceiling as you work to catch your breath.
“Fuck me,” you sigh.
Jake snorts. “I would, but I think Rooster might flay me alive.”
You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time today. “I wasn’t offering, and I’m still on the fence about believing you, so stop it with the constant remarks.”
He rolls onto his stomach, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Then let’s have sex and see what happens?”
You huff out a half-assed laugh as you sit up. “Like I said, Hangman; I wasn’t offering.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. We shouldn’t play with Rooster’s feelings like that.” He rolls onto his back again and blinks slowly at the ceiling.
It makes you feel better to see a small sign of exhaustion from him, because for most of the day, you’ve been wrecked while Jake has been running off some sort of endless energy reserve. He’s like the human personification of a border collie, a little too keen and full of bounce, and you can definitely see him tearing the lounge apart if he’s bored and locked inside.
You open your mouth to tell him how he reminds you of a herding dog when the sound of your phone’s ringtone cuts you off. You frown, wondering who it could be as you rush out of your room to get it off the kitchen bench.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Y/N?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Mariam. I’m calling from the Primary Health Clinic on North Island Naval Air Station. I need to speak with about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”
Your stomach sinks so fast and so hard, you feel like it might have fallen right out of your arse. “Is he okay?”
“He’s in our care this afternoon due to a minor incident, and while he’s doing just fine, we cannot permit him to drive himself home. Would you be able to come pick him up?”
You rush over to the coffee table and pick up your car keys. “Of course.”
“That’s great,” the woman replies, her tone calm and even. “I’ll text our address to this number. Do you require any further assistance locating the clinic?”
“No, that should be fine.” You prop your sunglasses on top of your head. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem. We’ll see you soon.”
You pull the phone away from your ear as you hurry back into your room. Jake is sitting up now, his brows furrowed and eyes wide with curiosity. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. Something happened to Bradley and now he’s at some health clinic or something.” You’re not surprised by the panic in your voice, if only a little embarrassed. The woman said he’s fine. The last thing you need to do right now is panic.
Jake stands up and rounds the bed quickly, putting a hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t freak out, I’m sure he’s okay. He’s at the clinic, not the hospital, so he’s probably just tripped on his own shoelaces or something.”
You let out a breathy laugh as you search Jake’s face for any hint of worry. He doesn’t seem concerned, so you let yourself relax and picture Bradley sitting sheepishly in a hospital bed with nothing more than a papercut.
“They said he can’t drive, so I have to go pick him up.”
Jake nods. “You go. I’ll stay here and clean up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go get your damsel in distress.”
You hesitate for a second before throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him. “Thank you.”
He hugs you back with a chuckle before you pull away and practically run out of your apartment. You don’t slow down for anything; you even take the stairs instead of the elevator because you can’t stand still for even a second. You try not to drive like a maniac, but it’s hard not to as your mind swirls with the possibilities of Bradley’s accident.
In less than fifteen minutes, you’re flashing your identification at the front gate and waiting impatiently for them to raise the boom gate. You swerve into the visitor’s parking lot and jump out of your car, legging it toward the health clinic where your phone’s map tells you to go. It only takes a few minutes for you to get there, and you stop a few feet from the door, taking a moment to control your breathing.
The air is thick and the sun blistering. You’re sweating more than you have all day, since you've spent most of the day inside your airconditioned apartment. If Bradley isn’t really hurt, you’re going to actually hurt him for making you worry this much and run in this heat.
Once your breathing feels more regular, you grab the stainless-steel handle and push the door open. The small reception space is painted blue and white, with a couple of plastic chairs on one side and a magazine rack beside a water bubbler on the other. The blonde woman behind the desk peeks up at you through the Perspex shield surrounding her space.
“Good afternoon.”
“Hi.” You step forward. “I got a call about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”
To the right of her desk is a hallway leading further into the building. Voices and footsteps echo off the blue walls, and despite the desolate reception area, it seems like the rest of the clinic is rather busy.
“Yes, that was me.” She smiles. “I’ll just get you to fill this out so we can start his discharge, then I’ll take you through.”
You take the clipboard from her and sit in one of the plastic chairs. You barely read the form, skimming quickly over it before answering the few questions and signing your name at the bottom. After you hand it back it to her, you walk over to the water bubbler and fill up a small plastic cup. You drain it three times before she waves you over and starts walking down the hall.
The noises get louder the further you delve into the building, and you quickly realise that this place is something of a mini hospital for minor emergencies to help keep the actual ER from being overrun. The hallway eventually opens up into a larger waiting area with lemon-coloured walls and bigger chairs occupied by sickly officers. One of them is holding a bloody gauze pressed to the palm of his hand, and two others are paper white and dripping with sweat.
“Heatstroke,” the blonde woman says over her shoulder. “We’ve had so many of them today, but your husband was by far the worst.”
You choke on your breath and trip on nothing as you follow her. “M-My what?”
“Oh, sorry.” She turns to her left at the end of the hall. “I just saw you were listed as Lieutenant Bradshaw’s ‘partner’ and assumed. It’s force of habit. I forget that a lot of couples don’t bother with marriage these days.”
Your mind struggles to catch up, half of it rejoicing about the fact that someone thinks Bradley is your husband, and the other half wondering why the fuck he would list you as his partner. Before you can come up with the words to correct the woman, she stops.
“Just in here.” She pushes the door open a small way. “I’ll get his papers sorted and let you know as soon as he can leave.”
You nod, still speechless, and she walks away. You stand still for a moment, your hand on the door and heart racing as you take one deep breath and push.
The room is small, with powder blue walls and the same white linoleum as the rest of the clinic. There’s a stool and tall portable desk in one corner, and one of those plastic waiting room chairs in the other. In the middle of the room is a hospital bed, but there’s no guard rails or bedding, and it's folded up so the sheepish lieutenant occupying it is sitting up straight.
“Hey,” you say, your lips twitching as you hold back a smirk.
He’s hooked up to an intravenous device that has a long tube connected to a bag of clear liquid. His face is flushed and the hair at his neck damp, but otherwise, he looks just as delicious as usual.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
You close the door behind you before approaching the bed. “How are you?”
He shuffles on the crinkly mattress, making room for you to sit. “Never been better.”
"Want to tell me what happened?” you ask as you sit at the foot of the bed.
He rubs the back of his neck, the pink in his cheeks deepening. “Well, it’s hot day, and I forgot to drink water, so I passed out.”
You lose the battle with your maturity and let out a soft laugh. Something about Bradley looking so defeated in a hospital bed amuses you more than it should. That combined with the relief that he isn’t seriously hurt means that you can’t control the elated laughter forcing its way through your lips.
You cover your mouth to try and stop the noise. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I was just really worried and now I’m really relieved.”
He rolls his eyes despite the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad my stupidity amuses you.”
“Do the others have a video of you fainting?”
He nudges your thigh with his socked foot. “Even if they do, you’re not seeing it.”
You laugh quietly for another minute, letting your eyes roam is perfectly healthy and incredibly firm body until it sinks in that he is okay. “I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt.”
“Me too. That would have been embarrassing.”
Your mouth pops open to ask him another question, but the thought is quickly usurped by another. The front reception area had been completely empty despite the fact that there are other patients here. You’re the only civilian here, the only emergency contact for an injured officer, and the injured officer in front of you is looking a hell of a lot better than some of the others you’d walked past.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “Did you ask them to call your emergency contact?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where are the others?” you ask. “Why don’t the guys out there have their parents or partners here to pick them up?”
He shrugs. “They’re probably going to get patched up and sent back to their squads.”
“Exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. “So, why am I here?”
He shifts nervously, the mattress crinkling beneath his weight. “They said I can’t drive myself home.”
“And you didn’t think to ask one of the other six friends you have that are already on base to drive you home?”
His lips part but no words come out. You can see him struggling, wracking his brain for any sort of excuse, but the longer it takes, the surer you are of the answer to your next question.
“Bradley.”
He looks at you and rolls his lips, his skin turning pink from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.
“Did you tell them to call me so I wouldn’t be alone with Hangman anymore?”
His eyes widen and his mouth pops open, but so does the door to the room. The same blonde woman as before walks in with a nurse close behind.
“Alright, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” she says, clipboard in hand. “You’re just about free to go.”
You quickly hop off the bed as the nurse approaches, pressing yourself against the wall while she removes Bradley’s IV and check his temperature one last time. She gives him what you assume is not the first lecture about staying safe in the heat before declaring him well enough for discharge. The blonde woman then steps forward and asks him to sign a few forms on her clipboard.
“Is that everything?” he asks.
“Almost.” She takes the clipboard from him and flips to the last form before turning to you. “I just need one more signature from you.”
You nod and take the outstretched pen. “Just here?”
“Yep. Just under your name,” she says, before giggling.
You pause mid-signature, turning to her curiously. Her smile vanishes instantly, and she takes half a step back, holding a hand over her mouth, looking thoroughly embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so unprofessional,” she says. “It’s been a long day, and I just remembered that when he was brought in, he kept mumbling your name. I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. I honestly thought it was really sweet.”
Bradley – who is now sitting on the edge of the bed – groans and drops his head into his hands. You have to press your lips together to suppress your laughter, but you can already feel it rattling in your chest. You sign your name quickly and hand the forms back to the woman, who apologises again before exiting the room.
Silence hangs thick and heavy between the two of you as Bradley laces his boots. You don’t speak, you’re not sure you can, so you simply watch him gather his things from across the room. When he’s finished, he finally looks at you with raised brows and flushed cheeks.
“Ready?”
You nod once, pressing your lips together to keep the giggles at bay. He turns toward the door, and you can swear you see his lips tip up into a smirk, but he walks too quickly into the corridor for you to be sure.
You follow him through the building, not the same way you had come in, but out through a different entrance that you assume is for bringing in the injured officers. The heat hits you the second you step out of the building, and you almost choke on the hot air, but you don’t have time to hesitate because Bradley is already forging across the small parking lot.
He glances over his shoulder, but his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “Where did you park?”
“The visitor’s parking near the front gate,” you reply.
He slows his steps and falls into pace beside you. His mouth pops open as a thought flashes across his face, but he closes it just as quickly, rolling his lips and getting lost in his thoughts again.
You decide to help him out. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He clears his throat, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “Talk about what?”
“Oh, Bradley,” you sigh, a smirk on your lips. “There are so many things to talk about, but I thought I’d be polite and let you choose.”
His resolve cracks and a smile splits across his face. His cheeks are still bright red, and thanks to the blistering sun, every inch of his exposed skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. You can’t help but watch the column of his throat as he chuckles, his Adam’s apple moving in the most delicious way. It’s probably not healthy how attracted you are to this man.
“I’d barely been awake for five minutes when they asked me who they should call,” he says. “I was still a little out of it.”
“Right.” You nod slowly. “And because you’d just been dreaming about me, I was the first thing that popped into your head.”
He sighs and tips his head back, squinting up at the clear blue sky. “This has to be the most embarrassing day of my life.”
You bite your lip to hold back more laughter, almost stumbling as you come to a halt at the curb. Instinctively, Bradley grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours, keeping you steady as he checks the street each way for traffic. Little sparks of lightning rocket up your forearm and across your chest, zapping your heart and kicking it into overdrive.
You let him guide you across the street, expecting him to let go once you’re safely on the other side, but he doesn’t. The butterflies in your stomach flap to life, but you refuse to let your nerves get the better of you. You have too many questions you need answered right now.
You clear your throat, peaking up at him from the corner of your eye. “So, just so we’re clear, calling me had nothing to do with getting me away from Hangman?”
He keeps his gaze fixed ahead. “Of course not.”
“Okay, that’s good.”
You resist the urge to smile as you wait for him to take the bait. It takes a few minutes, and you’ve reached your car by the time you notice his brows scrunch into a frown.
“Wait, what do you mean that’s good?”
You walk around the front of the car toward the driver’s side. “I don’t know, I just felt different today. You know? Like, being alone with Jake was nice.”
His frown turns into a scowl. “It’s Jake now?”
You roll your eyes, being careful not to appear too amused as you play with fire. “Yes, and Jake is really sweet. He’s funny too, and really smart and… well, he’s hot.”
Bradley takes half a step back from the passenger door. “So, you like Hangman now?”
You shrug. “I guess.”
His eyes flick down to his boots, his mouth popping open as if he’s going to argue, but no words come out. His lips clamp shut and the muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.
“Do you have a problem with that?” you ask, batting your eyelashes innocently.
When he looks back up, his glare is lethal. The warm honey-brown eyes you often love to stare into are almost completely black beneath his furrowed brows. “Do I have a problem with that?”
You roll your lips and nod, keeping your eyes as wide and innocent as you can while watching him take long strides around the front of the car. Your heart thunders in your chest, making your pulse thump loudly in your ears as he walks right up to you.
He towers over you, his body barely inches from yours. “You know damn well I have a problem with that.”
You look up at him through your lashes, finally letting your lips curl up into a smirk. “Why?”
His hands grab your hips and turn your body so your backside is pressed against the driver’s side door. “You know damn well why.” He presses his body against yours and moves his hands to lean on the car either side of your shoulders, trapping you.
Your head spins and you struggle to breath, overwhelmed by every inch of him that is pressed against you. “Why?” you ask again, your voice barely above a whisper.
He groans and pushes his hips harder into yours before leaning down and catching your lips with his. Your hands grip the sides of his shirt and pull, as if he isn’t already crushing himself against you. When you feel him slide a leg between yours, you gasp, and he takes the chance to push his tongue past your parted lips. You grind down on his thigh and a let out a soft whimper. You can feel him grin against your mouth before lifting his knee a little higher between your legs.
The rest of the world melts away as you grind and moan against each other, completely lost in the feelings you’ve stamped down for so long. Only when you feel your car door begin to bend behind you do you reluctantly put a hand on his chest and push him back.
He frowns as he steps back, looking adorable with lust-blown eyes and puffy red lips. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re about to put a me-sized dent in my car door,” you reply with a soft laugh.
“Oh.” His shoulders relax and he steps back toward you, his hands landing on your hips. “So, you were joking about Hangman, right?”
You roll your eyes, resting your hands on his chest. “Obviously.”
“Good.”
You give him a small smile before letting your eyes drop, panic seeping into your bones as your usual doubts begin to infect your thoughts. Did he only kiss you because he was jealous? Does he want more than friendship, or just a few extra benefits?
“Hey.” He crooks a finger beneath your chin to tilt your head up. “Do you want to know why I’d have a problem if you really did like Hangman?”
You nod as you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down nervously.
“Because then it would’ve been too late for me to tell you that I’m in love you.”
Your heart almost leaps out of your chest. “In love with me?”
His cheeks go from pink to red and he quickly averts his eyes away from yours. “Unless you don’t feel the same, then I’m just in love with you like a friend.”
You roll your eyes again and softly smack his chest. “Don’t be stupid, of course I’m in love with you. I thought it was pretty fucking obvious.”
His lips split into a grin before he dips back down and kisses you again. “Thank God for that,” he mumbles against your mouth.
You giggle as he trails his lips across your cheek, along your jaw, and down your neck. “As much as I love this,” you say, “I would also really love to get out of the heat.”
“Good idea.” He steps back and pulls your body with his, turning a little to the side as leans toward the car and pulls the driver’s door open. “Let’s get back to your apartment and test out that new bed.”
Your knees almost wobble as you step toward the car and drop into the driver’s seat. Bradley is around the car in less than a few seconds, climbing into the passenger’s side and reaching one hand across the centre console to grab your leg.
“Let’s just hope Hangman hasn’t decided to take a nap,” you say as you begin pulling out of the parking spot.
Bradley turns to you with raised brows. “He’s still at your apartment?”
You nod. “He offered to clean up when I left.”
“What if he refuses to leave?”
You shrug one shoulder, your lips tipping up into a smirk. “Then he can join in.”
Bradley’s fingers squeeze hard around your thigh. “Not a fucking chance.”
You giggle when you glance at his stormy expression, but you’d be lying if you said his jealousy wasn’t a bit of a turn on. “You’re not into wife-swapping?” you ask.
He tilts his head, clearly confused. “Wife?”
“Well, yeah. I’m your partner, right? Your emergency contact partner.”
It takes him a few seconds to realise what you mean, but once he does, he drops his head into both hands and sighs loudly. “They told you that?”
You almost feel bad for laughing at him again, but you can’t help it. “The woman called you my husband when I first got there.”
When he looks back up, you’re positive you’ve never seen a more gorgeous boy in the world. His cheeks are bright pink, his honey-brown eyes are sparkling, and he’s grinning so wide you can’t help but grin back at him. “Well, they didn’t really have an option for ‘best friend who I really want to bang and eventually marry one day’.”
Your breath catches in your throat and you’re pretty sure your heart stops. “Marry?”
He turns his attention out the windscreen, still smiling, and his hand returns to its place on your thigh as he says more to himself than you, “One day soon hopefully.”
summary: you've been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but a few years ago your father threatened to ruin rooster's career if you didn't get over your stupid crush and find an honourable man - so you date assholes to protect rooster, but it's getting harder to stay away from the boy you're in love with (loosely inspired by this song)
notes: okay, i admit defeat!!! i am in love with this man and it is consuming my life! i was so excited to write this, but i rewrote it and rewrote it, and it still doesn't feel right :( i hope it isn't too awful, but i promise i'm going to write something perfect for this boy, because wow, i love him... please let me know what you think! good or bad, i love feedback!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship/s (nothing detailed or major), negative father / daughter relationship, one brief mention of 'offing oneself', very little and most likely incorrect knowledge about the us navy, and some generally poor writing i'm sorry
word count: 10597
“That guy sucks,” Mickey mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle.
The whole squad is jammed into a booth on the beach-side of The Hard Deck bar, their necks craned and eyes fixed on the large blond man towering over their best friend at one of the tall tables beside the jukebox.
“He’s so rude,” Natasha states, “and cold.”
The only one not blatantly staring across the bar is Bradley. He’s too busy picking at the soggy label on his half-drunk beer and sulking. The corners of his mouth have been turned down from the moment you walked through the door with that hulking mass of man muscle by your side.
“Rooster,” Reuben says, nudging his friend’s side and knocking him out of his imaginary pity party.
Bradley glances up, “Hm?”
“Move, I need to get another drink.”
Realising why he had been feeling pressure on his right side, Bradley sighs and slides out of the booth, allowing his friend to shuffle across to freedom.
“Do you want a drink?” Reuben asks.
Bradley shakes his head and slumps back into the booth, returning his attention to the beer bottle’s label.
“Why is she with him?” Mickey asks, his brows furrowed.
Natasha shoots him a scowl. “Come on, Rooster. Y/N’s not that shallow.”
Bradley scoffs, “You want to bet?”
Her brown eyes glance toward you, watching as your hand grips the thick forearm of the blond boy toy standing over you. She grimaces and shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“Exactly,” Bradley sighs, leaning back in the booth and finally dragging his eyes up to look at his friends. “Her dad has high standards and apparently dating some stupid commander with more bicep than brain and more money than manhood is her idea of being the perfect daughter.”
“You sound jealous,” Jake states, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
Bradley snorts a laugh, though there’s no amusement behind it. It’s dry. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Hangman?”
Before Jake can answer the rhetorical question, Mickey pipes up. “Who’s her dad, again?”
Natasha sighs, turning her head to face him. “The admiral,” she replies, “you know, Cyclone’s superior.”
Reuben returns to the table with wide eyes, gingerly setting four beers on the table before ushering at Bradley to scootch further into the booth. “Oh, my God,” he says as he sits down. “I just asked Y/N if she wanted to join us, and that dude basically growled at me.”
“Gross,” Natasha mutters, before taking a generous swig of her fresh beer.
“I did catch his name, though,” Reuben adds. “Johnny.”
Bradley scoffs, “Johnny.”
The squad spend the better part of the next hour making fun of the man whose arm is draped across your shoulders, all but Bradley. He’s too busy scratching the label off his beer bottle and shoving all thoughts of you and your newest Ken Doll out of his mind.
Across the bar, you pinch the stem of your wine glass between your thumb and forefinger and start moving it in small circles, making the yellowish liquid swirl. You hate white wine, but Johnny doesn’t seem to recall you mentioning that on your date last week. His arm is heavy on your shoulders, compressing your spine and making your neck ache as you try to maintain a decent posture on the uncomfortably high stool. You’ve never liked sitting at the tall bar tables, you prefer a booth.
It takes all your self-control not to gaze across the bar to where you’d rather be. It wasn’t that you hadn’t expected your friends to be in their usual booth at The Hard Deck on a Saturday afternoon, but when Johnny asked you to get drinks with him and meet his friends, you’d still hoped they wouldn’t be here. Especially Bradley.
You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since you were ten years old. He was the first boy to ever make your heart skip a beat, and the only one you’ve ever truly fallen in love with. Not that you’ll willingly admit that last part to anyone but your own reflection, and even then, you need a considerable amount of liquid courage to do so.
When your father, the admiral, was assigned to assist in overseeing the TOPGUN programme at MCAS Miramar, he moved your family to San Diego, right next door to the Bradshaws. Your mother and Carole Bradshaw became quick and close friends, and you soon learnt all about Bradley’s late father and the man who had since stepped in to help raise Bradley.
Your father wasn’t subtle about disliking the Bradshaws, or more specifically, Pete Mitchell, but your mother couldn’t have cared less. You spent most of your weekends and summer days with Bradley, since your mothers were practically inseparable, and the same was soon said for the two of you. It didn’t matter that Bradley was a few years older, you simply matchedeach other’s energies. Soulmates, Carole would say.
Years passed and you both grew, but your crush never wavered. You were there the day his mother passed away, and the day he sent his application in to the Naval Academy. You were also there the day he found out that it was Pete who pulled his papers, and if you close your eyes and think back hard enough, you can still hear the screaming and shouting.
It got a little complicated after that. Bradley decided that he was going to study at UVA for the four years before he could reapply to the academy, and despite your heart’s protests, you helped him pack and promised to look after his family’s home while he was gone. Without the honey-eyed boy next door to spend all your time with, you focused on school and growing up. Bradley would call every now and then, mostly to let your mom know that he was doing okay, but he didn’t visit for two whole years.
It was the year you turned eighteenth that everything changed. You were in your front yard, wearing your favourite red bathing suit and trying to water the poor, sunburnt flowers back to life. When Bradley turned the Bronco into his driveway, he nearly drove right through the garage door, slamming the brakes on just in time. His jaw popped open and his eyes almost fell out of his head as he stared at you bopping along to whatever music was playing in your headphones.
It took you more than a minute to notice the car in the driveway next door, but once you did you dropped the hose and ran across the lawn, jumping over the short fence that divided your yards. Bradley didn’t move until you wrenched the driver’s side door open and asked if he was okay, and he certainly was not okay when you wrapped your arms around him and pressed your scantily clad body against his.
After that, he visited a lot more. Every break he could, he would fly across the country to see you, and if he couldn’t come to San Diego, you would fly to him. The two of you gave ‘inseparable’ a whole new meaning. You spoke every day, sent each other letters and packages containing thoughtful presents or silly gifts, and whenever you could, you would video chat for hours on end. There wasn’t a single day that went by that you didn’t feel a tug in your gut toward the boy across the country who you were head over heels in love with.
Eventually, he reapplied and was accepted into the Naval Academy. You were happy for him, of course, but the bubble in which you were living had to pop at some point. It was harder to see him while he was in the academy, and even harder when graduated and got deployed, but the hardest part was not knowing where he was.
One morning, when you were on your way out the door to work, your father stopped you. He told you that Bradley had been accepted into the TOPGUN programme and would be moving back to San Diego for a while, but the look on his face was a stark contrast to the excitement on yours. It was that morning that really burst your bubble. You’d created this imaginary little world where Bradley would eventually come home to you, kiss you, and tell you that it’s always been you, but your father wasn't going to let that happen.
He lectured you for twenty minutes about the fact that Bradley Bradshaw is not good enough for you. He told you that he’s been holding it in for long enough, because your mother had begged him not to interfere with your life and your choices, but he can’t take it anymore. He said that Bradley is a flighty boy from a mixed-up family, raised by a dishonourable man, and he isn’t wealthy or worthy enough for you. He told you to let go of your stupid crush and find an honourable who could make you happy, or else he would ruin Bradley’s career.
Any sane person would have told him to fuck off, but you were too young and too scared, and you loved Bradley too damn much to risk something he’s worked so hard for. So you simply nodded and slipped out the door, spending the next few weeks avoiding your father and mourning the loss of a relationship that never was.
It was about that time that you started dating assholes. You couldn’t live in a world without Bradley, but you had to protect him, so you always had an honourable commander or captain on your arm to distract your father. You stayed close with Bradley, even when he flew off around the world again. When he was called back to TOPGUN for a special detachment, you were over the moon, and everything seemed to fall into place after the uranium mission. The dagger squadron became a permanent unit based on North Island, and you quickly became friends with the whole group.
After years of distance and uncertainty, everything feels good. That is, except for your shitshow of a love life that is getting harder to maintain as you juggle keeping your father happy while also trying to assure your friends that you’re not a clinical masochist who enjoys toxic relationships.
“Babe,” Johnny’s voice knocks you back into reality. “You good?”
You blink a few times, trying to refocus on the man sitting beside you instead of the waves out the window. “Sorry,” you say. “Just daydreaming.”
He chuckles. “What could you possibly have to daydream about when I’m sitting right here.”
Your eyes betray you, casting their gaze across the bar toward your friends, landing on the boy with the golden-brown hair. Johnny sighs, as if exasperated by you. “If you want to go see your little friends so badly, then go.”
You force yourself to shake your head. “Don’t be silly. I’m here with you, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Except squished into that booth beside Bradley, breathing in his scent and feeling his thigh pressed firmly against your own.
Johnny smirks before leaning forward with puckered lips. You try not to seem awkward as you lean forward and give him a kiss, but you can’t help feeling uncomfortable under the hard stares of his friends.
“I’m just going to get another drink,” you say, slipping off the high bar stool. You hurry away from the table before he can point out that you haven’t touched your wine, beelining for the bathrooms.
Once safely in the fluorescent lit lavatory, you plant both hands on the vanity and stare at your red cheeks in the mirror. You’re not sure why, but it’s getting harder being with men like Johnny. It used to be easy to pretend, to flip your hair and bite your lip, and flirt until they believed that you were into them, but lately, all you can think about is Bradley.
His soft hair and tan skin. The way his mouth curls into a smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His broad shoulders, long legs, and the way that every move he makes is so sure. When you close your eyes, all you can see are his honey-brown irises staring back at you, making you blush even when you’re miles apart. It’s like there’s a rope anchored in your gut and the other end is tied to Bradley. It used to be loose and languid, giving and taking as needed, but now its taut. One end of the rope is being wound up, pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. You worry that one day you’re going to wake up unable to breathe without him near you.
“Fuck,” you sigh, smacking your left hand on the vanity. “This is ridiculous.” You look up at your reflection, raising your right hand to point at the mirror. “Pull yourself together.”
You wash your hands and fix your hair before exiting the bathroom. You keep your eyes trained on your destination as you walk toward the bar, finding a vacant space to lean your forearms against the dark wood.
“Hey gorgeous,” Penny says with a soft smile.
“Hey Penny, could I just get the usual, please?”
She laughs lightly. “Of course. I was a bit worried when I saw that commander hand you a white wine.”
You breathe a half-assed laugh through your nose. “He’s still in training.”
She grabs a beer from the fridge behind the bar before turning back to you with a knowing smirk. “Well, I don’t see why you keep fostering these disobedient dogs when you have a perfectly well-trained puppy at home.”
You frown, tilting your head as your mind races to decode the metaphor. Only when she glances over at the booth of your friends and back to you does it click.
Your eyes widen. “Penny!”
She laughs again before adding, “And that is a cute puppy, if I don't say so myself.”
You roll your lips to stop yourself from grinning, because yes, Bradley is an adorable puppy and you would love nothing more than to take him home with you. “Thanks for the beer, Penny,” you say before she turns away to serve another patron.
You take a long swig from the bottle before weaving your way back through the bar to Johnny and his friends. The night wears on, and you try as hard as you can to remember how to pretend but you just can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Bradley every few minutes. You know Johnny is getting annoyed too, you’re just glad that he can discern exactly which one of your friends it is who’s stealing your attention.
"Alright,” Johnny says, pushing off his stool. “Let’s get out of here.”
Your eyes snap back to him and you nod. “I just want to say hi to my friends first.”
“Whatever,” he sighs. “I’m going to take a leak.”
You watch him walk across the bar and wait until the bathroom door closes behind him to roll your eyes. You slip off the stool and quickly squeeze through the groups of people standing between you and your friends, the grin on your face growing the closer you get.
“Hey!” Natasha greets you first, her face lighting up.
Your eyes scan the familiar faces of your friends. “Hi.”
The last to look up at you is Bradley, but the moment his honey-brown eyes meet yours, the corners of his lips start to curl up. You could never get tired of seeing that smile.
Mickey gasps dramatically. “Rooster, is that a smile?”
Reuben snorts a laugh. “I didn’t know your face made that expression.”
“Shut up,” Bradley mutters, flipping his friends the bird from where his hand is resting on the tabletop.
“Anyway,” Natasha says, turning from the boys to you. “How are you?”
You drag your eyes away from Bradley. “I’m good. Sorry I didn’t come over earlier. I was meeting some of Johnny’s friends for the first time and it was a bit awkward.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We’re kind of glad you didn’t bring your new Ken doll over here.”
“Which model is this?” Mickey asks with a cheeky grin.
Reuben chuckles. “Ken on Steroids, comes with his own syringe.”
Laughter rumbles through your friends, and once again you roll and rub your lips together to stop yourself from joining in. You can’t let them know that you intentionally date douchebags, because then there will be more questions than you’re willing to answer and you're already struggling to keep those skeletons inside their closet.
“Very funny,” you sigh, before glancing over your shoulder. “I should go, but I’ll see you guys-”
“Babe!” Johnny hollers across the bar, earning a lot of confused looks. “Hurry up!”
You want to close your eyes and sink into the floor, totally embarrassed and utterly fed up with this stupid, disobedient dog. But when you glance back at your friends and your eyes easily find Bradley’s, you remember why you’re doing it.
You plaster on a smile. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you later.”
You barely hear their goodbyes as you turn and hurry through the bar toward the door. You can’t help your body from recoiling when Johnny wraps an arm around you, but you play it off by pretending to be cold. The walk to his car is silent, as is the first half of the drive, until he takes two wrong turns in a row and you realise that he isn’t driving toward your house.
“Which way are you going?” you ask.
His Cartier bracelet twinkles under the passing streetlights. “What do you mean?”
“My place is back that way.”
He sighs and shifts a little in his seat, reaching out the Cartier arm to place a hand on your thigh. “I thought you could stay at mine tonight.”
“Oh.” Your stomach swirls nauseously. “I’m actually not feeling too well, I think I should-”
“Again?” he snaps.
You take a deep breath, your hand itching to find the door handle. “Yeah, again. I probably need to go to the doctors.”
The car screeches to a halt and your body strains against the seatbelt. “Good idea,” he says. “Why don’t you go right now?”
You frown. “Now?”
He nods at the door, and only then do you realise that your hand is gripping the handle. His face is cast in shadow and streetlight, making him look more menacing than he really is. You know he only acts tough, but you’re still not willing to push it given his significant size advantage over you.
You pop the door open. “Fine.”
You’ve barely got two feet on the asphalt before he hits the gas and takes off again, speeding down the dark street and leaving you behind.
“Fuck.”
You glance around and try to find something familiar. You might have grown up here, but you definitely don’t know the area as well as you should. You know your usual places and the direct routes to and from those places, but right now you’re standing on a street you’re fairly sure you’ve never been on before. It also doesn’t help that it’s dark, because everything is different in the dark.
You pull your phone out and open your maps, using two fingers to twist and turn the map on the screen until you can figure out how far off your usual route Johnny had driven. He lives further from the base and the bar than you do, in some schmancy mansion he inherited from his parents that you hope never to see in person.
“Fuck,” you groan again. The little blue dot showing your location is a good ten miles from either the bar or your house, and you’re definitely not doing a trek like that in the middle of the night.
You flick away the maps app and pull up Uber, your thumb hovering over the location box where you should type your home address and hit enter, but you can’t stop thinking about Bradley. Even the thought of him has an effect on you now, making your insides mushy and your brain foggy. The tug in your gut has you wandering across the street in the general direction that The Hard Deck would be, and you switch from the Uber app to your contacts list. You scroll to the top where your favourites are pinned and tap on Bradley’s name without a second thought.
It only rings once. “Hello?”
“Bradley,” you say, relief washing through you.
“What’s wrong?”
“Are you guys still at the bar?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “What happened?”
You lean against the nearest streetlight, guilt and anticipation warring inside of you. “You can say no, but I’m kind of lost.”
“Hang on,” he mutters. You can hear shuffling and distant voices, then the squeak of a door and the background noise dies down. “What do you mean you’re lost?”
“It’s a long story,” you sigh, “but like I said, you can say no-”
“Where are you?” he demands. “I’m coming to get you.”
Your chest aches. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he says, and then the background noise returns. There’s music and chatter, and you can hear the jingle of keys while Bradley quickly explains himself to the squad.
Then there’s Mickey’s voice, loud and clear. “Go, Prince Charming! Go!”
“Fuck off,” Bradley mutters, and you can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up your throat.
There’s another few seconds of music and chatter before you hear a car door slam, and then it’s so quiet you can hear Bradley’s heavy breathing. “You still there?” he asks.
“Haven’t been kidnapped yet.”
He sighs. “Please don’t joke about that.”
You shift your shoulder against the light pole, trying to ignore the excitement in your stomach. “Don’t worry, they’d bring me back pretty quickly.”
Bradley chuckles dryly. “Not before I found you and killed them.”
Your heart thumps heavily in your chest, feeling swollen and ready to burst. “Why would you kill them?” you ask, even though you know the answer.
Maybe you are a masochist.
“Because I don’t like it when people take what’s mine,” he replies.
Your stomach does a somersault, and you wait for a laugh or a chuckle, but it doesn’t come. Bradley is dead serious right now, and somehow, he's managed to make you horny from ten miles away.
You clear your throat. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It looks like you’re near the old fire station.”
You pull the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker before flicking out of the call screen and tapping on the ‘Find My’ app. Bradley’s contact photo is floating on the map a small distance from your little blue dot, moving closer. You shared your locations with each other a few years ago, mostly because you wanted to see where Bradley was in the world, but it’s come in handy more than a few times. Like right now, for example.
“Thanks for doing this, by the way.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “But you do have to tell me why.”
You frown, still watching his location. “Why what?”
“Why you’re suddenly stranded when I saw you leave with your boyf-” He hesitates and clears his throat. “Your boy toy.”
You sigh and roll your head back, staring up at the dark sky for a moment before looking back down at Bradley’s slowly moving contact photo. “We had a bit of an argument and-”
“And he kicked you out of his car and left you?”
“No, no, he-” Now you hesitate. “Well, yes, technically, but putting it like that sounds bad.”
“Because it is bad!” Bradley exclaims.
You take a deep breath of cold night air before sighing it out. “I know.”
A moment of silence stretches into a couple of minutes, but neither of you hang up the phone. You know it’s for safety, in case the worst were to happen, but you also like to hear Bradley’s soft breathing. As creepy as that might sound. It’s comforting to know that he’s there and he’s on his way. He might even be mad at you for being stupid and dating an asshole, but he could never let his anger get in the way of your safety.
“Are you speeding?” you ask him.
“Um, no?”
You scoff. “Okay, that was convincing.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? My best friend stranded in the middle of nowhere at midnight.”
Friend. You roll your eyes. “You’re supposed to make sure you get to her safely.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
You frown. “How did you know?”
He chuckles. “Because I know you.”
Your pulse thrums harder, filling your ears and making your breath come and go in quick gasps. You don’t know what to say, because it's true. He knows you, better than you know yourself sometimes, and that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what you’re hiding from him.
“I think I see you,” he says.
Your eyes snap up toward the headlights that appear half a mile down the street. “I think I see you too.”
Your heart beats faster the closer he gets, and you wait until you can clearly recognise the front of the Bronco before hanging up your call. The car rolls to a stop in front of you, and Bradley ducks his head to look at you from the driver’s side. “Need a ride?”
He is fucking breathtaking. All golden-brown tousles and soft eyes, his lips perfectly kissable and his cheeks a little flushed.
“Mom told me not to get in strangers’ cars.”
His face breaks into a grin, and you’re pretty sure your heart stops altogether. “I have candy,” he says.
A giggle bubbles from your lips. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
You pull the door open and fall into the seat, his scent wrapping around you like a blanket. For the first time tonight, you feel safe.
“Hey,” you breathe out, staring at the boy beside you like he hung the moon. You’ve been looking at Bradley this way since you were ten years old, and sometimes you try to hide it, but after the night you’ve had, you can’t find the strength to stop yourself.
“Are you okay?”
You nod. “I’m a lot better now.”
The light inside the car is dim and his face is partially obscured by shadow, but you’re pretty sure you can see the colour in his cheeks deepen. You search each other’s eyes for a few too many seconds before he looks away, focusing on the street ahead as the car begins to roll forward.
The drive is silent, but not in the same way it had been with Johnny. This silence is thick with something unsaid, tangible and heavy as it hangs between the two of you. His right hand is resting on the gear stick out of habit, and your fingers itch to slide between his, feel his hot skin against yours in any way possible.
He clears his throat. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”
You sigh. “Do I have to?”
He glances at you and shrugs a shoulder. “No, but it might feel good to talk to a friend.”
Friend. You turn your gaze out the windscreen, focusing hard on the road ahead to avoid rolling your eyes. Maybe you should talk to someone about the shit you’re dealing with. It might be self-inflicted shit but at least complaining to someone about it might relieve some of the frustration.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” you begin. “After about ten minutes of driving, I noticed that he’d taken a couple of wrong turns, so I asked where he was going, and he said I should spend the night at his house tonight.”
The steering wheel squeaks in Bradley’s tight grip.
“Are you sure you want me to tell you this?”
“Yes,” he replies, using a tone of voice that leaves no room for argument.
“Okay,” you sigh, turning back toward the road before continuing. “I told him that I didn’t feel well and just wanted to go home, but he got a little annoyed because I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks.”
“You haven’t been sick,” Bradley states, brows furrowed.
"Well, not really, but-”
“So, you’ve been lying to him?”
Your stomach twists nervously. “I guess.”
Bradley nods slowly, his expression unreadable.
“Well, anyway,” you continue, “I said that maybe I need to go to see a doctor, so he stopped the car and told me to go right now.”
Silence envelopes you both again. The only indication you have that Bradley actually heard you is the way his knuckles are turning white as he grips the steering wheel. His face is stoic, his eyes fixed on the road but still distant. You know this look, it's the look he gets when he’s stuck in his thoughts.
You don’t want to interrupt him for the fear of being scolded. You know Bradley would never belittle you or tell you that you're stupid because of the decisions you make, but there’s no doubt that he’s mad at you for putting your own safety at risk.
He doesn’t speak until the car stops in the garage beneath his apartment block, and only then do you realise that he hadn’t driven you to your place. He moved here when the dagger squad got their permanent placements on North Island, after finally deciding to sell his family home.
“I’ll sleep on the lounge,” he says, pulling the key from the ignition. “You can have my bed.”
You hate the way your stomach squeezes at the idea of being in his bed. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll take the lounge.”
“No, you won’t.”
Before you can argue, he pops the door and steps out of the car. You quickly fall out of the passenger’s side and hurry after him, almost bumping into his broad back when he stops abruptly at the elevator.
“Bradley,” you sigh, standing at his side. “Please don’t give me the silent treatment.”
“I just spoke to you, didn’t I?”
You huff. “Well, yes, but I don’t like how you’re talking to me.”
He scoffs, his brows shooting up toward his hairline. “Oh! You don’t like how I’m talking to you?”
The elevator doors open and you both step inside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the back wall of the cabin. “I just think it’s funny how you let those men treat you like shit and talk to you like crap, but as soon as I don’t feel like being playful, then you’ve got a problem.”
You frown at him, your breath coming and going much faster than before as anger bubbles in your stomach. You’re not sure what to say, because how can you defend yourself against fact. Silence stretches until the elevator dings and the doors part.
“I’m just not like those other guys, am I?” he says, brushing past you as he steps out of the cabin.
You follow him, doubling his steps to keep up. “No, you’re not like them. You’re better.”
He jams the key into his apartment door and laughs bitterly. “Better but not good enough, right?”
He shoves the door open and stalks inside, leaving you to catch the heavy door for yourself. You follow him in, quickly kicking your shoes off in the hall before stepping into the kitchen after him. He stands on one side of the island, both large hands planted on the countertop. You stop on the opposite side, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Bradley, what the fuck?”
He stares down at the bench. “I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Why you’re with them!” he exclaims, head snapping up. “Why do you deal with that? Why do you choose those guys when you could have anyone you fucking want?”
Your chest aches as your heart starts slowly tearing itself apart. “Bradley, please don’t-”
“You date these assholes that don’t give a fuck about you, but then when you need someone, when you’re scared or alone, you call me.” He pauses, his shoulders rising and falling with laboured breath. “Why?”
You close your eyes, wishing once again that the floor would open up and swallow you whole. But it doesn’t, so you open your eyes to meet his intense honey-brown gaze. “Because I know you’ve got me.”
“No, I don’t,” he snaps. “I thought I did once, but I know now that I never will.”
“Bradley-”
“I’m not mad,” he quickly adds, his features softening slightly. “I could never be mad at you, and I will always be there for you, but I need you to know that it kills me to see you with these guys.”
You want to ask why, because you’re a masochist and you want to hear him say it, but you can’t speak. Your throat is too thick and your emotions too wired. You knew this argument was inevitable, but you hadn’t expected it tonight. Maybe it’s not just yourself that you’ve pushed too far, maybe you’ve pushed the limits of your friendship too.
“I need sleep,” he mutters, dropping his gaze before turning toward the short hallway.
You watch him disappear into his room, feet anchored to the floor despite how hard that rope in your gut is trying to pull you toward him. You’ve never wanted to touch him more in your life, hold him and kiss him and tell him that you’ve only ever loved him, but you can’t. Your father might be busier these days and less of a threat to you, but he’s still a threat to Bradley’s career.
After a couple of minutes, he reemerges in a pair of grey sweats. Only grey sweats. You’ve seen Bradley shirtless more times than you can count, but you’re never ready for effect that it has on you.
“Bed’s all yours,” he says, throwing a pillow and a blanket onto the lounge.
You want to argue. You want to stomp your feet and tell him everything you’ve held back for years, and then you want him to kiss you and take you to bed where the two of you will stay for the next month. But you can’t, and you’re about to burst into tears.
You nod once before shuffling into his bedroom, shutting the door most of the way before turning to face the bed. When you see a pair of boxers and an old shirt laid out for you, the floodgates burst and tears stream down your cheeks despite your efforts to choke them back. Your throat aches and your nose stings, your vision blurred as you slowly peel your clothes off and wrap yourself in the comfort of Bradley’s.
You wonder if Bradley can hear you crying quietly as you crawl into his bed. The apartment isn’t very big, but you’ve done your best to suppress your sniffles as you washed your face in the ensuite bathroom. Your head hits the pillow and his scent overwhelms you, filling you with the most conflicting mix of sadness and horniness. You’ve been in Bradley’s bed plenty of times before, but not often sober and never after he just almost confessed to being in love with you.
Eventually, you fall asleep and have the best sleep you’ve had in years. You wake to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table and startle when you see the time in the top left corner of the screen; it’s almost midday. You hang up on Johnny’s call, only to see ten missed calls from earlier in the morning and a ridiculous number of texts. You roll your eyes and throw the covers back, rushing out the bedroom door and into the lounge room.
Your heart sinks when you see the lounge is empty and the blankets are folded neatly on one end. There are no missed calls or messages on your phone from Bradley, but you can vaguely recall him making plans with the squad earlier in the week to go to the beach today. You go back into the bedroom and change into your own clothes, dropping your borrowed pyjamas in the hamper by the ensuite door before walking back into the main space.
You’re about to leave the apartment when a folded piece of paper on the kitchen island catches your eye. You snatch it and open it up, quickly reading Bradley’s scrawl.
Had to go. Coffee is fresh.
I’m sorry about last night, I overstepped.
You’ve always got me. I love you.
Breath catches in your throat and tears fill your eyes. You thought you’d cried yourself dry last night, but apparently not. It isn’t as if Bradley has never told you that he loves you. He’s said it before deploying and he’s said it to save himself after some particularly snarky jokes, and you’ve said it back, but this feels different. This feels like a confession.
“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You shove the note into your pocket and continue toward the door, making sure it’s locked before it falls closed behind you.
It’s only a ten-minute walk to your place, and you quietly wonder if Bradley intentionally chose an apartment not far from yours. You wait impatiently as the elevator ascends to your floor, slipping through the doors the second they part and half jogging toward your apartment door. Once inside, you shower and pull on some clean clothes before running right back out the door.
Your mind races as you drive to the beach, trying to come up with the right words to say to Bradley. You don’t want to make it awkward, but you know you can’t leave last night unresolved. You would have to act normally in front of the squad, maybe pull him aside and tell him that you’re the one who's sorry. Or perhaps you should act like nothing has happened and text him later tonight.
You bounce back and forth between different ideas the entire drive. The only thing you do know is that you’re not going to take those last three words too seriously. Bradley loves you and he’s told you that before, this note is no different.
You slide your sunnies up your nose and scan the beach, easily spotting Javy’s broad frame and Jake bouncing around like an energetic border collie.
Mickey sees you first as you jog toward them. “Hey!” he calls, waving his arms like a maniac.
“Hey.” You’re a little breathless by the time you reach them, your eyes searching for Bradley amongst the bodies playing volleyball. “Where’s Rooster?”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Mickey chuckles. “He’s not here.”
You frown. “What?”
“Hey!” Natasha jogs up to you, abandoning the game. “Are you okay? Rooster told us you were stranded last night.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” You push your sunnies to the top of your head. “It’s a long story but Rooster helped me out. Do you know where he is?”
She cocks her head, confusion written across her face. “He messaged the group chat this morning saying he couldn't come because he had to see Mav.”
“Mav,” you echo. “He’s at Maverick’s?”
Mickey nods. “As far as we know.”
Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly pull it out, letting out a sigh when you see Johnny’s name across the screen. You look back up at your friends. “I’ve got to go see him, so I’ll see you guys later.”
“Everything okay?” Natasha asks.
You nod. “Of course, I just need Bradley.”
You turn and start jogging back toward your car, your legs burning as your feet sink into the soft sand. The drive to Maverick’s isn’t long, but you have to remind yourself several times to slow down and not be stupid. Your stomach sinks when you can’t spot the Bronco parked anywhere nearby, but you still climb the front porch and knock on the door.
Only a few seconds pass before Maverick answers. “Y/N?”
“Hey Mav, I’m sorry to bug you but-”
“Are you okay?” he interrupts, concern painting his face.
“Yeah, why?”
He leans a shoulder against the door frame. “Well, Rooster told me what happened last night and you’re looking a little flustered right now. That Johnny guy isn’t giving you a hard time, is he?”
“Oh, no,” you reply. “I mean, he’s been calling, but I haven’t answered. I was actually just looking for Bra- uh, Rooster.”
Maverick hesitates for a moment, his eyes reading you like you’re an open book with size forty-eight print. Every emotion on your face so easily distinguishable.
“He’s not here,” he finally says. “He left a little while ago. Not sure where he was headed, though,”
You take a deep breath to try and wrangle your nerves. You need to calm the fuck down. “Did he say anything to you?”
“About what?”
“Last night.”
The tiniest of smirks lifts the corner of Mav’s mouth. “He said that asshole you’re dating kicked you out of the car and left you stranded.”
You nod once, brows raised as if asking for more.
“He also said that he might have overstepped a little.”
You lift your hands to your face and groan into them, frustration and anxiety seeping from every pore in your body.
“I’m going to ask again,” Maverick says. “Are you okay?”
You shake your head, face still hidden in your hands. “No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
You hesitate, trying to think of all the consequences that could possibly come from telling Maverick your problems. When you finally pull your hands away, they’re wet with tears.
You sniffle, looking up at the captain. “Yes please.”
He steps aside and ushers you in, offering you drinks and snacks as he guides you through to the back patio. You take a seat in the most comfortable looking wicker chair and catch a whiff of Bradley’s cologne, which only causes more tears to fill your eyes.
Maverick quickly joins you with a pitcher of water and two cups, and a box of tissues. “I’m going to start charging you kids for these therapy sessions,” he sighs.
A wet laugh leaves your lips as you press a few tissues to your face. “Sorry Mav.”
He chuckles. “Don’t be.”
After a minute, you manage to calm down enough to tell Maverick everything, even though he already knows a lot of it. You tell him about the first time you saw Bradley, the first time you realised why you felt a certain way around him, and the first time you had a feeling Bradley might feel the same. You fill in all the gaps about your family that Maverick missed when he was flying in and out on assignments, and you tell him all about the years that he and Bradley didn’t speak. You even tell him about your father, how he never liked Maverick and later threatened you with ruining Bradley’s career.
By the time you finish, you feel so light you could float. You’ve stopped crying, and you realise now that all the weight on your chest had been put there by your father. The same father who hasn’t given you more than a minute of his attention since the day he told you not to go near Bradley Bradshaw.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Maverick sighs at the ground. He has his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands as he stares at the deck beneath his feet.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “My dad is a dick.”
He looks up, frowning. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because he had no reason not to like you, but he did anyway.”
He chuckles. “I’m not a stranger to being disliked, especially by admirals.”
You laugh softly before taking a long swig of water.
“You’re right about him being a dick, though,” he says. “The fact that he ever thought he could tell you who to date is the worst example of parenting I’ve ever heard.”
You laugh again, but it’s more of a snort.
“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?” Mav asks. “What about your mum?”
You shrug. “I was scared, and I loved Bradley too damn much to risk anything.”
His lip lifts into a smirk. “Be that as it may, your father has no right to threaten Bradley’s career.”
“What do you mean?”
Maverick chuckles now, elbows still leaning on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “Do you think that I would still be here if one admiral was able to do completely derail someone’s career?”
“Well, no,” you reply.
“Exactly.” He sits back now. “I don’t blame you for believing him, because that isn’t a threat that anyone would take lightly, but you really don’t need to worry. Bradley is a big boy now, he can stick up for himself, and if all else fails, he has a lot of other people on his side.”
You stare down at the empty cup in your hand, processing his words and letting them sink in, letting yourself believe them. “So, you’re saying-”
“You can love Bradley if you want to,” he says. “There might be other consequences for your relationship with your father, but as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve a relationship with his daughter unless he changes his attitude.”
Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs. “Thanks Mav, for everything.”
He nods. “Any time."
“Just one more thing?”
He quirks a brow, waiting for your question.
“What else did Bradley tell you this morning?”
The laugh that escapes his lips startles you, a wide grin stretched across his face as he pushes to stand. “Well, sweetheart, I think you should just go talk to Bradley yourself.”
You roll your eyes and stand too. “Fine.”
You thank Mav again as he walks you out. He gives you a hug and promises not to tell anyone what you’ve told him, but assures you again that whatever happens, Bradley’s career is safe. You walk off his porch feeling a lot lighter than when you had walked in, and when you get in your car, you pull your phone out and type a text to Johnny.
‘Fuck off.’
Then you block his number and drive home. You decide to give Bradley a little space, because you need to school your own thoughts before you go letting the skeletons dance their way out of the closet. You need to figure out how you’re going to explain yourself, and you need to decide if you actually want to risk the friendship and tell him you’re in love with him.
Just because Maverick got all giddy when you told him you were head over heels for Bradley doesn’t mean he’s definitely in love with you. You were hoping Mav might give you a hint, but he was stubborn, focusing on you and your feelings instead of divulging anything about Bradley’s feelings.
You busy yourself for most of the day with random chores and errands. When the sun starts to set, you settle onto your sofa and take your phone out, typing out a text to Bradley that you’ve been workshopping all afternoon.
‘Thanks again for last night. I appreciate you. What are you doing after work tomorrow?’
You put your phone on silent and toss it across the lounge, nerves creeping across every inch of your skin as you sink into the cushions. You’ve never been nervous to talk to Bradley. In fact, he’s the number one recipient of your usual word vomiting, but right now, you feel like you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper wondering if he’ll be there to catch you when you jump. If you jump.
-
Five days. It’s been five fucking days since you messaged Bradley, and nothing. You’ve only ever gone this long without speaking when he was deployed without access to his phone or reception. To say you were nervous five days ago feels like a joke now. You’ve barely slept, you’ve barely eaten, and you’re pretty sure you’re starting to see things that aren’t there. Had you imagined Bradley this whole time?
“You look tired,” Natasha says the second you open your apartment door.
“Thanks.”
You step aside and allow her to walk in, which she does with a scrunched-up nose. “Do you not have any windows in here?”
You roll your eyes. “Why are you here again?”
She spins on her heel and flashes you a smirk. “To make you feel better, obviously.”
“Doing a bang-up job so far,” you mumble sarcastically.
You move some of the blankets off the lounge to make room for her. You’ve been sleeping there the past few nights, falling in and out of consciousness while the TV plays reruns of old 90s sitcoms. You’re lucky you have the option to work from home, because you're not sure you’d have been able to drag yourself to work at all this week. Instead, you’ve been doing half-assed days at your desk while resisting the urge to put your phone in the blender.
Natasha sits on the lounge while you open your balcony door, letting in the brisk autumn air. “So,” she says, still smirking, “are you ready to feel better?”
You sit down beside her, curling your knees up to your chest. “I feel fine, actually.”
She raises her brows. “You do? Because the last time you missed pool night at The Hard Deck, someone had literally died.”
Shit. You’d completely forgotten about Wednesday night pool. In fact, you’ve forgotten about everything except Bradley, who has apparently forgotten about you.
“Did Rooster go?”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.
“See,” she says, her smile widening, “you already feel better.”
You roll your eyes. “Again, I’m totally fine, just-”
“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupts you, her expression turning serious. “I’m not here because I think you’re going to off yourself. I know you’re a big girl who can deal with heartbreak when she has to, but the thing is, you don’t have to.”
You frown. “What do you mean?”
“Ugh,” she groans, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you know how painful it is to deal with the two of you when the answer is to all this tension is so simple?”
You wait a beat, letting her have her moment that she has clearly been waiting to have.
“I’m not going to tell you something that I don’t know for sure, but I am going to tell you that Rooster is miserable,” she says. “He’s obviously not sleeping, he’s barely eating, and he hasn't strung more than four words together all week. Now, I know something went down, we all do, but I also know that now you’re both just being stubborn.”
You frown and open your mouth, but she holds a hand up to stop you.
“I’m not done.”
You roll your lips and nod once.
“I know I haven’t known either of you nearly as long as you’ve known each other,” she continues, “but I think I know you both well enough to know that you’re better together than you are apart. Whether or not that means marriage and babies, I don’t care. All I care about is that two of the most important people in the world to me don’t lose each other, because it’s kind of fucking obvious that you two are soulmates… or whatever.” She tacks on that last part with a wave of her hand, clearly becoming uncomfortable with the mushy stuff.
You push your bottom lip into a pout. “Aw, Nat,” you coo. “Bob was wrong, you do have a heart.”
Her brows dip into a scowl. “What did that fucker say about my heart?”
You roll your eyes and ignore her question, leaning across the couch to wrap your arms around her. She hesitates but hugs you back, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Natasha isn’t the most affectionate person, but she knows how to be there for her friends.
“Wait.” You pull back. “It’s Friday, why aren’t you at work?”
“They needed someone to cover a weekend, so Mav gave me today off.”
“Oh,” you nod before falling back into the couch.
“What’s wrong?”
You sigh. “Bradley might be miserable and all, but he’s still avoiding me. I’ve messaged him and called him, but he keeps ignoring me.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully. “I thought he might be. He’s been avoiding every conversation where your name comes up.”
You roll your eyes. Not that you blame him. From his point of view, you look like a pretty big idiot. You’ve been best friends for over a decade, flirting nonstop for half of that, and yet you keep dating assholes despite giving him all the signals that you’re actually into him.
“I have a plan,” Natasha says, her lips pulling back into a smirk. “You still have security clearance because of your dad, right?”
Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, you’re following Natasha out the door of your apartment and into the elevator. Your stomach flips nervously as the cabin descends, and you start to gnaw at your bottom on the way to her parked car. You haven’t been on the base in years. In fact, you try to avoid it, because you know that your father is there somewhere.
“Don’t be nervous,” Natasha says, glancing at you from behind her sunglasses.
Your eyes are fixed on the road ahead. “Bit hard not to be.”
You don’t live far from the base, and after barely ten minutes of Natasha’s questionable pep talking, the car rolls up to the main gate of North Island Naval Air Station. You both show your identification cards to the security guard in the booth while other guards inspect her vehicle. The butterflies in your stomach haven’t settled from the moment you stepped out of the shower, and now you’re starting to worry that the banana you managed to eat for breakfast isn’t going to stay down.
Natasha cruises through the familiar base, parking in one of the expansive staff lots before turning to you with an uncharacteristically wide grin. “Are you ready?”
“No.”
“Good, let’s go.”
You force yourself to open the door and plant your feet on the tarmac. Step by step, you make it around the vehicle to where Natasha is impatiently waiting.
“Come on,” she sighs. “We have to get to there before they’re called in for the weekly debrief.”
You take a deep breath and force some confidence into your voice. “Okay, okay. Just a little anxious about doing the one thing I’ve spent a good chunk of my life specifically not doing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, very big deal. Now hurry up!”
Another deep breath has you feeling a little more human, more confident and grounded. You walk beside Natasha with a little more courage, gazing around at the huge buildings and looping roads. You haven’t been on the base in years because of your father. You’ve dated assholes for years because of your father. You’ve hurt the only boy you’ve ever loved because of your father.
Anger starts to bubble in your stomach as Natasha raises her wrist to check her watch. “Can you run?” she asks.
You nod. “Let’s run.”
The two of you break out into a sprint, shoes smacking against the concrete as Natasha leads the way. You don’t recognise much, not that you ever took special notice of the buildings when you visited with your father, but you do spot the Ford Bronco parked in one of the lots along the way.
“This way,” Natasha says.
You both slow to a jog as you approach one of the hangars. Natasha waves to a couple of the officers, greeting them with a vague explanation for her visit while you zone out and gaze up at the huge structure.
Through the hangar and on the other side where there are long stretches of tarmac and a line up of fighter jets, you find a familiar group. You have to squint to see them properly, all appearing in various states of exhaustion and one still on the ground doing push ups while Hondo counts beside him. The golden-brown head of hair makes your heart skip, and you trip on your own feet as you continue to approach the group.
Mickey notices the two of you first. He grins and waves before nodding once and walking up to each of the others, whispering something in their ears. They each give you a smile and a nod before slowly walking away from the boy doing push ups.
Hondo tips his head when you get closer, and winks. “194… 195… 195.”
“What?” Bradley gasps. “You just-”
“Quiet lieutenant,” Hondo snaps. “You’re going to make me lose count.”
Natasha gives you a subtle thumbs up before skipping off in the same direction as the rest of the squad.
Hondo inches away too, raising his voice to continue counting. “197… 198… 199.”
Your heart thunders within your chest, trying it’s hardest to break free as you watch Bradley sink into his final push up.
“200,” you say.
His arms wobble and his knees hit the concrete just in time to stop himself from falling on his face. When he glances up, sweaty and on all fours, you feel like you could faint.
“Hey,” he mutters. “What are you doing here?”
He sits back on his haunches and dusts his hands together, his eyes honey eyes sparkling under the setting sun.
“What do you think I’m doing here, Bradley?”
He glances around, noticing the absence of his squad. “Trespassing?”
You cross your arms and pop your hip. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem?” He pushes up and rises to his full height. “Last I checked, you were the one with a penchant for self-destructive behaviours.”
You narrow your eyes. “Define such behaviours.”
“Dating assholes for their money and rank.”
Anger sizzles through your veins, heating your skin and making your fists ball. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, before walking past you.
It takes you a moment to catch up, to find your voice and stamp down the angry monster rearing its horns. Bradley has a right to be angry. You expected him to be angry.
“Bradley,” you call after him.
He keeps walking.
“Rooster!”
He keeps walking.
“Bradshaw!”
His steps falter but he doesn’t stop.
“Lieutenant Bradshaw!” you exclaim. “For fuck’s sake!”
He halts and turns on his heel, his eyes stormy beneath furrowed brows. “You have no authority to pull rank. In fact, it’s kind of illegal and could get your father in some serious trouble.”
“Good!” You cover the ground between the two of you, stopping barely inches from him. “I hope he gets in shit, I hope he gets court martialled, or whatever the fuck it is that happens to you lot when you misbehave.”
His frown softens, curiosity taking over his expression. “What?”
You have to take a deep breath, because standing this close to him has your head spinning. “My dad is an asshole.”
Bradley tips his head. “Well, yeah, but why does that matter right now?”
“Because”– you take half a step back so you don’t hurt your neck looking up at him –“when we were younger, when you got accepted into the TOPGUN programme, he told me that you weren’t good enough for me.”
The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.
“I didn’t believe him,” you continue quickly, “but he threatened me. Well, he threatened you, your career. He said that if I didn’t get over my stupid crush, he would ruin your career, and I was young and stupid enough to believe that he could.”
His jaw relaxes and his expression softens. “He said he would ruin my career?”
You nod. “I couldn’t let him do that, but I couldn’t lose you either, so I did the only thing I could think of. I started dating assholes that dad would like, so I could stay friends with you. If he thought I was with these other guys, he wouldn’t question how much time I spent with you.”
His eyes go a little glassy. “You dated all those assholes so you could stay friends with me and protect me?”
You nod again, the bridge of your nose stinging as you stare up at the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. “I couldn’t risk him finding out that I’m in love with you.”
Despite the distant sounds of the ocean, the birds chirping, and the hum of machinery, you feel like the world has stopped spinning. You hold your breath, waiting for him to react, to say something.
“In love,” he whispers, “with me?”
You nod for the third time, your voice stuck in your throat with the last breath you’d captured.
“Fuck.” He rubs a hand up his jaw and through his hair, his eyes bouncing around the hangar before returning to yours. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
You feel like the elephant sitting on your chest has finally moved, and you let out a long breath.
“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. “Because I am so in love with you, it-” He doesn’t finish his sentence before he dips his head and presses his mouth against yours, his hands holding your head.
His lips are as soft as you’d always imagined. They taste like mint and something sweet, and they move against yours in the most perfect way. Your fingers find the material of his flight suit and pull him closer, that rope in your gut demanding his body be against yours as you mouths move together. When he fits against you like he was made to be there, everything finally feels perfect.
“Hurts,” he whispers against your lips. “So in love with you, it hurts.”
“Does it still hurt?” you murmur into his mouth, not letting him more than an inch away from you.
You feel his lips curl into a smile. “A little less now, but you should keep kissing it better.”
He tilts your head back and deepens the kiss, making you gasp against his mouth. Your head spins and your knees give, but Bradley’s hands quickly fall to your waist and keep your body pressed to his.
He chuckles. “I’ve got you.”
“Always have,” you say.
He presses his forehead against yours as you both breathe. You know Bradley, you’ve known him since you were ten, and you know that he is doing exactly what you’re doing right now. He’s telling himself that this is real.
“Do you- um, do you want to come over tonight?” you ask.
In one swift move, his hands drop to the backs of your thighs and he crouches a little before hoisting you up off the ground. You yelp and wrap your legs around his waist, now looking down at his big, beautiful smile.
“Fuck yeah, I do,” he says. “Do we have to wait until then or do you just want to do it in the Bronco?”
You giggle, your cheeks burning. “It’s really weird to hear you say shit like that.”
He chuckles. “Oh, baby, you better get used to it. You’re going to hear a whole lot more come out of my mouth tonight.”
summary: when visiting your friend robin in hawkins turns into an indefinite stay, you decide to entertain yourself by getting under steve’s skin. it turns out different than you expect. maybe better.
word count: 13k
content: fluff, slight angst, no major st5 spoilers (just settings used), upside down is implied but not explicitly mentioned, prob some inaccurate wsqk descriptions, r is a little delusional, a couple of small time jumps, mentions of blood (nosebleed), and a kiss!!
a/n: hiii guys!! it’s been too long since i’ve written a long steve fic and i had so much fun with this one!! i just had to write steve a little bitchy (but in a yearning way) after ppl accused him of being annoying in s5. that’s my princess!!! thank you to my angel @bruisedboys for looking over bits of this one for me! i hope u all love it <3
(¬`‸´¬)
What was meant to be a quick visit to Hawkins turned into an indefinite stay.
While quarantine wasn’t exactly how you saw your spring break trip going, but it isn’t all bad. Despite it being a small town, you’ve managed to find ways to entertain yourself. One of those being getting on Steve’s nerves, finding your way under his skin.
You’d never actually met him before, only ever heard of him through Robin’s letters and phone calls. First, it was complaining, annoyance at how he waltzed through Hawkins High like nothing affected him. Then a ‘hey, you’re not going to believe this’ and stories about the pair working at Scoops together, a tally board that amused Robin at Steve’s expense.
And, maybe most surprising of all, them becoming partners in crime. Robin’s tone towards Steve turned more familiar, still teasing but far warmer.
You and Robin became friends in middle school, the kind of friendship that started with a simple introduction and grew into giggling under covers at sleepovers and knowing that someone saying ‘don’t tell anyone’ didn’t apply when it came to your best friend.
Your parents decided to move before high school, but you’ve stayed in touch with Robin ever since. A few visits scattered throughout the years, far more conversations on two sides of a phone line, cords twisted around your fingers.
A trip (back) to Hawkins for you had been a long time coming, and though it obviously didn’t end up going according to plan, you’re grateful for it, in an odd way.
Your first couple of years in college weren’t going as well as you’d hoped. No friend group to mess around with, no courses to especially inspire you. It was exactly what you’d wanted and not at all like you’d imagined.
A break from it all is probably good for you, minus the whole devastating disaster thing.
Your school was not willing to let you resume studies when you got back, despite your very valid and sort of unavoidable reason, so you’d basically lost a whole semester of classes that you didn’t even enjoy in the first place.
It’s like you’re in some kind of snow globe—minus the snow—with nothing much to do but sit and let the world shake you, let the glitter tumble through the air and fall to the ground at your feet.
Some people would probably be going stir crazy in your shoes. Eager to get back to their life. You’re grateful for this in between to figure out what to do next. What you really want.
Plus, it’s been nice to be back in Hawkins. It’s the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, even after moving away. Even better to be welcomed into the fold. Introduced to Robin’s friends and get pulled in by the group’s tide like a shell on the beach.
And then, of course, there’s Steve Harrington.
Steve, who you’ve heard so much about. Who you feel like you know already despite never really meeting him. When Robin had told you they’d become close, like, almost inseparable close, you’d been surprised but pleased. It was like you went on their whole friendship arc along with Robin.
She spoke so highly of him, about how different he was now, how he was kind of a massive dork and not nearly as cool as he pretended to be (to her, this was a positive), and naturally, you’d been looking forward to meeting him.
Even more so after she sent over a polaroid of the two of them, Steve reluctantly posing, an annoyed look on his face that’s broken up by a hidden smile, Robin grinning wide, both in their Family Video vests.
He was handsome. It was impossible to deny.
Unfortunately for you, Steve has decided, for some reason, that he is not your biggest fan.
Your first official meeting was at Family Video, actually. Pre-quarantine. Robin had asked you to stop by during her shift so you could pick out a movie to watch together later, and you’d happily obliged.
The bell above the door chimed happily with your entrance, and Steve was the one who greeted you.
“Hey,” he called from behind the counter.
You walked up, and found that the picture didn’t even fully do him justice. His t-shirt sleeves tight around his upper-arms as he leaned on the counter, hair flopping over his forehead all intentionally messy, like its had fingers run through it.
He straightened when you approached. Smiled politely, even. Big brown eyes trailing over you and focusing on your face.
And something passed between you then. The air heavier, the room and the muffled radio drifting into the background. He looked at you like you were something rare.
“Hi,” you spoke. And maybe you shouldn’t have. “Is Robin here?”
Because that’s when the moment cracked, fizzled out. That’s when Steve dropped his elbows back onto the counter, like he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.
“Sorry!” you heard Robin’s voice ring out, coming closer until she was beside you. “Sorry! I was in the back, didn’t hear you come in.”
“Wait,” Steve said. “Who are you?”
“Um,” you started.
“Steve!” Robin chided. She reminded him of your name, and he mouthed it after she said it, confused. “My friend from middle school who’s staying with me for the week? It’s why you’re covering my shift tomorrow, dingus. I told you like ten times.”
“By that she means twice,” you joked, trying to extend some sort of ‘we both tease Robin’ olive branch.
He seemed to remember himself during the brief conversation, his face hardening, building a wall around himself brick by brick. His eyes were no longer intrigued, his gaze no longer weighted. No, he was something akin to irritated.
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Steve,” Robin said, clearly noting the shift in his demeanor, too. “I do in fact have friends that aren’t you.”
Steve rolled his eyes at her, and you opened your mouth to say something else, but you weren’t sure what words would suffice. Robin linked her arm through yours and guided you away before you could say anything else, anyways.
“Did I do something?” you whispered.
“Ignore him,” Robin urged you. “He’s fussy sometimes, but I swear he’s not an asshole. Anymore.”
Okay. You believe her.
At first, you’re bothered, looking over your shoulder at him like maybe you could figure out what you did wrong just by looking at him.
But then, later, when you’re in the guest room of Robin’s house laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, you remember that look. The first few seconds before you mentioned Robin, before she walked over.
Those moments where he seemed more honest, more open and warm and kind. And then he armed himself, dropped the mask of his helmet and became different.
If Robin says he’s a good friend, a good guy, then he must be. And everyone has their off days, you can understand that. Even relate. So you write it off as a one time thing, thinking next time he’ll apologize for being short with you and introduce himself properly and remember your name.
You’d only gotten that last bit right.
When he saw you next, it wasn’t an apology or a reintroduction. Rather, he’d said your name like it bugged him just to form the sound.
After the massive earthquake, you joined Robin to volunteer. You were directed to the station Steve was already manning, and Robin to the sandwiches.
When you walked up to the table, you took the time to observe him before he noticed you. Towel slung over his shoulder, his eyes heavy, like he’d been tired or seen too much. He smiled at people walking by, helped them find what they needed with a gentleness you admired.
You wanted to forget last time, give it a clean slate, so you walked up with a small but genuine smile and said a small ‘Hey, Steve.’
He looked up from his folding, pressed his hands onto the table and assessed you. Steve wasn’t mean to you, not necessarily, but he was a bit cold. Unwelcoming. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m actually from here and I just.. thought I could help. Looks like I’ll be sticking around anyways,” you shrugged, making your way around the table to join him on the other side. “Unless you wanted to fold all of these boxes on your own?”
And maybe you let your loose sweater slip off your shoulder to expose your lace bra strap. And maybe you noticed the way his eyes flicked over to your newly exposed skin before quickly flicking back to your face, like he just couldn’t help himself.
“You don’t need my permission,” he muttered. Then, “You picked an excellent time for a trip, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, thanks,” you deadpanned. “I like to plan all my travels around disastrous events.”
“Ha,” he responded, unamused.
You’d folded boxes of donations in silence for the remainder of the day.
Normally, if someone didn’t like you, you’d spiral about it a little bit. Wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix it. But it’s different with Steve.
It’s thrilling, actually, to get under his skin. To rile him up by simply being around. You know he’s got to have a reason for it, because the longer you spend in Hawkins, the longer you spend around him, you’re slowly starting to see the way he interacts with everyone else.
How much he cares about Dustin, how worried he is about Max, the way he drives Lucas to visit her every time he asks.
Steve’s not a mean guy, but he’s snappy with you. And you like to bring it out of him. Maybe he needs an outlet for his frustration, or maybe it’s just something about you, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it.
No, you’re determined.
You’ll make Steve Harrington crack one of these days. One way or another, you’ll tear his walls down, unarm him. You won’t let him scare you off.
-
It’s been a couple of months now. Spring giving way to the heat of summer, that stretch at the end of May into the beginning of June that warms up quickly.
And yes, you’re still in Hawkins. You’re sort of becoming a local again, you think.
With the weather warming up, you’re all finally able to take advantage of the Harrington’s pool. Sunlight bouncing off the ripples in the water tinted blue from the pool’s tile. It’s just the older bunch today, Lucas and Mike and the others doing their own thing that you’d probably rather stay curious about.
Robin had extended the invitation to you to come to Steve’s, because he’d never invite you himself.
Even after months spent around him, in his orbit, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. Holding you back with a firm hand on your collarbone and a practiced scowl on his face. You won’t give up, though.
There’s something beneath that front he puts on around you, a reason that curtain is drawn, and you intend to find it. To tear the curtains open and let the sunlight pour in.
So, naturally you’d agreed when Robin asked if you wanted to join. Yes, it would be nice to go for a swim, to sit out in the sun and just drift for a while. But it’d be even nicer to get a rise out of Steve again. To see him roll his eyes at your jokes or sigh at your arrival or drag a big hand over his face at your prodding.
Luckily for you, you’re an overpacker and thought to bring a bathing suit with you. Even luckier, it’s one of your nicer ones. A two piece that sits high on your hips, thin straps sitting on your shoulders.
You show up to the Harrington’s in it and a pair of denim shorts, sunglasses pushed up on your head like a headband, worn tote bag hanging from your shoulder.
Steve opens the backyard gate when Robin knocks on it and follows up with a shout a solid three seconds later.
“Still here, are you?” Steve asks when he sees you.
“Oh, I’m sorry, let me just break a military-ordered quarantine to get out of your hair, princess.”
“Aw, guys,” Robin whines. “It’s too early for this. We haven’t even walked through the gate yet.”
You raise your eyebrows at Steve, because you’re not the one with the problem here. Though you suppose you do egg it on. Just a little.
“Don’t worry Robs,” you say. “Somewhere deep down, Steve likes me. He just has a funny way of showing it.”
And with that you walk through the gate, forcing Steve to move aside for you. He and Robin linger a few paces behind.
Just as you’ve been welcomed into the fold, yours and Steve’s bickering has become a usual occurrence.
“I thought we talked about your attitude, dingus,” she whispers harshly.
“I do not have an attitude.”
“Right, and I don’t have a problem with rambling. Any other lies you’d like to spew?”
“Whatever,” is his retort. Admittedly, not a great one.
By the time Steve and Robin are done with their hushed conversation, you’ve already dropped your stuff by one of the lounge chairs on the pavement, waving hello to Nancy and Jonathan where they sit with their legs dipped in the pool before turning back around and reaching for the button on your shorts.
You glance up as you do, and find that Steve’s already looking at you. Huh.
Looking him in the eyes, you purposefully slip your shorts off slowly, making a show of pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. He looks away quickly once your shorts reach your ankles like he’d been caught, his cheeks reddened. Maybe from the sun, or maybe not.
Tucking your shorts into your tote bag, you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a pleased smile.
It’s these kinds of things that keep your faith in Steve alive. The secret glances, the way his eyes find you before his mind can tell him otherwise. And his eyes are so honest then, so expressive and deep with words he refuses to say.
But you’ll get them out of him. You’re willing to play the long game here.
For now, you grab a worn paperback lent to you by Nancy out of your bag and settle onto the lounge chair on your stomach. Elbows holding you up, sunglasses slipped down over your eyes, knees bent so your feet hover in the air.
The sun beats down on your back, but you welcome it. It isn’t that harsh, aggressive burn that comes in the height of summer, but the gentle whispers of warmer days ahead.
You barely get a chapter in before a shadow falls over the yellowed pages of your book, and you can tell just by the silhouette that it’s him.
“Hey, you’re cramping my style, Harrington,” you call.
“Didn’t know the sunlight belonged to you, princess,” he responds, arms crossed, firing the nickname from earlier back at you.
Only, it doesn’t sting one bit. You imagine him saying it in a softer way, sweeter. Then you remember you’re meant to be a nuisance and wave your hand at him, urging him to scoot out of the way.
He simply rolls his eyes and steps aside.
Too easy, you think. At least, until you hear the slap of his feet against concrete as he runs towards the pool, doing a stupid cannon ball as close to you as possible, effectively splashing both you and the pages of your current read.
You glance over your shoulder at the pool as Steve comes up for air, shaking out his hair like a wet dog.
“Thanks for that,” you say, and he wipes the water from his eyes to watch you speak. “I was starting to get too hot anyways.”
He splashes you again with his hands.
“Real mature,” Robin says to him from the corner of her mouth.
You give him a pointed, sarcastic smile before turning back to your book. And that smile turns into something more real, your fingertips tracing the water droplets on the pages as if he placed each one himself.
“Asshole,” you mutter to yourself with a shake of your head, though it comes out somewhat affectionate.
One of those drops of pool water landed directly on the word cares, and you tap it once more before shutting your book and resting your head on your arms.
That’s just it, you think. Steve must care in some capacity about you. He wouldn’t be so easily frustrated, so easily revved up if he didn’t.
You wind up falling asleep like that, the sounds of water sloshing and your friends laughing fading into the background as you drift off. Your neck is sore by the time you wake up, though judging from where the sun still shines high in the sky it couldn’t have been that long.
Robin has moved to the chair next to yours, Jonathan and Nancy sharing a floaty in the pool. And Steve is no longer in sight.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Robin says when she sees your head lift.
You rotate onto your back and stretch your arms above your head. “Mm. How long did I sleep?”
“I dunno. Twenty minutes, maybe.”
“Where’d Harrington go?”
She gestures loosely towards the house. “And there goes my peace,” a pause, then, more serious; “I really wish you two would get along.”
“We’ll get there,” you say, reaching over to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“I think that makes me more worried, actually.” And when you swing your legs over and push yourself to stand, she adds, “Where are you going?”
“Just gonna grab a drink. I’m not gonna like, jump him, or anything.”
“Please don’t, he’s only ever won one fight.”
How many fights does one have to get into for only one win to really be notable, you want to ask, but you refrain. You take your sunglasses off completely and leave them on the chair and make your way inside.
The cool air or the AC hits you as you step inside, a welcome break from the heat that seems to be rising with the afternoon.
You’ve been in Steve’s house before, but never on your own like this. You walk to the kitchen slowly, taking in the decor around the house, the notable lack of family photos, or even ones of just Steve. It feels lived-in, yes, but it lacks the warmth of a family home. You frown at the framed landscape on the wall and move along.
You’re alone in the kitchen too, at first. Wooden cabinets giving the room a warmer tint, white backsplash with the occasional fruit tile, silver appliances. It’s simple, classic, and so clean that it doesn’t look like anybody’s cooked in it in a while.
The fridge isn’t too bad, though, a variety of sodas and a few beers, milk and orange juice and a vegetable drawer. You grab a can of Sprite and crack it open, the pop of the tab echoing in the empty room.
You close the fridge and lean your lower back against the counter. It’s cold against your sun-soaked skin.
“Oh, sure, make yourself at home,” is how Steve announces his presence, shoulder leaned against the doorframe.
He’s always doing that, you’ve noticed. Leaning on something, resting his weight somewhere as if it’s exhausting to keep himself upright, to keep himself steady.
“Aw, thank you. Very hospitable of you, Harrington.”
He scoffs at you. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re an excellent host.” You hold up your can in mock cheers.
And then it happens again, that split second where Steve’s eyes speak for him. They trace your figure, and you suddenly feel exposed in nothing but your swimsuit. Not in an uncomfortable way, necessarily. Just.. heated by his stare, by the warm brown of his eyes and how they seem almost pained.
Besides, you do your own looking, too. Steve’s still shirtless, still damp from being in the pool earlier. His shoulders pink from the sun. Your eyes follow the path of a drop of water that drips from his hair onto his chest, through the thatch of hair there and down over his stomach, disappearing into the band of his swim shorts.
You both suck in a breath at the same time, your eyes flicking upward to find his. Neither of you says anything about it, but there’s an awareness there, like the ACs been shut off, the room growing thicker.
“That was my last one,” he says, nodding to the can in your hand. Though it lacks the usual irritation he employs when speaking to you. It’s slight, like he’s trying to find it again.
The armor’s back.
“We could always share, Stevie,” you poke, holding the drink out for him.
He scoffs and spins on his heel to leave the room. You grin behind the can and take another sip.
-
The heat feels more cruel in August. A lingering, sweltering thing that has ripples coming off pavement. The humidity makes the air feel harder to walk through, a wall of resistance greeting you each time you step outside.
Today is one of the hottest days yet. So much so that even the shade doesn’t help very much.
In the time since Family Video’s… closure, Robin has found her new calling as a radio host, Steve working the sound effects and making sure things run smoothly, because God forbid they’re ever employed in separate workplaces again.
You’d helped them set things up at WSQK when they’d first taken this whole thing on. Unpacking boxes, figuring out a way to tame the mess of wires in the booth, getting some actual furniture in the place.
This time, you’re mostly just there to hang around, to watch them in action. To see Robin make use of her endless source of words to say and to watch Steve, a pencil tucked behind his ear, juggle the sound effect tapes and his can of soda. Still, he manages to look relaxed while doing it, hip leaned on the desk, t-shirt a little wrinkled. A little sweaty, even.
It’s an old building, with a severe lack of AC that is especially obvious on a day like today. Not a single cloud in the sky, the sun beaming relentlessly.
A fan whirs inside the booth, placed as far from the mic as possible. Another spins where you sit, aimed directly at you.
After a solid twenty minutes you get a little fidgety just sitting there. Assuredly, it has almost nothing to do with Robin’s hosting skills—who you’ve heard rehearsing through the walls at night—and almost everything to do with you.
You feel like you need to make yourself useful, especially after everything Robin’s done for you. Letting you be her roommate free of charge (“Your currency is putting up with Steve for me”), being completely willing to let you just join her friend group. To tag along to a life that isn’t naturally yours.
Tracing a finger along the surface of the table next to you and frowning when it comes away dusty, you decide to help them out by cleaning up a bit.
You find the supplies easily. You’re pretty sure you’re the one who unpacked them, and that they haven’t been touched since. There’s a duster, all-purpose cleaner, some paper towel, the basics. You grab it and shut the cupboard quietly and decide to start with the area outside the booth.
It’s easy enough to get into a rhythm, especially with music filling the speakers. If Steve weren’t currently occupied, you’re certain he’d give you shit for the way you bounce on your feet as you clean. You can almost hear him in your head. Wiping surfaces really puts a pep in your step? Seriously?
The booth is, obviously, currently (and for you, sort of always) off limits, so when you finish up with the little seating area, you move along to the living quarters. The two bedrooms are still a work-in-progress, some boxes still unopened, mattresses with no sheets, so you leave them alone and head into the kitchen.
It isn’t fully equipped, either, but a little more so than the bedrooms. It’s warmer here than where the fans had been going, and you lift your hair off the back of your damp neck and fan yourself for a second.
You check the fridge, but it’s pretty barren. At the very least, you shut your eyes and let the cold wash over you for a few seconds.
The heat seems to creep up on you here, beads of sweat building on your forehead, your mind going a little fuzzy in it. You finish wiping up the countertops and decide to go in search of another fan that probably won’t help much. It’ll only blow around the hot air, but a breeze is better than the thick stillness.
Just as you reach for the door to the basement, a voice stops you. His voice, of course.
“You can’t go down there,” Steve says, sneaking up on you, making you jump the slightest bit.
You turn to face him and find him with his arms crossed. Unsurprising. His t-shirt sticks to his chest a little, pushes against his arms, rides up to expose the band of his jeans.
“Didn’t know I needed authorization to go down a flight of stairs, security guard Harrington.” You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead. “I just wanted to grab another fan. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s boiling in here.”
“We don’t have another one. Two not enough for you?”
“No,” you huff, but you give up and walk away, muttering a “dunno how you’re even wearing pants right now” as you pass him.
He follows that with a stupid call of “Perv.”
You pause, not wanting him to get the last word. He sighs audibly and walks back into the booth, and just before the door clicks shut behind him, you add an immature “Weirdo.”
It’s silly, but the annoyed furrow in his brow you spot through the glass tells you it worked.
Unsuccessful in your search for a fan, you go back to the kitchen to finish cleaning in there. Climbing up onto the counters to dust the tops of the cabinets, even busying yourself by wiping down empty drawers and shelves in cabinets.
You’re onto the one beneath the sink when you get a little dizzy, your hands reaching up to grip the edge of the countertop to keep yourself from tipping over. It passes quickly enough, but it leaves you feeling a little funny. Disoriented, sluggish.
When you push yourself up to stand, it worsens, little spots dotting your vision like you moved too fast, your head aching. You lift your hair from your neck again, squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help much, but it forces the dizziness to subside enough for you to walk out of the kitchen, through the main room, and out the front door.
Yes, it won’t be any colder outside, but maybe the fresh air will help a little. It’s stuffier inside, heat being pushed around by the fans, a thickness with nowhere to go.
The sting of the harsh sunlight on your eyes makes your head pound, but you breathe in deep a few times, still hoping whatever you’re feeling will pass like a leaf carried by the wind.
Only, it doesn’t. If anything, it just keeps building. Your heartbeat thumping in your ears, nausea creeping up on you, the spots dancing in your eyesight again.
You have to catch yourself on the station’s wall just to stay upright. Closing your eyes and taking heaving breaths.
You’re so caught up in it you don’t even hear the door opening and closing. Don’t hear the footsteps approaching until there’s a shadow in front of you and a question that comes out more genuine than you’d expect.
“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks. The wording is a little harsh, because that’s how he’s used to speaking to you, but his tone is quieter, honest.
“Not used to Indiana summers anymore, I guess,” you reply, head tilting back against the wall with a little thump. It makes you wince.
And Steve, well, he surprises you. He doesn’t tell you it’s ’cause you don’t belong, or that you should’ve just stayed home. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist and says “C’mere.”
“I’m fine. I just need a minute,” you say, embarrassed.
Still, you let his hand dig into your skin, let him hold you up and guide you over to where his car is parked. He doesn’t even let go of you when he digs in his pocket for the keys.
It’s probably the closest you’ve ever been to him, and despite the circumstances, you let his touch seep into you. Let his smell surround you, amber and something a little sweet. A hint of hairspray and the saltiness of sweat.
Steve opens the car door and guides you into the driver's seat with the arm still around your waist, the other hand placed delicately on the top of your head so you don’t hit it. He leans over you to start the car, holding himself up on the centre console and fidgeting with some buttons and knobs to turn the AC up.
You resist the urge to lean into him and sink into the seat, your head tipped back against the headrest.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, pulling away and shutting the door gently. You watch him jog off through the window, feeling warm in a completely different way.
True to his word, he’s back in a couple of minutes, a water bottle in one hand and some paper towel in the other. He opens the BMW door and then takes the cap off the water bottle before handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it from him, a spark zipping up your arm. You take a few sips, and when you’re done Steve takes it and screws the cap back on.
He sets the bottle onto the roof of the car. “Here,” he says, a hand slipping to the back of your neck to get you to lean forward. You oblige, and Steve lifts your hair out of the way and places the damp paper towel there to help cool you down.
“How’s that?” he checks, a hand going in front of one of the car’s air vents to make sure they’re working. “Too cold?”
“‘S good,” you say.
And you do feel better, the pounding in your head shifting to a dull ache, your eyes focusing as they should. You feel fuzzy in a new way, looking at him. Taking in the way he makes sure the vents are aimed at you, how he hands you the water bottle again and coaxes you to take a few more sips.
It feels like you’re dreaming now.
Steve is nearly silent as he does it, like it’s completely natural for him to take care of you like this. To drop whatever he’d been outside for and let his concern bleed through the look on his face, the softness of his gaze.
It’s probably the longest he’s ever gone without snapping at you, the longest you’ve gone without taunting him in some way. The gloves have come off, and it’s just you and him. The real versions.
He sees your eyes flutter and lets the words slip before he can catch them, gentle and doting. “Hey, you feeling okay? Talk to me, honey.”
Honey. It’s earnest. Not sarcastic, but soft. What would have been a jab another time dulled to a poke, not a stab.
Steve freezes a little after he says it, worried you’ll call him out on it. Say something about how different he’s being and why he is the way he is with you.
But you do something worse. You look at him like you can see right through him, through every layer he’s covered himself in, nod, and say a delicate, “Thank you, Steve.”
He doesn’t understand why you don’t hate him by now. Can’t fathom how you never get angry at him for the things he says or the way he pushes you away. He almost wishes you would, because it would make it all so much easier.
Steve knows it’s the wrong way to go about it, has heard it from Robin a hundred times now, but his demeanour with you is his own twisted way of protecting you.
If he doesn’t let you get close to him, you’re at a greater distance from the mess he’s entangled in. If he keeps you at arm’s length, you won’t ask questions, won’t get yourself into trouble willingly.
If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have to push you away to protect you. To protect himself. But it’s far too late for that.
At first, the annoyance was real. Frustration at how clueless you were to everything, at how Robin brought you around without concern. Irritated at the prospect of having another person to look out for when he could barely manage everyone already.
But somehow, you’ve wormed your way into his life without struggle. Lingering in the corners of his mind when you’re not around, his eyes drawn to you whenever you walk into a room like a string ties him to you.
He indulges, just for a moment, and traces a knuckle across your cheek before straightening.
It’d be so easy to tell you everything, to let it spill from him in a rush and tug you close afterwards. To let the truth seep from him and move forward. But Steve, who is meant to be brave, is so afraid.
The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt because of him. So he pulls away.
“Don’t sweat too much on my seats,” he tells you before shutting the door and walking away. He’s glad he isn’t facing you, so you can’t see how hard this is for him.
You watch him leave, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space that all of a sudden feels so empty.
-
Just as it always does, August gives way to September. The heat of summer lingers during the day, the first chills of fall creeping in at night.
Not quite cold enough to wear a jacket, not warm enough to be in a tank top. This evening, you’ve opted for a mini skirt, tights, and a sweater. Steve’s in his usual jeans and a crew neck.
Steve, who you’re currently, miraculously, alone with in the WSQK van.
You’d been helping out at the station again when something went wrong with the broadcast, and after diagnosing the issue that you know nothing about, Robin sent you and Steve out to pick up some supplies to fix it.
“It’s a two-person job,” she’d urged. “And I have to stay here and be Rockin’ Robin.”
“I don’t need help,” Steve had insisted, offended at the thought of being incapable on his own.
“Actually, you do,” Robin stated. “Last time I sent you to get something you got it wrong because you can’t read labels.”
“I can read-” he cut himself off. Robin’s just as stubborn as him, and he’s not in the mood to go back and forth. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”
Steve walked out, keys spinning around his finger, without a word directed at you. That is, until he’d noticed you weren’t following him and tilted his head at you. “Well? Are you coming, or what?”
“Oh,” you’d been surprised he gave in so quickly, actually. “Right. Sir, yes sir,” you saluted like an idiot.
And now you’re here, sitting in the passenger seat of the van, Steve beside you, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tight, the radio barely audible over the sound of the wheels turning, the wind around the vehicle.
It’s nearly dark out, that shade of blue just after the sun has fallen behind the horizon, streetlights flicking on and casting a warm glow on everything.
He hasn’t said a word to you besides a muttered ‘buckle up’ since you got into the car, and you’re starting to get antsy in it. You think you’d prefer his pointed comments, his barbed words, over the silence that feels louder than it should.
It isn’t awkward, not quite, but it’s strained in a way. Like there’s some unspoken battle going on and whoever says the first word loses.
Tired of pulling at the loose thread on your skirt and saying nothing, you reach forward to mess with the radio. Turning up the volume so you can hear it properly, flipping through channels and pausing each time to hear what’s playing. You glance at Steve’s reactions, too.
You’re successful when a song sounds through the speakers and he actually winces. You turn it up a bit more to drive it home.
He’s getting predictable, you think. The twitch of his eyes or the arch of his brows.
Except, he does surprise you, sometimes. He did. That day in August, when you got overheated and he caught you effortlessly. When he doted on you and called you honey all sticky sweet like the word itself. When he was the barest you’ve seen him yet.
Steve, almost completely unguarded. Almost.
Today, though, his fences are mended. Built up once more. Which is why you’re not surprised in the slightest when he side-eyes you, huffs a dramatic breath, and mumbles “I hate this song.”
“Oh do you?” You look over at him, knees tilted towards his side of the van. “I couldn’t tell from the exaggerated sighing.”
He gives you this bitchy little twitch of his lips and flips it to another station. You hate how good he looks doing it.
You give him a sweet smile and switch it back.
And just to really get him, you start to sing along. Poorly. Completely off-key and a little shouty and absolutely uncaring.
Steve drags a hand over his face, but you aren’t deterred. You keep singing, grabbing the walkie from the dashboard and using it as a faux microphone. You don’t push any buttons, because that’d probably give him an aneurism.
“My ears,” he whines. “This is so-”
You cut him off by singing even louder. Totally annoying, but you can tell he’s battling a smile behind his hand, little crinkles at the corner of his mouth. It makes you grin stupid and genuine.
Then there are headlights shining through the windshield, bright enough to make you squint. You quiet and twist your head to get a look at the car, eyes widening a bit when you notice it’s one of the military vehicles.
Sure, their presence is known, expected, even, but it’s an odd time of day to see one driving around.
By the way Steve’s grip on the wheel has gone from tight to white-knuckle, he seems to think so too.
The vehicle’s red brake lights shine next, slowing to a stop just after passing by the van, and Steve slows, too. Not as abruptly, but to a crawl, keeping the military truck in his rear view. It pulls over. Steve does too.
“Shit,” he whispers.
“What?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “The U.S. army after you, or something?”
And Steve, who would usually give you some stupid retort about how you’re more likely to be on their radar—Tourists are liabilities, he’d say morosely—says absolutely nothing. Stares in the rear view mirror with concerned focus on his face. Eyes a little wide, the rest of his face composed.
“Steve?” you prod again.
“Stop it,” he says, eyes still glued to the mirror. “Just act.. normal.”
You don’t know what it is that forces you into gear. Whether it’s the look on Steve’s face or the tension in his shoulders, if it’s the beating of your heart that feels like a warning, or maybe the sound of a car door slamming and the cool blue beam of a flashlight turning on. But something has your instincts kicking in, and you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing into the back of the van.
Steve, even with how he acts around you, looks away when he notices the way your skirt rides up. A gentleman even when perpetually irritated.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks once you’re settled in the back. He turns around to look at you over his shoulder, at how you’ve kicked your shoes off.
You get on your knees and lean forward, unbuckling Steve’s seatbelt for him and grabbing a fistful of his sweater to get him to follow you into the back of the van.
“Giving him a reason to leave us alone.”
Steve, stunned, lets himself be pulled along by your grip, climbing out of his seat and into the back to join you. He kneels, too, your knees slotted together like puzzle pieces, his bumping your thigh.
You’re still holding his shirt even though he’s right in front of you, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath it, can smell his cologne and feel his breath fan across your cheek.
“Uh-” he starts, but fumbles. Never finds the words to say.
In his defence, you don’t really give him a chance to. The flashlight shines through the back window, heavy footsteps on pavement drawing nearer.
You do the only thing you can think of that’ll make the problem go away. You pull Steve in by his collar and kiss him.
Steve is, understandably, completely frozen at first. You bring your other hand to the back of his neck to try and get him to understand. His hesitation doesn’t last long after you sink your fingers into his hair, scraping his scalp a little.
No, he dives in. Hands shooting to find your waist and squeeze slightly before moving again, like they can’t settle in one place. A wide palm is splayed across the small of your back, the other lowering to your hip to urge you to scoot forward.
His mouth moves against yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s heated, a little frenzied, like he’s just been set loose. The hand on your hip shifts again, running up your arm, over your collarbone, knuckles tracing the side of your neck until he plants it on your cheek, using it to tilt your head where he wants you.
Yes, your goal had been to get him to kiss you convincingly enough that the man outside would just see a pair of young people making out and walk away, Steve goes beyond.
He kisses you like you’re the one that needs convincing of something. His lips firm, bruising, his grip unwavering.
The kind of kiss that tomorrow, even a week from now, you’ll feel warm just remembering.
Steve knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is a terrible idea. That falling into you this way will cause irreparable damage for him. That pushing you away will become ten times more difficult, little shards of glass embedded into his heart with each shove.
But God. He just can’t stop himself.
Not with how soft you feel against him, how well you fit, how you let him guide you and make the tiniest involuntary noise when he nips at your bottom lip. How you pulled him in, nerves in your eyes, but determination, too.
How you stepped in to help him without asking any questions.
He doesn’t deserve to have you this way, and yet he can’t imagine a world in which he’d pull away first.
Which is why you’re full on making out in the back of the van, the windows probably starting to fog, the radio, the chirp of the blinker, all fading into the background and all that’s left is the sounds of your breathing, the panting when you break away from each other just for a second before dipping forward again.
You don’t hear the man curse and walk away, you don’t notice the absence of the flashlight’s harsh glow. You don’t even notice he’s gone until you hear the door slam again, the tires rolling off, headlights fading into the distance until they’re gone completely, swallowed by nighttime.
It’s only then, when you’re certain the vehicle’s gone, that you pull away from Steve with a lewd smack.
Your eyes flutter open just in time to see the way he chases your kiss when you go.
And then his eyes are open, too, searching your face frantically, blinking like he’s not certain this whole thing has actually just happened. His hands slip away until they’re resting on his knees. Though, with the way you’re sitting, legs slotted together, you can feel his pinky brushing the inside of your thigh, tracing the seam of your tights.
You follow his lead now, dropping your hands away and sort of hugging yourself.
“Sorry,” you say. Quiet. “I probably should’ve asked before I… you know.”
Steve looks at you. Really looks at you. At how your arms are crossed over your stomach, your shoulders dropped. It’s like you’re trying to fold in on yourself, to make yourself smaller. To make his target more difficult to hit.
His hands twitch on his knees. His pinky still runs its tiny course against your leg.
“No, it was, um, smart,” he says. His voice comes out rough, not totally himself. “Good plan.”
You look at Steve, too. And you can see whatever inner struggle he’s having written on his face. His stupid, beautiful brown eyes looking a little lost, a little further away.
You understand him. Somehow, you know what he needs. When to push, when to back off.
“Steve Harrington giving me a compliment?” you say, attempting to bring things back on track. To diffuse his racing thoughts with something he’s used to. “Are you sick or something?”
You straighten and press the back of your hand to his forehead for emphasis.
Like a rehearsed routine, he scoffs lightly, smacks your hand away gently. Even then, it lacks its usual conviction.
-
As expected, the kiss is on your mind. Often.
This whole thing with Steve started out lighthearted. Flirting, teasing, poking, prodding. But over the course of your months spent back in Hawkins, it’s become more than that. Something in you seeks to be around him, even if it means shouldering the weight of his distance.
It’s become clearer the longer you spend with him that it isn’t how he really feels, but how he thinks he should feel. How he thinks he should act around you.
Your goal is much the same. Get under his skin, but even more than that, you just want to know the truth. The why.
You actually like him, and you haven’t even had the privilege of knowing the Steve that’s tucked away beneath the layers of protection. There are glimpses, light breaking the shadows, but a cloud always comes back to cover up the cracks.
After that night in the van, after that kiss, you’re more determined than ever. Because there’s no faking that. The want and desire, a match lit by the press of your mouths, by the touch of his hands.
So, yeah, you’re thinking about kissing Steve a lot. Sometimes, you’ll press your fingertips to your lips when the memory pushes itself forward, like you’re trying to remember exactly how it felt, that it wasn’t a dream.
Even now, sitting across from him in a booth at the diner, you’re thinking about it.
About how easy it would be to bridge the gap again, to see how he’d react if you weren’t doing it as a cover, if it was out in the open, no security blanket of pretending for the sake of your safe getaway.
You’re not hiding your distraction well enough, if the little kick and accusing glance Robin gives you from her seat beside you is anything to go by.
You shake your head at her, not sure if you’re denying whatever she’s thinking or just putting it off for now. Either way, it works, and she goes back to whatever debate she’d been having with Nancy, Jonathan chiming in every now and then and getting mostly overlooked save for a sweet pat on the knee from his girlfriend.
You watch them interact with a small smile, this group of people that have become your people. The way they’re able to joke with each other and know it’s out of love and warmth.
You look away when Nancy concedes and Robin, too proud, celebrates her win with her arms raised and a chant of ‘victory!’
Steve’s eyes are already fixed on you from across the table when you turn your head. And like that day at the pool those months ago, and other days since, he doesn’t hold your gaze, he looks away as if caught. Red-handed and the tips of his ears going pink.
The group’s silence is a hint for you to follow their lead and look over the menu, even though you all get the same thing every time. So you drop your gaze too, letting the toe of your shoe tap against Steve’s shin lightly.
Could be an accident, could be something else. I see you, it might say.
His leg shifts, but you’re not sure if it’s in response or just a reflex.
You look down at your menu and scan the options that you’ve practically memorized by now. There are only so many places to eat in Hawkins, after all, especially when groceries aren’t as easy to come by.
You’re reading the handhelds section when a splotch falls onto the page and interrupts your reading. It’s a small dot, and you look up to find the source when you feel the pressure in your nose. Another drop falls when you look back down and realize the source is you.
“Shit,” you mumble, reaching for some napkins.
Everyone looks at you at once, various levels of question and concern written on their faces as you hold a crumpled napkin to your nostril.
Steve’s the first to speak, and it’s a tone reminiscent of that day at the station when he sat you in the BMW and took care of you like it was easy, natural. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out awkward with the way your hand is held in your face. “Just a nosebleed.”
Only, that doesn’t seem to reassure him. Or anyone. They’re all still staring at you.
“I’ll just, uh, go clean up,” you say, scooching out of the booth and walking in hurried steps to the bathroom.
Steve watches you go. Well, they all do, but the look on his face is a little different. It’s not only worried, it’s etched with fear.
“I’m gonna check on her,” he announces. It hasn’t even been two minutes, but he doesn’t care. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t think it’ll slow until he can see you alive and talking.
For once, Robin doesn’t give him any crap as he walks off.
Uncaring and far too concerned, Steve shoulders the women’s bathroom door open after knocking twice. He doesn’t give you time to respond.
You’re standing at the sink, a fresh piece of paper towel held to your nose as you look in the mirror, assessing the damage. Luckily, no blood spilled onto your shirt. You flinch when the knocks come, when Steve comes tearing in like a heavy breeze, door blown open and shutting heavily behind him.
“Steve!” you pivot to face him, hip leaned against the counter, the arm that isn’t occupied with holding pressure crossed over your chest. “You know this is the girl’s bathroom, right?”
He ignores you. Doesn’t respond and instead searches your face with frantic, gorgeous eyes. “Have you been getting headaches lately? Nightmares?”
“Um, thanks for the therapy session, but-“
“Please.”
Steve Harrington, pleading with you. Safe to say it shuts your sarcasm off, makes your stomach twist with the way he shoves an anxious hand through his hair.
“No, Steve. I’m fine,” you tell him. It’s sincere. A promise, almost. “It’s probably just dry in here, or something. It’s like you’ve never seen a nosebleed before.”
“I’m not playing around.”
“Me either,” you say, but get frustrated with how your words come out a little nasally with your nose blocked. You pause, twisting to look in the mirror again and pulling the paper towel away to check if the bleeding has stopped. Luckily, it has.
You turn to Steve again, making sure to catch his eye, to hold it and speak as honestly as you can. “I’m okay. No headaches, no nightmares. Just a regular, boring nosebleed, alright?”
He holds your eye for a second afterwards, as if searching for any sign that you’re being dishonest. When he doesn’t find one, he nods, messing with his hair again and looking down at the floor. Breathing a couple of deep breaths.
You can’t look away from him.
You’re trying to find where his distress is coming from, as if you might see the answer written on him somewhere. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve so afraid, and it’s completely unmooring.
He cares about you, that much has become clearer now, but there’s something holding him back. Something other than himself. Something that genuinely frightens him.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” you ask. Gentle, trying not to spook him into hiding again.
“I-” he starts, but stops himself just as quickly. He shakes his head, reroutes. Steve walks over and pulls another piece of paper towel from the dispenser and wets it in the sink.
“Here,” he says, squeezing out the excess water and coming to stand right in front of you, the toes of your shoes touching.
Steve tilts your head up for him, his hand splayed on the side of your neck, his thumb tucked under your chin. He uses the damp paper towel to wipe the dried blood from your nose.
“You don’t have to-”
“Please, honey” he says again. “Just let me.”
You do.
It’s impossible to say no to him this way, with his voice low and quiet and rough, his touch so delicate. The reappearance of the word honey. It nearly undoes you. Your eyes flick over his face as he cleans you up, his tongue poked out the slightest bit in concentration.
You’re afraid to speak, afraid to shatter whatever’s happening here. Afraid to revert whatever’s made Steve drop his weapons at the door and reveal himself. Here, in the silent bathroom, it’s your own little bubble.
The rest of the world muffled, shining pink and blue in the light and tinting the moment that way, too.
When Steve is satisfied with his work, he tosses the paper towel into the garbage without moving away. His hand is still cradling your jaw lightly, like he’s afraid to hurt you. The other, now free, wipes away the leftover moisture on your upper lip with his thumb.
Steve drops it after that, as if burned. You catch his wrist before he can let the other hand fall away the same. He doesn’t meet your eye until you squeeze, your thumb feeling the rush of his pulse.
“Hey.”
He seems embarrassed all of a sudden. His cheeks getting warmer, some kind of self-appointed guilty grimace on his face. “Mm?”
“Thank you.”
You say it in that way that feels exposing to him. Thank you, but there are other meanings sheltered beneath the two words.
I understand. I can tell you’re hiding something.
I know exactly who you are, Steve Harrington. You don’t have to tell me.
You drop his wrist then, having said what you needed to. And Steve turns on his heel and leaves after whispering a small ‘yeah. ‘course.’
His shield is held in front of him again, though it no longer feels like a tough sheet of metal, but a mere piece of paper, easily poked through with the right tool.
Easily poked through if you’re the one on the other side.
-
There’s a slight shift to things since the nosebleed.
Or maybe this is only when you notice it, the tiny bits and pieces slowly building up over time until they’re big enough for you to see. A house settling on the ever-shifting earth, cracks in the porch steps, a door becoming harder to shut.
Steve hasn’t rolled his eyes at you, hasn’t so much as sighed, in at least a week. It’s probably the longest he’s gone without doing so since you’ve met, and you know it means something.
That the rock face that is Steve Harrington’s guard has slowly been eroded away by your efforts. Changed by the constant tide. His carefully pointed words dulled into a teasing that makes you feel like you’re in on the joke rather than the butt of it.
If you weren’t so zeroed in on him, if you didn’t know him well enough to be able to see his eyes soften or hear the change in his tone, you probably wouldn’t have paid any mind to any of it.
But you do focus on him. You do know him. Whether he wants to let you or not.
It gives you this dangerous little seed of hope. It's taken root in your chest, petals unfurling with every glance he steals that you pretend not to notice.
Hope that your mission, completely driven by your feelings for him now, might be succeeding. That you could make Steve crack. That you’ve chiseled away at that stony exterior to get a glimpse of the heart on the inside. Caring and kind, endlessly loyal.
Hope that things could truly be different. Better. That you could, at the very least, become friends.
Though the word friends doesn’t feel quite right. A square peg pushed into a round opening. It just doesn’t fit.
Not after everything that’s happened these last few weeks. Taking care of you in the sun and with your nosebleed, the genuine concern, the tenderness that leaked through. Especially not after the way he kissed you in the van.
You think about it now, walking up to the doors of the WSQK building, the van parked outside, ground crunching beneath your feet.
You weren’t planning on coming by today. You were fully planning on lounging around at Robin’s for the day. Watching whatever movies she has lying around, napping on the couch. You’d gotten about five minutes into movie number one when you saw Robin’s lucky coin left on the coffee table.
She’d told you about it once when she asked if you had any change and you had pointed it out. Told you that she keeps it in her pocket for every broadcast, that it would be ‘an abomination’ to get rid of it now.
You can tell it’s the coin because she’d placed a dollop of nail polish on it to differentiate it from the others. Won’t that mess with its luckiness, you’d asked her. Um, that’s totally not how it works, Robin had responded, like it was a ridiculous question.
So anyway, when you spotted it left behind on the table and knew she was doing a broadcast later today, you wanted to bring it to her.
Turns out her lucky token is kind of shit when it’s in your pocket instead.
You open the doors to the Squawk, expecting to find Robin and Steve bantering in the main area. To hear them, at least. Or to see Dustin fixing something with the satellite or whatever it is.
Instead, you’re met with silence.
You know people are here though. Steve’s BMW is outside, too. The doors unlocked, the lights on. There’s even a half-empty pot of coffee in the kitchen. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink.
However, your search of the main floor comes up empty. Briefly, you wonder if they’re pulling some kind of stupid prank on you. If they saw you walking up the drive and decided to hide and jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ when you jump.
Then your eyes land on the doors leading to the basement. The strip of light slipping through the cracks of the door.
You can’t go down there, you remember Steve saying. All stern and irritated. But things aren’t how they were in August. You shake your head and walk towards the doors.
Tugging a heavy one open with a click, you breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of voices travelling up the stairs.
“There you guys are!” you call, heading down. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Robin you forgot your-”
You freeze at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is down here. Like, everyone. And they’ve all gone silent, staring at you with varying expressions of surprise and nerves, like they’re worried you overheard or saw something you shouldn’t have.
“-lucky coin,” you finish weakly.
“Oh!” Robin walks over to you and takes the coin from your palm, sliding it into her pocket. “Well, thanks for bringing it. We were just, uh..”
She’s doing that frantic rambling thing, saying a bunch of words that don’t actually mean anything strung together. You look around and find that pretty much everyone else is acting strange.
Jonathan’s shoulders are tensed high, Nancy worrying the inside of her cheek. Lucas and Mike share a look that says something like ‘what do we do?’ and ‘I don’t know.’
And Steve. Steve can’t even look at you.
“What’s going on?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”
“We’re fine!” Robin tells you, but the squeak in her voice isn’t very convincing. “Why don’t you head upstairs, and we’ll be right behind you.”
“I know when you’re not being honest, Robin,” you say.
It’s one thing when it’s the others hiding something. Lucas or Mike or whoever. You could live with them not telling you something. Hell, you’ve been coping with Steve’s secretiveness this whole time and you still haven’t given up, but it’s different with Robin.
She’s your best friend, and she doesn’t trust you enough to let you in on this.
“It’s nothing,” she tries again.
“Robin. Come on, it’s me.”
“I, um.”
Robin doesn’t get the chance to find the words, because Steve finally looks up from the floor and steps forward.
“You should go,” he says. His voice is cold. Detached, almost.
You’re taken aback by it. Not the words, necessarily, but the way he says them. This is the Steve from before. Not the one you know now.
“What?” you say, weak.
“Leave,” he practically spits.
“No. No, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t,” Steve adds. Every word is a sharp little paper cut swiped against your vulnerable skin. “You aren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. You don’t belong.”
“But-”
You can feel your resolve cracking with every syllable. Your heart beating an uncomfortable rhythm in your chest, your stomach sinking.
Then, he really does you in.
“You never should have come to Hawkins.”
It’s something aimed to not only cut, but stab. Words picking at an old wound.
Because there’s an underlying message in there. That you were never supposed to be in his life, that he didn’t want you in it. It’s as cruel as saying he wishes he’d never met you.
You look around at everyone else in the room, face heating, embarrassed. Nobody says anything. They don’t defend you, they don’t tell you to stay, that Steve didn’t mean it.
You nod, chin wobbling, and turn around, rushing up the stairs. Robin tries to grab your wrist, but you shake her off, the door slamming harshly behind you as you go.
The tears don’t fall until you’re outside, the wind speeding them along and making them tumble in fat drops down your cheeks, streaking your face.
You don’t belong, when you thought you’d been making progress. That maybe Steve actually liked you. You never should have come to Hawkins.
No, maybe you shouldn’t have, you think, wiping at your cheeks and your nose with the cuff of your sweater. Your hands are harsh, much harsher than Steve’s were in the bathroom at the dinner.
You kick a pebble. Even now, when he’s hurt you, he’s on your mind.
Back in the basement at the Squawk, the group’s eyes have turned onto Steve instead of you. Robin’s are the most accusing of all, though they all feel heavy against him. It makes his skin itch, uncomfortable.
“What?” he bites, before going upstairs himself.
And the thing is, Steve thought he was done nipping at you like that. He wanted to be done. With all of it. The name calling and annoyed looks, the sighing and the comments.
He wanted to move forward. He’d been trying to figure out how to apologize to you, actually. What the right words would be, if they would be enough.
Because he fucking cares about you. So much it scares him.
He doesn’t even know every piece of you, and he cares this much. It terrifies him to think about how big his feelings could get if he let you in. How badly it would hurt him if you got hurt, if it was because of him.
Steve knows what he did today was wrong. It wasn’t even what he wanted to do, but he was trying to get you as far away from the danger as possible and it manifested itself in the way he was used to.
He’s not an aggressive person. He isn’t who he used to be in high school. He doesn’t know why he bites.
And that look on your face just before you left, the wobble of your lip and the way your eyes welled but you wouldn’t let a tear fall, the defeat, your shoulders deflated. Well, that look will haunt him for a long time.
But if there had to be a monster in your life, at least it’s him and not something much, much worse. At least you’re still alive and breathing.
Steve can bear the weight of your hurt, can let it crush him and break him down to dust, as long as you’re alright in the end.
-
You cry the whole way back to Robin’s.
It’s the sadness, at first. The hurt and the sting of everything that had happened. Everyone’s silence, Steve’s words and how he sounded like a different person when he said them.
After that, it’s frustration. At yourself for thinking things had changed, for letting yourself cry over it now. And at Steve, for being so confusing. Because when the emotions subside, you look at things more broadly.
Sometimes, he can be so sweet. His eyes go soft and honest and expressive, and then he pulls it away. He puts up a wall that he just refuses to let you tear down or climb. You really thought you’d found a way, that you’d met in the middle of it.
You did your share of trying, of finding your footing between stones, and Steve held out a hand and tugged you the rest of the way over.
And then today happened.
But now, with your tears dried and your head less clouded, more than anything, you’re fed up. Tired of throwing fake punches and watching them land. Of taking hits yourself. So you come up with another plan.
You’re going to get answers out of Steve, and this time, you won’t back off until you get them.
First, you wait. You turn on the radio and listen to the Squawk, trying not to relive this afternoon every time you hear Robin’s voice or catch a sound effect and know that Steve is behind it. You listen until the broadcast ends sometime in the evening. Then you wait some more, calculating the time it would take Steve to get home from the station.
Once you’re pretty sure he’d be back at his house, you slip your shoes on and head out the door again.
The skies have darkened since earlier today, the sunset hidden behind gray clouds, but you don’t care. Don’t pause to grab an umbrella or a jacket, you just keep walking.
Eventually, rain starts to fall, but you let it seep into your clothes and over your skin.
You’re soaked by the time you get to the Harrington household, pressing the doorbell nonstop until you see Steve through the glass and hear the lock turn.
“What are you doing here?” he says, not nearly as harsh as his tone had been earlier today.
Steve is shocked to see you, but he’s glad, too. He was afraid that how he’d acted today was enough to push you away for good. It’s what he thought the right thing to do was, and it felt like the complete opposite.
He looks you over. The same clothes from before, now drenched, your shoes squeaking a little as you bounce on your feet. Your wet hair clings to your cheeks. You look beautiful, you always do.
Your shivering has him springing into action. “Jesus, you must be freezing. Come in.”
Steve tugs you inside with a hand loosely wrapped around your wrist. He drops it to shut the door behind you, then leaves. You slip off your shoes in his absence, wrap your arms around yourself.
He comes back with a towel and a blanket, first draping the towel over your shoulders, then following it up with the blanket. He rubs your arms to help warm you up.
And this is exactly what you’d been talking about. The contrast between the Steve from earlier and the one standing in front of you now is clear. Now, his instincts have kicked in. And those instincts have him taking care of you once more.
He pushes your hair off your face and behind your ear so tenderly. It’s what makes you finally speak.
“Did I do something?” you ask.
Steve drops his hand, but he doesn’t back up. “What?”
“Was there something I did to make you not like me?”
“I- I don’t not like you,” he stutters out.
“Then how come you act the way you do? Like today?” You don’t even give him the chance to respond, to lie weakly to your face. “I really thought we were getting somewhere. I even thought-”
That you cared, you almost say.
You shake the thought off and continue. “I just want to know why, okay? Then I’ll go.”
“You didn’t do anything,” he says. He sounds torn, pained. “You didn’t.”
“So tell me the truth,” you try. It’s strained too. The drops of water spilling from your clothes and your hair might as well be your blood with the way you feel. Like you’re bleeding out in front of him and waiting to see if he’ll wrap the wound or slice you further. “Stop being so afraid, Steve.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. So make me understand.”
Steve runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. Like he’s been doing it all day. His chest is heaving, and a part of you wants to reach out and place a hand over his heart, to see if he’s as affected as you are.
His head turns to the side, you pry it back to you with a murmured, “Steve.”
“I was just trying to protect you.”
A breath is punched from you. Maybe because you’re finally getting what you wanted, that your suspicions have been confirmed. Or maybe because, even though you’d been right, it doesn’t feel good.
“You had to be.. to be mean to do that? Really?” You almost laugh at how it sounds. What could possibly be so bad that made him think he needed to in the first place? “I’m not defenceless, Steve. I’m not dumb or weak.”
“I was trying to keep you safe!” he huffs, as if you hadn’t heard him the first time. “I’m still trying to.”
“Well, stop. It’s not for you to decide what I can or can’t handle, Steve.”
“I know-”
“So what is it? What’s this big bad secret I can’t possibly be strong enough to keep?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then tell me what you mean. Please, Steve, for once, just tell me.”
He’s practically panting now, and he knows you won’t stop until he gives you something, and maybe he’s tired of hiding, too. Both hands come up to fist his hair, drag down his face.
He’s fighting a battle that’s living in his own head, not with you.
“Steve,” you say his name again, and it undoes him.
“Because I care about you, okay?” the words seem to spill out of him like they’ve been trying to escape for a long time now, rushed and loud.
But then something changes, Steve’s wild eyes scan your face, like he’s waiting for you to shut him down, to run. When you hold his eye, scrunch your brows in a gentle question, it’s like he’s been set free completely.
“I like you,” he says, quieter now but no less intense, wholly honest and devastatingly relieved, a weight finally dropped to the ground and off his back. “I like how you never mind your own business and how you reread the same books over and over. I like that you sometimes mouth the words Robin says because you know her so well. I like how much you fit in with everyone, how Dustin asks you for advice and Lucas talks to you about Max.”
Your eyes well for a whole other reason. All this time.
“I like how you speak with this little accent ‘cause you moved away, and I like that you came back.” He huffs a small laugh to himself. “I like you so much it scares the shit out of me, because this town, us, we’re not normal. It’s not- it’s not safe.”
“Wha-”
“And I thought that by pushing you away, by keeping you at a distance, you’d be far from the danger, too. That as long as you were safe, I could handle being the villain in your book, or whatever.” Steve looks down at his feet. “I realize now how stupid that sounds. I’ve been called an idiot plenty of times before, so, yeah.”
Your eyes are soft on him, and you look at him the way you always do. Like you know who he really is.
“I like you too, Steve,” you say finally, and it feels freeing. An ember relit in your chest. “You could have just talked to me, you know.”
“I should have,” he settles on. It’s his version of a white flag waving. I’ve dropped my weapons, he’s saying. It’s a battle finally over. Troops called back, the sun rising anew. “I’m sorry, honey.”
You’re still cold from the water trapped in your clothes, but the room feels far warmer.
“I’m sorry, too,” you tell him. “I was kind of riling you up on purpose, so..”
“I fucking knew it,” Steve whispers, shaking his head, but he lets himself smile when he does. The fondness not only in his eyes but in the shape of his mouth this time.
He steps closer, your toes almost touching, and pries your hands away from where they grip the edge of the blanket tight. He holds them between his own, larger and far warmer. Steve hisses through his teeth when he feels how icy your fingers are, dipping his head down to blow some warm air on them, tightening his grip.
There are still things left unsaid, questions unanswered, but the touch is grounding. Reassuring. It’s a promise that they will be said soon, that he isn’t going anywhere.
“It worked, didn’t it?” you joke gently.
“Yeah, it worked.”
You’re not sure who moves first after that, all you know is that you’re shrugging off both the blanket and the towel to free your arms, Steve dropping your hands in favor of framing your face, thumbs running sweet lines across your cheeks.
Yours wrap around his back, drag him closer, one hand fisted in the material of his shirt, the other on the back of his neck. He shivers, from the coolness of your touch, yes, but from the honesty of it, too.
The familiarity.
His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then he’s kissing you, lips bruising against yours, but not as heated as that time in the van.
It’s a slow dance, him taking your bottom lip between his, you meeting him in the middle, your stomach swirling.
The best part isn’t the way he licks at your lip in between kisses, though it makes your heart flutter, or the sweet caress of his thumbs on your cheekbones, but the way that he pulls away.
Because the kiss is broken by his smile. Unabashed at last.
You can’t help but mirror it, cold long forgotten when he leans in and drops his forehead against yours, like he can’t bear to not have you close anymore.
“So,” you start, voice soft in the space between your faces. “Will you let me come?”
“Uh, a little forward, honey-”
You swat his stomach. “Mind out of the gutter, Harrington. Am I a part of this now?”
Steve pulls back just to make sure you can really see him, hands still warm on your cheeks as he says, “Yeah, you’re with me.”
(¬`‸´¬)
thank u so so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog and letting me know!! reblogs are the best way to support writers like me and it would mean a bunch!! love u!!
summary: you're happy to ditch college and visit robin on your breaks, especially because she's befriended Steve Harrington and you can't deny he's easy on the eyes. this winter, however, you're asked to play the role of steve's fake girlfriend, because he's kinda sorta told his parents about you, and you kinda sorta have to kiss.
contents/warnings: fem!reader, pining, fake dating, slight angst but resolved to fluff in the end, steve's evil evil parents
wc: 9.8k / navigation / inbox
a/n: another NINE THOUSAND WORD steve fanfiction for you guys. i'm feeding you i'm really feeding you. i hope you enjoy! <333
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
You’d never have assumed that being high school friends with Robin Buckley would guarantee you shotgun in Steve Harrington’s beemer, but he says he’s sick of seeing her stupid face all the time, so it’s you who slides into her butt-print on the seat. You’re thankful for the leg room as you stretch out from your flight, the winter air clouding the windows with frost that barely moves when Steve runs the windshield wipers. You’re happy to be home for the holidays, but winter in Hawkins bites.
Steve’s usually just a little bit awkward, but today’s something else. He still moves like a lanky teen even though he’s filled out since high school. He’s got a nice build now, shoulders broad and chest to match, and his arms have thickened where they reach for the wheel. You try not to think about it, really- but it’s hard not to when he’s driving you home. You cut yourself off from the thought before it can pinken, hooking your proverbial rose-colored glasses firmly through the neckline of your shirt. He’s drumming his fingers, up and down, up and down, up and down, and he’s biting his lip so fiercely you’re surprised it’s not bleeding. You want to- no, you don’t want to do anything concerning his lips. Robin kicks her feet against the back of his seat, her shoes digging into the fabric, “Go, dingus! Green means go!”
“What? Oh.” Steve’s eyes flick up to the traffic light, and someone behind him lets him know rather rudely that he’d been stalled too long at the intersection by laying on the horn, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
You’re not sure what’s gotten into him today. You’re not exactly a Steve Harrington expert, seeing as you hadn’t crossed paths in high school. In fact, you’d actively avoided him, and you’d been rather apprehensive to return from college for the summer and meet Robin’s spectacular new coworker. But you’d spent the July days sweating through the backs of your shirts together, laughing and swinging your legs down over the lake where you’d squished onto the dock, three in a row. She was right- he’d changed, and you’d thoroughly enjoyed that summer, that winter, then the next summer with her and Steve.
Now it’s winter break, the fourth span of time you’ll spend tagging along with them, and Steve seems like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. You’re not sure why- something insecure and withered in the back of your mind suggests that maybe he doesn’t like you as much as you like him. Maybe he’d just been playing nice all of those times, and he’d thought picking you up from the airport today was a real drag. You’d normally take the train, but the journey would have taken several hours, and you’d splurged on a flight to get it over with quicker. The airport is much farther than the train station, and you wouldn’t blame him for being cranky, because it’s nearly a two-hour drive back to Hawkins. You hope he isn’t secretly harboring a grudge against you, though. You hope you’re misreading him- that there’s really nothing wrong at all, but if there is, you hope it’s not to do with you.
You eye Robin in the backseat, who’s abandoned her mission to drill a hole through Steve’s seat with her sneakers and now lays out against the length of the back. She yawns, and you’re reminded that it’s nearly midnight- Steve really wouldn’t be at fault for not being happy about dragging you home from the airport.
“Sorry my flight came in so late,” You murmur, eyeing Steve sideways as his attention snaps to you. He drums on the wheel with his palms now, steadily cruising down an open highway, and he blows air through his lips that nearly hurls spit onto the dashboard.
“No worries. I don’t mind, I’m usually up late on the phone with her anyways.”
He peers at Robin through the rearview mirror too, who looks seconds away from being lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of the car, “Or she’s bumming around on my couch and doesn’t leave for, like, three days.”
“It’s not my fault your parents are never home,” She speaks through another yawn, her freckled cheeks scrunching as her teeth gleam in the low light of the car, “And that your couch is super comfy. Hey, drop me off first? I wanna go to bed.”
“It’s gonna be a while,” Steve scoffs, but she’s already dropped her eyes shut, and you offer him an amused shrug when he stares at you like you might be able to offer an explanation for her bratty demeanor. You love the way your friend rattles Steve, but you’d never tell him that.
“Ridiculous. Ridiculous,” He shakes his head, his hair bouncing in place, “Whatever. My parents are actually home, for once, so she can’t laze around until they’re gone again.”
“How long are they staying?” You ask, and Steve’s spine snaps up straight like you’d sparked him with a live wire at the base. You’re not sure what you’ve said- he’d mentioned his parents, after all, but you know they can be a touchy subject. You wait to see if you’ll regret it, and he coughs a little, like clearing his throat in a violent way. You watch him throw three lightning-fast glances your way like you can’t see them, brown eyes despairing as his face pales in some spots and rushes with color in others.
“I actually need to talk to you about that.” He mumbles, watching Robin carefully in the mirror to make sure she doesn’t stir, “Uh- they’re here for a few weeks. Like you.”
“O-kay?” You hedge, your stomach squirming at the mere thought of conflict- you’re pretty sure you’re about to uncover why he’s so fidgety today, “Why does that matter to me?”
“Because I-” Steve breaks off with a scoff, then groans, raking a hand over his face. He turns to look at Robin, stalling for time because you both know the girl sleeps like she’s dead, “I kind of told them- um, they were getting on my case about being a man, and getting a real job and stuff, and I sort of told them that I was seeing someone. Like, seriously.”
“Uh-huh,” You sing again, your voice low and cautious, “And?”
“And it’s you.” Steve grunts, eyes laser-focused on the road, “I told them- I told them you were my girlfriend.”
“What?” You squawk.
“Shh- don’t!” He urges, but Robin only snores, her lips parted as she tosses her head to the side in her sleep. You both watch her diligently, before Steve turns back to the empty road, and you pivot in your seat to face him.
“She doesn't know. I’m sorry.” He insists, his voice tender yet frustrated, “I just figured you’d never be here at the same time as them! They never come home, and you live in another state,” He flings a hand up in desperation, “I didn’t think it would be an issue! And I needed to get them off my case,” He sighs, and that you believe. You’re not sure what exactly they tell their son, but you know none of it is nice. Though you want to be indignant at the lies Steve has been spinning about you behind your back, you can’t help but sympathize with him. And somewhere, there’s a small part of you that’s ecstatic. When asked, Steve Harrington had said your name. He’d thought of you first, even if the role of girlfriend is only pretend, and you’re going to have to try very hard not to let that feed your delusions. He tucks his hair behind his ear with another nervous, twitchy jerk of his arm, and slams it back onto the wheel.
“Okay,” You start carefully, your voice caught somewhere between timid and soothing, “Um, okay. Well- does it matter? They don’t know I’m here.”
“Yes they do,” Steve winces, “Um, my mom was listening in on my phone call to Robin earlier and she mentioned you flying in. So they’ve, uh- they’ve asked you to come over for dinner.”
“Steve.” Your eyes bulge.
“Tomorrow,” He finishes, and your stomach melts into a molten puddle of goop.
“Steve!”
This time, Robin does wake. She groans, stuffing her arms up and over her head and pressing them into her ears, “Enough! Shut up, both of you, I’m trying to sleep.”
You toss your travel pillow into the back, aiming for her face.
She scoffs, but she uses it anyway, and you and Steve each wait three breaths before speaking again, confident that the stuffing will pad her ears until she’s sleeping again.
“Please,” He stares briefly at you, as earnest as it is fleeting, and a lone streetlamp outside of a farm road illuminates his features. He showers in the mornings, and it’s evident that he’s spent his day out and about because his face is slightly shiny with a day’s worth of oil. The bridge of his nose has a red spot on it, a zit, probably, and a mole against his cheek catches your eye as a dark splotch on his light skin. He’s biting his lip again, and he only has mercy on it to speak, “Seriously, I’ll, like, pay you or something. All we have to do is go over there, and I’ll brief you on the stuff I’ve said so you know what our cover story is. Just sit next to me and eat my mom’s horrible cooking, and pretend like we’ve been dating for a year.”
“A year,” You emphasize, and he nods long and slow, head dipping low like he’s about to be hanged, “You’ve been doing this since we met?”
“They interrogated me right at the start of the new year,” Steve groans, “And it was, like, two days after you left or something, and they wanted to know why I still wasn’t enrolled in college, and I said I had a plan, and they asked what it was and I just- I don’t know,” The sound of his blinker is monstrously loud, ticking in between your tense conversation like a bomb. “I told ‘em I was enrolled, but I withdrew because I’d met someone. Someone going to school out-of-state, and I was gonna try to work more to get enough for my tuition there. I mean, they obviously asked for your name,” Steve gestures with a flat hand, palm skyward, and you wonder if he’s realized he’s referring to you like you’re the imaginary girlfriend he’s had for a year, “And I’d thought of the lie because you had to leave for school again anyways, so I just figured I’d use your name. It was perfect,” He scoffs, “They were satisfied, and my dad offered to pay my tuition but I said I wanted to make it myself so that I could- uh,” You swear his cheeks turn rosy, “-so that I could pay for us to get an apartment off-campus. And they’re big into me ‘settling down’,” He swallows, turning towards the road that’ll eventually wind towards Robin’s, “So they were all over it.”
He turns, and you’re back in the city, not busy by any means but you see a few cars out as you pass a gas station. You’re only thirty minutes out from Robin’s now, and you long for the quiet solitude of your bed.
“And I swear,” He continues, the car rumbling steadily along the now-paved roads, “I figured I’d just say it didn’t work out after a while, and I’d come up with something else to get them off my back. But for once in my goddamn life they weren’t looking down on me, and I-” His fists clench around the steering wheel, and he clears his throat when it becomes thick and clogged with emotion. When he speaks again, it’s surprisingly soft, his words escaping on a shaky breath, “I couldn’t pretend we’d broken up. I didn’t wanna go back to the way things were, so I just- I just kept putting it off, and now,” His eyes grow wide, and he gestures again like he’s arguing with himself, “Now they’re here, and now you’re here, and now they know you’re here, and now you’re coming for dinner tomorrow. Hopefully,” He stops at a red light, using the precious seconds to glance over imploringly at you, “Please?”
He’s won.
You hate that he’s won, because you think you have room to be rightfully indignant that Steve’s been showing you off as his girlfriend of a year without taking you on a single date. And if it were anyone else, you’d refuse. But it’s Steve, and you’ve been refusing to admit that there’s anything different about him than about anyone else for a year and a half now, and this situation is bringing you to the grim realization that you can’t avoid the truth anymore.
He’s begging you with shiny brown eyes and his heart on his sleeve, and it’s working on you.
You’re a sucker for Steve Harrington.
You’re not sure when it happened. You’re not even sure it was one incident- it might have been a truckload of things that stacked on top of each other like bricks until they’d built a wall that had completely obscured your sense of reason.
You definitely remember feeling something strange and warm inside of your chest when you’d experimented with a new ice cream flavor and hated it, so Steve had swapped you for his own, much better cone. And one night you remember having to cram so close to him on a bench meant for one that there was nowhere natural for his hand to rest, and he’d spread it over your thigh, warm and heavy. Whenever you’d contribute to the group conversation or pitch a joke he’d rub it against your leg, never breaching any chastity protocol, just smoothing over your jeans and nearly whiting out your vision. Then there was the time when you’d gone to the bathroom at a restaurant and missed getting to order your drink. Apparently, Steve had ordered for you, and your favorite soda had shown up at the table only moments later. Not only that, but he’d snagged a piece of soft-centered bread for you, not even the end piece that’s mostly crust, before the kids accompanying you could steal it from the communal basket. He’d shot you a sly grin out of the corner of his eye and motioned for you to lift your napkin off of your plate- he’d even buttered it for you.
It’s all those times and more, the way that his cologne smells, not too strong but delicious if you’re close enough to breathe it in. It’s the voluminous swooping strands of his hair, so malleable and so willing to curve wherever he wrestles it. It’s the big brown eyes, the large, gentle hands currently hanging onto the wheel, the clumsy feet that have been pressed against the pedals for four hours now, to the airport and back again just for you.
You’ve been banishing all thoughts of feelings from your mind when it comes to Steve Harrington for almost two years now. Because feelings can be so easily hurt, unrequited and stomped on. And the Steve you knew from high school would have absolutely demolished them. But the one you know- this one? This one’s been bragging to his family about you, waxing poetic about his own feelings, however fake they may be. And the thought of sitting beside him at family dinner, being looked at like a unit, holding hands on the way back out the door pushes your feelings so far forward in your mind that there’s no ignoring them. They’re large, lit with fluorescent, flashing lights, arrows pointing towards them and buzzers drowning out your rational thoughts. All that’s there is the way you feel, and you bite the inside of your cheek upon finally admitting to yourself that you’re 100%, prime-time, completely in love with Steve.
And you’ve been given the opportunity of a lifetime: to show it. You’ll get to smile dreamily at him, let him strip your coat off just inside the door, and lean against his shoulder on the couch. You’ll get all of the perks of being in a relationship with him, without the agonizing ordeal of admitting your feelings for him and actually proposing one. The perfect cheat code has fallen into your lap, and you’re happy to play the role of Steve Harrington’s girlfriend for the night.
“Alright,” You nod, trying to sound reluctant at the thought of clutching his hand beneath the dinner table instead of nauseatingly excited, “I’ll go.”
“Thank you!” Steve gushes, looking nearly blue in the face as he almost swerves off of the road, eyes wild and bulging, “Fuck, thank you, you- you have no idea how much of a solid you’re doing me.”
“But-” You start, and he nods along, eager to please so long as you’ll be in his dining room tomorrow night, “Just, please promise me you’ll do the talking? I’m not a very good liar.” You admit, “I’ll blow your cover.”
“I’ve got it,” He assures you, nodding so vigorously his hair bobs with him, “I’ve got the whole thing planned out and taken care of,” He waves his hand across the dash like you can see his intricate web of lies for yourself, spread across the intersection you’re crossing, “And so, um. All I need is you.”
It makes your heart pound. That’s the nail in the coffin, and you settle back in your seat as Steve begins divulging what you two have been up to for the past year.
It isn’t until Steve drops you off at home an hour later, hauling your suitcase out of his trunk with a sheepish grin and a squeeze to your hand, that your giddiness starts to crack.
“Thanks again,” He hums, his voice quiet in the cold night air, “I really appreciate you going along with this. I know it’s… a little awkward.”
Going along.
You feel a hairline fracture etch itself into your delusional good mood.
“No, no,” You soothe him, “It’s- I get it. Yeah,” You bob your head, grappling blindly for the handle of your suitcase, “I guess I get a free meal out of it, so I don’t mind.”
And, of course, you’ve been hopelessly head over heels for the guy since last summer. But that’s neither here nor there. Free food is definitely the draw here.
“Right. Free food,” He huffs out a laugh, blinking at his shoes, scraping one toe against the pavement, “We’ll be in and out in two hours,” Steve vows, “You don’t have to talk, just… hold my hand and pretend we’re gonna move in together next year, and then I’ll take you home.”
Take you home- right, because you’re not really going to be his girlfriend. The title, even fake, had ignited such a sudden spark of elation within you that you’d forgotten you’d be back to the status quo within the span of one night. Yourself, then briefly Steve’s girlfriend, then yourself again. You’ll wake up alone tomorrow, you’ll parade around his house with your hand in his, then you’ll go to sleep alone. But at the very least, for two sacred hours, you’ll be Steve Harrington’s girlfriend, and you swallow your thoughts instead of letting them show on your face.
“Sounds perfect,” You fish your keys out of your bag, grateful that your parents are asleep and you’ll be able to sneak upstairs for uninterrupted existential contemplation, “What time tomorrow?”
“I’ll come get you at five,” Steve offers, “Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” You can’t help but grin at him, hoping it doesn’t show on your face how desperately hopeful the expression is, “See you at five.”
--
What felt last night like a stroke of blinding luck starts feeling like a death sentence you’re being walked towards at around four forty-five. You swipe lip gloss across your bottom lip and rub it against your shiny top one, smearing the color together and catching a stray strand of hair between them. You fish it out, your stomach in knots.
Initially, you’d been so blindly elated by the prospect of getting to play the girlfriend that you’d neglected to consider how you’d feel after dinner. Because he’s not actually asking you to date him, is he? He’s asking you to pretend to, he’s going to hold your hand and show it off to his parents, then drop it the second they leave the room.
You’d been so caught up in the excitement of being chosen by Steve at all, that you’d forgotten you were chosen for an acting role. Now that you’ve slept in your own bed, made small talk with your parents, properly fed yourself, showered, perfumed, styled your hair, and slid into a nice sweater, you realize that what you’ve actually agreed to is torture; long, slow, agonizing torture. Because it’s all going to be fake, and eventually you’re not going to be asked to pretend anymore.
Two hours of smiling at Steve across the table is not going to be worth the months of teary eyes and sniffles as you try to forget the sight of him smiling back at you.
You wonder why you’d even said yes in the first place.
Well- you don’t wonder. You remember why. But you curse yourself for jumping the gun, for acting with your heart and not your head, and agreeing to pretend to be in love with the man who has no idea you’re actually in love with him. You’ll play the part well, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop when it’s time to cut.
You’re still excited. You feel your stomach roiling as Steve’s tires scrape your driveway, and you fiddle with the way you’ve tied your hair up. You’re bringing a purse for show, but all it has in it is the lipgloss you’ve got on and a tampon just in case. You look proper and dressed-up, something you hope Steve’s proud to show off to his parents, even if he hates them and you’re not really his girlfriend in the first place.
You swallow down bile as you open the door.
You’d seen him through the windows, so there’s no point in making him knock. You’re three steps down the front walkway when he gets out of his car anyways, a thick bouquet in his hands as he rushes to meet you halfway.
“Woah, woah, you’re not even gonna let me knock?” He asks, and your breath catches in your throat.
He’s dressed up too.
He’s in a nice sweater, maroon and aran knit. There’s a collar peeking out from beneath it, and one edge is folded once more than necessary, an awkward angle that you reach out to smooth before you can catch yourself. You pry the corner out from beneath his sweater, laying it flat over the neckline and pressing it down.
His neck is pudged slightly from where it’s craned to see what you’re doing, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that washes warmth over your already-chilly fingers. You’d neglected gloves to show off the ring on your pointer finger, something you wouldn’t mind pretending Steve gave to you. But you’re regretting it the more time you spend stuck out in the cold, and Steve weasels the bouquet between the two of you to press it into your chest.
“Get these in some water,” He hums, and you drag in a lungful of floral perfume before you can even tear your hand away from his collar, “The lady at the store said to cut the stems at a diagonal with a serrated knife- so you don’t crush ‘em, y’know?”
“Steve,” Your brows furrow, but your freezing fingers fumble around the bundle of the bouquet regardless. It’s wrapped in paper that crinkles beneath your hands, and there’s a ribbon on it that eerily matches the shade of both your sweater and your lip gloss.
“If I leave these here your parents aren’t gonna see them.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get them for my parents,” He rears his head back, glancing out exasperatedly at the street around you and the ice frozen over it, “I got them for you, duh. For doing me a solid, for coming with me, and, uh- y’know.” He clears his throat, and you steal an adoring glance at the way his cheeks and nose flash pink as the cold begins to seep into your bodies, “The whole thing. Now go put these in a vase before your lipstick grows icicles. My dad doesn’t like it when people are late.”
You scurry back up the steps with a bouquet wider than your face, and you’re glad he hasn’t tailed you into the house because you’re grinning like an idiot the entire time you’re carefully slicing the bottoms of the stems off with your knife. He's certainly a good actor- he's even got you fooled.
By the time you make it into the car, the door of which Steve insisted on opening for you, it’s twenty minutes until dinner. Upon a reminder that his parents can’t see him yet, he busies himself with checking the rearview mirror in case anyone else happened to be using your driveway, and reveals that he's actually a rather bad actor.
“I’ve gotta get into the role, okay? If we’re doing shit like fist-bumping before we go inside I’m not gonna be able to seamlessly portray the role of boyfriend. I’ve gotta get in character, I’ve gotta do stuff like open your door and bring you flowers.”
Well, if he insists.
“What about you?” He asks, “Do you need to get any- like, practice in first?”
“I don’t know,” You huff, nerves gnawing at your belly as you peer at yourself in his mirror. He puts the car in reverse, but before backing up he catches you staring at your reflection. He throws his hand over the mirror, angling it away from you and blocking your gaze.
“Hey.” He reprimands, and his voice is firm but gentle, a combination you’re not sure you’ve heard from him before. It’s distinctly dreamy, and your chest lurches at the sound.
“Don’t do that.” He lets go of the mirror, glancing in it to ensure his path is still clear. He finally takes his foot off of the break, and you watch the way he uses the heel of his hand to turn the wheel, slowly and carefully backing out of your icy driveway, “You look great, okay? You look like a million bucks. We’re gonna go in there and we’re gonna yammer about apartments and college tuition and what classes you’re taking and what internships I’m gonna go for and we’re gonna knock ‘em dead. Okay?”
You gulp again, your stomach intent on spilling its contents before you can meet the Harringtons. Steve’s kind, naturally so, and you take his words at face value instead of pleading with them to have a deeper meaning, “Yeah, okay. Okay, we’ve got this.”
“We’ve got this,” Steve grins, offering you a fist bump.
“Shit,” He realises, jerking his hand away from yours when you go after it, “No. Here,” He snatches your hand up, almost roughly, and drags it towards his face to pucker his lips against your knuckles.
“There.” He huffs, “In-character.”
All you can offer is a weak laugh as you settle back into your seat, your chest already starting to ache at the prospect of being fist-bumped goodnight on your porch when dinner is over.
Steve opens your door upon arrival, offers you a hand to get out, and carries your purse over his own shoulder until you reach the door. He pauses there, for a moment after casting a wary glance at the front windows.
“They’re watching.” He murmurs, voice nearly inaudible, “You ready?”
You nod, mouth suddenly dry.
“Good.” He breathes, leaning in and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your cheek, “Showtime.”
You feel a physical stab of pain standing behind him and waiting for him to get his keys in the lock. Butterflies, too, but they’re already shaded by a dark cloud of regret, something you know will waterlog their wings as soon as you’re in the dark privacy of your bedroom later.
“Hello,” Mrs. Harrington croons, in a voice too high-pitched and gushy when you walk in. Steve leads you through the door first with his hand on your back, and you carefully slip your shoes off before you can trample their rugs with the icy sludge on your soles.
“Hello,” You smile back, keeping your own voice timid but kind, “I’m Y/N, I’m Steve’s-”
You hesitate for only a half-second, but the man behind you is quicker on his feet.
“Girlfriend,” He slings his arm around your waist, his own shoes now resting beside yours, perfectly in line. He sticks his head over your shoulder to peck at your cheek again, and you lean into the contact even though your brain screams at you to save yourself before you drown, “She’s my girlfriend.”
Mrs. Harrington’s smile tightens slightly as she surveys you, and you wonder if you’ve made it up through the bright red haze of her lipstick. You wonder what she’s tense about- if your outfit isn’t fancy enough or if your glossed lips aren’t as bold as hers. Whatever it is, if it was even there in the first place, she shakes it off in record time and offers you a genial hand to shake.
“It’s so lovely to meet you,” She smiles, her pearly-white teeth on full display between her parted, blood-red lips, “Steve’s been telling us a lot about you lately. I’m glad that we caught you when you came home, I thought we’d all have to take a family trip to the university to see you!”
“Oh!” You exclaim, not one of your better lines, but passable as you laugh along, fear shooting up your spine like a bolt of electricity at the thought. “No, I’m here.” You add lamely, and Mrs. Harrington squeezes your hand before releasing it and calling for her husband.
Apparently he’d been finishing dinner on the grill, and when he enters through the back sliding door its with a plate of meat and vegetables in his hands. There’s plenty- it’s nearly spilling off of the platter, and your mouth waters against your will as you watch Mrs. Harrington begin dishing out portions over four plates.
“Hello, Y/N,” Steve’s father nods at you, his smile polite but far from his eyes, “It’s nice to meet you. I was beginning to think Steve had made you up.”
Steve coughs behind you, and you flit towards the table to hand him a water glass that’s waiting there, filled. It’s fancy- not crystal, but a goblet, and you eye the multiple forks at each table setting cautiously.
“Oh, I’m real,” You try for a grin, but you’re not sure it comes across as more than a grimace, and Mr. Harrington seats himself with a wry smile.
“So,” He starts, and you feel a hand on your shoulder. Steve pulls a chair out for you, opposite his father and you let him guide you into it. He scoots you into the table when you’re seated, and brushes his fingers across the back of your neck when he withdraws them from your chair.
You shiver involuntarily, and glue your eyes to Mr. Harrington, brain going haywire.
“You’re studying what, exactly?”
The question is expected, and you launch into a careful explanation of everything you know Steve’s already told his parents about your major. You’re not sure what they’ll like or dislike about any specifics, so you avoid anything Steve hadn’t coached you on in the car last night. You have to admit, you do a fairly good job bullshitting the speech, and both of his parents look satisfied by the time Mrs. Harrington has served everyone and is seated herself.
“She’s my little smartie,” Steve grins around a bite of steak, nudging his foot against yours beneath the table. You kick back, aware that his parents can’t see you both, but glad for the reassuring contact anyways. His comment is so performatively cheesy that it works, and Mrs. Harrington agrees with a triumphant hum.
“That’s a heavy courseload,” She practically sings, “Maybe when Stevie joins you up there, he’ll take after you.”
Steve’s chewing becomes softer, like the food is fighting back. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice, but you find yourself tuned in to Steve like a favorite radio station. This time when you push your foot into his you leave it there, and his own melts against yours.
“Maybe.” You hum, “It’s really hard to manage, though. I can’t work,” You lament, secretly not too torn up about it, “Full-time students aren’t allowed to have jobs unless they’re part-time. And my studies require hours a day anyways, so I can’t get work unless they’re alright with me only working three hours a week.”
Steve’s father hums darkly from his end of the table, and you know you’ve made a smart move.
“Well, he needs a job. Part time students can work?” He eyes you, his gaze narrowed, and when you nod, it softens.
“Good.” He swallows his bite, and Steve gulps his water to avoid pitching in to conversation, “Part time, then, Steve.”
“Part time.” Steve repeats mechanically, and your heart pangs.
The rest of the conversation is so vapid that you’re able to tune it out and begin addressing the mounting plethora of tragedies you’ve gone through so far. First, Steve had been stupidly sweet enough to bring you flowers like he was really taking you on a date. And he’s kissed you four- five? - times now. So many you’re losing count, which is an excellent problem to have until you consider how empty you’ll feel without them. You wonder how you could have grown so desperate for something you’d never known before tonight, but you’ve been pointedly ignoring thoughts of Steve since last summer, so perhaps your heart has been working in secret and planting the desires in your mind anyways.
The domesticity of your evening is killing you. Steve plays the role of boyfriend so well, and you’re so vulnerable to it that it’s working even though you know it’s an act. You’re pretending too, except you’re not, and every press of his lips to your cheek makes you fall even harder for him despite knowing he’ll drop you off in a few hours and neither of you will ever utter a word of it to anyone. But you keep thinking about the way he’d talked you down in the car with shiny eyes and a saccharine voice- much more palatable than his mother’s. And you find it hard to ground yourself in reality when his knee is pressed against yours now, your legs flush beneath the table.
You’re actually glad that Mr. Harrington fills the air with mindless drawling about his job because it means you’re relieved of the burden of talking. You can sink into the background, into your own spiral, and he can drone on and on to his wife while Steve watches warily, wondering when to chime in and when to stay silent.
“We can do the dishes,” You offer up yourself and Steve, reaching for the plate in Mrs. Harrington’s hands when she rises from her seat. She regards you with raised brows and parted lips, and you feel an ounce of pity from the woman who’s so clearly the laborer of the house.
“Oh, no, honey, that’s okay.” She smiles at you, and it’s more relaxed this time, “Steve’s father was going to put on a movie anyways- you don’t want to miss that!”
“Oh,” Steve stands, his silverware rattling against his plate when he lifts it, “Uh- we were gonna go catch a movie, actually, at the theater.”
“It’s six o-clock.” Steve’s father speaks in a tight monotone.
“Yeah the, um, the showtime’s at six-fifteen.” Steve nods, his hair bouncing slightly.
You stand frozen, caught between them, chest tight with nerves.
“So there will be one at nine, too.” His dad’s face darkens with the shadow of a frown, “Steve, you can’t flash your committed, long-term relationship in front of us for forty minutes and run off again. This is a family dinner, and after family dinners we have family time. Tonight we’ll be watching a movie in the den, and you’ll be joining us.”
Steve glances at you with too-wide, panicked eyes. You’re afraid his mother will notice, so you reach for his hand, taking his plate and passing it along the counter towards the sink, “Baby, that sounds good. We can stay here,” You shrug, “A movie’s a movie. We can see the other one tomorrow, if we’re too tired tonight.”
You hope the doting tone you’ve adopted is convincing, because it’s real.
“O-okay.” Steve nods jerkily, pulling you towards the living room and cupping both of your hands in his. Your heart aches again, and you shove it down while Steve leads you towards the den, “Come on, we can get everything set up.”
As soon as the double french doors to the den shut behind you, Steve’s word-vomiting.
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay,” You shake your head, already rushing to talk him down, “Really, all we have to do is sit and watch a movie.”
“Yeah, but it’s probably gonna be a boring, shitty, old one,” Steve reasons, grabbing blankets so that he looks occupied, “And they’re gonna be there the whole time, and we’re gonna have to keep acting like we’re together and that’s more than you agreed to and I’m sorry.”
“Relax-” You start, but Steve hisses, “She’s coming,” And you shut your mouth just in time for Mrs. Harrington to open the doors.
“Steve, honey,” She calls, “Your father wants you in the kitchen. Y/N, go ahead and settle in, we’ll be back shortly.”
You watch the back of Steve’s sweater as he retreats, and only when the door closes do you release the pent-up sigh in your chest. You can’t scrub your hands over your face and scream into your pillow the way you really want to, because the kitchen faces the doors to the den and they’re all-glass panels. But you’re in distress, and you sink into the couch cushions with a silent prayer that they’ll swallow you so that you don’t have to spend two hours pressed to Steve’s side in the dim den.
If you do have to, you’ll certainly enjoy it, but it’ll hurt that much more when you’re shivering beneath your blankets tonight. It’s a slow, agonizing death you’ve put yourself to, and you’re regrettably enjoying it.
Steve returns barely two minutes later, despair written all over his face and popcorn clutched in his hands.
“I got the popcorn,” Steve hands you the bowl, and the glass is warm in your lap, “-and a lecture, about how I should have pulled your chair out from the table at the end of the meal, and about how I should try and fudge my documents to both work and study full-time.”
“Charming parents you’ve got,” You grimace, but when you reach for the popcorn, Steve stops you with a hand that grabs yours.
“And…” Your eyes flit up to his own, and he looks afraid, truly afraid as he stammers, “They’re watching us.”
“Oh.” You hum, swallowing dryly.
“When I was walking out with the popcorn I heard my dad say that he doesn’t think you’ll stay with me for very long.” He admits, his voice slightly shaky, “-because we seem like we’re not very serious.”
“What?” You gawp, but it’s not like you can reassure him. Actually, Steve, there’s no way I’d ever end our fake relationship because I’m in love with you for real!
“I thought we were doing great,” He mutters, eyes flicking back towards the kitchen where you’re sure you’ve got an audience, seeing but not hearing, “But I guess we’re not selling it.”
“I’m sorry,” You mumble, but Steve squeezes your hand- you hadn’t even realized he’d still been holding it, and you don’t want to think about how it felt so natural, so unobtrusive so as to go unnoticed.
“It’s- it’s okay.” He breathes, “Just- can we... will you kiss me?”
You freeze.
You don’t squawk, or yelp, or scream or shout or jump up and spill the popcorn everywhere. You certainly feel like doing all of those things in a mixture of elation and horror, but you remain calm, gazing up at him through your lashes, “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He cringes at himself, “I know, this is, like, totally more than you signed up for. And if not, that’s okay, but I was just thinking- y’know, if they see us kiss and we pretend we don’t know they’re watching, they’ll think- they’ll think you like me.”
Every nanosecond you take before responding feels like a minute, and you watch Steve’s big puppy eyes flicker anxiously back and forth between your own. They’re chocolate-brown and twice as sweet, gooey like they’re melted as he waits for your response.
You selfishly take him in, holding back the yes on the tip of your tongue until you’ve memorized the way that he looks mere inches away from you, clutching your hands like a lifeline and gazing at you so desperately you feel a physical pang of longing in your chest. When you’ve sufficiently painted the image in your mind you exhale shakily, your voice pitifully quiet as you hum, “You can kiss me, Steve.”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words, but he sighs, almost a laugh as his lips curve upwards before parting to let his tongue sweep over them.
He leans in, your hands clasped in his own warm ones that bleed their heat through your own skin. You feel his nose brush yours for a mere second, and his exhale fans over your face as he breathes, “Thank you.”
Then he kisses you, and your chest bursts.
All of the longing wound tightly around your heart, every peck on the cheek and secret footsie kick at the table all snap, rubber bands stretched too tightly around your wild heart. It’s beating too fast, growing and pressing painfully against your ribcage, threatening to eclipse your body altogether and ooze all over the walls like an erupted water balloon.
Steve’s lips are soft and careful, sweet and gentle and oh-so-perfect. He presses his to yours in something so delicately chaste it makes your head spin, somehow more dizzying than if he’d caught you against the hood of his car and tongued you. You may have to try that, too, though, just in case your approximation is incorrect. Maybe his parents will walk you out later tonight and you can put on a big finish to your show.
His mouth is warm and when it parts from yours you almost whimper, your face flushing with shame at the thought. But when Steve backs away he doesn’t go far, and he repeats himself, “Thank you, thank you- fuck.”
“It’s... just pretend.” You breathe, as much to remind yourself as it is to justify his actions and he nods, licking his lips again and surely tasting your gloss.
“Yeah. We’re- we’re just pretending,” He agrees, his voice impossibly quiet and low between you.
The air is tense, and you watch him warily. Then he moves in again.
“Steve-” You gasp, just before his lips meet yours, and he makes a noise that’s so halted and tense against your mouth that you nearly melt.
He breaks away with a sound that’s so close to a whine that it makes your limbs numb, “We’re pretending. It’s pretend.” He insists, lips chasing after yours, “Just- it’s just pretend.”
“Pretend, Steve,” You repeat, unable to force yourself to back away even as he advances on you, his thumbs stroking over your hands he’s still clasping, “We’re- mm,” You’re interrupted by a kiss, “Pretending.”
“Yeah,” He pants, and this time, when he reconnects your mouths, you feel his tongue swipe warm and wet against the seam of your lips, “It’s okay. It’s- we’re pretending.”
You whine against his lips. You mean for it to come out affirmatively, because the only thing keeping you from tangling your hands in his hair and dragging him down on top of you is the last ditch effort by your brain to keep your heart from shattering later. It’s screaming at you, pretend, pretend, pretend!, and you’re holding on to that one single word as Steve drinks in the sound that pours plaintively from your throat.
There’s a light squelching noise as Steve’s lips part from yours, because he’s fit his tongue into the seam of your lips and is blotting it desperately there to get you to part your own. You can’t seem to resist when he moves back in for more, and the second you give him access, his tongue dips into your mouth. You’d feel guiltier in any other context for not kissing back much, but you’re still teetering on a very dangerous precipice here.
As soon as you walk out of his front door, the jig is up. Is it worth it to give in now for all the pain it’ll bring you afterwards?
Then he drops your hands to cradle your face in his palms, and you feel every last ounce of rational reluctance seep out of you like poison fleeing your veins.
It’s better now that you’re not thinking about it. His hands are warm and reverent against your face, slightly rough but so gentle it doesn’t matter. He places one at the hinge of your jaw, bracing his fingers against the back of your neck and sending volts of electricity down your spine. He uses that hand to tilt your head back slightly, his own looming over you as he leverages himself on the couch. The other hand is centered on your cheek, long fingers ghosting over your face as his nose bumps into your skin. He’s hungrier now, no less delicate but faster, more insistent, more desperate. He’s groaning softly, and the sound spills over your tongue that’s finally brave enough to brush against his own, tentatively presenting itself between your lips only to be pushed flat by Steve’s tongue that licks a fat, wet stripe across it. The contact makes you dizzy, and you’re glad Steve is holding your head up.
You whimper, for real this time, and Steve pants against your lips when he reluctantly parts for air, “Fuck. Y/N, I- I don’t wanna watch the movie. I don’t- let’s go. Let’s go and- um,” He loses focus when his eyes drop to your lips again, and he gives in to his urges with a soft curse against your mouth. You get lost in another kiss, tongues swiping against lips and noses brushing cheeks.
“Let’s go.” He decides, springing to his feet and hauling you with him, his hands deftly sliding to your waist. You sluggishly stumble after him, your brain reigniting and smoking slightly from the thrill of it all. You’re sure it’ll begin pouring out of your ears any time now, and you let Steve pull you towards the kitchen to get griped at by his parents.
Except the lights are off, and they’re nowhere to be seen.
Steve spots his mother’s glasses on the countertop, and his father’s wallet.
“They’re upstairs for the night,” He realizes, and you peer silently over his shoulder to see the deserted kitchen, “They- they must have seen us. And left us alone.”
Right. They’d seen you kissing.
Because for the last five minutes you’d been kissing Steve, really kissing him, with tongues and wandering hands and desperate whines. The rational part of your brain powers back on to leer at you, and when Steve tugs you towards the door by your intertwined hands you realize that you night is coming to an end now, cruelly soon.
You’re not ready for the whiplash of a fist bump.
“Come on,” He slips into his loafers, and pushes your own flats towards you with the toes of his shoes, “I’ve got your purse, honey, let’s get out of here.”
“Okay,” You hum, your voice soft and low. You’re trying not to let it thicken, practically fending off your tears with a stick. But they’re looming, and you’re sure one will spill before you can even say goodbye to Steve.
This was a horrific idea.
You should have listened to your brain.
“Come on,” He repeats, his voice breathy as he tugs you out into the chilly winter air as soon as your shoes are on his feet. He’s dragging you to the car like he’s trying to banish you from his home, and you wonder if he regrets letting himself lose control in there, if he regrets taking casual advantage of a convenient situation. You hope it’s not awkward between you now, because you’re finally ready to admit that you’d been looking forward to seeing Steve again more than Robin, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel guilty for it. You’re in love with him, and he’s just kissed the life out of you, and now he’s going to dump you back on your doorstep.
Then your feet slide out from under you, not because of the ice on the pavement, but because Steve’s hands are on your waist. Your back hits the side of his car, not roughly, but you’re pinned firmly in place, and Steve’s mouth is on yours again.
“Mmf-!” You grunt, your eyes blowing wide open as Steve’s hands grab greedily at your face, his tongue licking pleadingly at your lips. You squirm away, barely able to hold him at bay as he strains against your own hands on his face, “Steve, they- they can’t see us anymore.”
“I know,” He groans, and he slips through your grip to slot his lips against yours, “I don’t want them to.”
“Steve,” You breathe, near tears, and he drops a hand from your waist to yank impatiently at the back door of his car. It doesn’t open- locked, of course, and he fumbles for the keys in his pocket. He’s still pinning you against the front door, flush to your body below the waist, and your breath catches in your throat when his hips press forwards into your own.
“There,” He jams the key into the door, the hole just left of your hip. The lock pops, and he pries the back door open, “Get in, babe.”
You don’t move right away, and his hands paw at your hips to help move you along.
“Steve, please,” You cry, but your butt hits the seat and you scoot back to accommodate the way he crowds you inside. You’re instantly against the window behind you, the glass cool against your burning face, “Please don’t do this to me.”
Whatever reverie he’d been in shatters. His eyes grow round, hurt shining in them. His hands, which had been readily reaching for you again freeze midair, then drop, and his lips part to let a defeated huff pass through.
“What- do what? I thought,” He swallows, leaning back into his own personal space and fleeing yours, suddenly insecure, “I thought you liked it.”
“I did,” You whimper, tears beading in your eyes, “Steve, I liked it too much. I can’t let you do this to me, I don’t want a casual fling in your car before you drop me off tonight and pretend nothing happened.”
His brows raise, and this time when he exhales, it almost sounds like a laugh, “Casual?”
His fingers fiddle with the hem of his sweater, knotting in the ribbing for something to do, “Casual, that’s- that’s not what I had in mind. I’m not casual about you.”
“Steve,” You force his name from your mouth, your teeth gritted, “Please, this is pretend. We’re pretending, remember?”
“I’m not pretending,” He shakes his head softly, his eyes downcast, “I mean- yeah, I pretended you were my girlfriend. But I’m not pretending to want to kiss you, I- I’ve wanted to kiss you since last summer.”
Your heart hammers, practically in your throat. The back of your head is still firmly pressed against the window, and you watch Steve with a careful gaze as he pants across from you.
“What?”
He groans, his face screwing up, “That’s not how I wanted to tell you. But it’s true. I thought- I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand over his face, rough with his features, “I thought at first I was just being sleazy.” He admits, “Like- like I was just falling in love with every girl I met. But I realized when you came back for winter break that I hadn’t thought about anyone else since you left, and then when you went back to school again I felt so… empty. Like- like I barely knew you at all but I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to be around you. You felt like you were missing, not like something just last-minute added to my summers. And then- y’know, my parents got on me about settling down and I couldn’t think of any other name, anyways. It was pretty convenient that you were away at school, but- I would have said your name even if you lived next door.” Steve chances a tentative glance up at you, his big brown eyes so endearing that your own vision unblurs, your tears receding, “I’m not casual about you. I was trying to be, because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I said your name for a reason. And I could have told my parents you didn’t have time to meet them or something, but- but I wanted you to?” He scrunches his eyes shut, “I wanted to bring you home and show you off. And I should have told you before, because that’s totally not fair, but I just- I couldn’t- I couldn’t look you in the eyes and say it,” He sighs, “Because I was afraid you’d say no. So I asked you to pretend, even though I wasn’t.”
His eyes are no longer screwed shut, but they’re closed, lashes resting amongst themselves, top and bottom. He’s breathing heavy, his chest heaving in his aran knit and you part your lips, licking them to ground yourself and swallowing the spit you’d nearly drooled at his confession. It’s really a dream come true, having Steve Harrington admit that he’s been yearning over you in secret for a year and a half, especially considering you’ve been yearning over him for just as long.
So you rise to your knees, shuffling across the pleather seats of his bmw, and his only indication that you’re nose-to-nose with him is that your breath fans over his face when you admit, “I wasn’t pretending either.”
His eyes blink open, zeroed in immediately on your own, and you lean in to kiss him.
It’s soft again, like the ones you’d shared in his home. Tentative, like you’re worried he’ll break away but for different reasons this time. Maybe he’d just said all of that to convince you, maybe he’s a player like he was in high school but you doubt it. This is Steve, new Steve, your Steve, and your Steve kisses you back, his lips against yours, his hands reaching for your waist. You let him hold you, you let him lift you into his lap and you let him secure his arms around you, his hands roving your back as he tries pulling you as close as humanly possible.
“Steve,” You hum, speaking against his mouth, “Steve, I- I just want to mm, make sure,” You pull away, slotting your nose against his and resting it there, “You want this? For real? Like, you want to… be with me?”
“Forever,” He whines, his lips moving against your own as he pleads, “We can make it work. Long distance, or- or I’ll take the train to come visit you on weekends, or I’ll really get my ass up and move there, and we can really rent a shitty apartment while I work and you study.”
“Let’s start with a visit,” You’re grinning, you realize, and the expression is audible in your words. Steve kisses it anyways, even though he’s probably hitting your teeth, and you enjoy several short pecks against each other’s mouths like you can’t get enough of them, “Come see me for spring break.”
“You expect me to wait until March?” Steve groans, a hand snaking up the back of your neck and into your hair, resting there warmly, the inverse of the cool window you’d been pressed against mere minutes ago, “Honey, I’m flying back with you. Does your dorm allow couch surfers?”
“No.” You laugh, and Steve’s smile grows at the sound, blinding in the low light of the beemer, “And neither do my roommates. But you could grab a hotel room close by. And I can stay with you.”
“And then we don’t have to worry about roommates,” Steve muses, tightening his arm around your waist and squeezing you closer, forcing your lips against his again. It seems as though you’ll be talking only through kisses now, which you can’t say you’re exactly opposed to, “That sounds promising. Uh- are your parents home tonight?” He asks, suddenly focused as he gazes up at you.
“No,” You shake your head, “I told them I’d be out for dinner so they said they were gonna go to my mom’s work’s holiday party. They usually run late, if you want to come over and watch a movie while they’re gone.”
“A good one,” He verifies, “Not a boring, shitty, old one?”
“Why would we watch a good one?” You ask, your brows scrunched and your nose along with it, “Then we’d have to pay attention.”
Steve’s cautious expression melts, and a smirk fits its way over his mouth, “You’re right. They teach you that at college?”
“No,” You grin, “I learned that one here, actually.”
“From who?” Steve groans, “I’ll kick his ass.”
“Matthew Lancaster,” You recall your junior year of high school.
“Oh, you have terrible taste,” Steve scoffs, but he leans in for another kiss anyways, “‘Should have swooped you up all the way back then so you wouldn’t have to waste your time.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t,” You laugh softly, “You’d never have spoken to me in high school.”
Steve tightens his grip again, pinning your chest to his, and pressing your foreheads together. His eyes soften, and he swallows before speaking, “That’s because I was just as shitty as Matthew Lancaster back then. But I’m better now, and I’m definitely speaking to you now, I mean, you’re practically swallowing what I’m saying and-!”
You kiss him again, and you’re fairly confident that if the Harringtons were to look out the window of their master bedroom, they could see you and Steve trading kisses and giggles in the back seat of his car. But this time it’s not a performance for them, and you’ll gladly trade in your parting fist bump for a goodnight kiss whenever Steve slips out of your window late tonight.
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
[Image description: New York Times quotation:
"The biggest difference between F1 and MotoGP is the radio," Marquez said, presumably forgetting the two wheels missing from his bike."
but what if i read one of your fanfics and then went to your ao3 accounts and read all of your fanfics and left a comment on every single chapter of every single one and you got spam emails from all of my kudos and comments and it made you smile, what then? what if i brighten your day with my words like you did mine, what then???
in which you're desperately in love with steve harrington, and you don't realize that steve harrington is desperately in love with you too
PAIRING: steve harrington x fem!reader, steve harrington x mayfield!reader
WARNINGS: young love, miscommunication, angst, yearning steve, confused steve, obliviousness, grief, mentions of alcoholism, amazing confession, kissing
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
🎶 : santa doesn't know you like i do - sabrina carpenter
AN: 🩵💗♥️ - happy holidays!! also posting this most of the way through the first episode of part two(geeking out)
you can feel it in the silence - prequel
If you went back in time, Marty McFly style, and told yourself that you’d be standing under mistletoe opposite Steve Harrington, you’d have laughed in your own face. It was preposterous, so far out of the wheelhouse of possibilities that it was laughable. Hence the laughing.
Yet here you stood, eyes watering as you stared up at the boy you loved. “I can’t do this.”
“Sweetheart-” His voice wavered.
You whispered. “Just- just leave me alone.”
“Mayfield-” He sounded desperate, his voice calling after you as you weaved through the party’s attendees. “Just wait-”
Sunday, December 21st, 1986
“C’mon, Max!” You yelled from the front door. It wasn’t that hard for her to hear you, given your current living situation. Ever since your asshole stepfather had skipped town and sold the house, you, your sister, and your mother (who was on the verge of becoming an alcoholic) were confined to this trailer house.
It could be worse, you reminded yourself whenever your anger dared to get the best of you, but you couldn’t help but yearn for the days when you had your own room. “The car is gonna run out of gas at this poin-”
“I’m coming.” She groaned, pushing past you. “God.”
“Bye, mom.” You waved at the woman, who was currently passed out on her La-Z-Boy. “I love you.”
“Mhhhm.” She hummed, rolling over.
You sighed, pulling the door shut and locking it before jumping into your XJ. “Are you excited at least?”
“To go Christmas shopping on Main Street?” Max shrugged. “I guess so.”
“We can go somewhere else-”
“No, it’s fine.” She turned away from you, mumbling under her breath. “It’s not like we can afford much else anyway.”
The stores were shockingly empty, save for the other poor souls who were last-minute shopping. If you were being honest, you’d already gotten everyone’s presents weeks ago, but it was fun to go out again. That, and Max had told you she hadn’t bought anything for her friends yet. “How about this, Maxie?”
“That’s fine.” She took a step closer, and you smiled. At least she was showing an interest. “How much?”
“Money is not an issue, I told you.” You held it away from her grasp. “I have some savings-”
“I don’t want you spending your college money-”
“Max.” You hissed. “Let me do this for you.”
“I-” She frowned, realizing there was no way she was getting her way. You were stubborn, even more so than she was. “Fine.”
“Good.” You huffed, carefully placing the item in your cart. “Now what else-”
“Mayfield? Is that you?”
Your body tensed, mentally cursing the hold that Steve Harrington had on you. Slowly turning around, you couldn't help but grin at the sight. Steve looked perfect, as usual. With his cream cable-knit sweater, Levi's, brown topcoat, and perfectly quaffed hair, he was like one of those love interests from the sappy sitcoms you and your mom love to watch. “Steve!” You hugged him quickly. “How are you?”
“Good, good.” He looked over your shoulder, waving at your sister. “Hey, Max.”
“Steven.” She sounded unenthused, but waved back anyway. “Stalker much?”
“Max?” You laughed nervously. “She didn’t mean that-”
“She’s not wrong.” His cheeks looked pink. Probably from the cold, you reasoned with yourself. “I saw you from Radio Shack-” You raised a brow. “I know, I know. I was trying to find this specific part that Henderson has been complaining about.”
“Well…” You grinned. “I’m glad you caught us.”
He nodded, swaying every so often. “Are you-”
“You should-”
You both laughed, stopping before your interaction became an even bigger train wreck. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” His voice was breathy, goosebumps racing down your spine. “After you?”
“I was just going to ask if you wanted to come along with us?” You spoke so quickly, you didn’t even know if he could understand. “Totally fine if not-”
“I’d love to.”
Once you and Steve had parted ways with a very awkward hug slash high five (you honestly couldn’t describe what had happened), you’d gotten back in your freezing car. Max wouldn’t stop smirking at you- you’d tried to ignore it, the little snickers every so often, but it began to irritate the shit out of you. “Alright, Maxine. Spit it out.”
“Nothing.” She laughed. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Yeah?” You scoffed. “Just say it. I know you want to.”
“Fine.” She sat up in her seat, looking at you mischievously. “You and Steve seem to have some unaddressed tensio-”
“Max!” You squawked. “I- He’s just a friend.”
“Does he know that?” Her eyebrow quirked up. “Do you?”
“I’m ignoring that.” You murmured, putting the car in park and turning it off. “Please don’t say anything to mom.”
“Why would I?” She stuck her tongue out, walking back inside. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Monday, December 22nd, 1986
The diner door jingled as you walked through, the winter snow billowing in behind you. You pulled your coat closer to your body, waving at the woman behind the counter. “Hi, Miss Flo.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” You sat at the bar, rubbing your hands together. “What’ll it be? The usual?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Coming right up.”
When you’d been in high school, you and Max would come here and eat dinner, too annoyed with Billy to go home, and too pissed off at your stepdad to listen to his bitching. You always sat in the corner booth, sharing a strawberry milkshake and unpacking everything about each other’s days, while simultaneously doing homework.
You’d even come here once with Billy, when your stepdad had forced the three of you to hang out. It'd been nice, for about thirty seconds.
“Actually, Flo-” You called out, scrambling to your feet. “I’m gonna get going-”
“Are you sure-”
Your feet moved before you could even act, racing out of the diner before she could even finish her sentence. You drove and drove and drove until you hit the Family Video parking lot.
You slammed the door shut, the familiar scent of old carpet and horribly covered up body odor, oddly comforting. In a disgusting, nostalgic sort of way.
You walked the aisles, trying to distract yourself from that horrible feeling (holiday-induced nostalgia) when a familiar voice filled the otherwise silent store. “It’s weird that we’re back here, isn’t it?”
“Steve, please.” You laughed at how exasperated Robin sounded. “Kieth already didn’t like you, so who really cares?”
“Good point.”
“Anyways-” Robin trailed off. “You were saying-”
“Yeah, yeah.” He huffed. “You’re so pushy.”
“Get to the point, Harrington.”
You ducked, listening in on their conversation. This was a whole new layer of weird, of odd freak behavior. If Max were here, she would never let you live this down. “It’s just- it’s hard.”
“Elaborate.”
“She’s so hard to read, y’know?”
“Trust me, I do.”
“You think she’s in love, and then the next moment, she’s avoiding-” Oh shit. Your eyes began to water. Eavesdropping never did anyone any good, and this was no exception. “Poor Byers. What is going on in her head, I’ll never kno-”
You could barely see in front of yourself as you raced out of the store, head ducked down. Why did you do this to yourself? Why, time and time again, did you fall for men who could not be less interested in you? Your tires squealed as you raced out of the parking lot, tears streaming down your cheeks as you came to the realization that Steve Harrington was not at all in love with you, and never had been.
Tuesday, December 23rd, 1986
You hadn’t moved for almost twelve hours, staring at the ceiling and contemplating life. You’d run out of tears about two hours in, your sobs muffled under the stuffed teddy that coincidentally, Steve had won for you at the county fair last fall.
Stupid polar bear.
“What’s wrong?” Max’s voice ripped you from your thoughts. “You seem- mopey.”
“Thank you, Maxine.” You huffed, turning to face her. “I’m mourning.”
“Aren’t we all.” She raised a brow, and you winced at your unfortunate choice of words.
“I can’t go to the Christmas party anymore.”
“Why not?” She sat down beside you, playing with your hair. Your eyes watered all over again. Max rarely played with your hair anymore, a habit she picked up when she was a little girl. “Did something happen?”
“Steve Harrington happened.”
“Elaborate.”
“I overheard him- in the Family Video.” Your voice broke. “Talking to Robin about how he was still in love with Nancy.” A sob left your lips. “And I can’t face the humiliation of seeing him and crumbling like a fool under his attention, just for him to go in the other room and make googly eyes at Wheeler.”
Max frowned, shaking her head. “He’s an idiot.”
“No.” You shook your head. “I’m the idiot.”
“Don’t say that.” Her voice was so gentle, so caring. “You liked a boy, and it didn’t work out. That doesn’t make you an idiot.” She lay down beside you, whispering. “That makes you human.”
You grinned, tearily laughing. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to leave our room now?” She smiled. “Mom is concerned. She said she heard wailing.”
You gasped. “Wailing?”
Max nodded, laughing lightly. “Said she thought we were being haunted.”
“Now you’re making things up.” You glared, shoving her off the bed. “Taunting me in my time of need.”
She rolled her eyes, pulling you with her. “So dramatic.”
Also Tuesday, December 23th, 1986
“Mayfield is ignoring me.”
Robin shook her head, hoping that she’d misheard him. They’d been watching Fast Times for the fiftieth time when Steve ruined their trace-like state. “What?”
“I’ve called her four times.”
“Well, no shit, she’s ignoring you, Harrington.” Robin laughed, pausing the tape. “She probably called the cops, you creep.”
“Shut up.” He glared. “I’m serious. I called her yesterday to confirm that she and Max were coming to the party, and I immediately got hung up on. Not one ring.”
“Could be a coincidence.”
“That’s what I told myself.” He nodded, eyes becoming more and more manic, like how his eyes looked when he was describing the plot of Back to the Future. “So then I called again.”
“Let me guess?” Robin leaned forward in her chair. “Hung up on.”
“So at this point, I’m confused. So I call again, and this time it rings.”
“Okay?”
“And it keeps ringing. So then, in a moment of desperation, I call one more time. This time, her mother picks up and says, Stop calling this number.”
“Creeper.”
“She’s upset. I can feel it.”
“Oh, because you two have a mental connection that transcends modern technology.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Good god, Harrington.” Robin laughed. “For your sake, and mine, I’m gonna fix this. Detective Buckley is on the case.”
“Oh no.” Steve groaned, letting his face fall into his hands. “I’m screwed.”
Wednesday, December 24th, 1986
“Your boy called again.” Your mother called out from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry?” You tilted your head. “Which one of us are you talking to?”
“Said his name was Steve-”
Max giggled. “This has got to be good.”
“Did you hang up?” Your voice grew in pitch. “Please tell me you hung up.”
“I told him to stop calling this number.” She walked back over, handing you and Max your pancakes. “Although I do have to say he sounded distraught. And apologetic.”
“Mom-” You groaned. “Drop it, please.”
“He sounded apologetic.” Max teased. “There’s a start.”
“Maxine, I will-” The phone rang, your eyes shooting toward the wall in fear. “I swear to god-”
“I’ll get it.” Max sighed. “This is pathetic, though.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You smiled. “I owe you one.”
“Hello?” Max leaned against the wall, her hand toying with the phone's cord. “Hi, Robin.”
A small twist of disappointment hit you in the stomach. You almost wished it was Steve, so that you could watch Max tease the living shit out of him and gain some sort of self-respect out of it. (Also, because it felt nice to have arguably the most attractive man in Hawkins worry over you.)
“Mhm. Mhm.” Your sister looked over at you quickly, smirking, before focusing back on the phone. “I see.”
“What’s going on?” You hissed, but she waved you away.
“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, Robin.” She hung up the phone, waltzing back over to her seat like nothing had happened.
“Hello?” You crossed your arms. “Care to share with the class?”
“She was just telling us Merry Christmas.”
“Okay.” You scoffed. “If you say so.”
Of course, you knew she was lying, and you knew that she would never tell you. She and Robin had devised a plan, and you honestly wished it could all happen right now rather than live in suspense.
That would not be the case.
Thursday, December 25th, 1986
“I know you aren’t going-” You groaned, shoving your face into your pillow. “But can you at least drive me?”
“Can’t Mrs.Sinclair pick you up?”
“Lucas is already there.”
“Let me guess, so is Dustin and Mike and-” Max nodded, and you jumped out of your seat. “Let’s go.”
“Yes!” Max looked way too excited at the prospect of you simply driving her. “Let’s go!”
“Well wait just a second-”
“I already started your car-” Max yelled over her shoulder. “Just put your coat on!”
“Fine, fine.” You waved bye to your mom, mumbling under your breath. “God, you’re pushy.”
You parked at the end of Steve’s driveway, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Just the thought of seeing him turned your cheeks pink and your mind to mush. “I’ll see you in three hours.”
“Okay.” Max smiled, kissing your cheek quickly. “Have fun at home. With Mom. By yourself.”
“I get it, I get it.” You glared, pushing her away. “Get out.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” Her tone was sickeningly sweet, like she was trying to cover up a secret. “You don’t need to stay long-”
“If I go in, will you stop making fun of me for staying at home with Mom?” She nodded, and you smiled. “Alright, then.” You turned off the car and zipped up your coat, walking toward your death. The house was bustling with noise; you could hear them from outside.
Dustin’s voice carried over everyone’s as he explained his latest campaign. Lucas’s laughter, still high-pitched, rang out soon after his friend spoke. Max scoffed, ringing the doorbell.
“One second!” A voice came from just the other side of the door, undoing the locks. “One second- Hi.” Robin grinned. “The Mayfields have arrived.”
“I’m not staying long.” You lamented. “Just here to say a quick hello.”
Robin laughed. “Have any big plans?”
“Yeah.” Max nodded. “She has a romantic evening planned with our TV.”
“Shut up.” You shoved your sister inside. “She’s kidding.”
“Sure.” The older girl's voice dragged out. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’m good, thanks though.” You rubbed your arms, teeth chattering. “I’m gonna take a look around.”
“Make yourself at home,” Robin called after you. “You know where everything is.”
The house was alive, but then again, it always was when the party was here. The kids made everything happier, with their loud personalities and lively debates, often ending in roughhousing that you and Steve would scold them for.
Steve.
God, what were you doing here? Being in his house, constantly reminded of him at every turn. It was a recipe for disaster. Here you were, in enemy territory.
Where was the host, anyway? A solid eight minutes in, and you’d yet to see him. No doubt, flirting with Nancy, Steve had better things to do than talk to you.
“Mayfield?” Someone kill you now. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I-” You gulped, turning around. “Hi, Steve.”
“You didn’t answer my calls.”
“You called?” You tilted your head. Perhaps playing dumb would get you out of this mess. “Funny.”
“Yeah.” His eyebrows were furrowed. “Are you mad at me?”
“What?” Your voice was much louder than you’d meant it to be. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just- I swear I saw you on Monday.”
“Monday?” You were so screwed.
“In Family Video?” He took a step closer. “You weren’t there?”
“Nope.” Your lips popped. “Nope, I was home all day.”
“Funny.” He scoffed. “You can tell me what I did. I’ll fix it, I swear.”
“You didn’t do anything, Steve.” You sounded so weak, so unlike your normal self. It was pathetic. “I’m just not feeling well.”
“Oh?” He reached out, feeling your forehead with the back of his palm. “You feel fine-”
“It’s a stomach bug.”
“Mayfield-”
“I should go.” You stepped around him. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”
“Just wait a second-” He whipped around, racing after you. “I’ve done something, I know I have, and if you could just-”
“Steve-” You yelled. “Please, drop it!”
“Am I interrupting something?” Robin’s timid voice cut through the tension.
“No.” You shook your head.
“Yes.” Steve’s eyes widened. “What do you mean no?”
“This is probably a horrible time-”
“It is.” Steve hissed.
“But you two are aware that you’re standing underneath mistletoe, right?”
You looked up, heart dropping at the sight. “God dammit.”
“You don’t have to-” Robin whispered. “I was just-”
“Robin!” Steve’s voice was stern, cold. “Can we have a moment? Alone?”
“Sure.” She nodded quickly. “Yeah, take all the time you need.”
Steve waited until Robin’s prying ears were far from reach. “I need to tell you something.”
“You really don’t need to do that.” Your voice broke. “I already know.”
“You do?” He tilted his head. “Then why are you- why are you avoiding me?”
“Why would I not?” You yelled back at him. “I don’t want to watch as you and Nancy fawn over each other. I can’t!”
“Nancy?” His hands fell to his hips. “What the hell does Nancy have to do with this?”
“She has everything to do with this.” You sobbed, eyes watering as you stared up at the boy you loved. “But I can’t do this.”
“Sweetheart-” His voice wavered.
You whispered, stumbling backwards. “Just- just leave me alone.”
“Mayfield-” He sounded desperate, his voice calling after you as you weaved through the party’s attendees. “Just wait-” You pushed through, past Max, past Dustin, past the whole party. Whipping the door open, you ran towards your car. “Why can’t you just stop?”
“Why can’t you?” You cried. “I don’t want to face this, I’d rather just never address this again.”
“Well, I do.” He jutted his hip out. “You have absolutely no idea.”
“No idea of what?”
“How-” He huffed, waving his arms around. “How badly I want you!”
“Me?” You shook your head. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” He walked closer. “I like you!”
“But I-”
“I like when you're sarcastic, I like your attitude, I like the way you jut your hip out before you scold the kids, I like the way you lick your lips when you're focused, I like everything.”
“But you said that Nancy- I mean-” You slapped a hand over your mouth. “Shit.”
“You should really stop eavesdropping, Mayfield.” He looked way too smug, and you couldn't even find it within you to care.
“You said-”
“I said that she was hard to read.” He nodded.
“You said Poor Jonathan.”
“I did, yeah.” Another step closer. “I was talking about Nancy-”
“I knew it!”
“I was talking about the fact that Nancy and Jonathan’s apartment shopping.” Steve laughed. “They’re-”
“Apartment shopping.” You nodded, closing the distance between the two of you. “I heard you. So you weren’t talking about how you were still in love with Nancy?”
“Nope.”
“This is ridiculous.” You laugh turned breathy as Steve’s hand wrapped around your waist. “Truly ridiculous.”
“It is.” He leaned down, your lips inches apart. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Okay-” He dove down, your eyes rolling back as you fell into his touch. God, his kiss was addicting, you only wanted more. Your arms found their way around his neck, pulling him closer. “Steve-”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“You’re-” You gasped as he kissed down your neck.
“Keep going.” You could hear his smirk.
“I-I think I love you.”
“I know I love you.” He murmured, finding his way back to your lips. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Do you think they can see us?” Steve whispered.
“I don’t know-” You looked over, laughing. Each and every one of your friends were sticking their faces against the glass, trying to catch a glimpse of you two. “They’re never gonna let us forget this, are they?”
“No, they will not.”
The window cracked open, and Dustin's voice yelled out. "The mistletoe's in here, guys!"
"Stuff it, Henderson!" Steve yelled back. "I'm trying to kiss my girl-"
"Your girl?" You laughed.
"Yeah." He nodded. "If you want-" You jumped up, kissing him sweetly. Steve would later retell the story dramatically to your children, saying that your kiss was 'sweeter than any hot chocolate'.
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