i’m catie (sunbeamlessreads)—21, she/her, currently living life (and writing fanfiction) on the jersey shore.
this blog is a lovingly chaotic mess of fics, reblogs, thirsting, and occasional existential spirals over fictional men. if you’re into angst, smut, slow burns, and unreasonably complicated feelings, you’re in the right place.
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you were supposed to be part of his future. now you’re just someone he has to look at across the room.
notes: this came to me while listening to the wonderful playlist that @elle-28 made me for one of my fics for another fandom. i've never been a big TS fan, but this song just spoke to me. sorry if there are a ton of typos. :< enjoy! <3
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The ballroom is warm in a way that would usually feel inviting.
Golden light spills from the chandeliers overhead, sharpened by the overly polished floors and perfectly pressed uniforms, catching on the edges of medals and glassware, on the easy, practiced smiles of people who feel like they belonged in rooms like this. Conversations overlap in a low, steady hum—laughter, long-overdue reunions, the faint clink of expensive crystal—everything blending into a familiar feeling that blankets you in the most uneasy way.
This should feel familiar.
You’ve been to plenty of events like this. You’re practiced enough to expect the rhythm, to abide by the unspoken rules: smile at the right time, keep your posture relaxed but not careless, hold eye contact long enough to seem engaged, and smile and nod. It's a performance, in its own way, and one you've learned how to give without thinking too hard.
Tonight, though, something doesn’t feel right.
It settles into you the second the doors close behind you, slipping quietly beneath the hum of the room. The discomfort is subtle but insistent, pressing somewhere deep beneath your ribs. Your hand tightens slightly around your purse before you consciously relax your grip, smoothing your fingers delicately over the fabric of your dress instead—an automatic gesture meant to ground you in familiarity.
It’s just another gala, you tell yourself. You’ve been to plenty of these.
You step forward, heels quiet against the floor, weaving into the edges of the crowd with the ease of habit. Faces blur past you, some familiar but most not. Idle conversations brush against you and slip away just as quickly. Someone nods in your direction; you return it automatically, a polite smile already in place.
I could do this in my sleep.
Until a laugh breaks through the noise.
It doesn’t belong in the room at all—or maybe it does. Your body reacts to it before your mind can catch up, before you’re able to reason it away. It’s low, a little rough around the edges, threaded with an easiness, unguarded. It cuts clean through the layered noise of everything else, at least to you.
You’re in the middle of a conversation, one that maybe you won’t remember tomorrow, but your breath catches mid-sentence.
You can’t turn immediately, no, you have to be polite and finish your story. You fix your gaze somewhere ahead of you, not quite engaging with the polite crowd surrounding you. Suddenly, you can hear your pulse just a little too loudly in your ears. It's a ridiculous reaction, you know that. It could be anyone. It’s been years, certainly long enough that the pang of memory shouldn’t cut you so sharply, so immediately.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” you say, the words smooth, practiced, accompanied by a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
You step away before they can respond, before you have to hold the conversation together any longer, your body already moving with quiet urgency.
Something in you already knows. Slowly—too slowly—you scan the room, your gaze moving over unfamiliar faces. Perhaps to find him, perhaps to avoid him.
But there he is. In the flesh.
Across the room, half-angled toward a small cluster of people, a drink held loosely in one hand. He’s in uniform, of course, but it's the way he holds himself that catches you first. He’s relaxed, like he belongs exactly where he is, like he knows it. Like he always has.
Older, your mind supplies distantly.
Broader through the shoulders. The lines of him filled out in a perfect way that speaks to time passed, to years you weren’t there to see. But it’s still him. Unmistakably and undeniably him.
Your Bradley Bradshaw.
Well, not anymore.
The name lands in your chest with a weight that feels almost physical.
For a moment, everything else in the room recedes; conversations around you dull to something distant, like you’re hearing everything from underwater. Movement slows at the edges of your vision. You’re aware, suddenly and acutely, of how still you’ve gone—how your body has locked into place as if it’s waiting for you to catch up.
You didn't think—
No, that's not true. You did think about this. Many times, a long time ago. You just didn't expect it would ever actually happen.
You don’t realize just how completely you've stopped until a stranger brushes past your shoulder, close enough to jolt you back into the moment. You murmur an apology automatically, stepping aside, your gaze flicking back to him before you can stop it.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
You could leave.
The thought is sharp and tempting. You could turn around, walk back out those doors, let them close behind you again like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just have the past drop back into your life without warning.
It would be easy, but you know you can't.
You’re not here by accident. Your company is on the sponsor list, printed neatly at the front of the program, tied to a campaign that needs hands shaken and conversations had. You were expected here and have already been seen. Leaving now would raise questions you just don't have the energy to answer.
But worse—it would feel like running.
You’ve done enough running.
So you stay.
Longer than you should, probably, your body caught somewhere between instinct and obligation, your gaze drifting back to him despite yourself. He shifts slightly within the group, saying something that earns a quiet ripple of laughter, his head tipping just enough that the light catches along the edge of his jaw.
It's familiar in a way that feels almost cruel, in a way that makes your heart ache.
You force yourself to look away.
This is ridiculous.
You’re not seventeen anymore—standing in a crowded hallway outside a gymnasium, pretending you’re not watching him across the room, waiting for him to notice you first. You’re not that girl. You’re not someone who freezes at the sight of a man—any man—no matter who he used to be to you.
Used to be.
It settles heavy in your chest, harder to shake than you expect.
You exhale slowly, gathering hold of yourself, and then—finally—you move.
Not toward him. Never toward him.
Instead, you angle toward the bar, slipping between clusters of people with quiet purpose, willing yourself to focus on anything but him. The bartender catches your eye as you approach, offering a polite nod as he reaches for a glass.
“What can I get you?”
You mean to ask for something easy. Something safe. Something that won’t leave a trace.
Instead, you hear yourself order something uncharacteristically strong.
The bartender doesn't question it. He simply turns, measures, pours, and slides the glass toward you with practiced ease.
You take it without a second thought, the cool crystal grounding you as you bring the drink to your lips. The first sip burns just enough to anchor you back to reality, to cut through the strange, disorienting haze that’s settled over your thoughts.
It doesn’t help as much as you’d hoped, because even now—especially now—your attention drifts right back to him.
You don’t mean for it to, and you certainly don’t want it to. But it happens just the same, your gaze pulled right back across the room to where you saw him earlier. You try to convince yourself it's just curiosity, a confirmation you weren’t seeing things. Maybe if you look long enough, the shock will fade into something manageable.
It doesn’t.
He shifts again, turning slightly as someone new joins their conversation, and for a moment, you catch a clearer view of his profile. The slope of his nose, the line of his mouth, the mustache that now shadows his upper lip, and the way his shoulders fill out the uniform in a way that feels... unfair.
Time has been kind to him.
You hate that you notice.
You hate that it still matters.
You take another sip, slower this time, your fingers tightening slightly around the glass as if that might steady something deeper than your hands. Around you, the room continues on as if nothing has changed—like your world hasn’t just tilted off its axis in the span of a single breath.
I could still leave.
The thought lingers, quieter now, less urgent but no less present.
You don’t move.
“Bradshaw—!”
The voice comes from just a few feet to your left—a fellow pilot, you presume.
The voice cuts in from somewhere to your left, close enough to carry and sharp enough to break through the steady hum of the room, and your stomach drops as he turns. The movement is instinctive, immediate—his attention shifting toward the call without hesitation before continuing past it, drawn toward you as if something in him already knew where to look.
Your breath catches, and there’s no time to look away now, no chance to pretend you hadn’t been watching him, that your attention hadn’t been fixed on him like it still meant something.
His eyes find you fully this time, and everything in you stills. The change is subtle, but you see it: the faint tightening at the corner of his eyes, the way his expression stills just enough to give him away, the way his focus sharpens in a way that has nothing to do with anyone else in the room. And then—slower, more deliberate—his gaze moves.
It drags over you, not careless, not casual, but measured. Taking you in pieces by piece, like he’s trying to place you, to reconcile the person standing in front of him with the one he remembers. Your face first, searching, lingering just a second too long, before it dips—your shoulders, the line of your posture, the way you hold yourself now. There’s something almost instinctive in it, like he’s orienting himself, recalibrating, mapping the distance between who you were and who you are.
It’s not just recognition. It’s assessment.
And something else—something quieter, harder to name—threaded through it.
For a moment, everything else falls away—the music, the conversations, the distance—until it’s just him, looking at you like he’s trying to understand how you’re real, how you’re here, standing in front of him after all this time, like he’s not sure if you’re something he imagined.
Your grip tightens around your glass, the cool surface pressing into your palm as you fight the instinct to look away, but you don’t—not this time—and for one suspended, fragile second, neither of you moves.
The hallway was too loud.
Lockers slammed, voices overlapped, sneakers squeaked on linoleum. Everything blended into the kind of chaos that could only exist on your first day at a new school. It was overwhelming in an unfamiliar, exhilarating way. It felt like you had walked into something already in motion, like everyone else knew exactly where they were going and you were just trying to keep up.
You adjusted the straps of your bag higher on your shoulders, weaving through the crowd with careful precision, your gaze fixed ahead and downward, as if that might make you less noticeable.
You were halfway to your locker—still not convinced you were even going the right way—when you turned the corner too fast.
And ran straight into someone.
The impact was solid enough to knock what little breath you were holding from your lungs, your bag slipping down your shoulders as papers shifted.
“Shit—sorry,” you blurted automatically, already bending to grab what you had dropped, but the person you collided with was faster.
A hand caught your arm before you could fully bend down, steadying you without thinking.
“Easy,” he said, voice low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like amusement. “Didn’t mean to take you out on your first day.”
You stilled for a second, then looked up.
He was close, far too close. Close enough that everything else sort of… faded at the edges. You noticed things you shouldn’t: the way his hair curled slightly at his forehead, the way his eyes settled on you like he was trying to figure you out, the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth like he already thought this was funny.
Like you were funny to him.
Your brain stuttered for a moment, taking a second to catch up.
“I wasn’t—” you started, then stopped, your words getting stuck somewhere between your head and your mouth. Your gaze dropped without meaning to, catching on the fact that his hand was still on your arm.
Warm and steady. Like he hadn’t noticed.
Or maybe he had.
The moment stretched on for a few beats too long. Then he followed your gaze and let go immediately.
“Right,” he said quickly, a breath of a laugh in it as he lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “My bad. I’ll try not to commit assault before first period next time.”
You just blinked at him.
You should have been annoyed, but you weren’t.
There was something about him that made it hard to be, like he wasn’t trying to impress you but somehow still was.
You straightened, brushing your hands over your clothes just to do something with them.
“Maybe just watch where you’re going,” you said, but it came out lighter than you meant it to.
His smile widened a little.
“Or,” he said, tilting his head, “you could stop cutting corners like you had somewhere more important to be.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “You had no idea where I was going.”
“Fair,” he shrugged. “But first period on the first day?” He glanced past you, then back. “Not exactly high stakes.”
Then, despite yourself—with all the tension and nerves from being at a new school—
You laughed.
It slipped out before you could stop it, quiet and a little surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.
He noticed immediately. Something shifted in his expression, more focused. Like he was really paying attention to you now.
“Bradshaw,” he said after a second, like it was nothing. “Bradley.”
The name hung there between you, settling into the space like it belonged. You hesitated for just a moment, your fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your bag, then gave him yours. He repeated it back, slower this time, like he was testing the sound of it, like he didn’t want to mess it up. There was a small pause after, just long enough to feel intentional, like he wanted to make sure you heard it, like he wanted you to know he was paying attention.
“Good,” he said, almost under his breath.
You narrowed your eyes a little. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged, easy again, but there was something behind it now. “Would’ve been a shame to almost knock someone over and not know their name.”
You shook your head, a stupid smile still plastered on your face, bending to grab the last of your things.
“Try not to make a habit of it.”
“No promises.”
You stood, adjusting your bag again, fingers tugging the strap higher onto your shoulder. The movement gave you something to focus on, something small and controlled, because for a second there was nothing else to do.
You shifted your weight instead, glancing down the hallway like you had suddenly remembered where you were supposed to be, like that was the only thing keeping you from standing there longer than you should have.
“First period,” you mumbled.
“Tragic,” he said.
There was a hint of a smile in it.
You let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, and nodded once like that settled it.
So you stepped around him.
Close enough to feel his presence, the space he took up, the way it didn’t quite feel like anyone else, but not close enough to touch.
The hallway pulled you back in immediately, noise and movement swallowing you whole as you fell into step with everyone else.
You made it a few steps before you stopped yourself from doing something stupid—but then you did it anyway.
You looked back, and he was still there. Turned slightly now, like he had never really left the moment. Like he had been watching you go.
Your eyes met again—quick this time, fleeting, but enough to send something sharp and unfamiliar through your chest.
You looked away first and kept walking.
“Ma’am?”
The word pulls you back before you’re ready for it, grounding you abruptly in the present. The ballroom rushes in all at once—the low swell of conversation, the muted clink of glassware, the weight of your drink still held too tightly in your hand. For a second, everything feels slightly out of sync, like you’ve returned to a place that kept moving without you.
You blink, steadying yourself.
The bartender offers you a polite, patient look, gesturing lightly toward your glass. “Another?”
You hesitate longer than you should, your fingers tightening just slightly before you realize there’s nothing left in the glass. You hadn’t even noticed that you'd finished it. The absence feels strange, like something slipping through your grasp without your permission, and your pulse hasn’t quite settled, still echoing faintly in your ears.
“No,” you say at last, your voice quieter than intended. You clear your throat, straightening almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine.”
He nods and moves on, the interaction already forgotten on his end.
You wish this were that easy for you.
Because across the room, nothing has changed.
He’s still there.
Not the boy from the hallway, not the version of him softened by memory and distance, but something sharper, more defined. And he’s still looking at you.
Not in passing, not by accident—there’s nothing fleeting about it. It’s deliberate, steady, and it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with surprise anymore. This isn’t just seeing him again; it isn’t nostalgia, or curiosity, or even shock. It’s recognition of something unfinished.
The realization settles slowly, pressing in with a quiet weight that’s harder to ignore the longer you stand there. Because nothing about the way he’s looking at you suggests this is easy for him either.
For years, it was easier to believe that whatever this had been only lingered on your side.
That he had moved on cleanly, without looking back.
Your grip shifts against the glass, your thumb brushing along the edge as you try to steady yourself, to find some version of composure that fits this moment better than the one you’re currently holding onto.
You could at least look away.
You could still end this here, reduce it back down to coincidence, to something more manageable.
But you don’t, and that might be the problem.
It didn’t stay in the hallway.
It carried into the next day, and the one after that, slipping easily into something that felt routine before you ever stopped to define it. You started noticing him before you meant to, catching sight of him across crowded hallways, already aware of where he was without needing to look for long. And he stopped pretending he wasn’t doing the same, like somewhere along the way the pretense had stopped mattering.
It was small things at first. Conversations that lingered just a little too long between classes, the way he would fall into step beside you without asking, like it was already expected. Lunch periods that overlapped more often than they should have, shared looks across rooms that didn’t feel accidental anymore.
Then it became something else.
You stopped parting ways at the last bell. Stopped pretending there wasn’t a reason to linger. It turned into walking each other out, into standing a little too long by the edge of the parking lot, into conversations that stretched past the point where either of you had anywhere else to be. At some point, without ever deciding it out loud, you started ending up there together.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The lot was nearly empty, the last of the after-school noise fading into the distance, leaving behind long stretches of pavement and the kind of quiet that made everything feel more defined. The sun hung low, casting everything in a warm, fading light that softened the edges of things, turning the ordinary into something you knew you’d remember later.
You were sitting on the hood of his truck like you had done it a dozen times before, your hands braced behind you, fingers spread against the warmth of the metal, your bag dropped carelessly nearby. Your legs swung idly, your heel tapping lightly against the side of the truck in a quiet rhythm that filled the space between his words.
Bradley stood between your knees, closer than he had been that first day, closer than he probably should have been, but it didn’t feel strange anymore.
He was in the middle of a story, and you followed it at first, catching the details as he talked, the rise and fall of his voice, the way he gestured like the story needed his hands as much as his words. But somewhere in the middle, your attention shifted without you realizing it, drawn away from what he was saying and toward the way he was saying it—toward him.
The way his hands moved when he talked, quick and expressive, like he needed them to keep up with his thoughts. The way his voice carried easily, unguarded in a way that felt different out there than it did inside. The way he looked at you when he spoke, like it mattered that you were listening.
“—and then he just completely missed it,” Bradley was saying, shaking his head with a quiet laugh, “like I’m right there, I’ve got it covered, and he still—”
He stopped mid-sentence, the shift subtle but immediate, because you weren’t following anymore. You were looking at him, not even pretending otherwise, and it took him a second to catch it before his expression changed, his attention narrowing in a way that felt entirely focused on you.
“What?” he asked, quieter now, more curious than anything else.
You blinked like you’d been caught. “Nothing.”
He didn’t believe you. You could tell by the way his mouth tilted, by the way he studied you for a second longer than necessary. “You’ve got that look again.”
You frowned slightly. “What look?”
“That one,” he said, gesturing loosely toward your face, as if that explained anything. “Like you stopped listening to me halfway through.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, your shoulders relaxing just a little. “I was listening.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, just enough to close the space between you by an inch that felt like more than it should have. “Then what did I just say?”
You hesitated, and that was all he needed. His smile came slowly and familiar, the kind you had seen enough times now to recognize exactly what it meant. “Thought so.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly where you were sitting, your knee brushing his in a way that felt less accidental this time, more like you hadn’t bothered to stop it. Neither of you moved away.
“You talked a lot,” you said, because it was easier than acknowledging anything else.
“Only when you’re around.”
The answer came easily, like it always did, but this time it landed differently. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he was looking at you when he said them—something steadier there now, something more intentional. You felt it settle somewhere low in your chest, warm and unfamiliar, and for a second, you didn’t know what to do with it.
“You didn’t have to,” you said, quieter than before.
“I know,” he replied, just as easily, and there was no hesitation in it, no second-guessing, just certainty. Then, after a beat that stretched just long enough to feel deliberate, he added, “I wanted to.”
Something shifted, and you felt it in the way your breath caught slightly, in the way your fingers pressed more firmly into the metal behind you, in the way your knees shifted just enough to bring him closer without either of you acknowledging it out loud. He noticed—you could see it in the way his gaze flicked down briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, like he was checking, like he was making sure you were still there with him in that moment.
“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite a question, not quite a warning—just enough to give you the chance to stop it before it became something else.
You didn’t.
You stayed exactly where you were, your hand lifting from the hood almost without your permission, fingers catching lightly in the front of his shirt. It was a small movement, but it was enough to change something between you, enough to make it clear that you weren’t stepping back from this.
He moved slowly, deliberately, closing the distance between you in a way that felt intentional, like he was giving you time to register every second of it. You could feel his breath then, warm against your skin, could see the way his expression shifted into something more careful, more focused, like this mattered in a way neither of you was saying out loud. He paused just short of you, close enough that the space between you felt almost nonexistent, like it would disappear entirely if either of you moved even a fraction closer.
And then he kissed you.
It started soft, careful in a way that felt almost unexpected from him, like he was still giving you time to pull away even then. His mouth brushed yours lightly at first, hesitant, testing, and for a second everything else dropped away—the parking lot, the fading light, the quiet hum of the world beyond the two of you—until it was just that, just the feeling of it, just him.
You didn’t pull away. Your grip tightened slightly in his shirt instead, steadying yourself as you leaned into it, and the hesitation faded. His hand came to your waist, warm and sure, not pulling you closer so much as holding you there, grounding the moment as it deepened just slightly, still unhurried, still figuring itself out as it went. It wasn’t perfect, not practiced, but it felt real in a way that mattered more than anything else.
When he pulled back, it was slow, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to. He didn’t go far, just enough to look at you, his hand still at your waist, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt, the space between you different now in a way that was impossible to ignore.
“What was that?” you asked, your voice quieter, a little breathless despite yourself.
His mouth curved slightly, something softer than his usual grin. “I think I’d been wanting to do that for a while.”
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “A while?”
He shrugged, like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter nearly as much as it clearly did. “Since the hallway.”
That made you laugh for real that time, the sound breaking whatever tension was left, and just like that, it felt easy again, like it always had been, like it always would be.
“Excuse me.”
The words are leaving your mouth before you’ve fully processed them, quiet but firm enough to cut into the conversation without drawing too much attention. Your boss turns towards you, mid-sentence, their expression shifting as they take you in.
“Everything alright?”
You nod automatically, already smoothing your expression into something easier, something that doesn’t invite questions.
“Yeah. I just—” You pause, just for a second, like you’re choosing the wording carefully. “I’m going to step outside for a minute.”
There’s a brief hesitation, the kind that suggests they might press, might ask something more, but you don’t give them the space to.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, softer this time, but certain.
That seems to settle it.
“Of course,” they say, easy enough. “Don’t wander too far.”
“I won’t.”
You offer a small, polite smile, the kind that closes the interaction cleanly, and step back before anything else can be said.
Your movement to exit is immediate, purposeful in a way that feels just a little too urgent beneath the surface. You weave through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding where necessary, offering half-smiles you don’t feel, your focus fixed on the doors across the room.
You don’t look at him, but you can feel it anyway—the awareness of him still there, still watching, following you even as you put distance between you.
Your grip tightens slightly around your clutch as you move, your pulse still not fully settled, something restless sitting just beneath your ribs that refuses to quiet.
You just need a minute. Some air. Space to think.
The doors come faster than you expect, or maybe you’re just moving quicker than you realize, and the second you step through them, the shift is immediate.
Cool air meets your skin, sharp enough to make you pause, just for a second, your breath catching slightly as the noise from inside dulls behind you. The door shuts with a soft, final sound.
You take a few more steps out onto the terrace before stopping, your shoulders lowering slowly as the tension begins to ease, just enough for you to notice how tightly you’d been holding yourself together.
Your hands find the railing almost without thinking, fingers curling around the cool metal as you lean into it slightly, grounding yourself in something solid, something steady.
You draw in a slow breath, then another, letting it out gradually, like you’re trying to match the rhythm of something calmer.
Your gaze drops briefly, following the line of your hands.
The ring glints faintly under the terrace lights, catching just enough to draw your attention before you can stop it. You shift your grip, your thumb brushing along the band in a small, absent motion, and then you look away again, like it doesn’t mean anything.
It didn’t feel like a big conversation when it started.
You were sprawled across your bed, half on your stomach, half turned toward him, your chin resting against your forearm as you absently traced the seam of your comforter with your fingers. The room was quiet in that late-afternoon way, sunlight spilling through the window in long, warm streaks that stretched across the floor and climbed partway up the opposite wall. It caught on everything: your desk, the scattered papers, the framed photos you never moved, the edges of things that felt more lived-in than styled.
Bradley was stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, staring up at the ceiling like he’d been doing it long enough to get lost in his own thoughts. His shoes were kicked off somewhere near the door, his presence filling the space in a way that felt natural now, like he’d been there enough times that nothing about it felt new.
“So,” you said, your voice breaking into it gently, your eyes lifting to him, “have you figured out where you were applying yet?”
You didn’t think much of it when you asked.
It was the kind of question everyone had been asking lately, something that had been circling around your lives, whether you wanted it to or not.
He didn’t answer right away.
That was what made you look at him properly.
His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling for a second longer than it should have, his jaw shifting slightly like he was turning the words over before deciding to say them. Then he exhaled slowly and finally looked over at you.
“Yeah,” he said, “I had.”
Something in your chest tightened before you even knew why. You pushed up slightly onto your elbow, giving him more of your attention without meaning to.
“Okay,” you said, softer now. “Where?”
“The Academy.”
You blinked, the word not quite landing at first. “The Naval Academy?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
And just like that, the room felt a little different.
It wasn’t just a school. It was distance. Time. A future that might not line up the way you’d been picturing it.
“Oh.” It slipped out before you could stop it, too honest.
His eyes caught yours immediately, something sharpening there. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, already shaking your head, pushing it down before it could become something real.
You sat up a little more, forcing your voice lighter, easier.
“That was—” You let out a small breath, a smile pulling at your mouth that didn’t quite match the feeling in your chest. “That was really good, babe.”
He stared at you, unconvinced. You could feel it in the way his gaze lingered, like he was waiting for you to say something else, something closer to the truth.
“No, it was,” you added, a little more firmly now, like if you said it enough it would settle into something that felt true. “That was… really good.”
The quiet lingered for a moment, not quite tense, but certainly not as effortless as it had been.
“I mean,” you said, a little faster now, like you were catching the thought as it formed, like it was nothing complicated, “I could come too.”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
You shifted, turning more toward him, tucking one leg underneath you. “Why not? I was sure they had something there I’d want to study. Or somewhere close.”
You shrugged, trying for casual, even though you could feel the way your pulse had picked up just slightly. “It wouldn’t be that big of a deal.”
We’d still be us.
You didn’t say it out loud.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you, something more serious settling in his expression now. “You shouldn’t make that kind of decision because of me.”
“I wasn’t,” you said, a little too quickly, but you didn’t look away. “I was just saying it was an option.”
He studied you for a second, longer this time, like he was trying to figure out if you meant it, if this was something you’d actually thought about or something you were saying just to keep things from changing.
“You’d really do that?” he asked.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
And for a moment, the room held still around you.
“Okay,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. It came out stronger, more certain, like once he decided, he was all in. “Okay, yeah.”
Your breath caught slightly, not expecting how quickly it changed.
“Yeah?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he repeated, and now he was smiling, something bright breaking through the seriousness from a second ago. “We’d figure it out.”
We.
Before you could think too hard about it, he was moving.
He pushed himself up onto his side, then over you slightly, his hands finding your waist like it was instinct, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling except get closer. You let out a surprised laugh as he shifted your weight back into the mattress, the movement easy but deliberate.
“See?” he said, grinning now, a little breathless. “Problem solved.”
“That was your problem?” you teased, your hands coming up to catch at his shoulders, half steadying yourself, half pulling him closer without meaning to.
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Obviously.”
You shook your head, laughing, but it softened when he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, then another, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“Brad—” you started, trying to push him back just enough to look at him, but he didn’t really let you, still smiling, still close, like he suddenly had too much of something and nowhere to put it.
“What?” he said, brushing another kiss just below your ear.
“You were being ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, not even pretending otherwise, his forehead dropping lightly against yours as his laughter faded into something softer. “I know.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
And for a solemn moment, everything was as it should be.
It didn’t stay that way for long. The first crack didn’t arrive loudly or announce itself as something that would matter later. It slipped in quietly instead, folded into something that should have been good, something you’d both been waiting for without ever quite saying it out loud.
You were sitting on your bedroom floor this time, your back resting against the side of your bed, the carpet warm beneath your legs. Envelopes were spread between you in a loose, uneven line, some already opened, others still sealed, their edges too crisp, too final for something that was supposed to decide so much.
Bradley sat across from you, one knee bent, the other stretched out, his attention fixed on a single envelope in his hands. He turned it over once, then again, like the contents might change depending on how he looked at it. Neither of you had said much since you started opening them. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much, and neither of you seemed ready to be the one to say it first.
“Did you open that one yet?” you asked after a moment, nodding toward the envelope he was still holding.
He shook his head without looking up. “Not yet.”
“You should.”
“You should open yours first.”
You glanced down at the one resting in your lap, your name printed neatly across the front, your own counterpart to the envelope in his hands. For a second, you just sat there, your fingers tracing the edge of it, like delaying it might somehow hold everything in place a little longer. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you tore it open.
The sound felt louder than it should in the quiet room. You pulled the letter free, your eyes moving too quickly over the words at first, catching fragments before they settled into something you could actually understand.
Accepted.
You stopped, blinking once, then again, like that might change it.
“I got in,” you said, the words softer than you expected, almost like you were still catching up to them.
Bradley’s reaction was immediate. He leaned forward slightly, something warm and proud breaking through his expression as he looked at you, like this had never really been in question for him.
“Yeah?” he said, already smiling. “Yeah, you did.”
You nodded, a breath of a laugh slipping out as it started to feel real. For a moment, everything lined up the way it was supposed to. It all felt like it was finally settling into place.
“Open yours,” you said, still holding onto that feeling, like it was something you could carry forward into whatever came next.
He looked down at the envelope in his hands again, and this time something in his expression shifted. It was small, almost imperceptible, but you noticed it anyway. He opened it, slower than you had, more deliberate, like he was already bracing himself for something.
You watched him closely without meaning to, your attention fixed on the smallest details. The way the paper tore, the way he pulled the letter free, the way his eyes moved across the page, quick at first, then slower. Then they stopped.
The change was immediate, even if it was subtle. Something in him stilled, tightened just enough that you felt it before he said anything.
“What?” you asked, quieter now, the word coming out more carefully than you intended.
He exhaled through his nose, lowering the paper slightly, his jaw setting in a way that told you everything you needed to know before the words came.
“I didn’t get in.”
For a second, it didn’t land. And then it did.
He didn’t look at you. His gaze dropped back to the paper in his hands like there might be something he’d missed, something that would make it make sense if he read it again. His grip tightened slightly along the edge, the only outward sign of the shift happening under the surface.
“That didn’t make any sense,” you said, already pushing yourself up onto your knees, the words coming faster now. “Brad, you—”
“I know.”
The interruption was sharper than you expected. The room stilled around it, the weight of it settling into the space between you. You knew deep down it wasn’t directed at you, but it still stung.
He was already moving before you could say anything else, pushing himself up from the floor in one quick motion, his hand dragging through his hair like he needed something to do with the tension building under his skin. He crossed the room without looking at you, reaching for his phone where he had left it on your desk.
“Bradley—”
“Just—hold on.”
There was something tight in his voice now, something controlled but barely. He dialed, and as the phone began to ring, he was already pacing once across the room and back again.
You didn’t mean to listen, but you did.
“Yeah,” he said as soon as the call connected, his voice low but tense. “It’s me.”
A pause followed, long enough that you could hear your own pulse again, steady but too loud in the quiet room.
“I thought you said everything was good,” he continued, the words coming out more controlled than loud, but no less sharp for it.
Another pause stretched, heavier this time, and when he spoke again there was something more beneath it, something that sounded like frustration pushed down too far.
“No, that’s not what you said. You said you’d put in a good word. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
Your hands curled slightly in your lap, fingers pressing into your palms as you watched him pace, the movement restless, contained.
“I did everything right,” he said, quieter now, but the edge hadn’t left. “I had the grades, I had the recommendations—so what changed?”
Silence answered him again. He stopped moving, listening, his back half-turned to you, his shoulders tight.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment, flatter now. “Right. Okay.”
Another pause followed, longer, and when he spoke again the anger wasn’t gone. It had just been shut down, packed away somewhere you couldn’t quite reach.
“Yeah,” he repeated. “Got it.”
He ended the call without another word.
The quiet that followed felt heavier than the one before it, like something in the room had shifted just enough that you couldn’t put it back where it was. You stayed where you were, not quite sure if moving would make it worse or better.
“Brad…” you started carefully, your voice softer now.
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before finally turning to look at you. His expression had changed again, the tension still there but buried deeper now, harder to read.
“It’s fine,” he said.
It wasn’t.
You both knew it.
It's your phone that brings you back to reality.
The vibration is soft, muffled slightly from where it sits tucked inside your clutch, but it cuts through the quiet of the terrace with startling clarity, dragging you out of the past before you’re ready to leave it.
You blink, grounding yourself, your fingers already moving before you fully register the motion. The clasp of your bag gives way under your touch, and you retrieve your phone with a familiarity that feels almost automatic, as if your body knows what to do even as your mind is still catching up.
The screen lights your face faintly.
A message waits there.
Hope the gala’s going well. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you tonight.
From your fiancé.
You read it once.
Then again, slower this time, as if something about it might change if you give it enough attention.
There’s nothing wrong with it—not careless or distant—no reason to hesitate. It’s exactly how he always is: considerate, measured, steady in a way that makes sense for the life you’ve built, for the person he is.
Your thumb hovers over the screen, caught in that familiar pause between reading and replying, the moment stretching just long enough for the choice to settle in.
You could answer, but you don’t.
The screen dims beneath your touch, the message fading as the phone locks, and you slip it back into your clutch, the decision made without letting yourself linger on it.
Your hand lingers at the edge of your bag for a moment before dropping back to your side, and almost without thinking, your gaze follows the movement, drawn downward to where the ring catches faintly under the terrace lights.
It glints just enough to hold your attention.
You turn your hand slightly, your thumb brushing the band in a slow, absent motion, feeling the smooth edge press against your skin. The movement is small, repetitive, something you don’t quite realize you’re doing until you’ve already done it twice, adjusting it, settling it, like you’re trying to make sure it sits exactly where it’s supposed to.
It does. It always does.
Your hand stills there for a moment, fingers loosely curled, as the weight of it settles back into something harder to ignore. The air moves faintly around you, cool against your skin, but you don’t shift with it. Instead, you close your eyes briefly, just long enough to steady yourself, to gather the edges of something that threatens to surface before it can fully take shape. It presses in anyway, the memory of your childhood bedroom, the warmth of his hands, the certainty you had then, colliding uncomfortably with the present in a way that makes your chest tighten before you can stop it.
You inhale slowly, controlled, letting the breath out just as carefully, forcing the feeling back down before it becomes anything visible. By the time you open your eyes again, your expression has already settled into something smoother, something practiced, the kind of composure that doesn’t invite questions. Your hand drops from the ring without hesitation, as if the movement itself is enough to draw a line under the moment, something decided without being fully acknowledged.
For a second, you just stand there, looking out over the terrace, letting the quiet reassert itself around you. The city stretches beyond in soft, distant lights, unchanged, indifferent to whatever has just shifted inside you. It would be easy to stay here, to let the night flatten everything back into something manageable, something that doesn’t ask anything more of you than this.
But the feeling lingers.
And this time, you don’t push it away.
You noticed it in small ways at first, the kind that were easy to excuse if you weren’t looking too closely. The way he took longer to respond when you texted him, the way his answers felt shorter when he did. The way he didn’t quite look at you the same when you showed up at his door, like something in him was already somewhere else, somewhere you didn’t have access to.
You told yourself it was just the disappointment. That it made sense. That it would pass.
It didn’t.
By the time you ended up at the party that Saturday night, the distance had settled into something harder to ignore. The house was already full when you got there, music spilling out into the yard, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even stepped inside. Someone you vaguely recognized pulled you into a quick hello, the air thick with heat and noise and the kind of energy that was supposed to feel fun, easy, like a release after a long week.
Bradley was already a step ahead of you when you pushed through the front door, already grabbing a drink from someone passing by like he’d been there longer than he had. He didn’t wait for you to catch up, didn’t glance back the way he normally would, just took a long pull like he needed it more than he should have.
“Brad,” you said, reaching for his arm lightly, trying to ground him, to pull his attention back to you. “Hey.”
He looked at you then, but it was brief, something flickering across his expression before it settled into something looser, less focused. “Hey,” he echoed, already turning slightly away as someone called his name from across the room.
It happened again.
And again.
Each time you found him, he had another drink in his hand, his words coming easier, louder, but not warmer. Not the way they usually were with you. There was a looseness to him that felt wrong, like it was covering something instead of revealing it, like he was trying not to sit still long enough for anything real to catch up with him.
You stayed close anyway.
You followed him through the house, through half-finished conversations and too-loud laughter, through rooms that blurred together until it all started to feel the same. You told yourself it was fine, that he just needed this, that letting him burn through whatever this was might be easier than trying to stop it.
But the more he drank, the less he seemed like himself.
And the more you felt it.
By the time you found him again, he was out on the back porch, leaning heavily against the railing, another bottle of beer loose in his hand. The night air was cooler out there, cutting through some of the haze from inside, but it didn’t seem to reach him.
“Bradley,” you said, quieter this time, stepping closer.
He laughed under his breath, not looking at you right away. “There you are.”
It wasn’t relief, but something else.
You reached for him again, your hand settling against his arm, more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”
That got his attention.
His head turned, slow, his gaze landing on you in a way that felt sharper than it had all night, even through the alcohol, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” you said, keeping your voice even, even as something tighter curled underneath it. “You’ve barely talked to me all night, and now you’re—”
“What?” he cut in, the word coming out rougher than you expected. “Drinking?”
There was an edge there now.
You hesitated, just for a second, “That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” He let out a short laugh, pushing himself off the railing just enough to face you more fully. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Brad—”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but it didn’t sound like it was. His hand dragged back through his hair, restless, agitated, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting you,” you replied, the frustration slipping in despite yourself. “I’m trying to talk to you.”
“About what?” he snapped.
You stared at him for a second, “You know what.”
His expression shifted again, something closing off behind his eyes, something defensive settling in where there had been space before. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think I do.”
There was a beat.
And then it came out.
“You’re still going,” he said, like it had been sitting there all night, waiting. “Just like that. Like nothing changed.”
Your chest tightened. “Bradley—”
“No, seriously,” he continued, talking over you now, the words picking up speed, losing control. “You just… what? Pack up and leave, go off to Annapolis, and that’s it?”
“That’s not what this is,” you said, but it felt thinner now, harder to hold onto.
“Then what is it?” he demanded, stepping closer, not aggressive, but too intense, too charged. “Because it feels like you’re just… fine with it.”
“I’m not fine with it,” you said, sharper now. “I just—what am I supposed to do? Not go?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said.
The word hit like a slap.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Pick somewhere else,” he said, like it was obvious, like it was simple. “Stay here. Go somewhere near me. It’s not like that’s your only option.”
You stared at him, something sinking in slowly, heavily. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he insisted, jaw tightening. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because this matters to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steadier. “You know it does.”
“And this doesn’t?” he shot back, gesturing between you like it should be enough to answer everything.
“I needed a breath too.”
The words reach you long before you’re prepared for them, low and close enough to pull you out of the past all at once.
You turn too quickly.
There’s no control in it, no time to smooth the reaction before it shows. It passes almost immediately, but not before it registers, not before it lands somewhere between you.
Bradley stands a few steps behind you, the terrace door falling softly shut at his back. He looks the same and not at all the same, the years written into the lines of him in ways that feel unfamiliar and deeply known all at once. His hand lingers against the door for a second before dropping, his attention settling on you with a quiet kind of focus that feels heavier than it should.
You recover.
You have to.
You turn back toward the railing, not fully, just enough to put something between you, your gaze drifting outward as if the city beyond the terrace holds your attention more than he does. It’s easier that way, easier to pretend this is something ordinary, something manageable.
“Crowded in there,” you say, your voice light, almost absent, like you haven’t just been pulled out of something you weren’t ready to leave. “Figured I’d get some air.”
You hear him shift behind you, feel the space change in that subtle way that has nothing to do with distance and everything to do with awareness.
“Yeah,” Bradley says after a moment. “Same.”
You nod, just once, as if that’s enough to close the conversation before it can open into something else. Your fingers rest against the railing, still now, deliberate in their stillness, like you’ve decided not to give anything else away.
For a moment, it almost works.
The quiet stretches, and if you don’t look at him, if you don’t move, you can almost pretend this is nothing more than a coincidence.
Your hand shifts.
It’s unconscious, the smallest movement, your fingers adjusting where they rest against the railing, and the light catches before you think to stop it.
You feel the way his attention drops before you see it, the way something in the space between you changes without a single word being spoken.
Your breath catches, almost imperceptibly, your thumb brushing over the band in a reflex you can’t quite control now that you know he’s seen it. The metal feels heavier under your touch, more present, like it’s been pulled into focus in a way it hadn’t been before.
You can't bring yourself to look at him, make eye contact.
The silence that follows is no longer neutral. It tightens, pulls inward, something unspoken settling heavily between you, something that refuses to be ignored now that it’s been noticed.
“...That new?” he asks, quieter this time.
You swallow, the motion small but necessary, and when you answer, your voice comes out steadier than you feel, softened into something that almost passes for easy.
“Yeah,” you say, turning your hand slightly as if it’s nothing, as if the gesture itself might make it smaller. “A few months.”
He can't bring himself to respond right away. You can feel him thinking, the silence stretching just long enough to make you aware of it, just long enough that it starts to press in again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with the night air.
“Is he good to you?”
You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite, your gaze still fixed somewhere out past the railing, like the answer might be easier to give if you don’t look at him while you say it.
“Yeah,” you say after a second, and this time it comes easier. “He is.”
A punctuating pause settles. The distant hum of the nearby city feels louder for it, the rustle of wind against the railing, the soft shift of fabric as he adjusts his stance to lean on the railing beside you.
You keep your gaze forward, fingers tightening just slightly where they rest, nails pressing faintly into your palm. Your shoulders stay squared, but there’s a tension there now, a quiet rigidity that wasn’t there before.
“Boringly so,” you add, a faint, wry edge slipping into your voice before you can stop it.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, leaning a little more of his weight into the railing beside you.
His fingers drift to the cuff of his sleeve, smoothing at it once, then again, a small restless motion that gives away more than his face does.
“That’s good,” he adds, and this time it sounds more deliberate, like he’s choosing the words instead of letting them come naturally.
Your fingers loosen slightly against the railing, then tighten again, the small movement betraying you more than anything you’ve said. You force your hand to be still, pressing your palm flat like that might steady something deeper than just your hands.
“Sounds like you picked right,” he says, with a distinct lack of bitterness.
But there’s something underneath it, something restrained and careful in a way that feels practiced, like he’s already decided what he’s allowed to say and what he isn’t.
You swallow, your throat tightening slightly, and this time when you nod, it feels different.
Heavier.
“Yeah,” you say softly.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back.
The porch felt smaller then, tighter, like the air had shifted into something harder to breathe.
Bradley stared at you, something incredulous flashing across his face, something hurt buried just beneath it. “I don’t get to ask you that?” he repeated, like he was trying to make sense of it, like the words didn’t quite land the way you meant them to.
“No,” you said, your voice steadier that time, even if your chest wasn’t. “You don’t get to stand here and tell me to change my entire future and then act like that’s—reasonable.”
“Your future?” he cut in, the words coming faster now, something sharper breaking through. He let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “The Academy was supposed to be my future.”
“And what?” you fired back. “I just wasn’t supposed to get in because you wanted it first?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he snapped, but there was frustration threaded through it now, uneven, slipping out of his control. “I’m saying you knew what it meant to me.”
“And you knew what it means to me,” you shot back. “You don’t get to act like I didn’t work my ass off for this, same as you.”
“Yeah,” he said, a humorless laugh slipping out, “and somehow you just—what—slid right into it like it was always yours.”
The words hit harder than he probably intended.
You stared at him, something in your chest tightening. “What? You think I somehow stole this from you?”
“I think everything just… worked out for you,” he said, gesturing loosely, like he couldn’t quite contain it anymore. “And I’m the one left standing here trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.”
“That is not my fault,” you said, sharper then. “I am not the one that fucked you over.”
His jaw tightened.
“It is your fault,” he shot back, stepping closer now, the space between you collapsing too fast. “If you just—leave. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not part of that decision at all.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” you said, but it came out thinner than you wanted it to.
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” he said, quieter then, but it cut deeper for it. “You just don’t want to call it that.”
You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration spiking. “What do you want me to do? Say no? Turn it down? Pretend this doesn’t matter to me now that I’ve put in all the work?”
“I want you to care,” he said, and the words landed heavier than anything else he’d said. “I want you to act like this isn’t just… easy for you.”
“It’s not easy,” you said, but your voice was already breaking around the edges.
“Then why does it feel like it is?” he pressed, louder now, the frustration spilling over. “Why does it feel like you’ve already made up your mind and I’m just supposed to—what—fall in line?”
“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to decide my own future.”
“That’s not what this is,” he said immediately, but there was no real conviction behind it anymore, just momentum carrying him forward.
“Then what is it?” you pushed, your voice rising. “Because right now it sounds like you’re asking me to give something up so you don’t have to deal with being disappointed.”
Something in him snapped.
Not all at once—but enough.
“You know this is my dream,” he said, but it was rough then, dragged out of him instead of chosen.
“I know,” you said, softer, but it didn’t slow him down.
“No, I don’t think you do,” he snapped, the volume breaking through, his voice cutting across the quiet of the porch. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here acting like this is just—fine.”
“I’m not acting like it’s fine,” you shot back, your own voice unsteady then. “I’m trying to figure it out and you’re not even giving me the chance to—”
“To what?” he cut in, louder, stepping closer without realizing it. “To leave and make it sound like it wasn’t a choice?”
“That’s not fair—”
“Nothing about this is fair,” he said, and that time it wasn’t just frustration—it was anger, raw and unfiltered, something you’d never seen from him before. “You get everything you wanted, and I’m just supposed to stand here and be okay with it? Watch you go and pretend it doesn’t matter?”
The words hit hard.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it, your chest tightening painfully as you tried to hold your ground.
“I’m not asking you to pretend it doesn’t matter,” you said, but your voice was already breaking. “I’m asking you to not make me choose between this and you.”
“I’m not making you choose,” he fired back, but it sounded wrong even as he said it. “You already did.”
You stared at him, your breath catching, tears slipping free before you could stop them.
“That’s not true,” you said, but it came out thin, unsteady, like it didn’t stand a chance against what he’d just said.
For a second, it looked like he was about to say something else, something worse. His chest rose, his mouth opening like the words were already there, something sharp and irreversible sitting right on the edge—
Suddenly, he stopped. You could see it happen, the moment he caught himself. His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping briefly like he was forcing something back down, like he was pulling himself away from a line he knew he couldn’t cross.
When he looked back at you, it was different. Still angry. But restrained then, barely held together.
“Just—” he started, then cut himself off, shaking his head.
You waited.
He exhaled sharply.
“Just go.”
You blinked at him, like you hadn’t heard him right, like you were waiting for him to take it back.
He didn’t.
“Go,” he repeated, not louder, not angrier—just final.
Something in your chest gave.
You nodded once, barely, your throat too tight to say anything, and then you turned before he could see anything else, before you could fall apart any more than you already had.
The noise from inside crashed over you as you pushed through the door, the music too loud, the lights too bright, everything too much all at once.
You refused to stop. You needed to get out of there. You didn’t look back, you just went.
He didn’t follow.
You don’t look at him when you speak.
“So,” you say instead, your voice lighter than it has any right to be, like you can smooth this back into something normal if you try hard enough. “I hear you’ve been busy.”
There’s a faint shift beside you.
Not one of surprise, more like recognition.
“Something like that,” he says, and there’s a hint of something dry in it, something that almost passes for humor. “Word gets around, I guess.”
You nod, letting out a small breath, your fingers resting more loosely against the railing now, like you’ve decided to play this part all the way through. “It does. Hard not to, when half the room in there won’t stop talking about you.”
It’s true.
You heard it before you even saw him.
His name, his reputation, the quiet reverence that follows it.
He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh at that, the sound low and almost self-conscious. “Yeah, well. They make it sound better than it is.”
“I doubt that,” you say, glancing at him briefly this time, just enough to take him in properly. The uniform. The way he carries himself now is steadier, more certain. “Seems like you did exactly what you set out to do.”
The words settle between you, and for a moment, something gentler passes through the space.
Something that could almost be mistaken for pride.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I did.”
You nod again, like that’s enough, like that closes that door neatly.
It doesn’t.
You feel it in the pause that follows, the way neither of you quite knows where to go next without stepping into something deeper than either of you has acknowledged yet.
So you don’t. You keep it light.
“What about you?” he asks after a moment, his tone shifting slightly, more careful now. “Doesn’t quite look like you're still in.”
You shake your head, a small, almost absent movement, your gaze drifting back out over the terrace. “Not anymore.”
“Yeah?” he says, and there’s something in it now, something quieter, more pointed. “What happened?”
You shrug lightly, like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry the weight it actually does. “Nothing dramatic. Just… figured out it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”
He studies you for a second, and you can feel it without looking, the way his attention settles, the way he doesn’t quite accept the answer at face value.
“Huh,” he says finally, the sound low, almost thoughtful. “All that work.”
There’s a pause.
Then, softer, with just enough edge to catch—
“Kind of a waste of an Academy education, isn’t it?”
It initially reads as lighthearted, almost a joke, but underneath the surface, it carries a weight. It stings slightly.
You let out a small breath, something close to a laugh, even as your fingers tighten again against the railing. “Yeah,” you say, matching the tone, keeping it easy. “Guess so.”
Follow this path for “the lucky ones.” (Coming Soon)
Follow this path for a story that looks like a tragedy now. (Coming Soon)
notes: choose your own part 2! <3 (please please please let me know if you see any typos!! i'll go in and fix them)
It's entirely dedicated to Lando until the last 3 songs. "So Long, London" is the official farewell, Lando and London sound similar. "The Prophecy" is the devastating and hopeless feeling after a breakup that you are doomed to spend the rest of your life alone. And "Fresh Out The Slammer" is a spark of hope that begins to emerge, and a new love appears on the horizon, which leads us to Side B.
Side B is a rollercoaster of emotions. From rediscovering your self-worth, to fantasizing about someone else while in a relationship, the betrayal itself, that limbo between one relationship and another - "was this just a fling or something more?", the judgments that this love receives and accepting and assuming your choice once and for all and being okay with it.
holY SHIT BRO
um, i have no idea how to respond to this. i am so excited to listen to these!!!
it’s absolutely mind blowing that anyone could like something i wrote this much
literally thank god sex isnt real and was just invented by big fiction to emphasize greater social and psychological themes i was getting scared id have to do all that
Icarus - Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x Reader x Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw - Chapter 1
Chapter One — Resurrection
❝ He didn’t look frightened. Not aware enough for fear. Just unmoored. ❞
[iceman x reader | rooster x reader | love triangle]
~13.3k words | rated: T
tw: medical procedures, disorientation, cryostasis revival, memory fragmentation, emotional whiplash
thirty years gone, and he wakes to your voice.
rooster walks in expecting a legend—
but finds only a man learning how to be alive again.
notes: this series has been my white whale for MONTHS. @valkilmher requested this in like march or april and i just couldn't get it right (i hope) until now. special thanks to @hotboyhottub-reboot for reading it over and boosting my confidence on it <3 enjoy!! and yes i get its a weird concept but bear w me :DD
my masterlist
request guide
The cryogenics wing was the kind of facility built for contingency rather than comfort. Three sublevels below the lowest authorized workspace, insulated under concrete and steel older than most of the officers stationed above it, the hallway leading in felt like stepping into a sealed archive—cold, compressed, and artificially quiet.
When the elevator doors opened, a blade of refrigerated air knifed out, sharp enough to sting your sinuses. The lighting here didn’t glow; it flickered awake panel by panel, motion-triggered in a sterile blue-white that cast no warmth. It illuminated nothing unnecessary. No signage beyond numerical IDs. No windows. No reminders that a world existed outside this subterranean corridor.
You signed into three separate checkpoints before you even reached the chamber—fingerprint, keycode, then retinal scan. Each guard barely looked at you except to confirm your clearance level. The weight of protocol pressed from every direction. This wasn’t a medical bay. It wasn’t even a research lab. It was a vault.
The final door slid open with a low, hydraulic hiss.
Inside, the chamber was larger than expected—an aircraft hangar condensed into a climate-controlled medical suite. Rows of advanced consoles curved in a semicircle around the room's center, each screen projecting cascading lines of diagnostics. Modern equipment filled the perimeter: thermal regulators the size of refrigerators, multi-vector stabilizers humming with magnetic containment fields, data hubs tethered by thick fiber bundles to a central processor wall.
All of it sleek, polished, current-generation tech. And all of it pointed toward the cryopod.
It sat alone in the center of the floor on a reinforced metal cradle, and it looked…old. Not broken. Not neglected. Just unmistakably from another era.
The casing was institutional off-white, the color of early military plastics, slightly yellowed from time. Its edges were squared rather than aerodynamic. A bank of physical switches lined one side, each with peeling labels typed on a machine no one used anymore. A CRT monitor—an honest-to-god curved-glass display—was inset toward the top, its dusty surface fogged almost opaque.
Everything about the pod felt analog in a room built for digital precision.
And yet, it was alive.
Thick modern cables snaked from the support systems into retrofitted ports drilled into the housing decades after its manufacture. Adapters bridged impossible technological gaps—1990s cryo engineering forcibly synchronized with 2020s stabilization systems. Structural clamps held external regulators tight against the pod’s older thermal plating, compensating for machinery never designed to maintain stasis this long. Redundancies fed redundancies, forming a spiderweb of life support that looked one power surge away from collapse.
Frost rimmed the seams in jagged, crystalline patterns. Meltwater streaked down in thin, uneven trails, leaving darkened patches on the floor beneath. The internal temperature readings on the nearest display were slowly, painfully creeping upward, trying to coax the biosystems inside toward revival range.
You took in the whole picture—old world hardware sustained by new world machinery—and felt the strange, clinical dissonance of it. Not awe, not sentiment; just the recognition that reviving Lieutenant Tom Kazansky required an entire room’s worth of technology compensating for the limits of an era that had long since passed.
A technician brushed by you carrying a diagnostic module, barely sparing a glance. Another worked on syncing an outdated analog readout to a modern vitals monitor. No one spoke above a murmur. No one needed to. The room operated on a constant, low-grade tension you could feel at the back of your teeth.
Dr. Imani—the lead medical officer—approached without ceremony, a tablet tucked under one arm. She nodded toward the pod.
“This is it. Last surviving unit from the experimental cryostasis program. Hardware’s obsolete. The fact that it held integrity this long is impressive, but don’t assume stability.” Her voice stayed level, practical. “Anything anomalous during thaw, you call it immediately.”
You stepped closer to the pod, adjusting your gloves as frost crackled faintly along the edges of the glass. Through the fogged viewing panel, you could make out only a dim silhouette—broad shouldered, still, sealed in a posture that suggested readiness even after decades of artificial sleep.
Dr. Imani continued, “When this program was shut down in ’94, they kept this unit running because someone at the top didn’t want to pull the plug. Twenty years of maintenance, patchwork repairs, and classified funding later, here we are.”
Her tone wasn’t emotional. It was factual.
The room felt the same.
She handed you the tablet. “Your protocols begin as soon as we reach a safe internal temperature. Until then, monitor the psychological baseline projections and stay clear of the seals. When they give, they give fast.”
You nodded, reviewing the Phase One checklist: neurological resync, metabolic stabilization estimates, potential cognitive fragmentation indicators. All preliminary. All theoretical. No one in history had revived after this long.
Dr. Imani gave a clipped gesture to the technicians.
“Begin pre-warm sequence.”
The first minute of the pre-warm cycle hit the room like a shift in weather. The temperature hadn’t risen much—half a degree at most—but the machinery surrounding the cryopod reacted all at once, adjusting airflow, recalibrating its containment fields, compensating for the old hardware’s uneven thermal output.
A row of heart-rate and neural activity monitors flickered to life on the left wall. The readings were incomplete, fragmented by decades of technological mismatch. The data stream stuttered, froze, jumped. A technician leaned in toward the display, frowning.
“Heart activity present,” he reported, voice low but steady. “Pattern’s irregular. Synaptic signals re-mapping. Respiratory oscillation at…twenty percent of predicted range.”
Another tech, wrist-deep in a console beneath the pod, muttered something about voltage drift. Nothing about the revival was smooth. Nothing about it looked guaranteed.
Dr. Imani approached you with her tablet tucked under one arm, her expression neutral, as if she had rehearsed every possible failure scenario.
“You’ll begin the preliminary assessment once we have sustained consciousness,” she said without preamble. “Not before. Stability conditions must meet threshold zero.”
She handed you a secondary tablet. The display was filled with projected neurological baselines—models built from pre-freeze scans, old performance evaluations, and early psychological profiles. All theoretical. All marked with wide margins of error.
“You’re looking for intentional responses only,” she continued. “Eye movement, motor initiation, verbal output. Reflexive responses don’t count. Anything unusual, you flag it immediately.”
You nodded and reviewed the protocol checklist. Orientation sequence. Identity recall. Temporal grounding. Sensory verification. All standard for severe traumatic dislocation cases. None were designed for a subject who had been biologically paused for two decades.
A sharp electrical snap came from the pod’s right console. One of the analog indicator lights flickered violently, then steadied after a technician slapped the side panel with the heel of his hand.
“It’s the original wiring,” he said flatly. “We’ve replaced what we can, but some of this is older than I am.”
He reached for a diagnostic clamp—sleek, modern—attaching it to the failing port to bypass the outdated sensor. The pod shuddered in response, as if acknowledging the intrusion. The CRT monitor embedded in its upper panel buzzed, flickered, then finally sputtered to life with a grainy monochrome interior feed.
You watched, expression neutral, as the distorted image stabilized. Tom Kazansky’s body was visible only in outline: broad shoulders, rigid posture softened by decades of stasis, frost tracing uneven streaks across his faceplate and collar. His breathing was shallow but present. Fingers twitched intermittently, irregular and weak.
“Muscle activity is increasing,” one of the biotechs noted. “Likely autonomic. Could indicate early neural reactivation.”
Dr. Imani didn’t look away from the pod. “Or cryo tremors. We won’t know until he initiates deliberate movement.”
She turned to you. “Position yourself at the primary assessment mark. Close enough for auditory response, far enough not to interfere with medical stabilization.”
You stepped to the designated floor marker—painted yellow, worn at the edges. From here, you had a clear view of the pod and all the monitors feeding into it. You rehearsed the first few lines of the assessment script silently, calibrating tone and cadence. The first voice he heard needed to be measured. Neutral. Directive. No deviation.
A technician pressed a small transmitter into your hand.
“For the pod’s internal speakers,” he said. “Signal strength’s weak, so project consistently when we tell you to rely on it.”
You did a quick equipment check—tablet synced, neurological prompts ready, emergency override documentation open in case sedation protocols were required. Nothing in your posture suggested nerves. This was your field.
Behind you, Dr. Imani began calling out live metrics.
“Core temperature nearing safe range… metabolic rate stabilizing… cardiac irregularities diminishing. Prepare for seal depressurization.”
A row of amber warning lights along the pod’s frame flickered, pulsed, then shifted to a steady red. Frost cracked audibly along the seams. A countdown appeared on the primary monitor—ninety seconds, then eighty-nine.
Technicians stepped back to their designated posts. No one spoke now. No one needed to. Everything had been said in the briefings, the simulations, the years of maintaining an obsolete machine in the hope that this moment would eventually come.
You opened your log and began your official observations, documenting environmental conditions, physiological indicators, equipment responses, sensor drift. The notes were factual. Crisp. Clinical.
Thirty seconds.
Dr. Imani moved to your side, arms folded, watching the numbers drop.
“Once the seals release,” she said quietly, “everything becomes real-time. Stay sharp.”
You nodded once, eyes fixed on the pod. The frost along the view panel surrendered in a single crackling sheet.
The room stilled—not in fear or awe, but in the disciplined readiness of people standing at the edge of an untested protocol.
The pod’s seams split with a sound like metal exhaling after decades of restraint. A low, heavy groan rolled through the chamber as pressurized cold air burst outward in a thick plume, spilling across the floor and fogging around the ankles of technicians who immediately stepped back to give the shell room to open.
Lights above the pod brightened automatically, shifting from the low blue of cryogenic maintenance to a stark, clinical white. The old hinge motors engaged with a strained mechanical whine—deep, uneven, fighting against years of inactivity. External mechanical arms, bolted on as compensatory support, took over the lift, rising steadily under hydraulic power.
Frost shattered down the sides in uneven sheets.
The interior of the pod came into view slowly. First the upper torso, then the shoulders, then the still figure beneath a fine dusting of crystalline ice. His skin had the pale, mottled look of someone kept far below natural temperatures; his chest rose in shallow, irregular pulls. His hair was stiff with frost; his eyelashes clumped together with residual condensation.
The first tremor hit almost immediately.
His shoulders jerked in a sharp, involuntary spasm. A second pulse followed—arms twitching, jaw tightening. Cryo tremors. Unpredictable and stronger than most patients. His body was trying to recalibrate from a state that wasn’t meant to last well over twenty years.
Two medics moved in fast, securing soft restraints around his forearms and across his upper torso to prevent injury as he convulsed. Another adjusted the thermal gradient, activating targeted warming pads that adhered to his chest and sides. A fourth medic fitted an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth as his breathing faltered into a ragged choke.
“Airway clearing,” someone called out.
Condensation was suctioned from his throat in a practiced, efficient motion. The choking subsided. His breathing evened—not normal, but functional.
At the edge of your peripheral vision, one of the monitors spiked.
“Neural activity is increasing,” a technician reported. “Chaotic pattern. Could be synaptic reorganization.”
His eyelids flickered. Not open—just micro-movements beneath frost-rimmed lashes.
You began recording:
Muscle reactivation: high intensity, inconsistent patterning.
Breathing: shallow, improving with oxygen support.
Cranial nerve indicators: present but uncoordinated.
Eye movement: reflexive.
Another tremor rolled through him, harder this time, jerking his torso against the restraints. The medics held firm, adjusting pressure points to prevent hyperextension. The warming pads beeped as they reached target temperature.
“Heat gradient stabilized,” a medic reported. “Peripheral circulation responding.”
Dr. Imani watched the data stream with a tight focus, her tone clipped.
“He’s organizing. Get ready for contact.”
His hand flexed—first into a loose curl, then opening again, fingers spasming in a rhythm too uneven to be conscious movement. His brow twitched. The muscles around his mouth tightened, loosened, tightened again.
You stepped into position at the designated contact point, transmitter in hand, tablet ready. Your role wouldn’t begin until he achieved sustained consciousness, but your presence needed to be immediate—visual, consistent, controlled.
His breathing shifted—no longer the shallow, autonomic flutter it had been moments before. This breath dragged in deeper, caught, steadied. The tremors taper off into something closer to deliberate stillness.
A rough, dragging inhale that seemed to scrape against lungs unaccustomed to drawing air without machine assistance. The tremors that had wracked his muscles only minutes before began to ease, strength consolidating into something more controlled—still weak, still unstable, but no longer purely reflexive.
Then—slowly, like heavy shutters lifting—his eyelids opened.
The light hit him in a way that made his gaze swim, pupils contracting sluggishly. He stared upward, the ceiling a blur of brightness and shapes he couldn’t yet order in his mind. For a moment, his eyes drifted, unfocused, devoid of context. The world around him existed, but it wasn’t his yet.
That was the moment you stepped forward.
Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just a single, steady step into his field of vision—into the space where he would see you first.
Behind you, the medics monitored vitals, adjusted regulators, and checked their displays. Their voices stayed low and clipped, each movement efficient and functional, devoid of warmth. The atmosphere remained clinical—cold, technical, impersonal.
“Lieutenant Kazansky,” you said, your voice level but unmistakably human. “You’re awake.”
The words reached him before his eyes fully found you. His breathing hitched—just slightly, but enough to signal processing. His head turned a fraction toward your voice, the motion clumsy and effortful, but undeniably intentional. His eyes dragged across the ceiling, then toward you, losing focus once, then finding you again with visible strain.
He looked…lost. Not frightened. Not aware enough for fear. Just unmoored.
“Don’t try to move yet,” you continued, softer than the doctors ever used but still firm, a tone meant to anchor rather than command. “Your muscles won’t respond the way you expect.”
His jaw worked, a minute tremor passing through it as he attempted to speak. Nothing came out at first—just a cracked exhale that scraped against vocal cords deprived of use for decades. The medics glanced over but didn’t intervene; they were watching numbers, not people.
You stepped a little closer. Close enough that he wouldn’t have to fight his eyes to track you, but far enough to avoid overwhelming him. His gaze followed the movement, slow and dragging but deliberate.
“Lieutenant,” you said, easing into his line of sight, “if you can hear me, try blinking once.”
There was a pause—a moment where the room held its collective breath.
Then, with visible effort, he blinked.
Slow. Heavy. Intentional.
“That’s good,” you said, and it was remarkable how your tone changed the air—still professional, but warmer than anything else in the chamber. Not comforting, exactly, but present.
You watched him try to steady his gaze on you. It shook at the edges, floating, then correcting, as though his mind was trying to stitch the room into a shape that made sense—a soft furrow formed between his brows, the faintest sign of concentration…or confusion.
He attempted to lift his head. It rose maybe an inch before his muscles failed, dropping back against the cradle padding with a dull thud. One of the medics took a half-step forward, but you lifted a hand just slightly to stop them.
“I’ve got him,” you murmured, low enough that only the closest staff heard.
Then, to him, more clearly:
“Easy. Don’t force it. Just breathe.”
His chest rose again, shaky but deeper this time. You could see the effort it took, the way he held the air like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. A rasp escaped him—something between a gasp and a sound trying to form into meaning.
“It’s alright,” you said, your voice steady and grounded. “You’re doing fine. You’re coming out of what we call cryostasis. This part is supposed to feel strange.”
His eyes fixed on you again. This time longer. More deliberate. He still couldn’t fully focus—your outline wavered, blurred—but he knew you were the one speaking to him—the one addressing him like a person rather than a patient.
“Follow my voice,” you instructed, gentle but direct. “Just my voice.”
His breath hitched again, and for the first time, it felt like something close to awareness. A flicker behind his eyes—thin, fragile, but undeniably human—trying to surface.
You took another step closer. No one stopped you. No one questioned it.
“Lieutenant Kazansky,” you said quietly, “you’re safe. You’re not in danger. Keep looking at me.”
His lips parted again. A sound emerged, strained, broken:
“…wh—”
It wasn’t a word. Less than half a syllable. But it was directed. It was him trying to understand.
You didn’t smile.
You didn’t soften.
But your tone shifted again—something steadying, giving him a place to land.
“I’ll explain everything,” you told him. “But you need to stay with me first.”
His breath caught unevenly, the intake rough and disorganized, as if his lungs were struggling to remember a task they once performed without thought. The shift in his respiration seemed to ripple through his entire body; muscles tightened across his chest and abdomen, and his brow drew together in a deep, pained crease. As sensation rushed back into him in chaotic waves, the first sound he made—a low, guttural groan—broke from his throat with unmistakable strain. It was thin and uncertain, raw in a way that suggested equal parts discomfort and confusion.
His fingers contracted against the sheet beneath him, curling stiffly, the tendons in his wrist standing out in sharp relief under the stark white lights overhead. The cold, almost metallic air in the chamber made every bead of thawing condensation glisten on his skin. Frost still clung stubbornly along the line of his jaw and hairline, melting into thin rivulets that traced down toward the cradle padding. His eyes flickered restlessly, unable to focus, chasing fragments of movement and brightness around the ceiling as his vision struggled to organize the surgical geometry of the room.
A medic stepped forward, the soft scrape of their boot against the floor louder than it should have been in the tense quiet. “He’s agitating. We should—”
You didn’t wait to hear the rest. Without hesitation, you stepped past the designated perimeter, slipping into the narrow space beside the pod where the air was noticeably colder, the residual bite from the thaw lingering like fog just above the floor. The technician nearest you lifted a hand as if to remind you of protocol, but when you turned your head to look at him, the message in your expression was unmistakable. He lowered his hand without another word. No one moved to block you again.
You approached the pod with a steady, deliberate pace, the harsh overhead light catching along the edges of your hair and casting slender shadows across your cheekbones. When you reached the side of the cradle, you set your hand over his without hesitation. His skin was shockingly cold, almost painful against your palm, but the contact had an immediate effect. He flinched—a slight, involuntary jerk—but then his fingers shifted beneath yours, curling weakly in a half-formed attempt to return the pressure. There was no strength behind it, only a flicker of seeking.
“Lieutenant,” you said, your voice breaking through the sterile hum of machines with a warmth that didn’t undermine your professionalism, “I’m right here. You’re safe. Just breathe with me.”
The words didn’t soothe him instantly. Another wave of discomfort surged through his body, tightening the muscles along his neck and shoulders. He tried to lift his head, his chin rising an inch before his strength gave out and gravity pulled him back down. The soft thud of contact with the cradle padding was followed by a frustrated exhale—harsh, uneven, more a release of tension than a controlled breath.
You tightened your grip on his hand, grounding him with firm, consistent pressure. His fingers instinctively closed around yours, the tremor in his grip betraying how difficult even that small action was for him. You leaned closer, angling yourself so he wouldn’t have to strain his eyes to find you.
“Look at me,” you said, not sharply, but with enough intention to cut through his disorientation.
It took several seconds, but his gaze finally drifted toward the sound of your voice. His pupils contracted sluggishly against the brightness, and you could see the strain in how he tried to bring you into focus—the slight squint, the stuttered blink, the wavering line of sight that corrected itself only through sheer effort. When he managed to settle his eyes on your face, the shift in his expression was subtle but unmistakable. There was no recognition—not yet—but there was a stabilizing pull, a primitive recognition of steadiness.
“There you go,” you murmured, your tone settling into that controlled cadence meant for grounding, not soothing. “Right here is fine. You’re doing exactly what you need to.”
You drew a slow breath, exaggerated just enough that he could follow if he focused. His chest rose in a halting imitation, the inhale catching halfway, then completing with visible work. The next breath came more smoothly, though still tinged with struggle. With each repetition, the frantic edge of his respiration dulled, replaced by something closer to a rhythm.
He shut his eyes tightly as another swell of overwhelming sensation gripped him—a dull ache radiating through thawing muscles, the sting of air against hypersensitive skin, the sheer cognitive overload of waking into a reality he didn’t understand. A second, softer groan escaped him, frustration threading through the sound. His grip on your hand tightened again, this time with clearer intent, the tremor still present but the gesture unmistakably reaching.
“I know this is overwhelming,” you said quietly, keeping your hand firmly around his. “It’s expected to be. You’re waking up from something extraordinary. Just stay with me, nothing else matters right now.”
His eyes opened again, slower and more deliberate. He found your face once more, and this time his focus held a little longer. The effort showed in the tension across his brow, the slight tremble along his jaw, the way his breath quivered as he tried to anchor himself.
“One thing at a time,” you murmured, your thumb steady where it rested along the back of his hand, your voice the most human element in a room otherwise built from cables and cold air.
He exhaled shakily in response and didn’t look away.
The tremor in his hand had barely settled when another shift ran through him—one not born of pain this time, but effort. His throat tightened in a visible swallow, the muscles working unevenly as he fought to coordinate breath with intention. His lips parted, closed, parted again. The simple act of forming a sound seemed to demand more from him than his recovering body could easily give.
His brow furrowed as if the very act of trying to speak was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
Then, on an unsteady exhale, the first broken syllable escaped him.
“…wh—”
It was barely sound at all, more breath than voice, but it carried unmistakable purpose. His fingers tightened around yours again—weakly, but with a new, searching insistence. He drew another uneven breath, jaw tightening as he tried once more.
“…wh…where…?”
The second attempt carried a faint scrape from his throat, raw and strained. His eyes fought to focus on your face, the brightness overhead scattering across his vision, his concentration slipping in and out of clarity. The question hung there between you, its simplicity weighted by confusion.
You adjusted your posture, leaning just enough nearer that he didn’t have to chase you with his gaze. “You’re in a medical recovery unit,” you said, choosing clarity over detail. “You’re safe here.”
He blinked—slow, heavy, and uneven. A flicker of comprehension, or perhaps only recognition of your voice, crossed his expression. But the effort of speaking had pulled something essential from him, and you saw the sudden faltering of his breathing, the slight widening of his eyes as disorientation surged back in.
His gaze slid away from yours, drifting toward the ceiling lights, then back again as though he couldn’t trust what he was seeing. The hand you held slackened, then tightened abruptly, panic fluttering along the tendons of his wrist.
You steadied him with your grip, grounding him before the spike of distress could rise further. “Easy. Don’t push past what your body can give,” you said, lowering your tone but keeping it firm enough to cut through the fog. “Just stay with me for a moment.”
His next breath came too fast, the one after that too shallow. You saw the moment he realized something was deeply wrong—whether with the room, his body, or himself didn’t matter. His awareness had sharpened just enough to sense a mismatch between what he expected and the reality he was waking into.
His head shifted, a subtle tilt, as if he meant to look down at his own body or surroundings. The movement was clumsy and brief. His lips trembled again, shaping intention with far less success this time.
“…what…happ…”
The word fractured halfway through. His throat seized around it, his breath stumbling as though the act of asking cost too much. His frustration showed in the tightening of his jaw and the sharp, pained inhale that followed.
You adjusted your hold on his hand, keeping him anchored. “You’ve been unconscious for a significant period,” you said. “Your systems are still catching up. We’ll take this slowly.”
A medic approached from the corner of your eye, stepping toward a console, then toward the pod. Their intent was obvious: intervention. Adjustment. Control.
Before they could open their mouth, you spoke without turning your head. “Not yet. He needs stability more than numbers.”
The medic froze, taken aback by the authority in your voice, and stepped back into position. The technicians exchanged brief glances but did not approach again.
Kazansky’s eyes returned to you, though unfocused. The intensity in them wasn’t recognition—it was something more primitive. Instinct. Seeking the one point in the room that felt consistent.
You angled closer, not enough to overwhelm him, but enough to keep his drifting attention fixed. The hand he held onto trembled against yours, but the pressure—faint as it was—remained.
“That’s better,” you said quietly. “You’re here. You’re awake. That’s the only thing required of you right now.”
His breathing, though still uneven, began to settle toward a rhythm you could work with. The line of tension along his jaw eased slightly, and the look in his eyes—still clouded, still struggling—held to you with a steadiness that hadn’t been there minutes ago.
His fingers pressed lightly into your palm, a gesture with no coordination yet plenty of intention.
You stayed right there, holding on.
A pulse of discomfort rippled through him, sharper this time, and you recognized it by the way his breath hitched and his grip faltered. The tremor wasn’t random. It traveled down the length of his body, the way involuntary spasms do when the nervous system meets old injuries halfway awake.
Under the thin medical sheet, the line of his legs shifted, stiff and minimal. He attempted a slight movement—hardly more than a twitch—and stopped immediately when pain answered him. The tension that crossed his face wasn’t confusion this time; it was memory written in muscle. Even half-conscious, his body knew what hurt.
You didn’t draw attention to it. Not yet.
But you noted the way he guarded his knees, the way the slightest adjustment sent a tightening across his jaw. The legacy of shrapnel, surgeries, and long-healed trauma was still mapped across him, even if his mind hadn’t reclaimed the history.
His eyes drifted open again, searching for you. Unfocused though they were, his gaze steadied when it found the shape of your face, like a compass needle trying to right itself.
You shifted closer, enough that he didn’t have to chase your silhouette with his eyes.
He needed something simple now. Something certain.
You gave him your name plainly, without adornment or softness, “and I’m part of the team responsible for your recovery.”
The words were clear, measured, professional—but not clinical. You spoke to him as a person, not a subject.
His lips parted slightly, his brow pulling tight as if he were trying to hold onto the sound of your name, trying to place it somewhere inside the fog. His throat worked again, attempting another small vocalization, but nothing came out except a rough exhale.
“That’s alright,” you said. “You don’t need to answer. Hearing me is enough.”
He blinked, slowly. Deliberately.
You continued, keeping your tone even, something he could orient to:
“You’re going to be hearing my voice a lot. I’ll be guiding you through every phase of reorientation. If something feels wrong or confusing or painful, you look to me. I’ll tell you what’s important, and what you can ignore.”
The faintest line of concentration formed between his brows, as if he were trying to process not the details but the certainty behind them.
Another slight tremor passed through his legs beneath the sheet—almost reflexive this time, a frustrated flinch against stiffness and old damage. You tightened your hold on his hand just slightly, grounding the reaction.
His eyes flicked down for the briefest moment, as if his body were trying to tell him something his brain couldn’t parse. The confusion that followed pushed a strained sound from his throat—a faint, voiceless echo of a question.
You stepped in before the distress could build.
“You’re safe,” you said, your voice steady and deliberate. “Pain doesn’t mean danger. It just means you’re waking up.”
He exhaled shakily through his nose and forced his eyes back to yours. The effort it took was visible—each blink heavy, each adjustment slow—but the intention was undeniable.
Good. He was tracking you.
Even if nothing else made sense yet.
You shifted your thumb along the back of his hand, only enough to reinforce contact.
You kept your hand around his, monitoring the way his fingers twitched as the muscle tremors subsided into something more controlled. His breathing eased in small increments—still uneven, but no longer on the edge of spiraling. You could almost feel his nervous system reassembling itself, grabbing onto whatever sensory constants it could find. Right now, that meant your voice and your hand.
His legs shifted again beneath the sheet—more deliberately this time. A small attempt to straighten one knee ended in a tight, involuntary wince. His jaw flexed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. Old injuries. Cold-stiffened joints. Thawing nerves. His body remembered pain long before the details of its origin would return.
You leaned in slightly, instinct guiding you to reassure him before the tension rebuilt.
“Pain is to be expected after what you’ve gone through.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake.
They were too vague, too loaded, too easily misinterpreted by someone whose brain was still clawing its way back into coherence. You should have kept it neutral. Objective. Ground-level. But the sentence had slipped out with a familiarity born from experience, not protocol.
And he noticed.
It happened quickly, a flicker rather than a complete reaction.
But it was unmistakable.
His eyes snapped to yours—not drifting, not sluggish, but sharp.
For a heartbeat, the fog cleared.
Not recognition. Not understanding.
But awareness.
His breath hitched again—not in pain this time, but in something closer to concern. The crease between his brows deepened by a fraction, and his grip around your hand tightened in a questioning way, not a desperate one.
You felt the shift instantly.
He didn’t have the strength to articulate anything yet, but his eyes said enough:
What happened to me?
How bad was it?
What do you know that I don’t?
He tried again to form a sound, the beginning of a word, maybe even an attempt at the question forming behind his eyes. All that emerged was a strained whisper of air and a faint vibration in his throat.
You steadied him with a firmer hold, softening your tone but keeping it deliberate.
“Don’t jump ahead,” you said quietly. “Your mind is waking up faster than your body. Let each part catch up in its own time.”
His gaze stayed fixed on you, steady in a way it hadn’t been before. There was no panic—only a faint, unsettled searching, as though he were trying to assemble a puzzle without knowing its edges.
You continued, more careful now.
Measured.
Intentional.
“You’re safe. That’s what matters right now. Whatever comes next, we’ll take it piece by piece.”
The faint line of tension across his forehead eased a little, though he didn’t stop watching you. If anything, the scrutiny deepened. His brain was beginning to test boundaries—to notice inconsistencies, to react to tone, to recognize when something didn’t match the simplicity of your earlier reassurances.
His fingers relaxed around yours, then tightened again—an uncertain, exploratory gesture, as if trying to evaluate whether your steadiness matched your words.
You adjusted your hold in response, grounding him before the fragile clarity could tilt into distress.
“Focus on my voice,” you said. “Everything else can wait.”
His exhale came slowly this time, controlled in a way that hinted he was consciously trying to follow your lead.
The room around you faded further into background noise—monitors humming, machines whirring, technicians waiting in silent vigilance—but none of it mattered. His attention was locked on you with a sharpness that hadn’t been present minutes earlier.
Your slip had woken something.
A question.
A memory trace.
A need for answers he wasn’t ready to receive.
And you knew the next beat would have to handle that carefully.
He didn’t let your answer settle.
Even in his weakened, trembling state, you could see the moment something sharper surfaced beneath the fog—the assertive, evaluating instinct of a man who had once made decisions at Mach speed. His breathing grew uneven again, not from panic this time, but from concentration. He blinked hard, as if trying to clear static from a failing screen.
Then his eyes found yours—steadier, narrower, not quite focused but undeniably deliberate.
His hand tightened around yours with more purpose than before. Not strong, not steady, but enough to signal intent.
He swallowed, jaw shifting as he tried to coordinate breath with speech. His lips parted, but no sound emerged at first—only a rough exhale that trembled with frustration.
He tried again.
This time, the words fought their way free, dragged through a throat that wasn’t ready but powered by sheer will.
“…tell… me…”
The pause wasn’t for effect. It was out of necessity. You felt the tremor in his arm, saw the strain ripple through his neck.
“…what… did this… to me.”
The last phrase dissolved slightly, the consonants blurring together, but the meaning landed with unmistakable weight.
Not what happened.
Not why am I here.
What did this to me?
A deeper, more pointed demand—one that implied, consciously or not, that he sensed something catastrophic. Something intentional. Something violent. The kind of question asked by a pilot who knew that injuries like his didn’t come from “accidents.”
His jaw tightened again, breath stuttering in a way that told you the question had cost him.
The room seemed to still around you. Even the quiet hum of machinery felt muted under the sudden gravity of his words.
You didn’t flinch.
You didn’t soften.
But you knew you couldn’t give him the truth yet.
Your reply had to walk a razor-thin line between grounding him and preventing his already-strained mind from latching onto something too destabilizing.
You leaned in slightly, letting him hold your gaze without strain.
“Your injuries came from an impact event,” you said, choosing each word with meticulous care. “A severe one. You survived it, but the toll on your body was significant.”
His eyes narrowed further—a flicker of suspicion or recognition or instinct. Something in the word impact resonated. A shadow crossed his expression, faint but unmistakable, as if a half-memory flickered in the periphery of his consciousness.
He tried to chase it—you saw it in the sudden tension in his face, the slight lift of his head, the tightening of the muscles along his jaw.
Then the pain hit.
A sharp, involuntary spasm ran up his legs, stopping abruptly at the knees—the joint stiffness and old shrapnel damage announcing itself before he could understand why. His breath fractured, leaving him stunned and disoriented.
You tightened your grip to stabilize him.
“Easy,” you said, voice firm but quiet. “Don’t push that far yet.”
He blinked hard, once, twice, the clarity faltering—but not disappearing. He was still there. Still present. Still pressing.
His chest rose in a shaky inhale. His fingers curled into your palm again, this time with an unmistakable message:
Don’t evade me.
You let the moment settle, then spoke with calm precision:
“I’ll tell you what you need to know. But not all at once. Your mind and body have limits right now, and I’m not going to risk your stability.”
His breathing eased by degrees, though frustration still flickered behind his eyes.
He held your gaze for several long seconds, a silent battle between instinct, confusion, and the very human need for answers.
That sharpness—that stubborn refusal to accept partial truths—was something you would learn to recognize quickly.
But for now, exhaustion pulled at him, dragging him back toward the edge of collapse.
The next question lingered in his eyes, unspoken but burning.
His breathing finally settled into something that resembled a rhythm, even if each inhale still carried a tremor. The effort of speaking—really speaking—had drained what little strength he’d regained. His head sank back against the cradle padding, eyes half-lidded but still fixed on you in a wary, deliberate way.
You held his gaze long enough to confirm what you needed to see:
Cognition flickering into coherence, awareness stabilizing, the beginnings of comprehension forming behind the exhaustion.
You released a quiet breath and stepped back—not withdrawing your hand completely, just enough to signal a transition.
Then you raised your voice slightly, directing it toward the staff waiting at the perimeter.
“He’s ready.”
The words cut through the room with the same authority as a command. Conversations stopped. Footsteps paused. The technicians straightened instantly, their attention snapping to the pod.
You turned your focus back to him, lowering your voice again to something steady and direct.
“Lieutenant, we’re going to shift you from the pod to a medical bed,” you told him. “A team will assist. They’ll move you slowly—nothing abrupt.”
His brow twitched, a faint echo of apprehension or confusion. His grip on your hand tightened, brittle and uneven, tension rolling through his arm as the meaning of your words reached him. Movement would equal pain. His body already knew that.
You anticipated the reaction.
“I’m not leaving,” you said before the worry could spiral. “I’ll be right here the entire time.”
Something in his posture eased—just barely—but it was enough.
You stepped aside but remained close, positioning yourself where he could see you without straining. Behind you, the medics and technicians moved in with controlled precision, rolling a recovery bed toward the pod and adjusting its height to match the cradle’s level. The hum of machinery warmed the air in uneven pulses, and the faint scent of thawed cryo gel still clung to the edges of the room.
A senior medic approached the pod, glancing at you for confirmation. You nodded once.
“Proceed,” you said.
They began disengaging the last of the stabilizing clamps and thermal supports, one at a time, each click and hiss of pressure release echoing softly in the chamber. As the restraints at his torso were loosened, Ice instinctively tried to shift his weight. The motion sent a ripple of pain across his face, cutting sharply through the exhaustion.
You moved immediately back into his line of sight.
“Don’t try to help them,” you said quietly. “Let your body stay as still as it can. They’ll do the lifting.”
His eyes stayed on yours—unsteady, but trusting your direction more than his own instincts. His breath trembled again, and you saw the subtle calculation behind his gaze: a man attempting to evaluate the limits of a body he no longer recognized.
Two medics positioned themselves on either side of him, sliding their arms beneath his shoulders and hips with practiced care. A third at the foot of the pod gently maneuvered the sheet around his legs, mindful not to disturb the stiff, damaged joints or the old shrapnel scars hidden beneath.
“One… two… lift.”
His body left the pod with a slow, controlled motion. Even so, the shift sent a sharp line of pain up his legs, visible in the way his jaw clenched and his fingers contracted in reflex. His breathing staggered, a harsh, involuntary sound escaping him as the old injuries protested the movement.
You stepped closer, hand bracing against the bed frame near his head—not touching him, but anchoring yourself where he could see you easily.
“You’re alright,” you said, steady as a level horizon. “It’ll pass. Keep your eyes on me.”
His gaze found yours again, strained and unsteady, but held on.
The medics positioned him carefully onto the waiting bed, adjusting his legs with meticulous caution to avoid overstressing the knees. The sheet settled around him, and once the final monitor was connected and the last support lowered, the tension in the room eased.
You exhaled softly.
The transition had gone as smoothly as it could.
He lay there, drained, eyes barely open but still watching you, still clinging to the single constant he’d been offered since waking.
You straightened, but didn’t step away.
“Good,” you said quietly. “That part’s done.”
Rooster never liked being underground. He wasn’t just lower than any place he’d been on North Island—it felt hidden in a way that made the air itself seem complicit. The walls were bare concrete, cold to the touch, reinforced with steel that carried a faint hum from the power grid embedded somewhere deep inside. The lighting was different, too: a steady, sterile glow that flattened shadows rather than casting them.
By the time his escort keyed open the final door, Rooster’s skin prickled with the uneasy recognition that wherever he was being taken, it wasn’t a place most pilots were meant to see.
The briefing room was small, windowless, and empty except for a metal table bolted to the floor and three chairs as unwelcoming as the rest of the decor. Rooster sat in the center seat, his fingers drumming once against the table before he made himself stop. The air tasted faintly of ozone, as if something had been sterilized recently.
He didn’t have long to wait.
The door opened with a soft hydraulic sigh.
A Navy captain entered first—a man in his late fifties whose uniform seemed pressed by gravity rather than fabric, posture rigid in a way that suggested decades of command had permanently altered his spine. His face gave away nothing.
Behind him came Dr. Nadia Imani.
Rooster recognized her from whispers around base; no one ever said her name casually. She wore a dark navy medical coat tailored enough to suggest senior authority, and her ID badge was heavy with clearance tabs from multiple agencies. She sat beside the captain with a quiet, composed presence that reminded Rooster of people who dealt with emergencies by living just ahead of them.
“Lieutenant Bradshaw,” the captain said, lowering himself into the chair across from Rooster, “thank you for reporting promptly.”
Rooster nodded once. “Didn’t sound like I had much of a choice, sir.”
Neither of them smiled. Dr. Imani folded her hands neatly, watching him with the calm, level attention of someone preparing to deliver a truth that would change the shape of his world.
“You have been summoned,” the captain began, “because you are being entrusted with information normally reserved for officers far above your rank.”
Rooster’s shoulders stiffened. “Understood.”
“What you’re about to hear,” Dr. Imani added, “is not hypothetical, speculative, or historical. It is active. It is unfolding. And it affects you directly.”
Rooster frowned slightly, sensing the weight in her tone but not yet the meaning. “Alright.”
The captain intertwined his fingers on the table. “Lieutenant, in the early 1990s, the Navy initiated an internal program designed to preserve aviators with injuries so severe that existing medicine had no answer.”
Rooster blinked. “Preserve how?”
“Cryogenic stasis,” Dr. Imani said simply.
The words didn’t fit the room. They didn’t fit reality. Rooster stared at her, trying to parse whether she expected him to believe it.
He didn’t get the chance to ask.
The captain continued. “Only one aviator ever met the criteria. A catastrophic training accident in 1994. Injuries beyond repair. But the neural activity… was worth saving.”
A quiet shiver moved across Rooster’s skin. Something about the date tugged at a sleepy corner of memory—something Maverick once said about the early days of his career, when the names he flew with were the names Rooster grew up hearing in stories.
The captain’s voice remained steady. “This aviator was placed in cryogenic stasis. The program was buried. Funding was hidden. Staff were rotated every few years to protect the truth.”
Rooster felt the question leave his mouth before he fully understood why it came out sounding hushed. The words hovered in the cold air of the underground room, swallowed slightly by the recirculation vents overhead. His pulse ticked in his throat.
“Who was he?”
The captain didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slid a hand into the folder he’d brought—no dramatics, no emphasis, just a practiced, economical motion—and withdrew a single photograph. The edges were slightly worn, as if they had been handled more times than one would expect for something so deeply classified.
He laid it on the table between them.
Rooster’s breath stopped.
It wasn’t simply that he recognized the face. It was that the face carried so much of the Navy’s mythology that seeing it here, underground, under fluorescent lights, felt obscene. Younger than any story Rooster had ever heard, jaw sharp, posture immaculate, eyes clear and unyielding as a blade—a presence frozen in an era that didn’t exist anymore.
Rooster didn’t pick up the photo. He didn’t need to.
“…Ice,” he murmured.
Not the call sign.
Not the legend.
Just the name.
Something flickered across Dr. Imani’s expression—an acknowledgment, maybe even a shadow of empathy—but she didn’t speak yet.
Rooster tore his gaze from the photograph and looked at the captain. “But he—sir, Ice died. I don’t remember when exactly, but Maverick said—my mom said—everyone believed—”
“He didn’t die,” Dr. Imani said, her voice even but unmistakably gentle.
The denial hit him harder than the name. Rooster blinked once, slowly, as if his mind needed a moment to adjust to gravity shifting beneath him.
The captain folded his hands. “Kazansky suffered catastrophic injuries during a classified training accident in 1994. The sort that should have been fatal. The sort that, under any other circumstance, would have been.”
Rooster’s jaw clenched. His stomach dipped. The room felt too still.
“But the Navy had begun exploring theoretical preservation methods,” the captain continued, “and Kazansky fit the criteria for the only prototype protocol we were willing to test on a human being.”
Rooster stared blankly, trying to connect the threads. “Preservation… you mean like—”
“Long-term stasis,” Dr. Imani supplied. “Total metabolic reduction. A controlled halt, waiting for medicine to catch up.”
Rooster exhaled so quietly he barely heard it.
“You froze Ice,” he said, disbelieving and fully aware of the irony.
“We kept him alive,” Dr. Imani corrected. “Barely. And at significant risk. The procedure wasn’t widely supported. There were arguments on every level. But someone in the chain of command insisted the attempt was worth the resource allocation.”
Rooster’s brows pulled together. “Someone?”
The captain didn’t elaborate, which told Rooster enough.
He looked back at the photo. Ice’s gaze—decades younger—seemed to stare straight through him.
“So what happened?” he asked quietly. “Did it work?”
Dr. Imani drew in a careful breath. “Against every expectation, yes. His vitals remained viable. His neurological activity—diminished, but present. The chamber held for almost three decades.” She paused. “And this morning, Lieutenant Kazansky regained consciousness.”
The words didn’t land right away.
Rooster sat perfectly still as they echoed in his mind.
Tom “Iceman” Kazansky was alive.
Now.
Not a ghost.
A living myth.
He swallowed hard. “Does Maverick know?”
Both Dr. Imani and the captain answered at once.
“No.”
“Not yet.”
Rooster’s eyes flicked between them. “Why not? Ice is—He would—”
“That is precisely the problem,” the captain said. “Mitchell was too close to Kazansky even in their early careers. Their dynamic is intense. Competitive. Protective. Personal. Introducing Mitchell while Kazansky is cognitively unstable risks overwhelming him.”
Dr. Imani nodded. “We can’t shock his system. Not while he’s disoriented, not while memory pathways are still reorganizing. Maverick’s presence could accelerate recovery—or derail it entirely. It’s unpredictable.”
Rooster’s chest tightened. He knew what they meant. Maverick wasn’t subtle, especially not with the people he cared about. He lived in extremes—devotion, guilt, impossible loyalty.
Kazansky waking up to that?
Too soon?
It could break him before he’s reassembled.
Rooster dragged a hand across his jaw, trying to steady the strange, rising pressure beneath his ribs. “So… what? You keep Maverick in the dark and send me instead?”
“Not instead,” Dr. Imani said. “Before.”
Rooster looked up.
Her gaze held no softness now—only certainty. “Kazansky will need a familiar anchor. Not a shock. Not a tidal wave of emotion. You’re connected to the era he remembers, but you’re not woven tightly into his core memories. You won’t pull him under.”
“And when he’s strong enough,” the captain added, “Mitchell will be brought in. But only when the risk of destabilization is minimal.”
Rooster nodded slowly, absorbing the responsibility like an unspoken weight settling across his shoulders. “So what exactly do you need from me?”
The captain adjusted his posture, an unconscious preparation for delivering orders that mattered. “Kazansky will begin orientation soon—physical, cognitive, and psychological. He’ll need grounding, consistency, and a point of reference that bridges the old world and the new. That’s you.”
Rooster felt something shift inside him—not confidence, not fear, but recognition. A sense that this moment was already changing him.
Dr. Imani continued, “He won’t understand modern avionics. He won’t understand the political landscape, the technology, the culture shift. And he may not trust the people in white coats trying to rebuild him. But a pilot—someone he would’ve met in the locker room, someone he can read instinctively—that, Lieutenant Bradshaw, he might follow.”
The captain rose from his chair, the motion deliberate and final.
“Report to Sublevel Three when you’re ready. Kazansky’s world is thirty years out of date, and he needs a pilot beside him who can meet him halfway.”
Rooster stood with him, though his knees felt less solid than he wanted them to.
He swallowed once, steadying himself.
“Understood,” he said quietly.
The captain opened the door, letting in a ribbon of cooler hallway air. “Lieutenant.”
Rooster paused on his way out, one last glance at the photo still resting on the table. Ice’s younger face stared back at him—sharp, fearless, impossibly alive.
A bridge across three lost decades.
Rooster exhaled, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the hall.
Sublevel Three was waiting.
And somewhere inside it, so was Tom Kazansky.
The cryogenic bay was only a few doors down now—close enough that you could still feel the faint chill bleeding into the hallway when the recovery suite door opened. They hadn’t taken him far; the transfer required minimal disturbance, and the safest place for him was still inside Sublevel Three, within reach of the equipment that had kept him alive.
This room, though, was nothing like the vault he’d come from.
The air here was warmer, human instead of engineered. Soft recessed lights cast an even glow over the walls, turning the space into something that resembled a high-tech hospital room more than a classified research chamber. Monitors hummed in soft, steady rhythms. The equipment was sleek, modern, polished—nothing like the clunky retrofitted machinery in the cryo bay. A single observation window faced the hallway, its reinforced glass dimmed for privacy.
A medic sat at a console on the far wall, updating vitals with quiet taps on a touchscreen. A technician checked environmental controls near the door, making minor adjustments that barely made a sound. Neither approached the bed. Neither intruded.
It was the closest he would get to privacy in a place like this—and the closest you would get to being alone with him.
Kazansky lay propped at a slight incline, a thin blanket drawn from chest to mid-shin. The frost had melted from his skin, leaving behind a mottled pallor that read more like long illness than deep freeze. His hair—towel-dried, still damp at the ends—clung in uneven strands to his forehead. Electrodes dotted his chest and temples in tidy arcs, their wires trailing toward monitors in clean, organized loops.
He looked…human again. Frail, yes. Disoriented, absolutely. But unmistakably human.
You moved to the bedside with an ease that felt practiced only because necessity demanded confidence. He tracked you as you approached—not smoothly, not without visible effort, but unmistakably. His gaze drifted once, lost its grasp on the world, then snapped back to you and stayed, the muscles around his eyes tightening as he worked to sharpen the blurry outline of your face.
Good. Still with you.
“Lieutenant Kazansky,” you said, positioning yourself just to the left of his dominant hand—close enough to be seen, not so close as to overwhelm. “How are you tolerating the transfer?”
A faint furrow pulled between his brows. Too technical. Too clinical. But it gave him something to aim at.
He drew a breath—rough-edged, uneven, but deeper than before. His throat clicked dryly around the exhale, vocal cords struggling to remember the mechanics of sound. When he spoke, the words came out in torn fragments.
“Never…”
His jaw clenched, fighting for control.
“…liked…hospitals.”
The delivery was fractured, nearly swallowed by weakness—but the sentiment was unmistakably intact. Dry. Direct. Pure Kazansky under layers of shock.
Across the room, the medic’s head lifted by a fraction, surprised. You didn’t turn; you only let a corner of your mouth twitch—a small acknowledgment, nothing encouraging enough to wear him out.
“Duly noted,” you said. “We’ll try to keep your stay efficient.”
His eyes narrowed with a faint skepticism, like he didn’t believe anyone, anywhere, had ever made a hospital stay efficient.
You adjusted the bed’s incline a few degrees. Even the subtle movement made him flinch. His thighs tightened beneath the blanket, knees locking instinctively before pain rolled through them—a sharp, familiar echo of old shrapnel damage waking up with him.
He shut it down fast. No sound. Just the rigid clamp of his jaw.
“Easy,” you said. “You’ll have stiffness for a while, especially in your knees. Old injuries don’t appreciate being frozen and thawed.”
His eyes flickered—confusion mixed with the faintest note of recognition, as if some distant part of him knew he should expect his legs to hurt.
You softened your voice, but kept the cadence clinical and predictable. “I’m going to ask a few basic questions. If anything becomes too much, give me any clear signal—blink twice, squeeze my hand, shake your head. Understood?”
He inhaled, shallow but controlled. A slight, deliberate nod followed.
“Good.” You shifted closer, offering your hand, palm up. “Same as before.”
His fingers found yours quickly—weak, trembling, but with unmistakable intention. Not clutching. Choosing.
“Start simple,” you said. “Tell me your name.”
A crease formed between his brows. Not confusion—effort. His brain had to cut through static to reach the obvious.
“Tom…”
The consonant scraped painfully.
“…Kazansky.”
The voice was wrecked, but the answer was perfect.
“Good,” you said. “Rank?”
A flicker in his eyes—habit, instinct, identity.
“Lieutenant,” he whispered. “United States Navy.”
“Correct,” you said. “That’s useful.”
He dragged a faint breath, attempted something like humor, ragged but real. “Didn’t…expect…promotion?”
“Unfortunately, the promotion board doesn’t have a slot for long-term refrigeration yet,” you said.
Behind you, the medic coughed into their fist, poorly disguising a laugh. You didn’t look away from him.
You tightened your grip around his, grounding him. “Next part. I’m going to tell you where you are. Ready?”
A slow blink. Acceptance.
“You’re in a secure medical facility on North Island,” you said. “Sublevel Three, cryogenic recovery suite. You’re not in combat. You’re not in an aircraft. There are no active threats in this room. Do you understand?”
His eyes slid closed briefly, as though testing the words for structural integrity. When he opened them, a faint, fragile focus had settled there.
“No…threat,” he echoed. “Just…doctors.”
“And me,” you said.
Something in his expression shifted—subtle, assessing—as if recalibrating where you fit in the constellation of threat or safety.
“And you,” he rasped.
You gave him a moment to let the room settle around him. His gaze drifted to the ceiling—the panels, the recessed lights, the vent grilles—and back to you.
“I know this room looks unfamiliar,” you said. “That’s normal. A lot has changed since your last conscious memory.”
His eyes snapped to yours. Sharp. Alert. A pilot waking under layers of fog.
You didn’t ask him to recall the last thing he remembered. You wouldn’t drag him backward without a net.
“Before we talk about the past,” you said, “I need to ground you in the present.”
He swallowed, slow and unsteady.
“Lieutenant Kazansky,” you continued, “you survived a crash in 1994. You were placed in an experimental cryogenic stasis chamber afterward. Do you remember anything that suggests that might be true?”
A flicker of heat.
Metal screaming.
The cockpit narrowing.
His fingers crushed weakly into your palm. His breath stuttered.
“Don’t chase it,” you said. “Not yet.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, panic tamped down by force of will. He nodded once.
“Good,” you said. “Now here’s the part that may feel wrong. Your only job is to hear it.”
He waited.
“The year is 2025.”
The number hit him like an impact.
He froze—absolutely still—except for the tightening in his hand and the faint tremor that moved through his jaw. His gaze swept the room again, this time not drifting but searching. Evaluating. Disbelieving.
You stepped into the line of sight he was building toward overload.
“Stay here,” you said quietly, touching the bed rail near his shoulder. “This room. This bed. My voice. That’s all that’s required right now.”
His eyes returned to yours, strained but locking on.
“Say what you can back to me,” you said. “Anchor yourself.”
A long pause. Two attempts.
“Tom…Kazansky,” he whispered.
“Lieutenant. Navy.”
Enough.
“Good,” you said softly. “That’s your foundation.”
He blinked—slow, controlled. A flicker of stubbornness surfaced, thin but present.
“Your…name,” he rasped—demand disguised as weakness.
You almost smiled.
You clearly reintroduced yourself—name, title, and your role in his recovery. His expression didn’t change, but something in his grip loosened fractionally, shifting from desperation to acknowledgment.
“Later,” you added, “you’ll meet someone else. A pilot. He’ll help you with flight reorientation. I’m here for everything on the ground.”
The faintest ghost of a reaction crossed his features—muscle memory tied to the word flight—but exhaustion washed it away.
His grip weakened, but he didn’t let go.
You kept your hand exactly where it was.
“Rest when you can,” you told him, voice low. “I’ll be here when you wake. Nothing important happens without me in the room.”
His eyes closed slowly, lashes trembling. Not unconscious—just surrendering to the weight of recovery. His fingers remained curled around yours, faint pressure insisting on connection even as sleep pulled him under.
Only after his breathing settled did you lift your gaze.
The medic at the console glanced over once, then respectfully back to their work.
Kazansky slept lightly.
Not the comfortable, drifting sleep of recovery, but the thin, brittle kind that cracked at the edges. His breathing was shallow but even; the line of his mouth had softened from the rigid tension he’d carried earlier, and every now and then his fingers twitched faintly against the blanket—muscle memory firing half-formed signals into a nervous system still relearning itself.
You stayed beside him long after the medics stepped away, long after the room returned to its soft hum of recycled air and dimmed diagnostics. His hand, slack now in yours, was cooling slowly from the feverish heat of reanimation. You hadn’t meant to stay this close, but the moment you’d tried to step back, his breathing changed—just enough to tell you he wasn’t ready to be unanchored.
He settled only after you resumed your place.
The room was warm compared to the cryo bay, the lighting gentle and steady. It smelled faintly of antiseptic layered over thawed metal—a scent that didn’t belong in any hospital but had settled into this sublevel like it owned the air.
He dozed. And you kept watch.
Until the door sealed open behind you.
A sharp hiss of the pressure lock. Footsteps in the corridor. The soft scuff of boots slowing—hesitating—before crossing the threshold.
You turned before he spoke.
Rooster stood in the doorway, framed by the sterilized light of the hall. He looked wrong in the room. Too alive. Too sun-warmed. Too familiar with a world Ice had not yet been told he’d lost.
His gaze flicked to you first—not Ice—and he froze.
The recognition hit the air between you like static. A subtle tightening in his jaw. A shift in your spine. All those old, unnamed things rising like groundwater.
“…Didn’t expect it to be you,” he said at last, voice low, rough around the edges.
You stepped toward him quickly, intercepting him before he could come any closer to the bed.
“That makes two of us,” you said quietly. “But don’t go any farther yet. You need to know a few things first.”
Rooster’s brows pulled together. “I’m not going to hurt him.”
“It’s not about hurting him,” you said. “It’s about overwhelming him. He’s barely holding orientation. He doesn’t know what year it is. He doesn’t understand why he survived when thirty years passed without him.”
Rooster swallowed, eyes darting once toward the bed, then back to you. “I read the briefing. I know he’s fragile.”
“No.” You shook your head sharply. “You know the words. But you have no idea what it looks like.”
His jaw flexed.
You lowered your voice, stepping closer and lowering your center of gravity, as if bracing for turbulence.
“He was conscious for maybe fifteen minutes total. In that time he asked what happened, tried to remember the crash, and damn near pushed himself into a panic spiral because he didn't recognize the place he woke up in. His body is in full revolt against him. His brain is doing the equivalent of rebooting from a thirty-year forced shutdown.”
Rooster’s voice softened. “I get it.”
“Bradshaw,” you said, letting the old warning seep into your tone, “you don’t. Not yet.”
That landed.
His shoulders stiffened—then dropped slightly, concession flickering through his posture.
“What do you need from me?” he asked.
Honest.
Direct.
The first thing he’d said that didn’t carry an edge.
Your throat tightened, just slightly. You kept your expression clinical.
“When you talk to him,” you said, “you don’t mention flying. You don’t mention loss. You don’t mention the past. He’s orienting to the present and only the present. And whatever heroic image of him you grew up with? Leave it outside this room. Right now he needs simplicity. Not reverence.”
Rooster’s brows pulled together. “I’m not here to worship him.”
“No,” you said softly. “But you’re here because he’ll trust a pilot faster than a doctor. And that trust can turn into pressure he’s not ready for.”
Rooster exhaled a long, slow breath—the kind that meant he’d heard you.
Then his eyes drifted to your face—evaluating, searching for something he wasn’t entitled to anymore.
“It’s been a long time,” he said quietly.
You kept your expression neutral, professional. “Yes. It has.”
“We left things—”
“We’re not talking about that,” you cut in, sharper than you intended. “Not here. Not now.”
Silence stretched between you—tight, thin, humming with all the old fractures.
Rooster nodded once—a slow, reluctant concession.
“Alright,” he said. “Professional.”
“Exactly.”
He took another step forward.
And that did it. Kazansky stirred.
His eyelids fluttered—once, twice—then dragged open with the stubborn, exhausted determination of a man surfacing from too far under. His gaze wandered, unfocused, tracing the ceiling lights like they might reassemble themselves into something familiar.
You caught the movement instantly.
Rooster didn’t notice until Kazansky’s head shifted the most minuscule fraction toward the sound of your conversation.
Not much more than a breath escaped him, but the words were deliberate in their brokenness:
“…you two… are loud.”
Rooster froze mid-sentence.
You blinked, startled by how unmistakably himself he sounded—tattered voice or not. That dry, surgical annoyance cut straight through the haze, sharp enough to feel like he’d stepped into the room walking instead of barely conscious.
But before you could answer, he forced another ragged breath and continued, voice scraping like it had been dragged over glass:
“…talking… about me… like I’m not… here.”
It was meant to be wry.
It almost was.
But the fracture showed in the way his fingers twitched toward the blankets, in the tremor that moved along his jaw, in the quiver of effort under the words. His eyes slid away from you both—just briefly—like he’d reached the edge of clarity and the ground beneath him had given out.
His voice thinned, losing the snark and slipping into something rawer:
“…don’t…”
He swallowed, painfully.
“…don’t go… quiet… on my account.”
The last phrase wasn’t annoyed; it wasn’t defiant.
It was uncertain, the kind of uncertainty you only heard from a man whose world had shifted so violently he didn’t trust the silence around him.
You moved first—fast, steady, lowering the pitch of your voice.
“Lieutenant,” you said softly but firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “You’re awake. You’re not being kept out of anything. You’re safe, and I’m right here.”
His eyes dragged toward you, clinging to your voice like it was the only stable thing in the room.
His gaze moved with the slow, unsteady determination of someone trying to make sense of a world that refused to hold still. Even half-conscious, he searched for you as though your presence formed the only consistent point in a room that kept shifting beneath him. The muscles along his throat worked unevenly in a halting swallow, and his breathing hitched the moment he lost sight of your outline—then settled minutely when you stepped closer, reclaiming his field of view.
“You’re alright,” you murmured, keeping your tone low and even, letting it carry the steady rhythm the monitors could not. “You woke up faster than expected. That’s all that’s happening.”
Kazansky’s eyelids lowered and lifted again, the motion deliberate but strained. He wasn’t fully present, not yet, but something in him recognized your voice as an anchor in a landscape he didn’t understand. His fingers twitched weakly at the edge of the blanket, searching instinctively for something to hold onto.
Behind you, footsteps shifted—a careful, measured sound, like someone attempting to enter a cathedral without disturbing the silence inside it. Rooster had already been standing near the doorway, but now he stepped forward with a hesitant reverence that didn’t suit the sterile, humming room around him. He seemed almost afraid to breathe too loudly in Kazansky’s presence.
When Rooster finally spoke, his voice carried a quiet solemnity that made you flinch internally, though you kept your expression still.
“Lieutenant Kazansky… sir.”
The reaction was subtle but immediate. Kazansky’s eyes, still unfocused, moved toward the unfamiliar voice. His head followed a moment later, the motion slow and effortful, as if gravity itself had doubled.
He studied Rooster with a fractured intensity, each second stretching longer than the last, as though he was grasping for details through layers of fog and static.
Rooster drew a breath, visibly steadying himself. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
You felt that line land with a weight it was never meant to carry—too heavy, too worshipful, too close to myth-making when what Kazansky needed most was clarity and simplicity. You forced yourself not to step in immediately, but the urge tightened low in your chest.
Kazansky’s lashes fluttered; his eyes attempted to focus on Rooster’s face. The effort carved faint lines of concentration across his brow, and a tremor passed down his jaw. He stared with a searching intensity that seemed to cost him, each breath shallow and unsteady.
You moved instinctively, positioning yourself at his side as his attention wavered, but he held onto Rooster with his gaze, thin as the thread was.
Rooster’s posture shifted, a soft exhale slipping out as if he recognized the magnitude of the moment. He dragged a chair closer, careful not to scrape it loudly, and sat beside you—two guardians flanking a man waking from twenty years of silence.
Rooster leaned forward slightly and offered, with quieter sincerity, “My name is Bradley Bradshaw. Call sign Rooster.”
Kazansky blinked slowly, a long, labored motion. Something inside him responded to that name—not recognition exactly, but disturbance, like a submerged wire sparking faintly back to life.
His gaze swept Rooster’s features again, this time more deliberately: the familiar curve of the jawline, the dark sweep of hair, the echo of a smile not yet shown. You saw the moment when resemblance unlocked something he wasn’t ready for.
His voice, when he finally forced it out, scraped raw against his throat.
“…you…”
The single syllable trembled with effort. A flicker of distress crossed his face—exhaustion mingled with sudden, searching panic—as though the memory he wanted lay just behind a barrier he didn't know how to break.
Rooster swallowed hard and leaned in, his own voice gentling in response. “It’s alright, sir. Take your time.”
But time wasn’t the issue. Memory was.
Kazansky’s breath stuttered, and his fingers gathered the blanket into a weak, trembling curl. He pulled in another ragged inhale, trying to carve a path through the haze.
“…you look…”
The words dissolved halfway out, dissolving into something fragile and frightened—not because he recognized Rooster, but because he almost did.
Rooster’s throat tightened visibly. He leaned forward, his voice barely controlled. “My father was Nick Bradshaw. Goose. You flew with him.”
The pieces rearranged themselves behind Kazansky’s eyes so suddenly it seemed to jar him physically. The clarity that surfaced wasn’t whole, but it was sharp enough to wound. His breath broke—one sharp, involuntary sound—and his features tightened with the unmistakable pain of a memory returning too quickly, too forcefully.
You stepped in before the moment could tip into collapse. You placed your hand over Kazansky’s forearm and lowered your voice, grounding him with cadence rather than content.
“Tom. Look at me for a moment.”
His gaze dragged toward you—slow, reluctant, but obedient. “You don’t need to solve anything right now. You don’t need to remember. You’re safe, and that’s enough for this moment.”
The tightness in his expression eased by degrees, though exhaustion pressed heavily at the corners of his eyes. His fingers loosened their grip on the blanket, then curled faintly toward you, as though confirming that you were still there.
Rooster sat frozen beside you, processing the weight of what he’d seen. He swallowed hard, shoulders sinking slightly, the awe draining out of him and leaving something far more sober in its place—an understanding, maybe, of just how precarious Kazansky’s return to the world really was.
You didn’t look away from Tom. His eyes had begun to drift, losing their earlier sharpness and sliding unfocused toward the corner of the room before struggling back to you. Each return took more effort. Each breath pulled a little deeper, a little slower, the exhaustion bleeding through the cracks of whatever stubborn instinct had kept him awake this long.
“Tom,” you said, calm and direct, “you can rest now. Nothing is going to happen without you.”
The reassurance reached him. You saw it in the way the tightness at the bridge of his nose eased, in the faint unclenching of his jaw. His fingers—still resting near yours, less curled than before—shifted just enough to brush your hand, a final anchoring gesture more reflex than intention. It was the kind of movement a body makes when it recognizes safety before the mind has words for it.
His breathing transitioned again—away from the guarded, irregular cadence of a man holding himself upright on sheer will, slipping instead toward the heavy, rhythmic fall-off of fatigue winning ground. The line of his shoulders loosened against the incline of the bed. The muscles along his legs, stiff with old pain and recent shock, relaxed by small increments, each one quieter than the last.
He blinked once. Slower the second time. The third never fully opened.
Sleep didn’t take him all at once. It crept in, overtook him gradually, settling across his features like a weight he could finally allow himself to bear. His hand slackened in yours, but didn’t fall away entirely—some small part of him still reaching for the reassurance of presence.
Only when his breathing settled into something steady and deep did you let out the breath you’d been holding.
You watched the monitors settle into steadier rhythms, the medic at the rear console nodding once without interrupting the quiet. Everything looked stable enough for him to finally sleep without the risk of backsliding. You allowed your hand to slip from his only when his fingers slackened entirely.
Rooster sat beside you, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on Ice with a dazed, almost reverent awe that made your stomach tighten. The way he looked at Kazansky wasn’t wrong, exactly—it was human, it was earned—but it was dangerous.
“He looks…” Rooster started softly, voice cracking around something he wasn’t prepared to feel.
You didn’t let him finish. You stood abruptly and wrapped your hand around his wrist, the gesture sharp enough to jolt him upright.
“Hallway,” you said, low and controlled. “Now.”
He blinked at the bite in your tone, but didn’t argue. You pulled him from his chair, guiding him firmly toward the door. His steps fell into line behind yours with a compliance that surprised even him. A few monitors flickered in your peripheral vision as you passed; Kazansky didn’t stir.
The door sealed behind you with a heavy hydraulic click, enclosing the two of you in the warmer, stale air of the sublevel corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, pooling faint reflections along the polished floor, giving the hallway a hollow, metallic emptiness that amplified every breath you took.
You didn’t let go of his wrist until you were several feet from the door.
Rooster rubbed the spot where your fingers had held him, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something close to confusion, as if he genuinely didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.
“What the hell was that for?” he asked under his breath, keeping his voice low out of instinct.
“For that,” you shot back, nodding toward the sealed door, “whatever devotional nonsense you thought you were doing in there.”
Rooster stared at you, shocked. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t being disrespectful. I was trying to—”
“Reverence is not what he needs,” you cut in. “He’s barely awake, his nervous system is a minefield, and the last thing he can handle is someone walking in and treating him like a myth instead of a man.”
Rooster’s jaw flexed, shoulders lifting in a defensive posture he rarely adopted. “I wasn’t treating him like a myth. I just—he’s Ice. He’s the best pilot to ever—”
“And he doesn’t know who that is anymore,” you said sharply. “Right now he knows he survived something catastrophic, he knows he’s in pain, and he knows strangers are talking about him like he’s not in the room. That’s all.”
He swallowed hard, and the defensiveness in his posture faltered into something more vulnerable. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm him.”
“I know,” you said. “But intention doesn’t matter in there. Only impact.”
Rooster leaned back against the opposite wall, exhaling hard. The echo of it seemed too loud in the narrow hallway. “This is a lot, okay? I just found out an hour ago that he didn’t die. That he’s been down here longer than I’ve been alive. You think I’m not trying to wrap my head around it?”
Your expression softened, just barely, but you didn’t let it derail the point. “You wrap your head around it out here. Not in front of him.”
A tense silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of everything unsaid over the years. Rooster looked at you the way he used to—searching for what you meant beyond the words, trying to gauge how much of this was professional and how much was the complicated history neither of you had ever unpacked.
He finally spoke, quieter than before.
“I forgot how good you are at making me feel like I’m screwing everything up.”
You laughed once—not unkindly, but not soft either. “And I forgot how quickly you take things personally. This isn’t about you, Bradshaw.”
He looked away, jaw tightening at the use of his surname. “No. It never is.”
For a moment, the hallway felt too small for both of you. Too full of ghosts. Too full of the unspoken thing that had pushed you apart years ago and hadn’t faded with time.
You drew in a slow breath, steadying your tone.
“Listen. He’s going to sleep for a while. When he wakes up, the real work starts—orientation, memory scaffolding, sensory integration. He needs stability, not mythology. You’re here because, like I said, he’ll trust another pilot faster than he’ll trust a doctor. But that doesn’t work if you treat him like a legend instead of a human being who just lost thirty years.”
Rooster nodded slowly, the shape of understanding settling across his features in a heavier, more grounded way. “I can do that,” he said. “Really.”
“I know you can,” you replied. “You just need to be aware of yourself while you do.”
He exhaled, long and tired, the tension rolling off him in visible waves. For a moment, his eyes softened—not sad, not regretful, but something close to an apology without the words.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Now he rests,” you said. “And so do you. Come back when the sun is up. He’ll need you for the next phase.”
Rooster hesitated, glancing once toward the door, then back at you. “Are you staying with him?”
“For now,” you said. “He wakes up better if someone familiar is in the room.”
His gaze searched your face again—too long, too personal—until you cleared your throat and straightened your shoulders.
“Go, Bradshaw.”
He nodded, stepping back toward the corridor intersection. “Alright. Tomorrow, then.”
He turned to leave, but paused halfway down the hall to say something he nearly kept to himself.
“He trusts you,” he said quietly. “I could see it.”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.
Rooster gave one last nod and disappeared around the corner, boots echoing until the hallway swallowed the sound.
Left alone, you exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to the cool metal door behind you, anchoring yourself against the warm thrum of the machines on the other side.
Tomorrow would be harder.
But for now, Kazansky slept—and the world, for the first time in thirty years, was waiting for him.
notes: i haven't done a ton of proofreading so forgive me lol. thanks to @cafekitsune for the divider :)
is it ok if i use one of the lines from a fic (the fic was marked E but i was recommended it by a friend) but change it (the line) a bit for one of mine?
hi! i’m not sure i know what you mean? i’d be happy to talk about this if you wanna dm me to elaborate some more :)
No matter how many times I read your Doc Holliday fic "Last Hand", it always makes me cry. Thank you for writing and sharing with us such a beautiful little story for our beloved gunslinger ❤️
this is the sweetest thing ever. you’re so nice. i put so much work into trying to personify him right and im so glad you liked it!!
Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot
❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞
[bradley bradshaw x reader]
~6.5k words | rated: E
tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex
anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.
notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3
my masterlist
request guide
The ready room was colder than usual.
Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.
You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.
The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.
But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.
It just showed that it worked.
Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.
“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”
You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.
Cyclone didn’t make them wait.
“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”
The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.
Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.
No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.
Cyclone turned slightly.
“Bradshaw.”
Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.
“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”
The words landed like a verdict.
Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.
And didn’t look at you.
That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.
You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.
You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.
“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”
The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.
Cyclone looked like he might say something.
He didn’t.
Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.
Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.
“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”
Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.
“Hell of a move.”
That was it. No smirk. No punchline.
The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.
And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.
He didn’t react.
But you felt him turn.
Not a full look. Not dramatic.
Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.
And chose not to say a damn thing.
The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.
Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.
Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.
“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.
“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”
Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.
“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.
Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”
She disappeared around the corner.
Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.
Three long seconds passed.
Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.
Behind him, Phoenix slowed.
Turned her head.
Heard the door close quietly behind him.
She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.
Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.
You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.
Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.
You didn’t hear the door open.
But you heard his voice.
“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”
Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.
He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.
He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”
You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”
He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.
“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”
“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”
“It almost didn’t.”
“But it did.”
He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.
“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”
You took a step toward him, not away.
“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”
His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.
“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”
You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.
“Say that again.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
“You’re a goddamn liability.”
Your hands hit his chest. Hard.
He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.
You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.
Your breath was short. So was his.
“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”
It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.
“You tell me.”
And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.
You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.
You didn’t care.
You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.
Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.
His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.
He groaned.
You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.
“Shut up.”
“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.
The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.
This wasn’t control.
This was surrender.
And neither of you wanted to stop.
His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.
You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.
You grabbed them. Yanked.
He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.
Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.
He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.
You reached for his belt.
His hand covered yours.
Eyes locked.
Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.
Not gentle.
Not cruel.
Just urgent.
You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.
“That all you got, Lieutenant?”
He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.
“You never shut up, do you?”
You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.
“Make me.”
He did.
His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.
You arched against him.
His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.
“You started it.”
His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.
You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.
You wanted this.
You wanted to win.
So did he.
You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.
“Keep doing that,” he warned.
His voice was dark, torn at the edges.
You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”
He didn’t answer.
He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.
You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”
You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.
“Then do it, Bradshaw.”
He froze for half a second.
“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.
You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.
“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”
He didn’t move.
Not for a second.
Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.
Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.
His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.
He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.
You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”
He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.
Not pushing in.
Just there.
Teasing.
Taunting.
His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.
“Say it again,” he growled.
“Fuck. You.”
Close enough.
He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.
You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.
You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.
His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.
You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.
“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”
You arched against him. “Hard not to.”
His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.
The bench creaked beneath you.
Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—
You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.
Your voice broke.
“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”
His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”
“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”
His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.
You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.
“Jesus fuck—”
His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.
“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.
You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.
“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”
His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.
Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.
For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.
You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.
Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”
His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”
You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.
“We’re both so fucked.”
He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.
“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”
You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.
Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”
He blinked. Once.
You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.
When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.
“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”
You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”
He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.
Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.
His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.
Your breath hitched. Just a little.
The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.
He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.
“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.
“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.
“Not my fault you finished too fast.”
He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.
“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”
“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”
“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.
He didn’t move away.
Didn’t even pretend to give you space.
His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.
“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.
“You smell like me.”
His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.
You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”
“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”
You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.
His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.
“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.
“Mmhm.”
You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”
“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”
His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.
“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”
“That’s the idea.”
You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.
And it was working.
He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.
“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.
You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”
He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.
“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.
You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”
“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.
You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.
“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.
“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”
“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.
He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.
Then, softer: “You good?”
That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.
You nodded. “Yeah. You?”
He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”
One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.
The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.
His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.
That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.
The part where he didn’t pull away.
You swallowed.
The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.
You cleared your throat. “This…”
He stilled. Just slightly.
You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.
You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.
Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:
“But it does.”
Your heart kicked.
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.
So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.
You didn’t look back as you walked.
You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.
He caught it one-handed.
Didn’t say a word.
You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.
You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.
Didn’t need to.
You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.
You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.
Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.
You didn’t look. But you felt him.
You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.
Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.
Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.
You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.
You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.
When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.
You looked at him—just briefly.
Eyes met.
Held.
Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.
He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.
You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.
Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.
So you braved to break the silence.
“You heading over to Penny’s?”
Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.
“I was planning on it.”
You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.
“No point in going in separate cars, right?”
His mouth curved. Barely.
“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”
You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.
“Think we’re a little past whispers.”
He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.
“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”
The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.
He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.
Because maybe it had.
And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.
No hesitation.
No need to ask.
Just there. Still with him.
Still in it.
The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.
He smelled like your soap.
And that was a problem.
You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.
You didn’t move.
Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.
You knew it without looking.
“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.
He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.
“Is that how you want to play it?”
“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”
He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.
“Easier to lie?”
“Easier to not make it a thing.”
There it was.
You saw his jaw tick.
“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.
You met his eyes.
“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.
“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”
That landed.
He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.
Like he didn’t like it, but understood.
“You don’t regret it,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”
He was quiet for a long beat.
"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."
It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.
"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.
Then he nodded again.
“Okay.”
He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.
“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”
You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.
“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”
He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.
You stepped out.
Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.
The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.
Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.
He didn’t say anything.
Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.
Just contact.
It wasn’t a move.
It was steady.
You didn’t pull away.
Didn’t even flinch.
The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.
The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.
You stepped through it first.
Rooster followed you in.
And the noise swallowed you both.
The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.
You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.
One look at you. Then Rooster.
Then back again.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”
You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.
She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.
From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.
“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”
Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”
You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.
Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.
“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”
Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.
“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”
“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”
“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.
They high-fived behind her anyway.
Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.
“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”
The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.
Rooster didn’t flinch.
He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.
A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.
A low, subtle pull.
He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.
