sweetjer’s corner

18 | all prns #kindyluvr

[sweet-tooth4you]

sweetie’s intro .ᐟ

helloooo, you can call me sweetie or jer -

, my side blog is : @sickly-afraid .ᐟ

, you can find me on twt : @/flwrs4jj_

my current fandoms are:

- nhl (sharks & pens)

- formula 1 (mercedes, ka12 & op81)

i enjoy a lot more things and support a bunch more players, but those are just my top favs right now.

backstory on this account: this is an old account that i used mainly for harry potter/call of duty - but i strayed from it snd started using a side blog. i just want to reclaim this one again since it’s been untouched for a long time.

i would love to make new friends especially people currently in the fandoms im in :)

creds to : @fluffydeserts for the banner !!

[stainedlove]

"i can't go to germany! i have... homework"

"i'm not in high school anymore"

[sometimesanalice]

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[sweet-tooth4you]

absolutely PHENOMENAL. that ending had me gagged

[avengxrz]

call it what it was ⁃ bradley "rooster" bradshaw

pairings: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x rival!reader (callsign: raven) word count: 26k words synopsis: you and bradley bradshaw have been in competition since day one, and you both swore you'd never fall for each other. but rivalry turns to tension, tension turns to touch, and one night changes everything, even if neither of you will admit it. warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), soft dom!bradley, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie (multiple), praise kink, light choking, semi-public setting (cabin in the woods post-crash), fingering, pussy eating (with come clean-up), rough second round, soft aftercare, emotionally vulnerable sex, cockwarming, swearing, possessive dirty talk, mention of bruises/injuries, crying (emotional not pain), implied subspace, explicit descriptions throughout. flight log: i am so sorry if the writing feels kinda shitty at times okay my brain is currently clogged with jake seresin thoughts and thirst so i had to pull myself together just to finish this lmao 😭 i swear i’ll post a hangman fic soon to get it out of my system but for now… take this messy, angsty enemies-to-lovers smut and pretend i’m not spiraling over two pilots at once 💀💛 disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist

You had a rule: never come second to Bradley Bradshaw.

He had one too: never let you forget the one time he did.

Unfortunately for both of you, fate had a wicked sense of humor. You were four years younger, but thanks to Captain Mitchell—callsign Maverick—and his signature stunt of grounding Rooster mid-career, you two ended up on the same cursed timeline. Same college. Same degree. Same flight academy. Same Top Gun class. A cosmic joke, really. No matter where you turned, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was there, swagger and all.

The rivalry was instant. Combustible. He walked into your first flight academy briefing like he owned the airspace, broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, legacy stitched into the name on his chest. You? You were the anomaly—young, precise, unnervingly calm, with eyes that didn’t flinch and a brain that ran like a well-oiled turbine. The first time he smirked at you, you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly blacked out. The first time you beat him, he stared at the results board like it had betrayed his entire bloodline.

College had been your playground—you took first place like it was your birthright. You aced every exam, outranked every classmate, including him. But at the Academy, you tied. Somehow. You were both too stubborn, too good, too fueled by the desire to eclipse the other.

The instructors didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. Then came Top Gun, where he finally pulled ahead—barely. Rooster became top of class. You came second. And for a man who once nearly got benched over a low pass, he never let you forget it. Not for one goddamn second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never ended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick looked up. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

Rooster’s jaw was tight. “No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Rooster answered at the same time.

“Shut up, Bagman.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

Except Rooster didn’t bank.

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

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

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

But it was too late.

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

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

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

You reacted without thinking.

“Raven, pull up!” Bob shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, finally, the door opened.

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

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

You nearly launched across the table and throttled him.

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

Maverick didn’t waste time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was turbulence!” he barked.

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

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

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

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

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

“He didn’t mean to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betrayal.

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

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

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

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

This wasn’t over.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t turn around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this? This one had been close.

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

No one would see you break. Especially not him.

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

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

But it wasn’t him.

“Hey,” came the soft voice. Bob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coyote, ready.”

“Payback ready.”

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

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

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

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

“Three. Two. One. Break.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too close.

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

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

It made your blood boil.

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

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

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

“Copy. Following your lead.”

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

Instead, you dove.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you stayed. Tight. Focused.

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

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

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

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

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded once, jaw locked. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You took it.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

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

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

You felt him before you saw him.

Rooster.

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

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

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

“I came to—” Rooster started.

“Oh, fuck right off, Bradshaw.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I followed the maneuver.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t even hesitate.

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

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

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

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

His brows furrowed immediately. “Raven…”

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

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

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

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

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

“You done yet?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

That did it.

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

“I didn’t mean to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That hit him. You saw it.

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

His silence was answer enough.

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

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

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

“That’s not how I—”

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

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

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

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

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

He said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him for a long, breathless second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not fair.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

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

“You can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were done holding it in.

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

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

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

Then, without another word, you turned.

Boots against tile. Echoes trailing behind you like ghosts.

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

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

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

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

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

- Bradley, Rooster -

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

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

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

“I wasn’t ready to die.”

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

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

And damn it, maybe he was.

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

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

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

But you’d carried it.

You always did.

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

Instead, you gave him the truth.

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

And the worst part? You were right.

You always fucking were.

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

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

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

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

It was always about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then what?

What the hell would he have done then?

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

But wishes didn’t mean shit in the Navy.

And you were gone.

It hadn’t always been like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all the while, you just kept flying.

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

But even now, looking back?

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

And he remembered how much he hated you for it.

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

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

And then someone shouted his name.

“Bradshaw—first. Holy shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

Because deep down? He knew.

You flew better that week.

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

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

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

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

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

Then you walked away. Again.

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

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

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

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

Nobody asked about what happened.

Not directly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He should’ve apologized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guess it’s not really realistic anymore.”

Bradley’s stomach dropped.

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

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

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

And maybe it never had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your voice broke the silence.

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

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

You nodded once. Your expression didn’t change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that last word, Bradley felt his stomach tighten.

Trust.

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

Fanboy patted his chest pocket solemnly. “Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley looked down. Swallowed hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This mission felt different.

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

“Hey.”

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

“Got a second?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter.”

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

Maverick shook his head. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t lose you today.

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

You were here.

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

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

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

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

And honestly, that hurt more than yelling ever could.

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

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

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

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

Then your voice cut through the comms.

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

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

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

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

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

Then the tower crackled again.

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

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

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

But it all came down to you and him.

And God help him—he wasn’t ready.

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

Not after everything.

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

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

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

Bradley echoed, “Copy.”

And that was it.

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

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

“Raven… you good?”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

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

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

“Dagger Two ready.”

Below, the canyon loomed.

And there was no turning back now.

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

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

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

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

You always made it look easy.

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

The canyon swallowed them whole.

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

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

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

And maybe you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

And still, you didn’t say a word.

He swallowed. “Raven, you copy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—you released.

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

But it wasn’t over.

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

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

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

But you didn’t break.

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

Then everything went white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was nothing but static.

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Missile lock!”

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

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

The first thing he felt was cold.

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

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

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

“Shit…”

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

And then the memory came flooding back.

The canyon. The hit. The explosion. You.

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

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

But none of that mattered.

You might be down here.

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

He turned that way. Started walking.

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

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

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

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

I can’t lose her. Not like this.

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

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

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

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

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

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

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

But then, he saw your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he saw it.

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

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

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

A pulse. Weak. But there.

He nearly collapsed with the relief.

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

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

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

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

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

Then—like some goddamn miracle—he saw it.

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

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

Thank God.

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

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

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

Still out. Still too quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

You were still breathing.

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

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

Then, suddenly, you twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shifted again, your lips forming a faint grimace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hand slid into yours, desperate, pleading.

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

You moved.

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

He froze.

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ—you’re awake.”

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

“Crying over me like a little bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced back at you.

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

He turned back to the food.

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

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

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

“Guess I owe you one.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You heated it wrong.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

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

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

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

The fire crackled gently behind them.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

Bradley exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face.

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

Finally, you turned to look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

And finally, you both cried. Together.

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

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

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

You looked perfect.

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

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Condom?” you breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you moved for a while.

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

He kissed your temple. “Still hate me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You expected his fingers. You got his tongue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

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

You came so hard your vision went white.

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

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

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

When he finally collapsed, it was on top of you, still deep, both of you sticky and shaking. His lips brushed your ear.

“That’s twice,” he muttered. “You really want me to ask you again in the morning?”

You groaned, completely fucked-out. “Ask me before breakfast. I might be ready for round three.”

And in the faint, smoky light of the dying fire, Bradley laughed—low and satisfied—and kissed your spine like you were the only thing left in the world worth surviving for.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time you both stopped shaking. The room smelled like sex and smoke, like sweat and survival, like the kind of love that doesn’t ask for forgiveness because it never needed to. You stayed tangled together, his cock still nestled deep inside you, warmth spilling from between your thighs with every breath.

His chest rose against your back, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other curled protectively around your thigh like he didn’t trust the night not to steal you. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Because whatever this was—this wreckage, this worship, this filthy, fevered clinging to each other in the middle of nowhere, you didn’t bother pretending it was anything else. 

Call it what it was: raw, relentless, and real. And maybe a little ruined, but it was yours.

[sweet-tooth4you]

insane. probably the best piece of media i’ve ever read……

[callsign-mayhem]

One bed trope with Bradley Bradshaw is a need!! The reader is a little shy (very little) and Bradley is always loudly flirting with her too. It just makes sense. Maybe some misarrangements during a destination wedding for a dagger squad member makes this event happen.

no vacancy (b.b)

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Shy!Reader Word count: 10.5k CW: Slightly explicit content towards the end, MINORS DNI. Use of Y/N, a few swears.

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! This one got away from me a bit, so I hope it's not too far off what you had in mind. I had the best time writing this one! The one-bed trope never gets old.

Javy Machado’s wedding was supposed to be a relaxing getaway for you.

He and his wife-to-be, Paisley, had chosen Cabo for their destination wedding, and you were more excited at the prospect of a getaway with your squad than the actual ceremony.

If that made you a bad friend, then so be it.

It was a miracle that you’d all been granted leave for the three-night extravaganza, and you intended to make the most of every second. Your suitcase was full of brand new bikinis with matching sunglasses for each, paperbacks you’d been meaning to read for months, and two cute outfits for each day in case you wanted to change in the evenings. Your wedding outfit was in a separate garment bag, slung over your forearm.

The resort Javy and Paisley had picked was, quite frankly, magical—funny since it was situated in a “Pueblo Mágico,” which translated to “magical town.” Located in Todos Santos on the Pacific coast of Baja California Sur, it had its own private beach with clear blue water and white sand. Plenty of art galleries and surf spots surrounded the area if you fancied any excursions, although you had every intention of spending most of your free time lounging by the pool or swimming in the ocean.

Penny and Maverick checked in first, then the rest of your squad. Everyone was paired off and given their room keys, leaving just you and Bradley. Jake shot you a cheeky wink as he followed Nat across the foyer, and your skin prickled as realisation dawned on you.

‘You two are booked into one of our ocean-view rooms on the third floor,’ the receptionist said with a warm smile. ‘I’m going to give you two key cards, but if you lose them, let me know, and I can make you another.’

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who had a shit-eating grin on his pretty face.

‘We’re sharing a room?’ He asked.

The receptionist frowned and glanced between the two of you with a confused expression on her face.

‘You’re Mr Bradshaw? And Miss Y/LN?’ She queried. ‘I’ve got you two down to share, as the rest of the rooms are filled with other guests from the Machado wedding party.’

You groaned internally as Bradley’s smile widened. ‘No worries,’ he said, taking the keys.

No worries? Of course he’d say that. And of course you’d be the one stuck sharing with him. Javy probably thought he was hilarious, orchestrating this. You made a mental note to tell him exactly what you thought of that when you saw him at dinner tonight.

It was an ongoing thing: Bradley’s overbearing and loud attempts at flirting with you and your hurriedness in shutting him down. Objectively, you knew he was attractive. And despite his loudness, he was funny, kind, and reliable. Bradley Bradshaw was the kind of guy most women tripped over themselves to be with, and rightly so.

But you?

You’d always believed that you were too quiet for someone like him.

He didn’t seem to share this belief, and he flirted with you every chance he got. Sometimes you wondered if he was just doing it for the bit, but he hadn’t been with anyone else for as long as you’d known him. As far as you were aware, he’d never even taken anyone home after a night at The Hard Deck, and you knew with absolute certainty that he could’ve if he wanted to.

On the walk up to the room, Bradley hummed to himself, irritatingly joyful about this turn of events. You still hadn’t said a word, because what were you supposed to say? “I snore when I’m really tired, and I like to have the windows open instead of the AC. Also, please don’t touch my expensive shampoo?” Anything you thought of in your head sounded ridiculous and obsolete. While Bradley fiddled with the key card, you pulled your phone out of your pocket to text Phoenix if she knew about this. 

Truthfully, you suspected that the whole squad knew. You wouldn’t have been surprised if Bradley had been the one to suggest it. Bradley opened the door and stepped aside so you could go in first, ever the gentleman. The room was stunning. Huge, bifold windows that opened out onto a balcony with a table and chairs for morning coffees, a flat screen TV that you doubted you’d even turn on, ornate decorations and crisp white bed sheets…

On the double bed.

The one large, double bed.

Bradley appeared behind you, smelling of clean cotton and whatever aftershave he always wore that you found yourself searching for in the shops. But that was besides the point.

‘Shit.’

You could hear the smirk in his voice, and you just managed to refrain from smacking him around the head.

‘What are we going to do?’ You fretted, scanning the room for a couch or a pullout bed, of which there was neither.

Of course.

Bradley wheeled his suitcase further into the room and pushed his aviators up into his hair. He turned to look at you, trying to gauge your reaction to the situation.

‘I can sleep on the floor,’ he offered with a shrug. ‘Or I can see if Mav’s room is any bigger. Maybe he has a couch.’

You ran your fingers through your hair. ‘You can’t share with Mav and Penny. That’s ridiculous.’

Bradley set his backpack down on the bed with a sigh. ‘Then I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘I find it hard to believe that there’s not a single other room left in this whole place,’ you grumbled, dumping your purse on the bed next to Bradley’s bag.

‘Paisley has five sisters,’ Bradley reasoned, ducking his head into the bathroom to investigate. ‘Coyote has four brothers. They’ve invited most of their friends and family, and our whole squad and all their partners are here. That doesn’t even account for the rest of the people Coyote’s invited from the navy.’

You kicked your suitcase over with a little more force than you’d intended and unzipped it in search of a bikini. Just because you were stuck sharing a room with Bradshaw didn’t mean you had to change the rest of your plans.

‘I can’t imagine wanting a big wedding like this,’ you ruminated. 

‘You wanna get married someday?’ Bradley asked, sliding the balcony doors open.

‘If I find the right guy.’

‘Maybe you already have.’ He teased.

You gave him a flat look. ‘I think I’d know.’

‘See, you say that,’ he drawled. ‘But you seem to be painfully unaware of a lot of things.’

You gaped. ‘I am not.’ You flushed, indignant.

Bradley smirked. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

You set about unpacking some of your things while Bradley helped himself to drinks and snacks from the minibar.

It was strange to be alone with him in a setting like this. You couldn’t help but wonder if things might be easier between the two of you if he weren’t so damn forward all the time. Even after knowing him for the better part of a year, he always managed to catch you off guard with a flirtatious comment or a sultry stare. It wasn’t so bad at work or The Hard Deck, where you had common ground and the rest of your squad to act as a buffer, but you hadn’t spent a great deal of one-on-one time together.

Mostly because you avoided it.

If you weren’t alone with him, he couldn’t make you flustered. And if you weren’t flustered, you couldn’t make a fool of yourself.

Now, you kind of felt like you’d been thrown to the wolves, and you dreaded to think what was going to be left of you by the end of the weekend.

‘I’m going to the beach,’ you announced, grabbing your bag and a pair of sunglasses.

Bradley looked at you, chocolatey eyes wide and expecting in a way that made you want to run and jump into his strong arms. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The sight of him was honestly just too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to be normal when he looked at you like that. 

You should’ve known you’d find Bob at the beach with a tattered paperback in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He was a lot like you in the sense that he wasn’t one for commotion—perhaps that’s why you connected so easily.

When he saw you approaching, his cheeks dimpled with a smile so wide, you couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Hey,’ he said, closing his book. ‘You okay?’

You dumped your beach bag in the sand and pulled another sun lounger over so you could sit beside him. ‘I was,’ you replied as you sat down. ‘Until I got stuck sharing a room with Rooster. Apparently, there are no other rooms left.’

Bob gave you a glib look. ‘You know Javy and Jake planned the whole thing,’ he told you. ‘They made sure there were no more rooms left.’

Indignation sparked in your chest. ‘I knew it! I fucking knew it!’

Bob chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, Y/N.’

You waved him off. ‘I should’ve expected it from those two,’ you said. ‘Who are you sharing with?’

Bob handed you a bottle of water, and you thanked him. ‘Fanboy,’ he sighed. ‘We’re the only two singles left in the group.’

You took a sip of your water—it was nice and cold and just what you needed in the heat of the Mexican sun.

‘You forgot Rooster and me,’ you corrected, pointing your bottle at him accusingly.

Bob gave you a sly grin, which was a rarity for him. ‘Come on, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend with me.’

‘I’m not pretending!’ You sputtered. ‘Nothing is going on between me and Rooster!’

Bob scoffed. ‘Yeah, right. And I suppose the sky isn’t blue, either.’

You lay back against your sun lounger and covered your face with your hands. Sure, Bradley flirted with you incessantly, and yes, maybe you did have a teeny tiny crush on him. But you’d always found it hard to believe that there was any real weight behind Bradley’s words. You told Bob all of this, and when you peeked between your fingers, he was looking at you like you were the biggest moron in existence.

‘Rooster is a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d play around with someone’s heart like that. He probably just doesn’t wanna go in too heavy and scare you off.’

Deep down, you probably knew this, but you weren’t ready to face the music.

‘I’m not the right type of person for him, Bob,’ you said quietly. ‘He’s literally the human embodiment of sunshine.’

The pages of Bob’s book rustled as he leaned forward and patted your hand affectionately. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Y/CS. You’re pretty special, too.’

You looked away, blushing. ‘Thanks, Bobby.’

‘Any time you need a reality check, I’m your guy,’ he joked. ‘But seriously, you should think about what I’ve said. Maybe this weekend is the perfect opportunity to find out if he means what he says.’

Your stomach quite literally clenched at the thought.

Bradley was good at talking, but what would it be like if he actually put his money where his mouth was? You could only imagine what being truly loved by him would feel like, how changed you’d be after basking in his impossibly bright rays.

Water lapped the shore gently as you and Bob fell into an easy beat of silence. You liked spending time with Bob; being in his company was as easy as breathing, and he never asked anything of you. Because of this, you were rarely shy. What you wouldn’t have given for it to be like that with Bradley.

‘What are you reading, anyway?’ You asked, desperate for a change of subject. It was hot enough outside as it was without thinking about Bradley.

‘East of Eden,’ Bob replied, flashing the cover of his book to you. ‘I’ve read it before, but not since high school.’

‘The classic debate of good vs evil,’ you remarked. ‘Just a bit of light reading on vacation, huh?’

Bob laughed. ‘I like to keep my brain fed.’

‘I know you do,’ you smiled. ‘That’s why I love talking to you so much.’

It was Bob’s turn to flush. He looked away and swallowed nervously.

‘What about you?’ He stammered. ‘What are you reading?’

You handed him the battered, well-read copy of one of your favourite books. It was part of a series, and you’d been rereading them for nostalgia purposes. He read the blurb and nodded approvingly.

‘Sounds pretty good, actually.’

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder, making you jump. Thoughts veering totally off track, your body’s reaction told you who it was without you needing to turn around.

‘What does?’ Bradley asked, stepping over the end of your sun lounger and perching on the edge.

‘Y/N’s book,’ Bob replied, shooting you a knowing smirk.

‘What is it?’ He asked, reaching for the book which Bob handed him.

‘Just an old favourite from when I was a teenager,’ you explained, keeping your eyes planted firmly on your lap so you wouldn’t oggle too much. ‘I’m rereading the whole series.’

‘Oh, cool,’ he replied, hand coming to rest on your shin. ‘I forgot my book.’

Your eyes flicked to his calloused hand on your leg. It was such a simple, casual act, but it drove you nuts nonetheless; it was an effort to stay focused on the conversation. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’ You said sweetly, hoping you didn’t sound too affected.

Bob choked on his water, and Bradley tipped his head back and laughed, a full-on belly laugh that made your chest tighten.

‘I’ll have you know, I like reading,’ he said, locking eyes with you. ‘Just have to be in the mood.’ His grip on your leg tightened, and warmth pooled in the bottom of your stomach.

‘That so?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grinned, winking at you over his aviators. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

And with that, he was off like a shot towards the water, muscles expanding deliciously as he ran.

Bob was trying and failing to contain his laughter.

You read a few chapters of your book, stopping now and then to share lines you liked with Bob, who was doing the same. When Bradley came back dripping wet and somehow even more God-like than he’d been thirty minutes ago, you decided it might be a good idea to go for a swim as well, just to cool down. Being around him on base or at The Hard Deck was bad enough, but on a beach in Cabo in the blistering summer heat when he looked like that? It was impossible to think straight, especially when he pulled a sun lounger so close to yours that the arms touched and took a long drink from your water bottle. The worst part of it was that he did all this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Almost like you were already a couple, which everyone else in your squad seemed to think you were.

Nat and Jake appeared with more drinks and a large platter of fresh fruit to share, which she promptly deposited in Bradley’s lap so she could lay her beach towel out. Jake took one look at Bradley, who was so close to you you might as well have been sharing a sun lounger, and smirked to himself like the cat who got the cream.

‘This looks cosy,’ he drawled, moving his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to another.

Bradley squinted up at him, unable to move without jostling the impressive tray of fruit. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something smart in response to Jake’s comment—something that would probably make you even more flustered—so you jumped up and grabbed hold of Nat’s arm.

‘Shall we go for a swim?’

Nat straightened, eyes flicking from you to Bradley as a knowing look spread across her face. You could feel Bradley’s gaze burning holes into your back, and you adjusted the straps of your white bikini self-consciously, suddenly hyperaware of the miles of skin you had on display.

‘Sure,’ she replied, brows raised. Then, once you were out of earshot of the rest of the group: ‘You’re acting weird.’

You threw your hands up. ‘I can’t help it! I feel like a caged animal!’ She laughed and you shot her a glare. ‘Glad to see my pain is funny to you, Trace.’

‘Oh come on,’ she nudged your ribs playfully. ‘You need to relax, stop taking it so seriously.’

You’d reached the shore. The cool, clear water lapping at your ankles was just the kind of grounding you needed.

‘I can’t help it,’ you whined. ‘There’s too much pressure on the situation. Bob told me that Jake and Javy were behind us sharing a room.’

Nat rolled her eyes. ‘You weren’t supposed to know that.’

‘You knew too?’ You exclaimed, shoving her lightly. ‘I can’t believe you! Dating Hangman is really rubbing off on you in the worst possible way.’

The two of you waded deeper until the swell reached your waists; then, you leaned back and let the tide claim you, your hair fanning out beneath the waves.

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Nat said, pushing her dark hair out of her face. ‘Bradley didn’t know.’

You regarded your friend. Being the only two females in your squad meant that you were quite close, and you always knew when she was lying. You could tell by the set of her shoulders and the look in her eye that she was telling the truth about this.

‘I just don’t like being backed into a corner,’ you admitted, scrunching your toes in the sand. ‘He makes me nervous enough as it is.’

‘Y/N,’ Nat sighed. ‘Can I give you a piece of advice?’

‘I have a feeling you’re going to anyway, no matter what I say.’

She gave you a glib look. ‘Get out of your own head and just lean into it,’ she told you. ‘So what if Jake and Javy orchestrated the whole thing? At some point, something had to give. He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon in the sky.’

You couldn’t help but glance back at the beach. With the distance, you couldn’t be certain, but you were pretty sure that Bradley was still watching you over the top of his sunglasses.

‘Bob said pretty much the same thing,’ you relented.

‘Well, Bob’s a smart guy,’ Nat said, standing up. ‘If you’re not gonna listen to me, you should listen to him.’

You followed her back to shore, mulling over what she’d said. Did Bradley really look at you like you’d hung the moon? Most of the time, you were too flustered to properly read into it, but maybe your friends were right, and there really was more to his flirting than simply getting under your skin.

As you approached the guys, Bradley tracked you without shame, leaning back on his forearms like he didn’t have a care in the world. You almost lost your nerve when he sat up higher and pulled his sunglasses down further so he could see you better. For once, instead of shying away, you decided to be bold and add a little sway to your hips. His eyes immediately darkened as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

When you reached your sun lounger, you took your time drying off with your towel and brushing the sand from your legs before sitting down. Bradley’s attention never once left you.

‘You’re always looking at me like that,’ you said lowly, so only he could hear you.

‘Like what?’ He asked, smirking.

‘You know what.’

He reached up and ran his fingers through his curls and released a long breath. ‘Sorry. Can’t help it.’

His voice had dropped lower, and he seemed to be struggling to sit still. In the spirit of leaning into it like Nat had said, you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction in knowing you had an effect on him.

‘Don’t apologise,’ you told him.

His eyes darted to you, questioning, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d heard you correctly. The air seemed to shift around the two of you, and you were distantly aware that there was no turning back now.

‘I’m gonna go get some ice cream,’ you announced. ‘Want one?’

‘Sure,’ he sputtered, tracking you once again as you stood up. ‘Thanks.’

You flashed him your widest, prettiest smile and relished in the way his lips tugged upward beneath his moustache.

‘No problem, roomie.’

Bradley let you take the first shower when you got back to your room. You took your time washing your hair twice, and then took extra care scrubbing the sand from every inch of your body.

You were stalling.

The Daggers had a reservation at a fancy restaurant a little way from the resort, but it wasn’t for another hour. That meant sixty whole minutes alone in a room with Bradley Bradshaw with nobody to act as a buffer and no ocean to disappear into.

Hence the twenty-minute-long shower.

The bathroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the suite, complete with a waterfall shower, his and hers sinks and light-up mirrors. You stepped out onto the fluffy mat in search of a towel, but all you could find was a couple of small hand towels.

An icy chill ran down your spine as you remembered the towels folded up at the foot of the bed.

Fuck.

Gingerly, you opened the bathroom door and poked your head out. Bradley was stretched out on the bed, flipping through your current read.

‘Can you pass me a towel?’ You squeaked. ‘There are none in here.’

Bradley’s head snapped up.

You watched the realisation that you were naked behind the door wash over him, and his eyes darkened just like they had on the beach. A sly grin tugged at his lips as he set your book down and swiped a towel from where they were folded into swans.

‘What’s the magic word, sweetheart?’ He teased, voice an octave lower than usual.

Your toes curled instinctively, grip tightening on the edge of the door

‘...Please.’

He came right up to the bathroom door, but didn’t hand the towel over right away—just stood there, a little too close, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

His eyes flicked over your face and settled on the water pooling in your collarbones. You thought you saw his breath hitch, though surely smug, confident Bradley Bradshaw wouldn’t be so affected by the sight of your naked shoulders.

You reached around the door and waved your hands impatiently, and he blinked as though startled.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, biting back a grin as he handed you the towel. When his fingers brushed yours, your breath hitched, and you slammed the bathroom door shut suddenly and leaned against it.

He didn’t even have to try to get you worked up. Honestly, it was a little embarrassing.

After wrapping yourself in the fluffy towel, you bit the bullet and walked out into the bedroom. All your clothes were in your suitcase because—of course—you hadn’t thought to take them in the bathroom with you. You didn’t feel like asking Bradley to root through all your underwear to find you an outfit, thank you very much.

He didn’t move an inch as you sashayed across the room, just kept his eyes planted firmly on the wall in front of him, jaw set like it took effort to keep them there. After the way he’d stared at you at the beach earlier, you weren’t sure why he was bothering to be chaste now. He swiped another towel from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, all without fully turning around, like he was afraid to look at you.

Or maybe he was afraid that you’d look at him.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, you moisturised and put on your evening dress. It was a cute, baby yellow number that you’d picked out especially for this trip. Admittedly, you’d had Bradley in mind when you’d bought it, though you’d die before ever telling anyone this.

It was hot enough outside that you could leave your hair to air dry, so you grabbed a mini bottle of prosecco from the fridge and a glass and headed out onto the balcony. The view of the private beach was breathtaking and made you wish you could take vacations more often.

By the time you heard the bathroom door open, the sun had started to set, and you’d nearly finished your drink.

Bradley had taken longer than you in the shower, and that was saying something.

You blamed the bubbly for your inability to keep your eyes on the beautiful ocean view, and turned subtly in your seat.

Bradley had his back to you, a white towel hanging low on his waist. Up until now, you hadn’t given men’s backs much thought, but now you were reconsidering. The expanse of tanned skin pulled taught over impressive muscles had you wondering about other areas of his body.

Now who was shamelessly staring?

Practically drooling, you watched him dig through his suitcase for some clothes, mesmerised by his fluid movements—so mesmerised, in fact, you only just managed to turn back around before he dropped his towel to the floor.

‘Hey, Y/CS?’ He called.

Your stomach somersaulted. ‘Yeah?’ You squeaked.

‘This mirror on the wall by the door’s nice, huh?’ He replied, smirk audible in his voice.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to work out what he was talking about. What did a mirror have to do with anything?

Silence stretched out for a second.

Then it dawned on you.

He must have seen you ogling him in the reflection.

Heat crept up the back of your neck as you rubbed your temples, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

After a few minutes of quietly simmering with embarrassment, Bradley appeared on the balcony, dressed in black dress pants and a loose-fitting, white linen shirt. He’d combed his wet hair back, and his aviators were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. To top it all off, he smelled delicious.

‘Ready to go?’ He asked innocently.

You knocked the rest of your drink back and stood up. ‘Yep.’

He followed you across the room, and just as you opened the door, he placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. Gently, he untucked your wet hair from beneath the back of your dress and tucked it over one shoulder so your back wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t the feel of his fingers against the nape of your neck that startled you; it was the softness of the gesture. It affected you more than his loud, outward attempts at flirting.

You were frozen to the spot as he let his hand linger for a little longer than he should’ve before pulling away.

‘Thanks.’ You squeaked.

He was so close to you that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he said: ‘No problem, roomie.’

The restaurant was called Jazzamango, and it sold the most expensive pizza you’d ever had in your entire life. It had been Mav and Penny’s idea to come here, and they were paying for the whole thing. The Daggers were family, and you were grateful for the way Penny had taken you all under her wing—just because Mav had to, didn’t mean she did.

Naturally, you ended up sandwiched between Natasha and Bradley, because there had been no other seats left when you arrived. It was incredibly hard to focus on your $400 pizza when Bradley’s leg kept knocking into yours beneath the ornately decorated table. Every time it happened, you inched a little closer to Nat.

‘Wanna sit in my lap or something?’ she whisper-shouted after the fourth time it happened.

‘Sorry,’ you hissed. ‘Bradshaw’s all up in my personal space.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’re sharing a room with him for the next three nights, so you might wanna get used to it.’

You flashed your teeth at her. ‘Thank you for captioning my nightmare.’

‘You know, this whole playing hard to get thing is getting really boring to watch,’ she told you with a smirk. ‘I thought I told you to lean into it.’

His knee touched yours again, and this time you didn’t move away—you told yourself it was because you had nowhere else to go, but was it?

‘Relax,’ Bradley murmured, low enough that only you could hear. ‘You look like you’re about to bolt.’

‘Maybe I am.’ You shot back.

‘Don’t,’ he said simply, before going back to his conversation with Reuben and his girlfriend.

By the time desert came out, you were jumpy, exhausted and ready for bed. Which would’ve sounded inviting after a day of socialising, if not for the fact that you had to share with Bradley.

‘So,’ Nat said suddenly, cutting into her piece of cheesecake. ‘How’s the room?’

You almost choked on your drink, but Bradley didn’t even look up from his plate. ‘Great, actually.’ He said.

‘Is it?’ She asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, finally glancing your way. ‘We’re getting along really well.’

You kicked him under the table. Hard. His leg didn’t move. In fact, it pressed closer.

You went completely still.

By now, you were sure this man was going to be the death of you, and you were sick of him always getting one up. Resolutely, you put your hand on the top of his thigh and squeezed, hoping nobody would notice. His fork clattered onto his half-empty plate as he glared at you, pupils blown completely black.

‘Yeah,’ you smiled at Nat. ‘We are.’

She couldn’t see your hand from this angle, but she could see the pained expression on Bradley’s face. Honestly, you were taken aback by your own boldness. You had no idea whether to move away or double down, and your pulse was going ohshitohshitohshit.

‘Weirdos.’ Nat huffed.

For the first time since you’d met him, Bradley Bradshaw didn’t have a comeback.

He ate the rest of his dessert in a stunned sort of silence, glancing at you now and then like he was making sure you were really there. 

When you got back to the room, the energy between you and Bradley was loaded in a way it hadn’t been before.

You didn’t know if Bob and Nat’s words had gotten to you, if you’d had too much champagne or if the forced proximity to Bradley had finally broken down the last of your resolve—either way, you were seeing the situation from an entirely new angle.

It was hard to believe that all these months of teasing had purely been for fun when he’d looked at you like that when you’d grabbed his thigh. And this stunned silence he’d been trapped in since the restaurant? It was so unlike him that you could only assume you’d had a real effect on him.

Bradley went over to the minibar and grabbed two miniature bottles of Patròn.

‘Do we have to pay for these?’ He asked, waving the bottles at you.

‘I guess so,’ you replied, following him out to the balcony. ‘Unless the happy couple are footing the bill at the end.’

He handed you one of the bottles and uncapped his. ‘Guess we’ll find out,’ he smirked. ‘You ready?’

You scrunched your nose up. ‘We’re just gonna drink it straight?’

‘That’s the whole point of tequila,’ he reasoned.

Shooting straight tequila in a hotel room with Bradley Bradshaw? You said a silent prayer for your sanity before following Bradley’s lead and downing it, wincing at the harsh taste.

‘I don’t usually drink tequila,’ you sputtered.

‘Neither do I,’ he admitted, smiling sheepishly. ‘Doesn’t normally end well.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ you laughed.

And that’s how you and Bradley ended up swapping stories about your worst drunken nights. By the end of it, you were clutching your sides, which ached from laughing so hard, and your jaw hurt from smiling so wide. He made you feel careless and present in the moment, as though nothing and nobody outside of it was more important. It was easier to laugh than to acknowledge what had changed.

Eventually, you cast a glance at the very inviting bed. Bradley watched you intently, like he was waiting to see what you’d say first.

The tequila had gone straight to your head. You leaned back in your seat and took a deep, steadying breath of ocean air.

‘You can’t sleep on the floor, Rooster. I wouldn’t be able to sleep.’

Bradley gave you a bemused grin. ‘You wouldn’t be able to sleep?’

‘No,’ you pouted. ‘Because I’d just be thinking about how uncomfortable you were all night.’

Fiddling with his empty bottle, Bradley smiled dazzlingly. ‘You would?’

Before you could stop the words flying out of your mouth, you asked: ‘Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?’

Bradley’s smile dropped, suddenly serious. ‘Kinda.’

His admission was like a sharp stab in your chest. ‘Well, I do.’

He didn’t drop his gaze from you as he said: ‘That’s good to know.’

Suddenly, the quiet between you was too loud. You couldn’t sit still anymore, and you could feel your clothes sticking to your body.

‘I’m going to put my pyjamas on,’ you announced, getting up from your seat.

‘Need a hand?’ Bradley teased.

Your mouth dried out at the thought. ‘Nope,’ you squeaked, hurrying into the bathroom with your night things.

As you dressed, you wished you’d brought something a bit nicer than an old Harley Davidson t-shirt and skimpy sleep shorts, but you hadn’t been expecting anyone to see you after 10pm. What kind of psycho could sleep in lace, anyway?

After brushing your teeth and combing through your hair, you headed back into the bedroom where Bradley was perched on the edge of the bed scrolling on his phone. He was shirtless in a pair of grey sleep shorts, and your brain short-circuited at the thought of sharing a bed with him.

When you flopped down on top of the duvet, he turned to face you, propping his head up on his hands. God, he was handsome. Nobody had the right to be so perfect.

‘I sleep with the windows open,’ you told him, lips tugging upward. ‘No AC. And sometimes I snore if I’m really tired.’

Bradley laughed delightedly. ‘I sleep with the windows open too,’ he told you. ‘And I snore all the time.’

‘Now you’ve got me second-guessing letting you sleep in the bed with me,’ you joked.

Bradley laughed again, and something in your chest shifted. You found yourself trying to come up with ways to hear that laugh again.

He sat up and moved further up the bed, close enough to you that you could feel heat rolling off him.

‘You’re on my side, though,’ he said huskily.

‘That so?’ You asked, raising a brow.

‘Yup.’

Emboldened by the wicked glint in his eye, you straddled him so you could get to the other side of the bed. Instinctively, his hands flew to your hips, and even though the contact and proximity were short-lived, it still set an electric current buzzing beneath your skin. His little ‘oof’ had your pulse jumping into your throat.

Without giving him any time to respond, you reached over and snapped the bedside lamp on, plunging you into near total darkness. The only light came from the moon, which was almost full up in the sky, and a spattering of twinkling stars.

Bradley pulled the duvet back and nestled beneath it, and you followed suit. You could barely hear the ocean outside over the pounding of your own heart as you grabbed a few of the extra pillows (what bed needed this many?) and made a barrier between the two of you. You knew full well that it was childish, and you felt a bit like an idiot, but really, what other choice did you have?

‘You’re not serious,’ Bradley laughed, voice more unsteady than usual. You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t trust yourself, or that you knew you’d never drift off to sleep if you could feel him lying beside you.

‘Night roomie.’ You said sweetly.

He scoffed, but you could hear the smile in his voice when he said: ‘Yeah. Goodnight.’

You woke up a few hours later completely disoriented.

It took you a moment to remember that you were away in Cabo, and not in your own bed in San Diego.

Slowly, you came to terms with your surroundings: the lovely, light breeze in through the balcony doors, the sound of the ocean gently lapping the shore, and someone snoring.

Your brain hadn’t quite caught up yet—it was still somewhere between sleep and waking.

And then it did, all at once.

The pillow barrier you’d built hastily before falling asleep had been kicked to the foot of the bed. In your sleep, you and Bradley seemed to have found your way into each other’s arms. Your face was pretty much buried in his chest, and both of his strong arms were wrapped around you. He smelled of sandalwood and sunscreen, and he was so incredibly warm.

You’d never been this close to him before. Not like this. Not where you could feel every single breath he took.

The heat you were becoming all too familiar with unfurled deep in your belly. It was desire mixed with nerves and anticipation, and it was slightly intoxicating; better than any expensive champagne.

You debated rolling away, probably should have rolled away. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Bradley was so warm and inviting, and he wasn’t awake to make a sly remark and totally ruin the bliss. Tentatively, you draped your arm across his middle, hand hovering for a second before you let it settle against his back, fingertips tracing slow, absent lines like you were testing whether the moment was real. He shuddered in his sleep, and your breath caught, and not because he’d moved—because he’d felt it.

You bit back a pleased grin.

Just as you’d started to drift off again, his arms tightened around you, somehow pulling you even closer.

‘Y/N?’ He murmured.

You inhaled sharply. ‘Yeah?’

‘Are we cuddling?’

And damn if his raspy, sleepy voice wasn’t the sexiest thing you’d ever heard in your entire life.

‘I think so.’ You whispered.

Silence for a second, then a quiet, ‘Okay.’

His grip didn’t loosen; it just settled, like he’d decided something. And not two minutes later, he was snoring again.

Just like that.

You didn’t move, not even after he’d fallen asleep.

And that meant something you weren’t quite ready to face just yet. 

Bradley didn’t think he’d ever been this close to losing his mind before.

Every little thing you did drove him insane—the way you got embarrassed and couldn’t hold eye contact when he flirted with you, the smell of your expensive shampoo, the sight of you in that fucking white bikini, water sliding down your stomach and legs.

And now, he could add your little snores and the way you clung to him like a koala in your sleep to the list.

He woke up to you still nestled against his chest, arms wrapped around his torso like you two did this sort of thing every night. It didn’t surprise him that you two fit together like puzzle pieces—he’d always known that you were meant for each other. What surprised him was that you hadn’t moved all night, even after waking up and finding yourself pressed against him. Most of the time, he had a hard time even having a serious conversation with you without you disappearing on him or retreating inward, so he was counting this as a step in the right direction.

Being careful not to wake you, he peeled your arm off him and crept to the bathroom, closing the door behind him softly. No matter what, he started every single day with an ice-cold shower, but today it was more necessary than usual. His skin smelled of your perfume, he finally knew what it felt like to hold you close, and after spending the better part of six hours pressed up against your gorgeous body, he was more than flustered.

He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, suddenly all too aware of his own body, which had totally betrayed him.

He felt more than a little guilty for sorting out his morning problem with you sleeping ten feet away, but what other choice did he have? You cut and run from in The Hard Deck when he winked at you, so he couldn’t imagine what would happen if you woke up to his dick pressing against your stomach. Hell, you’d probably never be able to be in the same room as him again.

Bradley tried not to take it personally; he really did. He understood that you were shy and more reserved than the rest of your rowdy squad. But that was one of the things he loved most about you. He also knew that you didn’t believe that he genuinely liked you, that he wanted more with you than the sex he hinted at too often.

Maybe that was his own fault, but he just loved teasing you so damn much.

As he went through the motions of his morning routine, he thought about how incredible it had felt to wake up cuddling you. By the time he was done in the bathroom, he’d replayed the memory so many times he no longer fully believed that it had really happened. Had he dreamt your arms tightening around him, or the lazy circles you’d traced into his back?

The sight of you tucked up in the middle of the bed, hair splayed out across his pillow, was the only proof he had that any of it was real. Bradley dressed quickly and grabbed his phone and key card. Breakfast would be starting any minute, and he thought you might like some time to yourself to get ready for the busy day ahead. Cocktails had been scheduled for the afternoon, followed by the rehearsal dinner, and he knew you well enough to know that you’d want some time to charge your social battery before all that.

Down in the restaurant, Natasha, Jake, Mickey and Bob were already seated at a table close to the window. Bradley grabbed himself a cup of black coffee and a plate of fresh fruit before joining them.

‘There he is!’ Jake said, smirking smarmily.

‘Fucking finally!’ Nat exclaimed. ‘I need details, now. Did it happen?’

Bradley stabbed a strawberry with his fork. ‘No.’

All four of his squad mates visibly deflated with disappointment. ‘What do you mean “no?”’ Nat demanded. ‘You shared a bed with her! She had like, four glasses of champagne!’

‘So?’ Bradley rolled his eyes. ‘What was I supposed to do, take advantage of her because she was drunk?’

Bob leaned forward in his seat. ‘Did anything happen? Anything at all?’

Bob Floyd wasn’t one for gossip, so if he was interested, then the situation must have been getting dire.

Bradley shrugged. ‘We had some tequila, chatted for a while, then we went to bed.’

‘Did you share the bed?’ Mickey asked, waggling his eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Bradley snorted. ‘With a fucking pillow shield between us.’

Jake’s eyes lit up, and Bradley immediately regretted saying anything. If you found out that he’d told anyone about what had gone on behind closed doors, you’d never talk to him again.

‘Come on, Rooster,’ Nat pleaded. ‘Just make a move already!’

‘I don’t know if she wants that! She’s so hot and cold, I never know whether I’m coming or going.’

‘But I bet you wish you were co—’

Natasha punched Jake’s arm, cutting him off abruptly. Bradley busied himself with his fruit, although it was difficult to focus with four pairs of eyes boring holes into the top of his head.

He huffed. ‘We cuddled.’

Chaos erupted. He only meant to give them something to shut them up, but now he was being bombarded with a whole slew of other questions, like “who initiated it?” and “did you get to second base?” Bradley banged his fork down onto the table.

‘Can you guys cut it the fuck out!’ He snapped. ‘It’s none of your business—and if you tell her I told you that, I’ll never speak to any of you again.’

Mickey snorted. ‘Yeah, cos it took you a whole fucking year to even get her in a room alone.’

Bradley picked up a grape and threw it at Mickey’s head.

‘Low blow, Fanboy,’ Nat growled.

Mickey threw his hands up. ‘But it’s true!’

‘Y/N’s different,’ Bob said quietly. ‘If you really wanna be with her, you have to show her that it’s not all just for show.’

Bradley blinked. He knew you and Bob talked a lot, probably because you were both quiet and relatively reserved. Judging by the look in the WSOs eyes, he knew more than he was letting on.

Nat nodded in agreement. ‘Bob’s right,’ she said. ‘Maybe slow down on the flirting and let her get comfortable.’

Bradley chewed on this. Out of everyone in your squad, Phoenix and Bob definitely knew you best. If he was going to take anyone’s advice, it would be theirs. Maybe all his shameless flirting was only harming his cause.

He could tone it back, let you come to him for a change. He just had to hope that you actually did, because he didn’t think he could survive another night in bed with you without kissing you.

Bradley couldn’t stop admiring the way your pretty, blue evening dress clung to your body in all the right places. You looked so stunning he couldn’t think straight, just kept going back to the previous night in his mind.

You sipped your cocktail, smiling slightly at something Penny was telling you.

It was the first time he’d seen you since this morning in the room. When you hadn’t come down for breakfast, he’d taken you up a croissant and some coffee, but you weren’t in the room. He’d checked the beach, the pool and the bar, but he hadn’t been able to find you anywhere. He didn’t even see you when he went back to the room to get ready for cocktails and the rehearsal dinner, which was disconcerting.

It wasn’t until he’d arrived at the garden that he saw you, leaning against the wall with an impressive-looking drink in hand, chatting with Penny. Either you hadn’t seen him come in, or you were ignoring him, because you hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

Javy clapped a hand on his back, startling Bradley from his reverie.

‘How’s it going?’ He asked, face split in a wide grin.

‘Good,’ Bradley replied. ‘What about you? Feeling the pre-wedding jitters yet?’

Javy shook his head. ‘Not in the slightest. When you know, you know. I’ve never been more sure of anything my whole life.’

Bradley’s eyes darted to you. ‘I get that, man.’

Javy followed Bradley’s line of sight and smiled sheepishly. ‘I hear mine and Jake’s plan isn’t exactly working.’

Bradley shrugged, hoping he didn’t look as dejected as he felt. ‘Bob and Phoenix think I’ve been coming on too strong, but I’m not sure if it’s that anymore. Maybe she just doesn’t like me back.’

‘Bullshit,’ Javy said. ‘You just need to take a different approach.’

‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’

‘It’ll happen. Like I just said—when you know, you know.’

Bradley nodded, because he did know. He just wasn’t sure that you did.

You were halfway through your drink when you felt him beside you. You kept your eyes trained on the couples dancing beneath the pergola, which was strung with twinkling, golden fairy lights. Bradley inched closer to you, resting his arm on the back of the stool you were sitting on. You wore a backless dress, and the feeling of his arm against your bare skin reminded you of last night.

‘You disappeared on me today,’ he said quietly.

You leaned back slightly until you were almost in the crook of his arm ‘Sorry.’

‘Everything okay?’

You didn’t even know where to start. ‘Yeah,’ you said. ‘Just wanted some peace and quiet.’

‘Charming,’ he said, voice teasing.

‘I didn’t mean—’ you sputtered, covering your face with your hands. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

His chuckle reverberated through your body. When you removed your hands from your face, he leaned even closer to you. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured, eyes darting to your lips. ‘I get it. You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N. I can go as slow as you want.’

You lost yourself in the depths of him, totally enamoured. It was as if the rest of the garden had faded away, and it was just you and Bradley left. A few more inches, and you could’ve kissed him. It would’ve been so easy if you could just forget about your insecurities and stop overthinking everything.

‘Why do you keep trying with me?’ You asked a little breathlessly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lightly brushing your jaw, and your whole body trembled with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He answered.

Your eyes fluttered closed. His breath fanned across your face as he exhaled, slowly closing the distance between the two of you. Your stomach flipped just as the tip of his nose bumped yours, and

‘Everyone, if you could please make your way to the dining area,’ somebody announced over the microphone. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

The spell was broken.

Around you, everyone scraped their stools back or set their empty glasses down on tables. Your body was a live wire, veins coursing with adrenaline that now had no place to go. Bradley pulled back, and your heart sank, and that was when you realised just how much you wanted him to kiss you.

He gazed at you longingly and held out his hand for you to hold, which you took. ‘Later,’ he breathed. 

This time, when Bradley’s leg touched yours beneath the dinner table, you didn’t pull away.

That alone told you everything had changed.

Like last night, you’d spent most of dinner thinking about sharing a room with Bradley, but it was different tonight. You’d given yourself time to breathe instead of immediately talking yourself out of anything. You hadn’t let yourself go round in circles about the cuddling or what it meant, just let yourself accept that it had been nice. And that almost kiss? The way your body and heart had reacted told you everything you needed to know about how you truly felt about Bradley—something you’d always known, deep down, but had been too afraid to let yourself accept.

Part of you still found it hard to believe that Bradley truly liked you, but Bob and Nat’s words were starting to make a lot more sense to you now you’d seen he could give you more than obnoxiously flirty comments that set your skin on fire.

I can go as slow as you want.

Bradley was midway through a conversation with Mav when he filled your wine glass up for you, like taking care of you was something he didn’t even have to think about.

You tipped your head to the side, resting it on his shoulder for two seconds while you thanked him.

Nat, who was opposite you tonight, caught the whole thing and raised a brow.

You flushed scarlet, but didn’t pull away from Bradley, and she smirked knowingly. The two of you were good at having conversations with just facial expressions, and hers right now told you that you would be talking about this later, even if she had to tie you down to force information out of you.

When you finally looked away from her, your eyes caught on Bradley’s. He wasn’t listening to Maverick anymore; he was already looking at you. Not in that easy, teasing way you were used to—not like he was about to say something that would make your cheeks burn and your heart race for all the wrong reasons. This was quiet and steadier, like he was waiting.

Your breath hitched as something warm and certain settled low in your chest.

You didn’t look away this time, and neither did he.

After dinner, Javy and Paisley’s parents gave lovely speeches, and then, as he was basically an extra father for all intents and purposes, Mav gave one too. It made you a little emotional to see Mav standing so proudly as he recounted stories about Javy and his many achievements in the Dagger squad.

By the time all the plates were cleared and the speeches were finished, you could hardly keep your eyes open.

Bradley put a steadying hand on your shoulder. ‘Shall we go up to bed?’

You’d never experienced butterflies like the swarm that fluttered in your stomach at those words. Like going up to bed was something the two of you did—like it was normal. A world existed where those words actually meant something, and the two of you were right on the precipice of it.

‘Yeah,’ you said, taking his hand once again. ‘Let’s.’

He was grinning from ear to ear as you stood up and wrapped your hand around his bicep.

You threw a glance behind you at your squad, who were losing their collective shit. Maverick and Penny shared a knowing look that made you wonder just how many people were rooting for you and Bradley, and whether you were supposed to be flattered or embarrassed by it. 

The room felt different.

When Bradley closed the door behind you, it felt smaller than it had before. You kicked your shoes off and sashayed over to the bed, all too aware of Bradley trailing behind you.

‘Want a drink?’ He asked, voice thick with tension.

You nodded, and he set about pouring two glasses of wine.

He crouched down by the fridge, and you stared at the muscles in his arms as he uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured two big glasses.

It was a stark contrast to how you were used to seeing him: climbing into a multi-million dollar fighter jet, body tense but relaxed at the same time in a way that came only from being in the military. He was a totally different guy in this setting, and you couldn’t decide which version you liked best.

Your brain was ticking again now, starting to spiral. What if this didn’t work out? What if it all went to hell in a handbasket and you couldn’t work together anymore? What if all your worst fears came true, and Bradley decided you weren’t right for him after all?

You snatched your pyjamas from beneath your pillow and clambered off the bed towards the bathroom.

‘Going to change.’ You muttered.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, but before you could close it, Bradley was there, hand around your wrist and a steady look on his face.

‘Don’t,’ he said, gently tugging you towards him. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’ You asked hoarsely, laying your hands on his chest to steady yourself.

‘Run. You don’t get to look at me like that and then run.’

He was almost pleading, and you were struggling to catch a breath.

‘This whole time, I thought this was just you being…you,’ you admitted. ‘I never thought you actually—’

‘Liked you?’ He released a shaky laugh. ‘I honestly don’t know what else I can do to get you to believe me.’

He let go of your arm and ran his hands through his curls.

‘At the start, I thought you were just flirting with me as a joke,’ you admitted, cheeks flaming. ‘And then when you didn’t stop, I started to wonder why you’d even go for someone like me. I’m quiet and boring, and you’re like sunshine, Bradley,’ you took a breath, and he reached out like he was going to touch you before thinking better of it. ‘Then this weekend, Nat and Bob have been trying to convince me that you really do like me and to just relax, but I can’t because you’re you and I’m me and you just make me so fucking nervous and—’

Bradley’s lips crashed into yours as he pressed you up against the wall, caging you in with his arms. You’d been kissed before, but not like this—not like you were the very air somebody needed to survive. It was natural then, the way you put your hands on the back of Bradley’s neck—still warm from the heat of the day—and pulled him in closer, licking his bottom lip and deepening the kiss. He whimpered, like actually whimpered, when you began exploring his mouth, and your stomach clenched so hard it was almost painful.

When he eventually pulled away, he was panting hard, eyes blown so wide you lost yourself in them for a moment.

‘I can’t believe you’d think that,’ he breathed. ‘You—you’re everything,’ he swallowed thickly, cupping your face in his hands. ‘I’ve liked you since the day I met you, but every day that’s passed since then it’s only gotten stronger. And maybe I should’ve given you more than stupid comments, but I didn’t wanna risk fucking things up with you.’

You closed your eyes and rubbed your nose against his. ‘I’m sorry for pushing you away.’

He kissed you slow and gentle, like he had all the time in the world. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.’ You laid your hands flat on his chest and pushed him towards the bed, collapsing on top of him in fits of giggles. He gazed up at you, well, like you’d hung the moon. Nat had been right about that, at least. With his eyes wide, curls a mess and his lips slightly parted he looked totally disarmed, like you’d rocked the very foundations he existed upon. His hands came to rest on your hips as you leaned down and kissed him again, his moustache tickling the tip of your lip.

If you were to be honest with yourself, it was a feeling you’d been imagining for a very long time, but a feeling you never felt like you were allowed to want.

You could feel the way your weight was affecting him by his short breaths, wandering hands and the impressive length pressing against the inside of your thigh. The idea of sleeping with him both terrified and excited you at the same time. What if you didn’t live up to his standards? What if it made him change his mind?

It would’ve been easy to go into a downward spiral, but every passionate kiss and hungry grab pushed the negative thoughts further and further away until there was only him.

Just Bradley.

If you’d known it was going to be this easy, you’d have leaned into it a long time ago.

You pulled back slightly, and he leaned forward, chasing your lips for another kiss.

‘If we do this,’ you panted. ‘I don’t want it to be because of tequila and a wedding.’

He softened, adjusting you so you lay beside him, facing him. He twirled a strand of your hair around his finger absentmindedly. ‘We’ll go at whatever pace you want,’ he rasped. ‘I’ve waited a year for you, and I would’ve waited five more if I had to.’

Your heart soared. ‘You’re lying.’

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Y/N.’

And you believed him. ‘Thank you for being patient.’

He kissed you again and smiled against your lips. ‘Thanks for believing me.’

Bradley opened his arms so you could snuggle closer, tucking you beneath his chin and tangling his legs with yours. In a way, it was even better than the kiss. He made you feel safe and secure, and what more could you really ask for than that?

‘Big day tomorrow,’ he murmured, and you could hear how sleepy he was.

You ‘hmmed’ in agreement, and Bradley reached up and started combing through your hair with his fingers. Your eyes drifted closed, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you fell asleep.

You didn’t miss the hopefulness in his tone when he asked: ‘That thing you said yesterday, about finding the right guy?’

‘Too soon to say,’ you replied, smiling against his chest. ‘But I’m pretty certain.’

The next morning, the two of you meandered down to the beach hand in hand. Javy and Paisley had chosen to have their ceremony on the sand, and you made Bradley stop so you could kick your heels off and walk barefoot. He had a massive, lottery-winning grin on his face that hadn’t disappeared all morning, and matched your own.

It had taken you longer than necessary to get ready because he’d kept interrupting you with kisses and hugs and compliments, and as a result, the two of you were the last to take your seats. The Dagger squad had a whole row to themselves, and Nat had saved you and Bradley the seats on the end.

All of them—including Penny and Maverick—had twisted around in their seats to get a look at the two of you walking down the aisle. All of them had variations of ecstatic and shit-eating grins on their faces. Nat and Jake were the worst of them all, and you knew that you were never going to hear the end of this. Jake would probably have “The Reason Bradley and Y/N Finally Got Together” carved into his tombstone.

‘Are those wedding bells I hear?’ Jake teased when the two of you sat down.

Bradley glanced around. ‘No, I think we’ve still got ten minutes till the ceremony starts.’

‘Not what I meant.’ Jake smirked.

Javy, who was standing at the altar looking very dapper in his tux, waved enthusiastically.

‘DID IT WORK?’ He yelled.

Everyone in the audience turned to look at you and Bradley. You’d never felt embarrassment like it, but Bradley squeezed your hand encouragingly, and it faded away.

He was good at that.

Jake stood up. ‘YEAH, IT WORKED! FINALLY!’

Javy cheered, and the rest of the Daggers followed suit. Nat and Bob were giving you smug, ‘I told you so’ looks that made you feel a bit like an idiot. You didn’t let yourself dwell on all the time you’d spent overthinking it.

Maybe it had taken a while, but you’d gotten here in the end. But you supposed everything happened exactly when it was supposed to—not a second before nor after.

And the two of you were right on time.

[sweet-tooth4you]

fantastic gimme 14 of em right now!!!!!!

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realise that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognise you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognise any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[sweet-tooth4you]

okay now how do i read this again for the first time

[urth1]

breathe

macklin celebrini x will smith hockey x reader - in this part, it's just macklin celebrini x reader

i. how mack became your roommate

“on campus or off-campus housing?” macklin celebrini’s brain short-circuited. his college  advisor– well the bu ice hockey coach had reached out to him and told him that everything would be ok and that he could just show up on orientation and he would be situated. 

“i.. uh..”

“mr. celebrini, i’m sorry, but the line is long,” the advisor reminded him as they clicked their pen in a way that was not helping him think.

“i don’t have anywhere to live”

“i can put you on the dorm waiting list,” keyboard clacking. “you’re be 75th on the line,”  more keyboard clacking, “there’s a bulletin board over there,” the pen directs him  to the back of the room where the largest bulletin board macklin had ever seen was overflowing with flyers, “you can find somewhere there.”

“yeah, thank you,” macklin remembered to breathe again, grabbed his schedule, his backpack, and stood up from the chai-

“mr. celebrini, we’re not done yet, you still need your ID and textbook list.”

“oh, sorry.” fuck. 

“no”

“what” mack yelled back to the door. this was the listing on the first flyer he pulled off the bulletin board. it was the only one with an open-house viewing. the only contact listed was an  instagram account to dm. 

he had said that he would be there at 11:20. 30 minutes ago. he had missed the right subway stop and realized 4 stops later. then he got lost in the neighborhood. 

“is there an apartment for rent here?” he yelled louder.

a padding noise came from inside the apartment.

and the door swung open to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. your eyes were so dark he could see his reflection in them. the curve of your nose pointed up in an adorable way.  and the tips of the top of your lips below your nose, what was it called? they were also adorable. was their a fan blowing your hair? oh. it was from the swing of the door. 

“hey, you must be mack, sorry about that,” you turned around and walked back into the apartment, leaving mack to hold the door open and follow you  in, “i’m…” you introduced yourself over  your shoulder,  “and take your shoes off.” mack scrambled to toe his shoes off and left them by the door, careful to not trick over your heels and other shoes scattered around the entryway. 

“so  sorry, i’m in a rush, im supposed to be heading somewhere soon,” you explained with a dazzling– ok, kind smile as you opened the empty fridge. 

“sorry, i missed by stop on the train,” mack rubbed his neck nervously. 

“it’s okay, these things happen all the time,” you smiled again. and then you pulled some kitchen cabinets and drawers open. mack was distracted by the way your short, silky dress swooshed following the sway of your hips.

he cleared his throat to make sure he wouldn’t do something embarrassing like crack his voice. “can you say that again?”

“i said, i haven’t found any mold yet,” you started walking again,

“this is the living room,” you pointed to the other side of the apartment. there were piles of books lining the walls with gaps for the massive windows. there were more books than mack had ever seen in his life. there were 4 pillows and a beanbag on the floor, all surrounding a record player. 

“and this is the bedroom,” your voice echoed from down the hall.

you opened the door to a bedroom and gestured for him to go in. he caught a whiff of your vanilla perfume and flashed you a suave smile as he slipped by you.  

he took a glance around– aircon, a wall of windows, wonderful. he turned back to you. “wheres your room?” 

your next smile was the most beautiful he had seen so far. you nudged your head rolled off the doorframe directly into the next door. mack walked into a–

“what the hell?” he turned to face you.

he turned back to look around your room, with 2 walls of windows, it must have been one and half times thee size of his room. “did you give me your spare closet?” there was a king-sized mattress and 3 suitcases open all on the floor. 

“what can i say, early bird”

“would we be splitting the rent 50/50?” mack turned back to see you only to find that you had come to stand closer to him. too close to him. well, was there ever a ‘too’ close?

“yeah, but you can use my record player,” you shrugged, smiling up at him. your nose bridge scrunched when you did that. 

mac put his finger on his chin, pretending to think. “doesn’t seem like a good deal to me.”

“and you can borrow my books.” you inched closer. mack could see your shoulders move up and down as you breathed.

mack returned your smile. or maybe he was already smiling. 

“and you’ll have my company.”

mack blinked twice

“can i move in today?”

masterlist

[sweet-tooth4you]

“and you’ll have my company”

“can i move in today?”

LOLOLLOL SO CUTE

[prettyskjei]

summerboy — nathan mackinnon

summary: your dad is getting married in lake como, the place you’ve dreamed of getting married since you were a teenager. a hotel mistake forced you to share a room with nathan mackinnon, your childhood crush.

wc: 12.5k

note: this was supposed to be really short, but Nate won my heart. 😛😛 here are some songs to listen to while you read this ( sarà perché ti amo, ricchi e poveri ; summerboy, lady gaga ; teenage fever, drake ; butterflies, brent faiyaz ; kiss of like, sade ; other side, brent faiyaz ; yebba’s heartbreak, drake )

-

your dad is getting married again, and his wife wanted a big wedding, excessively big. a huge reception, an enormous guest list, and the party… there was no way to explain it, it was out of this world. on top of that, they were getting married in lake como, italy. your dream city.

you discovered it in a school book. you knew you wanted to get married there someday. you even had someone in mind but he was only a product of your imagination, someone you had idealized in your head. he had no real face then. just broad shoulders and hands that reached for yours like they already knew you, even though you didn’t know him.

now, you were sitting on one of the small elegant sofas in the reception area of the villa in italy that your father had rented to accommodate all the guests. from where you sat, you could watch people constantly coming in and out of the villa.

you let out a sigh because you still didn’t have a room. you had asked three times at reception. you said your name, spelled out your last name, even showed the invitation email, but the receptionist told you there was no one registered under that name. you sank a little deeper into the sofa when a familiar male voice sounded behind you.

“hey, bambi.”

you rolled your eyes at the nickname and turned your head. nathan was there, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt and a small lopsided smile that only appeared when he was amused.

“hey, nate” you said.

“give me some space,” he said, moving your leg with his knee.

you pulled your legs together and sat up straight, making space for him on the sofa you barely fit on alone. his huge body took up whatever space was left, disappearing into it, his long legs spreading out for obvious reasons.

“you ready, wife?” he asked.

“excuse me?”

his hand went to the front pocket of his pants and he pulled out the room key, holding it out for you to take. you turned the small wooden piece over to look at the decoration. ‘mr. & mrs. mackinnon’. you frowned, looking at him.

“since when do you have a wife?” you asked, dropping the key onto his lap.

“since… today,” he replied, shrugging.

“where is she?” you turned your head toward reception, where there was a bunch of women with suitcases.

“in front of me,” he answered calmly.

your head turned slowly back to him, who had a light smile on his face and was looking at you.

“what?!” your voice came out louder than normal, and some people nearby turned at the sound. “that’s impossible. why would i share a room with you?”

“i asked for mrs. mackinnon’s name and they gave me yours,” he explained what had happened a few moments earlier. “i don’t know any other person with your name, bambi.”

“stop it,” you cut him off. “i’m going to tell them to fix this.”

you placed your left hand on the armrest and the other on nate’s huge thigh to push yourself up, but his voice stopped you.

“calm down. it’s not that bad,” he said, grabbing the key from his lap. “is your boyfriend from the playoffs here?”

he was referring to the man you invited to the last colorado avalanche playoff game, the one who got to meet the team in person thanks to you, where nate asked questions just to make things awkward for both of you.

“he’s not my boyfriend,” you said reluctantly. “we don’t talk anymore.”

“then we’re okay,” he said, shrugging.

you looked at him in disbelief. nate always did that, he said absurd things with an infuriating calm, as if everyone else in the world was overreacting. though maybe that’s why you became friends so quickly. you met him when you were eighteen and your dad had just become the coach of the colorado avalanche. at first you only went to a few summer practices because your father hated leaving you home alone. nathan barely spoke to you, he’d nod at you and go back to training like he was preparing for war instead of a hockey game.

but one day he found you sitting alone in the stands at the practice facility, trying to finish an assignment while waiting for your dad. he dropped down next to you completely sweaty, breathing heavily after training, and snatched the book from your hands.

“this is boring,” he said after reading two lines.

“give it back.” you pulled it out of his hands.

“you actually understand this?”

“yes.”

he looked at you for a second, genuinely impressed. then he smiled a little. “smart girl.”

and that was it. after that, he started talking to you more and more. at first it was just small conversations while you waited for practice to end. then he started sending you ridiculous videos at two in the morning. you’d tease him about his obsessive hockey addiction, he’d make fun of your one direction playlists, and without you noticing, nathan became a constant part of your life.

you liked him from the start. it was impossible not to. not when he always found a way to sit closer to you during team gatherings. not when he looked directly at you while talking even when there were twenty other people around.

but you stopped thinking about him like that the day he introduced you to one of his girlfriends. you remember perfectly how she clung to his arm during a team dinner while nathan introduced her with that relaxed smile he reserved for press and cameras. it didn’t bother you that he had girlfriends, because you knew nathan was never going to fall in love with you. so you buried that little illusion where no one could see it. and it worked. well… mostly.

“can we go to our room and rest, my lovely wife?” he poked your ribs.

you rolled your eyes, lightly hitting his thigh with your fist. a soft laugh from him reached your ears. he stood up from the sofa and extended a hand toward you.

“c’mon.”

you lifted your gaze to his face, the sunlight hitting him directly, lighting up his blond hair and shrinking his pupils into two tiny ink-like specks lost in the blue of his eyes.

you placed your hand over his, and he helped you up with barely any effort. his hand settled on your lower back, letting you pass in front of him. a shiver ran down your spine, leaving your whole body covered in goosebumps.

you were about to grab your suitcase, but his large hand appeared in the way, lifting it up along with his. he tilted his head for you to keep walking.

“i can take my own suitcase, nate,” you said, trying to reach for it, but he moved it to the other side.

“and let me be a bad husband? absolutely not,” he said, shaking his head.

you walked toward the room door. the villa had an open ceiling design, you could see the clear sky above, the sun lighting up the place with that warm italian glow. once in front of the door, you waited for nate to take out the key, but his hands were full, your suitcase and his in one hand, and another carry-on in the other.

“the key is in my right pocket,” he said, turning toward you and pulling you closer.

one of your hands opened the bag while the other reached into the large pocket of nate’s pants for the key. you grabbed it and unlocked the door, going in first and holding it open so he could come in with the luggage.

once the door was closed, you walked down the small hallway of the room. to your right was the bathroom. you continued until you reached the only bed. yes, a single bed.

“you gotta be kidding,” you sighed.

“seems nice,” nate said, opening the windows that revealed a view of the italian sea. “come take a look!”

you walked to his side and went silent. the sea sparkled under the sunlight, reflecting flashes of gold across the water. a small smile formed on your face at the sight in front of you.

“it’s so beautiful,” you said, turning your head toward nate.

“yeah, it’s so beautiful,” he nodded, looking at you.

you turned your gaze back to the sea. you couldn’t wait to get married here. you just had to find the man you had always imagined. you kept wondering who it could be. so many people you had met, and it was none of them.

nate stepped away from your side. you turned your head toward him as he dropped onto the bed, stretching his body out, arms above his head and legs extended. his shirt lifted slightly, revealing the lower part of his abdomen, where the waistband of his underwear peeked out.

your eyes returned to the shimmering sea. your heartbeat quickened, and you closed your eyes, trying to calm yourself. you couldn’t think like that about him. you had already moved past your imaginary phase of being in a relationship with him. even he remembers it. whenever your dad invited the team over to your house, you would show up a little more put together, wearing makeup on an otherwise normal day.

“so… about the bed,” you said, stepping away from the window.

“what about it?” nate asked, placing his arms behind his head.

you let out a nervous, poorly hidden laugh.

“you don’t want me in your bed?” he asked.

“it’s not that. i mean, we barely know each other to sleep in one bed,” you tried to justify the unjustifiable.

“we’re not gonna sleep naked, bambi,” he turned his head to look at you. “we’re gonna have clothes.”

“i know!” you raised your voice, placing your hands on your hips. “but it’s weird.”

“until you make it,” he said. “stop thinking. c’mon. lay next to me.”

you hesitated. you could just say no and walk out of the room, that easy, but your feet moved before you could stop them, and you slowly lay down, not too close to him. you didn’t want to move and make it weird.

“only four days,” he mentioned his stay. “we can make it.”

“yeah. i think,” you said under your breath.

“what are you going to do at night?” he asked, turning his head toward you.

“the final wedding rehearsal,” you answered with a groan. “my dad wants me to walk in with him… though i wish it were the other way around.”

“you want to marry raven?” he asked teasingly.

“very funny.”

nate let out a laugh. then he sat up, his weight shifting the bed so much your legs slid slightly to the side, and he placed a hand on your knee.

“you have to be happy for your dad,” he said, tapping his fingers lightly against your knee. “or at least try.”

“you want to come to the rehearsal?” you asked, sitting up next to him.

“to do what?” his blue eyes met yours.

“to be a guest, duh,” you said like it was obvious.

“okay. i will be the drunk uncle.”

that made you laugh. nate smiled when he heard it, his small smile that barely lifted one corner of his lips but always made your chest feel oddly tight.

you rolled your eyes, though the smile stayed on your face. the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. outside, small waves gently hit the private docks of the villa, and in the distance you could hear italian music coming from a restaurant near the lake. through the window, lake como looked like a postcard, small cream-colored houses climbing green mountains, boats cutting through the bright water, and lights beginning to turn on as evening settled in.

“you know,” nate said after a few seconds, “when your dad told me the wedding was here, i thought you were gonna lose your mind.”

you let out a soft laugh. “i almost did.”

“you talked about this place for years.”

you turned your head slightly toward him. “you remember that?”

nate frowned a little, as if the question was ridiculous. “of course i do.”

you felt something tighten in your ribs. because nate always remembered things he shouldn’t. small details that were easy to forget. like the exact way you took your coffee, your first dog’s name, the time you cried when zayn malik left one direction and he teased you about it for weeks.

and maybe that’s why you could never fully get him out of your head. because nate had a way of making you feel important without even realizing it.

-

the night had arrived, carrying a warmth you could feel under your skin. it was strange, like déjà vu, like you had been here before, even though you had never traveled to italy. maybe it was because you had spent years imagining this place. imagining yourself walking down the aisle toward the man you would eventually marry someday.

a voice saying your name pulled you out of your thoughts. you turned quickly toward the sound, your eyes widening in surprise as you recognized the face in front of you.

“nick?” you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “what are you doing here?”

the excitement in your voice was impossible to hide. nick smiled just like he used to when you were kids, though now he looked much taller and older than the boy you had been in love with at thirteen.

“i got invited, well, raven invited me,” he shrugged, wrapping you in a hug. “it’s been years since i’ve seen you.”

“yeah—”

“i’m here.”

nate’s voice came from behind you. you turned without fully stepping away from nick.

“great… um, nick, this is nate,” you introduced him to your neighbor. “nate, this is nick.”

nate nodded, and nick extended a hand, which nate took out of politeness, and to avoid being rude in front of you.

“are you her boyfriend?” nick asked, tightening his grip on nate’s hand.

“no,” you answered faster than you meant to. “he’s my friend. my dad’s favorite player to bother.”

nate turned his sharp blue eyes toward you without letting go of nick’s hand, noticing the involuntary smile that had appeared on your face while talking to nick.

“actually, i’m her husband this week,” nate said, releasing the man’s hand.

“nathan!” you hit his chest with your hand. “don’t say that,” you scolded him. “it’s a misunderstanding with the hotel. they put us in the same room.”

“well, i hope you don’t mind if i steal your wife for one night,” nick joked, turning toward you. “are you free?”

“i have my dad’s last wedding rehearsal,” you said, playing with your fingers. “but you can come. i don’t think he’ll mind.”

“yes, that would be great!” nick smiled immediately.

“have you seen raven?” your dad appeared behind you all.

“probably regretting the wedding already,” you joked.

“maybe,” he said, laughing. “let’s go outside while we wait for her.”

you walked out into the garden where your dad’s ceremony would take place. white chairs rested on the grass under the glow of hanging string lights. nate stayed by your side, as did nick, you were trapped between them, unable to look at one without turning your back on the other.

“come here, honey,” your dad called you over.

the moment you stepped away, nate took a seat in the back row. he pulled out his phone as if he didn’t care about anything happening around him, though you knew that act too well. nate always pretended indifference when something actually bothered him.

“this is what we’re going to do one day for you. for your special day,” your dad switched places with you, glancing back and noticing nate sitting on his phone and nick taking in the place. “hey kid!”

both of them turned.

“yeah?” nick was the only one who answered.

“stand in front of the altar.”

“dad!” you muttered, gripping his arm.

“it’s just an example, i’m not asking you to marry nick, honey,” your dad said quietly. “you’ll find someone special eventually.”

you nodded, though you weren’t sure you believed it.

from the back row, nate put his phone away and paid attention just as you started walking with your dad. he noticed the two of you murmuring like accomplices until you reached the altar, where he left you with nick.

you took nick’s cold hands and lifted your gaze to his face, where a small smile made you look down, suddenly flustered. you looked up again but this time your eyes drifted to the blue ones watching you from the last row.

nate lifted a thumb with a small approving smile, as if agreeing with the scene. then, seconds later, he turned the thumb down with a disgusted expression, making you cover your laugh with both hands.

“okay, now hold hands properly,” your dad instructed, and you both obeyed. “actually… no, switch places. bride goes on this side.”

you switched with nick and now stood on the left side, closer to the seats where nate had been sitting in the back row. you took nick’s hand again and began walking down the few steps from the altar.

“this feels like a movie,” nick said. “the perfect place… and the perfect wife.”

your gaze stayed locked with nate’s, who didn’t look away from you even for a second. his eyes followed every step you took with a calmness that made the night feel like it belonged to them. something tight formed in your chest.

you reached the end when one of the doors opened and raven stepped out.

“i lost the whole wedding,” she joked, closing the door behind her.

“it would be another, don’t worry,” you played along.

“like father, like daughter,” raven laughed, her laugh pulling one out of you too.

she walked past you toward your dad, who welcomed her with open arms. you slowly let go of nick’s hand.

“what a great experience it was to marry you but i have to go now,” he said, pointing toward the door.

“don’t worry, see you at the wedding,” you said with a small squeeze of his arm. “bye!”

you walked toward the seats in front of nate, leaving him a view of your exposed back, your hair swaying slightly in the soft wind that had taken over the night.

“he really likes you, bambi,” you felt nate’s deep voice right behind your ear. too close.

“stop it.”

“he looked pretty excited that you were the bride,” he kept teasing. “like it was gonna happen one day.”

“maybe it could be real someday,” you said, turning your face slightly. “he could be the husband i’m looking for.”

“he’s not your type, bambi,” nate let out a soft laugh through his nose and slowly shook his head.

“stop calling me that!” you muttered, turning your body away from the seat. “you think you know my type? who’s my type then?”

he looked at you with that calm expression, like the answer was right on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t say it.

“dumb dudes,” he replied. “like the guy in the playoffs. he looked more excited to meet cale than to actually be there with you.”

“yeah, definitely dumb dudes,” you said, turning your back to him again.

the words stayed with you longer than they should have.

you knew nate was joking, half mocking your terrible history with men, but it still landed somewhere sensitive. because maybe he was right. maybe all the guys you had dated really were dumb dudes, and maybe everyone could see it except you.

you hated that a careless sentence from him could do that.

you crossed your arms over your chest and stared forward, refusing to turn around. behind you, there was movement, the scrape of a chair, footsteps on the grass. nate’s body appeared in your view as he settled into the seat beside you.

you didn’t look at him. your face stayed forward, jaw tight, eyes fixed on anything ahead. for a moment, he didn’t speak either. his shoulder brushed yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him despite the cool night air.

“you mad?” he asked after a while.

silence.

“bambi.”

nothing.

he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out until your knees touched his. he let out a calm sigh through his nose. “that’s dramatic.”

still, you ignored him.

you could see your dad hugging raven near the altar, distant cars near the villa, soft music drifting through the garden but your whole body was still too aware of nate sitting next to you. taking up space like always. acting like he hadn’t just said something that had slipped under your skin.

“i was joking,” he said, his voice lower now.

“good for you,” you replied sharply.

he turned slightly toward you, trying to catch your eyes, but you refused.

“you know i was joking.”

“then find someone else to entertain.”

you felt the side of his hand nudge your elbow. you pulled your arm away immediately.

“you’re really doing this?”

“yes.”

“you’ve ignored me for less.”

“that should tell you something.”

that made him go quiet immediately.

for a few moments, there was only the sound of wind moving through the trees and quiet voices near the altar. the air had turned colder, but nate’s arm was still pressed against yours, warm and heavy.

“i didn’t mean to upset you.”

“too late,” you said, your throat tightening, which only made you more annoyed.

nate shifted in his seat, leaning slightly closer until his knee pressed more firmly against yours.

“look at me.”

you didn’t. you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“look at me,” he repeated, softer this time. more patient.

and somehow that made it harder not to. you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. nate was still facing you, one arm draped over the back of the chair, his jaw tight in that unreadable way he got when he was deciding whether to push or back off. it was the same look he had on the ice when he wanted the puck and nothing else mattered.

“relax, please,” he murmured.

his long fingers brushed your arm. it felt strange, because this version of nate, him being careful and trying to fix things, felt too different from the one you remembered. your mind drifted to a memory before you could stop it.

your house.

your dad had invited some of the team, and the place was loud with laughter, some hockey talk, chairs scraping against the floor. nate was sitting on the counter, leaning against it like he owned the room, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, eating strawberries straight from the container.

you had spent almost an hour upstairs getting ready. curling your hair for the third time because you didn’t like how it fell over your shoulders. changing outfits until you found a top that looked casual even though it clearly wasn’t. putting on makeup with shaky hands because you were eighteen and nathan mackinnon was downstairs in your kitchen. back then, you still thought those kinds of things mattered.

when you finally walked into the kitchen carrying a tray of drinks, the conversation slowed for half a second. just long enough for it to be noticed.

nate’s eyes landed on you. they traveled over your hair, your makeup, your clothes and then he smiled.

“well, look at this,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “didn’t know it was picture day.”

a couple of guys laughed immediately. your grip tightened on the tray. you tried to keep walking like it didn’t affect you, but nate wasn’t done.

“who are you trying to impress?” he asked, picking a bottle off the tray. “because it’s definitely not working on these guys.”

more laughter. louder this time.

your face burned so badly you thought you might cry right there in front of all of them.

“it’s called looking nice,” you said quickly. “you should try it sometime.”

nate just shrugged, opening the bottle.

“relax, it was a joke,” he said, already bored with it.

you slammed the tray down too hard, ran upstairs, shut your bedroom door, and sat on the floor waiting. waiting for footsteps. waiting for a knock. waiting for him to come up and say he didn’t mean it. that the guys were idiots. that he was an idiot. anything.

but it never happened. an hour later, you looked out the window and nate was still outside in the garden with your dad, talking about a game like nothing had happened at all.

back then, he never cared enough to explain himself. if he hurt your feelings, he moved on before the moment could even finish, he was already somewhere else.

now he was sitting beside you in italy, refusing to move on.

“relax, it was a joke,” he repeated softly. “bad timing maybe, but still a joke.”

before you could answer, raven’s voice carried through the garden.

“sweetheart, i need you over here.”

you looked away from nate and turned toward raven, who was standing near the altar with a bouquet in her hands, motioning for you to come closer.

you stood up from your chair, smoothing down your dress. but before you could take another step, warm fingers closed around your wrist. you froze.

when you looked down, nate’s hand was wrapped around you, still sitting, his eyes lifted to yours. the overhead lights reflected softly in his blue gaze.

“i’m sorry,” he said.

something in his expression had shifted. like he hated that you thought badly of him, even if he hated even more having to say it out loud. you looked from his hand on your wrist back to his eyes.

he loosened his grip slightly, but he didn’t let go.

“bambi.”

you pulled your wrist free without a word.

you walked toward the altar, still feeling the warmth of nate’s hand lingering on your skin. the same warmth you used to imagine in your own wedding daydreams. a warmth you hadn’t felt in nick’s cold hands when you held his.

you could feel nate’s gaze on your back, but you ignored it and kept walking until you reached raven, who showed you where to stand.

nate didn’t look away.

from his seat, he could see your expression clearly. your face was calm, but your eyes weren’t. there was something there, something he recognized too well now. he hadn’t always noticed it, but two years ago he started paying attention without really knowing why. the way your posture changed when something bothered you. the way you walked away without looking back, like you just did.

he followed you with his eyes until you took your place, as if his body couldn’t decide to stop watching you even when his mind told him to.

-

you could feel your face warming under the sunlight that hit your skin. you opened your eyes with some difficulty and stared at the wooden ceiling above you. you had ignored nate throughout the rehearsal, it hadn’t seemed strange to anyone else because you and nate weren’t exactly close in their eyes. still, now he was lying right next to you in the same bed.

you turned your head slightly to the left, and nate was still asleep, lying face down with his right arm tucked under the pillow. the blanket sat low on his waist, leaving his back exposed under the morning light.

sunlight poured through the open windows, falling directly onto him, tracing the soft lines of his back and making his hair look even more golden. for a moment, you just watched in silence.

and then something uncomfortable tightened in your chest, because you had already imagined this before. you had spent years being in love with nate, so you had imagined what he would look like sleeping next to you. what it would be like to be part of his life after telling everyone you were together. until that idea disappeared the day he introduced you to his first girlfriend.

your gaze slowly traced the line of his back as the sunlight shifted across his skin. there was something strangely intimate about seeing him like this, sleeping, still, without the intensity he always carried awake. without that version of nate who always seemed like he was competing against the world.

he looked like someone you could wake up with a kiss on the lips and it wouldn’t feel strange. the thought hit you so hard you looked away immediately, annoyed at yourself.

you shifted carefully so you wouldn’t wake him, but the mattress dipped slightly under your weight.

nate let out a low sound, almost a sleepy grunt, and turned his face slightly into the pillow. his eyes were still closed when he spoke, his voice rough from sleep.

“why are you staring at me?”

your heart jumped so stupidly it made you angry.

“i wasn’t staring at you,” you lied quickly.

a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, still with his eyes closed.

“creepy.”

you rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it.

“you were literally asleep.”

“not anymore.”

he slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. it took a moment for his pupils to adjust before he found you still lying beside him. and for the first time since last night’s argument, neither of you looked upset.

“you still mad at me?” he asked, his voice rough.

you looked at him for a few more seconds. the golden light kept falling over his hair, over his back, over that sleepy expression you almost never saw on him. and honestly, you didn’t have enough energy left to stay mad anymore.

“i’m not mad anymore,” you admitted quietly.

“so,” he said. “we’re okay?”

the question sounded casual, but there was something careful in it. like he actually wanted to know the answer. nate wasn’t good at apologizing. everyone knew that. he was too blunt, too proud sometimes, too used to moving forward instead of sitting in uncomfortable feelings.

but with you, he tried last night. multiple times. he tried to make you understand he didn’t mean to make you feel bad, and that mattered more than you wanted to admit.

“yeah,” you answered finally. “we’re okay.”

nate looked at you for a few seconds, and a small smile appeared on his lips, softer than the teasing ones he usually gave you.

then he got out of bed and walked toward the window, where sunlight traced his back and bare shoulders. he leaned his forearms against the balcony railing, the morning breeze moving through his messy hair while the lake stretched endlessly behind him.

you watched him for half a second too long before forcing yourself to look away and get out of bed. the floor felt cold under your feet as you walked toward your suitcase.

“what’s the plan today?” nate asked from outside.

you crouched beside your luggage, pretending to look for something just to avoid looking at him again.

“breakfast with my dad and raven,” you answered. “my dad said you’re invited too. unless you’re too busy touring with cale.”

nate let out a quiet scoff from the balcony.

“first of all, cale would absolutely wake up at six in the morning to go look at rocks or whatever tourists do here.”

a smile tugged at your lips as you kept pretending to reorganize clothes that were already folded.

“and second?” you asked.

“i’m offended you think i’d miss free breakfast.”

you let out a soft laugh. behind you, you heard his footsteps crossing the room slowly. the mattress shifted slightly as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“tell your dad i’ll go,” he said. “gotta maintain my reputation as his favorite player.”

“you mean his most tolerated player.”

nate placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “that’s hurtful.”

you finally looked at him over your shoulder. his hair was still messy from sleep. he looked too comfortable here. too natural in your space. your eyes lingered for a dangerous second before you looked away again.

unfortunately, nate noticed everything. a slow smile appeared on his face.

“there you go again.”

“oh my god,” you muttered immediately, grabbing the first thing from your suitcase just to have something to hold. “you’re ridiculously obsessed with yourself.”

“no, bambi,” he said, leaning back on his hands. “i just know when someone’s looking at me like that.”

bambi.

you hated that nickname or at least that’s what you tried to say every time nate used it. you hated it because it made you feel like a kid again, but also because no one else could call you that. only him.

it had started as a joke years ago, when you fell while trying to skate in front of the entire team during a charity event. nate had laughed so hard your dad had to tell him to calm down, then he’d walked over to help you up and said you looked like a baby deer learning how to walk like bambi.

and it just stuck. all the other players eventually stopped using it. you tried to ignore it, but nate never did. and the worst part was that it sounded different when it came from him, like something closer, something that belonged only to him.

half an hour later, you were walking together through the small stone paths of the villa toward the restaurant where your dad had organized a family breakfast. the morning air was still cool, and the lake shimmered brightly under the sun. tourists walked near the water with cameras in hand while small cafés were starting to fill up.

nate walked beside you wearing sunglasses and a simple white shirt with a few buttons undone that, unfairly, still made him look ridiculously attractive. you hated that too.

“stop sighing,” he commented without even looking at you.

“i didn’t sigh.”

“you did.”

“you’re annoying.”

before he could answer, your dad’s voice came from a nearby terrace.

“there they are!”

you looked up toward the restaurant. the tables were set outside, covered with white tablecloths and small flowers in the center. raven was sitting next to your dad with a cup of coffee in her hands. your dad smiled the moment he saw nate walking up with you.

“mackinnon,” he greeted, lifting a hand. “i knew free food would bring you here.”

nate placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended. “coach, i came here because i enjoy company.”

“that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”

you let out a small laugh as you took your seat next to raven. nate settled beside you almost automatically, like it was the most natural thing in the world. and maybe that’s why your dad raised an eyebrow. he noticed how nate pulled your chair slightly forward before sitting down. how he took the menu and handed it to you first without even thinking. those small, automatic gestures that felt too domestic for two people who “barely knew each other.”

“you two look well rested,” raven commented, smiling over her coffee cup.

“best sleep of my life,” nate replied, taking a sip of coffee like nothing was wrong.

you slowly turned your head toward him with a look of horror. your dad let out a loud laugh from across the table, and nate smiled behind his cup because he knew exactly what he was doing.

“you’re unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, not looking at him directly.

“what? i slept great,” he said, shrugging.

“you snore,” you lied.

“that’s actually offensive.”

“it’s true.”

“coach,” nate turned to your dad with complete seriousness. “your daughter is spreading misinformation about me.”

your dad laughed again while raven gently shook her head.

“you two sound married already,” she commented casually.

the silence that followed lasted only a second, but it was enough to feel strange, because nate didn’t respond. you glanced at him, expecting a quick joke, some arrogant comeback, or one of those teasing smiles he always used to escape uncomfortable moments—but for just a moment, he stayed quiet, leaning back in his chair with his arm draped over yours, staring out at the lake like the thought didn’t bother him as much as it should have.

“god help us all if that ever happens,” you said quickly before the silence could grow.

“see?” he pointed at raven. “she’s the mean one.”

a waiter appeared at the table to take orders, and the conversation shifted into coffee choices and wedding talk. still, you were too aware of nate sitting next to you. of his leg brushing yours under the table. like he was used to sharing your space.

after breakfast, raven insisted on walking through the small markets near the lake before heading back to the villa. your dad agreed immediately because, according to him, “this is what rich italian vacations are supposed to look like.”

so you ended up walking behind them through the cobblestone streets of lake como while small shops filled with flowers and painted ceramics appeared on both sides. the lake shimmered behind the old buildings, and the air smelled like fresh coffee.

“you know,” your dad commented as raven stopped in front of a shop full of candles, “if hockey stops working out, mackinnon could definitely scam rich women in italy.”

nate let out a laugh. “good to know you believe in my future, coach.”

“you already look like a divorced millionaire,” you added.

“well, i’m not divorced,” he turned slightly toward you, though you couldn’t see his blue eyes behind his sunglasses. “i’m actually your millionaire husband.”

“you wish,” you rolled your eyes.

“oh my god, look!” raven let out an excited sound ahead.

you looked up and found a small photobooth placed next to an ice cream shop. it was decorated with white flowers and beige curtains, probably set up for tourists and couples. a small sign read: lake como memories.

“we’re taking pictures,” raven announced immediately.

she practically dragged your dad inside the tiny booth while you and nate stayed outside, looking at the printed tourist photos stuck to the exterior. through the curtain, you could hear their laughter and your dad complaining that “the stool was too small.”

nate let out a small laugh beside you.

“that’s gonna be us in thirty years,” he said calmly.

you slowly turned toward him. “excuse me?”

“old and embarrassing.”

“you skipped a few important steps there.”

“did i?” he asked distractedly, still looking at the photos.

you stared at him a second too long before looking away again. the photobooth curtain finally opened and raven stepped out first, holding the printed pictures in her hands.

“your turn!” she said excitedly.

“no.”

“yes!” raven gently pushed you forward. “go make memories.”

nate opened the curtain for you to step in first. the booth was much smaller than it looked from outside.

“there’s literally no space.”

“what did you expect?” nate stepped in behind you and closed the curtain. “an apartment?”

the tiny bench barely looked designed for one person. nate sat first for obvious reasons, his long legs took up almost all the space.

“you can sit,” he said, looking at you.

“where exactly, genius?”

nate gave his leg a small tap.

“the camera is literally counting down,” he pointed upward. sure enough, a small light had started blinking. “unless you wanna stand awkwardly in the corner.”

you let out a nervous sigh before carefully sitting down on one of his legs. too close. nate’s arm moved instinctively around your waist to keep you from slipping off, and you immediately felt the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of your dress.

your back pressed against his chest. you felt small on his lap. you could feel his breath near your neck, the heat of his body seeping through your clothes, the brush of his knee against the outside of your thigh, even the subtle movement of his chest when he let out a low laugh at how stiff you were.

“you look terrified,” he murmured near your ear.

“because you’re crushing me.”

nate only smiled slightly and rested his cheek against yours just as the first flash lit up the booth. on instinct, you placed a hand on his cheek, pulling him closer to your face as you pretended to scream for the photo, and the second flash went off immediately. you let out a small laugh, and the final countdown began.

nate leaned in closer.

“you know…” his hand tightened gently at your waist, his blue eyes dropping briefly to your lips before meeting yours again. “you fit here pretty well, bambi.”

flash.

neither of you moved.

you were still too aware of his hand firm around your waist. how close his face was to yours. the accidental brush of his nose near your cheek.

your breath came out uneven, and you hated that he probably noticed. nate had been noticing everything about you lately. his eyes dipped toward your mouth again, and for a second, you genuinely thought he might kiss you right there.

the air inside the booth felt too hot all of a sudden. too small. and you were just trying to remember how to breathe normally while nate looked at you like that. like you were something he wanted to touch even when you were already right there on him.

you didn’t know what to do. didn’t know what to say. for the first time, he had actually left you speechless.

and that confused you more than anything.

nate wasn’t like this with you. he never made jokes like that. not about being married. he would’ve made a joke, sure, but he would’ve shut it down, fixed the misunderstanding immediately.

the machine let out a mechanical sound as it printed the photos, and the moment snapped apart.

you rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. “saved by technology.”

nate let out a low laugh as he slowly removed his hand from your waist. “you’re dramatic.”

“you’re annoying.”

“and yet,” he tilted his head slightly, looking at you, “you looked pretty comfortable sitting on me.”

“oh my god.”

you pushed the curtain open and stepped out before he could say anything else.

the fresh air outside hit your warm face immediately. your dad and raven were waiting for you, eating half-melted ice cream. raven took the two photo strips from your hand, her face lighting up the moment she started looking at them.

“looks like you’re on your honeymoon!” she said excitedly, showing them to your dad.

“oh please, don’t say that, honey,” your dad said, taking one of the strips. “they’re not each other’s type.”

you and nate both turned your heads toward him at the same time. “what?”

“come on,” your dad pointed at nate with the photo strip still in his hand. “nate likes blondes,” then he pointed at you. “and you don’t like hockey players.”

“that is not true,” you protested.

nate was behind you, completely quiet.

“the last time you dated a hockey player you said you would never date one again,” your dad reminded you, thinking back to when you came home crying that night.

“because hockey players are insane.”

“exactly,” your dad said, satisfied.

“actually coach,” nate said, stepping up beside you, “i don’t really have a type.”

“no?” your dad raised an eyebrow.

“no,” nate kept his eyes on you while he spoke, like everything else around him had disappeared. “i just like girls who are funny,”

your breath caught slightly.

“pretty,” he continued calmly. “smart, a little mean to me…”

“oh my goodness,” you muttered immediately.

your dad laughed, assuming nate was just joking again.

“and obsessed with me,” he finished with a small crooked smile.

that broke the tension instantly.

“okay, there he is,” you said, pushing his arm while raven started laughing. “i was worried for a second.”

nate let out a low laugh as you hit him again, but even as you all started walking, his eyes stayed on you like part of him had said more than he meant to.

when you got back to the villa, the sun was still high over the lake and the place felt much more alive than in the morning. guests wandered through the gardens with glasses in hand, conversations mixing across tables, soft music threading through the trees.

raven and your dad disappeared almost as soon as they walked in because someone needed help with something related to the tables, you weren’t even sure what anymore.

you and nate walked slowly along one of the stone paths in the garden. around you were rose bushes, small unlit lights hanging from the trees, and empty tables waiting for the next night’s celebration.

nate broke the silence first.

“you’ve been smiling all day.”

you tilted your head slightly toward him. “what?”

“you,” he gestured vaguely at your face. “you’ve been smiling since we got here.”

you frowned a little confused. “that’s a weird thing to notice.”

“i notice everything about you.”

it came out too fast. too natural. nate seemed to realize it a second later because he cleared his throat and looked down at the path.

your heart gave an uncomfortable little jump.

you kept walking until you reached a small bench under a weeping willow facing the lake. you sat down first, letting out a tired sigh. nate took off his sunglasses and hooked them onto his shirt before sitting beside you.

both of you stared out at the lake, lit by the sun. your hands rested in your lap, while his were placed on the bench beside him.

the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. it was the kind of soft silence that seemed to belong to the place itself, like the lake, the wind, and the willow leaves were all holding stillness with you.

the tree’s shade covered you almost completely, letting only small rays of sunlight slip through the branches. the lake shimmered in the distance, like nothing else existed outside that moment.

“i can understand why you want to marry here,” he said, looking out at the view.

“why?” you asked, turning your head toward him.

“i mean, look at this!” he extended his hand toward the lake. “everything is so beautiful. that’s probably why raven stole your idea.”

that made you laugh.

“she didn’t steal it,” you shrugged. “it’s trendy.”

“i remember when you told me italy was your dream city,” he said.

“oh my god, we were nineteen!” you let out a laugh.

“you talked about it for like… two hours.”

you shook your head, embarrassed. “that’s embarrassing.”

“it was kinda cute.”

the word caught you off guard.

“you had this whole thing about flowers,” he continued, still looking ahead. “pink ones.”

“hydrangeas,” you corrected automatically.

“yeah, those,” he pointed slightly. “and you said you wanted jewelry that matched them.”

you turned to look at his face, not expecting him to remember.

“you showed me this bracelet once,” he said more quietly now. “tiny little thing with pink details on it. it had these pale pink stones. you said it looked soft enough to wear with flowers.”

you stared at him, completely surprised.

“how do you even remember that?” you asked softly. “i mentioned it once.”

nate held your gaze for a second longer.

“because it was important to you, bambi.”

the nickname came out differently this time. lower. like all the years you spent trying to bury and move past your feelings for him had suddenly surfaced again in your mind.

nate lowered his gaze right after saying it, like he’d felt the shift in the way he spoke to you too.

his fingers tapped against the bench before sliding slowly into his pocket. for the first time since you’d known him, nate looked nervous. his hand stayed there for a few seconds, like he was deciding whether to go through with it or not.

he let out a small breath and pulled out a silver bracelet, covered in tiny pink stones that caught the light as the sun filtered through the trees. it was delicate and thin, elegant in a soft way, like it had been made to stay close to skin.

“you remembered,” you murmured.

your eyes dropped to the bracelet, then lifted back to him. there was something in his expression that didn’t fully settle, like the memory of something so small had left him too exposed.

“you said you wanted something that matched the flowers,” he explained quietly. “for your wedding.”

the words hung between you.

you looked at him for a second without speaking, because it wasn’t just the gift. it was that nate had held onto it long enough to actually go and buy it.

he looked down at the bracelet in his hand, like he was suddenly worried it was too much.

“if it’s too much, i can—”

“no,” you cut him off immediately. “it’s perfect, nate.”

something soft shifted in his face.

nate opened the bracelet carefully, holding it with hands that looked almost too big and clumsy for something so delicate. he placed it around your wrist and closed it gently.

and suddenly it was there, resting against your skin, the tiny pink stones catching light every time the sun slipped through the leaves.

“it looks good on you,” he said finally.

your throat tightened, and before you could think too much about it, you leaned into him.

nate barely had time to react before you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. his responded instantly, arms closing around your back with a steady strength that made you feel completely held.

he pulled you closer with care, like the hug was something he’d wanted to do for a while but hadn’t known how to start.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, still smiling.

“now,” you said softly, a light happiness in your voice, “i just have to find my husband.”

nate let out a short laugh through his nose, but you didn’t move away right away. and neither did he.

his arms were still around you, warm and heavy around your waist, like in the photobooth. you could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing against you.

“you’re gonna find him,” he murmured.

something in the way he said it made you look up at him. there was something strange in his expression now, calm on the surface, but too full underneath. like he was trying to sound casual while something else tightened in his chest.

“yeah?” you asked softly.

he nodded slightly. “yeah.” his hand drifted up your back once before settling again at your waist. “you’ll probably meet some ridiculously nice and polite guy. not a hockey player.”

that made you laugh a little.

“what if he is a hockey player?”

“absolutely not. terrible species.”

you rolled your eyes, smiling.

“you are literally one.”

“exactly. i know what i’m talking about.”

but he still didn’t let go. you were still too close. and nate was looking at you in that way you’d been struggling to ignore lately like he was trying to convince himself of something while still holding you there.

the wind moved through the willow branches around you, isolating you even more from everything else. from outside, no one could really see you here.

it was just the two of you.

“you know what’s funny?” he said suddenly.

“what?”

“i think your husband is gonna be really annoying.” a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stayed serious.

you let out a soft laugh. “why?”

“because he’s gonna spend the rest of his life trying to deserve you.”

your breath caught slightly.

you pulled back just enough to sit straighter on the bench, your eyes dropping to the bracelet on your wrist. for some reason, his words pressed against your chest in a way you couldn’t easily shake.

“that was a very intense thing to say for someone who calls me bambi,” you tried lightly.

nate let out a small breath of a laugh, grateful for the easier exit.

“yeah,” he murmured, still looking out at the lake. “probably.”

you watched him for a moment longer. sunlight hit his profile, softening the tension in his face but not fully erasing it. and for the first time in a long time, nate looked like someone who didn’t quite know what to do with what he was feeling.

then he stood up, extending a hand toward you without fully looking at you.

“c’mon, wife,” he said, his voice much gentler now. “we should go back before your dad thinks i kidnapped you.”

you let out a small laugh as you took his hand and pulled yourself up.

you walked out from under the willow tree and dropped his hand the moment you saw cale’s wife waving at you from the table. you lifted your arm to wave back and walked toward her.

“there she is,” cale said as soon as he saw you.

“mackinnon’s wife,” manson added.

laughter broke out around the table. nate smiled at the joke.

“finally someone respects my marriage,” he bumped fists with his teammate. “my wife doesn’t take it seriously.”

“she should! we saw you guys making out there!” manson pointed toward the willow tree.

“we weren’t making out!” you said through your teeth.

“that’s exactly what two people who make out would say,” manson replied.

more laughter.

“thank you,” nate added, pointing at him. “someone gets it.”

you hit his arm lightly while everyone kept teasing.

“hey.” a voice came from behind you. you turned. nick was standing there with a calm smile. “sorry,” he said, glancing at the group. “am i interrupting?”

“unfortunately, no,” nate answered immediately.

nick let out a small laugh. “i was actually looking for her.”

you felt several eyes shift toward you.

“me?” you asked.

“yeah.”

he put both hands in his pockets.

“i found a little garden near the back of the villa. there’s a fountain and everything. thought you might want to see it.”

“sure,” your smile appeared before you could stop it. “see you guys later.”

“don’t stay out too late,” cale called after you.

“use protection,” mason added from the other end of the table.

“OH MY GOD, JOSH!”

laughter exploded again as you walked away with nick. nate only smiled out of obligation.

because the moment you started walking down the stone path, something in him stopped finding the situation funny. he watched as nick said something and you laughed.

his neck stayed turned, following your figure until you disappeared from sight. he didn’t hear half of what continued at the table.

cale watched the direction you’d gone, then looked at nate, who was still staring after you.

“can i tell you something without you getting defensive?”

nate let out a short laugh through his nose. “no.”

“you know what’s frustrating?” cale continued. “it’s that every time you get close, you find a reason not to do it. first it was because she was too young. then it was because her dad is our coach. then it was because she was dating somebody.”

nate let out a humorless laugh.

“you make it sound pathetic.”

“because it is, man.” cale leaned forward slightly. “under the willow tree would’ve been a pretty good time to tell her.”

“i can’t.” the answer came instantly. nate looked at him. “i can’t ruin what we have.”

“and what exactly is that?”

nate went quiet. he didn’t even know what to call it. something safe, something they’d built over years without ever naming it properly.

“you don’t even know what to call it,” cale said.

“shut up.”

“i won’t. you spent ten years acting like you had all the time in the world… you don’t.” cale rested his forearms on the table. “because somebody else noticed her too.”

nick led you down one of the farther paths of the villa, where the sound of the guests barely reached through the trees. the so-called garden turned out exactly like he described it, a small stone fountain surrounded by white flowers and neatly trimmed bushes.

“this is actually really pretty,” you said, looking around.

“i knew you’d like it.”

a small smile formed on your face as you stepped closer to the fountain.

“you’re very proud of yourself right now.”

“a little.”

you let out a soft laugh. the silence that followed was easy. nick rested a hand on the edge of the stone fountain while watching you.

“it’s weird seeing you again.”

you turned toward him.

“why?”

“you look exactly the same.”

“that’s impossible.”

“no, seriously,” he smiled. “you still make the same face when you’re about to argue with someone.”

you rolled your eyes at him.

“see? there it is.”

you laughed. nick looked down for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“i had a crush on you for years, you know.”

the confession caught you off guard, even though part of you had always suspected it back when you were younger.

“nick…”

“it’s okay,” he shrugged. “i think everybody knew except you.”

an awkward smile formed on your lips. your mind started running through a dozen different scenarios of what you were supposed to say next.

“to be fair, i was pretty oblivious.”

“yeah, you were.”

you both let out a small laugh. nick stepped a little closer, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. not yet. your childhood crush on him had faded the moment you met nate and never really came back. not even now.

“when raven invited me here i was hoping i’d get to see you.”

a small knot formed in your stomach.

“no pressure,” he added quickly. “i just wanted you to know.”

“thank you,” you said softly, offering him a gentle smile.

for a moment, he didn’t say anything. the fountain kept running behind you. then nick stepped forward again and before you fully processed it, he tilted his head slightly. his lips brushed yours for only a second.

you pulled back immediately.

“nick.”

he froze. “oh, i’m so sorry.”

you shook your head quickly. “it’s okay.”

“no, i shouldn’t have done that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “i thought maybe…”

“no…” you lowered your voice gently. “i mean… you’re great, nick.”

the small smile he gave you this time was full of resignation.

“but?”

you looked away toward the fountain because you didn’t know how to explain it, that the problem wasn’t him. that he was probably one of the best people you had ever known, and still something was missing.

“but just… not like that.”

nick nodded slowly.

“yeah…”

silence settled between you again.

and for the first time since you’d walked into the garden, your mind drifted back to blue eyes, a voice calling you bambi, and a bracelet carefully closed around your wrist.

and that was enough for you to understand why you’d stepped back.

-

you didn’t manage to sleep properly. you couldn’t. your mind kept replaying everything with nate, how long he held you in that hug, how easily you sat on his lap, how he actually apologized for something he said, and how he remembered things about you in such specific detail. you were teenagers when half of those memories even happened.

you turned your head slightly, and there he was. his bare, muscular back facing you. he slept with that quiet confidence of someone who had no problem being shirtless around you, if it were up to him, he’d probably sleep in just boxers, but he still wasn’t entirely sure how you’d react.

you let out a soft sigh and closed your eyes, replaying everything again. and when you opened them again, it was already the wedding day.

everything had moved too fast after that. the villa turned into elegant chaos from early morning, raven rushing from one place to another with someone chasing her just to fix her dress while your dad pretended not to be nervous.

you barely saw nate during the day. there were brief glances in the villa hallways, nothing more. no conversation, no teasing, no jokes from him.

the ceremony felt like a dream. the sky over lake como turned orange while soft lights wrapped around the garden and the lake shimmered behind the altar. you heard raven crying before you even saw your dad do the same. you laughed during the vows, teared up thinking about your mom, and then everything ended too quickly.

and before you knew it, it was fully night.

the reception was still alive behind you but you needed silence. so you walked away from the noise. the garden was much quieter now. the dark lake stretched behind the altar, reflecting small flickers of light across the water.

you sat in one of the last rows, slipping your heels off under the chair with a tired sigh. your feet were killing you from walking all day and dancing through every song.

for a moment, you just stayed there, staring at the place where your dad had gotten married. it still felt strange to think about it. you never imagined seeing him remarry. it was a weird feeling, but not something you could hate, he deserved to fall in love again.

“i guess the party is over for the mackinnons,” nate’s deep voice came from behind you before you even saw him.

you turned slightly. he was walking between the chairs with his hands in his pockets, suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. he looked less put together now, but still just as attractive. maybe even more.

“you found me anyway.”

“yeah,” he stopped at your row. “starting to think you do it on purpose.”

you raised an eyebrow. “maybe i just wanted five minutes without hearing ABBA.”

that made a soft smile slip onto your face. nate looked around for a second before sitting down in the chair next to yours, his long legs immediately bumping into the row in front.

“these chairs are tiny,” he murmured, adjusting himself.

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“my wife should be more supportive.”

you rolled your eyes automatically, but the smile stayed.

“you’re still using that joke?”

“joke?” nate turned his head slightly toward you, pretending to be surprised. “the hotel room says otherwise.”

you let out a small laugh through your nose. the wind gently moved the flowers near the altar while the two of you looked ahead for a moment. the reception music still echoed in the distance, now softened by how far away it was.

“still think it’s messed up they sat us separately,” he commented.

“oh my god, nathan.”

“i’m serious,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the party. “what kind of wedding separates a married couple?”

“we are not married.”

“then explain the honeymoon suite, bambi.”

you didn’t have an answer, so you just looked at him with a smile. the warm hanging lights lit his face softly, making him look like he’d been pulled straight out of a rom-com.

“you know,” he said casually, placing one of his hands on your legs, “your dad almost gave me a heart attack during the rehearsal.”

your eyes dropped to his hand resting on your legs.

“because of nick?”

“because i had to watch another dude stand at the altar with my wife,” he replied immediately.

you turned your head toward him, amused. “you’re so dramatic.”

“am not.”

“you literally gave me a thumbs down from the last row like you were an emperor from gladiator 2.”

“he looked nervous,” nate shrugged slightly, “he would’ve died if he lived in that time.”

you shook your head, smiling, placing your hand with the bracelet over his. nate immediately followed the movement. something soft shifted in his expression, like relief, before he looked back toward the empty altar.

“c’mon,” he said suddenly, standing up.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

“let’s try something.”

you looked at him suspiciously as he extended a hand toward you.

“nathan…”

“trust me.”

that only made you more skeptical. still, you took his hand. nate pulled you up easily and started walking with you between the empty rows. the hanging lights barely illuminated the garden now, and the dark lake shimmered behind the altar.

“okay,” you said through a soft laugh. “what are we doing?”

nate didn’t answer right away. he just led you to the start of the aisle where you had walked with your dad hours earlier. then he slowly let go of your hand.

“stand here.”

you were still confused. “why?”

“because we’re recreating the rehearsal.”

you let out an immediate, disbelieving laugh. “absolutely not.”

“absolutely yes,” nate said, walking backward slowly. “nick did a terrible job. we need a better version.”

he then turned and walked alone toward the altar. you watched him move under the soft garden lights, tall, composed, even just in a white shirt. his steps barely echoed against the wooden platform until he finally stopped at the top.

and then he stood still, with his back to you. the white flowers around him seemed to match him somehow, reflecting that quiet calm he always carried with you when he teased you.

nate turned slowly to face you. that’s when the air got stuck in your lungs. he was just looking at you. waiting.

and your mind betrayed you immediately, pulling you back to that younger version of yourself, the one who used to imagine this place from an old school book. you had pictured your wedding in lake como before you’d even known italy existed. there had always been a man in that dream, but he never had a face. just a blurry idea. a silhouette without a name holding your hand while the lake shimmered behind you.

and now, with every step you took toward the altar, that image started to shift.

the silhouette came into focus. broad shoulders becoming real. blond hair first. then blue eyes. then that crooked nose you could recognize anywhere. then the small, tilted smile.

nathan.

it always ended up being nathan.

your breathing turned uneven as you walked slowly toward him between the empty rows of white chairs, and nate never looked away. not once. like he was seeing something he couldn’t quite explain either.

your steps slowed near the altar. the music from the reception barely reached you now. there was only the soft glow of the lights, the dark lake moving behind him, and his steady gaze making you feel too seen.

when you finally stepped onto the platform, nate let out a small breath through his nose, almost nervous.

“okay,” he murmured, glancing down for a second. “this part is harder than i thought.”

that made you laugh softly. “what? no speech prepared?”

“i usually perform better under pressure.”

“i know that.”

nate looked back up at you, and something shifted.

the teasing smile faded, leaving something quieter. more serious. softer. and when he took your hands, warmth spread through you instantly. different from anything you’d felt before. different from nick. with nate it wasn’t just touch, it was familiarity. like he already knew exactly how to hold you.

“i, nathan mackinnon…” he started, and both of you let out a small laugh at how serious it sounded. but he didn’t let go of your hands. “promise to always let you steal the blankets even when you pretend you’re not cold, and i promise to remember every tiny thing you say.”

you weren’t even sure if he was joking, because he had never stolen your blankets but he did remember everything.

“you know…” he continued slowly, “i always thought whoever married you was gonna be really lucky. and not because you’re perfect.” his thumbs brushed over your hands, over the bracelet he had given you. “you’re actually kinda mean to me sometimes.”

that made you laugh through the emotion already building in your throat, but nate kept going before the moment could break.

“I’ve spent years trying to act like i was just your friend or your dad’s annoying player, while i was actually mourning every second you weren’t mine.”

his grip tightened slightly. his blue eyes were devastatingly focused on you.

“I’m not a polite man, and i’m definitely not a ‘nice guy’. but i notice everything. i notice how you change when you’re mad, and i notice how you look at this lake like it’s the first thing in the world that ever made complete sense to you.”

he stepped closer.

the air changed instantly.

your breathing turned uneven, because nate had always been big but never like this. never like something that could undo you just by being near.

and suddenly you understood why your heart had never been calm around him.

it wasn’t just attraction. it was this. the way he looked at you like you were something fragile and important. the way he always found you in crowds. the way he made you feel seen even when you tried not to be.

“I think i’ve been loving you for longer than i realized,” he exhaled quietly.

your chest tightened painfully.

“maybe since that first practice,” he continued, a faint, almost sad smile on his face. “or maybe since you started looking at me like i was more than just some hockey player your dad dragged home.”

his hands shifted, holding yours more firmly.

“but i know for sure that somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling temporary to me,” he admitted. “you started feeling like home.”

your eyes stung immediately.

nate noticed right away. he let out a small, breathless laugh like he couldn’t believe he was actually saying all of this out loud.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he said softly, “but one day i realized every version of my future somehow had you in it.”

his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“every city i went, every summer i spent… i just wanted you there with me, bambi.”

you stayed looking at him for a second longer than you could stand, and then, when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter than you expected.

“i hate that nickname.”

the small crease between nate’s eyebrows appeared immediately.

“bambi?”

you nodded slowly, still looking at him. “i’ve always hated it,” a nervous laugh slipped out of you, “and the worst part is that every time you said it… i still wanted you to say it again.”

nate’s expression softened.

“because i was in love with you.”

silence fell between you both, so complete you could hear the lake water gently hitting the shore behind the altar.

nate stopped breathing. literally. his blue eyes stayed locked on you, slightly widened in shock, like he had never expected those words to come out of your mouth, even though a part of him probably wished they were in present tense.

you let out a small, broken laugh from nerves and turned your head slightly toward the empty rows of chairs.

“sorry, dad,” you murmured, looking at an empty seat like he was sitting there. “i know you said not to fall in love with one of the team, but i tried really hard not to,” you looked back at nate. “especially after you started bringing girlfriends around.”

your eyes dropped to his hands.

“i used to picture this place… this whole stupid perfect wedding in my head when i was younger. and i used to imagine a man standing here waiting for me, but he never had a face. just… broad shoulders, hands i could trust,” you continued softly. “someone who looked at me like i was something worth waiting for.”

you swallowed hard. your throat was burning now, your voice starting to tremble at the edges.

“and for a long time i thought that was just a fantasy. something i made up because it was easier than wanting something real.”

you lifted your gaze back to him, that familiar knot tightening in your chest.

“but then you kept showing up at my house. like it was the most normal thing in the world. like you were always supposed to be there, annoying me, teasing me, making me roll my eyes at you.”

a small smile flickered on nate’s face, like he was trying to hide it, lowering his gaze for a second.

“you were there when my parents fought downstairs and i didn’t want to come out of my room,” you continued with a soft, breathy laugh. “you were there eating everything in our kitchen after practice. and you were there making fun of my terrible boyfriends.”

that got a bigger smile out of him. he looked up again.

“they were terrible,” he said, turning his head toward the empty chairs. “cale can confirm that.” he pointed at a seat like it meant something, making you laugh through your tears.

“and the worst part is…” your voice dropped again. “i stopped comparing people to the man i imagined a long time ago.”

nate’s brows pulled in slightly, fully focused now.

“because i started comparing them to you…”

you lifted your eyes. his were already on you.

nate froze for a second. he thought about every moment you’d spent together and the way you looked at him, and something in his mind clicked like you had always looked at him as if he already belonged to you, but you never dared to claim him. It had always been you.

“bambi…” he murmured near your lips, almost like a soft warning.

his fingers on your cheek barely moved, and in that smallest gesture there was already a decision that had been made a long time ago.

“i think cale’s is gonna be really annoying about this,” he said, letting out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“about what?” you blinked, confused by the sudden shift.

nate looked at you like the answer was obvious.

“about being right.”

there was no time for you to process it.

nate pulled you toward him with a calm but final decision, like no other version of the story was possible anymore. his hand on your cheek tightened slightly, his thumb brushing your skin.

his lips found yours with an almost tentative softness, like he was testing the edge of something too important to ruin. for a second, the kiss was barely a touch and then it changed.

it wasn’t sudden, but more like his expression finally caught up with what his heart had already decided. the kiss deepened, firmer, and yet still gentle, like every movement was carefully measured just to bring you closer.

his hand on your back pulled you in further, closing the space that had already stopped existing. it felt like the world had gone completely silent. like it was something that had been waiting far too long to finally become real.

when you pulled apart, it was only enough to breathe. your fingers were still gripping his shirt, and his arms were still holding you close.

you left a quick kiss on his lips.

maybe Italy had always been your dream wedding place, but now you understood it was never about the place, it was about the person who made you feel like you didn’t need to run away from anything.

[sweet-tooth4you]

OH MY GOD THIS IS GENUINELY THE CUTEST THING EVER 🥹

[crosschkd]

A Sidney Crosby blurb...

- in which he helps team Canada win but successfully sends your team home @ the World Championships

Pairing: Sidney Crosby x foreigner reader

A/N: This was me trying my hand at writing a hockey blurb 🫣 hope whoever reads this will like it 🌻word count: ~3k

💞

"Please," you sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. "Just try to go easy on them?" Your eyes met with Sid's soft gaze as he took in your worried facial features. It stopped for a heartbeat longer on the small flag of your country just on the apple of your left cheek.

He had a smile coming up but was trying hard not to let the urge to grin win. It was, however, a solid fact that right in that instance, you looked so adorable he could squeeze your cheeks and give you a loud kiss. The latter he could totally do, he still had a couple of minutes to try to calm you down about the fact that his team wouldn't annihilate your team. At least try not to.

"Just," you raised your hands, nerves taking over. "Try not to score too many goals, okay? We don't need another debacle from Canada."

This time Sidney laughed; soft and gentle. The way you were reasoning with him was incredibly sweet. He raised his hand and carefully brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear. It tickled and you squirmed, giggling.

"There it is," he said quietly, just for your ears. "That gorgeous smile."

Your cheeks reddened. Even in the awful lighting of the stinky hallway just outside of his changing room it was obvious how much he had an impact on you. After three years of being together. Three years had a different meaning, when both of you had been sure of the other from the moment you got to know each other.

"I'll try my best to take it easy, okay?" Sidney said at last, studying your eyes. "I've kind of told the guys, too."

"Oh no," your eyes bulged in terror. "What did they say?"

He shrugged, obviously trying to downplay whatever disregarding words his team-mates told him. "That they'll comply?"

This time a proper laugh tore out of you and you had to slam your hand on your mouth to not bring too much attention to the two of you. "Did you mean when they said: fuck off captain, we will destroy them?"

Sidney laughed along with you. "Maybe?"

You shook your head, still laughing and reached up to smooth out his uniform, the big C on his chest almost as big as your hand. "I wasn't being serious. I can't possibly tell you to go easy on my beloved country." Dragging your palms over to his shoulders, you looked up into his expecting orbs. "They will give you a hard time and you'll do the same. And I know the best one will win."

Just in that moment the gong annoucing the end of the break sounded through the stadium, making your stomach drop. It was time to let Sidney do what he was born to do.

"No matter how today ends," he murmured intimately, taking a step closer, "I love you and I take great pleasure in knowing that I get to take care of a precious citizen of your country. I will always have respect for your people," said Sidney. He made a small step towards you and pressed his lips to your forehead; long and longing. "I'll be watching the enemy stands just to get a glimpse of you, sweetheart."

By that point you were a puddle, having to be scooped back together by a zamboni. Everyday spent with this man had you thanking all the gods and stars for blessing you with such a great man such as Sidney Crosby.

If that ring of promise on your fourth finger meant anything at all. In summer, it would gain a whole new meaning. But until then, you ought to enjoy the little secret.

"Be careful out there, yeah?" you whispered hurriedly, knowing he would have to get going right about then.

"Always." He moved his lips to yours, sealing them for a precious heartbeat. "Meet you after the game. Enjoy."

As you watched his wide, retreating back, you pressed your lips together, savouring the lingering touch of his lips. He looked so good and you caught a glimpse of his entire face locking in, sharp focus clouding up the gentle features he saved for you. In that moment you knew he would be doing some magic on the ice and your team would most probably become the laughing stock of the internet for the next couple of days.

It wasn't something you weren't prepared for.

Coming from a smaller country, the passion with which you loved hockey was almost unmatched among other teams. You could already hear the loud chants of the fans. The best part about it was, that almost all of them knew their butts would be kicked, but enjoying the game and supporting their hard-working team was still the number one priority.

Slowly moving towards the expectators zone and mingling with people speaking your language, sharing the same culture you had a single thought: your guys must beat Canada. You took a final glance at the Canadian part of the stadium before facing the open ice rink.

💕

Sidney was a proud Canadian. He loved his country and was ready to represent it no matter how important or how small the competition in question was. Bearing the red maple leaf on his chest made him stand just a tad taller, always. And he knew his team-mates were no different.

What he didn't quite like admitting was the ground shaking cheers the opponent's team received upon entering the ice. While Canadians did cheer for Sidney's team, compared to the loud drumming, clapping and singing it really was no match.

The welcome was loud and he knew they were in for a treat when the first face-off of the game was about to start. The captain of the other team was a tall guy, at least five years younger with a piercing gaze. Despite facing someone like Sidney Crosby, he didn't seem star-struck. Getting to face-off with such a legend would put most hockey players into lil' shambles, allowing them the mistake of focusing a bit more on the edge of Sid's hockey stick rather than theirs and boom, Sidney won the face-off with a laughable ease.

But not today.

And he understood it pretty quickly.

He loved the challenge.

Canada struggled to win the puck for the first five minutes which made the oppononet's spectator zone even louder and merrier. Who didn't enjoy watching Canada work for a little input, right? It was astonishing how the fans wouldn't get tired of cheering, and kept going.

It was no NHL game either, that was for sure. Sidney was more accustomed to a locked in audience. Fans at the NHL preferred to focus on the fast game, they supported fights and were able to make friends even with the other team's fans.

Not here, though, and certainly not today.

The rink was considerably wider, making the game a little less physical and quick, and more precise, welcoming lots of passes from left and right. Sidney earned the puck from the team's rookie, Macklin, and was ready to shoot when more space opened up on his left. Nathan appeared in his line of vision and he sent his assist to Nate who then shot it straight into the net.

The quieter side of the stadium errupted into cheers and claps, and Sid felt his body easing up. Quickly checking the time, he realized the first period was almost done. For twenty minutes, it was way too hard to score. You were right; your team would give them a hard time, alright.

Shooting the slightest glance towards where you were sitting, he made his way towards the bench. Despite knowing how much your heart dropped most probably, he couldn't help but feel relieved that he got Canada into the lead.

Your eyes met. In spite of all that chaos that was surrounding you, the disappointed faces and even some booing, you stood there motionless, a little self-restraining, and you looked straight into Sindey's searching gaze.

It all was just a few heartbeats long, very much an unnoticable time to others, but volumes were spoken in that one gaze. You sent your team into the leading position. You have an assist point. I'm so proud of you.

But it was all against us.

How Sidney wished you were in the red and white blur of enthusiasm. How much he wished it was his jersey covering your top, his name caressing your back. His flag on the apple of your cheek. Oh, how much was the world around them unaware.

His thoughts becoming a solid mush, he had to be the one to tear his eyes away from your following gaze, and even belly-laugh when Nate shouted: "Sorry to your fiancée, captain! But we let them play with us for way too long!"

💕

Sidney spotted you first.

Among all the other girlfriends, wives and family members, you were the one with a faraway gaze, the surrounding cheerful interactions going straight through you. The flag long removed from your face, you looked mundane, almost like you just appeared after having done the groceries.

He knew you were replaying that last goal that sent Canada into winning 2-1. The last ten seconds of the game were Sidney's heroic one, because he was the author of the final goal. A sharp, unpredictable flick of his wrist and another beautiful backhand wrote itself into the top goals of the tournament.

The best possible scenario, yet the worst one.

His ears were still ringing from how loud the stadium was. In this championship, it was the loudest game he had played. The passion, the fever and enthusiasm for hockey was unique and he would lie if he'd said he didn't feel more pressure during the match.

And now, he had to face you. It was like walking in a tunnel. You were the light at the end of it, even though he had no reason to be in one in the first place.

Yet, there he was, making slow, decisive steps towards a warm welcome, hopefully. He was rehearsing some opening sentences for when he first got to talk to you after the game. Unfortunately, the high of the atmosphere and the joy of winning made his brain unable to form much that was about an apology.

Was he even sorry?

You snapped out of your little reverie the moment you spotted a bulky figure approaching you. That style of walking, the muscular thighs, legs shaped into a painful O… It couldn't be anyone else, but your Sidney.

Standing up quickly you walked over to him, offering a gentle smile.

Oh, he was definitely feeling it now—

"Sorry," he blurted out as soon as you got closer to him; only for your ears to hear, because it would be a treason to have other witnesses.

You shook your head quickly. "No, no." Standing on your tiptoes, you kissed his cheek. "You have nothing to apologize for. What a fantastic game. Congratulations on the beautiful goal, Sidney."

"Baby," he sighed regretfully, his hands immediately finding safe harbor on your hips. Even when you were probably feeling sour, you'd still have it in you to be kind to him. "It really was a fantastic game. Your guys almost wiped the rink with us… 1-1 'till the lucky goal. It was lots of fun for us to have such a tough competitor, just so you know."

You smiled, nodding. Your hand caressed his cheek, feeling the roughness of the beard. "You better win the gold now. Otherwise you beat us for nothing."

Sidney laughed, running his hands up and down your sides. Your t-shirt got caught in the motion, revealing a bit of skin, which his fingers sought out immediately. "That's the only goal we have, trust me."

Leaning in, you kissed him quickly, neither of you wanting to do much PDA, even though you already looked pretty intimate to an outsider. That's what Sidney's gaze did when he was in love, anyway.

"But," you started, determination taking over. "You better make it up to me. The emotional damage has been done, whether you got the winning goal or not. You owe me."

"Anything," he all but sighed, almost sounding as a plea, his eyes cheekily sparkling in the strong light. "I am at your disposal."

What could you do but laugh? You smacked his chest, shaking your head at his silliness, but secretly you were completely done, already waiting for whatever would come.

Because when he said such words, you knew the puck was in your zone.

And he was just a hockey stick, abiding to you.

[sweet-tooth4you]

this was the sweetest thing ever!!! 🥹🥹

[meowriimo]

??$]>{^}>!~*|!]€]

[sweet-tooth4you]

will smith is sooooo honeybee coded 💛

[kniesonice]

hiiii can i get the fluff list one prompt “sharing clothes” with nathan mackinnon please?

list no.1, fluff prompt no.10: sharing clothes

nathan always notices immediately when something of his goes missing. not because he’s smoothed about the prospect of loosing out of meaningless crewnecks and stretched out socks, but because he always knows where they go.

because he usually finds them on you.

-

it’s a random tuesday morning, and you shuffle into your shared kitchen still half asleep, and wearing one of his old team shirts—so worn out that it has a hole near the collar. so stretched that it hands to your mid thigh.

your hair is still messy from sleep, and you’re blinking slowly like the sunlight through the windows personally offended you.

nathan looks up from making coffee and actually pauses mid motion. his icy eyes flicker over you, from the clothes to the cute little pout you get when you’re still tired.

“that’s mine,” he notes softly.

you glance down at the shirt. “I know.”

his mouth twitches immediately. something about seeing you in his clothes always does that to nathan. like he’s trying not to smile too hard about something ridiculously domestic.

resuming his hefty pour of coffee, he shrugs a shoulder. nonchalant as always. “you look cute.”

“you say that every time.” you murmur while wedging yourself between him and the coffee pot. casual as ever, like you don’t even register you’ve almost elbowed the mug out of his hand or completely disrupted his morning routine.

instead you just sigh in content, snuggling into his warmth.

nathan wouldn’t change it for the world. he sighs gently, free hand coming up to stroke along your back as he grumbles into your hair—“because it’s true every time.”

-

then there’s the dress shirt incident.

you’d borrowed one while getting ready for a charity dinner nathan was the guest of honour for, because you spilled toner on your robe halfway through getting ready. his white button up hangs loose around you, sleeves rolled messily to your elbows while you stand in front of the bathroom mirror trying to fix your eyeliner for the umpteenth time.

nathan walks past the doorway to the en suite, stops completely, then slowly backs up.

you catch his reflection in the mirror staring at you, ogling your bare thighs barley concealed by the crisp white fabric. your eyes meet, and you raise a curious brow, “…what?”

he shrugs because that’s like his second language, and then leans his upper body against the door frame. big arms crossed over his chest and looking very GQ model as he does so.

“that might actually be my favourite thing you’ve ever worn.”

you laugh softly as you turn back to your eyeliner. “it’s literally yours.”

“exactly.” he grins, proud.

-

his sweatpants become permanently stolen after that. specifically the oversized gray pair he’s had since the beginning of the avalanches entire re-build.

they’re way too long on you, so you have to roll the waistband twice and pray they don’t fall down mid-walking. but despite that, you still somehow always find yourself stepping on the bottom cuffs.

nathan finds you curled up on the couch one evening wearing them with fuzzy socks and one of his hoodies—duh—surrounded by blankets and your stanley while you stare into the ages of a book with that little furrow between your brows like you’ve just read something life altering.

“you know,” he says carefully not to scare you, “I do technically own those clothes.”

“mhm.” you hum, not properly listening. which to others would be rude, but to nathan is nothing but adorable.

“I haven’t seen those sweatpants in three weeks.”

that gets your attention, and you slip your thumb between the book opening so it doesn’t accidentally flop closed. “they live with me now.”

he laughs quietly under his breath before sitting beside you.

-

sometimes nathan will come home and find you cooking dinner in one of his shirts with music playing softly through the apartment. and sometimes you’ll steal hoodies right off his bedroom floor because they still smell like his cologne. hell, there’s times where he will walk into his closet and already know exactly which items are missing without even checking.

and every single time, he finds himself smiling. because it means something more than just sharing scraps of fabric. it means everything—pieces of his life wrapped around you so naturally.

one night, mid summer and with the dog jumping between you, you catch nathan watching you from across the room while you fold laundry. more specifically, after you just tucked one of his pyjama pants into your pile, because you claim you like them more.

you probably do.

“what?” you ask, already half grinning because you love him so much.

nathan throws the soft ball for the dog across the living room, and once she scampers away, he looks back at you. he matches your smile, “nothin’. just looking at you.”

you squint accusingly, but also not at all, which makes him chuckle.

[sweet-tooth4you]

THIS WAS SO GOOD UGHHHH I LOVE DOMESTIC FICS

[abbydianereads]

Trying On Your Name | Macklin Celebrini

prompt: while you do chores around the house, you secretly steal Macklin's hoodie, always putting it back before he gets home. This time, he comes home early.

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x reader

content: cursing, fluff, tickling

wc: 1.3k

Tuesdays were laundry days. You don’t know when you decided this–or even why–but that’s what you had dedicated your Tuesdays to. 

Once you became an author, you were basically able to build your own schedule, allowing for laundry day to stay the same.

Usually, come Tuesday all your comfy clothes were dirty, ready to be washed, so you’d gotten into the habit of pulling on one of Macklin’s Sharks hoodies and a pair of his boxers to do chores in. Most of the time you’d finish before he got home for the day, and could change out of them before he’d even know about it. 

Except, not this Tuesday. 

You’d thrown some music onto the Bluetooth speakers, dancing and shimmying around the kitchen as you cleaned. The hum of the washing machine was barely heard over the beat and the sun was shining brightly through the windows. 

You had just finished unloading the dishwasher and were midway through spraying down the counter when the front door clicked open. You hadn’t heard it, continuing to sing Taylor Swift song lyrics at the top of your lungs while you grabbed a paper towel, wiping the counter top clean. 

“Are you wearing my sweatshirt?” 

You shrieked, jumping nearly three feet in the air as you turned around, brandishing the cleaning spray like a weapon. 

Except, it was just Macklin standing there, an amused grin on his face. 

“Shit, Mack,” you grabbed the counter for support. “Oh my god, you scared me so bad.” 

With a shit-eating grin on his face, Macklin walked over, grabbing your waist and pulling you to him. He lowered his lips to yours, gently and quick, before pulling away. He moved to the fridge, grabbing a Gatorade. He must have gotten out of practice early, as you hadn’t expected him for another hour at least. 

You paused the music, glancing at him with narrowed eyes as he hopped onto the counter that you had just cleaned. 

“Mack, I seriously just wiped that down-”

“I like seeing you in my sweatshirt.” He cut in, taking a swig from the bottle. You paused, looking down at yourself. You’d forgotten that you were wearing it, and you realised he didn’t know that you were one to steal his clothes while he was out. 

“I-” A thousand different excuses ran through your head. “All of my clothes are in the washer and I had to wear something and-”

“I beg to differ.”

“So I just grabbed some of your things. Seriously no big deal.” You finished, and then your jaw fell open, finally realizing what he’d said. You scowled at him, and he just sent a cheeky smile in response. 

You didn’t want to admit that you secretly lived for those moments you got to wear his clothing. The smell of him and his cologne always clung to the fabric, and it helped you feel less lonely throughout the day when he was gone. Especially when he was on away trips. 

You also didn’t want to admit that you wore his clothes even when you did have clean clothing to wear. If you could steal his clothes and hide them away like a bird building a nest, you would. 

“You’re right,” Mack jumped off the counter, walking over to you. “Definitely not a big deal.” 

You watched him skeptically as he got closer. There was a look in his eyes you recognized, one that wasn’t anger or annoyance or displeasure. But, instead, satisfaction. 

He placed his hands on your hips once more, pulling you close to him. He bunched the hoodie up, pushing it up your waist until it sat just beneath your chest. Just when you thought the moment would heat up–just when you wanted it to–your traitor of a boyfriend began tickling you instead. 

A shriek burst out of you, trying your best to twist out of his grip. But his fingers were relentless.

“Mack, stop!” You begged, a bubble of laughter escaping you. 

Macklin laughed, one of your favorite sounds in the world. Yet, he still didn’t stop.

“You’re stealing my clothes!” He responded, eyes bright. “There have to be consequences.” 

You gasped, finally escaping his grip and darting away. “This is abuse!”

“Well that’s dramatic,” he countered, reaching for you again. 

But, your sock-covered feet slipped on the hardwood flooring, flying out from under you. Before you could hit the floor, strong arms grabbed you around the waist, pulling you up until you were flush against his chest. His fingers were warm against you, and instead of tickling, he just held you there, soft and steady. 

You turned in his grasp, still laughing softly. And the way he was looking at you, like he had just pieced something together, made you cock your head slightly, waiting for an explanation. 

“I like seeing you wearing my last name,” his voice was low and soft, all traces of his earlier amusement gone. 

You remembered then that his hoodie had his name across the back in big, white letters. Your cheeks flushed.

You couldn’t deny it, you had played around with what your name would look like tied to his. Your pen name wouldn’t change, as people would already tie your name to your book. But in every other aspect? The thought made you happier than you thought possible. 

Mrs. Celebrini. 

You and Mack had always joked about marriage. When the two of you were younger, in the early stages of dating, it had felt like a far away dream. But now? You were living together, living on shared incomes. You were older. You had spent enough time with him that you knew he was it for you. You and Mack had been serious from the get-go, but this? This was different.

And by the look on Macklin’s face? You knew he felt the same, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. 

“I like wearing your last name,” you told him, to let him know that you knew. That you felt it too.

His breath caught, just slightly, like the words meant more to him than he’d expected. Macklin swallowed, his eyes lingering on your face. A soft flush had spread across his cheeks. 

“What were you doing while I was gone?” He asked, still not stepping away. 

“Oh me?” You asked lightly. “I was playing at being a domestic housewife.” 

Macklin laughed. It really was your favorite sound in the world. 

“You have a job,” he pointed out. “You literally write for a living.” 

You swatted at his chest playfully, stepping away. You grabbed the cleaning spray, misting it over the counter where he had sat just minutes prior. 

“Well, someone has to clean around here. And you definitely won’t do it.” 

“That’s not true!” He protested. “You don’t let me!”

“I don’t like how you clean,” you responded. “You always leave smudges on the windows.” 

He gave you a look as if to say see? This is exactly what I mean. 

You giggled, and wiped the counter down once more. Then, you turned to give him a look of your own. 

“Don’t sit there, otherwise you clean it next time.” 

Mack saluted you, smiling. “Yes, ma’am.” 

A chime echoed through the apartment. The machine was done with your clothes. 

“Hear that? I can change back into my own clothes now, don’t you worry.” 

Macklin shook his head, grabbing your waist for the third time since he had gotten home. He kissed you, slow, steady, and full of heat. 

“Don’t,” he said against your lips. “Wear it forever, even.” 

His fingers tugged at the hem of the hoodie like he meant it.

divider by @wispyxfae

[sweet-tooth4you]

this is so cute its sickening!!!!!

[monchouchouu]

hi! could you write something for macklin that involves kids or like babysitting? all the clips of him with kids are so cute and wholesome and i’d love a little fic with that side of him.

A Future With You - MC71

macklin celebrini x reader

summary: when Macklin spends the week at your family's vacation home, you see him gain the favor of all the little kids in the house, and you both start having new feelings about it.

tags: established relationship, reader's family isn't familiar with hockey, lots of mentions of future kids/a family, macklin basically being father material this whole fic, the kids kind of hate on him lol

wc: 2.4k

notes: thank you anon! hopefully this was okay. I've never written much about kids and stuff before, and I got a little carried away.

Macklin grew to understand you were not part of a hockey family. First, you had gingerly confessed to him that you did not understand icing, and then he figured out you played every sport under the sun as a kid except his. You told him about all the teams your family supports, and then he had to go look up every detail since the prehistoric era of each franchise. He felt he needed to know everything if he were to be invited to family functions in the future. He felt, for the first time in his life, inadequate about his sports knowledge. He’s always been surrounded by hockey people. It drove him crazy. 

Then, he noticed all the social media posts about your little cousins, nieces, and nephews sporting those plastic gold participation trophies for baseball, soccer, basketball, and the list went on. 

He never thought much about what sports his future children would play. He guesses he blindly assumed they would all play hockey because, well, he was going to be the best coach to them that way. But now, he’s thinking about it a lot. He’s thinking about how many sports you can legally put your kid in at a time. What if they pick one he knows nothing about? Would you think hockey was too dangerous? He remembers you mentioning something about your mom hating children playing football. And you did get overly worried when he’d come home with new swelling on his face or random bruises all over his body. Sometimes you scolded him for being too aggressive at optional skates. 

Somewhere in the middle of this thinking, the image of you is stuck. When he saw you jumping up and down, clad in leggings and a Boston University sweatshirt on the sidelines of one of your nephews’ tee ball games, that stuck with him. 

At this point in your relationship, he’s met your parents a few times and a few relatives and their children. Your family did not all live in San Jose, so he’s lived vicariously through your own ramblings on family news and the brief phone call or Instagram post. You noticed he tried to recite the statistics of one of your Dad’s favorite players to him, which you found cute. You teased him about it on the ride home. He went red in the face immediately. “I’m trying to fit in!”

Now that summer has come around, he finally has a few weeks off. And when you ask him if he wants to spend a week at your family’s lake house, there’s no hesitation in his yes. Practically your entire family would be there, with school getting out for summer break. You thought he would be a bit nervous, but he’s elated on the way there. He’s making you recite all the names of the kids in your family so he can get them right. 

“And I will be converting them.” He adds.

“What? To Satan?” You joke, knowing that he’s going to try to spread his hockey agenda to all the young kids.

“No, to the greatest sport of all time.” You laugh at how serious he sounds. He’s driving down a winding road, thick dark green trees all lined up. He takes a quick glance at you, your smile wide at his banter. He thinks about all the things he would sacrifice to see you always smile at the dumb things he says. 

When you get to the house, cars piled into the driveway, telling you everyone is here, Macklin wastes no time getting out. He’s buzzing while he takes both of your luggage up to the front porch. On the other hand, you have to prepare yourself for all the prying questions, the hugs and kisses. Macklin is standing in front of the door like a puppy, waiting for you.

He has a way with children. You always knew that. You just didn’t realize how much it would affect you when it was’ with your family. That afternoon, two of your nephews are sandwiched between you and him. There’s a baseball game on the screen, and some people are coming in and out of the kitchen, prepping for dinner. You hear a couple of shrieking children out in the grassy backyard. The sun is shining bright against the sliding glass doors.

“See, that’s what a base hit is.” One of your nephews says to your boyfriend, after a hitter runs to first base with ease.

“I know what a base hit is, kid!” Macklin is offended, and you find it funny that a six-year-old who just made his all-star little league squad is trying to explain the most basic baseball terms to him. The older kids know that he plays hockey professionally, and maybe they can’t conceptualize it fully yet, but they’ve been making snide comments about it this whole afternoon. They think playing a sport on ice is the weirdest thing ever. 

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head aggressively. 

“You skate on the ice like a princess.” Your other nephew chimes in.

“First off,” He shifts on the couch so he’s facing the boys, “Princes can ice skate too.” He has his pointer finger up, emphasizing a one, then, “Second, I play hockey— big difference. Lastly, there’s no fighting in baseball. Makes it so uncool.” 

“Oh my god, Mack—“ You start.

“You fight other people?” 

“Yeah,” He’s trying to hide his huge smile at the boys’ reactions. “It’s super cool.”

“They’re going to go on YouTube and look up Macklin Celebrini fights!” You argue with him, scoffing at his bad influence.

“You just gave them the idea, babe!” And before he can even finish his sentence, the boys are running out of the living room, down the hallway, presumably to their shared bedroom.

“I can’t believe you just did that.” 

He shrugs. “You’re the one who said it.”

You can’t argue with that.

—

The next morning, he’s getting embarrassed by another one of your nieces at soccer. He has lost any technical ability he gained when he was a child, and when he has the ball at his feet, he’s using his toes to push the ball forward instead of the inside and outside of his foot. He’s also quite bad at aiming it in those little pop-up soccer goals you have in the backyard. She cackles when he misses again, running in circles around him to exclaim her superiority over the athlete. 

“You’re too good!” He declares, face pink and a little out of breath from chasing all those missed shots around. You’re sitting on one of the wooden chairs on the patio, a BU baseball cap slung on to shield you from the overhanging sun. The lake glitters from it, and the reflection shines a light on both of them playing. The image makes your head all fuzzy. You could sit here for hours watching him do anything, but this, specifically, Macklin getting absorbed in the innocence of it all, made you want to pinch your skin and check if you’re dreaming. You bet he doesn’t even realize the way his jaw clenches when he tries not to curse in front of them, or his constant hand coming down to give them high-fives or ruffle a hand through their hair. He just does it. It’s second nature.

One of the only things he considers himself okay at is basketball. He would play with the kids after dinner every night. He never commented when they traveled, and he helped the smaller kids get the ball in the bucket by lifting them up on his shoulders. When you saw that, you felt a lump form in your throat. 

—

Your two nephews, who were enamoured by the thought of fighting being “legal” in a sport on the first day, are back again. They’ve cornered Mack to show him more fights on YouTube. You notice the loud hockey commentary blaring from your room. You see through the crack in the door, them all lying flat on the bed, staring at an iPad showing a close-up of a hockey fight. Your boyfriend is laughing along with the boys, telling them about the players he’s played against — and no, he has to remind them, he has not fought every single player that shows up on the screen.

Later that day, you finally manage to sneak off to your room after lunch to have just five minutes alone with Mack. It was hard to do. It felt like every night since your arrival, you were too tired and sun-kissed to even talk with him before your head hit the pillow and you were out like a light. Unfortunately, someone hears you two. 

One of your little cousins runs into the room, a stuffed animal buried in her arms. Your boyfriend was just about to latch his mouth to your neck, and you spring apart when you hear her turn the corner. 

She simply says, looking between the two of you, “I want to play hockey…like Macklin.”

You think maybe the kids were starting to listen to him at the kitchen table. He had a lot of hockey stories in him, and your family members were so interested in his job that he would go on and on, often over exaggerating a lot of the stories, but you let him have his way with your family. They were charmed by the new bright green-eyed addition to the house. 

“Really?” You ask in disbelief.

“Hell yes! I’ve converted my first.” He pumps his fist in the air.

“Honey, do you even understand what it is—“

“Hey! Stop sabotaging me, y/n. That doesn’t matter! We’re starting with playing on the street.” He lunges forward and takes her in his arms. She squeals, her laughter filling the post-meal quiet of the house. 

“We don’t have any equipment,” You say, hands crossed over your chest.

“We’re heading to the store then, yes?” He poses the question to the little girl in his arms, and she nods enthusiastically. You roll your eyes, but you linger on the way his arm encapsulates her, jostling her up and down to entertain her. 

When you go down the stairs to ask her mom if this little road trip is okay, you don’t expect her to say: 

“You might as well grab half a dozen sticks, you know? Seems like we’ll need them in the future too.” You blush deep red at the implication. You guess those words really shouldn’t make you feel like that. She’s probably just commenting on the other kids and their growing interest, but it makes you think about your future kids. How Macklin would spend the coming summers with them at the lake house, exactly like this. It is terrifying how fast the picture became so clear.

—

Now, you’re fighting with daylight. Macklin’s got all the kids surrounding him, and they’re fiddling with their plastic sticks like it’s an alien object. You helped him put those soccer goals on the street, and now you’re standing back and letting his coach persona take over.

“Okay, first, you place your dominant hand on the top…” 

It is possibly the greatest thing ever, watching him try to teach a horde of kids who lose and gain interest about every ten seconds how to handle their stick. At some point, he manages to get some of them to weakly pass it in the goal, and he’s ecstatic. He catches your eye multiple times when you’re in conversation with your parents at the front of the house, just to make sure you are still watching him. The little voice in the back of his head is telling him this is like the trial period, and he has to prove his worth as your future husband.

—

“Uncle Macklin!” you hear the excited whispers through the pull of sleep. Light is barely peaking through the large glass windows. It must be before seven in the morning. You feel the soft comforter shift beside you as he pulls himself up to a sitting position. You’ve felt it so many times that you can tell what he’s doing with your eyes closed and back to him.

“Guys,” he whispers back, surprised at all the expectant faces at the foot of his bed. His voice is all groggy, “Everyone’s still asleep!” 

“We want hockey now,” one of them says a little too loudly, and Macklin shushes him. “Your aunt is asleep.” Your heart flutters, eyes still shut tight. You’ve never heard them call him uncle before, nor has he needed to call you by its equivalent. Small giggles erupt in the room when you hear Macklin give in with a groan, their little footsteps fading down the hallway as the bed creaks from his movement. You hear a soft sigh from him. It wasn’t exhaustion or annoyance, but something lighter. You turn over to watch him with blurry eyesight. He’s wearing sweats, shirtless, but he’s shuffling around the room to the dresser to get a shirt. When he gets it on, he turns around and finds your eyes are open now. “Duty calls.”

“Sorry,” you manage, too tired to move anymore. 

“Are you kidding me? This is the best.” He has a sheepish smile on his face. He comes over, leans over the bed to press a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”

You don’t. You get up to make coffee for you and him. You bring the mug out to the front yard, the sky turning from the purples of dawn to the light blue sky of a mid-summer’s day. He thanks you a million times over, and reports that they’re still quite terrible. You laugh, watching them try to keep the ball close to their sticks on the asphalt.

“They have to play non-checking, and they have to wear full cages until the day they get drafted,” you suddenly blurt out, and Macklin looks at you, perplexed.

“No offense but I’m sure these kids aren’t getting to that point.”

“No…I mean,” your voice gets quiet, “ours.” 

His eyes soften. He slings his arm over your far shoulder, bringing you in for a tight side-hug. “Of course.”

Macklin, in those hazy, sparse dreams about a family, used to see children with his straight brown hair and non-discriminating features because he could never conceptualize what their mother would look like. Now, when he thinks about them, they have your eye shape, the same furrow of your brow, and the heady, strong nature that made him fall in love with you in the first place.

[sweet-tooth4you]

genuinely the cutest thing i have eveerrrr read 🥹🥹

[linaaawrites]

Maybe a potential Mack x reader where reader suffers with depression & a prev eating disorder and is starting to show signs of it again & he notices and is trying to help her through it but she can’t seem to function well during the day? Thanks !

The Weight of Shadows

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader

description: When the darkness of depression and old eating disorder habits begin to resurface, Macklin Celebrini becomes the the anchor in a storm that threatens to pull you under.

TW: Depression, eating disorder relapse, mental health struggles, emotional distress.

masterlist

The first thing Macklin notices is the silence.

It's not a peaceful quiet, but a heavy, suffocating blanket that seems to have settled over their apartment. He comes home from practice to find you curled on the couch, the same position you were in when he left eight hours ago. The television is off, your phone lies face down on the coffee table and the half-empty mug of tea from this morning has grown cold.

"Hey, beautiful," he says softly, dropping his hockey bag by the door. The sound should have made you jump, but you barely stir. "How was your day?"

You shrug, the movement minimal. "Fine."

Mack's brow furrows. This is the third day in a row. The third day of one-word answers, of untouched meals and of you moving through their shared space like a ghost. He knows this pattern. He's seen it before, during the darkest months after you first got together.

He crosses the room and sinks to his knees beside the couch, gently pushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead. Your skin is cool to the touch. "Have you eaten today?"

You flinch at the question, just barely, but it's enough. "I'm not hungry."

"Baby," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "You haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

You finally turn to look at him and the sight makes his heart ache. Your eyes, usually so bright and full of life, are dull and shadowed. "I just... I can't. The thought of it makes me sick."

Mack knows this isn't about food. It's never just about food. It's about control, about punishment, about the darkness that has wrapped itself around you again. He remembers the late-night conversations where you confessed everything, how the eating disorder had become your only constant during your darkest times, how counting calories had given you a sense of order when everything else felt chaotic.

"Okay," he says, standing up. "No pressure to eat. But can we talk? Please?"

You nod slowly, sitting up and making space for him on the couch. The movement seems to cost you energy and Mack's concern deepens. He's seen you tired before, but this is different. This is the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from fighting a war no one else can see.

"I'm worried about you," he says, taking your hand. Your fingers are cold, and he rubs them between his palms, trying to infuse some warmth into them. "You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're not even painting anymore."

Your art, your vibrant, colorful paintings, have been your lifeline. The canvases in the spare room stand untouched for weeks now, gathering dust like forgotten memories.

"I just can't," you whisper, tears welling in your eyes. "I wake up and it feels like... like there's this weight on me. Getting out of bed takes everything I have. By the time I manage that, there's nothing left for anything else."

Mack pulls you into his arms, holding you as you begin to shake with silent sobs. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. "You're not alone in this. We'll get through it together."

The next morning, Mack wakes before dawn and finds you already awake, staring at the ceiling. "Morning," he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I was thinking we could go for a walk before I have to leave for practice."

You shake your head. "I can't. I'm too tired."

"Okay," he says, trying to hide his disappointment. "How about I make you some tea? And we can just sit together for a bit?"

You agree to that, but even the simple act of sitting at the kitchen table seems to drain you. Mack watches as you push the ste mug around with your finger, your gaze distant.

"What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?" he asks gently.

You look up, and the vulnerability in your expression makes his chest tighten. "I'm failing," you whisper. "At everything. At being your girlfriend, at taking care of myself, at... at life."

Mack reaches across the table, taking both your hands in his. "You're not failing. You're fighting. And fighting is exhausting."

"But you deserve someone who can..."

"Stop right there," he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. "I deserve you. All of you. The good days, the bad days, the days when you can't get out of bed and the days when you paint masterpieces. I'm not going anywhere."

Tears slide down your cheeks, and Mack stands to pull you into his arms. "Let's make a deal," he says, holding you close. "On days when you can't function, I'll be your function. I'll make you tea. I'll sit with you in the silence. I'll remind you how much I love you even when you can't feel it yourself."

You nod against his chest, your body still trembling. "What if it never gets better?"

"Then we'll face it together," he says without hesitation. "Day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute if we have to."

When he comes home that evening, he finds you in the kitchen, staring at the open refrigerator. The sight gives him a small spark of hope, until he notices you're just standing there, not reaching for anything.

"Hey," he says softly, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. "Anything look good?"

You shake your head, leaning back against him. "I stood here for twenty minutes trying to convince myself to make a sandwich."

Mack presses a kiss to your shoulder. "How about I make us something simple? And you can just sit there and look pretty?"

Despite everything, a small smile touches your lips. "That's your job, not mine."

He laughs, relieved to see a flicker of your usual self. "True. But you do it so much better."

As he moves around the kitchen, preparing a simple meal, you watch him. The domesticity of the moment feels almost normal, but beneath the surface, you can feel the darkness still lurking, waiting to pull you under again.

"I started counting again," you say suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mack pauses, his back to you for a moment before turning. "Okay," he says, his expression unreadable. "Thank you for telling me."

"I don't want to," you add quickly. "It's just... happening. Like my brain is reverting to old patterns without my permission."

He sets down the knife he's holding and comes to stand in front of you. "We knew this might happen," he says gently. "Recovery isn't linear. It's more like... waves. Sometimes you're riding high and sometimes you get pulled under. But you always come back up again."

"What if I don't this time?" you whisper, the fear evident in your voice.

Mack takes your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "Then I'll dive in after you," he says with such certainty that it almost makes you believe him. "I'm not letting you go. Not now, not ever."

That night, as you lie in bed tangled together, you feel the weight of the darkness beginning to lift, just slightly. It's still there, pressing at the edges of your consciousness, but Mack's presence is a light in the void, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, you're not alone.

"I love you," you whisper into the darkness.

"I love you more," he murmurs back, pulling you closer. "And tomorrow, we'll face whatever comes together."

[sweet-tooth4you]

oh i needed this 🙁❤️‍🩹

[pialollipop]

cart girl

macklin celebrini x fem!reader

a little note: I whipped this up real fast, because the motivation. is coming back!!!!! pls pls pls send in requests! ALSO, I hope all of the golf course details make sense, I have never been to one soooooo.

have a request? click here

An easy summer job at sixteen quickly turned into a job you looked for everywhere. Since the move to California, you’d been looking for a nice country club to work at, being the designated “cart girl” was now something you had to be, no matter where.

Something about the job was calming, driving around the course every day, making drinks for whoever asked, getting tips from the middle aged rich guys. It became a ritual for you. No, it wasn’t a job you could do for the rest of your life, something reliable, but it was your thing. 

Coming to San Francisco for Interior Design School was something you’d thought would stay in your field of dreams, but graduation suddenly was around the corner, and you’d been accepted to the Academy of Art in San Francisco. Luckily, California was also a hub for the fanciest country and golf clubs, so finding a job like the one you’d gotten at 16 was easy.

“Hey, y/n!” Jeff, one of the San Francisco Golf Club’s regular yells from hole 12. You’d always smile and wave back, he never ordered anything, but it was good to see him. 

As you rode along the concrete path, you took note of how fast the clouds moved in the sky, some Morgan Wallen song playing faintly from the speaker in the cup holder of the cart, only loud enough for you to hear. In the distance, you can see a group of guys at hole 14, all of their heads turned in your direction, waiting for you. When you get closer, you put a name to one of their faces. Tyler, one of the many hockey players that visits the club, smiles as you drive up to hole 14, four other, much younger guys standing close around them.

“How’s it going, y/n?” He asks, as you shift the gear into park and turn the cart off. Tyler usually gets a bud light or two, and then talks your ear off about the hockey season, so you know you’ll be here for a while because now he’s brought friends.

“Doin’ alright, Tyler. You bring your friends this time?” You ask, hopping off the cart and strolling to the back of it to open the cooler to grab his usual drink of choice. 

“Yup. These boys are on the team.” He replies as your hand dunks into the cold ice water. 

“You want one or two?” You ask him.

“Just one for now, thanks.” He nods, taking the cold can from your hands, and swapping it with a ten and a five. 

“You aren’t gonna ID him?” One of the boys ask. 

Your head turns in his direction because you haven’t looked at their faces yet, and- good god he’s cute. Dirty blonde hair poking out of the sides of his black baseball cap. A smug smile filters up his face because he thinks his little joke is smart. 

“Who, Ty? Nah, I know he’s old enough. You on the other hand, I’d definitely ID.” You spit back, a small blush covering your cheeks as you try to compose yourself. 

“Thats Mack.” Tyler chimes in. 

“Nice to meet you, Mack.” You speak.

“Nice to meet you too-”

“Y/n.” You finish.

“Y/n, alright.” He smiles, biting his lower lip in a way that makes your stomach spin.

One of the other young guys whistles teasingly, wavy blonde hair poking out of his cap as well. The other two boys, brunettes, stand off to the side more, taking the interaction in.

“He’s almost there, one year.” One of the brunettes speaks. 

“Yeah, to drink legally. Not like he hasn’t done it anyways.” The other blonde adds as you finish wiping off the left over freezing water from your hand, and hop back onto the cart. 

“You playing Morgan Wallen?” Mack asks, stepping closer. 

“I- I guess so. It's a company playlist, so, not my choice.” You reply. 

“Yeah, don’t give him another reason to ask for your number, y/n.” Tyler says.

You roll your eyes, turning the keys to turn the cart on again before you drive away. 

“Ya’ll let me know if you need anything else. Only legally, though.” You joke.

They all reply with their nods and “sure things”, and you catch Mack’s eyes once more and can’t help but smile. He gives a small wave as a smile climbs his face too, and you drive off.

Something in you hopes you see him again. 

Sure you will, Tyler comes often. 

And god, he’s cute. 

[sweet-tooth4you]

i love this concept!!!!

[sweet-tooth4you]

imagine fidget trading with macklin celebrini