Summary : You're the Navy's most reserved systems specialist. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the loud, golden retriever pilot who can’t stop watching you work. He starts with coffee. Then conversation. Then a playlist. But you're silent, guarded… until the jukebox plays his song, and you finally speak in the loudest way you know how.
Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/groundsystemstech!reader
Warnings : mutual pining, jealousy (brief flirtation), sunshine x quiet introvert, playlist flirting, he’s loud for both of you
Words : 5K
»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««
There was a certain stillness to the sim bay when you were in it—not silent, exactly, but quieter in a way that wasn't just about decibels. It was the kind of quiet that made people talk softer when they walked by you, as if your presence created a ripple of calm in the mechanical hum of monitors and diagnostic lights. You weren’t unfriendly. Just focused. Precise. A whisper in a world of voices raised too loud too often.
Bradley Bradshaw was not quiet, he was everything but quiet.
He was energy and swagger and sun-soaked charm, tall and golden, never without something to say. Usually something funny, sometimes something stupid, but always with that boyish confidence that made people laugh even when they didn’t want to.
And for some reason, lately, he kept orbiting around you.
Today, it was coffee.
You barely registered the footsteps until he was standing beside your desk, one hand curled around a cup, the other sliding the second one in front of you with practiced ease, like he’d done this before, like he’d made this part of his day.
“Hazelnut,” he said, voice low but cheerful, like you two were already in on some inside joke as he offered you the sweetest smile. “With oat milk. Thought I’d take a gamble, you look like an oat milk kind of girl.”
You paused mid-keystroke. Your eyes flicked up to his face—those soft brown eyes, wide and too curious for their own good—then down to the coffee. ‘Oat milk kind of girl’, what the hell does that mean ? Anyway, you took it without hesitation, your hand wrapping around the warm cup like it was familiar, though it wasn’t. At least not yet.
A quiet breath left your lips. “Thanks.” You murmured, voice just above the whir of the nearby fan: soft, clipped, barely there.
Then, you turned back to the screen, like the moment had never happened at all. Bradley stood there a beat too long, blinking once, then scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish kind of grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“…Cool.” He said to no one in particular, and walked off. Glancing back once to see if you looked at him again.
You didn’t.
»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««
By the time lunch rolled around, the mess hall was its usual mess of uniformed pilots, engineers, and stray conversations about upcoming tests and simulations. Bradley slouched into a seat beside Phoenix and Bob, stealing a chip off Bob’s tray like it belonged to him.
“She never talks,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, watching you across the room as you sat alone, quietly eating, headphones on. You were scrolling something on your tablet—a manual, probably, or flight logs. You looked like you’d be anywhere else if you could, and still, you glowed in your own strange, distant way. Like a lighthouse in fog.
Phoenix didn’t even blink. “Whisper ? That’s her whole thing.”
Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but she literally never talks. I’ve said good morning to her for like four days straight and got exactly two words in return. One of them was ‘thanks.’ The other was ‘hmm.’”
“She doesn’t waste words,” Bob offered gently. “I like that about her.”
“Yeah, but how does she communicate ? Like, with other humans ? Does she just telepathically vibe what she wants across the room ?”
Phoenix smirked. “You’re not mad she’s quiet, you’re mad she’s not talking to you.”
Bradley opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He glanced across the cafeteria again. You were sipping the coffee he brought. Slowly. Still the only one you’d had all day. He watched the way you bit your lip, thinking intensely. How your hair fell back when you let it go, slightly hiding your face. But suddenly, a question popped in his head. “Why do we even call her whisper ?” He said still looking at you, not really waiting for an answer, more to make a statement.
“We talked once,” started Bob, cutting the brunet off from his observation. Rooster turned his head quickly, interested in what the blond had just told him. “Said she was a former pilot. Real good one too.”
His interest peaked, “Former pilot ? I thought she was a ground systems tech.”
“Well she is now.” The blond said. “But she used to fly, so people still use her call sign. Top of her class, sharp as a tack. Then she switched to ground, said she liked the quiet shadows better than the spotlight in the cockpit.”
Rooster took a slow sip of his glass of water, thinking about what his friend had just told him. “Guess I’ve got a mission then.”
Nat raised an eyebrow, “What kind of mission ?”
“To get her talking.” He answers, grinning like a kid who just found a new puzzle.
Bob laughed. “Good luck with that one.”
But that didn’t discourage Bradley, not even a little.
The sim bay had the kind of buzz that never quite went away—humming computers, faint whirring fans, a voice or two in the background reviewing telemetry. It was comfortable in a mechanical sort of way, and you liked it that way: your space, your rhythm, your quiet corner of the world. You were back at your console, headphones on, lips parted ever so slightly in focus as you adjusted a variable in the flight response program.
Bradley Bradshaw, on the other hand, existed in full color. He lingered in the doorway, pretending to look for someone, but mostly watching you work. He moved like someone born in the sun, all wide smiles and long limbs, always cracking a joke or throwing a casual wink in someone’s direction. So, when his boots thudded up beside your desk for the second time that day, coffee in hand again, you felt him coming before you even saw him. You slipped one of your headphones off as he stopped beside your desk, and he couldn’t help but smiled at the anticipation.
“You always drink coffee after lunch,” he said, setting the cup beside your keyboard like it was already tradition. “But I figured I’d switch it up. This one has vanilla instead of hazelnut. Dangerous, I know.” He chuckled for a bit.
You paused, glanced at him, and took the cup with both hands like it might vanish if you didn’t. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word barely above a breath.
He smiled like it was a full sentence. And then, to your surprise, he didn’t leave. He leaned against the edge of your console, arms crossed. “So… do you always have your headphones in, or is that just to avoid me ?”
You blinked, looked at him—not startled, just unreadable. Then: a quiet, short answer.
“No.”
His brows lifted. “Oh ? So it’s not personal.”
“No.”
Another beat passed. He was clearly trying to decide if that was good or bad.
“What do you listen to ?”
“…Music.”
That made him grin. “Wow. The mystery deepens.”
You looked back at your monitor. You weren’t trying to be cold, you just didn’t know what to do with all that energy, all that focus pointed at you like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
Still, he stayed.
“What kind of music ?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentler.
You hesitated. “…Instrumental.”
“No lyrics ?”
You shook your head.
“Okay. So you like stuff that doesn’t talk much. That makes sense.”
There was a tiny flicker at the corner of your lips. Not quite a smile. But almost. Bradley caught it like it was gold dust.
“Are you from around here ?” he tried again, as casually as he could.
You shrugged. “Sort of.”
“That’s not an answer.”
You glanced at him. “It is.”
He chuckled, arms dropping as he leaned a little closer to your screen, trying to read what you were working on. “You calibrating the response latency on Phoenix’s sim log ?”
“Yes.”
“Wanna explain it to me like I’m five ?”
“No.”
He laughed—this full, warm thing that drew glances from two other pilots on their way out. You didn’t laugh with him, but you did nod, slow and almost amused as you went back to work. And that was something. Bradley stared at you for another second. Then, without a word, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since morning and pulled a black Sharpie from his back pocket.
He scribbled something near the rim, just above the sleeve, and set it gently back beside you. You didn’t look up. But you didn’t tell him to go, either. He turned and left with a smirk playing at his lips.
Once you were sure he was gone, you reached out, fingers curling around the cup like it was something private. You turned it, just slightly. In dark, careful handwriting, it said:
‘Don’t worry,
I talk enough for both of us.’
You stared at it for a second. Just long enough for the smallest smile to touch your lips—the kind you’d never let him see.
Not yet.
»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««
The Hard Deck was buzzing, already alive by the time you stepped through the doors. Half-empty beer bottles, familiar voices crashing over each other like waves, Phoenix’s laughter echoed from the pool table and a Springsteen song rumbled from the jukebox. Bradley was already there, leaning back at the bar, flashing that easy, sun-warmed smile at anyone who passed. As usual, he was dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt with a simple white T-shirt, his aviator pair on the tip of his nose, and his stupid moustache making him looking good as ever.
You hovered at the threshold longer than you meant to—long enough to wonder why you came, short enough that no one noticed—then slipped in quietly, the familiar hum of chatter wrapping around you like a cocoon. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. You weren’t afraid of noise, just tired of being swallowed by it. But tonight, something pulled you in. Maybe it was the ache of loneliness that crept in when the hangar emptied you. Or maybe it was just the memory of Rooster’s smile earlier that morning, when he handed you coffee just to hear your thank-you.
“Watch this.” Bradley said to Phoenix, next to him, as he saw you cross the room.
“You're gonna make a fool of yourself.” She laughed as he stood up, walking with a determined step towards you.
You found your usual corner near the window, sliding onto a stool with your drink and earphones already tucked in your jacket pocket. Not quite ready to drown out the noise, but ready to keep some space from it. You hadn’t even settled on a stool before a shadow fell beside you.
“There she is,” Bradley drawled, smooth and pleased, sidling up beside you with his usual beer in hand. “Didn’t think this place was your scene.”
You glanced at him sideways, eyes unreadable, and shrugged. “Got bored.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, leaning one arm on the table next to you, his attention all yours. “You in a bar full of pilots ? That’s not boredom. That’s anthropology.”
You tilted your head. “Maybe I’m observing.”
He grinned wide, taking that as a win. “See ? She does talk.” He says loud enough so Nat could hear it.
You didn’t reply. Just looked at him with wide eyes and sipped your drink, letting the silence settle again.
Bradley seemed content to fill it. “You always just… listen ?” He asked, watching over the rim of his bottle.
You gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”
His eyes softened, “I like your voice.” He said unbothered by your silence.
That pulled something from you—the tiniest exhale of laugh, gone before fully formed. But he caught it, and his grin widened even more when he saw the way you avoided his eyes for a second. “There it is,” he said, mock-dramatic. “A sound. We’ve got confirmation of life.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat in it.
Across the room, near the jukebox, Fanboy nudged Payback and nodded toward you both.
“Ten bucks says he won’t get her to say more than four words tonight,” Fanboy said.
Payback chuckled. “I’ll take that bet. Bradshaw’s relentless.”
Back at the corner, Bradley didn’t care. Didn’t even notice. He was too focused on you—on the way your fingers traced the rim of your glass, the way you listened like it mattered. Then, he seemed to be slowing down, leaning against the edge of your space like he might stay there all night.
“You ever drink anything stronger than water ?” He asked, nudging his empty bottle toward your glass.
“I had whiskey last week.” You murmured.
Bradley arched an eyebrow. “One whiskey ?”
You let the corner of your mouth twitch. “Two.”
He laughed, the sound full and bright, startling in the close space between you. You turned slightly toward him, just enough to give him your attention—not more, not yet.
“I think people forget you have a voice,” he said, his tone quieter now, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I mean, I see you every day. Running diagnostics, fixing our busted egos in the sims, headphones always on. But nobody really talks to you.”
“I don’t mind,” you said, fingers tapping the base of your glass.
“Why’d you stop flying ?” He asked suddenly, not unkindly. Just… curious.
You glanced away for a beat, surprised he knew that, then shrugged. “Liked control more.”
Bradley’s smile softened, fading into something more thoughtful. “You ever miss it ?”
You paused. Then, so quiet he almost missed it: “Sometimes.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you, like he wanted to remember the sound of your voice exactly as it was. Then someone brushed past you on the way to the bar, a blonde woman in a sundress, tall and glowing, with a spark in her eye and a laugh that cut clean through the room. Confident in a way that glittered, she moved like she already knew who would be watching her, and her eyes locked onto Bradley.
You caught the way his eyes settled on her. Not just a glance, but a long, lingering stare, the kind that said he was interested, curious, maybe even impressed. His usual playful charm softened into something quieter, more focused, like he was seeing something worth leaning into, and for a moment, it was like you weren’t even in the room.
Anyway, he stayed with you a little longer.
And unconsciously, you gave him more than usual tonight. A full five minutes of quiet conversation, soft answers barely audible beneath the noise, a trace of a smile when he teased you about something you just said. It was the most you’d spoken to him outside the sim bay, and for a moment, it felt like something shifted. Like maybe he saw you a little more clearly now.
Then your glass emptied. You stood slowly, nodding toward the bartender on the far end. “Be right back.” You took his empty bottle in your hand, without asking him.
He thanked you and straightened, stretching his arms back just enough for the fabric of his shirt to pull across his broad shoulders. The movement was effortless, the kind of thing he didn’t even know he was doing. “Don’t disappear on me.” He called, half-laughing, as you stepped away, weaving through shoulders and laughter. You didn’t answer, just slipped into the crowd, quiet as ever.
You didn’t see the blonde until you were halfway to the bar, but he saw her. She brushed past you with the kind of scent you couldn’t name but somehow noticed. And by the time you looked back, his eyes were already on her. Focused. That warm, open grin of his softened into something more curious, the kind of look he gave to things he wanted to figure out. The same look he gave you earlier that morning. When she glanced over and smile, he smiled back like it was instinct. The blonde placed a hand on his forearm, light and lingering, nails painted in a summer pink. And he didn’t move an inch away.
He tilted his head, smiling down at her like they’d known each other longer than thirty seconds. That familiar warmth in his eyes—the one he gave you—was now entirely hers. Your grip on his bottle tightened and you turned back toward the bar, but not for the bartender anymore. Instead you set the bottle and your glass gently on a vacant corner.
“Doesn’t need his beer anymore.” You muttered under your breath.
“Ditching the golden boy already ?” Phoenix’s voice came from beside you, light but knowing.
You didn’t flinch, just gave her a small shrug, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past the jukebox. “He’s got company.” You said quietly.
She followed your gaze. Her expression didn’t change, but you caught the way she exhaled slowly, like she wanted to say something. Instead, she offered a soft nudge to your shoulder. “Come shoot a round with me. Before Bradshaw says something stupid dumb and ruins both your nights.”
You nodded once, grateful, and let her steer you away—away from the laughter from the blonde, from the part of you that had started to hope he’s look for you first.
»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««
The next few days passed in a blur of drills and simulator runs, but something was off. Bradley felt it before he even saw it. A shift in the air, subtle and sharp. The way people say you can sense a storm rolling on, not by the thunder, but by how still the birds go.
You were still there in the sim bay every morning, like clockwork. Still perched at your console with your headphones draped around your neck, fingers flying over diagnostic keys. Still responding to reports, confirming flight data, calling out corrections with crisp professionalism.
But you weren’t there. Not like before.
You didn’t glance over when he leaned on the edge of your desk with his usual swagger, coffee cup in hand, teasing tone ready. You’d just take the cup without eye contact, said a flat, “Thanks”, and go back to the screen like he hadn’t just offered you the sun.
No smile. No soft voice. No quiet moment like before. Bradley stood there a second longer, watching you scroll through diagnostics. The first time, he brushed it off. Maybe you were tired or busy. The second time, it tugged a little. But the third ? It started to sting.
“Rough morning ?” he asked that day, testing the waters. He watched you from just a few feet away, trying to catch your expression through the edge of your hair. But you didn’t even blink. Didn’t even lift your head. Just muttered, “No”, and continued typing.
Bradley lingered awkwardly for a few seconds longer, waiting—for a smile, a glance, anything. But you never looked up. He left the coffee on the corner of your console and walked away like a door had closed behind him.
And it stuck with him. It gnawed at him all day. During simulator drills, debriefs, even lunch where he barely touched his food, through endless conversations with teammates where he found himself half-listening, distracted by the feeling of something slipping out of reach. By the time evening rolled around, he couldn’t shake it. He found Phoenix on the flight deck catwalk, where the sky was bruising purple, and the air still carried salt and heat.
“What did I do ?” He asked impatient.
She didn’t looked away from the horizon, “To who ?”
He looked at her like it was obvious and sighed, “Whisper.”
Now she looked at him, one brow lifted. “You mean besides not shutting up around her ?”
Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, I mean lately. She’s been…” He exhaled hard. “Different. Cold.”
Phoenix tilted her head, giving him a long, pointed look. Then she asked, “You really don’t get it ?”
His expression didn’t change, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “Get what ?”
“She saw you Bradshaw.”
He blinked, “Saw me what ?”
Phoenix pushed off the railing, folding her arms. “You flirted with some random at the Hard Deck right after spending all night talking her out of her shell. And she saw you. Every second of it.”
Bradley’s mouth opened slightly. “What ? No, I wasn’t— I just talked to her for a second—”
“Bradley,” Phoenix’s voice dropped, serious now. “She was holding your damn beer to get you a new one. She wanted to come back to you.”
He stopped. Actually stopped. Like the weight of those words landed straight on his chest. “I didn’t…” He scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He muttered.
She softened a little but didn’t let him off the hook. “Didn’t have to.” She waited a beat, then said more gently, “She’s quiet, not stupid. You think that kind of girl opens up to just anyone ?”
He didn’t answer. Because he was thinking about the bar now. About the way your eyes had briefly flicked toward him when the blonde leaned in. About how your expression had shuttered before he could even recognize the look behind it.
Phoenix watched him closely, then nudged his shoulder. “So. Fix it. Or at least don’t make it worse.”
»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««
Two days went by.
Long enough for Bradley to feel every inch of it—in the clipped responses, in the polite nods, in the way you passed him in the corridor like he was another file to be sorted and ignored.
And it was driving him insane.
Because you weren’t the kind of person to shut people out impulsively. You were calculated, quiet, deliberate in everything you did. And this coldness wasn’t sudden. It was chosen. Thought through.
Which meant it hurt.
He spent hours turning it over in his head, reliving that night at the Hard Deck, the way you’d said ‘Be right back’ like it meant something, like you were truly planning on coming back to him and not just disappear as he thought you would. And how he’d let himself be pulled into a meaningless moment with a girl he didn’t even remember the name of. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Not until Phoenix spelled it out for him in painfully clear words.
So now he sat with that. The guilt, the frustration, the quiet hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt someone who barely let people close to begin with. And he wanted to fix it. But with you, big gestures didn’t work. He knew that. You didn’t want spectacle, you wanted sincerity. Something simple. Something honest.
So that morning, before anyone else was in the sim bay, he left a flash drive on your console. No note. No explanation. Just slid it onto the edge of your desk beside your water bottle and walked away without a word.
You noticed it the moment you sat down.
A plain silver drive, no label. But when you hovered over the files on your screen an hour later, curiosity finally won over.
“Songs You Should Smile To — A Rooster Original”
You stared at the name for a long moment, your finger paused above the track list. You didn’t open it right away. Didn’t smile, either. Just… paused. Then clicked. The first song was soft, warm around the edges. The kind of sound that lingered like late sunshine on concrete. It played in your headphones for exactly thirty-eight seconds before you stopped it. Then closed the window. Then unplugged the drive.
You slipped it into your pocket like it was something fragile.
Later that day, while the rest of the pilots were out on deck, Bradley circled back into the sim bay. You were alone at your station, typing quietly, brows drawn together as you reviewed a diagnostic thread. He lingered by the edge of the console—not leaning in like usual, not crowding your space—just there. Treading softly.
“Hey,” he said gently, scratching at the back of his neck. “Did you, uh… open it?”
You didn’t look at him. Just nodded. “Yeah.”
That was it.
A single syllable, flat as an ocean on a windless day. You didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer a smile. Didn’t even glance his way.
Bradley hesitated, thumb rubbing the edge of his palm. “Cool,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just figured… you might need a better soundtrack. Y’know. For… stuff.”
No reply. No warmth. Nothing to hold on to. You didn’t ignore him, but you didn’t give him anything, either. And that was somehow worse. He lingered for a second longer, then gave a small nod and turned away. Chest tight, mouth pressed into a thin line.
But he didn’t see the way your fingers curled slightly as he walked off. The way your eyes flicked toward the flash drive, still safe in your pocket. Or even the way you waited until the door hissed shut behind him before reaching for your headphones again.
You started the playlist over. From the beginning this time.
»» ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ««
The Hard Deck was loud that night. Louder than usual. Full of laughter, clinking bottles, half-sung choruses to half-remembered songs. Bradley was already two beers in when he dropped onto a stool by the bar, half-listening to Hangman brag about something no one cared about and trying not to look toward the door every few minutes like some hopeful idiot.
You hadn’t showed up yet.
He told himself he wasn’t looking. That he didn’t care. That it was just a normal night, and he was just enjoying the bar like everyone else.
But then he heard it.
The song.
Soft drums, rising gently above the noise, his heart stuttered.
“I want to know what love is” by the Foreigner.
It wasn’t one of the Hard Deck bangers, not on Penny’s usual rotation. It was his song. The first track on the playlist he gave you. One that made him grin when it came on during drives, made him think of wind in his hair and summers that never quite ended. It wasn’t loud enough to cut through pool games or Payback’s booming laugh across the room. But loud enough for him to hear it.
He blinked, turning toward the jukebox automatically.
And there you were.
Alone, standing quietly with one hand still resting lightly against the machine, like you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to touch it. Head bowed just a little, listening. You looked soft in the amber glow of the neon bar lights.
Playing his song.
Bradley was on his feet before he could stop himself. He crossed the floor slowly, weaving through the crowd as his pulse ticking somewhere behind his ribs, watching you with a quiet disbelief. You didn’t turn until he was almost beside you. Then, finally, your eyes lifted to meet his. There was something unreadable in your expression: something brave.
He opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.
“I liked this one.” You said simply, your voice barely louder than the song.
Just that.
No buildup. No grand declaration. But your voice was warmer than it had been in days, and your eyes held a softness he hadn’t seen since before that night at the bar. And Bradley melted. A breath escaped his chest like relief and hope all tangled into one. “Yeah ?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I thought you might.”
You gave a tiny nod, barely there. “Had it on repeat all night.”
He smiled then. Really smiled. The kind that stretched across his face like a sunrise. His heart clenched in his chest, and for once, he couldn’t find a smooth comeback. Just stood there, quiet in front of the quietest person he knew, feeling every word like it had weight.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For that night. I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to…”
“I know.” Your eyes didn’t leave his.
And then—finally—you smiled. Bradley exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since that night. You looked at him for a long time, longer than you ever had before. The jukebox kept playing as the music wrapped around you both like velvet.
Bradley laughed under his breath, “There it is.”
The jukebox’s glow flickered softly across your face, casting colors that shimmered like stained glass: red across your jaw, blue across your lashes. You were looking at him like he’d said something sacred. Like he hadn’t messed it all up.
Bradley’s throat tightened. His hands ached to move—to reach for you, to tuck that strand of hair behind your ear, to do something—but he didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by rushing. So he stood there, holding his breath, watching you like he’d watch a sunrise he was afraid to blink through.
And you… you just looked at him for a moment longer. Eyes calm, unreadable, but soft. Then slowly—so slowly he almost thought he imagined it—your hand reached up. Fingers brushed lightly against the collar of his shirt, then steadied there, like an anchor. You leaned in, hesitant, but sure, eyes locked on his, not breaking even once. Bradley’s breath caught. His lips parted just slightly. He still didn’t move.
But you did.
You kissed him.
Not tentative. Not shy. Not loud, but louder than anything you’d ever said before. It was soft, but certain, the kind of kiss that said everything you never did. And Bradley melted into it. When he finally kissed you back—deeper, more grounded, hand slipping gently around your waist—it felt like exhaling after months of holding his breath. Like gravity stopped pulling and just let him float.
And in the background, Kelly Hansen sang on :
I wanna feel what love is, I know you can show me…
summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far
notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)
warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything
word count: 17266
your callsign is chick
You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.
With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself.
Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.
He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.
You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.
And the worst part?
You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.
But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.
“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!”
Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad.
“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones.
“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.”
“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey.
You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit.
“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.”
“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.”
“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.”
You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“But I’m wearing you down, right?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.”
“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.”
There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go.
Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist.
You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering.
When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame.
You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?”
He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.”
“That so?”
He nods.
You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?”
His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”
You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head.
Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could.
It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one.
“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.”
Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?”
“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug.
Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him.
The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason.
You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad?
“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?”
He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?”
You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.”
A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do.
He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared.
“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.”
“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.”
He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.”
“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door.
You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name.
Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower.
Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock—
“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.”
You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker.
“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?”
She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?”
-
Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it.
Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block.
You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs.
You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn.
You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.”
He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water.
He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?”
You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush.
“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?”
He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.”
You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.”
His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?”
Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself?
The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name.
You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard.
The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas.
The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house.
You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on.
“You alright?”
Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.”
He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.”
“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?”
He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.”
Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes.
Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house.
There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck.
It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday.
“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.”
“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back.
“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says.
“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word.
You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.”
Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul.
“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.”
Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.”
You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?”
“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.”
Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.”
“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?”
Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.”
Jake’s eyes go wide.
“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening.
“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.”
Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?”
Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.”
Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck.
Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing.
“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?”
“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing.
Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.”
You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley.
You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.”
Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?”
You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said.
You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.”
Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink.
Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk.
“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?”
You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think.
“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask.
Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.”
Bradley tips his head. “Fair.”
He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms.
Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive.
“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?”
Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.”
You nod. “That’s true.”
“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?”
You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.”
He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat.
“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes, please,” she replies.
You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid.
You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?”
His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.”
You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?”
He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.”
You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours.
“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?”
You choke on absolutely nothing.
Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it.
“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?”
He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently.
You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?”
His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods.
“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.”
His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue.
Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head.
The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done.
Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture.
You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost.
You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash.
“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?”
There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table.
“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak.
Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.”
Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?”
Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?”
“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage.
“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.”
Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink.
Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?”
You nod.
He smirks. “Got a date?”
You nearly drop your fork. “A date?”
“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”
You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.”
“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate.
Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches.
You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better.
“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.”
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation.
Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you.
Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought.
You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him.
You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused.
You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary.
You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing.
Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away.
After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-”
“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate.
He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.”
His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show.
After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?”
“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.”
He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.”
You arch a brow but keep quiet.
“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard.
“Would you prefer I blame you?”
“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?”
“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?”
He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.”
Jake gasps. “For free?”
Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.”
“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin.
“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.”
Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-”
“Make me two,” Jake cuts in.
“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.”
Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?”
You roll your eyes. Duh.
“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.”
“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly.
“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.”
Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?”
Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.”
You frown. “What? How would that help?”
“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.”
Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?”
You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”
“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.”
Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love.
“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.”
Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.”
“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.”
He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?”
You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-”
“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?”
Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.”
Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?”
You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.”
He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out.
Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all.
Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.”
Neither you nor Maverick respond.
Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.”
Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind.
You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment.
The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler.
Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this.
You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car.
You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars.
“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?”
You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful.
He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?”
You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.”
He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place.
The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been.
“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?”
The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts.
“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.”
He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is.
With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light.
“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road.
You shake your head. “No, you’re just…”
He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?”
“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen.
You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy.
Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do.
It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you.
How the fuck did he move that fast?
“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close.
“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.”
You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit.
You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.”
He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you.
“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud.
“You know what it means.”
You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name.
“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—”
Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static.
“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady.
Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell.
You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips.
Is this it?
But then—he stops.
His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.”
The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them.
And just like that, the moment shatters.
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut.
Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning.
Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops.
You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart.
-
You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open.
“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open.
You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.”
He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?”
“I don’t grovel.”
He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?”
You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips.
Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?”
“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.”
He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?”
You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?”
“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.”
His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?”
“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast.
He just arches a brow and waits.
“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.”
Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.”
You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.”
“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.”
“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.”
Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.”
You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head.
“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.”
You tip your head, brow furrowed.
Jake sighs. “You.”
“Oh.”
He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer.
“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says.
Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?”
His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.”
“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering.
He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.”
“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.”
Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?”
You shake your head. “No.”
“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.”
You pull back slightly, grimacing.
“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.”
You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope.
“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?”
-
Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical.
You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far.
Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background.
Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him.
That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question.
Still, the seed had been planted.
On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat.
Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly.
So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top.
You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene.
The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over.
You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun.
And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident.
He’d taken the bait.
“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.
You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice.
Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long.
Now? You get to pull the strings.
You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit.
Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time.
Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned.
You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley.
“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.”
He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.”
When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror.
Except Bradley.
He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing.
Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-”
“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.”
You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension.
“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?”
The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks.
Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer.
Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else.
By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool.
“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell.
You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-”
“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you.
It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours.
“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.”
You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle.
He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time.
“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.”
“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig.
Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.”
You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.”
Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?”
You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.”
His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?”
You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.”
“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.”
“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.”
His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation.
You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight.
Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed.
Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie.
Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips.
You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and—
The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot.
“Shit,” you mutter.
You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe.
You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.”
You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.”
Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?”
“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.”
“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel.
“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.”
She frowns.
“Get Hangman.”
Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?”
You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.”
She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck.
A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil.
“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.”
He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.”
He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.”
With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms.
When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting.
Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms.
“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.”
She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later.
You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand.
“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?”
He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake.
“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.”
Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist.
“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.”
Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting.
“Jake?” he echoes.
“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.”
Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line.
His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.”
Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.
He doesn’t even glance back.
Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out.
-
One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone.
“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.”
“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.”
You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.”
“And what if you accidentally drown?”
You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.”
“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.”
You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?”
She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.”
Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine.
“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.”
You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.”
You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”
“So what if there is?”
The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-”
“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.”
There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.”
“Good.”
“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?”
“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?”
She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?”
“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.”
There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches.
“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides.
“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.”
“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.”
You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.”
“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.”
“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk.
She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up.
You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic.
Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good.
You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you.
The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded.
You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect.
The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor.
“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach.
You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then—
“Hello?”
Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater.
“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through.
You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags.
“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”
“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door.
“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?”
You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help.
“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?”
You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding.
“You want me... to come in there?”
You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.”
“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain.
Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free.
And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.
It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying.
He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad.
“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.”
He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.”
He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained.
You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline.
“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.”
He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room.
“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh.
His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer.
“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.”
Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen.
He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself.
“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you.
“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.
He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.
You don’t dare turn around.
Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second.
You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together.
And then he touches you.
His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely.
Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus.
Your eyes flutter shut.
His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch.
You feel exposed.
And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide.
He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest.
“Bradley…” you whisper.
You don’t even know what you’re about to say.
But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?”
Your whole body tenses.
You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things.
Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?”
He hesitates.
“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.”
You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder.
“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.
And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.”
Bradley goes still.
You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged.
He doesn’t speak.
You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move.
Come on, Bradshaw.
“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.”
The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs.
Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you.
But no.
Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to.
The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say.
You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz.
He doesn’t speak.
And neither do you.
But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene.
Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck.
It’s methodical. Careful.
But it still feels like worship.
And he still hasn’t said a word.
When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”
You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing.
He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip.
And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
“You good?” he asks, voice tight.
You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.”
He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—”
He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.”
And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it.
When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers.
You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’
-
“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-”
You shake your head.
“Not so much as a-”
“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.”
“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-”
“He’s not a priest, Hangman.”
He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.”
You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee.
“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”
“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?”
You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?”
“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.”
You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself.
When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week.
That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home.
The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him.
Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot.
Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body.
“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.”
Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.”
You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.”
“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.”
You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.”
The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin.
Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps.
Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…”
Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell.
And then there’s Bradley.
He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch.
His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic.
You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo.
Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare.
“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.”
Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.”
She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips.
“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.
You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.”
“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.”
Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room.
“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.”
You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.”
He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows.
Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all.
You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore.
This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work.
So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen.
How does any of this make sense?
“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne.
You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth.
“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.”
“I don’t blame him,” you mutter.
“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.”
You frown. “What’s it?”
His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.”
“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone.
You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning.
After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here.
Almost.
Until—
“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?”
You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar.
“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies.
You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face.
“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?”
Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?”
“Too late.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.”
Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-”
“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.”
Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry.
No. They look hurt.
“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady.
Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?”
“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.”
Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.”
Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall.
Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.”
Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack.
“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal.
Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.”
Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears.
“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.”
“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-”
“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.”
Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-”
“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?”
Your voice cracks—just a little.
“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.”
You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put.
You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’
Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak.
Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days.
By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers.
The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks.
At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much.
You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously.
You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door.
You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling.
You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door.
You open it—and there he is.
Bradley.
His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear.
“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.”
You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them.
“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.”
He takes a shaky breath and steps closer.
“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”
A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.
“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?”
You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.”
His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.”
His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?”
You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.”
“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling.
You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.”
You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux.
“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.”
You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave.
His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.
You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies.
And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens.
“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late.
He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever.
You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.”
You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?”
His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.”
You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.”
He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.”
A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly.
His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on.
You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.”
He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.”
“You’re not wrong,” you hum.
With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric.
Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for.
His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.”
You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated.
And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well.
word count: 2.4 k (fluff)
summary: Bradley wasn’t used to having someone waiting for him to come home, but when he returns to his girl's apartment after deployment to find something familiar in her apartment, he hopes he’ll never have to leave again.
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He’s dreamed of being exactly where he is right now for weeks. He’s in your bed and his side is warm from where your bodies are still connected. He’s had longer deployments, but this one felt especially long. There is no doubt in his mind why time seemed to move slower for the last twelve weeks. You.
He moves slowly not wanting to break whatever bubble you’re in. The sun is starting to pour in through the windows due lack to the curtains that you were too lazy to close last night. He got in late and you had fallen asleep on the couch waiting up for him. He had to admit, it was hard for him to decide to wake you or just join you. He knew nothing would beat waking up in your bed this morning.
For the first time in a couple months he’s not waking to a bunkmate getting up or boots stomping down the hall. Announcements being blared calling them to sudden attention. Instead, he’s waking up to you. In your bed. Tangled up in your sheets.
“Morning, sweetheart.” His voice raspy, revealing how early it really is.
“Mmm.” You groan back, still half asleep.
Bradley leans down to press a kiss to your bare shoulder. Another on your neck. Another behind your ear. He feels you shift around a little.
“M’gonna make breakfast.” His lips pressed against your ear.
“Not yet.” You finally turn in his hold and take a possessive claim of him by wrapping your arms around him. He settles in a little more, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. He looks around your room while soaking it in for a few more minutes. He listens to you fall in and out of sleep with uneven breaths.
You have books piled high on your dresser, a receipt tucked in between the pages as a bookmark. One of his sweatshirts you’ve borrowed and never returned is tossed on the chair with obvious frequent wears. There’s a couple plants that lean closer to the window. He’s sure once you're actually awake you’ll claim it’s untidy and it’s a mess you meant to clean before he got back, but to him it’s divine. He’s never spent so much time in someone’s place that felt so clearly like home.
He knows it’s a privilege to be here. To be in your room. To be in this small piece of heaven.
“You know,” He starts, waiting for you to pick up your head to show that you are in fact awake, “I think this is my favorite place.”
“Really?” You grin, “My bedroom?”
He smirks, looking down at you.
“Your bedroom.” He confirms, “Your sheets. Your pillows. You.”
You laugh and Bradley soaks it in. He would say anything to get a laugh from you.
“I’m glad I made the list.” You slide your hand against his bare chest. You use it to pull yourself up closer until your noses almost brush. It feels intoxicating to be so close. You both have been craving this for weeks. Months.
“Twelve weeks felt like forever.” He confesses.
“I’m glad it wasn’t just me counting down the minutes.”
He shakes head, taking advantage of the short distance to press a slow kiss to your lips.
“I finally feel like I’m home.”
A small piece of heaven.
Two weeks before Bradley’s deployment…
“Wanna fly out to Virginia with me this weekend? I’ve got some storage stuff to go through… and I wanna show you my parents place.”
Bradley’s question was completely out of the blue. So much so that you almost dropped your morning coffee over the question. He blurted it and immediately turned back to face the stove.
“You want me to meet Virginia-Bradley?” You tease, setting down your crossword and the drink you nearly spilled.
“Yeah, sweetheart. I really do.” He admits, setting down his spatula and facing you again.
You get up from the stool you were sitting on at the counter and make your way around to him. You're just wearing his shirt and a pair of panties, he slides his hand under the bottom of the hem to rest on your ass.
“If you want me there, I’m there.” You place a hand on his chest.
"I want you to come."
That’s how you ended up on a last minute flight out East to Bradley’s hometown. You had heard stories and seen pictures but in the months you’ve been dating you had never been out. Bradley said he doesn’t go back that often, just to check on the house and get things out of storage when needed.
Natasha had confessed to you months ago that he’s never brought a girl back to his parents house. This was in fact a big deal.
They rented a car and drove it to the small town that he called home. He pulled in the driveway and pulled out a set of keys with a familiar ease. It was easy to forget that he didn’t live here full time. He just had his parents' old house and whatever base living arrangement he had been assigned. He hasn't been one to have much of a landing pad.
“Brace yourself, it’s pretty much the same as when my mom was still around.”
He swings open the front door and you’re met with a clean house that looks picture perfect the same as you're sure it looked nearly twenty years ago.
In the hallway, Bradley’s school pictures line the wall.
“Oh my god.” Your hand flies to cover your mouth in awe of the young version of him, “Look at baby Brad!”
“Oh this is just the beginning. My mom was a hoarder.” He shakes his head, but his smile is still proud.
He was not wrong.
Scrapbooks. Boxes of pictures that they sort through. Little league trophies. Model airplanes.
“I think we have enough to get a good Bradshaw museum started.” You hold up a picture of him with a saxophone, posing with the middle school band.
“Put it away.” He pushes your hands away and you fight back a snort.
Together, you go through more, eventually finding his parents' wedding scrapbook that brings tears to your eyes.
“They look so happy.” You sigh, fingers tracing the edge of the page.
“They were. Happiest people alive.” He sighs, studying the image. He knows their story was cut short, but it was a hell of a good one. His mom made sure he knew that.
You go through a few more boxes, setting aside some things to mail back and take with them.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever brought back here.” He looks over your shoulder as you flip through a stack of loose pictures.
“What does that mean?”
He knows that you’re aware. Nat has always had loose lips with the girls in his life that she actually likes. You? He knows the two of you are thick as thieves.
“It means you matter, and that this is the closest I can do to bring you home and meet the parents.” He scratches the back of his neck, unsure of himself.
“Hey,” You set down the stack to place a hand on each side of his face, turning his full attention to you. “I’m really glad you asked me to come. There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”
They continued to go through things. Check on the house and make sure everything is still in good shape. He brings you into town and shows you a couple spots. The place he used to play baseball. The old makeout spot where he got his first hickey. The lake his Grandpa would take him fishing at.
The weekend goes by fast but it’s nice, you get to play house for the weekend somewhere much bigger than your apartment. Bradley rakes up the fall leaves that are starting to crunch while you wash the dishes from last night's dinner in the sink. It feels like a whole other life over here. A different kind of heaven.
Present day.
They lazily stayed in bed for nearly another hour before Bradley’s stomach growled too loudly to ignore. He quickly hopped out of bed to get started on breakfast, you promise to be close behind, just needing to get dressed.
Bradley chuckles seeing his tool box lined up against the wall by your front door. He did tell you that you could borrow them because you had claimed you needed to hang some things and who actually has a level? He does. He told you to please use your key and break in so when he came back after deployment he wouldn’t be staring at a crooked wall.
He takes a step closer to admire your handiwork, he’s not surprised to find it looks great. He also wants to see what pictures you picked. Pictures of your travels, sunlit oceans, your friends, a few pictures of him have managed to make their way all the wall which warms his heart. One from when you were first getting to know each other, at the Hard Deck. Another that’s more recent, you kissing his check and he’s blushing like he was caught doing something naughty. He keeps scanning to recognize the faces, his heart fully stalling when he lands on one. He stops.
His parents.
A simple frame. Goose with his iconic and massive grin that is contagious. Carole is half laughing and half trying to wrangle him into behaving for the picture. They look young, happy, and so full of life.
It’s one of his favorite pictures of them. It was clear to see how in love they were.
“Bradley?” You notice his still build taking in the wall in front of him. You know exactly what picture caught his eye.
He clears his throat, but his voice still cracks when he finally speaks, “Where… Where did you get this one?”
You hesitate, taking a step closer to look at the wall by his side. His eyes unwilling to leave his parents.
“When we were in Virginia I had some of those boxes to be sent out sent here to my place. It didn’t feel right to just have them sit in base storage while you were gonna be gone.”
His breathing stills.
“I just thought… it felt right. Like they should be here with you when you came home.”
Home.
He turns to face her, eyes glassy, chest tight with both an ache and warmth building.
“You hung them on your wall.” His voice a whisper, "You made space for them in your home.”
You bite your lip, “Is it too much?”
He cups your cheek with a callused thumb brushing across your cheek.
“Nobody’s ever done something like this for me. Nobody’s ever loved the parts of me that hurt.”
You lean into his touch, eyes starting to shine with his.
“I love all of you,” You whisper, “Even the parts you think you have to protect.”
That undoes him. Bradley swallows, he’s sure his voice would betray him if he tried to respond right this instance. He just holds out a hand for you to turn and both look at the picture of the young couple on the wall.
“I wish they knew you.” Bradley’s voice, softer than you’ve ever heard.
“I know.” You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder, “I feel like I did by knowing you. I have no doubt you wouldn’t be half as charming as you are if they weren’t so amazing.”
He chuckles, wiping a stray tear from the top of his cheek before it has the time to slide further down.
Before the uranium mission he hadn’t had a home base. He bounced all over the states wherever they needed him to be. The last year and a half have been the longest he has been anywhere since joining the Navy. He spent the first year living on base, and the last few months at Mav’s house. He’s been looking to get his own place, but he was hoping it would actually be your place too.
Bradley thinks for the third time that morning.
This must be what heaven feels like.
“C’mon.” You pull on his arm after hearing his stomach yet again, “Let me feed you.”
“Anything is better than what the Navy’s been reheating the last few weeks.”
“Exactly. You need real food.”
You shuffle into the kitchen with bare feet. You move around each other with the ease of people who have done this a hundred times together. You’re pulling eggs from the fridge, Bradley places one hand on your hip from behind and uses the other to take the eggs.
“I thought I was cooking.”
He doesn’t answer with his words, he simply presses his lips against yours. It lasts a little longer than he intends, but your hands find his hair and it’s way too delicious to end sooner than he has to. You eventually pull away with a laugh.
Bradley steps around you to start cracking eggs into a bowl and begin whisking them. You make your way to the living room and turn on the old radio that sits on your bookshelf. A go to whenever the apartment was feeling a little quiet. Or on mornings like these when you are both slow to get out of bed.
You get started on making coffee while he stares at the eggs in the pan like they hold all the answers.
It’s too soon.
Way too soon.
You have only been dating for a few months. It hasn’t even been a year yet. You are both still finding new things you love about each other.
But.
If you asked him to marry you tomorrow, he would say yes before you could even finish the sentence. He doesn’t want to rush. He doesn’t want to pressure you at all, but he wants to be ready.
Which is why when you were both back in Virginia he got something else out of storage. Something he was too afraid to risk mailing and had to tuck away rolled up in his socks in his carry on.
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?’
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.
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.
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!
pairing: bradley “rooster” bradshaw x fem!reader
summary: you’ve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, so nobody expects you to move back home to north island. what you’re not ready for is your childhood friend bradley, who slips back into your life so easily it makes you wonder why you ever left.
tags: mitchell/maverick’s daughter!reader, opposites attract, free spirit x straight-laced, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining
warning(s): avoidant attachment style (ish?), reader tucks hair behind ear, wears a bikini, drinks alcohol, and is four years younger than bradley, suggestive content
word count: 11.9k
note: did i write this instead of doing my mountain of grad school readings? why yes i did. anyway, this has been such a long time coming and i’m so excited to get my first rooster fic out!! also there are no mentions of your mother/you being maverick’s biological child for inclusivity xx
masterlist
You reached the coast just before sunset, the kind of golden hour that made everything look idyllic. The air blowing through the open window tasted faintly of salt and home.
You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.
The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.
Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat.
You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.
Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.
Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory.
You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.
Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.
It always made you think of Bradley.
You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.
You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved.
By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.
Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair.
You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home.
Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.
The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls.
Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.
Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.
Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.
You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.
Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.
“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”
You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.
Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.
“Well, look who it is!”
You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”
Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.
“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”
You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”
Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”
You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”
You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”
“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”
You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”
“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”
You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.
You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.
He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.
This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.
“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”
You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”
Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”
You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”
Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”
You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”
He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”
You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”
“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”
You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.
“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”
You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”
You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”
“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”
“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”
You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”
A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”
The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer.
Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”
Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.
You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”
Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.
“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”
“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”
“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”
Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”
“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”
That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”
No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.
“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.
When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her.
“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”
You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”
“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.
Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”
“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”
“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”
Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”
That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”
“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”
You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”
Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”
Your pulse stumbled.
Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.
Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”
You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”
When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.
You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.
Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.
Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.
The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.
Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.
“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.
Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks.
His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.
“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.
You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”
When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice.
You both pretended a lot of things.
“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.
“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”
He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”
You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”
That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good.
“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”
You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”
“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”
And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.
The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.
“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”
He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”
You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”
“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”
Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.
“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”
You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”
Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.
When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.
When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman.
The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.
Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”
You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip.
He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.
Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for. You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.
“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”
“Does my pride count?” you shot back.
“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”
Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.
You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.
Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.
The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.
Every accidental touch made your heart skip.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”
“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”
Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”
“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.
“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”
Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.
Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.
Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”
Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.
“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”
You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone.
He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.
“Bradley?”
He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”
You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”
Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together.
He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully.
You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back.
“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.
He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension.
You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.
His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine.
“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.
You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.
You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.
You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.
Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.
You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet.
Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”
You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.
You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.
The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.
You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.
The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”
So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.
He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”
You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”
Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”
You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”
“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”
“Desperate times,” you muttered.
You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene.
Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”
“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”
“You’re holding the can upside down.”
You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”
Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”
He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.
The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.
Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.
That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.
“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.
Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”
“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”
He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.”
You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”
Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”
You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”
It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.
You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours, touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.
“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.
Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.
“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.
Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”
“And yet you love that about me.”
That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”
You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”
He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”
“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”
Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you.
The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.
Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”
He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.
“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips.
Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”
“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”
He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.
Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.
You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”
Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”
“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”
“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”
By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing.
“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”
You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”
“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”
You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”
He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”
You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.
Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years.
After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.
At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years.
Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.
There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.
Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.
You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.
“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.
Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”
“Too sentimental?”
“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.
You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.
He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.
“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.
You’d inhaled sharply.
You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.
The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.
You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”
Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”
The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.
When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.
Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.
“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.
He’d nodded. “Anytime.”
You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.
“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”
Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”
“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.
“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.
You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”
Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.
The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”
“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”
You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.
He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”
“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.
Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.
The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.
“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”
Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”
“You didn’t even give me a choice.”
His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”
Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.
“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.
He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.
The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.
“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”
Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”
He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.
When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent.
Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”
You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.
The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.
When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.
Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“Two years?” you’d said.
That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.
He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”
You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”
“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.
Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.
The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.
And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.
You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.
You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.
“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”
You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”
“Tell me about it.”
You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.
You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration.
So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.
Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.
Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.
“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”
“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”
“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.
You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”
Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”
Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”
You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”
“And now?” Phoenix asked.
You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”
Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”
You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”
Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”
You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”
“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.
You groaned. “Not this again.”
Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”
“Everyone?” you asked.
“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”
You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”
Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”
You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”
For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.
“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.
Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.
“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”
Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”
You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”
Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement.
“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”
Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”
You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”
Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”
Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.
“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”
Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.
You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”
The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”
You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”
Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”
You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”
For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song.
Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”
You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”
“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.
You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”
Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”
You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”
“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”
The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.
You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet.
You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.
Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.
You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch.
You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.
When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.
“Hey,” he said, his voice even.
“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”
“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”
He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.
Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less.
He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.
After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down.
“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.
So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.
You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.
“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”
You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”
Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”
You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”
He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”
You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”
“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.
You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”
Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”
You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”
His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.
You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”
That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.
Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”
You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”
Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”
You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”
“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”
“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”
“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”
Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”
“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”
Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”
You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”
“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”
“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”
Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”
“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”
“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.
You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”
Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”
He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”
Your throat burned. “You had me!”
“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”
That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”
Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”
You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”
He froze, chest rising and falling fast.
“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”
His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”
You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”
The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.
Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”
You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”
You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”
“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”
You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”
Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.
You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.”
You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”
Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”
“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”
That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”
You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”
Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”
You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”
Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”
You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”
“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.
“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”
“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”
His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.
You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”
Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”
His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.
“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”
Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”
“That’s not true,” you argued softly.
He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”
You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”
“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”
You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”
Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”
You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”
He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”
You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.
“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”
Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”
“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”
You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”
“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”
The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.
“Bradley,” you said quietly.
He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered.
His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.
He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric.
You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.
Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.
You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”
“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”
Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.
His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once.
“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”
“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”
When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.
“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.
“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.
Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window.
“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”
Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face.
“Did you—?”
“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”
Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
Maverick shook his head, smile softening, voice low and fond. “Can’t believe he got the exact month right.”
Summary: After a petty argument turns into a tense standoff, Bradley decides to shut you up the only way he knows how — on his knees, mouth and fingers relentless until you forget what you were fighting about in the first place.
Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw
Word Count: 1.7k
A/N: did i just write a 1k word fic of pure smut after saying i would never write smut again? yes. yes i did. I also wrote this at 2am so if there’s parts that don’t make sense it’s cause i was delirious
Warnings: Explicit sexual content (oral f receiving, fingering, edging, overstimulation), dirty talk, praise & degradation mix, slight manhandling, post-argument tension, Bradley being a smug menace. 18+ only.
It started with something stupid.
It usually did with the two of you.
Bradley had been in a mood all day — not outright mean, but short, distracted, the kind of clipped tone that made every little interaction feel like you were one wrong word away from getting snapped at. You’d ignored it through breakfast, through the grocery run, through him flipping channels for twenty minutes without settling on anything. But by the time dinner rolled around and he still hadn’t said more than a handful of words to you, the irritation had boiled over.
“You could at least pretend to enjoy your own damn food,” you muttered, stabbing at your fork.
Across the table, his head came up. “I’m eating, aren’t I?”
“Barely. You’ve been sulking all day, Bradley.”
“I’m not sulking,” he said flatly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m tired. There’s a difference.”
Your laugh was short, sharp. “Right. Tired. Sure. So tired you couldn’t be bothered to answer me when I asked if you wanted to go out tonight.”
“I didn’t feel like it,” he said simply, like that should have been the end of it.
And maybe it should have been. But the way he just… dismissed you, like your plans didn’t matter, made something hot and ugly curl in your chest.
“God, you can be such an ass sometimes.”
His jaw ticked. “Careful.”
“Oh, careful?” you shot back, leaning forward. “What, you gonna ground me? You gonna glare at me until I apologize for pointing out you’ve been acting like a—”
“Don’t,” he warned, voice low.
You stood, taking your plate to the sink with more force than necessary. “I’m going to bed.”
You’d barely taken three steps toward the hallway before you heard the chair scrape back and heavy footsteps follow.
“Not done talking to you,” Bradley said, catching your wrist before you could get through the doorway.
You turned, yanking your arm free. “You’re done talking to me all damn day, but now suddenly you wanna—”
“That mouth of yours,” he interrupted, eyes narrowing, “is gonna get you in trouble.”
You let out a scoff, backing up a step. “What, you gonna lecture me, Lieutenant?”
His lips twitched — not in amusement, but in that dangerous almost-smile he got when he was about to do something reckless. “Something like that.”
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
For a moment, the kitchen was dead silent except for the sound of your own breathing, shallow and fast in your ears. His eyes tracked over your face, slow and deliberate, like he was deciding whether to keep arguing or do something much more dangerous.
Then Bradley stepped forward.
You retreated instinctively until your back hit the wall with a muted thud, your hands pressing to the cool surface like you could melt into it. He followed, close enough that his chest brushed yours with every breath, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you like a warning.
“That mouth,” he murmured, head tilting, “keeps getting smarter every time you open it.”
You swallowed hard, refusing to look away. “Maybe you just don’t like hearing the truth.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Oh, sweetheart… I love hearing the truth.” His voice dropped, raspier now. “Especially when you start shaking halfway through saying it.”
“I’m not—”
He stepped even closer, and you felt the hard press of his thigh against yours. His hand slid up your side, not quite touching your breast but close enough to make your breath hitch. “You are,” he said, matter-of-fact, eyes fixed on yours. “And I think we both know why.”
Your pulse thudded in your throat. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmured, voice gone low and rough, “are in way over your head.”
Before you could answer, his hands were on your hips. In one fluid motion, he pressed into you hard, pressing your back to the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his body.
The next thing you knew, he was dropping to his knees.
It was fast — almost violent in how little time it took for him to be eye-level with your hips, big hands already pushing your shirt up, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your shorts.
“Bradley—”
“Uh-uh,” he cut you off, tugging the fabric down over your thighs in one sharp pull. “You’ve been running that mouth all night. Time to see if I can put it to better use.”
Heat flooded your face, but before you could protest, his palms slid up the backs of your thighs and hauled one leg over his shoulder. His head dipped, nose brushing your inner thigh, and when he looked up at you through his lashes, his smirk was pure, filthy promise.
“Hold on to something, baby.”
-
Your fingers curled against the wall before his mouth even touched you. It was instinct — some part of you already bracing for what you knew was coming.
Bradley didn’t start slow. There was no teasing kiss to ease you in, no gentle taste to test the waters. He went straight for you — one broad lick up your center, hot and deliberate, like he was claiming territory.
You gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen, your hips jerking forward. His grip tightened instantly, big hands locking you in place against the wall.
“Stay still,” he murmured against you, breath hot where you were already slick. Then his tongue was on your clit, flicking with steady, unhurried pressure that had your knees wobbling in seconds.
“Bradley—”
“Not so mouthy now,” he said, voice low, before sealing his lips around you and sucking hard.
The noise you made was more of a strangled moan than a word. You dug your fingers into his hair, not to push him away, but to anchor yourself as his tongue slid lower, circling your entrance before dipping inside. The rough scrape of his mustache against your skin sent another shock straight through you.
One hand left your hip long enough to shove two fingers into you, curling immediately, finding that spot that made your thighs twitch. His mouth never left your clit, working it with precision that felt personal — like he knew exactly how to dismantle you and was taking his time doing it.
“Fuck—”
He hummed, the vibration sending a pulse of heat straight to your core. “That’s it,” he said between licks. “Gimme all those pretty sounds, sweetheart.”
Your head tipped back against the wall, a choked whimper slipping out. Every time you got close, he eased off just enough to leave you teetering on the edge — a quick swirl of his tongue turning into a soft kiss, that perfect curling motion of his fingers slowing until you wanted to scream.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you panted, tugging on his hair.
His eyes flashed up at you, dark and amused. “You figure that out all by yourself?”
You tried to glare, but it melted into a gasp when he sucked hard again, fingers picking up pace. “Bradley—please—”
That earned you a filthy grin against your skin. “There’s my girl. Beg for it.”
You didn’t even hesitate. “Please. Please, I need—”
He cut you off with a groan, mouth working you harder, faster, his fingers thrusting deep in a relentless rhythm. The sound of him — the wet, obscene pull of his lips, the slick slide of his fingers — filled the room.
When you came, it hit you like a wave, sharp and hot, your whole body tightening before shuddering apart. You cried out his name, clamping down around his fingers, trying to push him away from the overstimulation.
Bradley didn’t stop. If anything, his grip on your thigh tightened, holding you open as he kept licking, slower now but still purposeful, drawing out every last aftershock until you were shaking against the wall.
Only when you were slumping, breathless and boneless, did he finally pull back, his mouth glistening, chin wet. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your thigh before standing, towering over you with that same dangerous smile.
“You done fighting with me?”
You couldn’t answer right away. Your pulse was still hammering, your thighs trembling where they rested against his.
Bradley braced one hand on the wall beside your head, the other still firm on your hip, keeping you pinned. “I’ll take that as a no,” he said, his voice deep, ragged from the effort of holding himself back.
You swallowed hard, still catching your breath. “You’re—”
“A menace?” He smirked. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
When you didn’t respond, he dipped his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was nothing like the argument you’d had earlier — slow, messy, all tongue and heat. You could taste yourself on him, slick and salty, and it only made you cling to his shirt harder.
“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured against your lips, stealing another kiss before straightening just enough to look you in the eye. “Want more?”
You nodded without hesitation.
That smirk deepened. “Then we’re doing this properly.”
In one smooth motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you, carrying you down the hall. You squeaked, wrapping your arms around his neck, but he didn’t slow — just pushed your bedroom door open with his shoulder and set you on the bed like you weighed nothing.
-
You barely had time to shift before he was on the mattress with you, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. He leaned over you, bracing on one arm, and ran his free hand up the inside of your thigh, spreading you open again.
“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart,” he said, low and certain. “Not even close.”
Your breath caught as he settled between your knees once more, eyes locked on yours. This time, he took his time — slow kisses up your inner thigh, open-mouthed and wet, his mustache brushing your skin until you were squirming.
“Bradley—”
“Shh,” he murmured, dragging the flat of his tongue up your center in one long, lazy stroke. “Let me take care of you.”
You didn’t stand a chance.
Round two was even messier, his mouth and fingers working in perfect sync until you were shaking and gasping, your second orgasm crashing over you before you could warn him.
When he finally pulled away, he didn’t bother wiping his mouth. He just crawled up your body, kissed you again, and rested his forehead against yours.
“Still mad at me?”
You let out a breathless laugh. “I don’t even remember what we were fighting about.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, grinning against your mouth. Then he kissed you again, slow and deep, already hinting at the fact that the night wasn’t over.
Bleaching Bradshaw's mustache due to good eating and having the squad notice 🥵
this post is 18+, minors dni.
"You're getting too much sun, Rooster." Jake scolds, and you wonder if there's nothing Hangman won't tease your boyfriend for.
Bradley rolls his eyes beneath his sunglasses, you're sure of it. He takes the bait though, "And why do you say that, Hangman?"
"You're going blonde." Jake declares, taking a swig of his beer, "It's ugly."
"What?" Rooster's brows furrow, now obscured behind his aviators, "What are you talking about? I'm not blonde."
"Yes you are," Jake scoffs, but a glance at Rooster's hair dims his smile a fraction, "Well- your mustache is."
Everyone's mildly perplexed, but the answer hits you like a ton of bricks: Bradley hasn't been getting too much sun, he's been getting too much pussy.
Evidently you've been unknowingly bleaching his facial hair, and you're sure it's only a matter of time before they realize.
Natasha's the first one to put two and two together, because of course she is. She snorts and hides a smirk with the mouth of her own bottle, and you shoot her a deadly glare so that she keeps her mouth shut if she's not sucking beer into it.
"That's weird," Fanboy frowns, "Are you dying your mustache but not your hair, Rooster?"
"No," Bradley shakes his head, but you wish he'd just lied to cover your tracks. You're not sure he's even noticed the change in hue of his own mustache, but now that everyone's concentrating on it, it's obvious.
"It doesn't matter," You try changing the subject, and fail miserably at being nonchalant about it, "Can we talk about literally anything else?"
"Oh, my god," Jake realizes, his eyes widening and his face scrunching in a smirk, "Bradley, you dog. No wonder Y/N hasn't left you yet."
"Hangman." You gush, your voice teetering on embarrassed sobs, "Drop it, now."
"Yes, ma'am." Hangman grins, but you know just from the tone of his voice that he's not going to drop it at all- not now, not ever, "Just- curb your appetite, Bradshaw. Don't want your stache to go platinum blonde, do you?"
