Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot
❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞
[bradley bradshaw x reader]
~6.5k words | rated: E
tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex
anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.
notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3
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The ready room was colder than usual.
Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.
You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.
The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.
But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.
It just showed that it worked.
Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.
“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”
You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.
Cyclone didn’t make them wait.
“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”
The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.
Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.
No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.
Cyclone turned slightly.
“Bradshaw.”
Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.
“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”
The words landed like a verdict.
Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.
And didn’t look at you.
That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.
You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.
You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.
“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”
The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.
Cyclone looked like he might say something.
He didn’t.
Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.
Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.
“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”
Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.
“Hell of a move.”
That was it. No smirk. No punchline.
The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.
You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.
Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.
You both moved toward the exit at the same time.
And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.
He didn’t react.
But you felt him turn.
Not a full look. Not dramatic.
Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.
And chose not to say a damn thing.
The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.
Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.
Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.
“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.
“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”
Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.
“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.
Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”
She disappeared around the corner.
Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.
Three long seconds passed.
Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.
Behind him, Phoenix slowed.
Turned her head.
Heard the door close quietly behind him.
She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.
Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.
You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.
Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.
You didn’t hear the door open.
But you heard his voice.
“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”
Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.
He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.
He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”
You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”
He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.
“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”
“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”
“It almost didn’t.”
“But it did.”
He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.
“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”
You took a step toward him, not away.
“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”
His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.
“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”
You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.
“Say that again.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
“You’re a goddamn liability.”
Your hands hit his chest. Hard.
He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.
You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.
Your breath was short. So was his.
“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”
It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.
“You tell me.”
And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.
You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.
You didn’t care.
You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.
Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.
His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.
He groaned.
You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.
“Shut up.”
“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.
The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.
This wasn’t control.
This was surrender.
And neither of you wanted to stop.
His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.
You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.
You grabbed them. Yanked.
He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.
Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.
He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.
You reached for his belt.
His hand covered yours.
Eyes locked.
Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.
Not gentle.
Not cruel.
Just urgent.
You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.
“That all you got, Lieutenant?”
He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.
“You never shut up, do you?”
You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.
“Make me.”
He did.
His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.
You arched against him.
His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.
“You started it.”
His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.
You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.
You wanted this.
You wanted to win.
So did he.
You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.
“Keep doing that,” he warned.
His voice was dark, torn at the edges.
You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”
He didn’t answer.
He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.
You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”
You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.
“Then do it, Bradshaw.”
He froze for half a second.
“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.
You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.
“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”
He didn’t move.
Not for a second.
Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.
Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.
His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.
He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.
You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”
He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.
Not pushing in.
Just there.
Teasing.
Taunting.
His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.
“Say it again,” he growled.
“Fuck. You.”
Close enough.
He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.
You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.
You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.
His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.
You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.
“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”
You arched against him. “Hard not to.”
His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.
The bench creaked beneath you.
Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—
You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.
Your voice broke.
“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”
His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”
“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”
His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.
You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.
“Jesus fuck—”
His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.
“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.
You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.
“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”
His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.
Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.
For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.
You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.
Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”
His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”
You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.
“We’re both so fucked.”
He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.
“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”
You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.
Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”
He blinked. Once.
You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.
When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.
“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”
You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”
He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.
Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.
His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.
Your breath hitched. Just a little.
The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.
He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.
“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.
“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.
“Not my fault you finished too fast.”
He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.
“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”
“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”
“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.
He didn’t move away.
Didn’t even pretend to give you space.
His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.
“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.
“You smell like me.”
His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.
You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”
“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”
You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.
His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.
“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.
“Mmhm.”
You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”
“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”
His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.
“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”
“That’s the idea.”
You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.
And it was working.
He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.
“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.
You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”
He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.
“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.
You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”
“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.
You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.
“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.
“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”
“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.
He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.
Then, softer: “You good?”
That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.
You nodded. “Yeah. You?”
He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”
One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.
The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.
His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.
That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.
The part where he didn’t pull away.
You swallowed.
The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.
You cleared your throat. “This…”
He stilled. Just slightly.
You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.
“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.
You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.
Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:
“But it does.”
Your heart kicked.
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.
So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.
You didn’t look back as you walked.
You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.
He caught it one-handed.
Didn’t say a word.
You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.
You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.
Didn’t need to.
You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.
You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.
Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.
You didn’t look. But you felt him.
You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.
Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.
Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.
You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.
You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.
When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.
You looked at him—just briefly.
Eyes met.
Held.
Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.
He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.
You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.
Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.
So you braved to break the silence.
“You heading over to Penny’s?”
Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.
“I was planning on it.”
You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.
“No point in going in separate cars, right?”
His mouth curved. Barely.
“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”
You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.
“Think we’re a little past whispers.”
He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.
“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”
The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.
He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it was.
You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.
Because maybe it had.
And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.
No hesitation.
No need to ask.
Just there. Still with him.
Still in it.
The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.
He smelled like your soap.
And that was a problem.
You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.
You didn’t move.
Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.
You knew it without looking.
“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.
He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.
“Is that how you want to play it?”
“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”
He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.
“Easier to lie?”
“Easier to not make it a thing.”
There it was.
You saw his jaw tick.
“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.
You met his eyes.
“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.
“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”
That landed.
He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.
Like he didn’t like it, but understood.
“You don’t regret it,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”
He was quiet for a long beat.
"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."
It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.
"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.
Then he nodded again.
“Okay.”
He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.
“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”
You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.
“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”
He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.
You stepped out.
Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.
The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.
Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.
He didn’t say anything.
Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.
Just contact.
It wasn’t a move.
It was steady.
You didn’t pull away.
Didn’t even flinch.
The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.
The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.
You stepped through it first.
Rooster followed you in.
And the noise swallowed you both.
The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.
You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.
One look at you. Then Rooster.
Then back again.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”
You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.
She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.
From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.
“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”
Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”
You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.
Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.
“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”
Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.
“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”
“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”
“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”
“Zero cockpit visibility.”
“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.
They high-fived behind her anyway.
Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.
“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”
The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.
Rooster didn’t flinch.
He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.
A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.
A low, subtle pull.
He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”
Rooster didn’t blink.
“Nope.”
She sighed and shook her head once.
“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”
He looked back toward the bar—toward you.
His voice stayed even.
“She always does.”
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