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eukolia · 28 days ago

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playing games ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

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-”

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-”

“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.

Over. And over. And over again.

END.

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