hangmanwrites

[hangmanwrites]

hey!!! i really enjoyed your bradley fic, your writing is incredibleee and i cant wait to go on a little binge once i have some free time later tonight ahh!!! 💘💘

ahh good lord, sorry for the late reply 😭 thank you so much for reading my bradley fic 💙 that means a lot!! i actually checked out your writing too and it’s incredible omg!! i’m saving it for some late-night reading haha really hope we can be friends, you seem so lovely 💙 thank you again!! 💙

[hangmanwrites]

crawling back to you︱bradley bradshaw

based on the song: do i wanna know? – hozier (arctic monkeys cover) word count: 11,538 words pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x ex-wife!reader synopsis: eight months after signing the divorce papers, bradley sees you again at mav and penny’s wedding. it’s supposed to be simple. small talk and nothing serious, but the thing is, the love never really left. content warnings: angst, divorce, emotional tension, alcohol mention, unresolved feelings, secondhand embarrassment, complicated feelings toward a new relationship, mentions of past arguments, slow burn author's note: inspired by hozier’s cover of “do i wanna know?” — this fic is basically that one line in slow motion: maybe i’m too busy being yours to fall for somebody new. part two is coming soon. let me know if you want to be on the taglist. thanks! next part︱kofi︱request︱masterlist

If someone had asked Bradley Bradshaw ten years ago where he would be right now, most people would have said somewhere on the long stretch of California’s coast, maybe Long Beach, with his wife and three kids running through the sand, a dog chasing behind them as the sun dipped low behind their little beach house. 

Maybe others would have said he’d still be flying, maybe he’d be retired by now, teaching at the Academy, grilling on weekends, planning family trips to visit your parents. Almost everyone would’ve imagined him settled, surrounded by the life he spent his twenties trying to build.

But no one would have pictured this.

He sat alone in the dining room, in the same chair he always used, elbows resting lightly on the edge of the table that had once held takeout cartons and birthday cakes and that one really awful attempt at homemade pasta. 

Now it just held a stack of papers, neatly clipped together, waiting. The pen next to them felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with its weight. The silence in the room stretched long, quiet in a way that made his skin crawl.

The kind of quiet that used to feel peaceful when she was sitting across from him, hair messy from bed, nursing her first cup of coffee, music humming low from the radio by the window.

Now, the radio was gone. She took it last week, said something about how it always picked up her favorite stations better anyway. A box had gone with it. The same box that took the mugs they bought together on that trip to Santa Cruz. 

At the time, it felt silly to fight over coffee mugs. Now, he wished he had. At least that would’ve meant talking.

He looked around slowly. The space wasn’t empty yet, but it felt like it. Her jacket wasn’t on the back of the chair anymore. The little dish she used for her rings wasn’t on the counter. The fridge was still plastered with pictures, but the ones of the two of them had started disappearing one by one. There was a gap now where the photo from Catalina used to be, the one where they were squinting in the sun, grinning like idiots with wind-whipped hair and sand stuck to their legs.

He let out a quiet breath and leaned back, dragging a hand over his face.

It hadn't started with something big. That was the worst part. There was no explosion, no one-night betrayal, no secret waiting to be unearthed. Just slow shifts. Mornings where they forgot to say goodbye. Dinners eaten in silence. A pause before touching, before reaching, like permission needed to be asked every time. 

At first, he thought it was just the stress; the deployment, the promotion, the move, all of it. Then, it kept going. The distance held, even when they were sitting side by side.

Fights started creeping in after that. Short ones, quiet ones. Not yelling, never that, just clipped voices and unfinished sentences. Things left hanging. Then the longer ones, the kind where they both said things they didn’t mean but couldn’t take back. Accusations that weren’t exactly wrong, but they weren’t fair either.

And through it all, he kept thinking they’d figure it out. They always had before.

With time, the distance between them kept increasing. Not because they put in no effort, but perhaps because they didn’t know the right methods to try anymore or perhaps due to no one having the willingness to say, I want to make sure you stay in my life.

Now the words were useless.

He stared at the papers again. They looked so normal. Just ink and lines and boxes checked off. Legal language and dates. Places to sign. There was even a sticky note she’d left with her initials, pointing out the sections that still needed him. It was neat, unemotional, and efficient.

The kind of thing you do when you’ve already cried about it in a car alone somewhere and you don’t want to cry again in front of the person you used to call home.

It used to be easy. Not perfect, never that, but easy in the way love sometimes is when it’s built on a thousand small things that feel like nothing until they’re gone. Like how she’d always steal his socks and never admit it, even when they were clearly bunched up over her ankles. 

Or how she’d hum when she cooked, even if she was just microwaving leftovers. How she’d talk to him from another room like he was right next to her, and he’d answer without thinking, as if their voices knew how to find each other no matter the distance.

Now, it was quiet. Very quiet.

Not just in the room, but in the way the house felt. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for a sound that wasn’t coming. No drawers opening. No laughter from the bathroom. No dishes clinking in the sink. Even the damn dog seemed to be sleeping more, like he could sense there was no one left to toss his scraps under the table.

Bradley shifted in his chair, glancing toward the living room. From where he sat, he could still see the corner of the couch where she used to curl up with a blanket and a book, her feet tucked under her, one hand always reaching for his thigh when he sat beside her. The blanket was gone now, too. Probably packed away in one of the boxes she moved to her sister’s place.

It was strange. The house still smelled like her shampoo, still carried the faint scent of the candles she liked, those woodsy ones with names like “Mountain Lodge” or “Amber Smoke,” but she wasn’t here, and the echo of her presence just made it worse.

Then he thought about the last night she was here. Not the one where she told him she was leaving. Not the night she cried in the hallway and said she didn’t know what else to do. No, the one before all that, when they were both pretending. They ate dinner in front of the TV and barely said anything. He thinks they watched a movie, but he couldn’t remember which one. She had fallen asleep before it ended, head on his shoulder. And he just sat there, staring at the screen, not moving, not waking her up, thinking if he stayed still enough, maybe she wouldn’t leave at all.

But of course she did. The next morning she was gone before he even woke up. Left a note on the kitchen counter that just said, Call me when you’re ready to talk.

Now here he was, weeks later, still trying to figure out what the hell to say.

He didn’t touch the papers. Just looked at them. The pen sat beside them like it was mocking him. He could hear her voice in his head, calm and tired, saying this was the best thing for both of them. That it wasn’t working anymore. That they were just hurting each other. That maybe one day, they could be something else. 

Friends, kind, civil, but he didn’t want to be civil. He wanted to be stupid and messy and reckless if it meant they could still be them.

But that version of them felt like a dream now. Something he remembered too fondly to trust.

He pushed back from the table slightly, just enough for the chair to creak beneath him, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. It startled the dog asleep by the door, who lifted his head and blinked at him like even he was confused by how different everything felt. Bradley didn’t say anything, just gave him a slow blink back before resting his head in his hands.

This wasn’t what he wanted. Not the way things ended, not the distance that had somehow grown so quietly between them, like fog slipping in while they were asleep. They were supposed to notice it, catch it before it thickened, but by the time they really saw it, they couldn’t see each other through it anymore.

It’s not like he didn’t try. He showed up, didn’t he? Came home, paid attention, asked questions. Maybe not always the right ones, but he tried. There were good days. Quiet mornings with her hand on his back, quick kisses before work, moments that felt like the way they used to be, but the good days were getting harder to reach. Like trying to catch a wave at the wrong time, always too early or too late.

He thought about the birthday she spent alone because he was stuck on base during a surprise inspection. The way she smiled and said it was fine, that she understood, but her eyes didn’t match her voice. Or that weekend he came back from deployment and all she said was, “You’re late,” because the dinner she made had gone cold waiting. He hadn’t known how to tell her that he had driven like hell just to get home in time and still missed it. That the thing eating at him wasn’t the cold dinner but the way she hadn’t hugged him first.

Little moments like that had piled up. Meanwhile, they stopped reaching for each other. Not out of anger, just fatigue. The kind that makes you stare at someone you love and feel like you’re speaking different languages. He had learned how to be silent without meaning to. She had learned how to walk away without slamming the door.

His eyes flicked back down to the documents. Her name was there, printed in clean lines. The name he used to say out loud when he was half asleep, the name he scribbled on cards and notes and once, stupidly, in a heart carved into a wooden bench during a layover in Virginia. He wondered if that bench was still there. If anyone ever noticed.

He glanced around the room again, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The dining room used to be loud. Late dinners, music playing too loud, card games, spilled wine, the occasional burnt meal followed by laughter when the fire alarm chirped for attention. They had people over, once. Friends, teammates, family. There was a life here. Now it was just a space with too many chairs and too much air between them.

He could still see her sitting across from him, bare feet tucked under her, twisting her ring around her finger without realizing it. That habit used to drive him a little crazy. She always did it when she was thinking hard or worried about something. It wasn’t until near the end that he noticed she’d stopped doing it altogether.

So what was he gonna do now? Just sit here all night staring at a stack of paper until the sun came up? Pretend like maybe if he avoided it long enough it’d all go away? That she’d come back through the front door, toss her keys in the dish by the counter like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t spent months slowly undoing everything they built?

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, sighed once, heavy and worn, and leaned forward again, elbows on the table. The pen hadn’t moved. Still right there, waiting like it knew something he didn’t.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. She’d said the words. More than once. Quietly at first, like she was afraid to break them just by saying it. Then firmer. I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired. We’re not us.

And he’d nodded. Maybe that was the worst part. He hadn’t fought. Not the way he should’ve. He told himself he didn’t want to make it worse. That pushing would only drive her further away. But maybe he’d just been scared. Too scared to admit that he didn’t know how to fix it either.

He could hear her voice even now, low and steady in his memory. “You don’t even talk to me anymore, Bradshaw. You just… sit there. Like you’re waiting for me to do something.”

And maybe he had been. Waiting for her to say the right thing. Waiting for something to change. Waiting for her to say she didn’t mean it, that she still wanted to try. But all that waiting had gotten them here.

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers, like the cracks in the plaster could point him in some kind of direction. The house felt too big now. The silence inside it is too loud. And the worst part? She wasn’t mad at him. Not anymore. Maybe she had been, at one point. Maybe he’d deserved it, but now it just felt like she had let go completely. That whatever anger was left had burned out long before she packed her things.

And what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

The air felt thick all of a sudden, like the walls were leaning in, like the quiet wasn’t just around him but inside his chest too. Bradley swallowed hard and stood up too fast, the chair legs scraping loud against the hardwood. His stomach twisted in that sharp, wrong way it sometimes did after a long flight when the g-force still hadn’t left his bones. He pressed his palms flat to the table, breathing through his nose, willing himself not to throw up right there on the floor.

Jesus Christ. This was really happening.

His vision blurred for a second, not from tears but from the pure, sick weight of it all finally dropping full-force. This wasn’t just a bad stretch. This wasn’t a fight they’d get over in a few days. She wasn’t coming home. There wasn’t going to be some late-night knock on the door, no soft voice saying, “I didn’t mean it. Let’s talk.”

She meant it. She had been calm, steady, already gone long before her things were packed.

He braced himself against the edge of the table and stayed there for a moment, head bowed like he was trying to pray through it, though he wasn’t sure he remembered how to. All he knew was that his chest felt too full, his throat too tight, like if he opened his mouth even a little, every goddamn feeling he’d been swallowing down for months would pour out of him and never stop.

He didn’t want to cry, and did not want to break down, not like this, not over a piece of paper, but that’s what made it worse, wasn’t it? It was just paper. A couple of signatures. A date. A legal stamp. So clean and final, like everything they went through could be reduced to initials and lines.

Bradley sat back down slowly. His hand reached for the pen without thinking. The movement felt far away, like it wasn’t even his.

And then, he signed. He didn’t pause and hesitate. The ink moved across the page and sealed it, then that was it. There was no fanfare, no last-minute epiphany. Just his name, right where she’d left space for it.

He let the pen fall to the table, the small clatter louder than it had any right to be, and stared at the signature like it might vanish if he blinked, but it didn’t.

He had really done it. Signed away a decade of his life with one quick flick of his hand.

Bradley leaned back again, exhaled through his nose, and dragged both hands down his face, his fingers lingering over his eyes like they might block out the sight in front of him.

There was nothing left to do.

Eight Months Later

The beach was already buzzing by the time Bradley arrived. Someone had set up rows of white folding chairs in the sand, facing the ocean, with little strings of lights hanging between the palms. The late afternoon sun cast everything in a soft gold, and there was that lazy kind of wind that tugged at shirts and made hair impossible to keep in place. Music was playing low from a speaker stuck in the sand near the chairs. The whole thing looked like a magazine cover.

Bradley ran a hand through his hair and adjusted the sleeves of his white dress shirt, freshly ironed but already starting to wrinkle from the humidity. The jacket they gave him was somewhere in the little bungalow Penny rented behind the Hard Deck, but he hadn't bothered putting it on yet. Too hot, too early. He walked toward the side tent where most of the guys were getting ready, slipping past a few guests who were already milling around with champagne flutes.

Jake was there, of course, standing in front of a mirror with sunglasses perched on top of his head and a smug smile he hadn’t taken off since he landed that morning. “Look at you,” he said the moment he spotted Bradley. “Took you long enough. What’d you do, steam that shirt with your tears?”

Bradley rolled his eyes and dropped his phone onto the small bar cart in the corner. “Good to see you too, Seresin.”

Jake turned back to the mirror and fixed his tie, not that it needed fixing. “You look nervous. Should I be worried?”

“I’m not the one getting married,” Bradley muttered, reaching for a bottle of water and cracking it open. He drank half of it before Jake responded.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jake said, still grinning. “Walking down the aisle solo, standing next to the groom, shirt half unbuttoned like you’re about to pour your heart out in front of everyone. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was your big day.”

Bradley didn’t answer right away. He took another sip, then leaned back against the table and looked toward the open flap of the tent where the sunlight poured in. “Just trying to make sure Mav doesn’t trip over his own feet.”

“Is he nervous?” Jake asked, more curious now, less teasing.

Bradley shrugged. “Not really. He’s been weirdly calm. Thought he’d make a run for it at least once.”

At that, Maverick’s voice came from behind them. “Still got time.”

They both turned to see him standing near the entrance, buttoning the last of his shirt with a quiet kind of focus. His hair was still wet from a shower and there was a fresh scrape on his knuckle, probably from whatever mechanical thing he couldn’t leave alone that morning. He looked better than expected. Relaxed. Even happy.

Bradley raised his eyebrows. “You sure about this?”

Maverick gave a short laugh. “Too late to back out now. Penny would hunt me down.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “She would. And she’d make it hurt.”

Maverick smirked and moved to grab a beer from the cooler. “Thanks for the support, boys.”

The three of them stood in comfortable silence for a minute, just listening to the wind and the waves and the occasional shout from someone trying to wrangle a group of flower girls near the bungalow.

Then Maverick turned to Bradley. “You got the rings?”

Bradley patted his pocket. “Yeah. I left one at the bar earlier, but it was just a test.”

Maverick smiled. “You're a real comfort.”

More people had started to gather now, the chairs filling up in the background, someone adjusting the speakers. Bradley caught glimpses of familiar faces moving through the crowd. Natasha was there, helping a flower girl fix her little floral crown. Bob stood awkwardly near the drinks table with someone’s baby in his arms, looking terrified. And through the open door of the bungalow, he saw Penny for a moment, laughing at something someone said as she ducked into a back room.

Then, he saw you.

You were by the far corner of the porch, surrounded by the other bridesmaids, holding a champagne flute in one hand and your shoes in the other. Your dress matched the sunset behind you, soft and easy. You were smiling at something, something light, something that made your head tilt the way it always did when you were trying not to laugh too hard.

Bradley froze, just for a second. Not visibly. Not in any way someone would notice. But it hit him all the same. Eight months gone and still it caught him off guard.

Jake followed his gaze, then elbowed him lightly. “Didn’t know she was gonna be here?”

Bradley shook his head once. “I figured.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Yeah, I’m good.”

A few minutes later, someone with a clipboard and a headset shouted for the groomsmen to line up. Jake clapped Maverick on the shoulder and took his spot near the front. Maverick looked at Bradley with a raised eyebrow, like he was waiting for a last-minute pep talk.

Bradley just smirked a little. “You’ve survived worse.”

Then, he stepped out into the light.

The music had shifted to something instrumental, soft and slow. People turned in their chairs as he walked down the aisle alone, sand shifting under his shoes. He kept his eyes straight ahead, expression calm, steady, like this was just another ceremony, another job to do. He moved to his place at the front and stood beside Maverick, the two of them quiet now as the music played on and the bridal party lined up just out of sight.

The music shifted again, something a little lighter now, with more rhythm and warmth, the kind of song that sounded like it belonged to a memory. Guests leaned slightly to one side as the first bridesmaid stepped into view, her feet careful in the sand, bouquet held low against her dress. She smiled at someone in the crowd, maybe her parents or someone she hadn’t seen in a while, and made her way slowly down the aisle. The next girl followed after, then another. The chatter quieted, just the gentle rustle of fabric and the muffled shuffle of sand underfoot.

Bradley kept his eyes forward at first, watching the line of bridesmaids move slowly down the aisle like waves pulling toward shore. He kept his hands loosely clasped in front of him and let the sound of the music fill the space between his thoughts. Then, as the last few came into view, he let himself look again, careful not to make it obvious. He already knew who would be last.

In the meantime, you stepped from the palm trees' cover at the edge of the clearing, sunshine glinting barely over your shoulder. You hesitated for a moment before walking down the aisle, and your dress swayed slightly with the air. He saw it. That brief silence. It was plenty to tighten something in his chest, though he wasn't sure whether anyone else did.

Then, you walked forward.

And just like that, it was all there again. The way the light framed you, the way your eyes stayed focused ahead without really landing on anything, like you were moving on instinct alone. It wasn’t the same dress. The day wasn’t the same either, but somehow it still felt like it. It hit him in a place he hadn’t touched in months, quiet and deep and familiar. Like standing in the wreckage of something and still recognizing the smell of home.

The first time you walked toward him, your bouquet had been trembling just slightly in your hands. He remembered that. You were trying not to cry and failing, and he hadn’t cared. He’d grinned like a fool when he saw you and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking into tears himself. 

That day had felt too big to fit inside either of you, like it had cracked something open, something soft and vulnerable that had made all the vows feel impossibly real. He had never been more sure of anything in his life.

Now, standing here again, he felt like a ghost watching someone else’s memory.

You didn’t look at him. Not directly. Maybe you saw him from the corner of your eye. Maybe not. You smiled at someone in the crowd again, just a quick one, polite and automatic. Then, you stepped into place beside the others and adjusted the flowers in your hands. It was all practiced, all smooth. Not a hair out of place. Nothing in your face gave you away.

Bradley blinked and looked ahead again, this time at the stretch of aisle that remained empty, waiting. Somewhere in front of him, Maverick shifted his weight, probably readying himself for Penny’s entrance. The guests leaned in a little, the music softened, and the breeze carried the smell of salt and warm sand across the front rows. It was almost time.

But Bradley was still stuck in that split-second stretch of the past, remembering what it felt like when he used to be the one standing at the end of the aisle, waiting for you.

The rest of the ceremony passed like a blur, the kind that gets soft around the edges, where moments slip into each other without asking. Penny walked down the aisle glowing, barefoot in the sand, hair swept back with little seashell pins that shimmered in the sun. Maverick looked at her like she was the only thing he’d ever needed to get right. 

Their vows were simple, heartfelt, barely loud enough to carry over the breeze. Penny’s voice wavered when she promised to love him with steadiness, and Maverick laughed when he said she was the bravest woman he’d ever met for agreeing to put up with him for good.

Meanwhile, Bradley found himself watching you more than anything else. It wasn’t intentional. He’d blink, shift his eyes back to the couple in front of him, but then something would pull him sideways again. 

You were standing still, holding your bouquet close, and smiling so softly at Penny and Mav like you weren’t just happy for them but full to the brim with it. It wasn’t the kind of smile you faked for a photo or put on for appearances. It was real, quiet joy. And it looked so much like the one you wore eight years ago when you stood in front of him and whispered I do.

Before he could stop himself, Bradley found his mind slipping backward, the sounds of this beach wedding fading under the weight of memory. He could hear his own voice again, trembling only slightly as he held your hands and recited the words he wrote the night before. I will love you in every version of this life, in the calm and in the storm, in every room we fill, and every silence we survive. He remembered how you looked at him then, eyes glassy but steady, your thumb brushing over his knuckles the entire time like you were reminding him you were there.

Now, standing just a few feet away from you, hearing someone else speak their forever out loud, Bradley felt it all crack back open. He watched the tears welling in your eyes and the way you blinked slowly to keep them from falling. 

Every instinct in him, old and worn down but never quite dead, screamed to move toward you. He wanted to reach over, press his hand to the side of your face, whisper something only you would understand. Tell you he remembered everything. That he still meant every word. That even now, after all of it, you were still the best thing he ever called his.

But then, the cheers erupted. A rush of sound filled the beach as Maverick leaned in and kissed Penny, soft and sure and grinning like an idiot. The crowd clapped and whooped, some standing, others tossing little palm petals into the air like confetti. 

Bradley snapped back to the present and raised his hands, clapping along, voice caught in his throat. Beside him, Jake gave a triumphant whistle and grinned, throwing an arm briefly around Bradley’s shoulders before raising both arms in the air like they’d just won something. He smiled, nodded, letting the joy settle in the space around them.

Then, Bradley looked over, but you were already looking at him.

There was a look in your eyes.

Bradley knew it right away, before he even had time to think. It was quiet, but it hit him hard. The kind of look that didn’t say anything out loud but still knocked the air out of him. You weren’t smiling anymore, not the way you were before, and there was something behind your eyes that made it hard to breathe. 

Not angry, not even sad really, just... something soft and heavy. Like you were asking a question without needing to say it. Like you were thinking, Are we really here? Is this really what we became?

And it killed him, because he remembered that look too well. He used to see it in the mornings, when you’d roll over half-asleep and reach for him. When you’d sit on the couch in silence after a long day and just lean into his side. When you looked at him like he was the one place you could always land. It used to make him feel steady. Sure.

Now it just made him feel like he was standing in a version of his life that didn’t belong to him anymore.

He wanted to say something. Anything. Just lean over and ask if you were thinking what he was thinking, if it still sat in your chest the way it did in his. If you ever thought about reaching out. If you ever stopped missing it. If there was even a small part of you that wanted to come back.

But he didn’t move, and speak. He just stood there, stuck, like if he blinked too long he might fall straight through the moment.

Then, you looked away, just like that. Your eyes shifted somewhere else, and you turned your face toward the crowd, like whatever that was had passed. Maybe it had, and maybe it was never there to begin with.

He looked away too, jaw tight, chest a little hollow, like something had just slipped through his fingers and he hadn’t even been holding it.

After that, everything else blurred together.

The ceremony faded into laughter and music, people hugging and moving in every direction, the beach shifting under dozens of feet. Someone popped champagne near the front row and the bottle flew too far, landing harmlessly in the sand. Penny had her arms wrapped around Amelia, the two of them swaying with their foreheads pressed together for a second before the crowd closed in. Maverick looked stunned in the best way, like he couldn’t believe he made it this far without screwing it up.

Then the sun dipped low and the whole sky went warm and gold, and suddenly there were tables set up near the edge of the deck, little candles flickering inside glass jars, and trays of food passed around in every direction. 

The reception stretched right into the evening without anyone really noticing the shift. Music played from the corner speakers someone had half-buried in the sand, and there was that smell of salt and citrus and cake that made everything feel soft around the edges.

Bradley stuck close to the bar for a while, mostly out of habit. He nursed a drink that had gone warm and barely touched the food on his plate. He smiled when people talked to him. He laughed when he was supposed to. 

The kind of night where everything moved around him and he stayed still, like the eye of the storm. He didn’t mind. He was happy for Maverick, and that was real, but the part of him still buzzing from earlier, the part still stuck in that look you gave him, couldn’t quite settle.

Eventually, someone clanged a fork against a glass, and a few voices shouted that it was time for speeches. Bradley turned his head, already feeling that secondhand dread rise in his chest. He didn’t have anything written down, not really. He thought maybe he’d say a few quick words, keep it light, hand it off to someone else who could steal the show.

Jake found him not even ten seconds later, already holding a beer in one hand and looking smug as hell. He leaned in close. “Alright, bro, you’re up.”

Bradley blinked. “What do you mean I’m up?”

Jake took a long drink, shrugged. “I didn’t memorize mine. I figured you go first and I’ll follow. Classic wingman strategy.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is now.”

Bradley gave him a long, flat look. “You’re the worst.”

Jake grinned. “And you’re the best man. So, go be best.”

Bradley sighed, set his drink down, and wiped his palms quickly on the sides of his pants before stepping forward. Someone handed him a mic. Penny shouted something encouraging from across the tables. Maverick gave him a half-serious salute.

He cleared his throat once and looked out at the crowd. Then his eyes found you—somewhere near the middle, sitting with a champagne flute between your hands, looking straight at him. You didn’t smile, not right away. You just waited.

“Alright,” he started, his voice just loud enough to carry, “I was told, at the very last minute, I might add, that I’d be kicking this off. Thanks, Bagman.”

There was some laughter while Jake raised his drink in mock appreciation.

“So…uh, where I do start, ha…” Bradley adjusted the mic a little, then looked down at the sand for a second like he was finding his footing. The first few lines still came the same, light and easy, just enough to draw out laughter, but then his voice shifted, softened slightly, and the words carried a little deeper.

“When you’ve known someone as long as I’ve known Mav,” he said, “you start to think you’ve seen every version of them. The reckless one, the grounded one, the one who shows up when it counts, even when you wish he wouldn’t.”

A few people chuckled. Maverick laughed under his breath, already shaking his head.

“But then one day, you watch him look at someone like they hung the moon, and you realize there’s still more to see. There’s still growth. There’s still love that changes people. And that’s what Penny brought into his life.”

He turned briefly toward her. “Thank you for that. For giving him a home. For making room for all of us in it.”

Then he looked back at Maverick, slower now. “I don’t think I ever said this before, but... thank you. For watching out for me, even when I didn’t want you to. For carrying more than your share. For not giving up on the promise you made to someone else’s son.”

He paused, just for a breath. “My dad would’ve liked today. He would’ve made some awful toast, probably cried halfway through it. But he’d be proud of you. And proud of this life you built. I know I am.”

The words hung there, not too heavy, but full enough to shift the mood.

“And look, not to get too serious at a beach wedding with free alcohol,” he said, letting the edges of a smile tug at his mouth, “but it’s a rare thing, to see someone choose love over and over again. Not just once. Not just when it’s easy. But every day.”

His eyes moved over the crowd, then flicked, almost without thinking, to you, but just for a second.

“So here’s to that. To choosing love, even when it scares the hell out of you. Even when it doesn’t look the way you thought it would. That’s where the good stuff lives.”

He raised his glass. “To Penny and Mav!”

The crowd followed with a cheer, and Bradley stepped back down, handing the mic off with a quiet breath that shook just slightly as it left his lungs. Then, Jake stood, already laughing. “Well, great. Follow that.”

Then, once Jake had finished his speech with a dramatic bow and a wink toward Penny that made the whole table groan, the mic started making its way down to some of Maverick’s old Navy friends.

A few stood up one by one, most of them a little sunburnt and slightly buzzed, swapping stories that walked the line between admiration and whatever could still be legally shared in front of a crowd. They talked about deployments, late-night landings, dumb bets on aircraft carriers, and Maverick’s talent for pissing off higher-ups and somehow coming out of it clean. Even a couple guys he’d apparently rubbed the wrong way years back stood up, and while their speeches weren’t exactly warm, they had that same gruff, backhanded kind of respect that said everything without getting too sentimental.

Bradley laughed along with the rest of the crowd, but his attention kept drifting. The wind had picked up just a little now that the sun was lower, tossing strands of hair into faces and catching the corners of napkins, and someone behind him was already trying to light a citronella candle that absolutely wasn’t staying lit. It was that in-between part of the reception where people were full from dinner, halfway through their drinks, and just waiting for the next round of speeches to carry them into dancing.

That was when the bridesmaids were called up.

Someone stood to help the maid of honor, who was crouched by the edge of the deck trying to convince her kid to release a death grip on a bread roll. She gave a panicked shake of her head when someone pointed the mic her way, and the next thing anyone knew, you were already on your feet.

As you stood, you passed off your glass, gave your dress a quick smooth like muscle memory, and walked toward the front with a quiet sort of calm that didn’t ask for attention but got it anyway. There was a little shift in the noise, just for a second. Nothing dramatic. Just a subtle, collective pause. People knew who you were. Or they remembered, at least.

Bradley felt Phoenix lean slightly beside him, but she didn’t say anything. Bob murmured something to her and sat back in his chair. Bradley didn’t move. His eyes followed you the whole way up, and not in the way someone politely watches a speaker. It was different. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe.

You still had a certain feeling about the way you walked now. Still steady. Not cautious, but cautious nonetheless. Once, he had recalled that walk as you approached him, moving in the direction of everything. And here you were once more, on the same beach, heading for a microphone rather than him.

A loose strand of hair near your cheek was caught in the breeze as you turned to face the crowd of people. Without thinking, you pushed it back, your gaze sweeping over the visitors before settling someplace over their heads. 

He was unable to determine if you were taking your time or were anxious. In any case, the moment went on longer than it ought to have. Bradley and the rest of his team, seated a few tables away, watched you as if he had no idea what was going to happen or perhaps as he had already done.

You stepped up to the mic and gave this little awkward smile, the kind that said yep, wasn’t planning on this but here we are. One hand adjusted the mic a bit too carefully, and the other smoothed down your dress like it was the only thing you could control right now. You cleared your throat quietly, then let your eyes scan the crowd, almost like you were trying to see how many familiar faces were looking back at you.

Bradley watched the way you hesitated for just a second, not out of fear, but like you wanted to get this right. That soft inhale, the way your fingers fidgeted briefly at the edge of the mic stand, that was how he knew you were nervous. Not in a bad way, just in that deeply personal, this-matters-to-me way he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Then you started, voice light, a little unsure. “Hi, um, so, I wasn’t supposed to go first. Our maid of honor is currently locked in battle with a three-year-old and a very important bread roll, so... I’ve been bumped up.”

People laughed, and you laughed too, this short, relieved sound like okay, this might not be so bad.

You glanced down for a second, and then back up. “I guess I’ll start by saying that this isn’t really a normal speech, because this isn’t really a normal couple. Penny and Mav have kind of... always been there. I mean, not literally always, but close enough that I can’t remember a version of myself that didn’t have them.”

Bradley’s eyes didn’t leave you. He saw the way your shoulders slowly dropped as you settled in, the way your fingers found the necklace at your collarbone and tugged at it like it gave you something to do. He knew that move. You did it when your voice was about to get too honest.

“I used to joke that I was their first child,” you said, and that got a few more laughs, some nods. “But honestly? It didn’t really feel like a joke. They were there through all the growing pains. The mess. The breakdowns in the kitchen. That one year where I swore I was moving to New York and never coming back.” You paused. “Spoiler: I came back.”

Penny laughed, head tipping back as she wiped at her eyes. Maverick just watched you like he was seeing a piece of something finally settle into place.

You kept going. “They didn’t just show up once or twice. They showed up every time. Even when I didn’t ask. Especially when I didn’t ask. And I think there’s something... rare about that. About people who don’t just love you when you’re easy to love, but when you’re falling apart a little, or a lot.”

Bradley felt that line hit somewhere low in his stomach. You weren’t crying, but there was something different in your voice now. Softer. Less sure. Like this part hurt a little more.

“They held me through some of the worst moments of my life,” you said, eyes fixed on them now, voice steady but quiet. “And when everything fell apart, and I mean everything, they still stayed. They never made me feel like I had to be more put together than I was. Even when I was... not doing great. When I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. When I couldn’t even say divorce out loud.”

Bradley froze. Everything inside him went totally motionless, but not in a way that anyone else could see. Even though you didn't have to, you didn't look him in the eye. It fell exactly where you expected it to since you had said enough.

“But they stayed,” you went on, your voice now scarcely audible.. “And they loved me anyway. I think... I think that’s the kind of love we all hope for, right? The kind that sees you when you don’t recognize yourself. And just stay.”

You paused for a moment, then smiled again. This one was smaller, but real. “You guys did good. You really, really did. I’m happy for you both. I love you.”

You stepped back, passed the mic off, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear as you sat back down. Bradley didn’t move. He didn’t even notice that everyone was clapping. He just watched you quietly, his hands resting on his knees, trying to swallow whatever had just cracked open inside his chest.

After that, Bradley didn't do much dancing. Here and there he attempted. During a Stevie Wonder song, Phoenix pulled him to the ground, and he gave in. He clapped and moved enough to appear somewhat alive, but his heart wasn't in it. Not after you've spoken. Not after the way you said divorce as if it were still bitter. As if you weren't even certain you could say it out in a setting full of romance and new beginnings.

He kept catching glimpses of you through the crowd, moving between groups of people, hugging Penny again, holding Amelia’s hand for a little while as they spun in slow circles near the edge of the dance floor. You looked lighter than you had during the ceremony, but he wasn’t sure it was real. He knew your smiles too well. He’d seen the ones you gave to everyone else, and the ones you saved for yourself when no one was looking. This one felt somewhere in between.

By the time the dancing hit full swing, when the music turned louder and the shoes came off, Bradley slipped away from the crowd. Not because he wanted to avoid anyone, he just needed a minute. The ocean was only a few steps past the bar, and he followed the sound of the waves, thinking maybe he could walk it off. The tension. The ache. Whatever had been crawling under his ribs since the moment you stepped up to that microphone.

However, he turned the corner and saw you just beyond the string lights and coolers.

Holding your heels in one hand while fumbling with a bottle of water in the other, you were barefoot. You had a bit longer locks now, with strands falling all over your face. At first, you were too preoccupied with the bottle to notice him; you were juggling everything in the crook of your arm while twisting the cap with one hand. Perhaps the loudness had affected you as well, because you seemed like you were making an effort to keep occupied.

He slowed, uncertain whether to speak or simply back off and give you room, but you looked up and saw him.

It was only a moment. A quick blink. He froze, and so did you. It was a long, awkward moment that contained all of the things that had been kept silent for the previous eight months.

“Oh,” you said, almost under your breath. Then you offered a polite smile. “Sorry, uh, just... escaping the Macarena.”

Bradley nodded, stepping a little further into the dim glow from the hanging lights. “Yeah. Same.”

The music and laughter were just too distant to cover the silence as you two stood there, half in the dark.

In an attempt to think of something to say, Bradley adjusted his weight and rubbed his palm along the back of his neck. You seemed like you were about to leave. He noticed how you grasped your shoes as though they were a ticket out and how your shoulders tipped slightly.

“Hey,” he said, too fast. He didn’t mean to sound that desperate, but it slipped out before he could stop it.

You paused and turned, just enough to face him. “Yeah?”

He gave a blink. Before saying anything, he opened and closed his mouth once. From the sensation of it, there was a bone in his throat. Something solid and jagged that would not budge, as if everything in him was attempting to speak at once and nothing was getting through.

“You look nice tonight.”

It came out small, quiet, and a little rough. Although your face remained mostly unchanged, your fingers ceased to move against the bottle, and your heel-grabbing grasp became a little tighter.

You gazed at him for a while, your eyes gentle yet impenetrable. You then offered the smallest nod. “Thanks.”

You didn't say it with a smile. It was neither cold nor the true type. After you turned and moved back toward the music, Bradley simply stood there and let the sound of the waves fill the void left by your voice.

The sun had completely set and the string lights had taken over, obscuring everything in a gentle, golden haze by the time Bradley returned to his seat. A familiar, sluggish tune that was barely audible over the sand had replaced the previous one. Feeling the burden of the previous several hours sink into his chest, he sank into his chair and quietly exhaled.

With all the grace of someone who was extremely uncomfortable, Mickey slid into the seat across from him and appeared at the table. At first, he remained silent. simply played with a coaster and smiled tightly and guiltyly at Bradley.

Reuben and Javy appeared behind him a beat later, hovering rather than sitting. They had a strange vibe, like two children who want to give their friend a chance to repent before telling a parent about him. Both of them repeatedly pushed Mickey's shoulders from behind in an obvious attempt to get him to talk.

Bradley blinked. “Okay, what is this?”

“We’re just... hanging out,” Javy said too casually.

“Enjoying the vibes,” Reuben added, nodding like he was convincing himself.

Mickey groaned, head dropping into his hands. “This is so messed up.”

Jake, who had been sitting at the far end of the table nursing what looked like his fourth beer, leaned in with the gleam of someone who lived for this exact kind of drama. “Oh, it’s messed up alright. Go on, Mick, confess your sins.”

Bradley looked between them, already bracing. “What did you do?”

Mickey peeked up through his fingers, wearing the exact expression of a teenager who just broke the neighbor’s window. “Okay, look, someone... a guy. He’s here as a friend of Penny’s family or something. He was asking around about... her.”

There was a pause, but Bradley didn’t even need him to clarify.

Mickey winced. “Like... her, her.”

Bradley gave him a blank look. “Okay?”

“I just figured you should know,” Mickey mumbled. “He said he might ask her to dance. He was also asking if she was with anybody.”

Bradley felt a strange sinking in his gut. No lurch. Not even a twist. Something folded in quietly, as if there were a pressure drop inside his chest. His face remained motionless, but before he could react, something caught in his throat.

“She’s single,” he said, finally. “We’re divorced. She can do whatever she wants.”

Mickey gave him a hesitant nod, still looking like he expected a thunderclap.

Javy scratched the back of his head. “It’s just... the guy had really white teeth. Like, confident teeth.”

“Super confident,” Reuben muttered. “Like, probably says things like ‘mind if I cut in’ without irony.”

Bradley looked down at his drink. “It’s fine.”

No, it’s not.

Jake set his beer down with too much force. “Okay, that’s it. Enough.”

Bradley barely had time to glance up before Jake leaned across the table, grabbed both sides of his face, and squished his cheeks between his hands like he was inspecting fruit at the farmer’s market.

“What the hell are you—”

“Shut up,” Jake said, serious now, face inches away. “Look at me. No, look at me. I need you to hear this. You have looked like a haunted Civil War widow for the past eight months.”

Bradley blinked. “What—”

“You haunt your own house,” Jake said, voice rising slightly. “You shuffle around base in your sad little hoodie listening to sad indie playlists, and don’t think we don’t hear it in the hangar. ‘Maybe I’m too busy being yours’? Man, get a grip.”

Bradley tried to pull back, but Jake just squished his face harder.

“You’re miserable,” he said. “You’ve been miserable, man. The only time you don’t look like you want to crawl into a hole and die is when she’s around, so fucking no. I am not gonna sit here while some shiny stranger with a tan and a personality swoops in and puts his hands on her waist during Ed Sheeran. Absolutely fucking not, Rooster.”

Bradley finally shoved his hands away. “Jake, Jesus.”

Phoenix, halfway through her drink, didn’t even look up. “He’s not wrong, though.”

“Thank you,” Jake said, dramatically gesturing to her.

Bradley leaned back and wiped his face, attempting to calm the chatter in his brain. He was not even angry. Actually, no. I'm simply exhausted. Weary of experiencing everything at once and feigning indifference to it all. He thought that maybe after the papers were signed and the boxes were gone, things would just… stop hurting.

They did not.

And now, the thought of someone else, even hypothetically, reaching for your hand during this night under these gentle string lights caused something in his chest to tense cruelly. He turned back to face you on the dance floor. Still grinning, continuing to go about the evening as if nothing had happened to you.

But he wondered. God, he wondered.

And for a second, he thought he was actually going to do it.

Bradley got up and pushed off, his hands briefly braced on the table's edge. His legs were heavy. He felt weighed down, yet not anxious. By all means. Jake had become silent, indicating that he was aware. Nat looked at him briefly but remained silent. Simply release him.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say when he got there. Just knew he had to say something. Anything.

Standing close to the edge of the dance floor, you were barefoot and your hair was a little disheveled, as if the ocean breeze had messed with it. He could tell it was a genuine chuckle even from behind you as your head cocked in amusement or one you didn't try to conceal, anyway.

He moved. Then, another. However, someone else arrived before him just as he was beginning to close the gap. Bradley came to a stop, halfway through a step, mouth opening a little.

With a level of ease that made Bradley's skin crawl, the tall, sharp-looking man, some wedding guest he didn't recognize, with a dress shirt rolled to the elbows as if on purpose, stepped into your personal space. 

With another gentle laugh, he leaned forward and murmured something that made your shoulders tremble. His hand then reached out, and Bradley saw your fingers flinch for a half-second before slipping into his.

That was it.

That tiny movement. That choice.

Bradley’s hand fell back to his side.

The guy led you to the dance floor, casual, like this was no big thing. You didn’t look back. You just let yourself be pulled into the middle of all the other swaying bodies and moved with him like it wasn’t strange, like you didn’t used to do this exact thing with someone else.

With him.

The song playing wasn’t anything too emotional, something mellow with a steady beat, but it felt way too loud in Bradley’s ears. His jaw flexed, and he blinked hard before dragging himself back to the table, sitting down heavier than he meant to.

Jake leaned in, eyeing him. “So, uh… that was not you dancing with her.”

“Sharp observation,” Bradley muttered.

Mickey tried to slide a shrimp skewer toward him, like that would fix it. “Dude, I didn’t think he’d actually go up to her. I thought he was just asking around. I didn’t know he’d—”

“It’s fine,” Bradley cut in, voice flat. “She can dance with whoever she wants.”

Jake let out this short breath, kind of like a laugh but not funny. “Sure, yeah, but let’s not pretend you’re not sitting there looking like someone just keyed your Bronco.”

Bradley didn’t respond.

He just watched the dance floor from where he sat, elbows on the table, thumb rubbing the rim of his glass. You were still out there. Moving in rhythm, your hand resting lightly on that guy’s arm, your head tilted toward him as he talked.

Bradley didn’t know what you were saying, and didn’t know what was going through your head, but he knew how it felt to be the one you were smiling at like that.

How it used to feel like the whole world could fall apart as long as you still had your fingers hooked into his collar and your laugh pressed against his shoulder.

Now someone else had that. And yeah. He told himself it was fine, but it didn’t feel fine. 

It felt like shit.

He could lie all he wanted. Tell himself it didn’t matter, that the papers were signed, that this was what you both chose, but watching you dance with someone else, watching you laugh like it didn’t ache, like the weight of everything you had didn’t still live somewhere behind your ribs, and yeah, it felt like shit.

He hadn’t even realized he was still watching you until Phoenix bumped her knee against his. She didn’t say anything, just gave him a look. The kind that said, go, or shut up about it forever.

And maybe that was what did it.

Maybe it was the look, or the drink in his hand that suddenly tasted like ash, or maybe it was just the way you were standing now, off to the side of the dance floor, barefoot and still holding your shoes like the night hadn’t finished with you yet.

Bradley looked at you, really looked this time. You weren’t laughing now. You were quiet, eyes tracking the tide, the hem of your dress brushing your ankles every time the wind caught it. The kind of stillness that felt more like waiting than resting.

And it hit him, right in the chest, that you looked just like you did the day you told him you were done. Still, tired, but not angry. Not anymore.

That’s the thing about you. You never were good at staying angry.

Bradley set his glass down. Wiped his hands on his pants like it would help. His mouth was dry. His chest felt tight. He stood before he could talk himself out of it.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t have anything planned. There was no grand apology lined up, no speech he’d rehearsed in the mirror. Just this feeling like if he didn’t say something tonight, if he didn’t at least try, he’d choke on everything he’d left unsaid.

So, he walked. Across the sand, past the edge of the party and the music and the laughter, until it was just you and the ocean and a few flickers of light strung overhead. His heart thudded hard enough that it made his ears ring.

He stopped a few steps behind you.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, or maybe you had and just weren’t ready to turn around. You stood there with your weight on one leg, your hand toying with the strap of your shoe. The waves kept coming in. 

The breeze kept pushing your hair across your face. For a second, he just stood there, trying to find the version of you he used to come home to, the one who wore his hoodie and called him Bradley like it was a secret.

You were still you, but you were not his anymore.

His throat was dry. He said your name.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting his. And then, you smiled.

Just a little. Small and soft. Like you weren’t sure if this was a mistake yet, like you didn’t want to make it worse, but weren’t ready to run.

Bradley’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He almost smiled back.

It was precisely how you were carrying your shoes that gave him the first clue. Relaxed, a little too slack. Like the grip your fingers had was slowly loosening. You had been standing alone headed toward the water for a couple of minutes.

Your head was looking forward, while your body was slightly angled away from the party as though you were in the middle of departing, but something held you back. And to Bradley, it seemed like you were using extra effort to inhale and exhale even though you were not dancing. Just... maintaining a balance. 

That’s when he noticed it. 

A minuscule change in how you were standing. Almost nothing. Just enough so that your ankle could make the tiniest twitch, your foot pushing down awkwardly in the sand as if it was painful. 

His stomach plunged.

It was dumb, how his mind was still connecting the dots. The way it etched out your posture, your routines, and every little movement. He was practically understanding every detail about you without knowing he was doing it. And now, even with distance between you two, the urge to mend things still felt present. Reflexive. Blistering.

He began moving as soon as possible so that he didn't overthink it.

But now you were here, standing in front of him. He was still not too far off, but the distance was close enough for the wind to catch your hair blowing strands onto your face. You were meeting his gaze.

You smiled, and it was gentle, shy, and unsure.

Your name slipped off his lips with the ease he'd grown accustomed to. It had been a while since he had spoken it and even longer since he had uttered it out loud where someone could hear him. It felt strange, yet captivating to say.

Your gaze seemed to linger on him a bit too long before offering the most polite nod as if this was purely a casual exchange and not two individuals conversing at a gathering, and definitely not as someone who used to doze off with her head on his chest.

“Hey,” you said.

Bradley nodded. “Hey.”

The silence that followed was awkward in a way that didn’t need explaining. It was heavy. Familiar. Like you were both trying to step around something massive without drawing attention to it. But it just sat there. Right between you.

“You, uh… been okay?” he asked, voice rougher than he meant.

You tucked some hair behind your ear and gave a small shrug. “Mostly. You?”

He hesitated. “Trying.”

You nodded like you understood, because you did. Then, you shifted again. Tried to take a step, and winced. Bradley’s brow furrowed. He looked down.

“Did you twist your ankle?”

You glanced away. “I’m fine. I just wore the wrong shoes.”

He knew that wasn’t true.

“Sit,” he said, already reaching for the shoes in your hand.

“Bradley—”

“Just for a second,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t argue.

You let him crouch in the sand in front of you like it was still his place. Like no time had passed. And maybe that was what hurt the most; how easy it was to fall back into it.

His hand wrapped around your ankle gently, thumb pressing against the bone as he scanned for swelling. There wasn’t much, but the skin looked tender, a little red where the strap had dug in too hard. Your heel had flecks of dried sand stuck to it. The arch of your foot twitched in his palm.

“You always did have a talent for picking the shoes that hurt you,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly. “I forgot how long weddings are.”

He huffed a laugh. “You say that every time.”

The silence after that was different. Less awkward, but more fragile.

He didn’t want to let go. Not because he thought he had a right to touch you, but because it felt like the only real thing he’d held in months. You looked down at him, really looked, and he felt it like a bruise blooming slow under his ribs.

His fingers loosened. He let your foot go gently, brushing sand off your heel before he set your shoes down beside you.

Then, he stood, slower this time, heart lodged somewhere behind his throat.

You hadn’t moved. You didn’t thank him. Didn’t step away either. You just kept your eyes on his, like you were trying to say something without the words.

And all he could think, standing there in the half-dark with the tide rolling behind you, was God, I still love you.

Before Bradley could even think of saying anything else, footsteps crunched lightly over the sand behind you.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice said, smooth and easy, with that clipped accent that made every sentence sound just a little more thoughtful than it needed to be.

You turned first, and Bradley followed your gaze as Evan appeared, walking toward you with two drinks in his hands. He wasn’t rushing. Just strolled over like this was the most natural thing in the world, like the three of you standing in a triangle on the beach under dim string lights wasn’t quietly brimming with something unspoken.

“I didn’t think I’d lose you for that long,” Evan said with a soft smile, then glanced at Bradley. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting?”

Bradley shook his head once, quickly. “No, we’re, uh, just catching up.”

Evan nodded, still looking between the two of you, like he was trying to gauge something. “Right. Well,” he said, handing you a drink, “I figured you might be parched.”

Bradley glanced at the glass. You took it without hesitation, but he knew you better than that. The twist of your lips, the way your thumb hovered at the rim like you weren’t sure what to do with it, it was all there. That wasn’t your drink. Too much citrus, too many ice cubes. You hated when it watered down too fast. He remembered that.

Evan smiled politely at him. “We haven’t met. I’m Evan, by the way.”

Bradley took the offered hand and gave a firm shake. “Bradley.”

There was a short pause. Not uncomfortable exactly, but loaded. You looked between them like you knew what this was and weren’t quite sure how to break the tension.

“So,” Evan said, turning slightly toward Bradley, “are you Navy as well?”

“Yeah. A Naval Aviator,” Bradley nodded toward the hangar in the distance, past the shoreline. “Stationed here for the moment.”

“Ah,” Evan said, his eyebrows lifting. “That explains the build.”

Bradley gave a polite laugh, eyes darting back to you for a beat.

Evan sipped his drink, then glanced between the two of you again. “I teach. Literature and film, mostly. University back east. Visiting friends here for a while.”

“Professor,” Bradley said, not mocking, just taking it in. “That’s cool.”

Evan nodded once, letting the breeze ruffle his sleeve. “Not quite as thrilling as flying jets, I imagine, but someone’s got to romanticize the world’s problems, don’t they?”

You gave a quiet chuckle beside them.

Bradley’s eyes lingered on your face. The way you smiled at Evan’s words. The way your body shifted, just slightly, toward the man standing next to you now.

He was still standing in the same spot, and yet somehow, it felt like you were farther away again.

Bradley’s eyes drifted back to the drink in your hand. It was second nature now, noticing things like that. The garnish, the glass, the way it fizzed a little too much on the top. It wasn’t the one you liked. Not even close.

You hadn’t taken a sip yet. He didn’t know if it was out of politeness or if you were waiting for a chance to toss it behind your back when no one was looking. But it made something tighten in his chest.

He cleared his throat gently. “She doesn’t really like that, by the way.”

You blinked, glancing down at the drink. Evan looked too, then tilted his head with a mild hum, clearly not offended.

“No?” Evan asked, looking back at you.

You gave the smallest shrug, the kind that said it didn’t matter even if it kind of did.

“Too much lime,” Bradley added, voice quiet but steady. “And she hates when the ice melts too fast. It gets watery.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Then, Evan chuckled, light and a little amused. “Noted. Next time I’ll take my cocktail research a bit more seriously.”

You gave him a smile. One of those polite, noncommittal ones that didn’t reach your eyes.

Bradley forced a breath through his nose, something settling heavy in his chest. The moment had passed. Whatever thread had been there, holding the three of you in that delicate little shape, had started to fray. And he could feel it in your body language, in the way your shoulders pulled slightly away from him without even meaning to. He wasn’t the one standing beside you anymore.

He met your eyes just once more. For the last time.

Then he gave you a smile that was tight-lipped, and careful. The kind that didn’t quite reach anything. And just beneath it, a look that held a quiet ache he didn’t bother to hide.

“Take care,” he said, voice softer now.

And without waiting for a reply, he turned and started walking back toward the crowd. The sand crunched under his feet, the ocean hummed somewhere behind him, and his hands stayed in his pockets like it would help keep everything else from slipping out.

[hangmanwrites]

okay but more of jake and reader pregnancy fic?

yes don’t worry, there will definitely be more of a hangman-made disaster 💙 i’m still doing some research about pregnancy and asking a few people (which is kinda embarrassing😭) but i’m on it thank u so much for wanting more 💙

[hangmanwrites]

in sickness and still︱spencer reid

word count: 2,374 words pairing: spencer reid x reader synopsis: you wake up sick, expecting spencer to avoid you like he always does with germs. instead, he stays, takes care of you, and shows you just how much he loves you. content warning: fluff, mild illness (fever, cold symptoms), caretaking, mentions of medication, soft intimacy, established relationship, second person pov, spencer being gentle and very in love author's note: this is inspired by guess what, my sickness lol. i miss my baby genius so much and i am currently watching criminal minds right now. also writing this made me feel a little better. thank u to soft spencer reid for living rent free in my brain. kofi︱request︱masterlist

You should’ve known yesterday’s dull ache behind your eyes was the beginning of something worse. It had crept in around mid-afternoon, just a low throb that made the light seem a little too bright and the sound of your keyboard a little too loud.

You figured it was dehydration or sleep deprivation or both, something a hot shower and a few glasses of water could fix. 

Then, you woke up this morning feeling like you had been hit by a truck. Your throat was raw, your nose stuffed, and your skin ached in that way that made even your own clothes feel too heavy. Breathing was a chore. Swallowing, worse.

Meanwhile, Spencer was nowhere on his side of the bed. The sheets were still faintly warm, which meant he hadn’t been gone long, and you could hear the sound of running water from the bathroom.

The steady rhythm of the shower and the soft hum of the bathroom fan made the room feel smaller, quieter.  You turned onto your back slowly, wincing as your head throbbed with the effort, and stared up at the ceiling.

It felt unfair, getting sick when you hadn’t even done anything reckless. No late-night ice cream, no running out in the rain, not even a careless exposure at the grocery store. Just... bad luck, or maybe Spencer’s annoying statistics about seasonal viruses finally decided to prove a point.

You sniffled and immediately regretted it. Your nose was both clogged and runny at the same time, which felt like a cruel design flaw. You reached out to the nightstand in search of tissues and came up empty. 

Just a glass of water, your phone, and the novel Spencer had been trying to get you to read for weeks. You stared at the cover for a second, then let your hand drop back to your stomach. Everything hurts. You didn’t even want to sit up, much less get out of bed.

Then the water stopped, and the soft clink of the shower curtain sliding back signaled that he’d be out soon. You thought about pretending to be asleep just to avoid his worried fussing, but even the thought of feigning normalcy felt exhausting. 

Your body felt like it was weighed down, like your limbs were filled with wet sand. You blinked up at the ceiling again, eyes dry and slightly itchy, and wondered if he’d still kiss your forehead before leaving for work or if he’d avoid you entirely in a valiant effort not to catch whatever this was.

The bathroom door creaked open a minute later, and you heard the familiar shuffle of his footsteps across the hardwood floor. You didn’t look over right away, partly because your eyes were heavy and partly because you weren’t ready to see the look on his face. You knew exactly how he’d react. He’d hover, catalog symptoms in that endless brain of his, and start listing possible viral strains like that was helpful.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just the soft sound of him walking to the dresser, pulling out clothes with that quiet efficiency he always had in the mornings. Then the pause came. The one where he realized you hadn’t moved or sat up or made a joke about his mismatched socks.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, not a question, just an observation.

You nodded against the pillow, eyes still closed. “Barely.”

His footsteps padded closer until the edge of the mattress dipped beside you. You finally cracked one eye open and found him sitting there, shirtless and damp from the shower, a towel still looped around his shoulders. His hair was pushed back, curling slightly at the ends, and there was a small crease between his brows that hadn’t been there last night.

“You don’t look great,” he said, frowning. His voice was gentle, not teasing, but definitely concerned.

“I feel worse,” you mumbled, dragging the blanket up higher. “I think it’s a cold. Or the flu. Or death. Probably death.”

Spencer didn’t smile, not even a little. His eyes scanned your face the way he did crime scenes, careful and focused. You waited for the part where he’d scoot away or grab a mask or launch into a ten-minute tangent about viral load. Instead, he leaned in and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead.

It startled you more than it should have. He hated this kind of thing. He hated germs. He hated the idea of being sick. But his hand was cool and steady, and he didn’t flinch when your skin met his.

“You’re burning up,” he said, voice even quieter now. “You should’ve woken me.”

You sighed and let your eyes close again. “Didn’t want to bother you. Figured you’d leave me to die in peace.”

He huffed softly through his nose, not quite a laugh. Then he stood without another word and disappeared into the hall. You heard cabinets opening, the tap running, and the distant shuffle of a drawer.

A few minutes passed, maybe more. You let yourself drift for a bit, not fully asleep but not fully awake either. Your body felt heavy and warm in that uncomfortable feverish way, and every time you swallowed, your throat protested like it was made of sandpaper.

Then, Spencer returned, carrying a small stack of things in his arms. A box of tissues, two different kinds of medicine, a glass of water, and your favorite mug with a tea bag already steeping inside.

He set everything on the nightstand with quiet precision, then pulled the blanket back from your shoulders without asking and guided you upright with one hand at your back.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Sit up slowly. You need fluids.”

You didn’t argue. There was something about his voice, soft and steady like that, that made it hard to refuse. You let him help you sip the tea, even though your hands could’ve managed, and you let your head rest against his shoulder when the warmth started to spread through your chest.

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in a little closer.

You never took it lightly, how much of himself he gave when he did not have to. Being a germaphobe was not some quirky character trait with him.

It was real. It was wired deep, this constant low-level anxiety about exposure, about contamination, about losing control in a way most people could not see. 

You had watched him freeze in airports, tense at the sound of someone coughing in a crowded elevator, pull his hand back at the last second before touching a public railing. It was never dramatic, just subtle choices he made to feel safe. To function.

So this, sitting on the edge of the bed with your feverish body leaning against him, handing you tea and medicine with those long fingers that would be scrubbed raw later, meant something. It meant everything.

You glanced up at him as he carefully folded a tissue and offered it to you without making a face or leaning back. He just held it out like it was no big deal, like it did not mess with every instinct he had.

“Spence,” you said softly, your voice rough but clearer after the tea. “You really don’t have to…”

His eyes flicked to yours, patient and unblinking. “I know I don’t have to.”

That was it. No speech, no gentle lecture, just the fact. He chose to be here. He chose you, even in this state, even when your nose was red and your hair was sticking up in weird places and your breath probably smelled like sickness and sleep.

He helped you take the cold medicine next, reading the label twice before measuring it out and handing it to you with the kind of caution he usually reserved for handling chemicals.

You drank it and made a face, and he passed you the water right away like he knew that part would come.

Then he adjusted the pillows behind you, tugged the blanket up to your chin again, and leaned in to brush your hair back from your forehead with the backs of his fingers.

He did not say anything for a minute, just sat with you, his legs folded under him now, his hand still near your temple like he was not quite ready to pull away.

“I hate that you feel this bad,” he said finally, low and a little tight in his throat.

You blinked slowly, the warmth of the medicine starting to settle in your body. “I hate that you’re going to catch it.”

He looked down at you, almost amused. “I’ll live, sweetheart.”

You smiled a little at that, too tired to argue. He was still close, too close for someone who hated germs, but there was not a single flicker of hesitation in his body.

He was here because you needed him, and nothing else mattered.

It made your throat ache in a different way.

Spencer was always gentle, but sometimes his voice came out too clinical without meaning to. He did not always realize it, not unless you told him.

Now, though, something in the way he looked at you softened the edges. His mouth turned down just slightly, like he hated seeing you like this, like he would do anything to make it easier.

He reached for your hand, curling his fingers around yours without thinking twice. His thumb brushed the back of your palm in small, steady circles. The kind of touch you barely felt but somehow needed more than anything.

“You scared me a little,” he said quietly. “You never sleep through the night like that.”

You exhaled, your eyes drifting half closed again. “Didn’t mean to, baby, I just couldn’t get up.”

“I know.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just still. You could feel the warmth of his hand and the rise and fall of the bed with his breathing. Everything felt heavier, slower. The medicine was starting to work, and the fever had settled into a dull fog behind your eyes.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” you murmured, not quite sure why you said it. Maybe because you still felt a little guilty, and maybe because part of you expected him to keep his distance the moment he realized how bad it was.

Spencer let out a soft breath, not annoyed, just thoughtful. “I want to stay.”

You turned your head toward him and met his eyes. They were warm and open, softer than before. His fingers kept moving against your hand, slow and careful like he was memorizing the feel of your skin.

“I don’t care if I get sick,” he added, quieter now. “I just want you to feel okay again. That’s all.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest pull tight. It was not just what he said but how he said it, like it came from somewhere deeper than the words. No layers, no overthinking, just honesty.

You leaned your head against his shoulder again, the fabric of his T-shirt cool against your cheek. He smelled like clean laundry and the faint hint of his shampoo.

You could feel him shift slightly so you would be more comfortable, one hand still holding yours, the other now resting lightly on your thigh through the blanket.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” you said softly.

“You always take care of me,” he replied. “Let me do it back.”

You let your eyes fall closed again, not to sleep, but to rest in the quiet of his presence. His hand never left yours, his thumb still tracing those slow, thoughtful lines that made your chest feel a little lighter. 

It was strange how the worst parts of being sick, the aches, the congestion, the helpless feeling that came with it, all felt more manageable just because he was there. You did not need him to fix it. Just this was enough.

He shifted a little beside you and pulled the blanket higher over your shoulder. Then, he tucked a stray piece of hair gently behind your ear, his fingertips barely brushing your skin.

His movements were careful, but there was a tenderness in the way he touched you now that did not feel like caution. It felt like care. Like love, even if he had not said it yet in those exact words.

“You should try to sleep for a bit,” he said softly.

You hummed in response but did not move, your fingers tightening just slightly around his.

“Do you want me to read something to you?” he asked, already reaching for the book on the nightstand. “Or would that be too much right now?”

You hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Only if it’s something boring.”

He gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm. “So, uh, no theoretical physics.”

“God, no.”

He set the book down again and looked at you, tilting his head slightly. There was something patient in his face, something open, like he was waiting to follow your lead, whatever it was.

You could tell he would stay there as long as you needed, whether that meant reading to you, holding your hand in silence, or just watching over you while you slept.

You reached up slowly and touched his wrist, light and a little clumsy. “Will you lay with me?”

His answer came without a second of hesitation. “Of course.”

He moved carefully, slipping under the blanket beside you, letting his arm rest loosely around your waist once you turned toward him.

Your head settled into the space just under his chin, and he adjusted to fit around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His body was warm, steady, and familiar.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could hear his heartbeat under your ear, soft and constant, and the slow rhythm of his breathing as he held you close.

“I love you, you know,” you said quietly, not thinking too hard about the timing.

Spencer’s fingers flexed gently against your back, then stilled. “I know,” he whispered, then kissed the top of your head. “I love you, too.”

[hangmanwrites]

mav offering toothpaste made me laugh so much! also felt so on point. i was off at uni in a different country when my dad decided an email was the correct avenue to announce the passing of our family dog… genius move truly. i had a break down, in my first year and an eighteen year old boy unsure of how to deal with a girl completely breaking down patted my head and very awkwardly looking offered the only thing he could think of - a cigarette.

omg, i’m so sorry. that’s actually so rough. i can’t believe your dad just emailed that like, what were you supposed to do with that info mid-uni breakdown? that poor boy giving you a cigarette was kinda tragic, but also really funny in that helpless way.

also i wrote that scene because something similar happened to me once like someone just fully broke down in front of me and i had no idea what to do all i had was my phone and this random little toothpaste my friend gave me (he told me he stole it from a hotel but i’m pretty sure it was free lol) and i just offered it to them like that was gonna help and the look they gave me was unreal i still think about it to this day

so yeah mav and the toothpaste came straight from my own shame and i’m glad it made you laugh because i was dying writing it too

thanks for sharing that story seriously it weirdly means a lot that you saw a piece of your experience in it <3

[hangmanwrites]

a hangman-made disaster︱jake seresin

based on the song: this is why by paramore pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x navalaviator!reader synopsis: you swore you hated jake seresin, but one drunk night proved you were also stupid. now you're staring at a very positive pregnancy test in your bathroom, wearing an oversized shirt you stole from him, and wishing this was just a nightmare, but it's not. it's real. and unfortunately, so is the seresin baby currently plotting world domination in your uterus. content: accidental pregnancy, enemies to lovers, one-night stand, hangman being hot and terrible, rooster in full mother hen mode, emotional spiraling, chaotic friendship energy, a seresin baby (send prayers), mild angst, found family, locker room breakdowns, and exactly zero decisions made with emotional maturity. author's note: oml i am so excited to share this story/series with you guys. it’s chaotic, unhinged, a little emotional, and yes… there is a seresin baby involved. also shoutout to my mom who saw my search history and thought i was pregnant because i googled “how early can you feel nausea in pregnancy” and “can you still fly a jet if you’re knocked up.” love you, mom. this one's for science. word count: 10,729 words next part︱kofi︱request︱masterlist

For as long as you can remember, Jake Seresin has been your archnemesis. Not in some light, flirt-your-way-through-it kind of way. This was real. The kind of hatred that got into your blood early and never left.

The kind that made people avoid putting you two on the same shift or in the same squadron if they could help it, because everyone knew it was only a matter of time before one of you snapped.

It wasn’t a single incident. There was no one moment you could point to and say, there, that’s when it all started. It was smaller than that, dumber to be exact. Things like him cutting ahead of you in the sim lineup back in Pensacola, or the way he smirked whenever your name was called after his during roll call, like he’d already decided it meant something. 

At first, you thought he was just one of those pilots, who were too loud, too polished, full of himself with nothing real behind it, but then he kept showing up. Matching your scores. Sometimes beating them. And always, always with that same tone when he said your name. That sing-song, too-smooth, I-know-something-you-don’t kind of tone.

It drove you crazy. Not because he was better, no, he wasn’t. He just knew how to perform. Jake made everything look easy, like he was born for it, and that pissed you off in a way that felt personal. You worked harder, stayed later, and took things seriously because you had to.

Jake breezed through with a crooked grin and a wink at the instructors and still somehow landed on top. And when he didn’t, when you beat him, he just smiled like it didn’t matter, like losing to you wasn’t even worth reacting to.

That lit the fuse. The fact that he never fought back. Never bit down the way you did. You came at him with clipped words and cold stares and not-so-subtle digs during squad briefings, and he just absorbed it. Let it roll off him like water, like he had already decided you weren’t a threat, just entertainment.

It made you hate him more.

And it didn’t help that everyone else seemed to like him. Jake had that draw, that ease, the kind of natural charm that people don’t even realize is manipulation until it’s too late. He was all Southern drawl and confident swagger, just enough vulnerability behind the bravado to keep people curious. 

He knew how to win a room, but you knew how to win a fight. There’s a difference.

It wasn’t just professional, either. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about scores or performance reviews or whose name was called first. It got personal. He found ways to needle at you in casual conversation, subtle enough to fly under the radar but deliberate enough that you felt them every time.

He’d mention your missed landing like it was a joke.  Ask if you needed help with your checklist in front of the others, like you hadn’t done it a hundred times. He once called you sweetheart during a debrief, knowing exactly how it would land. You had to excuse yourself before you said something that would have gotten you written up.

You weren’t innocent in it, either. You gave as good as you got. You corrected him when it wasn’t necessary. You rolled your eyes when he spoke, even when he made valid points. You knew how to press right where it would hurt, just enough that he’d go quiet and clench his jaw, but never retaliate directly.

That was the game. You poked, he smirked. He provoked, you snapped. Everyone around you either ignored it or tiptoed past it.

It wasn’t fun. It wasn’t even interesting anymore. It was exhausting, and it didn’t let up. No matter how many months passed between squadrons or how far you were stationed apart, somehow, you always ended up back in the same airspace. And every time, the tension picked up like it had never stopped. No reset, no grace period, just the same old, familiar contempt.

There were times when you thought maybe it would fizzle out. Maybe you’d both grow up, or move on, or get reassigned far enough apart that it wouldn't matter, but then something would happen. A look, a comment, a competitive streak that flared up without warning, and suddenly it was back, fully alive. 

A living thing between you, feeding on proximity and history and whatever it was neither of you were willing to let go of.

You couldn’t imagine a version of your career without him in it, if only because he was always there. Not in a constant way, but in the way oil is always in water. Separate, but impossible to fully remove.

And then there was that night. The one you weren’t supposed to talk about. The one neither of you could take back.

It happened on a night you were already six drinks past your limit and one snide comment away from throat-punching someone. That someone, of course, turned out to be Jake Seresin. You hadn’t seen him when you walked into the bar, or maybe you had and just subconsciously repressed it.

Either way, it was too late. He was already halfway through a bottle of something overpriced and grinning like sin itself, surrounded by people who should’ve known better than to laugh at his jokes.

You did your best to ignore him, genuinely. You ordered your drink, found a corner, and avoided eye contact like your life depended on it. It didn’t work. It never worked with Jake.

Not when he spotted you halfway across the room and lifted his glass like it was some royal challenge, then shouted something about your flying like a stormtrooper. You didn’t even hear the full insult over the music, but you caught your name in it and that was enough.

You took your shot, walked right over to him, and said something absolutely awful about his callsign that made the people around him go silent. He laughed, you rolled your eyes, then he said something back.

You called him a name that may or may not have included the phrase “walking concussion.” He leaned in, all smug and unbothered, and said, “You think about me this much sober, or just when you're desperate?”

You kissed him just to shut him up.

But was that the actual events, though? You couldn't really remember.

Or maybe you wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, or maybe you were just drunk and angry and his mouth was right there. Honestly, it didn’t matter, because suddenly you were both teeth and hands, and next thing you knew, you were shoving each other into the back of a rideshare with the sexual tension of a bar brawl.

Neither of you remembered whose place you ended up in. You didn’t even remember unlocking the door. One second you were arguing about who had the worst taste in music, the next you were tearing each other’s clothes off like two people possessed.

He fumbled with your bra like it personally offended him. You bit his shoulder because he laughed when you tripped over your own pants. He called you a menace. You moaned when he said your name with that stupid drawl.

The sex was, well, it was good. Annoyingly good. Loud, messy, absolutely not romantic. You knocked over a lamp. He broke the zipper on your skirt. At one point you both fell off the bed and just stayed on the floor like animals, laughing into each other’s mouths and still too stubborn to stop. It was the kind of sex that felt like a war being fought with body heat and bad decisions.

You didn’t use protection. That thought never even made it to the table. You were too drunk and too busy trying to win at whatever this was. There was no tenderness, no morning-after cuddle. You passed out naked, limbs tangled, both of you snoring like people who had truly earned the deepest sleep of their lives.

When you woke up the next morning with a hangover from hell and his leg flopped across your stomach, the first thing you said was, “Oh, my God, NO!”

Jake groaned into the pillow, hair a mess and voice rough. “I don’t even remember how we got here. Did I lose a bet?”

You shoved his leg off you and sat up, head pounding. “I feel like I committed a crime. Against myself.”

He blinked up at you. “Wanna do it again and ruin your life a little more?”

You stared at him. “I hate you.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice slow and raspy, “but you hate me so good.”

You left before your brain could process what you’d just done.

It was supposed to be a disaster you never spoke about again. A one-time, whiskey-fueled lapse in judgment.

And then a few weeks later, your period ghosted you.

Now here you were, nearly seven weeks later, in your bathroom, on the toilet, wearing nothing but a pair of questionably clean black underwear and an oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Jake after a beach day and just… never gave back.

You had meant to. You had even folded it once, but now it was yours, and now it was cursed, because you were wearing it while staring at a pregnancy test that said the absolute worst thing it could possibly say.

Two pink lines.

Solid. Confident. Smug little bastards.

You hadn’t expected it to hit you this hard, but your vision actually blurred for a second. You squinted. Blinked, then ooked again. No change. You even tilted the test like maybe it would reveal a different answer if you caught it in a different light. Nope. Still there. Still glowing with that horrible, undeniable truth.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

With Jake Seresin’s child.

You sat there for a full minute in complete silence, then slowly reached for the instructions like maybe you’d somehow read the test wrong. Maybe two lines meant you’re fine, and one line meant you’re doomed, but no. 

The instructions were unflinching. “Two lines = pregnant.” No metaphors, no wiggle room, and no mercy.

You dropped the test on the counter with a clatter that echoed too loud in the tiny bathroom. Your heart was thudding. Your brain was somewhere else entirely. Probably trying to detach itself from your body and make a run for it.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. That night was supposed to be a mistake you forgot about. A one-time, tequila-fueled lapse in judgment that got lost in the noise of everything else. You hadn’t even spoken to Jake since.

Neither of you had reached out, probably out of mutual agreement to never acknowledge what you had done. Or maybe just mutual denial. Either way, there had been silence.

And now? Now you are pregnant.

Your body had taken one look at that situation and said, “Let’s make this permanent.”

You pushed off the toilet, legs unsteady, and shuffled to the mirror like you were expecting to look different. You didn’t. You looked like someone in the middle of a slow-moving panic attack, hair sticking up in six directions, shirt halfway twisted around your torso, face pale and vaguely betrayed. You looked like someone who had just found out she was carrying the child of the man she hated more than early morning PT.

“Okay,” you said to your reflection, voice shaking slightly. “We’re gonna take this well. We’re gonna be calm, logical, and grown-up.”

You immediately burst into nervous laughter, then covered your mouth and nearly cried.

This couldn’t be real. You checked the test again, but it’s still real.

You opened your phone, typed “can stress delay your period,” and then immediately followed it with “what if you’re not stressed and just deeply, profoundly stupid.”

You started pacing. The test clattered to the floor. You didn’t pick it up.

You were not ready for this. You were barely ready to share a cockpit with someone without snapping. You hadn’t bought groceries in two weeks. You still owed your landlord an email about that weird buzzing noise in the walls. You were, by all definitions, a functioning adult, just not one who should be producing more adults.

And Jake? He had never even pretended to be responsible. This was a man who once poured whiskey into his protein shake and called it "balancing the macros." A man who ironed his uniform collar but still managed to fly with mustard on his sleeve. A man who could, and did, make everything worse just by opening his mouth.

You pressed both hands to your stomach and whispered, horrified, “You have his genes.”

The silence that followed was both sacred and deeply cursed.

You sat down on the floor and let your head fall back against the wall, eyes wide, chest tight. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor sneezed. You barely heard it over the sound of your entire life falling apart.

You were pregnant, and Jake Seresin was the father.

You sat down on the cold tile floor like your legs had officially given up. The test was still lying a few feet away, perfectly intact, perfectly damning, like it had been waiting its whole life to ruin yours. You stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sure if you were going to pass out, cry, or throw up.

And then, without thinking, you whispered, “Oh, my God. I’m going to have a Seresin.”

The words echoed back at you like a threat.

You blinked once. Slowly. The room was spinning just a little.

A Seresin.

You said it again, this time out loud, like saying it twice would make it sound less horrifying. “I’m going to have a Seresin.”

Nope. Still bad. You rubbed your face with both hands and let out a dry, humorless laugh. Then, another. Then, the kind of laugh that turns into wheezing, then full-on concern.

This was how people lost their minds. This was the start of a Netflix documentary.

Your child was going to come out blonde, cocky, and fully capable of getting out of speeding tickets just by smiling. They were going to have that same easy, insufferable grin Jake wore when he knew he was right, even when he wasn’t. They were going to talk back in full sentences before they could walk. 

They were going to flirt with waiters at age five and get free dessert for it. You could already picture it: them swinging their legs under a restaurant booth, charming some poor twenty-year-old into bringing extra whipped cream like it was nothing. They were going to win arguments they had no business winning. 

Teachers were going to call you and say things like, “Well, technically they weren’t wrong,” and you were going to have to sit in those parent-teacher conferences pretending you were proud when really you were just barely holding onto your last nerve.

They were going to be a menace. A tiny, dangerous, fully-weaponized Seresin, tearing through life with perfect hair and no sense of boundaries. They’d be the kind of kid who pulled fire alarms just to “see what would happen,” and then somehow talk their way out of detention with a charming little shrug and a “Didn’t mean to cause a whole scene, ma’am.”

They’d have Jake’s confidence and your sarcasm. Which meant you were going to be raising someone who never backed down, never shut up, and probably had zero regard for their own safety. Flight school by seventeen, and court-mandated therapy by twenty.

You were going to have to buy baby aviators. You were going to be that mom. The one everyone side-eyed at the daycare because your child insisted on giving motivational speeches before recess. Your toddler would high-five strangers and wink at their pediatrician.

You could already hear it: “It’s not a phase, Mom, I was born for this.”

You stared at the ceiling and whispered, “I’m going to have a Seresin.”

Then, after a long, shaky breath, you added, “This kid is going to come out fist-bumping the doctor and quoting Top Gun.”

You closed your eyes. “They’re going to have a goddamn call sign before they have teeth.”

The silence settled again. Then, barely audible, with the fragile conviction of someone trying not to sob-laugh:

“I’m not built for this. I eat Hot Cheetos for dinner. I once cried because my laundry ate a sock. I cannot raise a tiny Jake Seresin. I’ll die. I’ll actually die.”

You weren’t just pregnant, you were fucking doomed.

You drove to the base pretending you hadn’t thrown up your entire soul into the bushes behind a gas station halfway there. You told yourself it was just a stomach bug. Just anxiety. Just, something that wasn’t what it obviously was.

You also told yourself you were going to be on time. That was adorable.

In reality, you had to pull over into the parking lot of a family-run grocery store, stumble into their bathroom, and dry heave into a toilet next to a toddler singing the PAW Patrol theme song. 

You’d brushed your teeth in their cracked mirror using a sad travel brush you found at the bottom of your emergency bag, and when you caught a glimpse of yourself afterward; greenish skin, trembling hands, hair in a situation you could only describe as “hostile”, you had to sit on the closed toilet lid for a full three minutes and give yourself a TED Talk just to get back in the car.

And you were late, of course you were.

How many minutes did you spend in your bathroom this morning, just staring at that aggressively positive pregnancy test like it might change if you glared hard enough?

Oh, right. An hour and thirty-nine minutes.

You remembered the exact time because your phone screen had gone dark at 7:06 a.m. and you didn’t look away from that stick until 8:45, when your stomach made a noise that could only be described as prehistoric and you barely made it to the sink in time.

And now here you were, somehow in uniform, walking across the tarmac like a normal, functioning adult, like you weren’t actively housing the spawn of your most hated rival, like your nipples didn’t hurt just from the wind, like you didn’t cry in a Sprouts parking lot forty-five minutes ago because a little old lady asked if you were having a nice morning and you physically couldn’t lie.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, inhaled like oxygen might fix everything, and said out loud, “Just don’t throw up on anyone and you’ll be fine.”

You walked five steps. And then Jake Seresin turned the corner, in full gear, holding a cup of coffee and talking to someone who laughed too loud at whatever stupid thing he was saying.

You stopped in your tracks, your soul briefly left your body, and your uterus did something deeply traitorous.

Great.

You kept walking like you didn’t just see Jake Seresin existing in your immediate vicinity. Like your stomach didn’t churn violently at the smell of his goddamn cologne mixed with coffee.

You plastered on what you hoped was a passable expression, somewhere between “focused and professional” and “not housing a human life in secret.” You kept your shoulders back. Chin up. Military posture. No eye contact.

You passed right by him. You didn’t even flinch. Gold star for you.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said behind you, in that smug voice that always sounded like it belonged on a warning label.

You smiled. It was more like baring teeth, but technically it counted.

You made it all the way to the debriefing room, slid into a seat at the back like nothing was wrong, and tried to breathe through the nausea as everyone settled in.

You hadn’t even fully sat down before the door creaked open and in came Maverick, chin raised, brows set in that unreadable I-have-seen-some-shit way. His eyes scanned the room. Then, stopped on you.

Shit.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said. Loud. Way too loud.

The entire squad turned to look at you.

You forced a thin smile. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

He stared at you. “You’re late.”

“I’m aware.”

“How late?”

You blinked. “Eighty-nine minutes, sir.”

Someone snorted, but you didn’t look to see who.

Maverick raised his eyebrows like he was waiting for you to offer a better excuse than I was on the bathroom floor having a mental and gastrointestinal crisis over an unplanned pregnancy by the man I hate most in the world. You offered him nothing, though.

“I don’t care what your morning looked like,” he said. “You don’t stroll into my debrief like it’s a goddamn brunch. You want to be treated like a pilot, you show up like one.”

And just like that, your body betrayed you.

You felt it rising in your chest. That awful, shaky warmth that started behind your eyes and built until your throat got tight. You swallowed hard. Your hands were trembling. You could feel them. You could feel everyone watching. Your face twitched once.

A single, humiliating blink too long. You turned toward the screen in a panic, like if you just focused on the map layout, you could pretend this wasn’t happening.

But you weren’t fine, and you didn’t look fine.

You looked like someone had just tased you. Full-body, high-voltage panic, lip wobbling, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff like maybe if you held your breath long enough, the emotion would disappear, and your eyes fucking burned. You could actually hear your heartbeat in your ears.

Maverick paused. His expression shifted for half a second, enough to register confusion, and then something quieter. He squinted at you. Then, calmly, he said, “Outside. Now.”

You nodded, snapped to your feet, and walked behind him so fast you nearly knocked over your chair. You didn’t look at anyone. Not at Bradley, not Phoenix, not Bob who looked deeply alarmed. You heard someone mutter something teasing under their breath, and someone else elbowed them quietly. It didn’t matter.

Your face was burning.

Your throat was a war zone.

You had one goal now: do not cry in front of your entire squad.

Maverick didn’t say a word as you followed him down the hall, past the break room, past the locker bays, all the way to one of the smaller briefing rooms no one really used unless someone was getting reamed out in private.

The second the door shut behind you with a soft click, the silence hit hard. You stood there, stiff and frozen, willing yourself to just hold it together long enough to fake your way through a bullshit excuse.

He turned to face you. Quiet. Calm. Still unreadable.

And then he asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

That was it.

That one simple, unthreatening question was the exact combination of syllables that made your nervous system crash.

Your lips parted, and you nodded. Then, you shook your head. And then, without any warning whatsoever, you absolutely fell apart.

It started with a sharp inhale, a blink that turned into a blink-blink-blink, and then your whole face crumpled like a paper bag. You slapped both hands over your mouth like you could catch the sobs before they escaped, but nope.

It was happening. A full-on breakdown. No warning, no grace. You were sobbing. Actually sobbing.

“Okay, okay,” Maverick said, eyebrows flying up like he’d just been handed a live grenade. “Hey, hey—uh—take a seat. Sit down. You’re good, just breathe.”

You collapsed into the nearest chair like gravity had been waiting for this moment. Your elbows hit your knees, your hands stayed clamped over your face, and you just cried. Not a cute cry. Not a single tear sliding down your cheek. This was a full-body meltdown, complete with snot, stuttering breaths, and the horrible realization that you had definitely ruined your mascara.

Maverick hovered. He looked like he wanted to help but didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

“I, uh… hold on.”

He turned, rummaged through a cabinet, and returned with what could only be described as the saddest offering known to mankind.

Toothpaste.

He held it out in front of you like it might fix your soul.

You looked at it through blurry eyes and let out a confused wheeze between sobs.

“I didn’t—there’s no tissues,” he said quickly. “I just—I panicked.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob and wiped your nose with your sleeve like a feral raccoon.

“Do you want, like, water?” he asked. “A blanket? A granola bar? I think there’s a stress ball in the drawer?”

You just shook your head, sniffling so hard it sounded like a car trying to start in cold weather. You sat there for another full minute, crying into your palms while Maverick stood awkwardly nearby, holding the toothpaste like it was a sacred offering.

Finally, when you could string words together again, you dropped your hands, looked up at him with red, blotchy eyes, and said quietly, “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Maverick blinked. “Oh.” Then again, slower. “Oh.”

Maverick stood there for a moment, toothpaste still in hand, as the word hung in the air like it was echoing off the walls. You were suddenly hyper-aware of how loud your breathing was, how red your face must’ve looked, how much your nose was running, and how much worse this was about to get. He blinked a few times like maybe his brain was buffering.

Then, finally, he asked, “Do you know who the father is?”

You groaned softly into your sleeve, dragging it across your nose again before shaking your head and waving your hand. “Yes. Yeah, I mean, yes, I know who it is. It’s not—it’s definitely not Bradley.”

He tilted his head slightly, brows drawing in. “I didn’t say it was.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “But just in case your brain went there, I’m shutting that down right now. No offense to him, he’s like family, but ew. That would be like if I slept with my brother. That’s not even a situation. We share sunscreen. We’ve seen each other cry over the same movie. I once held his hair back when he threw up vodka and Sour Patch Kids. He texts me about his poop color. That’s twin behavior.”

Maverick blinked again, a little thrown, and slowly nodded.

Meanwhile, you kept talking, hands gesturing in sharp, chaotic motions as you spiraled. “It was one night. Just one. And I didn’t plan it. I was drunk, like, stupid drunk, and he was there, and I was mad, and we hate each other, and I swear to God I don’t even like him. We just argue all the time and something just... happened. Not a good thing, not a romantic thing, just this horrible, chaotic...sexy thing. And I didn’t even mean for it to happen, and I haven’t even told him, and I wasn’t even going to, but now I’m sitting here holding toothpaste like it’s a damn therapy dog, and—”

“Is it Seresin’s?” Maverick asked, cutting you off gently.

You froze mid-gesture, mid-sentence, mouth still half-open. Then, very quietly, you said, “Yes.”

As soon as the word left your mouth, your throat closed again. Your hands dropped to your lap and your face crumpled like paper. You didn’t mean to start crying again, but it happened fast, like someone hit replay on your breakdown. You folded forward with your elbows on your knees, pressing your palms into your eyes, and let out a sound that was mostly muffled despair.

Maverick took a slow breath, carefully set the toothpaste on the table like it might explode if dropped, and sat down across from you, his expression unreadable but still somehow kind.

He didn’t say anything right away, and that somehow made it worse.

Maverick stayed quiet for a long moment, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes steady on you but never too sharp. He wasn’t judging you, that much you could tell. If anything, he looked like he was flipping through a mental instruction manual that didn’t exist, trying to figure out what page this kind of situation was supposed to be on. 

After another beat of silence, he leaned forward just slightly, like he didn’t want to crowd you, and let out a breath through his nose.

“I know I’m not exactly the guy people come to for… parenting advice,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging like he was halfway between a grimace and a smile. “But I did watch Bradley grow up. I was there for most of it, even when I shouldn’t have been, and I saw what it did to Carole and Nick, how hard it was, how scary it looked, but also how… possible it became. Even when it felt impossible.”

You sniffled hard and wiped your eyes again, nodding without really knowing what you were agreeing to. He wasn’t rushing you. That helped. If he’d said something like you’ll figure it out, or you’re strong enough, you might’ve cried harder, but he didn’t say any of that. He just let it hang there, honest and steady, like he was giving you space to breathe.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked, voice quiet.

You shook your head immediately. “No. No one. I just… I found out this morning, like literally this morning. I sat in my bathroom for over an hour trying to figure out if I was hallucinating, and then I threw up behind a gasoline station. So no, I haven’t had time to do anything except… completely fall apart.”

His brows knit together, but his voice stayed gentle. “Okay. Okay. That’s fine. You’re allowed to fall apart, just don’t do it alone, kid.”

You looked at him, throat aching. “Please don’t tell anyone, Mav.”

He nodded once, firm. “I won’t.”

You believed him. You hadn’t expected to, but you did.

You sat back in the chair and let the silence settle for a moment. It wasn’t heavy this time. Just real. Then he asked the question you’d been waiting for since the second that test turned pink.

“Do you think… you’ll keep it?”

You looked down at your hands. Your fingers were tangled, nails digging into your palms, and you had no idea how long you’d been clenching them like that. You swallowed hard. The answer was sitting in your mouth, heavy and hard to admit.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t even remember if I did laundry this week. I ate string cheese for dinner last night and called it a win. I have a plant that’s literally rotting in my kitchen and I’ve just been… ignoring it. Like maybe it’ll fix itself if I don’t look at it too long. That’s how I’ve been functioning.”

Maverick didn’t flinch. He just listened.

“I don’t even know how to properly take care of myself,” you went on, the words spilling faster now, your voice catching at the edges. “I’m barely staying upright most days. And now I’m supposed to be… a parent? To a Seresin? I mean, I’m one stress dream away from lighting my apartment on fire.”

He smiled softly at that, just a flicker, then leaned back in his chair like he was letting it all settle. “You don’t have to make that decision today,” he said. “Or tomorrow. You’re allowed to figure it out as you go. No one has the perfect answer. Not even the people who plan for it.”

You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then, barely above a whisper, you said, “I wish this was just a nightmare.”

Maverick looked at you for a long, careful second. He didn’t soften the truth, but he didn’t drop it on you like a weight either. Instead, he said, “You know you're going to have to tell Seresin, right?”

You took a shaky breath and immediately shook your head. “I know. I do. I'm not trying to hide it forever. I'm not trying to keep it from him or anything like that. I just...” You paused, pressing your fingers to your temple as if that might help untangle the mess in your brain.

“I just found out this morning. I haven't even had time to wrap my own head around it. I sat on my bathroom floor for almost two hours staring at the test like it was a bomb. I threw up in a gasoline station's bushes. I brushed my teeth next to a toddler in a Paw Patrol hoodie. I haven’t even eaten.”

Maverick didn’t move, just watched you with that same steady expression.

“I’m not ready to tell him,” you said. “Because once I do, it’s real, and I don’t know what he’s going to do with it. I don’t even know what I want. It’s not that I think he’ll be awful about it. He might not be, but what if he is? What if he says the exact wrong thing and it makes all of this worse? Or what if he wants to step up and suddenly I have to see him all the time and pretend like I’m okay when I’m not?”

You ran your hand through your hair, frustrated and exhausted and still somehow trying to keep your voice steady.

“I just need time,” you said. “A little space to figure this out before I bring him into it. I can’t take on his reaction when I haven’t even dealt with my own.”

Maverick gave a small, understanding nod. “Then take that time. Just don’t wait so long that the truth gets heavier than it needs to be.”

You looked at him, your eyes tired and red. Then you nodded once, more to yourself than to him, and whispered, “Okay.”

After a few more minutes of quiet, when the tears had finally stopped and your breathing no longer hitched with every inhale, you wiped your face one last time and stood.

Maverick didn’t rush you. He waited until you gave a small nod, then opened the door and stepped out beside you, walking you back toward the debriefing room like nothing had happened. He didn’t touch your shoulder or say anything dramatic. He just kept pace with you, quietly steady, like someone who knew not to push when the ground under your feet was already cracking.

When the two of you walked in, the room went still.

Conversations that had been going just moments earlier cut off mid-word. Heads turned. Every eye landed on you. You didn’t flinch, didn’t give them a smile or a wave or any sign of apology.

You just raised your chin, dropped your usual frown into place, and rolled your eyes with a loud sigh like you were the one suffering from their drama. Then, you walked over to Bradley’s seat, dropped into the chair beside him, and immediately rested your head on his shoulder like this morning hadn’t completely wrecked you.

He didn’t say anything, just glanced at you sideways and adjusted slightly so your head didn’t fall off.

Maverick cleared his throat and stepped to the front of the room again.

“Good morning,” he said, like the last ten minutes hadn’t involved a full-blown emotional breakdown and an impromptu counseling session. “Let’s get back on track.”

He turned toward the screen, clicked the remote, and a training schedule lit up behind him.

“Today’s focus is on endurance tracking and low-visibility runs. You’ll be working in pairs, switching lead positions every five minutes. The course has been adjusted to simulate unpredictable cloud banks, so watch your altitude. No shortcuts. I want clean turns, no hero passes, and no one trying to break last week’s time record. That means you, Seresin.”

Jake leaned back in his seat and smirked. “You wound me, sir. I’m a picture of restraint.”

You didn’t even lift your head. “Only because no one wants to see that picture.”

The room let out a low ooooh.

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “You say that, but you looked last time.”

You raised your head, gave him a dry look, and said, “Yeah, right before I immediately wished for blindness.”

The squad laughed again, louder this time, but Maverick didn’t even blink.

“Both of you, shut up,” he said, eyes still on the screen.

You leaned back in your chair, Bradley shaking silently beside you.

Business as usual. Almost.

Maverick moved through the rest of the briefing like nothing was unusual, flipping through the slides with clipped efficiency while the squad slowly settled into their usual rhythm again.

You stayed quiet, arms folded, head tipped lazily toward Bradley’s shoulder, doing your best to ignore the way your stomach still occasionally rolled like it hadn’t made up its mind yet. The nausea hadn’t fully gone, but it was manageable now. At least for the moment.

“Pairings for today,” Maverick said, clicking to the next screen. “Rant, you’re with Rooster.”

You sat up a little straighter. Bradley raised an eyebrow but gave you a quick nod, already half-grinning.

Thank God.

Maverick continued without pause. “Harvard is your WSO. Yale got called up for deployment yesterday, so get briefed on the switch before you’re in the air.”

You glanced back at Harvard, who lifted a hand with a thumbs up like he’d just been handed an extra credit assignment. You returned a faint nod, already doing the math in your head about how much you’d have to catch him up before takeoff.

Then Maverick turned to the next pair. “Phoenix, you’re running opposite. Bob’s your WSO, Hangman’s your wing.”

You didn’t even hide your groan. Phoenix turned in her seat to give you the fakest sweet smile she could manage, while Jake leaned back with his arms stretched wide, like he was being honored with a title.

“Looks like we’re going head-to-head, sweetheart,” he said, full of smug confidence.

You blinked slowly at him. “The only thing you’re flying headfirst into is the side of a mountain.”

Bradley gave a soft cough that might have been a laugh. You could tell he was trying not to enjoy this too much.

“Try not to crash, Rant,” Phoenix added with a pointed look. “I don’t feel like fishing your ass out of the water today.”

You gave her a tight smile. “Try not to lose. Again.”

It was automatic, the way you all fell into it. The rhythm of it. The teasing, the insults, the low hum of competition threading through every interaction. Even when it was exhausting, even when you had a secret sitting like a stone in your stomach, it felt easier than silence.

Maverick gave you all a look, that familiar mix of exasperation and long-suffering patience. “Unless one of you has something useful to say about the actual flight plan, I suggest you keep it quiet until you’re in the air.”

The room stilled, a few shoulders straightened. No one spoke.

Then, Maverick turned back to the map. “You launch at thirty. Gear up.”

You stood, eyes flicking to the others out of habit more than anything else. Bradley bumped your arm lightly with his as he passed, just enough pressure to say you good? without asking the question out loud. You nodded once, followed him out, and did your best not to think about the person who’d just been assigned as your direct opponent in the sky.

Because if Jake Seresin was annoying on the ground, he was ten times worse in the air.

The moment you stepped into the hallway, the energy shifted. The debriefing room door clicked shut behind you, and the low buzz of pre-flight chatter started to build around the squad.

You stuck close to Bradley, not so much out of dependence but out of habit. You always did. Rooster was on steady ground, and you needed something solid beneath you.

As you both rounded the corner toward the locker bays, he leaned slightly toward you without slowing down. “You okay?” he asked, soft and quiet like he was trying not to scare you off.

You nodded. Then, you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip before you said, “I’ll tell you after the run.”

Bradley gave you a long look. Not suspicious, just thoughtful. Like he already knew something wasn’t sitting right and was waiting for you to trust him enough to say it.

You lifted your chin and gave him your best not now stare, and after a second, he sighed and gave you a matching fine, but I’m not dropping this kind of look.

There it was. The language of silent communication you’d both perfected over years of flying together. The only real difference between you and Rooster was that he raised his brows when he was worried, and you narrowed your eyes when you were pretending not to be.

Then, like some kind of Labrador retriever with a headset, Harvard popped out of nowhere, full of energy and confusion. “Are you two having a full conversation with your eyeballs again?” he asked, already pulling on his flight vest. “Like, what even was that? You blinked, she flared her nostrils, and suddenly no one’s talking.”

Bradley just shook his head, mildly amused. “You get used to it.”

“No, you don’t,” you said under your breath, reaching for your gear. “It’s a learned trauma response.”

Harvard gasped. “Wow! That’s so toxic. Should I start blinking in Morse code too, or is this a special thing?”

“It’s classified, dude,” Bradley replied, grabbing his helmet.

You just smirked. “Yeah, need-to-know basis.”

Harvard groaned like he’d just been excluded from the world's coolest secret club and sulked a little, but you knew he didn’t mean it. He was all bark, zero ego. A good guy.

Still, as you suited up and your fingers found their way around the familiar buckles and straps, you could feel Bradley’s eyes drifting back to you every so often. 

You were going to tell him. You just needed to get through the sky first.

The moment your jet broke through the clouds, everything else dropped away. The world below became distant, flattened out by altitude and engine noise, and all that remained was the mission ahead of you.

Harvard stayed sharp in the backseat, already running comms and monitoring enemy pings without needing to be asked. You could tell he’d taken the switch seriously. He knew the angles, read the field fast, and didn’t waste words. It was easy, falling into sync with him. Easier than you’d expected.

Meanwhile, you locked eyes on the targets ahead; Phoenix and Bob were already in motion, banking hard toward the north sector. Their formation was tight, clean.

You hated how well they worked together. Not because it made them unbeatable, but because it made them annoying. Phoenix flew like she had something to prove and Bob backed her with that steady, ghost-quiet confidence that made him impossible to shake.

They made it personal without ever saying a word, and you weren’t about to let them win today.

Then, Harvard’s voice came in again, calm but clipped. “They’re shifting altitude, high left. You’ve got a window if you punch the throttle now.”

“Copy,” you said, already tilting the nose up and angling for the break. The jet responded smoothly and clean, your fingers moving by memory as you cut across their line and pushed the throttle just enough to make them flinch. You didn’t score a hit, but you clipped their path and made Phoenix swerve wide, which felt like a moral victory.

While you circled for another pass, you caught sight of Rooster and Hangman splitting off to the west, already tangled in their own skirmish. From what you could hear on comms, Jake was laying it on thick, talking fast between maneuvers like he wasn’t actively trying to shoot Bradley out of the sky. 

Rooster, to his credit, didn’t rise to it. He never did, he let his flying do the talking, and from the way his jet cut through the clouds without losing position, you knew he was pressing Jake harder than expected.

Then, Phoenix came roaring back into view, and Harvard barely had time to finish his warning before you rolled left and dropped elevation, avoiding a lock that would’ve put you out of the round. The G’s hit hard, but you held steady, exhaling through your teeth and leveling out low. Your hands didn’t shake. Not yet.

“You’re good,” Harvard said, voice steady in your ear. “We can box her in if you bring her toward the ridge.”

“Already on it,” you replied, pulling tight around a curve and adjusting just enough to bait her into following. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was grinning. She lived for this kind of chase.

Above you, Bob was staying wide, keeping distance, probably marking every movement and waiting for the chance to call a hit. It was smart. Annoying, but smart.

You cut back toward the ridge, letting the jet drop low enough to hug the terrain but fast enough to keep Phoenix guessing. Harvard was already rattling off distance checks behind you, staying calm even when her shadow skimmed across your wing.

“She’s closing at two o’clock, low,” he said. “Bob’s feeding her new intercept. You’ve got ten seconds, max.”

“Then let’s ruin their morning,” you muttered.

You pitched the jet upward without warning, pulling into a tight climb that made your stomach flip and your harness bite into your shoulders. The ridge dropped away beneath you, and you caught a glimpse of Phoenix overshooting below as she tried to correct. Bob probably warned her half a second too late. That gave you the opening.

Harvard was already counting it off. “You’re above them. Rotate left now and get behind.”

You twisted hard, banking in a tight arc and swinging back across their line. Your fingers moved before your brain had a chance to catch up, locking in on their tail and chasing through a narrow gap between cloud banks. For a second, all you could see was sky and sunlight and the silhouette of their jet ahead.

“Locking in three,” Harvard said.

You gritted your teeth and held the line. “Keep it steady.”

“Two…”

You knew Phoenix was going to make a move. She never let a shot go without scrambling the play. Just as he said one, she juked sideways with a dive so sharp it almost worked. Almost.

“Splash,” Harvard confirmed. “You got it.”

You let out a breath and leaned back in the seat, just for a second. It didn’t last.

“Rant, watch it, Seresin’s on your nine.”

Of course he was.

You didn’t even look. You rolled right, cutting down and twisting into a descent that threw your stomach somewhere back at 8,000 feet. Hangman’s voice crackled over comms, far too pleased with himself.

“Come on, Rant, don’t make this easy.”

You pressed your mic. “If I wanted to make it easy, I’d stand on the runway and let you fly into me.”

Harvard exhaled like he was trying not to laugh. “He’s fast, but you’re lighter. We can lose him in the turns.”

“I’ve been trying to lose him since I was twenty-three,” you muttered.

Then you dipped low again, weaving through the cloud layer as Jake stayed glued to your tail. You could feel the pressure even without seeing him. He always flew like he had something to prove, and somehow, it was always you he wanted to prove it to.

Below, the ocean started to stretch wide again as you dropped altitude, chasing the edge of the designated training zone. The whole team was up now, scattered through sectors, switching leads and trying to one-up each other.

Rooster was still out west, locked in with a stubborn Jake-shaped problem of his own, probably ignoring every smug comment thrown his way.

Meanwhile, you let yourself fall into the rhythm. Turn, correct, adjust, climb. Harvard kept feeding you clean data, and for once, your mind wasn’t spiraling with everything waiting back on the ground. Up here, with the sky beneath your wings and just enough chaos to feel alive, it was almost quiet.

Almost.

Somewhere between the last turn and the climb, your stomach started to flip in a way that had nothing to do with G-forces. You’d flown sick before. You’d flown exhausted, bruised, pissed off, and running on stale coffee and half a granola bar, but this was different. 

This was full-body fog. Your head spun just enough to blur the edges of the sky, and a sudden heat flushed through your neck and into your ears. You blinked hard, jaw tight, and tried to focus on the radar, the sound of Harvard in your ear, the way the jet felt beneath your hands.

But it was slipping.

Not now, you thought. Not now, not in the middle of a dogfight. You swallowed against the wave of nausea rising sharp and hot in your throat.

You could practically picture the tiny speck of human potential nestled deep in your gut, lounging like royalty and wreaking havoc on your equilibrium. Okay, listen, you thought, eyes flicking to your altitude. I am literally fighting for our lives right now, so maybe, just maybe, this is not the time to launch a mutiny inside my body.

Meanwhile, Hangman was still behind you somewhere, probably chasing your trail and smirking like the smug bastard he was, but for a few long seconds, you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t hear much of anything except the thump of your heartbeat and the dull roar of blood in your ears.

Then Maverick’s voice cracked through the radio, sharper than before. “Rant, check your level. You’re flying low.”

Your eyes snapped to the altimeter. Too low. Far too low. The ridgeline was suddenly much closer than it should’ve been.

In the same instant, Harvard’s voice broke in, more urgent now. “Hey. Pull up. Come on, breathe, and pull up.”

Maybe he couldn’t reach you physically, but it felt like he was right there behind you, pushing every word into your spine.

So, you didn’t waste time. You yanked back on the stick, gritting your teeth through the Gs as the jet surged upward in a sharp climb. Your stomach lurched again, and you had to swallow twice before you were sure you weren’t about to puke into your oxygen mask.

You leveled out just above the ridge, engine growling as you pulled the jet back into a steady course. For a moment, there was silence in your headset.

Then, Maverick again, this time quieter. “Rant, copy?”

You exhaled shakily and pressed your mic. “Copy, I’m good. Got it now.”

Harvard didn’t say anything right away, but you could hear the sigh of relief through his breathing.

You didn’t add anything else. You couldn’t. Not without letting something else slip out.

Back on the ground, the silence hit you like a wall. The adrenaline was gone, wrung out of you somewhere between the ridge and the landing strip, and now all you had left was a headache behind your eyes and a stomach that refused to settle.

Harvard walked beside you as you headed back toward the hangar, saying nothing until you reached the edge of the locker hall.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, slowing your steps. “That was on me.”

He shook his head without hesitation. “You corrected it in time. That’s what matters.”

You gave him a weak nod, not quite ready to believe him. Then he gave your shoulder a quick pat, no questions asked, and headed down the opposite hallway to debrief. You stood there for a second, watching him go, then turned and pushed open the door to the locker room.

The air inside was still and cool, humming faintly with the old fluorescent lights overhead. You made your way to your locker, pulled off your boots, and sat down on the bench with your back to the metal, flight suit half unzipped. For a moment, you didn’t move. 

You just sat there, elbows on your knees, head down. The crash from the flight hit hard. Your limbs were buzzing, your breathing felt shallow again, and the thought you had been avoiding since this morning came back all at once.

You didn’t even hear the door open until it clicked shut again. You looked up just in time to see Bradley locking it behind him.

He walked in slowly, brows drawn tight with concern, but not angry. Just tired. He didn’t speak until he stopped a few feet in front of you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, voice low. “What happened up there?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a half-mumble, “I know, I’m sorry.”

He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying not to lose patience. “You went silent. You dropped altitude without calling it. Harvard was on comms like he didn’t know what was going on. Mav was two seconds from ordering you grounded. What’s going on with you?”

You didn’t look at him. You stared at the floor like maybe it would open up and swallow you.

Then, without a word, he knelt down in front of you and took your hands in his. You didn’t even realize you were trembling until he touched you. His grip was gentle but solid, and it made your breath catch in your throat.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Come on, sweetheart, talk to me.”

You blinked fast, trying to focus, but your eyes were stinging again and your heart was beating too loud in your chest. You swallowed and looked down at him, and for the first time all day, your voice broke completely.

“I’m pregnant.”

Bradley didn’t speak right away. He stayed perfectly still, kneeling in front of you, his thumbs gently brushing over your knuckles like he hadn’t heard you correctly.

His eyes searched your face, not with doubt exactly, but with that kind of quiet disbelief that people get when something impossible has just dropped out of the sky.

You couldn’t look at him. Your hands were still shaking in his, and your chest was too tight to breathe properly. The silence dragged, thick and unbearable, until finally he said, “You’re what?”

You swallowed hard. “Pregnant.”

Another beat of silence passed, and for a moment you thought he was going to laugh, or joke, or say something like is this one of your pranks, because your coping mechanism had always been sarcasm and chaos and he knew that better than anyone, but he didn’t. He didn’t let go, and he didn’t move.

Then his brows pulled together just a little tighter, and he asked slowly, “Are you sure?”

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor behind him. “Took three tests. This morning. One of them was pink glittery plastic, and one of them sang a jingle when the plus sign popped up, but yeah. Pretty sure.”

He exhaled like the air had just punched its way out of his lungs, then looked down briefly and ran a hand over his mouth. You saw it hit him in real time, the reality of what you’d just said settling into his shoulders. When he looked back up at you, there was no judgment in his face, just a stunned kind of concern.

“Okay,” he said finally, the word slow and uneven. “Okay. So... is it…”

You answered before he finished, your voice hoarse. “It’s not yours. Come on. You and I are basically siblings. That would be—no. No.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to make a comment but thought better of it. Then he asked, more gently this time, “So who...?”

You closed your eyes for a second and took a breath through your nose, but it didn’t steady you at all. Then you said it, quiet and miserable.

“Jake.”

Bradley blinked.

Then, blinked again.

He let go of your hands, only to stand up and back away slowly like he needed to physically distance himself from the words you’d just said. One hand was on his hip, the other dragging down his face as he muttered, “Jake Seresin? Hangman? That Jake Seresin?”

You nodded with all the dread of someone admitting to a federal crime.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, turning in a slow circle like maybe spinning would help this make sense. “You had sex with Jake Seresin?”

You winced. “It wasn’t planned.”

He pointed at you like you had just confessed to robbing a bank. “Clearly.”

“It was after Coyote’s birthday, I think,” you went on, and his eyes got wide immediately. “We were all drunk. I mean, drunk. The kind of drunk where the sidewalk moves and you have deep conversations with the vending machine. And we started arguing, like usual, and then one thing led to another—”

Bradley threw up his hands. “Stop. Nope. Don’t want to hear the details.”

“Okay, but I was winning the argument, and then he said something about me being mouthy and then I said something about him being all bark and no bite, and then—”

He literally stuck his fingers in his ears. “I said stop! I’m not your priest, I’m not your gynecologist, and I am definitely not emotionally equipped to hear about your enemies-to-lust pipeline with Hangman.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the locker, groaning into your hands. “It wasn’t lust, it was more like... like rage-fueled, half-dressed combat with bonus moaning.”

“Why are you like this,” Bradley asked the ceiling, like God was personally responsible.

You shrugged helplessly. “I blacked out a little. My bra was on the ceiling fan. I woke up hungover and had to army crawl out of his apartment because my dignity had left the building.”

Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose and sat heavily beside you. “Jesus, okay, okay, I’m... trying to catch up here. So, you just found out this morning?”

You nodded again. “Bathroom. Oversized shirt. Positive test glowing like a lightsaber. It was magical but cursed, Brad.”

He looked at you, baffled and exhausted. “And, you haven’t told him?”

“I haven’t even told myself, Bradley.”

For a while, you didn’t speak. You just sat there, elbows on your knees, staring at the concrete floor like it could give you answers.

Every second stretched a little too long, and the space between your shoulders tightened until you felt like your own skin didn’t fit right.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because you were cold, but because it was the only way to feel contained. Everything in you felt like it was about to slip loose.

Bradley watched you, quiet now, all the humor drained from his face. He nudged his knee against yours lightly, not pushing, just grounding you.

You finally whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”

His voice was gentler now. “You don’t have to have it figured out yet.”

“I don’t even know how to take care of myself,” you said, your voice cracking. “I almost threw up in the jet. I can’t stop thinking. I was flying like I was outside my own body, and if Harvard hadn’t said something, I might’ve clipped the ridge. I’m barely holding it together and now there’s... this. There’s a person. A very small, very inconvenient person in my body and I don’t know if I can do this, Bradley.”

He didn’t try to interrupt. He just let you say it. Let it all spill out like the words had been waiting to burst through your teeth.

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry. You were already past crying. It felt bigger than that now. It felt like the edge of a cliff. You looked at him, barely able to hold his gaze.

“I don’t want to be a bad mom,” you said. “I don’t want to screw up a kid who never asked for any of this.”

He looked down, his mouth pressing into a line. “You’re not a bad person,” he said finally. “You’re scared. That’s not the same thing.”

You nodded, but you didn’t believe him. Then, his tone shifted slightly. Still soft, but different. Careful.

“So... I assume you told Mav?”

You blinked. “What?”

Bradley gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You told Mav before me.”

You paused, realizing the weight behind it. “It wasn’t— I didn’t plan that. I didn’t tell him because he’s... him. I was falling apart and he pulled me out of the briefing room before I started crying in front of everyone. It just... came out.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood, but the disappointment lingered anyway. Not in a dramatic way. Just in the way someone feels when they realize they weren’t the first person you ran to.

“I get it,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

You reached out, rested your hand over his. “You were always going to be the first person I really talked to. You know that, right?”

He gave your fingers a squeeze. “Yeah, I know.”

Bradley stayed quiet for another few seconds, looking at your hand in his like he was working his way through a hundred thoughts and trying to pick the right one. Then, he asked, careful but steady, “Are you going to keep it?”

You didn’t answer right away. The question hit hard in your chest, even though you knew it was coming. You weren’t ready. You had thought about it, of course. It was the only thing your brain had been circling since this morning, but that didn’t mean you had an answer.

You didn’t even have a maybe.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice barely holding. “I really don’t. I haven’t even wrapped my head around the fact that I’m pregnant. My body doesn’t feel like mine right now, and every five minutes I flip between total panic and just pretending none of this is happening.”

Bradley nodded once, slow and thoughtful, like he was giving you room. You could tell he wanted to say more, but he waited.

“And Jake?” he asked after a moment, quieter now. “When are you going to tell him?”

Your stomach flipped again. You pulled your hand away and stood up like your body needed to move or you were going to start spiraling.

“I don’t know,” you said again, rubbing your forehead. “I keep thinking about it, but I have no idea what to even say. ‘Hey, remember that time we got blackout drunk and hate-banged our way through an industrial-sized condom box? Surprise! You’re going to be a dad!’”

Bradley gave a slow blink. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“I don’t know how to say it,” you shot back. “I mean... this is Jake Seresin. He doesn't even remember people’s birthdays. What if he laughs? What if he thinks I’m joking? What if he gets weird and says something awful and I end up dropkicking him into the ocean before I can even finish the sentence?”

Bradley let out a sigh and leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. “Okay, yes, he might absolutely say something awful, but you have to tell him. You can’t sit on this forever.”

“I know,” you said again, and this time it came out smaller. You sat back down beside him and didn’t say anything for a long minute. “I just need a little more time,” you added. “That’s all.”

Bradley nodded. “I’m here. You know that, right?”

You nodded without looking at him. “I know.”

There was a small pause, the kind that usually meant something was settling. Then, just as you were starting to breathe a little easier, he gave a low laugh under his breath and shook his head.

“What?” you asked warily.

He smirked. “Nothing. Just... wow. I knew I was right when I gave you that callsign. You really do love to rant.”

You groaned and smacked his arm, but he just laughed harder. “Shut up, Bradley.”

“Never,” he said, still grinning. “This is the most unhinged monologue I’ve heard since you yelled at the vending machine for stealing your Funyuns.”

You let your head drop back against the locker. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Again?” he asked.

You pointed at him without lifting your head. “I will vomit on your boots.”

“Love you, too, Rant.”

[hangmanwrites]

three steps behind︱jake seresin

based on the song: from the dining table by harry styles pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x wife!reader synopsis: you wore the dress. he wore a t-shirt. you waited ninety-seven minutes. he smiled like nothing was wrong. and when you said you were tired, he still thought love was enough. content: angst, hurt no comfort, established relationship, slow unraveling, quiet arguments, miscommunication, emotional neglect, anniversary gone wrong, divorce mention, crying in the kitchen, tired love, second person pov, no happy ending author's note: after months away, i'm back on here. new account, clean slate. i don’t really know what i expected coming back, but this story just… came out. it’s quiet, kind of heavy, and maybe a little too honest. if you’ve ever loved someone who stopped noticing, or stayed when it started to feel lonely, i hope this sits with you in the right way. thank you for reading. word count: 4,905 words kofi︱request︱masterlist

The Hard Deck was surprisingly peaceful tonight. The usual buzz of laughter and boots on hardwood had softened into something low and steady, like background noise you stopped noticing after a while.

A few off-duty pilots leaned over pool tables, murmuring bets and half-hearted trash talk. At the bar, Penny was drying a glass with the edge of a towel, listening to some guy talk about a maintenance delay like it was the worst thing in the world. 

She gave a polite nod, patient as ever, then slid a drink across the counter without missing a beat. Someone near the jukebox tried and failed to pick a new song, letting an old Eagles track roll into the next without interruption.

The sliding doors were pulled open to let the breeze in, warm with salt and the smell of beer that had settled into the floorboards over time. Nobody was in a rush. The place felt lived-in, a little tired, like everyone inside was just waiting for something, though no one would say what.

Then, there was you. You were tucked into one of the corner booths, half-shadowed and easy to miss unless someone was looking. Your glass had been empty for a while, the condensation long gone, leaving behind a wet ring on the table that you'd started tracing with your finger just to pass the time. 

Every now and then, Penny glanced your way, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She hadn’t asked if you wanted another drink. Maybe she already knew the answer. You weren’t drinking to pass time. You were drinking to wait.

It had been about an hour and thirty-seven minutes now. You’d stopped checking your phone after the first hour, but the math still came easy.

At twenty minutes, you told yourself he was just running late. At forty, you told yourself not to be dramatic. At the hour mark, you stopped pretending it didn’t hurt. You didn’t even have a text to read twice. Just silence, and the soft hum of people living their lives around you, none of them holding their breath the way you were.

You watched the front door every time it opened, even though you told yourself not to. You tried to act like you were just out, just sitting, just another person here to pass the time, but your body gave you away, the stillness, the way your eyes lifted every time boots hit the floor, the slight shift in your posture when someone tall walked in and didn’t look your way. 

No one noticed, or maybe they did, but pretended not to. Either way, you stayed seated. You hadn’t waited this long just to leave before the ending.

You’d spent the day trying not to look too eager. Picked out an outfit hours earlier than you needed to, changed it twice, then changed back. You even curled your lashes, which you rarely did, and gave yourself more time in the mirror than usual, just in case tonight meant something. 

There was a part of you, quietly hopeful, that thought maybe this anniversary would be different. A dinner reservation somewhere a little dressed up, candles on the table, maybe real conversation, and no phones between you. The kind of night you only get if someone plans it like they mean it.

But he hadn’t wanted that. When you asked, gently, if you should dress up, he just laughed and said, “We’re going to the Hard Deck, not a wedding.”

You hesitated for half a second, then smiled, because what else were you going to do? You said sure, of course, that’s fine. 

It’s not a bad place, it really isn’t. Penny keeps the drinks cold and the music tolerable. The fries are good. It’s not fancy, but it’s not supposed to be. Still, part of you had pictured something else.

Even now, you keep glancing down at your hands like maybe the booth would change, maybe the place would feel more special if he walked through the door smiling and apologizing for being late. 

You told yourself not to care so much about things like dinner spots and ambiance, that what mattered was him showing up, being here with you, but the thing was...he still wasn’t. And somehow, that mattered more than the venue ever could.

With that gentle dragging sound they usually made, the doors opened, and then a chorus of well-known voices and unapologetic laughing rolled in. You knew who it was without having to look. The Dagger squad always moved as if they owned the space, making noise unintentionally and moving effortlessly in a way that hurt more tonight than normal.

Still, your eyes found him, like they always did. He was walking in with the others, head tilted back in a half-laugh, one hand motioning as he told some story you couldn’t hear. 

And there it was, that smile. The one that had made you say yes when he got down on one knee with a ring that didn’t fit the first time. The one that had made your mother cry at the wedding. The one that used to come home to you.

You’d been married for three years today, and somehow, that smile still had the power to stop your heart, and then let it fall straight through your ribs when he never looked toward the booth where you sat waiting.

Now, it was just the same smile he gave to everyone else. The one he wore when he was surrounded by people who didn’t know he was late to dinner with his wife. Who didn’t ask why she’d been sitting alone for almost two hours.

He didn’t scan the room, didn’t check his phone, didn’t look like a man who’d forgotten something. He looked like a man who thought he’d shown up right on time.

Eventually, he broke off from the group and wandered over like he wasn’t late. Like this was just when he said he’d be here. You saw him before he saw you, wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, nothing new, nothing clean-shaven or thoughtful.

He hadn’t changed, and maybe he didn’t think he had to. You looked down at your dress, then back up at him, and something in your chest folded in on itself a little.

He slid into the booth across from you, leaned back like he was settling in, not even a flicker of awareness on his face. “Hey, baby,” he said, like it hadn’t been almost two hours since he said he’d meet you. His eyes ran over you slowly, and he smiled in that way that used to feel like everything. “You look good. Real good. Didn’t know we were dressing up tonight.”

You smiled, just barely. Enough to hide behind. You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, hands in your lap, nails pressing into your palms while you pretended your eyes weren’t glassy. He didn’t notice. He reached for a drink menu like everything was fine, like this was just another night and not your third anniversary, not the night you thought he’d try, not the night you’d been hoping might feel different.

He didn’t say anything about the wait. Just leaned back, stretched his arm across the top of the booth, and said, “God, I’m starving. We barely had time to breathe today. Did I tell you about that mess with the fueling crew?”

You shook your head, reached for another fry. It tasted off. A little cold, a little too stiff around the edges. You chewed slowly, nodded like you were listening.

“So I’m coming in, right? Just a standard touch-and-go, and these guys have the fuel truck parked in the worst damn spot. I had to wave off at the last second, nearly clipping the whole left side. Everyone was losing their minds.” He laughed like it was the best part of his day. “But I still stuck the landing. Clean as hell.”

“Sounds like it,” you said quietly, eyes down on your plate. You picked at the fries, stacking two side by side, like that would make them taste better.

Jake reached for one of his own, tossed it in his mouth, then kept going. “And then in the ready room, Phoenix tries to say it would’ve been her best time if she hadn’t had to circle. I told her she’s just mad because I beat her by a second and a half.” He grinned at that, proud in the way he always was when he thought he’d won something.

You gave a small smile. “She probably is.”

He didn’t notice the edge in your voice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. He just kept eating, kept talking, kept filling the space with his own words like they were enough, like you weren’t still trying to feel something other than disappointment.

You kept nodding, kept smiling just enough. Your hands stayed busy with the fries, breaking them in half, lining them up, pretending they were more than just something to do. He was still talking, now about something Fanboy said in the locker room, something stupid and loud that had the whole squad laughing.

You gave a soft laugh, because you were supposed to. It wasn’t fake, it just didn’t come from anywhere deep.

He reached across the table and stole one of your fries without asking. “Yours are better than mine,” he said with a grin.

“They’re the same fries,” you murmured.

He chuckled, then grabbed his drink and leaned back again like he was perfectly at home. “I’m just saying. Maybe you’ve got the lucky batch.” He looked around the bar, like he just now realized how full it had gotten. “We should’ve gotten here earlier. The place was packed when we walked in.”

You looked at him for a second. Just looked, and he didn’t meet your eyes. “Yeah,” you said. “Would’ve been nice.”

“Alright,” he said, setting his glass down harder than he meant to. “What’s going on with you?”

You blinked, looked up from the plate, from the last fry you hadn’t touched. “What?”

“You’re being weird.” He huffed a breath, sat back again. “You’ve barely said two words since I got here. You’re just… quiet.”

You stared at him, then let your eyes drop to the table. “I’ve said plenty.”

“Yeah, sure, if you count one-word replies and fake laughs.”

You swallowed, tried to keep your voice steady. “Jake, I waited here for almost two hours.”

His jaw tightened. “I told you we had a long day.”

You looked at him again. Not angry, but just tired. “I know.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was waiting for more. Like he thought that should’ve been enough to explain everything.

You breathed out slowly. “Can we just go home?”

That softened him, but only for a second. “Seriously? We just got here.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, the way you used to when he knew what you meant without you having to say it. Tonight, he looked back like he didn’t recognize it at all.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, annoyed now. “You could’ve just said something if you didn’t want to come. I wouldn’t’ve dragged you out.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s not that I didn’t want to come.”

“Then what is it?” His voice dropped, still low but tighter, like he was trying not to make a scene. “You’ve been off all night, acting like I did something wrong just by showing up.”

You blinked at him. For a second, you didn’t speak, and when you finally did, your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “You forgot, Jake.”

He looked confused. “Forgot what?”

You just looked at him.

There was a beat of silence where you watched it land, the way his face shifted, not in shock, not even guilt, just realization, slow and heavy. He swore under his breath, leaned back in the booth like he needed to buy himself a second.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure.

You picked up your bag, not rushed, not dramatic. Just done.

“I don’t want to do this here.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, then stood up with a muttered “Fine,” and followed you out, the same way he always did when he couldn’t figure out why you were upset, but wanted to win the fight anyway.

He paid without looking at the bill, and didn't even wait for his change. He just pulled his wallet out, dropped a few bills on the counter, and left the rest behind like he couldn’t stand to stay a second longer. You followed a few steps behind, quiet, eyes lowered. The door swung shut behind you and the air outside felt heavier than it had before.

You looked up for a second. The sky didn’t give you much. Just a dull stretch of gray and a low haze sitting over everything. No stars. No moon. Just a tired kind of sky, the kind that wasn’t angry or storming, just done. It felt familiar in a way you wished it didn’t. There was nothing left to look at, so you dropped your gaze and caught sight of him already walking ahead.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t say anything. Just moved toward the car like the conversation was over, like the argument didn’t even count. You kept your pace steady, didn’t rush, didn’t trail. When you reached the car, he didn’t bother with the door. 

You opened it yourself, slid into the passenger seat, and pulled the belt across your chest without a word. He got in right after, his door slamming harder than necessary. The sound echoed louder than it should have.

Neither of you said anything. He started the engine, hand steady on the wheel, eyes on the road like that was the only thing that mattered. You looked out the window, watching the streetlights blur past. 

The silence between you wasn’t new. It had been growing in small, quiet ways for a while now, showing up in missed calls, short replies, and late arrivals. You’d just never sat in it like this before.

The car moved through the night, headlights cutting through the dark like it owed you something. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but maybe that said more than anything either of you could have come up with.

The drive wasn’t long, but it felt endless. When he pulled into the driveway, he didn’t kill the engine right away. Just sat there for a moment with his hands on the wheel, like maybe he was waiting for you to say something, or maybe trying to decide if he would. You didn’t look at him. You just unbuckled your seatbelt, pushed open the door, and stepped out.

Inside the house, the lights were still off. You didn’t bother turning them on. You kicked your shoes off at the door and walked straight to the kitchen, opening the fridge even though you weren’t hungry. It was just something to do. You heard him behind you, keys hitting the counter harder than they needed to.

“I didn’t forget,” he said again, from somewhere behind you.

You kept your back to him. “You didn’t remember either.”

There was a pause. He let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You closed the fridge, leaned your hands against the counter, kept your head low. You weren’t ready to yell. You didn’t even want to. You just wanted something to make sense. Something to feel like it mattered to him the way it still, somehow, mattered to you.

He stepped further into the room, pacing a little now. “I’ve had a hell of a week. You know that.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning toward him. “I know you’re tired. I just thought maybe today… maybe this one day wouldn’t get pushed to the side.”

He scoffed under his breath and shook his head, pacing once across the living room before turning back toward you. “So that’s it? One bad night and you’re acting like I don’t give a damn about you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched him speak, watched the way he filled the room with sound but never really with presence. That has started to happen more often lately. He was there, but not really. Like a shadow of himself that still moved, still talked, still showed up, but only halfway.

He threw his hands a little. “You knew I had a packed week. Command’s been on our asses since Monday, and today just got away from me. You think I wanted to show up late? You think I meant for it to go like this?”

You swallowed, barely audible over his voice. “You didn’t even text.”

That stopped him for a second. His mouth opened like he had a comeback, but nothing came out right away. So instead, he shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “I figured I’d just get there and explain. I didn’t think you’d sit there and count every damn minute.”

“I wasn’t counting,” you said quietly. “I was hoping.”

Your voice cracked a little on the last word, and for a second, it went quiet again. He looked away, jaw tense, hands on his hips like he was trying to breathe through it, like this was harder for him than it was for you. That stung in a way you didn’t have words for.

“You always do this,” he muttered, not quite looking at you. “Turn every little thing into something it’s not.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking like you couldn’t believe what you just heard.

“Every little thing?” you repeated, voice flat. “Is that what this is?”

He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You took a slow breath, stepped away from the counter. “You showed up almost two hours late. On our anniversary. No message. No call. Nothing. And then you sat there, talking about yourself like I hadn’t been sitting alone the entire time.” Your voice stayed even, but it was starting to push. “You think that’s a little thing?”

Jake looked at you, finally really looked, and for a second he didn’t have anything to say.

“I put on a dress,” you said, quieter now, like you were almost saying it to yourself. “I sat at that table thinking maybe this time would be different. That maybe you’d remember before the last minute, maybe you’d actually want to show up and not just be there.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped in first.

“And I’m not talking about the Hard Deck. I’m not even mad about that,” you said. “It could’ve been burgers in the truck. It could’ve been a walk. I just wanted to feel like you cared enough to try.”

The silence between you stretched out again, but this time it felt different. He looked stuck between anger and guilt, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You really think I don’t care?” he asked, like the words offended him.

And for the first time tonight, you didn’t look away. “I think you only care when it’s easy.”

Jake let out a short, bitter laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s bullshit.”

Your arms folded before you even realized. “Is it?”

He stepped forward, shoulders squared now. “You’re acting like I don’t show up for you at all, like I haven’t been breaking my back trying to keep everything together lately.”

“I never asked you to keep everything together,” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. “I asked you to be there. For this. For me.”

“I am here.”

“No, Jake,” you said, louder now. “You’re standing in the room, but you’re not here. Not where it counts.”

His hands went to his hips again, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you, eyes sharp now. “So what, I miss dinner and suddenly I’m the villain? You act like I don’t care, like I didn’t want this marriage too.”

“You didn’t miss dinner, Jake. You missed all of it. You missed me sitting there thinking maybe tonight would be the night you show up on time, say something that sounds like you still see me.”

He raised his voice then, something in him finally snapping. “What do you want from me?!”

And that hit harder than you expected. You stared at him, chest tight, hands cold at your sides.

“I want you to stop acting like loving me is something you have to schedule around.”

He opened his mouth again, but you weren’t done this time. The words came fast, your voice not yelling now, but loud enough to shake the quiet between you.

“I want to stop feeling like I have to earn my place in my own marriage.”

That landed. He looked at you, stunned for a second, like he didn’t know who you were. Like maybe he’d finally heard you, but still, he didn’t step closer.

“I’m tired, Jake,” you said, and your voice broke right through the middle.

His mouth opened, but the words didn’t come fast enough. You didn’t wait.

“I’m tired of waiting for you to notice I’m not okay. I’m tired of pretending this feels normal when it doesn’t. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers things like tonight. And I’m so tired of feeling like I have to apologize for wanting more from the person I married.”

Jake looked at you, his face hard but his eyes uncertain now. “I’m doing the best I can—”

“Are you?” you cut in, quieter, breath shaking as you blinked back the tears. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m begging you for scraps of attention while you show up late and still act like I should be grateful.”

He looked away for a second, jaw tight, and dragged a hand over his face. “You always do this. Twist things around like I don’t care. Like I don’t try.”

“I don’t want to twist things,” you said, the words tumbling out, softer now but raw. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you still care the way you used to. But you don’t even look at me the same. And maybe that’s normal after time, maybe it is, but I can’t be the only one trying to keep us from fading.”

Your voice cracked again and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, quiet and unchecked. Jake saw them, but he didn’t move toward you. He just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with them, like they were a problem he didn’t sign up to solve.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

Jake’s hands went to his hips again, pacing like he couldn't sit still in it, like he needed to keep moving so it wouldn’t catch up to him. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like coming home to this? To you looking at me like I’m never enough?”

You flinched, then straightened. “I never said you weren’t enough.”

“Then what is this?” he shouted. “You corner me the second we walk through the door, throw every single thing I’ve done wrong in my face, and now what? I’m the bad guy because I’m not good at anniversaries?”

You laughed once, sharp and tired. “You’re not bad at anniversaries, Jake. You just don’t care.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling fast now. “That’s not true.”

“Then what is?” Your voice rose with his, loud now, hoarse. “Because I am standing here telling you I’m hurting and all you do is try to win the argument.”

He stepped toward you, hands up like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I’m not perfect? That I’m not romantic enough, not soft enough, not whatever-the-hell you built up in your head?”

You stared at him, breathing hard, heart in your throat. You’d been holding the words back for weeks, maybe longer. “I want a divorce.”

The words hit the room like a door slamming shut. No build-up, no lead-in, just the truth, finally out in the open. Jake stopped moving. He looked at you like you’d slapped him.

Jake shook his head like he could physically knock the words out of the air. Like hearing them once had been too much. “No,” he said again, sharper this time. “No, you don’t mean that.”

His voice was thin around the edges, like it couldn’t decide if it was anger or panic.

You stood still, your arms at your sides, your hands curled into fists without thinking. The air in the room felt tight. Too full. You felt like you couldn’t take a deep breath.

Jake took a step forward. “You’re upset. You’re mad. We’ve fought before. This isn’t—this isn’t how this ends.”

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him. He looked like a man trying to stop a fire with his bare hands.

“We can fix this,” he said again, louder now, like volume could glue something broken back together. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. I’ll do better. I’ll fucking try harder.”

Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “Why now?” You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Why is it always after I say I’m done that you finally try?”

Jake flinched. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, eyes darting like he needed something to land on. “Don’t do this. You said forever. We said forever.”

You were already crying, but it wasn’t gentle. It was hot and hard and sudden. “I know what I said.”

“I stood in front of you,” he said, stepping closer like that might change something. “You were in that dress. Your hair was pinned back and your hands were shaking. I remember. I remember saying I’d stay. Through everything.”

His voice cracked on the word everything, but he pushed through it, chest rising and falling fast. “I said I’d love every version of you, even when you changed, even when I did. That I’d never walk away, that I’d never stop showing up.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But all of that should’ve been said hours ago. Weeks ago. Before you had to ask for it.

“Stop,” you said, voice low, strained.

He kept going, stepping closer like he was reaching back through time. “You looked up at me with those eyes and I knew it then. I meant it. I still mean it. I love you—”

“Stop!” you screamed, cutting through his words like glass shattering on tile.

Your voice echoed in the kitchen. It was too loud. Too full of everything you’d been swallowing for months. Jake froze like you’d hit him. His mouth was still half-open, but nothing else came out. His hands were shaking now. Yours were, too.

You wiped at your face roughly, but the tears kept coming anyway. Not from anger. Not even from heartbreak. You were just... done. And he was still three steps behind.

Jake stayed where he was, frozen in the middle of the kitchen like he couldn’t figure out whether to come closer or disappear. His hands slowly dropped to his sides, his eyes still locked on yours, searching your face like he could find a version of you that hadn’t said it. That hadn’t meant it.

Your shoulders rose and fell, shaky from the way your breath came in uneven pulls. You swiped at your cheeks again, slower this time, like maybe it would make it all stop spinning.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you said finally, voice raw. “But I can’t keep pretending this is working.”

Jake moved like his body didn’t want to, taking one small step forward. His voice was quieter now. “So you’re really just giving up.”

You looked at him. Not through him, not around him, but at him.

“I already gave everything I had, Jake,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. It just sounded tired. “You just didn’t notice I was running out.”

He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenched like he was biting something back. Then he opened them and looked around, like maybe the kitchen, the walls, the clock ticking on the stove might offer some answer he hadn’t thought of, but there was nothing. Just the stale echo of your shouting and the dull hum of the fridge in the background.

“You’re really serious,” he said after a moment, quieter now.

You nodded, your lips parting to speak but nothing coming out right away. When it did, it was softer than either of you expected. “I don’t want to keep resenting you just to stay married to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

The silence felt like it had teeth now, heavy and stretching between you both. You didn’t fill it. You just stood there, in the same house where you’d laughed on the floor unpacking dishes, where you’d fallen asleep on the couch more times than you could count, where you thought you'd spend a lifetime.

However, lifetimes don’t always last forever, and not even love was enough if it kept leaving one of you behind.

[hangmanwrites]

main masterlist ♡

hi, i’m anna, nineteen, from earth, and five years into this tumblr thing. this is a new blog with the same old love for stories and static. i write soft things, sometimes loud, mostly from feeling. i’m a night owl, a busy daydreamer, and a gentle oversharer. i try to write as much as i can, even when life gets in the way. i post every other day, sometimes daily if time is kind.

requests are always open. i’d love to hear from you, so feel free to stop by with ideas, thoughts, or just to say hi. reblogs are appreciated, but please do not repost my work or feed it into ai tools. all writing here is mine. i do not support ai-generated fanfiction. please respect this space and the heart that goes into it.

support is never expected but always appreciated. my ko-fi is here if you’d like to drop by ☕💌

⿻ top gun: maverick i write for certain characters only. requests are open. i write angst, smut, and fluff. i do not write dark themes such as non-con, dub-con, or anything involving abuse.

▬ jake "hangman" seresin three steps behind ━ angst, no happy ending, 4905 words ━ you wore the dress. he wore a t-shirt. you waited ninety-seven minutes. he smiled like nothing was wrong. and when you said you were tired, he still thought love was enough. a hangman-made disaster ━ series part one ━ angst, fluff, 10729 words ━ you swore you hated jake seresin, but one drunk night proved you were also stupid. now you're staring at a very positive pregnancy test in your bathroom, wearing an oversized shirt you stole from him, and wishing this was just a nightmare, but it's not. it's real. and unfortunately, so is the seresin baby currently plotting world domination in your uterus.

▬ bradley "rooster" bradshaw crawling back to you ━ series part one ━ angst , 11538 words ━ eight months after signing the divorce papers, bradley sees you again at mav and penny’s wedding. it’s supposed to be simple. small talk and nothing serious, but the thing is, the love never really left.

▬ robert "bob" floyd ▬ mickey "fanboy" garcia ▬ pete "maverick" mitchelle

⿻ marvel cinematic universe i write for certain characters only. requests are open. i write angst, smut, and fluff. i do not write dark themes such as non-con, dub-con, or anything involving abuse.

▬ bucky barnes ▬ steve rogers ▬ loki laufeyson ▬ bob reynolds ▬ erik lehnsherr

⿻ criminal minds i write for select characters only. requests are open. due to the nature of the show, some dark themes may be present in context, but i do not write non-con, dub-con, or anything graphic involving abuse. my focus is on character, emotion, and recovery. expect angst, fluff, and the occasional smut.

▬ dr. spencer reid in sickness and still ━ fluff, sick reader, 2374 words ━ you wake up sick, expecting spencer to avoid you like he always does with germs. instead, he stays, takes care of you, and shows you just how much he loves you.

▬ aaron hotchner

⿻ star wars i write for certain characters only. requests are open. i write angst, smut, and fluff. i do not write dark themes such as non-con, dub-con, or anything involving abuse.

▬ obi-wan kenobi ▬ anakin skywalker ▬ luke skywalker ▬ poe dameron

thank you for reading my works. it truly means so much to me every time someone takes the time to sit with my words. writing is something i do from feeling, and knowing it reaches someone out there makes all the overthinking and late nights worth it. whether you’re here for one fic or many, i’m so grateful you’re here. your support keeps me going.