mrsevans90

[mrsevans90]

Him Part 3

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Torn between safety and fire, you're caught in a love triangle with Bradley Bradshaw and Jake Seresin. In the aftermath of heartbreak, you must choose between the comfort of what was and the challenge of what could be — and finally fight for the love that makes you feel alive.

Word Count: 10.8k (literally the longest thing I've ever written omg)

Trigger warnings: Cursing, toxic relationship dynamic? , yelling, I'm sorry if I miss anything! unedited asf

A/N: I honestly wasn’t going to write a part 3 to this but all it took was at least 3 people asking lol. This is the final part and I even included 2 very short extras at the end just for the very long wait. I kinda of love how this turned out, it didn’t go the way that I thought it would when I first wrote the other 2 parts but the ideas started flowing when I started writing this so. As always, if there is anything else you want to see please ask! 

Him part 1 Him part 2

Asked to be tagged plus original taglist: (so sorry if y'all don't want to be on here, please just lmk and I'll remove you, I know its been a long time since the last parts have be released!) @khouse712 @mrsevans90 @dempy @budugu

NOT MY GIF

You stood on that sidewalk long after Jake disappeared back into the Hard Deck. The door had swung shut behind him, muffling the sound of laughter and music—none of it reached you.

You were alone.

The realization slammed into you harder than any landing you'd ever pulled. Bradley was gone. Jake was… right. And you were still standing in the same place like your feet were cemented into the pavement, heart broken and head spinning.

Finally you decided to leave, but you couldn’t go home, not just yet. 

You sat in your car for what felt like forever, parked just down the street from the Hard Deck. The ocean breeze carried in through the open window, cooling your skin, but nothing could calm the war raging inside your chest. Your fingers still trembled slightly from what had just unfolded — from the way Bradley’s voice broke when he said goodbye, from the way Jake didn’t flinch when you screamed at him like he had expected it, like he had braced for the blow long before you even threw it.

And the worst part? You didn’t even know who you were crying for.

Bradley was good. So good. Kind, steady, dependable. He was what you thought love was supposed to be — warm, safe, handed to you easily. With Bradley, there were no games, no confusion, no second-guessing. He showed up. He stayed. He loved you with the kind of softness that should’ve been enough. That maybe was enough… for someone else.

But lately, it felt like everything he gave you was just… too easy. Like you didn’t earn it. He worshipped you without making you fight for it, handed you his heart without question, without challenge. And maybe that’s what broke your heart most — the realization that you never had to work for Bradley's love made it feel… less real. Or maybe just less yours.

You loved him. You did. You cared deeply, you admired the way he loved your family, how he noticed little things about you, how he made room for you in his life without hesitation. But were you in love with him?

You weren’t so sure anymore.

Because then there was Jake.

God, Jake.

Jake who made you feel everything so intensely it was exhausting. Jake who never let you settle into autopilot. Who called you out, challenged you, made you rise to the occasion just to stand beside him. He didn’t hand things over — he made you work for them, earn them. And it wasn’t cruel, not really. It was invigorating. It was fire. It made the wins feel real, like they were born from effort, not expectation.

With Jake, you weren’t soft. You were sharp, quick, alive. Competitive. You gave as good as you got, and he loved that. He saw you — the messy, hard-headed, complicated version of yourself — and never tried to fix it. He matched it.

Bradley gave you peace.

Jake gave you purpose.

Bradley made you feel safe.

Jake made you feel seen.

You didn’t grow up with safety. Your childhood taught you that love was something you had to earn — to hustle for, to prove yourself worthy of. So when Bradley gave it to you without question, you clung to it like a lifeline, convinced this was what you’d always wanted. This was the dream. Easy. Whole. Gentle.

But easy started to feel like a trap.

Maybe love wasn’t supposed to be easy. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be one-sided devotion without friction. Maybe it was supposed to burn a little — not so it hurt, but so it meant something.

Jake made it mean something.

He didn’t hand himself over. He made you chase it. And when you got it — when he let that guard down, when he smiled at you like you were the only one in the room, if he told you he loved you — it would feel earned. Real. Yours.

Bradley never made you question how he felt.

Jake made you question everything else.

And now… you had neither.

You made it home somehow.

You didn’t remember the drive — just the distant hum of the engine, your hands white-knuckled around the wheel, the sting in your chest growing sharper with every mile between you and the Hard Deck. Jake’s voice still echoed in your head, raw and pleading. Bradley’s goodbye carved itself into your memory like a scar you’d never be able to scrub clean.

By the time you pulled into your driveway, your body felt foreign — like you were moving on autopilot. When you stepped out of the car, the wind was too quiet. The world felt too still. Every sound muffled under the crushing weight of everything you didn’t say, everything you couldn’t take back.

Your keys trembled in your hand as you tried to unlock the door, tears blurring your vision until the key finally slid into place. You pulled the door open and stepped into your apartment.

The silence was deafening.

The emptiness hit you like a punch to the chest.

It was too quiet. And it was still his.

Bradley’s jacket was still hanging by the door — the one he always wore after flights, the one that still smelled faintly like jet fuel and his cologne. His toothbrush was still resting in the holder next to yours, toothpaste cap unscrewed just the way he always left it. There were takeout menus on the counter from the Thai place he loved. The couch still had the dent from where he’d fallen asleep watching movies with you two nights ago.

Your home was haunted by him. Every inch of it. Every breath.

Your knees gave out the second the door closed behind you.

You crumpled to the floor in the hallway like a puppet whose strings had been severed. No strength. No structure. Just grief. Just regret. The sobs tore from your chest without warning — raw, desperate, ugly. You folded in on yourself as the ache took over, chest heaving, heart splintering open in real time.

You didn’t even try to stop it.

You couldn’t.

Because this was the moment it hit you — not in pieces, but all at once.

You had lost them both.

Bradley, with his quiet steadiness and gentle heart. His hands that knew how to hold you without asking. The safe place you never thought you’d be lucky enough to find.

And Jake, with his reckless love and sharp tongue. His fire that burned hot enough to wake something in you you didn’t even know you had. The challenge you didn’t realize you craved until he gave it to you.

You loved them both. In different ways. For different reasons.

But now you had neither.

And the emptiness of your apartment — your life — was deafening in their absence.

You buried your face in your hands and cried until your body couldn’t take it anymore. Until the sobs became silent and your muscles trembled with the weight of it all. Until the only thing you could feel was the cold of the tile beneath your legs and the thudding pulse in your ears.

You were in love with two people.

And now you were utterly, completely alone.

You couldn’t sleep that night, no matter how exhausted you were. Mentally, emotionally, physically, it felt like you couldn’t move on. 

You thought back to different moments, the small ones. Ones that felt so insignificant at the time, like it was something that just happened and you wouldn’t remember it, but they replayed in your head on a loop. 

The smell of garlic and basil filled the kitchen, warmth radiating from the oven and the soft flicker of the overhead light. You moved around each other like magnets, pulling away just in time to avoid collision, then falling back into rhythm like you were choreographed — a duet  barefoot on the tile floor.

Bradley stood at the stove, stirring a pot of sauce with lazy focus, while you diced tomatoes at the island, your eyes flicking up every so often just to watch him. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled up, curls a little damp from the shower he’d taken not long after his flight. He was humming something under his breath — the same melody playing from the old record player in the corner. Fleetwood Mac, maybe. Something slow. Something warm.

Every now and then, he’d drift closer. Drop a kiss to your temple. Steal a piece of tomato from your cutting board and wink when you swatted at him. It was easy. So easy. Like you’d done it a million times before. Like this was your life. Like this had always been your life.

You turned your back for a moment to rinse off your hands, and when you turned around again, he was watching you.

Not just looking — watching.

Like you were the whole world.

“What?” you asked, bashful but smiling.

He just shook his head slowly, eyes soft. “Nothing,” he said. “Just… I hope this is what forever looks like.”

Your heart clenched — not in fear or confusion, but in the gentle swell of something safe. Something certain. Because this, right here — quiet music, shared space, easy laughter and full hearts — this was the kind of life little girls dreamed about. And for a while, you believed it would be enough.

Maybe it still could’ve been.

But then there was also Jake who wouldn’t stop infiltrating your mind. It was a constant war about who’s turn it was on the tv screen in your head. 

You sat on the floor of the training room, back against the cold wall, legs outstretched, flight suit peeled halfway down. Sweat clung to your skin, and so did the weight of the last few months — the pressure, the expectation, the failure you couldn’t outrun.

Your head hung low. Breaths shallow. You didn’t hear Jake come in until he sat down beside you.

He didn’t speak at first. Just sat there, close enough that your knees almost brushed. Let the silence settle without suffocating you. Let you breathe.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you finally muttered. Voice raw. “I’m done. I’m not good enough. This isn’t for me.”

He didn’t jump to disagree. He never did.

Instead, he leaned back on his hands and tilted his head toward you. “You’re not good enough?” he repeated, voice low but steady. “You’re one of the best pilots I’ve ever flown with, and you’re sitting here acting like the Navy’s doing you a favor by letting you show up.”

You looked away. Shame burned at your throat.

He kept going. “The Navy should be scared to lose you. Hell, I’d be scared to lose you. Because what you bring to that cockpit? That fire? That instinct? You can’t teach that. You just have it.”

You blinked fast, trying to hold back the sting in your eyes.

Jake shifted to face you fully now, his voice dropping lower. “You don’t have to carry all this shit by yourself, y’know. Let someone help. Let me help.”

“Why?” you asked, bitter. Tired. “Why would you even care?”

He looked at you like the question wounded him. “Because I believe in you. Because you’re better than you think. And because… I want you to be better. I want you to stay. I want you to fight for it.”

And somehow, when he said it — when he believed in you — it was enough to make you believe in yourself again.

From that day forward, you worked harder. You flew sharper. And on the days you faltered, he was always there — pushing you, pulling you, reminding you of the strength he saw even when you didn’t.

He didn’t give you the easy path.

He gave you the one you had to earn.

And somehow, that made it worth it.

The days passed in a blur — not fast, not slow. Just weightless. Like time was happening to you and you were floating above it, watching everything burn from behind glass.

You’d stopped checking your phone after the fourth day. Bradley hadn’t replied to any of your messages. Not the short apologies. Not the long paragraphs. Not even the voice memo you’d recorded with shaking hands, pouring every bit of your confusion, your guilt, your sadness into a cracked whisper in hopes he’d hear the honesty in your voice if not the words.

But it didn’t matter.

Everything was left on “read.”

Every message a ghost hanging in digital purgatory.

You still saw him, every day. In the hangar. In briefings. On the tarmac. You sat just a few chairs down from him during debriefs, but it might as well have been miles. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak your name. He was polite, professional — cold. Like you were nothing more than another pilot in the room.

Jake was no better.

He’d returned to the version of himself the Navy had always known — cocky, aloof, emotionally impenetrable. He didn’t look at you either, not even in the subtle, quiet ways he used to. He didn’t linger in doorways, didn’t find excuses to brush past you in the halls or throw a one-liner your way just to see you roll your eyes.

Both of them had disappeared, even though they were still right there.

You were invisible.

And maybe — deep down, where it hurt the most — that’s what you deserved.

The squad felt it too. The Dagger squad, normally so tight-knit, so loud and full of banter, had grown quiet. Disjointed. Like everyone was waiting for a storm to pass, unsure of whether they were supposed to take shelter or run.

You kept your head down. You flew. You followed orders. You pretended.

Until the locker room.

You’d just finished a grueling training flight. Your body ached, your eyes heavy, and your chest… hollow. You peeled out of your flight suit in silence, mechanically reaching for your towel when you heard the door swing open behind you. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

“Jesus,” Phoenix muttered, leaning against the row of lockers. “You look like hell.”

You didn’t respond at first, just slumped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor like it might offer you answers.

“I’m not here to start anything,” She said, arms crossed, voice gentler now. “But someone has to say something. And no offense, but you're starting to bring the rest of us down with you.”

You managed to look up at her, eyes rimmed red, exhaustion written into every line of your face. “What do you want me to say?”

She sighed, tilting her head. “I want you to stop pretending like no one knows what happened.”

You flinched, eyes darting away.

“Jake told you how he felt,” She guessed. “And Bradley found out?”

You didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then you gave the faintest nod.

Phoenix exhaled slowly, pushing her tongue into her cheek like she was trying to decide whether to go easy on you or rip the Band-Aid clean off. “Damn.”

Your voice cracked. “I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t want this to happen.”

“But it did,” She said, not unkindly. “And now you have to figure out what the hell you’re going to do about it.”

“I don’t know,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips like dead weight. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. I just” You trailed off for a second, “I don’t want to lose both of them.”

“Well,” She said, crouching beside the bench so you had no choice but to meet her eyes, “then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you stood on that damn deck and didn’t walk away.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m not judging you,” Phoenix added, more gently now. “God knows, none of us are perfect. But you do have to stop acting like this all just happened to you. Like you weren’t in the middle of it.”

You blinked, and a single tear slipped down your cheek.

Phoenix reached up and handed you a towel — not for your body, but for your face.

“I’m saying this because I care,” She said. “And because I’ve seen what you look like when you’re fighting. You’re not fighting right now. You’re spiraling. And that’s not the version of you I know.”

You pressed the towel to your eyes, shaking hands trying to contain something so much bigger than just heartbreak.

“I think you love them both,” Phoenix said. “But love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a choice. So stop running from it and figure out which one you’re willing to fight for.”

And with that, she stood up and left you in the silence again.

Only now, you couldn’t ignore it.

Because she was right.

You were spiraling.

And it was time to decide whether you were going to keep free-falling — or finally pull the damn chute.

You didn’t plan it.

You were still in your flight gear, sweat dried to your skin, eyes swollen from another night of half-sleep and restless thinking. But something in you couldn’t take the silence anymore. The limbo. The not knowing.

You just had to see him.

Had to try.

Bradley’s truck was in the driveway. Your heart twisted when you saw it. The porch light was off, curtains drawn. His house looked cold. Uninviting. Nothing like the home it used to be — the place where you cooked dinner, made fun of each other’s music tastes, talked about the future like it was a shared promise.

You stood at the door for a full minute before knocking.

There was a long pause, then the door creaked open.

Bradley stood there in a worn t-shirt and flannel pants, looking like he hadn’t slept either. His face was unreadable. Eyes tired. Shoulders tight.

You opened your mouth but didn’t know what to say.

He beat you to it.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Your chest sank. “I know. I just… I wanted to talk.”

He laughed — bitter and joyless. “You want to talk now?”

“I didn’t know what to say then,” you said quietly. “I still don’t. But I’m trying.”

“You’re trying?” he snapped. “Now you’re trying?”

You flinched.

“I begged you to be honest with me. I told you from the beginning, all I wanted was the truth. And instead I get blindsided by Hangman, of all people, pouring his heart out to you while you just stood there.”

“I didn’t know how to react—”

“You didn’t say no,” he cut in sharply, stepping closer. “You didn’t push him away. You didn’t even look surprised. Because part of you wanted it. You wanted him to say it.”

Your voice cracked, “That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair,” he said, voice rising now, “is that I let myself believe you were all in. I gave you everything. I loved you like I’d never get the chance to again. And the whole time, you were still looking for a reason to run.”

His volume tipped just above what it should have. His voice didn’t just rise — it hit.

And you flinched again, harder this time.

Not because he would hurt you. You knew he wouldn’t.

But raised voices had never sat well with you. Not after what you grew up with. Not after the nights you pressed your hands over your ears and prayed for it to stop.

Bradley saw it the moment it happened.

The way your breath caught. The way your shoulders stiffened, instinct kicking in to shut down and protect.

He froze, instantly regretting everything.

“Shit,” he said, softer now, but the damage had already sunk in. 

You shook your head and took a step back, eyes glossy. You couldn’t be here anymore. Not like this. You turned without a word and walked off the porch, fast. You didn’t hear him call your name because you were already running. 

He had every right to yell, every right to be angry but your instincts kicked in too fast. 

You didn’t know where you were going until you were standing in front of Jake’s place.

And suddenly it was the only place you could go.

You knocked once, lightly.

The door opened slowly.

Jake blinked at you, clearly surprised. He looked you over — the flushed face, the trembling hands, the way your chest rose and fell too fast. He knew. He didn’t have to ask.

You saw the wall go up behind his eyes. The way he almost turned you away. You saw him think it — She’s only here because she has nowhere else to go.

And maybe that was true.

But he didn’t close the door.

Because Jake could be a lot of things — arrogant, sharp, selfish when he wanted to be — but cold wasn’t one of them. Not when it came to you.

He stepped aside.

You walked in.

You didn’t say a word.

Neither did he.

You sat on the edge of his couch. He grabbed a blanket from the other side and handed it to you silently before sinking into the armchair across from you. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t press. He just… stayed.

The room was quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the buzz of the air conditioner kicking on.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy.

It was safe.

And somehow, that was all you needed tonight.

Because for the first time in weeks, your body stopped bracing for impact.

You didn’t sleep that night — not really.

You dozed off sometime after midnight, curled under the blanket Jake gave you, the hum of silence louder than any conversation could’ve been. He didn’t sit near you. He didn’t even stay in the room. You heard him retreat to the kitchen at some point, maybe to give you space, maybe because he couldn’t handle the closeness either.

When you finally left, it was just after sunrise.

You folded the blanket. Set it gently on the arm of the couch. You didn’t leave a note. Didn’t say thank you. You didn’t want to turn this into something it wasn’t.

And Jake?

He didn’t come to the door. Didn’t say goodbye.

You were grateful and heartbroken at the same time.

The days that followed passed in a haze. You went through the motions — drills, briefings, PT. You kept to yourself. The squad, bless them, said nothing, though you could feel the way they looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention.

Bradley didn’t speak to you. Not even in passing.

Jake didn’t either.

It was like the night at his place never happened. Like it lived in a box you both refused to open.

And maybe that was for the best.

Maybe it had to stay that way.

Until a week later — when the new mission roster hit your inbox.

And there it was.

Your names next to each other. Dagger 2 and Dagger 3. That's all you were reduced to. A callsign and a number. 

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the screen, rereading the names over and over, like maybe they’d rearrange themselves into something easier to swallow. Your cursor hovered over the “Reply” button. Your mind scrambled for an excuse — pulled emergency leave, claimed mechanical issues, begged Warlock to reassign the pairing.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t keep running.

So you swallowed the knot in your throat and showed up to pre-flight with your game face on.

Jake was already there, standing beside the jet with his helmet tucked under one arm, checking the chalked checklist without sparing you a glance.

You felt your skin prickle just being near him. Not because you were angry. Not even because you were nervous. But because the silence between you had shape now — weight and memory.

It knew things no one else did.

You cleared your throat. “I’m good to go.”

Jake nodded, jaw tight. “Let’s just do our job.”

No banter. No warmth. Nothing.

Not even the barest flicker of what used to sit between you.

You climbed into your cockpit and strapped in, forcing yourself to focus. To breathe. To fly. Because if there was one thing you still knew how to do, it was to survive in the sky — even when everything else in your life felt like it was crashing around you.

The canopy sealed. The world narrowed.

You and Jake — just miles of blue above and tension thick as gravity between.

And the mission hadn’t even started yet.

You were in the air fifteen minutes when the comms crackled, his voice cutting through the static like a blade.

“Break left, incoming bogey at seven.”

Just like that — instinct. Command. No hesitation.

“Copy.”

You yanked hard on the stick, pulling into the maneuver without thinking, body braced against the Gs. But it wasn’t the sharpness of the turn or the angle of attack that made your pulse spike.

It was him.

Jake’s plane slotted in behind you seamlessly, wings a shadow to your own. His movements were precise, in sync with yours in a way that only came from muscle memory and years of trust. It was effortless — a language built in the sky. The kind you didn’t forget, even when everything else fell apart.

For a second, it was just like old times.

For a second, it almost felt like home.

But that illusion shattered the moment your boots hit the tarmac again.

The adrenaline crash hit you like a wave. You climbed down from the cockpit, unsteady, breath catching in your throat. You looked up just in time to see Jake walking away — helmet in one hand, shoulders squared, spine rigid.

You didn’t even think. Just called out.

“Jake.”

He didn’t stop.

You tried again, louder, heart in your throat.

“Jake, please.”

That stopped him. Just for a beat.

You jogged to catch up, footsteps echoing too loudly against the concrete. He stood still, back to you, head bowed like he didn’t want you to see the expression on his face.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said, words spilling out. “Pretending like nothing happened. Like you didn’t change everything.”

He exhaled, a sharp, bitter sound. “I didn’t change anything. I just told you the truth.”

“And I’m trying to understand what that truth means for me,” you said, stepping in front of him, forcing him to look at you.

Jake finally lifted his head, eyes locking on yours — tired, guarded, angry. Wounded.

“Figure it out,” he said, voice flat. “Then come talk to me. Until then? Don’t use me as your emotional fallout shelter.”

That hit deeper than you expected. You flinched like it was a slap.

“I’m not trying to use you,” you said, voice soft but urgent.

“But that’s what it feels like.” His voice cracked, and suddenly the edge wasn’t anger — it was pain. “You show up when you’re hurting. You fall apart in my arms and then walk away like it didn’t mean anything. Like I don’t mean anything.”

“I never meant to—”

“But you did,” he cut in, tone sharp again. “And maybe you didn’t realize it. Maybe you didn’t see what it did to me. But I’m not just some goddamn rebound.”

You felt your eyes sting, but you held his gaze.

“You think I’m gonna just wait around while you grieve a relationship I never had a shot against?” he asked, voice lower now, like it physically hurt him to say it.

You didn’t know how to answer. Because he wasn’t wrong.

You’d clung to Bradley because he was easy, safe, known. And you hadn’t even realized how deeply Jake had gotten under your skin until it was too late. Until he looked at you like this — like you broke something you didn’t even know you were holding.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you finally admitted. “I’m just… trying to breathe.”

He nodded once. Like he understood. Like he hated that he did.

“I meant what I said,” Jake told you, voice quieter now, raw. “I love you. I’m not gonna pretend I don’t. But I can’t keep tearing myself apart to be your second choice.”

Then he walked away.

And this time… you didn’t stop him.

You just stood there, heart in your throat, hands shaking, wondering if maybe you’d finally broken the one person who never asked you to be anything other than exactly who you were.

That night, you drove to the beach.

You didn’t plan it. You didn’t pack a jacket or check the forecast. You just turned off your phone, pointed the car toward the coast, and let your instincts take over. The radio was silent. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the thoughts clawing at your skull.

By the time you reached the shoreline, the sky had turned charcoal — the stars veiled by shifting clouds, the moon a pale glow above the waves. The wind pulled at your clothes, chilled your skin. You didn’t care.

You stepped out of your car and walked barefoot across the cool sand, your shoes slung from your fingertips like dead weight. The ocean roared in the distance — chaotic and endless — and you walked straight toward it until the foam licked at your ankles and shells pierced into your feet, cold and sharp and grounding.

You stood there, motionless. Let the waves take what they wanted.

And in the stillness, your thoughts split in two.

You thought of Bradley — of the way he touched you like you might break, like you were something worth protecting. You remembered Sunday mornings cooking in his kitchen, his hands grazing your hips as he reached past you for the coffee, the soft hum of music on the record player, his lips against your temple. The way he whispered, “I’ve got you,”and how, for a while, you believed him.

His love was gentle. Predictable. Safe.

And part of you ached for that. Ached for the comfort of it — for the stability you never had growing up, for the soft place to land you never knew you needed.

But then there was Jake.

Jake, who looked at you like you were made of fire and dared you to burn anyway. Who never gave you what you wanted without making you earn it, fight for it, prove yourself over and over until you believed you were worth it. Jake, who called you on your bullshit, who saw the darkness in you and didn’t flinch.

His love wasn’t quiet. It was a storm — reckless, consuming, real.

And you wanted that, too.

God, you wanted both.

You stood in the surf, staring into the black horizon, and felt the weight of your indecision crush you. Two men. Two loves. Two versions of yourself, depending on who you chose.

With Bradley, you were soft. You were held. With Jake, you were alive. You were seen.

And you? You were drowning somewhere in the middle, unsure of which version of yourself deserved to survive.

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Then another.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t try to stop them. You let yourself cry — silently, hopelessly — as the wind whipped your hair and the sea threatened to pull you under.

You cried for everything you’d ruined.

For what you wanted and couldn’t have.

For the two men who gave you pieces of themselves, and for the part of you that wondered if you were ever capable of giving something whole in return.

The ocean roared louder. The sky wept in your place.

And still, you stood there, ankle-deep in the surf, as the tide tried to take you — bit by bit — back to somewhere you couldn’t name.

Your mind kept wandering — like it always did these days — backward.

You thought about the night you first kissed Bradley. How warm his apartment had been, lit only by the low flicker of a lamp and the soft sound of some old country spinning on vinyl. You had both been a little drunk on wine and comfort, laughter still caught in your chests. He leaned in like he already knew you’d say yes. And when he kissed you, it felt… safe. Like sinking into a warm bed at the end of a long day. Easy. Familiar.

He was like a Sunday morning — slow and soft, like nothing in the world could hurt you for a little while. And when you were with him, the rest of the world did fade away. He let you breathe. Let you rest.

You could’ve built a life there. You almost did.

Then your mind shifted, unbidden, to Jake.

To the first time he challenged you in the air, when he rolled his jet too close on a training flight and you cursed him through the comms. He just laughed. Called you "pretty killer" with that damn smirk and dared you to catch him. You did. Barely. But you never forgot how alive you felt chasing him through the clouds.

You remembered the night in the training room — the one where you nearly broke. You’d sat on the bench, head in your hands, whispering that it was too much. That you weren’t sure you were strong enough to keep doing this.

And he hadn’t tried to fix it. He didn’t offer you an escape.

Instead, he crouched in front of you, looked you dead in the eye, and said, “You’re one of the best. You belong here. Don’t let them make you forget that. And if you can’t believe it yet — fine. Let me believe it for you until you do.”

He didn’t coddle you. He fought for you.

With Jake, there was fire. There were sharp edges. There were sleepless nights and flushed cheeks and arguments that ended with both of you out of breath and hearts wide open. He didn’t make it easy. And maybe that was the point.

With Jake, you earned your place. And somehow, that made it feel realer.

You looked down at your feet in the dark water, your jeans soaked halfway up your calves now. The ocean still pulled at you. But not as hard as the war in your chest.

Bradley had offered you a soft landing.Jake had dared you to fly higher.

And now, you stood somewhere in between — grounded in the sand, heart still hanging in the balance.

You weren’t ready to choose. Not yet.

But when you closed your eyes, the last voice you heard wasn’t Bradley’s.

It was Jake’s.

Low and fierce and unshakable.

“Let me help you be better.”

And maybe… just maybe… that was the kind of love you needed now.

Not comfort. Not rest.

But resurrection.

The Dagger squad had never been quieter.

Briefings were mechanical now. Eyes flicking between files and screens, no one daring to linger too long on anything — or anyone. You sat in the corner of the room, silent, tension bleeding from your shoulders like an open wound. Jake sat across from you, jaw locked, gaze glued to the floor. Bradley didn’t even look your way.

The air was thick, humming with a silence that was somehow louder than any shouting match.

You used to joke, used to laugh, used to fly like you were part of a living, breathing machine. Now, you were fragments. Pieces barely holding shape.

When the roster for the day went up and your name was paired with Bradley’s, the breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

Just a muttered, “Copy that,” as he stood and walked out.

The flight started fine. At least on paper.

You kept it clean, stayed in formation, hit every mark. But there was no rhythm. No flow. Bradley moved a second ahead of your instincts, and you lagged just a second behind his — which, for pilots like you, was an eternity. The comms were clipped, tension breaking through even in the way you said “Copy.” A small error in formation — barely noticeable — turned into a correction, which turned into overcorrection.

And then… radio silence.

You landed with your hands trembling slightly on the stick, your heart hammering against your ribcage. As the canopy opened and the dry heat hit your face, you pulled off your helmet and stared straight ahead. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

But Bradley did.

He was already out of the jet, helmet under his arm, striding toward you like a storm was about to break.

“Seriously?” he snapped the moment your boots hit the tarmac. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just stood there, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Do you even want to be up there?” he bit out. “Because if not, say something. Don’t make me look like a goddamn idiot in the sky!”

You flinched.

He was yelling. Not loud, but sharp. Bitter. The kind of yelling that was full of hurt dressed as anger.

“Bradley—” you tried, barely above a whisper.

“No. No, don’t Bradley me,” he cut you off, stepping closer. “You checked out the moment this started. You didn’t want to fly with me? Fine. Say it. But don’t jeopardize the flight just because you don’t know what the hell you want!”

That did it. Your vision blurred instantly. You clenched your fists, trying to will the tears away, but they were already tracking down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice cracking.

He blinked — surprised, maybe, that you didn’t argue. That you weren’t fighting him the way you used to.

That you just stood there. And took it.

You could see it the moment regret hit him, see how the rage in his chest wavered when he really looked at you — really saw the tears slipping down your face, how small and still you stood.

But it was too late.

“Bradley,” a voice called out behind him — maybe Coyote, maybe Mav — and a firm hand pulled him away before more damage could be done.

You didn’t watch him walk off.

You couldn’t.

You ducked behind the nearest jet, collapsed against the cool metal, and broke.

Your sobs were silent, shaky, body curled inward like maybe, if you folded in on yourself tightly enough, you’d disappear.

It was your fault. All of it. He was angry because of you. Hurt because of you. The squad walked on eggshells because of the crater you had created in the middle of them.

But even as you cried, another truth came bleeding through the cracks.

You weren’t crying because of the fight. You were crying because somewhere deep down, you had made your choice.

You wanted Jake.

Not just the fire. Not just the thrill. But the way he saw you. The way he pushed you when the world made you small. The way he made you feel like you could take a beating from life and still stand taller than before.

And you were ready to fight for that. For him.

And that's why you didn’t fight Bradley back. 

But when you looked up, wiping your face with shaking hands, your breath caught again.

Because Jake was standing on the far side of the tarmac.

He had seen it.

All of it.

His eyes met yours — far, but not far enough to miss the tears, the shuddering chest, the apology written all over your face.

And for a split second, it looked like he might come to you.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, frozen in the moment, torn in half — the part of him that wanted to run to you was battling the part that didn’t know if he was still welcome. Still wanted.

And when he finally turned away, walking off without a word…

It shattered something in you.

But it also settled something too.

Because now you knew — really knew — who you couldn’t live without.

And this time, you weren’t going to run from it.

It had been another week.Another week of silent glances and unfinished thoughts. Jake didn’t speak to you. Not during briefings. Not during drills. Not even when the two of you passed in the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, like strangers in a place that used to feel like home.

You were slowly breaking from the weight of it all — of him — pressing in your chest.

Bradley didn’t say much, either. But the way his eyes slid off you like water on glass made it clear: the damage was done. Irreparable or not, it had changed something between you.

And Jake… he didn’t even look at you anymore.

You tried not to resent it. You really did.

But the more you thought about him — about how he held your career and your heart with equal weight, how he never treated you like something fragile or too delicate — the more it hurt to be on the outside of it.

He hadn’t turned away from you on the tarmac because he didn’t care.

He did it because he did.

You knew that now.

You knew what you wanted — who you wanted.

And it terrified you.

But not more than losing him for good.

So when the sun dipped low behind the hangars one night and you saw Jake in the distance by the training deck — leaning against the railing, arms crossed, looking like the wind might knock him over — you finally gathered the pieces of yourself.

And you walked toward him.

Slow. Steady. Determined.

He heard your footsteps and turned, stiffening immediately.

“Not now,” he said, low and tired. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

“I know,” you replied. “But I need to say it anyway.”

Jake turned away, eyes on the horizon. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I’m not trying to,” you said gently, stopping beside him. “I’m trying to be honest. For the first time in a long time.”

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t walk away, either.

So you took a breath and began.

“You make me better, Jake. Not because you praise me. Not because you fix me. But because you push me. You believe in me — more than I’ve ever believed in myself. You make me fight for what I want. You make me work. And I like that. I need that.”

His jaw clenched, but still, he didn’t move.

“I thought love was supposed to be easy. I thought it meant safety and softness and never having to try. But you taught me something else — that the right kind of love doesn't coddle. It challenges. It lifts. It demands you grow, not because you're not good enough, but because you're already great, and someone sees that.”

You blinked hard, the emotion rising faster than you could contain.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, Jake,” you whispered. “Not in this squad. Not in this place. You pulled me out of one of the darkest times in my life and reminded me of who I was. You never let me give up. You saw me slipping and you didn’t let me fall.”

He exhaled, shoulders rising with it like the weight was physically painful.

“I don’t want someone who gives me love like it’s an obligation,” you continued, voice thick. “I want someone who sees me. Who expects me to show up for myself. Who loves me and my ambition. And that’s you. That’s always been you.”

Jake’s eyes flicked to yours — glassy, stormy, full of the kind of ache that didn’t go away with time.

“But I’m broken right now,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not whole. I’m still bleeding from what happened. And I don’t want to drag you through that. You don’t deserve to carry my weight.”

Jake swallowed, throat bobbing, his silence saying more than words could.

“I want to choose you,” you admitted, stepping closer. “And I will. I am. Not because I have nothing left, not because you’re my last option, but because you’re everything I want and I’m scared I saw that too late.  But not until I can give you everything. Not until I’m steady on my own again. Because you deserve all of me. Not a half-formed version that’s still haunted by someone else’s ghost.”

Jake looked at you like he wanted to reach out, to touch you, to say something — but his hands stayed at his sides. His mouth opened, then closed.

“I just needed you to know,” you finished softly. “Even if you hate me. Even if it’s too late. I needed you to hear it.”

The silence that followed was long and heavy. The sun finally dipped below the edge of the base, casting long shadows across the flight deck. You waited for a word — a reaction — anything.

But Jake just stared ahead again.

You nodded once, feeling the tear slip down your cheek.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

And you turned to leave — your chest cracked open but your soul, for once, lighter.

You had said it. All of it. And now, it was his turn.

The knock on Bradley’s door echoed louder than you expected. Your knuckles stung from how tightly your hand had been clenched the whole drive over. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you exhaled, shaky and uncertain.

The porch light flickered above you. You knew this house like the back of your hand — had laughed in this driveway, kissed him in the glow of that bulb on more than one late night. You remembered the smell of his detergent on your clothes, the familiar hum of his record player behind easy dinners, the feel of his arms around you when the world felt like too much.

Now you felt like a stranger.

You adjusted your jacket. Clutched your phone tight like it might anchor you.

You weren’t sure what you were going to say — not exactly. You had gone over it in your head a hundred times on the drive: “You didn’t deserve the way this happened.”“I never wanted to hurt you.”“You were my safe place, but Jake… Jake lit a fire I didn’t know I needed.”“I did love you. Maybe I still do. But not the way you deserve.”

Each version felt like peeling skin from a wound still raw.

But the truth was, you owed him this.

You owed him your honesty.

You owed yourself the closure.

Your fingers trembled as you reached up and knocked again. One soft tap. One breath.

The door opened.

Bradley stood there, backlit and unreadable — eyes tired, jaw tense, like the past few weeks had aged him by years. You swallowed hard.

“Hey,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t move.

You took a small step forward, heart hammering.

“I think we need to talk.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped aside.

You walked in.

And the door closed behind you.

You stood in the middle of the living room, the same room where you used to sit with your legs over his lap, laughing at old movies, stealing kisses between bites of takeout.

Now you stood there like a guest. Like an intruder.

Bradley didn’t sit. He stayed by the door, arms crossed over his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he could trust himself to get closer.

You turned to face him slowly, your voice catching before it even came out.

“I owe you an apology,” you started softly.

His jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I wasn’t planning it. I didn’t… I didn’t know I still had those feelings for Jake until they hit me in the face. And by then, it was already too late.”

“Too late for what?” he said sharply. “Too late to not rip my heart out?”

You flinched.

He sighed immediately, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Shit. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“No,” you whispered. “It was.”

There was a beat of silence before you continued.

“You’ve always been good to me, Bradley. So good. Safe. Solid. And I thought… I thought that was what love was supposed to be. Simple. Easy. Something that didn’t make my heart race in fear or uncertainty. I wanted that. Needed it, even.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“And I do love you. That hasn’t changed. But—”

“But you don’t love me like you love him.”

Your heart cracked a little deeper. “No. I don’t.”

He swallowed hard, and you could see the sheen in his eyes — the hurt he was trying so hard not to show. He nodded once, slow and resigned.

“I gave you everything,” he said, voice rough. “I thought that would be enough.”

“It was,” you said quickly, stepping closer. “For a while. But Jake… he didn’t just love me. He challenged me. He pushed me to be better. He reminded me that I don’t have to choose between being loved and being strong.”

Bradley looked up, finally meeting your eyes. “And I didn’t?”

“No,” you whispered. “You did. But it wasn’t your fault. I got too comfortable. I let myself become someone who stopped growing. And you kept loving me anyway.”

“I would’ve kept loving you forever.”

“I know,” you said, tears brimming. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

Silence again.

You stepped back, letting the space between you stretch and settle.

“I’m sorry for how it ended. For how I hurt you. That was never what I wanted.”

He nodded once. “I believe you.”

You turned toward the door, heart breaking all over again.

“I hope one day you’ll forgive me. But I understand if you don’t.”

Bradley didn’t stop you. Didn’t ask you to stay. He just said, quiet and tired:

“Take care of yourself.”

You paused in the doorway. Took one last look back at the man who had held you gently, who had never once asked you to be anything but soft.

The door clicked shut behind you, and for a long moment, you just stood there on the porch.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. You just breathed.

In.

Out.

Your chest still hurt, but the weight pressing against it had shifted — not gone, but different now. It wasn’t the ache of confusion or guilt or being torn in two. It was the ache of mourning something you had to let go of.

You had finally told the truth. And somehow, in the stillness that followed, you felt like you could breathe again.

But God, it hurt.

Then you left.

And the chapter closed.

The days that followed were strange.

Not easier. Just... quieter.

You didn’t text Jake. Didn’t try to see him.

You’d made your choice — but now you had to sit with it. Had to let him decide what he wanted in return.

And so, you gave him space.

Two weeks passed.

The ache in your chest dulled into something more bearable. You still caught yourself looking for Bradley out of habit — across the hangar, in the ready room, during takeoff. But the ache of missing him had shifted too. It wasn’t longing anymore. It was love, still — but love accepted. Love released.

And work, slowly, got better.

You started flying sharper again. Cleaner. Your confidence came back — not all at once, but little by little. You smiled more in the mornings. You joked with Fanboy and Bob at the coffee machine. You let Phoenix drag you into conversation at lunch. You didn’t have to fake your laughs anymore — not all the time.

You were taking care of yourself.

Not perfectly. But better.

You started sleeping again. Started eating better. Started trying again.

And though Jake hadn’t said a word to you since that day on the tarmac — not even a nod in your direction — you caught him watching sometimes. Just quick glances across the hangar, lingering half-seconds during drills. Never long enough to mean something. Never short enough to mean nothing.

And you didn’t push. You didn’t chase.

Because this time, he had to come to you. If he wanted to.

So you waited — not with desperation, but with quiet, hopeful stillness.

And somewhere in the middle of all that silence… You started becoming yourself again.

He saw you before you saw him.

From across the tarmac. On the catwalk. In the hangar. Always there — always just out of reach.

And you looked... lighter. Not happy, not yet. But lighter. You weren't wearing that same grief on your face anymore. The smile you gave Fanboy over coffee one morning made something twist in Jake’s gut. Not out of jealousy — not really. Just that aching reminder that he wasn’t the reason you smiled like that. Not anymore.

He knew you had talked to Bradley. Word got around.

Jake hadn’t asked what happened. Didn’t want to.

He told himself he needed space — you needed space. But the truth?

He was afraid.

Afraid he’d mean too much and still not be chosen. Afraid he was the choice and would still somehow fall short. Afraid of holding your heart and finding out it was only half full.

So he waited.

He watched.

And in the quiet corners of his mind, he relived every moment with you. The arguments. The tension. The night you cried in his arms without saying a word. The way you looked when you first confessed how he made you feel — that you wanted to earn his love, not just be handed it.

God, he wanted to hold onto that.

He’d spent so long pretending he didn’t care. Telling himself that staying distant protected you both.

But every day you stood taller, every time you laughed again — something inside him cracked a little more.

You were healing. And he wasn’t part of it.

Until one afternoon, when he saw you walking the flight line alone, sunset bleeding orange across the sky.

You looked over your shoulder — not at anything, just in thought — and something in him snapped.

Jake found you the next night.

Not in some grand, dramatic moment. Not with some perfect line ready. Just… him. Just you. Just everything they'd been holding back.

You were sitting on the hood of your car just outside base, legs pulled to your chest, staring up at the stars like You could decode the whole goddamn universe if You stared long enough.

He cleared his throat as he walked up. “Hey.”

You looked at him — tired, cautious, but not angry. “Hey.”

Jake didn’t speak right away. He stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, heart thudding so loud he thought you might hear it.

“I’ve been giving you space,” You said after a moment.

“I noticed.”

You looked down at your hands. “Didn’t know if you wanted it.”

“I didn’t know either.”

Silence.

He gave you a long look, like he was trying to read every fracture in your chest.

“You seem better,” he said.

“I’m working on it.”

“You talked to him?”

You nodded. “Told him everything. Told him I loved him. But not the way he deserved. Not the way I…” You faltered. “Not the way I love you.”

Jake’s expression didn’t change, but his posture did. Shoulders lifted. Jaw clenched a little harder.

“I’m still not whole,” You said. “I’m still messed up about a lot. I’ve got things I need to fix — in myself, with Bradley, with everything. And I don’t want to drag you into that if I can’t give you all of me.”

He stepped a little closer. Not much. Just enough.

“I’m not asking for perfect,” he said.

“No,” You whispered. “But I am.”

You looked at him now, really looked at him. His tired eyes, his messy hair, the tension in his stance.

“I love you, Jake,” You said. “Because you never let me settle. Because you see me for who I am — and who I could be. You didn’t fall in love with some version of me you made up. You fell in love with the mess and the fire and the fight. You saw it all and you still believed in me.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working around the emotion.

“You make me feel like I earned something. Like I worked for love and it meant something. Like I can stand next to you, not behind you. And I’ve never had that before.”

You stood now, standing eye to eye with him under the moonlight.

“I want that. I want you. But not if I’m going to drag you down while I’m still finding my footing. You deserve more than half of someone. So if you need to walk away right now, I’ll get it. I really will.”

Jake looked at you for a long, silent moment.

Then he shook his head.

“I’ve waited this long,” he said hoarsely. “I can wait a little more.”

And for the first time in weeks, You smiled a true, genuine smile — not because everything was fixed, but because You finally felt strong enough to believe it could be.

Things didn’t change overnight. But they did change.

It started in the air.

The first time you and Jake got paired for a flight again, there was no tension in the comms. Just quiet focus, a steady rhythm — the same way it had always been when things were good.

Jake’s voice came through your headset, calm and familiar. “You’ve got a bandit on your six — let him chase you.”

“Copy that. You going to bail me out?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There was a grin in his voice. And this time, you smiled too.

After that, the space between you began to shrink. At work, you didn’t avoid each other. You spoke during briefings, shared a laugh when Phoenix made some sarcastic remark. He nudged your shoulder in the hallway once. You bumped his boots with yours the next day.

No grand declarations. No dramatic gestures. Just… rebuilding. Quiet. Steady. Earned.

He helped you review footage after drills. Gave you notes, but softer now — not because he was holding back, but because he was holding you up.

One afternoon, you walked into the hangar to find him leaning against your jet, arms crossed, posture easy in that way only Jake could pull off.

“Looking for me?” you asked, teasing.

Jake tilted his head. “Maybe.”

You stopped in front of him, arms folded, heart pounding the way it always did when he looked at you like that — like you were made of wildfire and gravity.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Dangerous,” you replied.

He smirked, then softened.

“You said you love me because I push you. Because I don’t coddle you. Because I lift you up when you can’t do it alone.”

You nodded slowly, your throat already tightening.

“Well,” he said, standing up straighter, voice lower now, more vulnerable, “I want to keep doing that. Even if you’re not whole yet. Even if you’re still figuring it out.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” Jake said, stepping closer, his words gentle. “I just need you to let me be there. For the good days, the brutal ones. I don’t want to be some prize you feel like you have to earn. I just want to be someone you lean on. That’s what love is to me.”

You couldn’t speak — not yet. The feeling in your chest was too much, but it wasn’t pain anymore. It was release. It was clarity.

“I’m not running anymore,” you said quietly. “I’m tired of running.”

He smiled — soft, real. “Then stay. Right here.”

So you did.

You stayed through the days that followed. Through the early mornings, the mission drills, the long hours in the hangar where he leaned over your shoulder during film review just to be close.

You didn’t rush anything. You didn’t need to. Because every look said it.

He brushed your hand once after a post-flight debrief. You didn’t pull away. You brought him coffee the next day and waited quietly by his locker. He took it without saying a word.

It wasn’t a fairytale. But it was love. The kind you worked for. The kind you chose.

And for the first time, you weren’t drowning between two versions of yourself. You were just… you. Strong. Healing. Home.

And Jake?

Jake finally had you — not as a broken piece or a backup plan. But as something steady. Something real.

And he never let you fall again.

A small little bonus scene for waiting so long for part 3 <3

The sun was setting behind the hangar, spilling warm gold across the tarmac. The kind of light that made everything look softer — even steel, even warplanes, even Jake Seresin.

You sat on the hood of his truck, legs stretched out, boots unlaced and dusty from the day. The air smelled like salt and jet fuel, the ocean just down the road humming quietly in the background. Your hair was still pulled back from the last flight, and Jake’s hoodie hung loosely off your frame — one you’d stolen months ago and never gave back.

Jake leaned against the passenger door beside you, sipping from a Gatorade bottle, glancing at you every so often like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Or still here. Or his.

You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Jake,” you warned, a smile teasing your lips.

He grinned, then turned fully toward you, one arm draped lazily over the hood behind you.

“I just… I don’t know. You ever look at someone and think, ‘Goddamn, I really thought I lost you’?”

Your throat tightened.

You looked down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Every day.”

There wasn’t any sadness in it now. Just truth. Gratitude. A kind of peace that only came after the storm.

He leaned in slowly, pressing a kiss to your temple — soft, reverent. Like he was still scared to wake up from this.

And you let yourself lean into him, just for a moment. Let yourself breathe.

“You’re different now,” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded. “I know.”

“You’re stronger.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft. “So are you.”

He gave a small laugh. “Guess we’re a hell of a pair.”

“Guess so.”

The sky burned pink and orange above you as the world went quiet. No pressure. No drama. Just the calm of knowing you’d made it — bruised, maybe, but not broken.

And you had him. And he had you.

No more chasing. No more proving. Just love — the kind you chose, and kept choosing, every damn day.

Another one because I can

The house wasn’t big. Just a small place near the coast, not too far from the base. You could still hear the jets if the wind carried right. Jake insisted that was a plus — “like a lullaby,” he’d joked, his arms around you, chin on your shoulder the day you signed the lease.

There were always dishes in the sink and sand on the floor, and you didn’t mind. Life had never been this quiet for you, but that didn’t mean it was boring.

Jake still flew like he had something to prove — but when he came home now, it wasn’t with tension in his shoulders or distance in his eyes. It was with sunburnt cheeks and a smirk that made your stomach flutter no matter how many times you saw it.

You had your own routines. You still got up early to run, still kept your boots by the door, still cursed the occasional bad debrief. But the heaviness that used to sit in your chest was gone. Replaced by something quieter. More certain.

You didn’t need him to complete you. But God, he made everything feel more alive.

He was in the kitchen now — cooking something that definitely smelled burnt. You watched him from the hallway, barefoot in his faded Navy tee, talking to the dog like she was an old friend.

“I don’t know what she sees in me either,” he said to her, crouching down to ruffle her ears. “She’s smarter, funnier, better looking. Probably could’ve run circles around me in the air if I let her.”

You leaned against the doorframe.

“She still could,” you teased.

Jake looked up, startled, then grinned. “Jesus, you’re stealthy.”

“I’m literally walking down a hardwood hallway.”

He straightened and crossed the kitchen to you. “Still. You’ve got that sneaky thing going.”

You looped your arms around his waist, his body familiar and warm under your touch. “You’re getting soft, Hangman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I let you sneak up on me. It's romantic.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached with something tender. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, and for a moment — there was nothing else. No noise. No ghosts. Just now.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you happy?”

You pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m really happy.”

Jake smiled then — not cocky, not performative, just real. The kind of smile that made you want to stay in that kitchen for the rest of your life.

And you would.

Because you had fought for this. For each other. And this time, no one was walking away.

[mrsevans90]

Close

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Female Reader

Explicit, obviously. MDNI!

WC: 10k, sorry it's a long one!

Warnings: SMUT. SMUT. mentions of cheating, divorce, arguing, sexual shaming, sexual healing?

A/N: Please take a look over on A03 and Wattpad under the same username for more!

Tags: @djs8891 @dizzybee03 @mrsevans90 @barnesboo1967 @khouse712 @kmc1989 @fantasyfootballchampion @crossskylinesandcontrails @kaleysbookshelf @rootedinrevisions @teacupsandtopgun @mlqueen89 @cowgirlstateofmind89 @simplypaisleyjane @fanficmom94

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Your heart filled with excitement as you stepped off the plane at LAX, greeted by your childhood friend. He had glue-ons just like you, pointed like daggers, rainbow tips and all. It was Pride Month after all. 

He shouted your name across the airport, making you dip your head in embarrassment, as he ran up, black Converse squeaking on the smooth, freshly buffed floors. 

“Hey girl! I'm so stoked you could make it! We’re partying tonight!” Your best friend, Patrick, exclaimed as he pulled you into a tight hug. You let yourself melt into his warmth for a moment, enjoying the comfort of his friendship, which had been there through all of what had happened over the past few months. 

You had just signed your divorce papers after two months of fighting non-stop. It wasn't fighting over assets or anything like that. He had cheated with someone he worked with. You accused him and he did what he always did. He denied it and became defensive. So you went into his workplace one morning, asking if he was there. They told you he was out on a call. So as you went to leave, you happened to look into the yard. He was at his truck, loading materials into the back with his co-worker, a pretty blond who was younger and more outgoing than you. You knew her from the Christmas party last year. 

You watched for a few moments, knowing he was oblivious to your hard stare. You watched as his hands wrapped around her waist. You watched as she giggled and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck. You averted your gaze as they kissed. 

You went home and grabbed only essentials and begged a friend to stay at their house for a few days while you sorted out your brain. They obliged after you told them what happened, but they couldn't seem to believe it either. 

When you didn't come home that night, he called, panicked. 

“I had an overnight at work. I told you the other day.” You said and he scoffed. 

“Guess I'll see you tomorrow then.” He murmured and hung up the phone. 

And the next day you got a call from the girl in the office at your husband's workplace. 

“I saw him this morning getting coffee with Alina. They were holding hands and she kissed him.”

You thanked her for telling you. You took a personal day and moved the rest of your stuff out, but made sure you were there to confront him. You regretted that immediately.

“I've been seeing her for about two months. She needed a friend when she started there and you claim to be busy at work all the time lately. We never have sex anymore. I heard you with the fucking vibrator in the shower. I'm so bad that you'd rather a dildo? Are you fucking kidding me?” His words were full of malice. 

“You haven't made me come in months. I've been working my ass off to try to give you extra money to put for a down payment. I'm exhausted. I can barely afford to pay my own bills.” 

“Well that's your problem. You don't have a real job so why would you expect to make real money.” He said and you shook your head.

“I'm sick of your shit. You cheating was just the icing on the bullshit cake you've been feeding me. I'll send you the divorce papers.” You said, turning and walking out of the apartment with the last of your bags. 

It would be nice for you to enjoy a week away from home and not have to think about anything except how you couldn't really afford to take a week off. You'd have to find a new place to live when you got home, feeling horrible that you'd be shacked up at a friend's for nearly two months. 

You'd saved up a bit and it would be enough for a couple of months rent, but you'd still need to work your ass off to live on your own. You'd thought about finding someone to rent with but who? All of your friends at home were in relationships. 

As you and Patrick headed to the parking lot and put your bags into the back of his shitty old Rav 4, you did take a deep breath. You were fascinated as you watched the city pass by out the window and then it turned over into desert before arriving at the on base housing at Fightertown. 

Patrick had a cute little cottage, just a few rooms split between two floors. You put your bags down in the spare room on the first floor. He didn't have another bed, but you assured him the couch would be just fine for the week. 

“Just like high school, right?” He asked, remembering simpler times when you crashed on each other's couches after long nights of studying and talking about which boys were the cutest and which were just plain jerks. Patrick settled on the couch next to you for a minute, putting an arm around your shoulders. “I'm so happy you could come out. I think it'll be good for you to get away. And my parents couldn't make it so you're my chaperone at the bars when we go, okay?” 

“Yeah, I don't drink remember?” You said and he nodded.

“I know, I'll try to contain myself, but I know there's some hot pilots in town this week too.” He said, wiggling his eyebrows. You smacked him gently.

“I'm not dating yet.” You murmured and he bumps your shoulder with his.

“Yeah. But you can still look. Maybe talk. Maybe kiss? Maybe fuck?” He chided and you couldn't help but smack him again. 

“Stop it!” You yell, pushing him. He falls to the cushions with laughter and you can't help but think of how much you missed him all these years and how easy your friendship had been back then. When everything was simpler.

🧭⚓️❤️‍🩹

You get dressed that night, ready to head out to his favorite bar and one that apparently the entire Navy touted about. You put on a cute number, a long floral patterned dress, a dark teal undertone and a little bit of skin showing at your sides and your upper back, down to a vee that fastened just above your tailbone. You wore flats, not heels. You didn't want to stand in heels all night, as apparently this place got busy quickly and you probably wouldn't be guaranteed a table. 

Patrick dressed in his Navy standard khakis with his new rank badge on. Captain Patrick McLaighan. It sounded pretty nice to him, and when his friends all shouted his callsign ‘Irish’ as he entered, it brought a wide smile to your face. 

You were unbelievably happy for him. He worked his way through the ranks and finally got the promotion that he had always been hoping for, despite being bullied for his choice in a partner.

Now if only you could get to a place where you were that happy again.

You stood at the bar, waiting for your Coca-Cola and Patrick's Moscow Mule. You turn, glancing around, surveying, when a pretty, tall, and broad shouldered blond man walks up, placing his hands on the bar for a moment before turning to face you. He motions for three beers to the bartender, then smirks at you. 

“Hey. I'm Jake.” He nods, reaching out to shake your hand. You oblige and introduce yourself. He smiled when you said your name. 

“Pretty name for a pretty lady.” He leaned on an elbow on the bar as the bartender placed his beers in front of him. 

“Thanks...I guess.” You said, taking a deep breath. You glanced back over at Patrick, who was dancing next to his boyfriend.

“Are you new in town? Never seen you before.” Jake asked, not even touching his beers. You pursed your lips.

“Just visiting a friend.” You said, studying the man as he did the same to you. He also wore Navy standard khakis and you recognized that he was a Lieutenant Commander. His badge said ‘Seresin’ and you rolled the name around your brain for a few moments before his voice met your ears again.

“Ah, boyfriend. Right? Or maybe husband?” He asked, seemingly defeated as he grabbed all three beers. 

“No actually. Just a good, old friend. He got promoted. He's over with his boyfriend and friends. I was just grabbing him another drink.” You explained as the bartender placed your coke and Patrick's drink down for you to take. Jake's smirk returned then.

“But you're not single.” He half asked, half stated and you nodded.

“Just divorced actually. I know, red flag .” You said, smiling and rolling your eyes. Jake chuckled.

“Not the worst red flag. Maybe I'll see you around.” Jake said, tipping his head and wading back through the crowd to his friends. You made your way back to Patrick. He put his arm around your shoulders as he slipped his drink and his friends all began to sing something about a drunken sailor. You just simply went along with it, taking in the merriment of the evening. 

At some point the party atmosphere died down and many of the other sailors dispersed. You had finally been able to sit down. You glanced at your phone. You had four texts and eighteen Facebook notifications.

Ex-Husband: i cant believe you put it on facebook 

Ex-Husband: thats so embarrassing why would you do that to me

Ex-Husband: everyone is asking me what I did wrong

Ex-Husband: its unreal how you always get everyone on your side 

You weren’t even going to dignify that with an answer. He knew exactly what he did wrong. He was just trying to get you to text him back.

Facebook: 18 likes on your relationship status, 3 comments

Jenny commented: good for you hun 😘 

Kallie commented: what the fuck happened???

Nancy (your mom) commented: sad its over but happy you can make new memories love you

You groaned and placed your phone face down then rubbed your hands over your face. You felt weight next to you on the bench seat, and a loud creak of the leather and wood along with it. You expected Patrick to sling his arm around your shoulders again but when he didn’t you glanced out from behind your hands.

“You okay?” It was Jake. Jake that you met earlier. Jake Seresin. Lieutenant Commander Jake Seresin. You waved a hand dismissively.

“Fine. None of your business.” You said sharply. His brows knitted and he moved off the seat, holding his hands up defensively. 

“Sorry. Won't bother you again.” He murmured, a faint and playful smirk still on his lips, hoping that you didn't mean it. You didn't.

“No wait! I'm sorry. I'm just...” You sighed heavily. 

“Stressed? You seem stressed. I know we don't know each other but if you'd like to talk to an unbiased party...I'm your man.” Jake interrupted softly, offering his support, something that not many people had been willing to give. 

“Yeah?” You perked up a bit, his smile winning you over in the end.

“Lay it on me.” He sat, sitting back down next to you.

You swallowed hard, giving him only so much detail, just the bare bones that he needed to understand what had happened. When you finished, he blew air from his lips and folded his arms across his chest.

“You know what I think? Your ex sounds like a dick. I don't know you but from what you said it seems like you were doing the best you could and he couldn't or wouldn't see it no matter what. You deserve a lot better, sweetheart.” Jake said, placing his hand over yours gingerly, testing the waters. You allowed it, allowed the comfort he was providing, and you both stared at each other for a few moments, soaking in the seemingly quiet moment you shared. You noticed the green in his eyes, a sagey but bright color flecked with gold that seemed to sparkle even more as he stared at you. He was looking at you, really looking at you, not through you, like your ex would. 

You pulled your hand away and smiled weakly. “I appreciate you taking my side. It would’ve been nice to have that a couple of months ago.” You said softly, folding your arms across your chest. You leaned back and Jake placed his arm across the back of the bench, fingers only inches from your shoulders, never touching, just waiting.

“I see you’ve met Hangman.” You heard Patrick’s voice over the lessening din of the bar as it cut through the moment you and Jake were settled in. 

“That your callsign?” You asked, smirking at him. Jake nodded.

“Yeah and maybe I’ll tell you how I got it over dinner.” Jake mused, leaving a card on the table as he retreated. Patrick sat down next to you, a wide smirk on his face. 

“That is a prime specimen and if you don’t at least fuck him while you’re here, you’re nuts.” Patrick said with a lilt of humor in his voice. You nudged him, watching as Jake made his way out of the bar, letting a last glance fall upon you. He smiled and saluted you. You tipped your head, acknowledging him. You did hope you'd see him again.

🧭⚓️❤️‍🩹

This time you wore a pretty lavender colored dress, flowy in the skirt and a plain cotton material with a vee neck and short sleeves. Patrick's official ceremony was today, where he would get a service medal for his last deployment and his new rank announced in front of a group of his peers. 

You sat in the back of the crowd, simply there to support. When the ceremony was over, and he was conversing with his friends, fellow sailors and pilots, and his superiors, you decided to sneak off and try to find a bathroom. You had to pee. Bad. Making your way through double doors, you came to a foyer, a large entry way with pictures, of several higher ranking officers and candid moments from deployments.

As you peruse the photos, you forget about the bathroom. You smiled as you took in the memories displayed, but heard booted footsteps behind you. 

“Long time no see.” It was Jake. You did a double take. He was in his Navy standard khakis, hands folded behind his back as he strode up, a smirk painting his lips. He looked clean cut and well put together, even though he had looked that way the other night too. Without the haze of alcohol, without the noise and excitement of the bar, he looked handsome. He was handsome.

“I was looking for the bathroom.” You said sheepishly, glancing around. Jake chuckled and pointed down a hall to where there was a restroom sign. You sighed.

“You look beautiful.” He said softly, stepping closer. Your cheeks heated and you fidgeted with your fingers.

“How long are you here for?” You asked, brows furrowing. 

“Few months. On a break before my next deployment.” He murmured, leaning against the wall casually. He smirked. “You?”

“Just the week.” You said. He shook his head.

“Do you even want to go back? It didn't sound like you wanted to last night.” He asked. You shrugged.

“I have to.” You said, almost dejected.

“You don't have to.” He grinned.

“I can't afford to stay out here.” You said, folding your arms across your chest. Jake blew air from his lips and bounced off the wall.

“That's unfortunate because I'd love to get to know you better.” He said, stepping in closer to you. You took a shaky breath.

“You would?” You asked, backing into the wall behind you. You felt heat pool lower and your lips parted. 

“I would.” He placed a hand by your head on the wall and leaned in even closer. Your hands met his chest, stopping him from getting any closer. 

“I've never done this before.” You said, your voice cracking with emotion, thinking of your ex. Goddamn him.

“Been interested in a guy after a break up?” Jake asked, voice softer than you expected.

“No...been divorced...thinking about moving on so quickly. I don't know how to do this.” You murmured. Jake reached up, brushing his thumb against your cheek, wiping away the tear that you hadn't even realized had escaped. 

“How about you just let yourself feel something other than guilt? What he did wasn't your fault.” Jake's voice was low but almost...reassuring.

“Then why does it feel like it is?” You asked, as if you're begging him to have the answer.

“Because you weren't given closure and you didn't deserve not having that either.” Jake wiped another tear away, then cupped your cheek.

“What do you think I deserve?” You asked, your voice beginning to shatter like glass, just like your emotions. Your fingers claw at his shirt, as if they were grasping for that closure in him.

“A second chance.” He said, his lips now only inches from yours. Your breath quickened and he watched as your eyes darted from his to his lips and back.

“You're just trying to get into my panties.” You offered but he shot it down immediately.

“I'm not. Give me a chance to show you.” He pleads softly. 

“What by taking me to dinner?” You asked, nearly scoffing. Dinner was the oldest trick in the book and you were tired of it.

“No, something different.” He said, staying in your space. You let him.

“Like?”

“Give me your number and I'll text you tomorrow with plans.” He said and you hesitate, one, two, three beats before holding out your hand. He gives you his phone and you put it under ‘east coast girl’ with an anchor emoji. He smirks when he sees it. He drums his fingers on the wall and then pushes away from you. He winks and backs away, nearly hitting the opposite wall as he leaves, making you giggle at how silly he looked. 

Your heart sounded in your chest, excitedly by the thought of trying something new with someone new. 

🧭⚓️❤️‍🩹

Jake shoots you a text in the morning just like he said he would. That makes your heart flutter again.

Hot Pilot Jake: pick you up at seven, wear comfy clothes, nothing fancy 

His name in your phone was courtesy of Patrick and you hoped Jake never saw it. You'd change it before tonight just in case. You edited the name to just ‘Jake’. You puzzled over what he meant then.

Nothing fancy. The only not fancy thing you'd brought was a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt with your favorite band's logo on it. You figured maybe it could be a talking point. You got dressed and lounged for most of the day, panicking slightly at all of the emotions you were feeling around this ‘date’. You felt guilty,like you shouldn't be entertaining this but maybe Jake was right. Maybe you did need to just let go and feel something else. And he was offering to guide you there which he wouldn't ever know how much you appreciated. Not right away, at least. 

When Jake arrived to pick you up, your breath caught in your chest at the sight of him. Backwards ball cap, black muscle shirt with a silver logo on the front, and black shorts, along with running shoes. 

He was too gorgeous for you. At least that's what your brain kept telling you. He was too good looking to be interested in you. And you kept telling yourself that s he wanted was what was between your legs. He'd prove you wrong by the end of the night.

He helped you up into the big black GMC diesel truck that he drove and then you were off. He had the radio on low, country music, and you found yourself comforted at the fact that he even listened to anything. Your ex preferred silence when he drove.

The sun was beginning to set and when he pulled off the road and parked, your heart started up again. 

“Wait here.’ He said, putting a hand up. He gathered some things from the back and went to the bed of the truck. He prepared a place for you both to sit and pulled the cooler out where he had food and drinks. Once everything was ready, he went to your door and helped you out, then into the bed of the truck. He climbed up after and pulled his shoes off. You did the same and he placed both pairs on the tailgate away from you. 

“What kind of sandwich would you like?” He asked, reaching in and pulling one out for himself. You shrugged. 

“Surprise me.” You said with a small smile. He handed you a sandwich wrapped in foil and you opened it. Turkey, cheese, mayo, mustard. Coincidentally, one of your favorites. You both ate quietly and he cracked open a cold cider beer for you both. You clinked bottles together and took a sip. 

He opened a bag of chips and you both reached your hands in at the same time. You blushed. He chuckled and took his out, letting you go first. You did and when he took a chip after, he held it out to you. You attempted to grab it with your fingers but he pulled it away. He tried again and held the chip in front of your lips. You took it in your mouth and smirked as you chewed. He grinned wide and took another for himself. As you both finished your food, Jake cleaned up the trash and then he leaned back against his side of the truck bed. You smiled as you swirled the last of your beer around in the bottle and then pointed at him, leaning back as well.

“I thought you were gonna murder me.” You laughed and he feigned hurt before chuckling.

“I would never. I’m not a monster like your ex.” Jake mused and your brows furrowed. He wasn’t exactly wrong. While your ex wouldn’t go that far, it was still horrible of him to do what he did to you. Jake motioned for you to scoot over next to him. You hesitated, but eventually decided to move and sit next to him. He placed his arm around your shoulders and you let him. 

You glanced at him, observed him, seeing how devastatingly charming he was. How very handsome he was. The charisma almost reminded you of your ex. But Jake was different. Jake had an ego, but one that he could back up. He was, after all, a decently higher ranking Naval Aviator. You studied Jake as he did the same to you. Both of you locked eyes, but it was Jake who leaned in. It was Jake who reached up and brushed his knuckles over your cheek. It was Jake who waited for you to close the distance between the two of you, but begged for it at the same time.

And it was you who touched your lips to his first.

It was a tentative kiss, almost unsure, but not from him. No, from him you felt certainty. From him you felt...steadiness. From him, you felt safety. He reached up and cupped your face in his hands, gently. He was taller, broader, stronger than your ex, but somehow he was softer. Somehow he was more sensitive. Maybe it was because you were looking for it, or maybe it was because he just was that way, but you melted into Jake, into his warmth and refuge. 

As you parted, Jake's sage green eyes met yours, and his lips twitched. He saw in your eyes, what you were feeling. He saw the guilt, the anguish, the struggle, the fucking turmoil that your mind was wheeling and dealing and he pulled you into a tight embrace. One that made you think twice about going home. One that made you want to stay here a little longer.

“What are you doing to me?” You whispered unintentionally and you felt Jake smirk into your hair.

“Trying to convince you it wasn't your fault.” His voice was low, but soft, and he smoothed a hand over your hair. You bit your lip and looked up at him.

“You're making it too hard to let go.” You said softly and Jake tilted his head.

“I don't think you wanted to let go in the first place.” He murmured. You stayed silent for a while, rifling through the confusion in your brain. You wanted to stay. You wanted Jake. He had shown you more care and respect in the past three days than your ex ever had in the years you had been married. You swallowed hard, wondering what your life might look like if you decided to stay here. How could you afford it? Would Jake take care of you? Or would he dump you as soon as he got in your panties? Everything was uncertain and that felt awful to you. 

But with Jake, it all felt a little lighter.

He brought you home, and at the door, he simply kissed your temple and then shoved his hands in his pockets, watching as your hand lingered on the door. You invited him in.

“I may not read words on a page...but people...people I read every piece of.” Jake murmured, his eyes flicking to yours and holding your gaze. “And I don't think you're the kind of girl lookin’ for a one night stand. I think whoever he was, because of whatever he did, he didn't deserve you.”

“And you do?” You asked, brows furrowing. Jake reached for you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“I didn't say that. No, I don't deserve you. But I'd sure as hell like to earn the right to have you.” Jake's fingers lingered on yours, gentle, steady, not begging, just waiting. You took in a shaky breath.

“You seem like the type of guy who just takes what he wants.” You said, drawing back slightly. He chuckled lowly.

“Oh, I am, but with some things, you can't do that. Some things are too good to take. Sometimes the journey to getting them is far too beautiful to not enjoy.” Jake’s lids lowered, and you noticed his lips twitch. Your gaze caught his, stayed there, searching. You were searching for a reason not to go through with this. A reason to stop. But you couldn't find one that Jake wouldn't turn down, that he wouldn't poke a hole through. You wanted him to come in. You wanted the one night to turn into many more. He squeezed your hand and pulled away, his fingers leaving yours. His smile was weak, like he knew he was hurting you at that moment. “If you’d like, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I’d like that.” You admitted. Jake’s smile grew wider then before leaving and it stayed that way until he was home and laying comfortably in his bed. He thought of you that night, and you thought of him, until you both fell asleep.

After your date with Jake, Patrick had wanted to know everything, but there was a little bit of your date that you wanted to keep close to your heart. The way Jake made you feel, you wanted to keep that between you and him. That wasn’t for anyone else to know, not even your best friend.

🧭⚓️❤️‍🩹

Jake: ill pick you up, i have something else planned, is seven okay?

You replied with a yes and this time, you picked a pretty blue dress, simple short sleeves, v-neck, skirt that fell flowy to just above your knees. You just paired it with pretty flip flops, just incase Jake had something crazy planned.

Your ex had hated when you wore dresses.

Everyone is looking at you. I don’t want people looking at you.

Just a reminder of how jealous  and insecure he was. Here and now though, without him, you were free to do what you wanted. And you had a feeling that Jake didn’t mind if people looked at you, especially if you were hanging off of his arm.

Jake picked you up at seven on the dot, and when you asked what you were doing, he simply replied ‘nothing’ with a big smirk. Your brows furrowed and you watched out the window as the small cottages passed by, all cookie-cutter like in size and shape. It didn't take long and Jake pulled into the driveway of a small house, similar to the other, except an American flag and a Navy flag hung from near the front door. 

Jake turned his truck off and hopped out, going around to your side to help you down, much like a princess exiting a horse drawn carriage, except your chariot was a tuned GMC Duramax diesel that you looked at a little too long when Jake left last night, and your prince was a Naval Aviator, dressed in a white t-shirt that showed every defined abdominal muscle when the wind blew, and black athletic shorts.

He led you up the steps and through the door, where you were greeted by a beautiful black dog, with amber eyes, pointed ears, and a sleek coat. He was medium sized and excitedly jumped at Jake, but poked at your hand gently. 

“Ballast, platz.” Jake commanded and the dog obeyed, going to a bed in the corner of the room. When you entered,  you noticed there was no hallway, just the living and kitchen. There was a small square table, presumably his dinner table, and he had a tv mounted on the wall. His sofa was small, just enough for no more than four people to sit on, but everything felt cozy. Jake turned to you. “Did you want me to show you around or...”

“Sure. I’m assuming this is your place?” You said with a small smile. He nodded and smirked.

“It is. A little better than on base housing. Closer to the water. And a backyard for the pup.” He glanced at the dog, who wagged his tail. Jake released him from his place and the dog circled you and Jake a few times before settling. Jake ran a hand over the dog's head and the dog whined and panted, while looking between you and Jake. 

Jake knelt down and rubbed the dog's neck. “I know I brought a girl home. It's supposed to be against bro code but I really like this one.” He said to the dog, then his gaze shifted to you. 

You blushed. Then, you decided to try something. You batted your eyelashes and smiled wide.

“You like me, huh?” You asked, and Jake rose, crowding your space immediately. You feel your cheeks heat more at his proximity. His breath is warm and minty in your face as he reaches up to brush hair from your face. He's staring at you in a way that you've never known or seen. You might call it reverent.

“I do like you.” He murmured, closing some of the distance between the two of you. You searched his eyes then, looking for a shred of a lie, as if you could see it in his irises. You knew you couldn't but you knew what love looked like, and you might dare say underneath reverence, was love. 

You closed the gap. Jake draws back, only slightly,  almost surprised at your neediness. It manifests in your fingers, tugging at his short blond locks, in your hips pressing against his, in your body begging for his. 

You could feel his smirk. You could feel the lust coursing through him. And you felt it deep down within yourself, that primal need to fuck. You hadn't felt this way in a long time. Not since you had met your ex husband, but this time it felt different. This need felt different. It was stronger, more solid. Maybe it was because this was all new and exciting, or maybe, just maybe you were starting to develop feelings for the blond aviator.

His arms wind around you and pull you closer. He presses his body into you, pushes you back toward the stairs and when the back of your heels hit the step, you glance back. Your gaze settles on Jake and he raises his brows, motioning toward upstairs.

“You wanted a tour right?” He said, huskily. You nodded with a huge smirk. You turned and he followed you upstairs, biting his lip as he watched your hips sway, your ass in his face as you both headed up the stairs. The black dog followed, hot on Jake’s heels but as you both got the top step, Jake asked the dog to ‘platz’ again. He turned to you and guided you toward an open door, where you saw a bed, with a white sheet and two pillows. Very standard. There was a small balcony and there was a cool breeze coming through it, making the sheer curtains blow gently. 

Jake led you to the balcony, letting you look out at it for a moment. You took in the shoreline below, the palm trees sparsely littered along the coast here and there. The sun was setting, hues of orange, pink, and blue melding together in the sky. Jake’s arms snaked around your waist and you let yourself melt into him. You let your head fall against his chest. You let your back lean into his chest and you let his fingers trace patterns across your mid-section. 

You turned in his arms, and reached up to run your fingers through the blond hair at his temples. You tilted your head, noticing there was a tiny bit of grey on either side.

“Does this conclude the tour?” You asked softly. Jake grinned.

“Well, this concludes the house tour, but...there’s another type of tour I could give you.” He said, as you giggled, your hands meeting his chest then. Your eyes locked for a long few moments before you spoke again.

“I think I’d be up for that tour.” You say softly, stretching up to kiss him. You felt him sigh heavily, and he began stepping into your space, forcing you backwards away from the balcony, and toward the bed. He was gentle, his body leading the way. Your legs hit the back of the bed and you lowered yourself, looking up at him from hooded lids. You poked your nose toward him and he knelt down in front of you, his hands meeting your thighs, pausing.

He was looking for permission.

You placed your fingers atop his, then moved his hands to the hem of your dress. You wordlessly asked him to start there. It had been months since you had been with anyone. Months since you’d had release. You needed this, wanted it, but you were nervous. You’d gotten used to your ex, who, at the end, wouldn’t even look at you when you had sex. 

Jake’s eyes met yours, his hands moving up and under the skirt of your dress. They were warm and rough as they met your hips. He hooked his thumbs in the band of your panties. You placed your hands on the sheets and leaned back slightly, allowing Jake to pull the pretty lingerie off that you'd picked. 

“My favorite color.” He murmured, holding them up by one finger, his gaze fixated on the navy blue satin panties. Yes, you did match it to your dress. Yes, you guessed at what color he might like. Yes, you had worn it hoping he would get the chance to do exactly this. You didn't want a one night stand. You just wanted Jake.

He stood then, slotting himself between your thighs. He pulled you closer, letting you feel him through his shorts. Your cheeks went red and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“You sure about this?” He asked, as he pushed the skirt of your dress up at the same time. You nodded hesitantly and he clocked it. He reached up, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to.”

“I want to.” You said, firmly. Jake raised a brow. 

“Why?” He asked, fingers trailing down to your shoulder, pushing the fabric of your dress down so that it rested against your upper arm, exposing your bare skin. He tilted his head.

“Because I want to know if I actually like you or if I just want to have sex with someone.” You admitted. Jake bit his lip and his other hand came up to pull the dress sleeve from your other shoulder. His eyes were hooded as a small smirk formed, his thumb brushing against your collarbone. The gesture was small but it made you shiver. The way his fingers moved didn’t feel like he wanted to have sex, they felt like he wanted to explore. Like he was excited to explore you.

“So, if we have sex, and you don’t want me after, are you just going to leave?” He asked, hand traveling around to the middle of your back. He was looking for a bra. His fingers paused when he found none, head tilting the other way, smirk growing wider.

“If you wanted me to, yes.” You said, as his hand traveled around to the front of your dress. Your breasts fit perfectly in his hands and he squeezed gently before you saw his eyes darken even more. The realization hit him that the front of your dress was padded and all he had to do was slip it down to expose your breasts made his cock twitch.

“I wouldn’t want you to.” He murmured, eyes darting to yours. His hands were warm on your skin and you could almost feel the electricity between the two of you, the sense of anticipation that was coursing through you both. Your brows raised at his comment.

“But if I didn’t want you...” You began and he leaned down, taking your lips in a needy kiss before speaking.

“I would convince you otherwise.” He said softly, and your hands met his chest then, fingers curling into his shirt. You tugged unconsciously and he pulled away for a short moment, to remove the white t-shirt. You swallowed hard as he revealed tanned, toned skin, rippling muscle that flexed with the smallest movement. Your eyes traveled down to the v-line that led into his shorts and your breath caught, noticing the outline of his length. You’d felt how hard he was, but now that you were seeing it, you almost didn’t believe it. 

Your ex could barely look at you, and Jake was looking like he craved you. You weren’t the problem.

“You okay?” He asked and you nodded, your eyes tracking up over the hard planes before you to his face, that naughty smirk plastered there. You took a deep breath, letting it out shakily before reaching for your dress. He watched as you slowly pushed the fabric down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, the nipples pebbling. Jake licked his lips as he watched your breasts bounce free. He wanted to grab them, squeeze them, suck on them, but he didn’t want to scare you away either. He wanted to take it at your pace, because he could tell you were still unsure. His hands met your forearms and traveled up, thumbs tracing your jawline, then stopping to cup your cheeks again. He bent down once more, lips gentle on yours. 

You reached for his chest, never having felt muscle like he had. You explored for a few moments, hands feather light against his skin. He allowed it, letting you run your hands up and down and memorize his body. You paused at his hips, at the waistband of his shorts, and you glanced up. He nodded. 

Your fingers dipped beneath the elastic, pushing the material down. He had boxer briefs underneath, and the scent of his sweat, his arousal hit your nose then. His shorts fell to pool at his feet and your hands reached for the briefs, beginning to pull them down too. Jake stopped you though.

“Whoa there, let me give you some attention too. We can take turns.” He said, placing your hands on his stomach. He guided you further onto the bed, climbing over the top of you. As he pulled your dress down, fingers brushing your sides, and your hips, and your thighs, you let your head fall back against the mattress. His touch was soft, and you hadn’t felt anything like it in such a long time that it felt almost too good to be true. 

Jake studied you for a moment as he removed your dress completely, watching your expression change from reluctance to pleasure. He threw your dress to the floor, again climbing over you, but this time he spread your legs, and pressed his length against you, the only barrier being the fabric of his boxer briefs. The feeling of his hardness elicited a small moan from you. 

“What do you like, baby? Do you wanna do it like this, or is there a position that's more comfortable for you?” He asked, mouth hovering over your breasts. He pressed a kiss to the top swells, and you sighed, the feeling of his warm lips on skin reserved only for a lover sparking fire low in your belly. 

“I don't know...I've never been...”

“No one has ever asked you what you like?” He asked and you shook your head. He scoffed. “Well, you've never been treated right by a man then.”

Jake let his lips fall further, connecting with one of your nipples. Your breath caught and you felt him smirk, as he gently touched his teeth to the skin, not hard enough to hurt, but not too soft that you couldn't feel them. He teased both nipples, sucking and nipping carefully, all the while his eyes on your expression, which delved deeper into pleasure the more he worked.

When he ceased, he rose, his lips meeting yours in a fiery kiss, more wanton than before. It made your head spin and your hands gripped his biceps. You felt the muscles underneath flexing as he hovered over you. Your hands traveled up and around to the back of his neck, nails pressing into the back of his shoulder muscles. He drew back, and pushed the boxer briefs down all the way finally, letting a groan of relief escape his lips. You felt heat blossom below your waist and at the back of your neck, spreading around to your cheeks. Jake saw this, saw the rosiness settle, and it only fueled him more. 

“One second.” He said softly, backing off the bed. He went to his nightstand and opened the top drawer. You propped yourself up, watching as he pulled a condom and a bottle of lube from it. He placed them on the bed next to your hip and then he knelt at the side of the bed, pulling you by your hips toward him. He splayed his hands on your stomach and rubbed his thumbs over the soft flesh there. Your brows furrowed as he kissed just above your belly button. Then below it. Then he kissed the dip at your hips, grazing his teeth over the layer of natural padding you had. 

You felt the room spin as you watched him kiss up and down your inner thighs, You felt your pleasure building and he hadn’t even touched you where you wanted him most yet. No man before him had ever taken this much time before shoving his face between your legs, but Jake. He was teasing you and taking his time so that you would be ready for him. 

“If at any point, it’s too much, or you don’t like something, tell me. I want you to feel comfortable, okay?” He said, rubbing his thumbs up and down the back of your thighs, before pressing a long kiss to the crease where your leg and thigh met. You nodded, because that was all you could muster. You couldn’t form words at the moment. You barely had any thoughts either, just static between your ears and that static ceased when Jake dipped his tongue inside you for the first time. 

He was gentle, more so than you’d expected. He was a damn Navy pilot. They were all raucous and wild. Not Jake. Jake was reserved. He commanded any room he was in. But he was also calculating. He was puzzling over every move he made and not just how it would benefit him, but how it would benefit you.

He took long, languid laps at your center with his tongue, his hands still splayed wide on your stomach. He felt your abs tense and release as he worked you further up to the peak of your pleasure. He hummed, letting his eyes close, letting himself get lost in your taste. He drew away for a moment, inhaling evenly through his nose and dragging a hand down to pull your pussy lips apart at the top. He used his thumb to push the skin up and expose your clit even more. 

When he dove back in, alternating between sucking on your clit and thrusting his tongue into you, your hips bucked, unable to control your body’s natural urges. He chuckled as you kept moving, your head lolling back against the sheet, your hands gripping the sheets above your head. He stayed there, but his warm breath only pushed you closer as he coaxed you toward that final peak.

“That’s it, baby. Doin’ so good. Such a good girl.” You laughed at his words, out of surprise, out of excitement, out of ecstasy, as he continued, adding one more layer to the mix of sensations. His thumb. He pressed his thumb firmly on your clit, and drew small circles before placing his mouth back over you, taking one long drag, sucking hard one last time before you fell apart. You called his name, felt your walls pulse hard at nothing, felt your muscles seize, your fingers dig into the sheets. Your breath came out in shallow pants and he kept his mouth on you, gently licking you through your comedown. 

Your heart pounded and your breathing took a few minutes to come back to baseline again. Your eyes met his, and then you reached down, running a hand through his short blond locks. He preened, smiling like he’d just done the best thing ever. And he did. At least for you. He wiped his mouth on the sheets, then stood, and you couldn't help but look down at his cock, hanging hard between his legs. You’d seen the outline of it earlier, felt it against you, but seeing it now, you realized he was a little bigger than average. He was certainly bigger than your ex. Not by much, but enough for you to notice and you bit your lip as he reached for the condom, ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled it onto his length and placed the wrapper on the nightstand. He took the lube and flicked it open, but before he poured any out, he looked at you.

“Is it okay if I use some? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He said and your brows knitted. You propped yourself up.

“Uhm. I’ve never needed it before.” You said and he raised a brow.

“You’ve never used lube?” He asked. You shook your head.

“I mean, I’ve wanted to but...” You began but he shook his head, waving a hand.

“He didn’t want you to? That’s shitty. Doesn’t matter if you’re wet already. A little lube helps it feel even better, I promise.” Jake assured you. 

“I’m not opposed to it. I just wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t expecting any of this really.” You said, your voice still slightly shaky from the orgasm he’d given you. He smiled, a genuine one that reached his eyes. He climbed onto the bed and repositioned your legs so they were spread wide again, slotting himself as close as he could. 

“I want you to feel good. If you feel good, I feel good. Got it?” He asked and you nodded hastily. His cock was draped over your center. He glanced down, then back up at you for permission. You bit your lip, wanting to ask for something, but not wanting to interrupt his actions. He noticed though, watching your eyes dart from his length, to his lips. He squirted some lube onto his palm, then rubbed along his length to spread it. He put a little bit more on two fingers, then dipped them just at your entrance. He saw you still looked hesitant, so he asked,“What’s wrong?”

“ I...um ...can you...I’m sorry, it’s silly, Nevermind, go ahead.” You stuttered, glancing away from him, embarrassed. He wouldn’t have that though, guiding your gaze back to his by way of two fingers on your chin.

“What do you need from me? Tell me. Is there something you like that you want me to do?” Jake said, and your bit your lip a little harder before your jaw tightened. 

“Can you...when you put it in...can you kiss me...at the same time?” You shifted uncomfortably after asking, feeling silly. You avoided eye contact, but Jake wouldn't have that either. He leaned down, using one strong forearm to hold himself up. His lips hovered over yours.

“I can do that, of course.” He said, doing exactly what you asked, lips connecting with yours. You brought your hands up and cupped his cheeks, fingers combing through the hair at his temples as he took himself in his other hand and rubbed the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with more lube and your wetness. When he pushed inside of you, he moaned into your mouth, and you did the same, melding into one shared sound of satisfaction. Once he had an inch or two in, he let go and brought his other hand up. He placed both hands around your head, sinking further into you, letting you feel every inch, letting you adjust slowly to him. He slid in so easily, between the lube and your own arousal, as you continued making out, you could only think how nothing had ever felt this good with your ex. 

When he was fully sheathed inside your warmth, Jake paused, and broke the kiss. 

“Good?” He asked, his voice dropped an octave from before. You smiled up at him, brushing your fingers through the hair at his temples. He leaned in for another kiss, then began to move his hips, slowly at first, and you knew this was very different. You could feel how strong he was, and how much he was holding back. You moved your hands down to his chest, dragging your nails gently down. His thrusts were measured, even, and your movements didn’t seem to affect him, even as your fingers brushed over his nipples, down his torso, feeling the coils of muscle in his lower half as he began to pick up his pace slightly. 

You thought it was all innocent, but Jake was barely hanging on. He was breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to keep his composure, trying to make love to you, not fuck you. He didn’t want this to be one night. He wanted more, and if he could show you just how good he could be, maybe you’d think about staying.

Your hands traveled back up to his shoulders, then down to his biceps, where they stayed, wrapping your small hands around his bulging muscles. He slowed for a moment to kiss you again, and you could feel the lust passing between the two of you. You hadn’t realized your second orgasm was building, coming quickly, not until your lips met again. You felt your walls clench, and you know Jake felt it too, because he shifted slightly, tilting his pelvis just slightly for a different angle. You sucked in a sharp breath at the same time he did, your eyes locking onto his green ones.

Jake felt his balls draw up tight, his abdominal muscles tighten and he knew he was at the edge, just about where he couldn’t come back from. He sped up a little more, and that was when your mouth dropped open, small sounds of pleasure begging to leave your lips in time with his thrusts. He kissed your neck, down to your collarbone, grazing his teeth over it as his hips stuttered, losing rhythm, losing control. He held on for a few more thrusts before he let out a low and guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. Your hands flew up to the back of his neck, nails digging in as you too, came undone, muscles clamping down hard around him. He stilled, filling the condom. He stayed there, raising his head then to kiss your jaw.

Jake felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him, his vision blurring for a second as he felt your pussy flutter around his length. Your fingers combed through his hair comfortingly, letting him know that you were good.

He didn’t ask how you felt. He knew. He could feel it. Could feel you. He could see just how flushed your cheeks were, how swollen your lips were, and he could feel the warmth between the two of you. Jake let his length slip from you, and he stepped off the bed for a moment. You sat up, taking a deep breath, body still feeling electric with post orgasmic bliss. Jake motioned for you to follow him, helping you to stand, legs shaky. 

He led you to the bathroom, and he carefully pulled the condom off, disposing of it, then wiping himself off. 

“Do you want to rinse yourself off or do you want me to help?” He asked, eyes flicking to the shower. 

“Help?” You half-asked, and the corner of Jake’s lips turned up. He brushed past you, turning the water on warm, borderline hot, before taking your hand and guiding you over the short wall, making sure you didn’t slip. He stepped over it as well and closed the curtain. 

“I only have my soap and shampoo so if you want to actually wash yourself, you’re gonna smell like blue cypress and...” He took the bottle from the shelf and read it aloud. “Uh...coastal air. Apparently.” 

You giggled softly. “I wouldn’t mind smelling like you.”

He smirked wide as he squeezed some of the body wash into his hand and lathered it, then began to wash your body first. He didn’t scrub, just smoothed his hands over your wet skin, and he took special care to between your legs. Once you were all soapy, he washed himself, just a quick and rough scrub before helping you rinse yourself off. 

When all was said and done, he offered you a towel and he wrapped his around his waist, leaving you to do anything else you needed to, but not before pressing a kiss to your forehead. As he left the bathroom, you took a moment, looking in the mirror. You looked, really looked at yourself and for a moment, you studied yourself in the mirror. You felt the tension of the past few months had melted away, and as you thought of the blond pilot just across the hallway in the bedroom, you smiled. Not a fake one, a genuine, huge smile. A smile you hadn’t smiled in a long time. After drying yourself and peeing quickly, you headed back into the bedroom, and found Jake laying under the sheets, an arm behind his head. His other was draped across his stomach. 

“So, are you staying?” He asked, and you grinned, climbing underneath the sheets and cuddling against him.

🧭⚓️❤️‍🩹

You shifted, opening one eye halfway. You felt hot breath on your neck, and a warm body against your own. You pushed back against him, remembering that Jake was laying behind you, under the sheets, and it was hot under them. You rolled just in time to see him grin and open his eyes. 

“You're up early.” His voice was raspy and rough, his fingers instinctively dancing across your lower back.

“Every day.” You said softly, and Jake brought a hand up, running his fingers through your hair gently. His eyes studied you.

“Stay.” He begged, his nose brushing your cheek, fingers working steady circled on your bare hip. You knew what he meant. Not just stay the morning, or the rest of the day. He meant stay with him, be with him.

“Jake...I...” You hesitated. You're brows knitted. You felt tears sting your eyes.

“Don't tell me you can't. Just promise me you will.” He murmured, his lips feather light as they connected with yours. He was offering something that you didn't think would ever come again. A second chance, and safety. You wanted it. Craved it. Needed it, just like you'd needed him last night. You bit your lip. He was staring expectantly. 

“I'll...”

“Stay. Give this a chance.” He said, your brows knitted in the middle, never having known the want that he was displaying. He bit his lip then. “Give us a chance.”

“I...want...to...but...” Your gaze dropped.

“Don't tell me you're scared. I don't believe that for a second.” His voice was softer then, as if he knew you needed reassurance. 

“I am though.” You admitted. 

“You've already done the hardest part. You left him.” He said. 

“Yeah, but the next part...leaving my home. The only one I’ve ever known. That’s even scarier.” Your voice trembled and Jake pulled you closer,  wrapping his arms around you. 

“I’m on leave for a few months until my next deployment. I can help. I’ll come with you.” Jake said into your hair, kissing the top of your head. 

“You don’t need to.” You curled into his chest, your words a lie. You wanted him to.  You did need him to.

“But I want to.” He murmured, and you settled, listening to his heart, and hearing your own sync up with his while you both began to drift back to sleep. 

You slept until late morning. You awoke and you had sex again, a different position, a different, more needy, rougher, encounter but still wholly satisfying in the same way as last night. 

Jake made you breakfast and you helped him with the dishes after. You both walked Ballast on the beach, chatting as you went, learning new things about each other every minute. 

And when you got back, you went for round three, learning each other's bodies. Learning everything that you could about each other, trying to figure out if this was what you really wanted. If he was who you really wanted. 

You told Patrick you were going to stay with Jake again tonight. He screamed with happiness on the other end of the line, making you laugh. 

It felt easy with Jake, the domesticity, and you wondered what you would do if you stayed, and when he was deployed again. What would that look like? Jake assuaged your fears though, telling you it would look like you exchanging letters back and forth for three months and living in his cottage with Ballast to protect you, while he flew missions and told you how much he missed you. 

Jake wanted to settle down. He wanted to find someone he could care for and he was willing to do whatever he had to give you a second chance because he knew you deserved it. 

🧭⚓️❤️‍🩹

You were ready to leave. To go back home. You'd said goodbye to Patrick, thanked him for everything, and now standing at the terminal in the airport, you took a deep breath. You looked at the flights, 10:15 to Logan International Airport in Boston. You watched as it got closer, as the time between now and you arriving home got shorter. 

You felt a hand at your back, and warm lips at your temple. You glanced up into sage green eyes. His tags hung on the outside of his shirt, and he held the black dog's leash in one hand and rolled his suitcase in the other. 

“Ready?” He asked, smiling and you reflected it back.

“Ready for anything, Jake.” You said, intertwining your fingers with his and heading to your plane. You were headed home. 

With Jake. 

[mrsevans90]

You Jump, I Jump.

pairing: jake seresin x f!reader  rating: 18+ (minors dni)  warnings/triggers: smut? yes. word count: 5,463 summary: jake seresin, your childhood crush, makes his way back into town while on leave from his home squadron in lemoore. naturally, it calls for a nostalgic swim at the old quarry. A/N: two of two entries for @echoingbirdsofprey’s summer challenge on discord in typical ‘me’ fashion—right under the wire. Prompt is “Swimming with Jake Seresin”. this is completely un-beta'd. There are likely a shit-ton of mistakes as I posted this in a fugue state at 2 AM. plz forgive any glaring errors. tysm. ♡

❥ masterlist ♡ taglist ❥ 

By the time the last bell of the day rang through the halls of Grover Elementary, the Texas sun still sat high in the sky, summer fully settling in now with its long, golden afternoons. 

Primarily, it meant that you’d have time to finish grading the pop quiz and still be able to enjoy the last stretches of pink-orange fingers of sunlight on the porch swing with your latest romance book and a glass of wine. 

“Remember to bring your books into class for Monday!” you called over the bustling gaggle of six-year-olds as they tore to the coat room to grab their things. 

Straightening a few papers on your desk, you turned to adjust the “Room 6 Countdown to Summer Break!” chart tacked to the corner of the whiteboard, wiping the ‘7’ away and replacing it with a bubbly ‘6’. 

“Miss!” Brett Corrigan called, the edge of his little lisp reaching you from around the corner. 

He’d been doing a great job with his shoelaces recently. Only calling you over when he’d really gotten the “bunny stuck around the tree” as he put it, hopelessly tangled, as you liked to call it. 

Today was an extreme case of bunny stuck around the tree situation. 

Brett huffed dramatically, in only the way that a six-year-old could manage, when you rounded the corner. “It’s stuck, Miss.” 

“It’s okay,” you hummed, crouching in front of him and examining the damage. Tangled. Hopelessly. You’d have to suggest a different approach.  

When you looked up at his face, cheeks smudged with paint from earlier in the day, you smiled gently. “Here. Let’s start from the beginning together.” 

You made quick work of the knot, straightening the laces—offering him a clean slate. You motioned to the shoe then, tapping the top of Brett’s toe. “Try again. We’ll do it together.” 

Brett nodded once, sharply before he set in on the shoes with determination etched into his tiny features. 

Fumbling with the laces, Brett’s small fingers worked through the loops and pulls while you whispered encouragements beside him. His tongue peeked out from the corner of his mouth in intense concentration at intervals, and for a moment, you stayed quiet, letting him figure it out when he paused, unsure. 

When he finally got the loop through and tugged tight on the second shoe, he beamed, cheeks flushed with pride. “I did it!” 

“You did do it, buddy,” you grinned, ruffling his hair. “That bunny made it around the tree and into the hole like it was nothing. Twice.” 

He giggled and shot up from the bench, backpack bouncing against his back as he ran toward the door. 

“I’m gonna tell my dad!” he called over his shoulder, not looking back as he sprinted down the hall. 

You stood slowly, brushing your hands against your skirt, your knees making their usual quiet protest. You turned to head back to your desk— 

And stopped. 

He leaned one shoulder casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his wide chest, wearing an ‘any man’ crisp white t-shirt and his favourite dark blue jeans. His aviators, sitting on the bridge of his nose, reflected your face back at you, and even in the dim school hallway lighting, he looked unfairly golden—tanned, relaxed, a little smug. 

Trademark Jake Seresin.  

Down to that dumb toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth. 

“Since when do you teach kids how to tie shoes?” he drawled, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

You blinked, heart doing a small, traitorous stutter.  

You hated how he could literally disappear from your life and reappear, days, weeks, months later and he’d still be able to make you feel things you wanted desperately to bury with just a smirk and a few words.  

“Since they started showing up with shoes and not the ability to tie them.” 

“Ah.” He tilted his head like he was considering something serious. “I still double knot mine, just in case. Think you could show me the bunny trick?” 

“I think you’re well past the bunny trick stage.” 

He stepped into the classroom, gaze drifting over the crayon drawings taped to the whiteboard, the “Countdown to Summer Break!” with its freshly drawn ‘6,’ before finally landing on you. 

He looked like he belonged and didn’t belong all at once—too big for the room, too bright, too Jake. It was the same way he felt in this town. Like something it couldn’t quite hold. Too much for the quiet routines, the polite gossip, the town whose biggest flex was a Buttermilk Festival in August—arguably the worst month for a dairy-based event in Texas, in your very humble opinion. 

And yet, he was familiar, too. I In the way you, at once, knew the lyrics of an old song after the first bar even when you hadn’t heard for years. Something forever present in the woven fabric of your life. 

“So how long were you standing there?” 

“Long enough to witness that kid tie the hell out of those shoelaces.” 

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Came home for a few days. On break. My CO at Lemoore was feeling extra generous.” He paused, eyes holding yours. “Thought I’d pick you up. Maybe get you out of here before you get too involved in grading those quizzes on a Friday night.” 

Your brows lifted then, pausing as you gathered the papers with the slanted, crooked writing. “You remembered the pop quiz?” 

“You said something about it in a text last week.” 

“You barely replied to that text.”  

You remembered because it stuck with you—being left on read, especially when you still felt that connection you couldn’t explain. You remembered having to quash the thoughts your mind raced to about why he hadn’t answered. 

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t read it.” 

The weight of that hung between you for a second longer than it should have. He shifted, then smiled again, a little softer this time. 

“So? You got plans tonight?” 

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your voice quieter now. “No. No plans.” 

Jake nodded once, like that was all he needed. 

“You ready to get out of here then?” he tipped his head toward the door, like it were the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn’t been gone, and things hadn’t changed between you two. 

You considered the stacks of spelling tests one last time, the glitter from the morning activity still catching light on the rug at the front of the class, the clock on the wall ticking past your contracted hours. 

“God, yes. Let me grab my bag.” 

He waited patiently while you shut your laptop and tugged on your jean jacket, but you could feel his eyes on you the whole time—watching you like he was trying to memorize what had changed and what hadn’t. You tossed him a look over your shoulder, caught the look in his eyes before it shifted and was gone just as quickly. 

“You taking me to Sonic, or do I have to call your mama and tell her you forgot how to be a proper Southern gentleman?” 

Jake was already shaking his head, stepped toward the classroom door and holding it open as you passed through. “You drive a hard bargain. The usual? Cherry limeade and tots?” 

“You know me so well, Seresin,” you teased, already smiling as you stepped into the too bright fluorescent lighting of the hallway. 

The cicadas had started humming, the sky blooming orange and lavender as you and Jake walked toward his truck—shoulders brushing, just like they used to when you were sixteen. 

Then he said, low and thoughtful, “You ever think about what’d happen if we never left here?” 

You glanced up at him, nudged him with your elbow. “Yeah. You’d still be trying to impress me, and I’d still be beating you at everything.” 

Jake’s grin stretched wide. “Some things never change.” 

You kicked off your flats in the cab, tucking your feet beneath you, and the truck rumbled to life beneath you like a long-forgotten memory, triggered.  

A few blocks from the school and several bars into his playlist, you reached out and turned the volume down, eyeing him. 

“Where are we really going, Seresin? Sonic doesn’t usually require that dumb little smirk.” 

He feigned offense—badly. “You wound me.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, the last rays of sun catching his profile like a memory you weren’t ready to feel. “I might’ve made a detour before coming to get you. Jim’s back in town. Cassidy too. We’re heading out to the old quarry after dark—just for a swim, some beers. Like we used to.” 

You stared at him for a beat. 

“The swimming hole?” you echoed, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “Jake, that water’s probably full of leeches and adolescent regrets.” 

He let out a laugh that echoed in the cab. “Exactly. And just my luck: I’m in desperate need of both.” 

You shook your head, but there was no stopping the warmth crawling across your chest. “Who else is going?” 

“Just the old crew. Nothing crazy. Just… a night.” 

You looked at him. Really looked. 

And when you saw what was sitting behind the smile—something quieter, something a little tired, a little searching—you sighed, tucked your feet in tighter, and nodded. 

“Fine. But if something bites me in that water, I’m holding you personally responsible.” 

Jake gave you a mock-serious nod. “Fair. I’ll even let you push me in first, if that helps.” 

“I think you’ll find you’re gonna regret telling me that.” 

When Jake pulled a u-turn to head back to your place, you were already texting your sister. Letting her know (in not so many words) you were heading off into the middle of nowhere with the boy who once dared you to eat a worm and talked you into jumping off the roof of your barn into a haystack. 

Her reply came quickly: “WAIT. Jake? Giiiiiiiiiirl. Don’t get knocked up. 😉” 

You tossed the phone into the depths of your bag as it continued to buzz with a flurry of incoming texts. Your cheeks heated quickly and you turned to look out the window, suddenly interested in the RV park and the fast-food places that zipped by. 

Jake stopped by your place so you could change into your bathing suit. You didn’t pretend not to know what you were doing when you grabbed the cutoffs that made your ass look fantastic and the tank top that made your B cup breasts look like generous C cups. 

When you returned, quickly locking the door while you hopped on one foot to secure a flip flop, Jake was leaning against the trunk of the overgrown maple tree whose roots had pushed up the paver stones on the walk leading to the house. You didn’t miss the way his head tipped up and his eyes watched you in a way that made your stomach knot and unfurl at the same time. 

Keep it together, you reminded yourself as you skipped down the porch steps. This isn’t different than before, he won’t stay. 

Flip flops echoing in your ears as you made your way down the long front walk, your smiled at him. 

Jake whistled low, pushing himself to stand now. “You clean up alright, Teach.” 

The scoff that left you wasn’t convincing, not to your own ears at least. It doubled as a cover for a nervous laugh. Why you were nervous around this boy—man, you corrected yourself—was beyond you. Except, it really wasn’t, was it? 

“Don’t flatter me, flyboy. You’re not even my third favourite pilot.” 

“Oh yeah? Who’s number one?” 

“Snoopy. Then Han Solo.” You smirked, brushing past him as you headed for the truck parked at the curb in front of the house that had once belonged to your parents. 

The sound that left Jake, close at your back now as he trailed you, was wounded. “I get bested by a beagle and a fictional character?” 

“Welcome to humility, Jacob. You could use some.” 

When you reached the truck, Jake was only a beat behind, opening the door for you without hesitation. “I’m letting that slide only on account of us being late, and Jim will absolutely call me a city slicker if I don’t show up on time.” 

You climbed up into the passenger seat, adjusting the hem of your cutoffs just enough to feel a breeze tickle the tops of your thighs.  

Jake shut the door gently after you—uncharacteristically so, like you were something to be handled with care—and rounded the front of the truck.  

You caught your reflection in the side mirror as he climbed in on the driver side: sun-kissed cheeks, that same tilt of your mouth you hadn’t worn in a long time. A little crooked, a little too pleased with yourself. 

The truck roared to life beneath you. 

The truck had left the city limits before you’d broken the silence. You’d already clocked Jake glancing at you once or twice—always quickly, never long enough to get caught when you turned to look back.  

“I’m curious to see if the quarry’s still as murky and questionable as I remember,” you mused, kicking your feet up onto the dash like it was old habit, just as reflexive as breathing. 

Jake glanced at you sideways; a bit longer than he probably should have for a man driving 60 on backroads, past open fields of brittle grass, in the twilight. “Worse, probably. But Jim swears it’s ‘charmingly rustic.’” 

“You’re gonna owe me a tetanus shot if I step on a rusty bottle cap.” 

“Darlin’, I’ll carry you out myself, if it comes to that.” 

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. That simple kindness, offered so easily, sent a ripple through your chest you didn’t know what to do with. 

You cranked the window down, turned your face toward the growing darkness, let the wind tangle your hair and cool your cheeks. 

You drove in companionable silence for a while, windows down, country music low on the radio. It was the kind of silence that only ever came with history. The kind that knew where all the soft spots were, the yellow of almost healed bruises, but hadn’t decided whether to press them yet. Hadn’t figured out if the pain of memory was worth the feelings that came with it. 

You reached the clearing overlooking the quarry by the time dusk had bled fully into night.  

The others were already there—Jim’s old Jeep parked haphazardly too close to the edge, a cooler cracked open beside it.  

Cassidy was dancing barefoot near the fire pit, beer in hand, shouting something about a playlist that no one was listening to. 

Jake killed the engine and stepped out, tossing a wave to the group. “Look who I dragged out of the classroom.” 

There were cheers, familiar whoops and greetings, arms thrown around shoulders, handshakes turned to back slaps.  

You were hugged, passed a drink, teased about being late. 

Then someone, likely Jeremy, yelled, “Come on, Seresin! Let’s see if you still got it.” 

Jake, never one to resist a challenge, didn’t hesitate.  

He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt in one smooth motion. His jeans followed and you caught yourself staring, transfixed. The hard line of muscle cut down his spine and disappeared under the waistband of his boxers, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. 

Jake Seresin had always been attractive. That wasn’t new. It wasn’t even worth denying. Anyone with eyes could see it. 

But something about the night, about tonight—the flicker of firelight, the scent of pine and beer in the air, the way his skin caught the golden glow—made it dangerous.  

He stood at the quarry’s edge like he was carved into the landscape. Like he belonged in this wild, open space in a way few people ever could. 

You knew you should look away. 

But your eyes couldn’t follow the way your brain told you to keep it in check. Instead, they swept down the line of his shoulders, the broad plane of his back, the flex of muscle just above the waistband of his boxers—and lower, where the fabric clung to the dip of his hips like a dare.  

It was entirely unfair, the way he looked. Tanned, effortless, built like every bad decision you’d ever almost made in high school but grown into something worse—better—with age. 

And then there was the way he moved. Like he knew the effect he had on you, on everyone. Like it had never occurred to him to be self-conscious. 

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, and you forced yourself to pull a deep breath into your lungs, half hoping the cold beer would douse the flicker starting low in your stomach. 

And then, in the middle of your self-chiding—he looked at you. 

Not direct. Not bold. 

Just enough to let you know. Let you know that he knew. 

Heat crawled up the back of your neck. You tore your gaze away too late, caught. Guilty. Wanting. You tilted your drink up to your lips, using the bottle like a shield, but your heart, hammering in your chest wouldn’t slow down. 

When you risked another glance, he was gone. 

Then—splash. A clean, echoing crack of water as Jake hit the surface below the edge.  

Cheers erupted around you. 

You were thankful for the sudden refocus. 

“Still got it!” Jeremy shouted, before he was at your side, hand clapped on your shoulder. “He’s still got it!” 

You chuckled, a bit uneasy, before you nodded and took another gulp of the drink in your hand. 

Jake surfaced with a grin, water sliding off his shoulders, making his skin look slick and touchable and— 

Stop.  

Stop it. 

Get it together.  

His dirty blond hair was slicked back now, darker in the moonlight, and the second his green eyes locked onto you again, it stole the breath from your chest. 

“You coming in or just here to stare?” He smirked. 

You could’ve played it off. You should have. 

Instead, you cocked your head, eyes narrowed, arms folded across your chest, a growing smirk pulling up the corners of your mouth. It was one you hoped masked the way your pulse was pounding in your chest and between your legs. 

“Just evaluating your technique, Lieutenant. It's… passable.” 

He laughed, sharp and delighted, and that glint in his eyes was unmistakable—heat. One that wasn’t just friendly. One that wasn’t innocent. 

Cassidy tossed you a wink and nudged your foot with hers. “You just gonna let him show off alone all night?” 

You shifted, brushing your palm down your thighs, trying to get a grip. “Just waiting for him to wear himself out,” you muttered, not trusting your voice to say more. 

Jake’s voice cut through the air, low and teasing. “That’s gonna take a while.” 

The words hit harder than they should have, thudding low in your belly. Not just because of the challenge in his tone, but because part of you wanted to test it. To call his bluff. 

To find out just how long he could keep going. 

Cassidy whooped and jumped in next.  

Then two more followed.  

The group was in full swing now, laughter echoing off stone, water slapping and splashing as people surfaced and called to each other. 

Beer finished, you stood at the top of the ledge, flipflops abandoned near the firepit, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Watching. 

Jake tread water below, squinting up at you. “Come on, sunshine. You too good for us now?”    You didn’t answer right away. 

Maybe because the nickname sent a jolt straight through you. Maybe because you weren’t ready to pretend that standing here in cutoff shorts and a barely-there tank top, under the weight of Jake Seresin’s attention, didn’t feel dangerous. Not the kind of danger that came with a sharp edge—but the kind you wanted to touch anyway. 

“I’m just waiting for the water to look less like a leech-infested mystery and more like a good idea,” you called back. 

Jake grinned. “Then let me help you make up your mind.” 

And then he was swimming to the edge and climbing out. 

Water rolled off him in rivulets, slicking over his chest, his abs, the trail of hair disappearing into his boxers. His hands came up to rake through his hair, and your mouth might’ve fallen slightly open because—well, damn. Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten under the moonlight, like the air itself flexed around him. 

You backed up half a step. “What are you doing?” 

“Helping,” he said, with that shit-eating grin that always came right before he did something reckless. 

“Jake—” 

But it was too late. 

He closed the distance in five quick strides, hands sliding—hot, sure, and very real—around your waist before you could blink. 

“Jake!” you yelped, grabbing for his shoulders instinctively. “Don’t you dare drop me.” 

“I won’t,” he said, and his voice was low, steady—intimate. His arms tightened, cradling you to his chest like you weighed nothing. “Promise.” 

And then he jumped. 

Your stomach lurched as the quarry disappeared beneath you, wind rushing past your ears and Jake’s laugh rumbling against your chest like thunder. You had just enough time to register the way your hands clung to his bare shoulders, your legs instinctively curling in toward his hips. Too close. Too much. And then the water swallowed you whole.  

You hit with a splash that echoed into the night, the cold shocking the breath from your lungs. 

Then you surfaced, sputtering and gasping and laughing all at once, your arms still around him, his arms still around you. 

“You’re insane,” you managed between gulps of air. 

Jake just smirked, water beading on his lashes. “You screamed like I dropped you.” 

“You practically did.” 

“Sunshine,” he said, breathless but grinning, “if I was gonna drop you, I’d have done it years ago.” 

And that—that did something to you. Right there in the dark water, bodies pressed close, his hands slipping lower on your waist under the guise of keeping you afloat. 

You were in trouble. 

And God, part of you wanted to sink. 

They’d swum until their fingers pruned and their laughter turned breathless, and now they’d settled into that easy lull that came after—when bodies were tired, hearts were full, and the air buzzed soft with embers and crickets. 

Jake had backed his truck up close to the fire pit like they used to, the tailgate down, a blanket thrown across it. Jim’s Jeep sat open nearby, the Bluetooth speaker tucked in the back playing low country guitar and soft vocals. The fire cracked and hissed, flames licking the dark, casting everyone in gold and shadow. 

Someone passed around beers—cheap ones, mostly warm.  

Cassidy nursed one, curled into a camp chair, retelling a story about Jim falling into the pond at homecoming and dragging Jake down with him.  

Jake, sprawled across the tailgate with a damp shirt over his shoulder, let out a laugh and didn’t deny it. 

You were cross-legged on the blanket beside him, one of your knees brushing his, still barefoot, your hair drying in loose waves from the swim. Your fingers toyed with the label of your drink, half-listening, half-watching him. 

Then, somewhere between Cassidy switching songs and Jim lighting another marshmallow on fire, Jake spoke. 

“Headin’ back to Lemoore at the end of the week. Probably going to get assigned to Miramar for a bit.” 

His voice was casual—too casual. Like he hadn’t just thrown a rock into still water. 

You looked over at him, brows drawn. “That soon?” 

Jake didn’t meet your eyes. “They bumped up our schedule. Some new training pipeline starting. Just a few weeks of leave, that’s all they could give me.” 

You nodded, slowly. “Right.” 

The laughter around the fire dulled. Cassidy stood to stretch. Jim made some excuse about early errands. One by one, everyone trickled off—hugging goodbye, slinging bags over shoulders, waving as headlights blinked on and tires crunched down the gravel road. 

Until it was just you and Jake, sitting in the flickering light, the fire low and the night deepening around you. 

He leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the sky. “Still remember all the constellations you taught me.” 

You didn’t smile. Not quite. “You only remembered the ones with good stories.” 

He turned his head toward you, eyes catching the last licks of firelight. “They were good stories.” 

Silence stretched. Not heavy. Just full. Like neither of you quite knew how to fill it without saying too much. 

Finally, you said, “Feels like you just got here.” 

Jake nodded but didn’t respond. 

The fire popped, loud in the quiet. 

You looked down at your hands, at the chipped nail polish and the old friendship bracelet still tied around your wrist from a hundred summers ago. “I hate that I keep losing people.” 

Jake sat up slowly, shifting so he was facing you. “You never lost me.” 

“Didn’t I?” you asked, voice soft. 

Jake’s jaw flexed. “No. You just… stayed. And I kept moving. But I always come back.” 

You held his gaze. “Then don’t wait so long next time.” 

His smile, when it came, was smaller than before. Realer. “I won’t. Swear.” 

You didn’t reach for him, not yet, but the space between you felt like it was humming. Something unspoken but pressing. A tension not quite resolved. A question neither of you had been brave enough to ask out loud. 

The fire burned lower, but neither of you moved to leave. Not yet. Not while there was still something tethering you to the moment. 

You weren’t sure when Jake moved closer—only that you felt it first. 

A brush of his knee against yours. The shift of his arm, slow and deliberate, until his hand found the edge of the blanket beside yours. His pinky grazed your thigh, light enough to pretend it was accidental, intentional enough that your breath caught. 

Neither of you said anything. 

Your eyes stayed fixed on the fire—what was left of it. The glow that barely reached the stones. You could hear Cassidy’s car rumble down the path, followed by silence so deep it made your skin prickle. 

Jake's voice broke it. 

“I don’t want to go back yet.” 

You looked at him, and something in your chest twisted. 

“You will, though.” 

“I have to.” He paused, then added, “But tonight—can we just... not think about that?” 

The air stretched taut between you. You could’ve filled it with sarcasm. With deflection. With every excuse you'd used before to keep your distance. 

But the fire was almost out, the night was already too far gone, and the way he was looking at you—barefoot, hair mussed from swimming, green eyes too honest under the moonlight—made it impossible to pretend. 

So you nodded. 

Jake exhaled once, like you’d given him permission to breathe again, and then he reached for you. 

Not with hunger, not at first—but with intention. A slow, steady pull, his hand at your back guiding you toward him, until your legs unfolded and you were in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your hands planted on his chest to keep yourself steady. 

You didn’t kiss right away. 

You just sat there, breathing each other in. Feeling the heat radiate off his skin, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he was grounding himself. 

“I used to think about this,” he said quietly, his voice rough with restraint. “You. Me. That summer before I left.” 

You nodded once, your lips inches from his. “I know.” 

His hands slid under the hem of your tank top, thumbs brushing the warm skin at your waist. His touch wasn’t rushed, wasn’t asking. Just there. Steady. Present. 

And when he kissed you, it was slow—achingly so. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of reverence that made your chest go tight. Like he wasn’t just kissing you—he was remembering you. All of you. 

The teasing, the heartbreak, the years in between. 

And just like that, the dam broke. 

You shifted in his lap, grinding down just enough to make him groan into your mouth. His hands moved to your thighs, gripping tight. Your fingers slid into his damp hair, tugging until he hissed. 

“You sure?” he asked, lips brushing yours. 

You nodded, already breathless. “Are you?” 

His mouth curled against your skin. “Haven’t been more sure of anything in a long time.” 

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands resting on either side of his face. “Then don’t be careful.” 

Something dark and beautiful flashed across his face. 

“I won’t,” he said—and then he laid you back against the blanket in the bed of the truck, body pressing into yours with all the weight of everything you’d both been trying not to say. 

His mouth was on your neck, hot and possessive, tongue dragging against your pulse before he sucked—hard enough to make you gasp, hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Still so goddamn sweet,” he muttered, voice thick, dragging his teeth across your collarbone as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Did you miss this?” he asked, like he didn’t already feel the way your hips tilted up into his hand, desperate. 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not when he had his fingers on you, slipping past the cotton to find you already slick, already aching for him. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes half-lidded as he dragged his fingers through you slowly. “Look at you.” 

Your hands tugged at his shirt until he helped you strip it off, baring warm, tanned skin and muscle. You leaned up and kissed his chest, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss. He let you for a second—then gripped your jaw, tipped your head back, and kissed you hard. 

There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just heat and friction and a long-restrained hunger breaking wide open. 

Jake didn’t waste time after that. He shoved your shorts down your thighs with a growl low in his throat, cursing softly when they stuck to your skin. You reached for his jeans in the same breath, unbuttoning them with fingers that trembled more than you’d like to admit. 

He pushed them down just far enough, then gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the tailgate until your legs dangled off. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t have to. 

He lined himself up, dragged the head of his cock through your slick once, twice, teasing. You whimpered, hips chasing him, and Jake just grinned—dark and hungry. 

“Still impatient,” he murmured. 

Then he sank into you in one deep, devastating thrust. 

Your mouth fell open. No sound—just the shock of being filled. He didn’t move. Not right away. He stayed there, buried deep, jaw clenched tight as your thighs wrapped around his waist. 

“You always felt like this,” he rasped against your ear, hips starting to move. “Tight. Hot. Fucking perfect.” 

He didn’t take it slow. He fucked you like he meant it, like he was making up for every year apart, every near-miss, every memory that kept him up at night. His hand found your throat—not tight, just grounding—and his mouth was on your jaw, your shoulder, your chest. Your name fell from his lips between curses, breath shallow, body flush with yours. 

You moaned for him—quiet and ruined—and he kissed it from your mouth. 

“Tell me this ain’t just memory,” he said, voice breaking, pace unrelenting. “Tell me it’s still us.” 

You pulled him down until your forehead touched his, your voice catching. “It’s still us.” 

That broke something in him. His rhythm faltered, deepened, became messy and desperate, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. You met every thrust, body straining for more, and when you came, it hit like a wave—violent, hot, clenching around him so tight he choked on a moan and followed you over the edge. 

He stayed inside you, panting, forehead pressed to your shoulder, one hand tangled in your hair. 

Neither of you spoke for a long time. 

Then Jake lifted his head, looked at you like he’d forgotten how to pretend. 

“You’re it,” he said hoarsely. “Always been.” 

And when you kissed him again, you didn’t say anything back. 

You didn’t have to. 

tags, bb!

sorry if I missed any! ask in the comments and i'll add you!

@mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @obsessed-fan-alert @lunatygerqueen @khouse712

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@anglophileforlife @kmc1989 @shawnsblue @theladyforlorn

[mrsevans90]

ice ice baby.

pairing: tyler owens x f!reader  rating: 18+ (minors dni)  warnings/triggers: i'm gonna go to horny jail. there's a lot of smut, some semblance of plot. you've been warned. mention of seppuku (ritualistic self-harm). word count: 4,540 summary: in the thick of an oklahoma heat wave, tyler owens, tornado wrangler himself, cools you down just to set you on fire.  A/N: one of two entries for @echoingbirdsofprey’s summer challenge on discord. prompt: “ice cubes”.   title inspired by vanilla ice’s “ice ice baby”. 

not beta read. i'm cdn, so forgive any misconceptions about the midwest.

❥ masterlist ♡ taglist ❥

The little farmhouse with the cornflower blue front door and the wrap around porch on the outskirts of Marlow, Oklahoma was sweltering.  

The once painted shut windows had been pried open, but the stickiness of humidity outside hadn’t offered any relief. To call the air that whispered in on occasion a breeze would have been extremely generous and when it did slip in, you’d be pressed to call it more than the hot breath of yet more suffocating warmth. 

It had been like this for days—no reprieve. 

It wrapped around the old house like a second skin, oppressive and thick, soaking into the swollen floorboards, the bedsheets that had been marketed as “always cool!” (clearly, a lie), and every inch of exposed skin. 

The first day had been a welcome change from the week of seemingly relentless rain, hell-bent on turning your and Tyler’s newly acquired seven acres into a squelching mud pit, killing the cute patch of tomatoes and cucumbers you’d planted just off the back porch. 

And while you’d moped at the sight of the overwatered plants from the doorway, your fingers absently twisting the gold band on your left hand, you knew this shift in weather meant something else too—your favorite time: the end of storm season. 

He’d only been home a day and a half when the ceiling fan started its campaign of sabotage. You were still getting used to hearing his boots in the hall again as the two of you quickly learned that setting the ceiling fans to any speed above “Tahitian beach resort in a movie” would trip the circuit breaker.  

After the third time emerging from the crawlspace hatch in the pantry—the definitely-against-code breaker box tucked inside—hair dusted with cobwebs and sweat streaked with dirt across his brow, Tyler announced that you could both pretend it was a beach vacation. He promised to actually take you next month. 

If you both survived the heat, of course. 

How you married someone so goddamned optimistic was beyond you. You—who came from a family that treated complaining like an Olympic sport, where going home with anything less than a gold medal was a shame that required seppuku. 

In the time you’d been with Tyler, you’d slowly adopted some of his optimism, almost in spite of the people who raised you. Thought outside of the box. Patched small problems with duct tape, stubbornness and a little imagination. 

When the power had gone out once at his old place one summer, you’d hauled the blankets outside, made a bed on the porch and slept under the stars—sweat gathering under your palm where it rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. 

You could do this. You could survive the heat. 

Then, on the third day, in the early hours of the already sticky morning, the A/C gave one final, pathetic groan, followed by an acrid puff of smoke that had you both scrambling to shut off the breaker.  

Tyler crouched beside the unit, toolbox already out, sweat clinging to his temples as he poked around with the kind of stubborn hope that usually ended in curses. 

After twenty minutes and a long sigh, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and stood. 

“It’s done,” he muttered, bunching up an oil-stained rag and placing his wide hands on his hips, squinting up at you on the porch. “I’ll call Boone later—see if he’s got a part, but I think this old bastard might be beyond saving.” 

You didn’t bother asking if Boone was a licensed HVAC technician. You knew better. You’d seen him with Tyler’s truck and the Storm Chaser RV. 

By 10 a.m., Tyler had declared war on his shirt, flinging it over the porch rail in silent surrender as sweat traced the curve of his spine like a winding river.  

You caught a glimpse of him through the screen door that didn’t shut quite right, hands on hips as he looked at the grey sky in the distance. Thought you heard him mumble something about a storm breaking soon. That once the rain came, it’d cut through the heat. 

You’d never wanted rain so badly. 

“Crazy thought, Ty,” you sighed, padding barefoot across the sticky and cracked kitchen tile, “but I think we should move to Michigan. We’ll give you a rebrand: Squall Seeker or something.” 

His soft laugh echoed from the other room as you pulled open the freezer and let yourself bask in the burst of cold air that escaped. It vanished too quickly, but you grabbed the ice trays and carried them to the sink. 

Cracking the ice loose, you scooped cubes into tall glasses, watching one begin to melt almost instantly against your too-warm skin. You didn’t flinch when it dripped between your fingers—just held onto it, brought it up to the curve of your neck, slow and deliberate. 

Eyes closed, you sighed, savouring the temporary reprieve, the cool path of water from the melting ice sliding down over your collarbone and disappearing beneath your shirt. 

It was Tyler’s voice that pulled you back. 

“You tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart?” he drawled from the doorway at your back, voice low and rough, laced with a different kind of heat—the kind that made your legs go soft, something hungry stirring just behind it. 

You smirked, turning just enough to catch the glint in his eye, his arms folded across his bare, sweat-slicked chest, gaze locked on you, battered ball cap tucked on backward. “Just trying to cool off.” 

He pushed off the doorframe, slow, deliberate. The kind of movement, sauntering and careful, you knew was always followed by trouble. The good kind. The kind that left bruises on the fleshy parts of your thighs long after your heart settled and want melted into satisfied bliss. 

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned. You knew there was no danger behind it. 

You plucked another cube from the tray and dragged it slowly down the side of your throat with a hum, the drip of condensation racing down your neck, your wrist.  

“No,” you smirked, forever sassy. “I’m playing with ice.” 

You felt it snap in him—that heat-laced stillness breaking like a line of storm clouds overhead. 

In three long strides, he was behind you, hands, tanned from the long days of storm chasing over the last month or so, coming down hard to frame your hips. The weight of him pressed your stomach into the edge of the counter and it pushed a gasp from your lips. But he didn’t move. And you didn’t want him to. 

“Give it to me.” His lips were against the shell of your ear, one hand leaving your hips, palm open and waiting. 

Without hesitation, you carefully placed the cool ice, already half melted, into the center of his large hand. 

The first touch came to the back of your neck—a single cold drag of the ice down your spine that made you arch like you’d touched a live wire.  

Reflexively, you reached back to grip his thigh through his jeans, anchoring yourself as he swept the cube lower, tracing it lazily over the exposed skin on your back until it met the waistband of your jean shorts. 

“You wearin’ anything under these?” he asked, the edge in his voice betraying that he already knew the answer. 

You shook your head, the dizzy haze of want fast closing in like a vignette. Your body had already taken over; every nerve turned to the hard line of him pressed against your ass. 

You could feel the low pulse between your thighs, a throb like a heartbeat. 

His low groan vibrated against your back as he reached around, thumbed open the button of your shorts one-handed with practiced ease, and pushed the fabric down. The cotton hit the floor in a whisper at your feet. 

The ice cube was nearly gone now, a trickle of cold water slipping down the back of your sweat-drenched thighs. It was little more than a slick on his fingers—but still enough to make you gasp when he touched you. 

You shifted, arching slightly, just enough for him to slide his hand around and—God—touch you where you were already aching for more, for him, his fingers finding your pulsing center like the eye of a storm. 

The jolt of cold contrast was shock enough to pull his name from your lips on a breathless gasp. 

“Ty—” 

“I’ve got you, darlin’” he murmured, barely a whisper, his lips ghosting the curve of your throat as you opened to him, his fingers tracing the line of your slick folds. “Just let me cool you down.”  

His right hand stayed firm on your hip, anchoring you in place as you pressed into his hand on instinct, chasing the pressure. He found your clit, stroking in an achingly slow, deliberate rhythm. 

The moan that spilled from your mouth was involuntary, your whole body tightening with need as Tyler’s hips bucked against you—his erection twitching against your bare skin, the heat between you building quickly toward something dangerously close to undoing. 

You could barely stand it, having him this incredibly close and—maddeningly—not close enough. Not after weeks apart, imagining all the ways he’d fill you, riding out an orgasm alone to the sound of his voice across a phone line as he did the same. 

Now that he was here, against you, one hand skating up under your shirt to pinch your peaked nipple, his other keeping time, working you with slick, steady strokes, the wet sounds becoming almost obscene.  

You wanted it all. Greedy. Needy. Wet. 

You’d never felt closer to combustion. And yet, you never wanted him to stop. 

You could feel it building—your body tensing, begging for just a little bit more pressure, just one more stroke. Every nerve drawn taut, every flick of his calloused fingers coaxing you closer to the edge he clearly wanted you to fall over.  

He was focused, relentless, even as he became impossibly harder against you, whispering how much he missed you, how much he loved you, how perfect you were beneath his hands.  

He spoke each word like a promise, reaffirming vows he’d made the day he slipped a ring on your finger. 

“I thought about you every night,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck. “Missed you so bad it hurt.” 

“Fuck—Ty, I...” you gasped, breath hitching as he nipped at the curve of your shoulder, then kissed the spot his teeth had scored—half apology, half wicked promise—as he rolled your nipple between his fingers. 

“What was that, baby?” his voice was lyrical, teasing, a hum in your ear. 

You could see the edge, feel it rising too fast toward a crest. But even through the panting, whimpering haze of want, you knew—you didn’t want to come undone alone. 

Blindly, you reached back, found the line of his tented jeans, tugged when your words failed you—not enough to stop him, but enough to let him know. Not yet. 

“Ty,” you breathed, pleading, voice shaky on the precipice. “I want to feel you.” 

You knew it got his attention. You felt it in the way his hand slowed, just enough, in the way his breath stuttered against your neck as you pushed back against him, hips shifting, grinding. 

You didn’t miss the opportunity. 

Reaching for another partially melted ice cube, you turned against his chest to face him, breathless and already flushed. He hissed when you pressed it to his peck, and it melted on contact. Reflexively, he caught your wrist, holding it between you both. 

“If you’re gonna tease,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with something that set you alight, your thighs messy with your own slick, chest rising and falling fast. He dipped low, his mouth ghosting your jaw, “you’d better be able to take the heat.” 

He kissed the spot near your ear, along your jaw, the corner of your mouth. 

“I’m counting on it, Owens,” you huffed out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, light and airy. 

That was all it took. He didn’t waste any more time. 

His mouth was on yours, hot, urgent, tongue brushing yours and sealing in your gasp as you wrapped your arms around his neck and he lifted you onto the counter at your back. 

Tyler slotted himself between your legs in a fluid motion, his hands sliding up the outside of your bare legs, squeezing the curve of your ass pressed against the melamine. 

He kissed his way down—lips brushing from one collarbone to the other—then mouthed your left breast and the right over your shirt, lingering. By the time he made it to the inside of your right knee, thunder cracked in the distance. 

The loud boom rolled through the old house, rattling the thin windowpanes and making the screen door shiver. Glasses in the cabinet behind you clinked softly, kissing each other from the vibration, and the counter beneath you trembled as the boom gave way to a low, lingering echo. 

It was nothing compared to the storm Tyler was stirring under your skin. 

“You hear that?”  

You looked down at him, breath shaky, plucking the old beat-up hat off his head only to tug it onto your head backward before threading your fingers through his hair. 

He paused for only a moment, grinned up at you before he continued, kissing higher, a whisper closer to where you needed him.  

His lips grazed the small birthmark he once said looked like the last star in the handle of the little dipper. He was slower now, careful, his warm breath coming out in puffs against your skin between reverent kisses.  

“I did,” he hummed. “Don’t care.” 

A flash of lightning lit up the kitchen, a staccato pulse across his bare back as he continued to kiss up your inner thigh, his hands framing your hips like he couldn’t bear to let you go for even a moment.  

The next roll of thunder, paired with the small nip Tyler grazed against your skin caused you to jump. He was so close now, his warm breath on the cool wetness at the apex of your legs.  

You gripped to edge of the counter tightly, your knuckles white. 

“You should care,” you whispered, tone wavering with the want barely concealed. You were on fire. A wave of heat that had nothing to do with the weather washing over you. He was so good at this. So good at knowing how to unravel you fast.  

You swallowed hard before you spoke again. “Could be a funnel cloud.” 

“I care,” he murmured, breath hot against your thigh. “I care that you’re already shaking. That I’ve barely even started.” 

Your stomach clenched, breath catching as the bottom dropped out. 

Tyler looked up once—just once—and the way his eyes met yours, a storm brewing just behind the blue green of them, made your entire body stutter. There was something reverent there, something feral. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. 

His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, adjusting—pulling you to the edge of the counter like he’d done it a thousand times in his mind since he’d been away. And then, with agonizing control, he sank to his knees. 

Your world narrowed. 

You could feel your pulse everywhere—your throat, your fingertips, the place between your legs that throbbed with anticipation. 

He didn’t touch you yet. You were sure you’d die if he didn’t do it soon. 

But Tyler had never been the kind of man to rush the part you knew he’d missed the most. 

His thumb stroked lazy half-circles against your inner thighs, grounding you in a moment when you thought the anticipation of his touch where you needed him might lift you off the counter. 

“Jesus,” he murmured, and you just about opened your mouth to fire off a smart-ass comment about something sacrilegious when the words caught in your throat. 

The first brush of his mouth came like a promise. Gentle. Teasing. Testing. An excruciatingly slow drag of his mouth across your clit that had your hips jerking up into him and a gasp ripping from your lips before you could stop it. 

Your head cracked back against the cupboards. Your heels dug into his back, pressing him closer. Wordlessly begging for more. 

“That’s it,” he breathed against your soaked center, pulling back just enough that you whined over the loss of sensation. “Let me hear you. Want the neighbours three houses down to know I’m taking care of you.” 

His tongue followed, flat, hot and slow, before adopting a torturous rhythm—like he had all the time in the world to reacquaint himself with you, to claim you again with nothing but his mouth. 

He shifted, his shoulders pushing under your legs now to get a new angle, arms wrapped around, palms pressing your thighs open as you pressed back against the pleasure. His fingers bit into the soft skin there, hard enough that it sent another tremor of bittersweet ache straight through you. 

Outside, the storm was closer now, another roll of thunder shook the farmhouse. This time, you moaned with it, fingers twisting in his hair, back arched, already close. 

“Tyler—” it was barely a sound, lost on the last of the echo of thunder. A plea. 

He groaned, like the sound of his name on your lips, the wild, uncontrolled buck and grind of your hips into his mouth was enough to make him come. 

The vibration of it nearly undid you. 

“You taste like every goddamned mile I had to drive to get back to you,” he said, voice hoarse, rough, nearly broken with his own need. 

He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. 

And when he finally sucked just hard enough, tongue flicking in just the right pattern, you came apart at the carefully held together seams—thighs trembling, breath shattered, his name on your lips like the only true thing in this whole world. 

Tyler didn’t let up, pushing you to the edges of overstimulation, squirming against his mouth until you sagged back against the upper cabinets, spent and dizzy, your hand sliding from his hair as your chest heaved. 

When he stood, his lips were slick with you, eyes blown wide with heat and something else—something tender, something completely and always yours. 

You reached for him, the greedy, empty feeling still begging for the stretch of him. 

“Still hot?” he asked with a crooked, lazy grin. You could feel his heartbeat in his lips, tasted yourself on them as you pulled him to you and he deepened the kiss. 

“I think you broke the thermometer, Owens.” 

You were pulsing again, sated only enough to know there was still an ache only his cock could soothe. You arched into him, your chest, nipples still peaked through the thin layer of tank top, pressed hard against his. 

He knew what you wanted. You could tell by the way he chuckled, kissed your jaw, then your temple. “Storm’s just about to open up. Maybe we oughta see if the bedroom’s any cooler...” 

“Take me to bed, then.” 

He kissed you slow and deep, your thighs sticking to the counter as he peeled you off and your legs hitched around his waist. 

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, shifting you in his arms like you weighed nothing, “I’m gonna take you through every kind of storm tonight.” 

By the time you’d made it to the bedroom, you’d lost your tank top but still wore Tyler’s hat.  

Halfway up the stairs, he sat you on the first landing, peeled away the last scrap of clothing on your body, and closed his mouth around a hardened nipple. 

The tread bit into your low back. Head tipped, mouth slack, you were pretty sure your brain might just leak out your ears as a curse—long and drawn out—slipped from your lips on a moan. 

You didn’t mention how unfair it was that he was still wearing those damn jeans. 

The storm had rolled directly overhead by the time he lowered you onto the bed. 

“You sure you’re not too tired?” you teased, propping yourself up on your elbows as an impossibly loud peel of thunder rolled deeply, rumbled in your chest. The cousin flash of lightning lit up the room in a bright white blue on its heels. 

All you could focus on was the way Tyler took you in—his eyes scanning you, pupils blown wide—rousing that hollow clench between your legs. 

Your eyes flickered down to the offending jeans, belt buckled and a dull shine in the low light. 

You bit your bottom lip, hard. You weren’t above begging Tyler for his cock. You knew he liked it—liked when you were pleading for the stretch of him, your desperation turning to something nearly feral when he gave you what you needed. 

He shook his head, as if the question were ridiculous, undeserving of an answer. Then, his knee sank into the mattress between your thighs and his mouth caught yours—hungry, open, stealing the breath right from your chest. 

“Sweetheart, I could be half-dead and I’d still crawl after you.” 

He was kissing you again, slow, deep—like he could stay there, between your thighs for the rest of his life and die happy. As if he could live off your breath and the sounds you made for him alone. 

When he finally pulled back, he hovered, his heavy breaths mingling with your own as his hips pressed down, just enough to let you feel him. The hard line of his readiness, still clothes, still infuriatingly distant. 

“Ty,” you whispered, your breath catching as he pressed again, a long drag against your core. 

You felt the smirk on his mouth as his lips ghosted your jaw, your throat. “What do you need, baby?” he murmured, voice ragged, just this side of ruined, a step away from losing control. “Tell me.” 

You arched beneath him, restless, chasing the friction. “You,” you huffed. “I need you.” 

But he didn’t move. Not yet. His hand drifted down between your bodies, found your wetness, stroked once, then twice in lazy circles. “Need me how?” 

You bit back the delirious moan as he slowly slid a finger into you, offering a long, languid stroke and then another before adding a second finger. He curled them inside you, searching for the spot that made you see actual fucking stars.  

“Like this?” 

Your mind was on fire, so unsure of what sensation to lend attention to that you almost didn’t register the sound of his belt coming off. 

“Like this?” he repeated, voice thick with heat, curling his fingers again in a slow, devastating rhythm. 

Your mouth fell open, a strangled noise slipping free. You were far too gone to be embarrassed by it. 

You were shaking your head before the words caught up. “N-no,” you managed, even as your hips bucked into his hand, chasing more, always chasing him. “Fuck, Ty. I—,” a moan ripped through you, “I need you. Please. Baby. Inside of me. Need to feel you. Please.” 

He pulled his fingers from you as he tugged off his jeans with a groan, almost as though the pressure of them was too much now.  

Even in the dimness of the room, you could see the darkened patch on the material of his boxers. 

He cursed low—deep and guttural—as he shoved the boxers down just enough, his cock springing free, flushed and hard, leaking at the tip. He braced one arm beside your head, the other wrapping around your thigh, lifting, spreading, possessing. 

You barely breathed. 

And then he was there—right there—rubbing the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, teasing the glide of it through your slick folds, but not pushing in. Not yet. 

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasped, voice breaking. “You’re so fucking ready for me.” 

You whined—actually whined—and that’s what did it. 

He sank into you in one long, slow thrust, your bodies slotting together like gravity had pulled him home. The stretch was everything—just the way you remembered, just the way you dreamed it would be when he was gone. 

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, hips trembling as he held himself still, buried deep, as if he were trying to regain some control. “You have no idea how good you feel…” 

You clenched around him—reflexive, greedy—and felt the sharp jerk of his hips in response, a muttered curse punched against your throat. 

His breath stuttered above you.  

“Jesus. Baby, I’m trying to—” he broke off, eyes shut tight like he could breathe the edge away. “—slow down.” 

But your body didn’t want slow. It wanted all of him. Yesterday. 

You rolled your hips once, wicked, a deliberate grind, and his restraint shattered like glass. 

He was everywhere. 

The weight of him above you, the stretch of him inside you, the gravel in his voice rasping low in your ear—that’s it, baby, just like that—pulling you closer to the edge with every thrust. 

Your body trembled, arching into him, chasing the drag of his cock, slick and perfect, dragging over every place you needed him most. The rhythm had turned punishing in its precision—each stroke purposeful, hitting that spot deep inside you that made your vision blur. 

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. 

Only feel. 

“Ty—” It came out strangled, broken by a moan. “Tyler, I’m—” 

“I know,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again, his hips never faltering. “I feel it. Let go for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” 

Your hands clung to his back, nails digging into his sweat-slicked skin. Your legs were shaking, the pleasure cresting so violently it almost hurt—tightening like a fist in your gut. 

And then— 

He shifted, angled just right, and with one hard thrust that hit deep, his thumb found your clit, circling fast and tight. 

It was over. 

Your orgasm crashed over you with a force that stole your breath—your cry sharp, your whole body going rigid beneath him as you shattered around him, your walls pulsing, clenching, holding him in a vice that tore a low curse from his throat. 

“Fuck, baby—”  

He barely got the words out before he was right there with you. 

His hips stuttered, lost their rhythm, and then he buried himself to the hilt, groaning into your neck as he came hard, hot, his body trembling as you took every last pulse of it from him. 

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just your hearts, pounding against each other, your breath tangled between kisses, your bodies locked in a kind of aftershock. 

Tyler didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak. 

He just held you tighter, like the space between your bodies was the only safe place on earth, fingers tangled in your hair. You could feel his heartbeat against your ribs, wild and full. 

“Ice cubes, huh?” He murmured between breathless presses of ginger kisses just under your ear. “We’re keepin’ those up here from now on.” 

tags, bb!

sorry if I missed any! ask in the comments and i'll add you!

@mrsevans90 @avengersfan25 @obsessed-fan-alert @lunatygerqueen @khouse712

@yuckosworld @alipap3 @writergirl28 @tgmreader @qutequeersstuff

@cardi-bre91 @lovelylndskies @queenslandlover-93 @marvelouslyme96 @malindacath

@anglophileforlife @kmc1989 @shawnsblue @theladyforlorn

[mrsevans90]

Let's say he's a werewolf.

Hey, y'all: @beck07990 @kebabgirl67 @sillyrabbit81 @identity2212 @peachyvulpixie @nuggsmum @angryschnauzer @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @captainsy-cookiemonster @ellethespaceunicorn @gearhead6 @est1887 @mollymal @mrsevans90

Inspired by this post I saw on @eldarwen333 feed. Enjoy!

Capt Syverson, all man but hidden wolf, has been hooking up with you for months. He told you he was a werewolf; you said "nice". He said he could smell your arousal; you said "good". You fucked then, but he didn't knot you.

"Is this because I'm *not* a wolf", you asked afterward, admittedly with a bit of petulance.

"Naw", he assured you. "I don't wanna hurt ya. That pussy's the best I've gotten in years. I'd rather not get cut off over a stupid mistake." He promised he was working up to it, but it's. been. MONTHS.

The full moon is in two days, and he's desperate, vibrating like a nest of angry hornets. You run him a cool bath, wash him nice and slow, massaging as you work your way from head to toe. He relaxed finally. Well, not Lil Captain. His ample girth has let you know what it wants: first, flopping up onto his belly; then bouncing and throbbing whenever you touched a spot he likes; and then, oh fuck, it seemed to curved toward you when you leaned over him to grab the shampoo. You knew he'd caught your scent full in the face. He was absolutely going to give you his knot tonight.

You had him on his back in bed, a faint sheen on his skin from the oil you'd rubbed into him. He was good and spoiled, looking half-asleep but ready to fuck you senseless. So you climbed aboard, took him all at once, nice and slow. He sighed happily as you did, letting you run the show. You also rode him nice and slow, and for the first time, you felt his knot swell at the base. You swirled your hips, switched back and forth on it, teasing. Then you reached down and lightly scratched at it.

Syverson croaked out a moan, eyes open and pupils blown. He was panting, watching you watch him. His hands clenched your hips, and you knew what he wanted, but he held back. So you kept swirling and scratching, tickling at his knot, driving him crazy. His hips canted beneath you in a staccato rhythm: he was close, but still not ready for total surrender.

You leaned forward, kissing up his chest to his neck. You nibbled at him. You knew he loved it. It was a wolf thing. The mating ritual required broken skin and blood, but a gentle bite was erotic. So you focused on the area where his neck met his shoulder, licking and grazing with your teeth. He held your hips with a vice grip, his own pounding you from below.

"Yer gonna make me cum", he groaned. "Yer gonna make me cum... fuck" Syverson was begging and insistent, needy. You bit him properly, and that was it: He pushed your hips down firmly, your slick heat slipping around his knot until you were fully seated. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and you came instantly. "Aw, please", he whimpered, your cunt squeezing him so deliciously tight. "Make me cum."

You felt Syverson's cock swell, then he released a hot, thick load, more than he'd ever cum with you before. He held you tight to him, grinding and moaning like his soul was escaping his body. He throbbed so hard, so deep that, combined with the ropy jets still filling your canal, you found yourself shuddering in pleasure again.

"You know we're stuck like this until I calm down", Syverson muttered into your ear, a few minutes later. You nodded, just catching your breath. He flipped you over, a lascivious glint lighting his eyes. He started thrusting again, grinning as your eyes got wide. "That ain't gonna be for awhile." He pressed against you, grunting when you reflexively clenched. "Yer too good a fit, darlin'. I might be here all night." He accentuated his point by raising your hips and putting a pillow under your bum. "Hang on tight, girl". You chuckled as he began Round Two.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts of it and claiming it as your own or feeding it to AI*

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

[mrsevans90]

the line between rival and regret ; a top gun: maverick rivalry story [part one]

word count: 6.5k words

synopsis: the dagger squad returns for a new mission, but something feels off. unfamiliar faces are watching, and a rival team is coming. when their leader is revealed, rooster's past catches up with him fast. hangman, on the other hand, is hit with a memory he probably should not have enjoyed as much as he did. what happens when the line between rival and regret gets too thin?

warnings: mild language, military tension, mentions of past conflict, unresolved emotional history, subtle trauma undertones, slow burn rivalries, everyone has something to prove.

flight log: finally, after a few months of working on this fic, i can finally share it with you. this story means a lot to me and i’ve poured so much into the characters, the tension, and the slow build. updates will be posted daily since everything’s already in draft, so buckle up. it’s about to get intense, aviators. also, reader is written as a full character.

disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ main masterlist

The chairs had hardly cooled from their last mission debrief when the Dagger Squad was called again. This time, they met in a secured conference room at the northern edge of the base. It had reinforced windows and no decoration except for the Navy insignia above the main screen. 

The air inside was filtered and cold, creating an uncomfortable silence. The squad entered quietly and arranged themselves by proximity and rapport. Rooster sat next to Phoenix, Payback paired with Fanboy, and Hangman maintained his usual distance in the front, casual yet alert. 

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson stood with a crisp uniform and exact posture. His expression was unreadable. Although no announcement had been made, the tension suggested something serious was afoot. 

Next to him was Commander Bates, Warlock, holding a secure tablet. His eyes scanned the room without saying a word. Both men stood still for a long moment.

That was enough to put Rooster on edge, though he hid it well. He focused on maintaining the rigid composure of military discipline, watching the Admiral as intently as he did in the cockpit. 

Then Admiral Simpson stepped forward and spoke. His steady, low voice cut through the silence. “You are not here for a debrief.” 

The words landed clearly, but the room remained motionless. Only a slight tilt of Phoenix’s head, a narrowing of Hangman’s eyes, and Bob’s subtle shift in his seat showed they were paying close attention. The Admiral waited a moment before continuing, his tone lacking ceremony. 

“Effective immediately, all Top Gun graduates here are assigned to a temporary classified mission. This operation takes priority over any current postings, and your participation has already been approved by your respective chains of command.” 

He paused to let the information sink in, then turned slightly to address the screen behind him. Warlock tapped his tablet, and the central monitor turned on, but it remained blank for now. The Admiral then returned his attention to the squad. 

“The operation is called Project Olympus.” 

A brief silence followed. Rooster frowned slightly at the name, but he said nothing. It sounded grand, almost theatrical, but the Admiral’s tone was purely factual. 

Commander Bates took a step forward, standing just beside the Admiral but at a respectful distance behind. His voice was less commanding than Simpson’s, but it was still clear.

“This is not a training assignment,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “And this is not an evaluation of your past performance. You have already shown your skills in the field.” 

Hangman shifted in his seat again, but this time, he didn't smile. His focus sharpened as Warlock continued. “Instead, Project Olympus is a joint-force initiative that needs the leadership of an elite strike team. That position has not been decided yet.” 

A wave of tension spread through the room, slight but clear. Phoenix’s fingers tapped against the folder in front of her. Fanboy shared a quick glance with Payback, and Bob let out a slow breath through his nose. No one spoke. 

Then, Admiral Simpson resumed. “You will not get this mission based on your last performance. You will earn it by doing better than the squad selected to compete against you.” 

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words linger before he continued. “The purpose of this competition is to assess how well you adapt tactically, plan strategically under pressure, and perform in flight across various simulations and real conditions.” 

Although the Admiral’s tone did not change, the significance of his message began to weigh heavily in the room. The Dagger Squad had trained to be the best. They had proven that much. But this was different. This was a challenge to their standing. 

Rooster leaned forward slightly, though not enough to attract attention unless someone looked closely. The air felt more tense than it had ten minutes ago, as if a layer of certainty had been stripped away from beneath them. 

Commander Bates cleared his throat softly, then added, “The competing unit is one you have probably never faced. They are not part of Top Gun. They are not assigned through traditional command structures. Their work is operational, off the books, and permanent.” 

Simpson’s gaze remained steady. “They are called Shadow Squadron.” 

No one moved, but the change in atmosphere was clear. Phoenix blinked slowly. Hangman's jaw tightened. Even Bob, who rarely showed emotion in settings like this, lowered his eyes, furrowing his brow as if he were trying to remember whether he had ever heard that name before. 

The Admiral did not explain further, nor did he allow for questions. Instead, he nodded once to Warlock, who tapped the tablet. The screen behind them flickered and then displayed a grainy surveillance image of a jet climbing against the bright sky, sleek and unmarked, recognizable only by its path and the accuracy of its movements. 

“You will meet them soon,” the Admiral said, then he stepped back. 

The screen stayed still for several seconds after the image appeared, as if the silence itself demanded attention. Then, without any gesture or command, Captain Mitchell quietly stepped forward from where he had been standing near the back. Until that moment, his presence had gone almost unnoticed.

He had separated himself from the other officers, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed and his expression hard to read. Only now did he move to stand next to the Admiral and Commander Bates, glancing briefly at the image on the screen before turning his attention to the Dagger Squad seated in front of him. 

For a moment, he remained silent. He scanned the familiar faces, those he had trained, flown with, and fought for. There was something almost serious in the way he looked at them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but a slight shift in tone marked it as different from the formal briefing so far. 

“I won’t be present for most of this assignment,” Maverick said, lightly clasping his hands behind his back. “You’ll still have access to command, of course. I’ll check in as needed, but for the majority of this evaluation, I’ll observe from a distance.” 

The squad was taken aback by the statement, but no one interrupted. Hangman leaned back in his chair, a brow raised, while Phoenix narrowed her eyes with suspicion. Even Rooster, who had become accustomed to his godfather’s presence both in and out of the cockpit, tilted his head slightly, waiting for an explanation that didn’t come. 

Maverick continued before anyone could respond. “The reason is simple. It wouldn’t be fair.” 

There was no judgment in his tone, just a quiet fact. He looked at them closely, as if making sure they understood without needing more explanation. 

“The squad you’re flying against has no captain,” he added after a pause. “They operate under a different structure. Their commanding officer is a lieutenant. If I stayed too involved, it could upset the balance of the evaluation.” 

The room absorbed this slowly. Commander Bates stayed still, while Admiral Simpson showed no expression at all. Meanwhile, a faint buzz could be heard from somewhere near the corner of the room, possibly from an unseen vent or cooling unit, but even that felt muted under the weight of Maverick’s words. 

“So, from now on,” Maverick said, “you’ll report to Admiral Simpson and Commander Bates for all formal matters. If you need my input, I’ll provide it through secure channels. Otherwise, you’re on your own.” 

There was no finality in his voice, but a sense of distance had crept in, one that hadn’t been there during the last mission. This was no longer the tight-knit team preparing for an almost impossible strike. This was a competition, and Maverick had stepped back from the field. 

Still, before he returned to his spot at the back of the room, he let his gaze linger a moment longer on them. He offered no advice or encouragement, just a quiet nod that conveyed what he chose not to express.

After Captain Mitchell stepped back into the shadows, silence filled the room. It did not ask to be filled; it pressed down like a second atmosphere. The Dagger Squad sat still, absorbing the weight of what had just been said. 

While no one said it out loud, Maverick's absence felt odd. His presence had always been constant, even when his methods were illogical or his attitude bent the rules. His stepping aside without a word suggested that this new squad was not only different but also dangerous. 

Admiral Simpson continued the briefing without pause. His voice once again became the only sound that mattered. “In the next seventy-two hours, you will start preliminary integration. You will stay in separate quarters from the opposing squad and be briefed individually throughout the evaluation. All exercises will be watched and recorded under Joint Operations protocol. You are expected to keep the same level of professionalism you demonstrated during your last deployment.”

The Admiral scanned the table with precise attention. He did not raise his voice or add flair to his words. There was no need. Each word landed exactly as it should. 

“Insubordination, disrespect, or failure to meet this standard will be recorded and will affect your final assessment. This is not a game, and this is not an exercise to see who can fly faster or talk louder. You are being observed to determine which squad can perform when the mission becomes real. That is all.”

With that, he stepped aside again, letting Commander Bates take over. The change in speaker was subtle but significant. Warlock’s posture was slightly less stiff; his tone stayed formal but had a familiarity the Admiral did not show.

“You’ll get your schedules within the hour. Your first simulation is set for 0600 tomorrow. There won’t be any joint briefings before then. For now, you are dismissed to your assigned quarters. You can direct any questions through the proper channels.”

No one moved at once. It was not exactly hesitation, but a shared moment to regroup. The atmosphere had shifted too much to simply stand and leave.

Even Hangman, who usually jumped up first to stretch his legs and crack a joke, stayed still a moment longer, his eyes slightly narrowed in thought. 

Then, as if triggered by an invisible signal, the room changed. Chairs moved back, folders were collected, and whispers began to rise. The formal structure of the meeting broke apart, yet tension lingered like static. 

Rooster stayed seated until Phoenix nudged his arm lightly. He got up without saying anything, still processing all they had just heard. 

Meanwhile, near the back, Hangman leaned closer to Bob as they exited through the side door, his voice low enough to avoid being heard by the officers still present.

“You ever hear of a squad being run by a lieutenant?” he murmured.  

Bob shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. “Never. That’s... unusual.”  

“It’s not just unusual,” Hangman replied, sounding more serious now, though he still carried that familiar edge of challenge. “It’s strategic. They’re hiding something. No captain, no ranking voice, just a name and a shadow. Boring.”  

Fanboy caught part of the sentence as he walked by but didn’t say anything. Whatever Shadow Squadron was, it was clear it operated on a different logic, one that didn’t fit into Dagger Squad’s world.  

By the time they exited into the hall, the sunlight outside had faded to a muted blue. The base beyond the windows buzzed with the usual activity of aircraft and personnel, but everything felt distant, like it belonged to a different reality.  

Within the next twenty-four hours, Dagger Squad would face their rivals. Whatever shadow awaited them would not be easy to escape.  

Outside the briefing room, the hallway buzzed with a different kind of energy. It was the kind that came after secrets were shared and before battle lines were drawn.

The Daggers moved in small groups, some lingering by the door while others made their way toward the long corridor that led to their new barracks. 

There was no real formation now; formality ended once the door closed behind them.  

Rooster walked with Phoenix and Bob, their steps steady but relaxed. Phoenix had her arms crossed, her brow furrowed and her mouth set in a line that dared anyone to speak first. Rooster looked at her, waiting, then finally broke the silence.  

“A lieutenant in command. That’s rare,” he said quietly, not quite asking a question.  

“Rare or reckless,” Phoenix replied, her voice sharp. “It depends on who’s making the choice.”  

Bob kept looking forward, but his tone was thoughtful when he added, “You don’t get put in charge of a squad like that unless you’re good, or dangerous, or both.”  

Meanwhile, further ahead, Hangman was halfway through a provocative sentence. He walked beside Coyote and Fritz, his arms swinging a little too casually, his voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.  

“A black-ops squad with no captain?” Hangman scoffed, smirking to himself. “Sounds like someone forgot to finish building the team. Maybe they’re still waiting for the adult to show up.”  

Fritz chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “Come on, man. You don’t think there’s something off about it?”  

“Oh, there’s something off,” Coyote said, smiling without humor. “That’s what makes it interesting.”  

“Interesting is what they call it when you’re about to get your ass kicked,” Fanboy said from behind them. He walked with Payback, both of them curious, though Payback seemed more amused than anxious.  

“They’re probably trained differently,” Payback said. “Fewer rules, more results. The kind of pilots who fly like missiles and think like algorithms.”  

“Sounds boring,” Harvard muttered, rolling his shoulders back. He walked with Yale and Omaha, the three of them locked in their own triangle of confidence.  

“Sounds precise,” Yale corrected. “Probably the kind of flying that looks like choreography.”  

“I don’t care how pretty they fly,” Omaha said, his voice low but certain. “If they think they’re taking the mission from us, they’ll have to claw it out of our hands.”  

Behind them, Halo jogged lightly to catch up, her hair tied back, her face unreadable. She had said little during the debrief, but now that they were alone, her expression was no longer neutral. There was something sharp in her eyes as she joined the others, just in time to hear Hangman still talking.  

“You know what I think?” Hangman offered, as if anyone around had asked. “I think they’re overhyped. All this mystery and secrecy. No names, no faces, no captain. Makes you wonder if they even exist, or if someone made them up to scare us into trying harder.”  

“That would explain your ego,” Halo said, brushing past him. “Always needs an enemy to feel important.”  

Fritz let out a low whistle, and Coyote snorted. Hangman, to his credit, only grinned, watching her with a mock-wounded look that no one believed.  

“Oh, she’s got claws,” he said.  

“She’s got aim too,” Bob reminded him, finally chiming in from behind, his tone mild but his eyes sharp. “Maybe don’t test either.”  

The group began to slow as they reached the doors to the new barracks. The building had no sign, no designation, just a secured keypad and a reinforced handle.

It looked like it had been added to the base quietly, without ceremony. Inside, the lights were on, and the halls were clean, empty, and unsettlingly quiet.  

Phoenix glanced over her shoulder as they entered. “How long until we meet them?”  

Rooster didn’t answer. Neither did anyone else.

Because no matter how confident they were, how loudly they joked, or how calmly they walked, each of them felt the same thing creeping up the back of their necks. The shadow was already moving. 

The temporary barracks had a cold, efficient design, meant more for containment than comfort. The walls were sterile white, and the air carried that faint metallic chill typical of new buildings. The Dagger Squad walked through the corridor, their boots echoing softly against the polished floor. They spoke in low voices as they made their way to their assigned quarters. 

Their rooms were organized in pairs, with each duo sharing an adjoining bathroom and a small common space at the end of the hall. It felt like a mix between an officer’s quarters and a mission bunker; clean, strategic, and impersonal. 

“Feels like we’re being watched already,” Harvard said as he stepped into the room he would share with Yale. He dropped his duffel onto the lower bunk without hesitation and walked over to the window.

The glass was narrow, just a slit in the wall, but it gave a view of the adjacent hangar. “There’s no way they’re not monitoring everything.” 

Yale followed him in and turned on the overhead light. “That’s the point of an evaluation,” he said simply. “Let them watch. They’ll see what we’re made of.” 

Down the hall, Phoenix entered her room with Halo. The two women had developed a smooth rhythm together over the past few months, a respectful, direct style with enough space to coexist without crowding. Phoenix glanced around the room once, then leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. 

“You think they’re already here?” she asked in a low voice. 

Halo tossed her gear onto the desk and took off her jacket, her expression hard to read. “Maybe. If they are, they’re staying quiet.” 

“They’re called Shadow,” Phoenix replied, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “Quiet is probably part of the brand.” 

Meanwhile, Bob stood in the narrow hallway outside his room, looking at the names on the doors. He saw his last name just as Fanboy leaned around the corner, already talking. 

“We get surveillance access to the hangar?” Fanboy asked, raising his eyebrows as if Bob had the authority to grant it. “Just want to know who’s parking what.” 

“I think you’re overestimating how many secrets I have,” Bob answered, though a faint smile crept onto his face. He opened the door and stepped inside, thankful for the familiar shape of the bunk and the soft sound of the central air unit.

Further down, Rooster stood near the end of the hallway, alone for the moment. He had not yet unpacked. Instead, he leaned against the wall beside the common area, watching the others move through the space.

He had spent most of the walk over in silence, letting the noise around him fill in the gaps. Now, though, the silence crept in again.

It wasn’t fear exactly. It was more like tension, like the kind that coiled low in his gut when the deck went too still before a carrier launch. The kind that made him glance up instinctively, as though expecting movement in the skies above.

Coyote and Omaha entered the common room with Payback and Fritz, all of them carrying their duffels and a few convenience snacks scavenged from the vending machine down the hall. The moment they saw the bare table in the center of the room, Omaha dropped his bag and pulled out a deck of cards.

“You want to talk big game, you bring it to the table, baby,” he said, already shuffling.

“I’m going to destroy you,” Payback warned, cracking open a bottle of water and kicking his boots off.

Fritz dropped into a chair beside him, pulling out his phone to check the time. “Think they’ll show up tonight?”

“No way,” Coyote replied. “They’ll wait. Make us sweat.”

“They won’t make me sweat,” Hangman said from the doorway. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, the look on his face bordering smug. “They’re just people. Maybe better trained, maybe quieter, but still people. We’ve flown harder missions. We’ve hit higher stakes. And we made it out.”

“Shadow’s not about stakes,” Fanboy said as he stepped inside, catching the end of the conversation. “They’re about control. You don’t even see them until it’s too late.”

“That sounds like myth-making to me,” Hangman replied, though he didn’t move from where he stood. “They’re good, sure. But all that silence and secrecy? That’s usually a sign someone wants to look scarier than they are.”

Rooster pushed off the wall then, finally speaking. “Or maybe they just don’t need the noise.”

That silenced the room more than anything else had all day.

No one replied. No one argued. The cards hit the table again. Somewhere in the building, a ventilation unit clicked softly to life. The sun outside had dipped fully below the horizon, leaving only pale light spilling from overhead fixtures and the dull hum of fluorescent bulbs.

The squad settled in for the night, but the atmosphere never quite relaxed. They spoke like pilots off-duty, but their hands stayed close to their gear. They laughed, but their eyes drifted toward the doors each time a hallway creaked. None of them said it aloud, but they all knew the truth.

The longer the shadows waited, the louder the silence grew.

Night settled slowly, but the squad did not scatter to sleep as quickly as command might have expected. Instead, they lingered in the common room, sprawled across the worn couches and rigid chairs that lined the space like an afterthought. 

The overhead lights were dimmed slightly, casting a soft yellow hue across the room that made everything feel smaller, quieter. Someone had turned on the wall-mounted television, but the volume remained low enough that no one could follow what was playing.

It served more as a distraction rather than entertainment, like something to keep the silence at bay.

Coyote had stretched out across one of the couches, hands folded behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. Occasionally, he would chime in with a one-liner or an offhand thought, but mostly he listened. 

Omaha leaned against the armrest beside him, flipping through a worn deck of cards. He had stopped playing twenty minutes ago, but the habit of shuffling and reordering the deck gave his hands something to do.

In one corner, Halo and Phoenix sat side by side, their legs stretched out in front of them, arms crossed in quiet reflection. Neither spoke often, but both kept their eyes alert, occasionally scanning the doorway as if expecting someone to appear. 

They had not spoken much about the squad they were about to face, but it lingered at the edges of every thought, unspoken and constant.

Bob had claimed a seat near the wall, close enough to the rest of the squad to stay involved, but with enough distance to keep to himself. He had a notebook open in his lap, though he wasn’t writing in it, just occasionally flipping the pages as if scanning old notes. 

Fanboy sat on the floor nearby, tossing a small rubber ball against the far wall, catching it every time with mechanical ease. Each quiet thump echoed just enough to fill the spaces between their conversations.

Payback was the most relaxed among them, or at least pretending to be. He had propped his boots up on the edge of the table, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head, occasionally whistling quietly to himself. Beside him, Fritz kept checking his phone, scrolling through the same three screens as if expecting a notification that would change everything.

Hangman stood near the doorway again, arms crossed, gaze flicking between the television and the hallway outside. Despite his posture, there was something restrained in him tonight, a tension he hadn’t voiced. He cracked jokes and threw smirks like usual, but they didn’t land quite the same. The quiet was wearing on all of them.

Harvard and Yale sat at the far end of the room, trading observations in soft voices. The two had always operated like mirror images, calm under pressure and rarely rattled, but tonight their conversation was shorter than usual. They were focused, their words clipped, as if preparing for a chess match they had not yet seen the board for.

Rooster remained near the back wall, seated with one boot resting on his opposite knee, watching the group in silence. He didn’t need to speak to be present. His posture, relaxed but aware, said enough. Every now and then, he would glance at the hallway that led back to the barracks entrance, but there was no movement. Not yet.

Eventually, someone cracked a joke about Shadow Squad being government-trained phantoms, and a few soft chuckles broke the stillness. But the laughter didn’t last long. It faded quickly, swallowed by the silence that followed, as if even their jokes could not stretch far enough to reach past what they didn’t yet understand.

It wasn’t fear exactly, none of them would admit to that, but there was something close to it. A discomfort in the unknown, a low buzz of pressure that they could not quite shake. They had faced real enemies before. They had flown against impossible odds. But this time, the enemy was faceless, silent, and walking the same hallways.

Tomorrow would bring introductions, and with them, answers, but for tonight, the waiting was louder than any battle.

The base always felt different at sunrise. Not quieter, there was always movement, always the distant drone of engines and the occasional murmur of personnel beginning their shift, but there was a stillness to the air that belonged only to the early hours. 

The sky was a dull grey-blue, streaked with the last remnants of night, and the ground was slick with dew that hadn’t yet burned off under the California sun.

The Dagger Squad had assembled just outside their barracks in near silence, save for the rhythmic thud of laces being tightened and boots scraping against concrete. They didn’t need orders to do this. It was routine, muscle memory, the kind of shared discipline that came without discussion. 

Some still rubbed the sleep from their eyes, others bounced lightly on their heels to warm up, but before anyone could settle into the usual pre-run haze, Hangman clapped his hands once, loud enough to cut through the soft morning fog.

“Alright, children,” he announced, voice too bright for the hour, “we’re moving in formation today. Keep up or eat my dust.”

Bob groaned under his breath, already regretting the decision to show up on time. Payback rolled his eyes, but started jogging in place anyway. Phoenix muttered something sharp under her breath, though she still took her place beside Rooster without hesitation. Halo tucked her earbuds into her pocket instead of her ears, knowing she wouldn’t hear anything over Hangman’s commentary.

“Keep the pace sharp, hearts steady, and egos inflated,” Hangman added, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s make this base look good.”

And with that, he took off at a brisk pace, confident and annoyingly cheerful.

The others fell into step behind him, some reluctantly, some naturally. Rooster jogged just behind Hangman, his stride long and even, while Phoenix kept pace beside Halo, the two moving with practiced efficiency. 

Harvard and Yale fell into rhythm with ease, while Coyote and Omaha stayed near the rear, their conversation low but constant. Fanboy matched steps with Fritz and Bob, who both looked awake enough to participate, though not enthusiastic. 

Payback drifted between groups, his energy somewhere between playful and competitive, watching the others like he was tracking a race that hadn’t officially started.

At first, the run followed the same path they had taken dozens of times before, down the long stretch of tarmac behind the flight hangars, past the training fields, looping toward the observation towers. 

The familiar path grounded them. The rhythm of their footsteps, the synchronized breaths, the way no one needed to speak to stay in sync, it all pulled them into the kind of flow that made the morning feel manageable.

But then, gradually, things began to shift.

The first sign came as they turned past the main hangar and saw a row of vehicles parked in a formation that hadn’t existed the day before. There were six matte-black SUVs, all unmarked, with identical tinted windows and spotless rims. 

They were parked with clinical precision, like someone had measured the space between them with a laser. Next to them, two motorcycles stood out; sleek and low, more customized than regulation, one of them bearing the unmistakable silhouette of a Kawasaki that looked far too similar to the one Maverick had been riding since the eighties.

Rooster slowed his pace slightly as they passed, his eyes scanning the vehicles, expression unreadable. Beside him, Phoenix noticed the same thing and tilted her head just enough to confirm that she was seeing it too.

“That Mav’s?” Halo asked Maverick’s bike as she jogged past it.

“No,” Rooster replied, “but close.”

Further ahead, Hangman had noticed the same change but didn’t comment on it. Instead, his smile flickered for just a moment before he straightened his posture and picked up the pace again, as if outrunning the weight of the thought.

They continued past the hangars and turned toward the rear strip of the base, where most of the maintenance buildings and secondary training equipment were stored. There, they spotted another irregularity; a cluster of personnel moving in a formation they didn’t recognize. 

They wore flight suits, but the patches were subdued, almost blank, save for one small marking on the shoulder that no one could identify.

They moved as a unit, precise and silent, like they had rehearsed every step. As soon as the Daggers approached, the other group turned a corner and disappeared behind a hangar wall.

Omaha slowed slightly. “Anyone else see that?”

“Yeah,” Coyote said. “Didn’t recognize a single face.”

“No names, no chatter,” Fanboy added. “Weird.”

“Shadow,” Phoenix said quietly, almost under her breath.

The word passed between them without confirmation, yet no one corrected it.

As they rounded the final corner back toward their barracks, the sky began to brighten, the sun climbing higher over the edge of the runway. The morning was technically the same as any other, yet none of them felt like it was. 

The rhythm of their run had been clean, the pace steady, but something had shifted beneath the surface. The base felt heavier now, more observed, more staged.

Hangman slowed to a walk as they reached the front steps again, stretching his arms with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Alright, team,” he said. “Shadow’s definitely here.”

The signs were everywhere. And whatever was coming, it was coming fast.

By the time they returned from the run, the base was fully awake. Sunlight poured in sharp angles across the tarmac, casting long shadows behind every tower and jet. The faint tang of jet fuel clung to the wind, mingling with the low rumble of engines kicking into life on distant runways. 

Morning drills were already underway near the primary hangars, but the Dagger Squad had other orders to follow.

Their showers were brief, more functional than indulgent. Still, the steaming water and the silence of those few minutes alone helped peel back the tension that had wound through the squad during their run. 

One by one, they emerged back into the hallway, dressed in standard flight suits or their Top Gun gear, boots laced tight, hair still damp from the water. The energy among them was calmer now, but it carried a quiet charge; the kind that came before storm fronts, before first contact.

“Still feel like someone’s watching,” Bob muttered as he zipped up his suit, brushing water from his brow.

“You always say that,” Payback replied, stepping into the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest. “And you’re always right, which is the scary part.”

Rooster ran a towel over his neck one last time before tossing it onto his bunk and stepping into the hall where Phoenix and Halo were already waiting. Halo had her flight bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched just above her brow, eyes sharp.

“Hangman’s gonna say something stupid today,” she said flatly.

Phoenix smirked. “It’s barely eight and that’s already a fact.”

As they regrouped, Hangman himself appeared at the far end of the corridor, fresh-faced and obnoxiously energized. He clapped his hands together once and spun on his heel as if presenting himself to a non-existent audience.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and Harvard,” he said cheerfully, “let us descend into the sacred halls of ego and excellence.”

Harvard walked past him without pause. “One more word and I’m turning this into a courtroom.”

“Objection, overruled, sustained, whatever,” Hangman replied, trailing after him.

Fritz and Fanboy followed next, the two carrying matching expressions of restrained amusement. Coyote and Omaha brought up the rear, deep in discussion over the last time Top Gun had felt this quiet before a major shakeup. 

Yale and Payback debated mission parameters from a recent joint drill, their tones casual but focused, as if already preparing for the next simulation.

Soon, they made their way down the steps and across the concrete path that led toward the Top Gun Detachment Hangar; the one that had become their home, their proving ground, and their battlefield more than once.

The hangar loomed ahead, its large bay doors open to the sunlight, casting deep shadows over the interior. From outside, it looked exactly the same as always; quiet, still, and waiting, but as the Daggers drew closer, something about the air shifted.

Not physically, not in any way you could measure, but in a way every pilot in that group instinctively felt. It was subtle, like walking into a room moments after someone had left and still sensing their presence.

Inside, the hangar was pristine. Jets sat lined along the walls, gleaming under the natural light that filtered in through high windows.

Everything had been scrubbed clean, every tool returned to its place, every cable coiled with precision. The long tables and mission screens remained untouched, but someone had clearly been through; reorganizing, preparing.

Rooster walked toward one of the side stations, brushing his fingers along the edge of the console. It was cool and clean beneath his hand, but something about it felt unfamiliar.

“They’re getting ready for something,” he said quietly.

Phoenix nodded as she stepped beside him. “Feels like the stage is set.”

Near the center of the hangar, Bob stood with Halo, both scanning the flight roster on the overhead screen. It was blank.

“No schedules, no call signs, nothing,” Bob said.

“They’re waiting to see who earns the sky,” Halo replied.

Coyote crossed the hangar floor with Payback, the two examining the jet placements. Even the aircraft configuration had changed slightly, with a few new birds brought in overnight, their serials different from the usual Top Gun fleet.

“I don’t like it,” Payback muttered. “I don’t hate it either.”

“I like the challenge,” Coyote said. “But I like seeing who I’m flying against more.”

Hangman approached the center of the hangar with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the space like a predator casing familiar ground.

“They’re close,” he said, mostly to himself. “I can feel it. The show’s about to start.”

He turned back toward the group, grin spreading slowly. “Hope they’re ready to meet legends.”

The squad said nothing, but the glance they exchanged said it all. No more waiting. No more guessing. The silence was coming to an end.

And somewhere, perhaps behind a tinted window, or within the walls of a hangar not marked on the base maps, the other squad was already watching.

The hangar felt colder than before. It wasn’t the temperature exactly, but something quieter , and something in the air that shifted when the base intercom clicked on.

The sharp buzz of the overhead speakers cut through the low hum of the squad’s voices. All heads turned as a calm voice echoed down from the ceiling, steady and composed.

“All personnel assigned to Top Gun Detachment, report to Hangar 1. Immediate assembly required.”

There was no elaboration, no warning. Just the kind of command that didn’t invite questions.

The Daggers didn’t speak, but movement followed instinct.

Rooster stepped back from the console where he had been standing.

Phoenix narrowed her eyes slightly as she turned toward the center.

Hangman raised both brows, then tilted his head like someone hearing the bell before a fight.

Within a minute, the squad had assembled in a clean line near the front of the hangar, their boots scuffing lightly against the floor as they formed into a loose but respectful formation.

The open hangar doors spilled sunlight across the floor, turning the space into a stage. Silence settled heavy over them again, but not awkward, just sharp with anticipation.

Commander Bates stepped forward. His posture was firm, his voice perfectly level when he spoke.

“This morning, you begin evaluation exercises against an elite unit assembled under specialized criteria. The team is permanent, active, and classified for operational flexibility.”

The words were familiar, sterile, and clinical, but the way he delivered them was not. There was weight behind it. Deliberate, and controlled weight.

“You will be flying against pilots selected not only for skill but for discipline under unpredictable conditions. This is not a drill. This is not training for the sake of training.”

He paused for a moment, letting the quiet stretch just long enough.

“Leading this unit is a Lieutenant with extensive black operation records, advanced certification in atmospheric combat maneuvering, and the highest operational kill count in her year group.”

Bates turned slightly, facing the bright light pouring in from the open bay.

“Lieutenant Thalia Kazansky,” he announced, his voice carrying with sharp precision. “Call sign: Winter.”

The name dropped like glass on concrete.

Bradley’s head turned sharply toward the hangar doors, his entire body tensing as if struck. His mouth opened, and before he could catch himself, the words escaped under his breath, barely loud enough for the row to hear.

“What the fuck.”

Phoenix flicked her eyes toward him in surprise, then toward the woman stepping into view.

The rest of the Daggers followed her gaze, watching as the figure moved forward, posture clean, boots steady, mirrored aviators hiding her eyes, expression unreadable.

And then, from somewhere in the row, a softer voice broke the silence.

“…no fucking way.”

Jake’s tone was quiet, more stunned than cocky. His brows pulled together as he tilted his head, green eyes locked on her with dawning confusion, not from recognition, but from memory creeping in sideways.

He blinked, then looked again, this time slower, like something he was trying not to believe had just been confirmed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He didn’t say what he was thinking, but it was written all over his face.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a night came rushing back: dim lights, too much heat, and a woman who never gave her name.

And now she was standing there in front of him. Wearing a flight suit. Wearing a name that hit like legacy. Wearing a callsign he never expected to hear out loud.

Jake straightened slowly, jaw locked tight. He didn’t say another word, but whatever game was about to begin, he had just realized he was already a few moves behind.

[mrsevans90]

Glen Powell Masterlist

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Love In The Sky

Jake "Hangman" Seresin and Ava "Nova" Brooke return to TopGun for classified training. But they must keep their relationship secret from Nova's very strict Admiral father. (COMPLETED)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four - smut warning on this chapter!!

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven - smut warning on the chapter!!

Chapter Eight - smut warning on the chapter!!

Chapter Nine

Talk To Me

New pilot Ryder takes an interest in Nova. Disregards her relationship with Jake. Things take a dangerous turn. Protective Jake. (COMPLETED)

Chapter One

Chapter Two - smut warning on the chapter!!

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Gravity

Ava "Nova" Brooke arrives to TopGun from her elite special tactics squad - Strike Squadron Six. She is trained to be lethal. What she did expect was to catch the eye of a particular pilot and have her secret revealed. (ON GOING)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

[mrsevans90]

Dad Jokes

Attn: Just idea that bounced off this about Sy telling cheesy jokes. Hope y’all enjoy!

Word Count: 959

Pairing: Sy x Wife or Longterm gf Reader

Summary: You point out Sy telling dad jokes, it gives him an idea.

Warnings: 18+, breeding kink, dry humping, fem receiving oral, fingering, p in v sex, squirting, multiple creampies

“God you’re always telling those dad jokes,” you chuckle. “I ain’t a dad,” Sy replies. “Well you don’t have to—,” you say before stopping short. Sy’s pulled you astraddle his lap, eyes darkening. “But I could be,” he says as he paws at your thighs, cock swelling beneath you. “Sy,” you breathe.

“It would be so easy… slipping right in, no condom. Fillin’ you up with load after load of cum. Then keeping myself plugged in tight, not wasting a drop. Fuck. Your pussy would be so warm wrapped tight around me,” he says as he begins grinding against your clothed core. “You’d look so fuckin’ sexy pregnant,” he husks. And you can’t help yourself. With his words and movements, your body is humming with arousal. Your hips rock against his until you come from grinding against him.

“That’s my girl. Gotta be nice and slick for me to slide right in that tight pussy of yours. Whatcha think baby? Gonna let me put a baby in you? Breed that sweet pussy of yours?,” he nearly growls. His hands start roaming, squeezing every tinder bit of flesh he can grasp as his lips suckle on the sweet spot of your neck.

You and Sy had talked about having children someday, but you’d never imagined something as simple as mentioning dad jokes would set him off like this. It’s making you so hot though… You’ve got to be ovulating, you think. “Let me make you a mama,” he says against your lips before kissing you hungrily. His hips keep rutting at you, making you come again. He hums in approval against your lips as your thighs shake.

“Yes. Please Sy,” you manage, and with that he carries you to the bedroom and strips the both of you in record time. He buries his face between your legs moaning at the taste of you, before adding two fingers and curling into your gspot. “Sy I— I can’t,” you say, your poor clit already oversensitive from all the stimulation. “Just one time baby. Wanna make sure you’re good and ready,” he says before going back in. “I— I’m ready I sw—,” you choke out before gushing.

He works you through it before kissing up your body. “My beautiful, perfect girl. I knew you could do it,” he says before sliding his tongue into your mouth. You can feel his bare cock sliding against you. It makes you whimper. “Tell me you want it darlin’,” he says as he reaches down and teases your entrance. “I want it. I want you. Want your cum inside me. Want—,” you get out before he slides in. “Mother fucker,” he gasps once he’s fully set.

He kisses you, letting the both of you adjust to the feeling before sitting back. “I gotta see,” he says as he pushes your thighs back against your chest. “Oh God,” he says at the sight of the two of you. “Looks so fuckin’ good baby,” he tells you as he starts slipping and sliding in and out of you. You let out a few choked moans as your eyes roll back. “I’m.. so close,” you sob. “Hottest fuck of my life baby. Let me have it. Wanna feel you,” he says.

He watches in awe as your pussy convulses around him, leaving a creamy ring around the base of his cock. Sy fucks you for what feels like hours, loading your pussy up with more cum than he’s ever put out. He can tell you’re getting fucked out, and quickly pulls out long enough to spoon up behind you and shove back in. He wraps an arm around you, clasping your breast in his hand, before sticking two fingers in your mouth.

“Mmm,” you hum around them. When he pulls the slippery digits out, he reaches between your legs and strums at your puffy clit. “Sy… Sy please,” you squeal. “Need this last one darlin’. I know you’re about spent, but you’re doin’ so damn good for me. Just one more and we’ll go to sleep. Can you do that for me?,” he asks as he pushes in and stops for a moment. Your mind is foggy, and honestly unsure but your body is responding nonetheless. “Yes,” you tell him, pushing back against him.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises as he starts back a steady pace. “Fuck me harder. Want it,” you tell him. He holds you tight, hand squeezing your breast while the other simply applies pressure to your clit as he throttles you. You moan nonsensically, getting louder and louder. Sy knows what that means and starts back stroking your clit. “Come on,” he huffs into your neck.

Your entire body seems to vibrate as you come harder than you have the entire night. Sy holds your hips tight as your cum pours out of you. “Feels good don’t it baby? I’m about to bust too, all in this sweet slippery cunt. You want some more of my cum sweetheart? Tell me you fuckin’ want it,” he grits out. “I want it. I want it,” you sob. “S’all yours,” he says just as he explodes.

As promised he lets you rest after. He’s still hard as a rock, and keeps himself pressed tight inside your sopping pussy. “Thank you,” he says, turning your head and giving you a kiss. “Mmhm,” you mumble tiredly. He reaches down and grabs the covers before throwing them over you. “I love you. You’re gonna make such a good mama,” he whispers. “I love you too Sy. And you’ll make the perfect dad, you’ve already got the jokes down pact,” you reply sheepishly, making Sy chuckle.

Safe to say the two of you don’t leave the bedroom much the next few days.

[mrsevans90]

FLIGHT RISK

Jake Seresin X Female!reader || WC: 9.7K

SUMMARY: Jake "Hangman" Seresin had a reputation for flirting with anything that breathed, which is exactly why you never paid him much attention whenever the Dagger Squad rolled into the Hard Deck. But the more time you spend around him, the more you realize he’s not the arrogant jerk you assumed he was. Against all odds, you fall for him, hard. So when you suddenly start pulling away, Jake can't help but wonder what he did wrong.

WARNINGS: One-sided miscommunication, angst, self-deprecating thoughts, implied daddy issues, jealousy, fluff, cursing, platonic reader x Dagger Squad, lovesick!Jake, making out, probably some inaccurate military details (sorry)!

A/N: Literally hated his character when I first watched the movie, yet the more I watch edits and read fanfiction the more this man has grown on me... which is how this came about. Hope y'all enjoy! Divider by @thecutestgrotto <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ jake seresin masterlist

The Hard Deck was buzzing as it usually was on a Friday night. You and Penny moved in perfect sync behind the bar, dodging each other with practiced ease as the room filled with the clamor of laughter, clinking bottles, and the low hum of music from the jukebox in the corner. The scent of citrus and salt clung to your skin, your fingers sticky from pouring whiskey sours and popping lime wedges into beers.

You wiped your hands on a towel tucked into your apron, catching Penny’s eye just as she slid a beer down to a waiting customer. Penny leaned in as she wiped down the bar, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “They’re here.” She murmured, barely suppressing a grin. You didn’t need to ask who. The sound of boots scuffing the floor and the unmistakable blend of egos and energy meant only one thing: The Dagger Squad, fresh off another brutal day of training.

Maverick must’ve put them through hell, judging by the way Bradley dragged his hand through his hair like he might tear it out. Natasha looked like she was already plotting revenge, and Mickey was slumped against the pool table like gravity had it out for him personally. “They look like death.” You noted, already lining up glasses. Penny smirked. “Except for a certain blonde who’s looking at you like you’re his reward for surviving it.”

You threw her a dry look, but heat bloomed at the back of your neck. “You’re imagining things.” Penny rolled her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “Oh, sure, I must be also imagining the way you check your lip gloss every time he walks in.” You snorted and turned away to hide your smirk, reaching for the tequila. “God, you’re even worse than Amelia.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The squad fanned out across the pool tables, dropping into their usual spots with groans and exaggerated sighs. Bradley clinked his dog tags against the counter like a bell, while Natasha stretched out her shoulders and grumbled something about Maverick trying to kill them. And then, right on cue, Jake Seresin. He swaggered in a few beats behind the rest, as if the doors themselves had waited for his entrance.

His hair was a little messy, his skin kissed by the sun, dog tags catching the low light as they swung against his collarbone. He moved like he owned the room, like he’d fought gravity and won. But you knew better now. He’d fooled you once. That cocky smile, that drawl, that insufferable nickname, Hangman. You’d pegged him for exactly the kind of man who flirted with anything that moved and forgot the names of anyone who didn’t. So you ignored him.

Every night he came in, you barely spared him a glance. And every night, he tried again. But Jake didn’t win you over with charm. He won you with patience. When your car wouldn’t start after a long shift and you were ready to scream into the night, he appeared, hands in his pockets, smile soft. No teasing, no smug remarks. Just a quiet offer to take a look. Thirty minutes later, he had it running again. He didn’t ask for anything in return.

He started walking you to your car after closing, no pressure, no flirting. Just company. And then he started showing up on your off days. Not in uniform. Not with the squad. Just Jake. He’d sit at the bar, nursing a soda or a single beer, and talk to you while you cut garnishes or cleaned glasses. He asked about your family. Your hometown. Whether you liked working nights or if you ever thought about leaving the beach behind.

He never made it about himself, not at first. And when he finally did, it was different. One night, long after the bar had emptied, you found him leaning against the jukebox, staring at the floor like it had personally offended him. “My dad never thought I’d amount to much,” He murmured when you passed him. “Guess part of me still tries to prove him wrong.” You’d stopped in your tracks. That was the moment something cracked. Not in him, in you.

Because behind all that swagger, Jake Seresin was carrying something heavy. Something private. And he trusted you enough to let you see it. That was when you started falling. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sudden. It was slow. Unavoidable. A creeping warmth that found its way under your skin and settled there. So now, as Jake leaned across the bar, sweat-damp and sun-touched from a long day of dogfights, you didn’t feel annoyance anymore. You felt fear.

Because you’d let him in. Because he wasn’t who you thought he was. Because he looked at you like you were more than just a bartender, and you weren’t sure what to do with that. “Evenin’, darlin’.” His voice dropped low into that familiar Southern drawl, thick like honey and rough at the edges, and it sent goosebumps skittering down your spine before you could stop them. Jake leaned one elbow against the bar, casual as ever, but his presence was anything but forgettable.

Sunlight from the open doors caught in his windswept hair, and sweat still clung to the base of his throat. Those hypnotic green eyes, greener tonight under the warm, flickering lights, swept over your face with the same lazy intensity they always did, as if he were memorizing you every time. You arched a brow, letting your hands stay busy with the shaker. The clink of ice helped mask the fact that your heartbeat had kicked up a notch. “You look like Maverick dragged you through a jet wash.”

Jake’s grin curled slow, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was an edge in them, subtle, but there. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else. “He sure as hell tried,” He muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince that was half hidden. “But it’s nothin’ I can’t handle.” You slid a cold beer across the polished wood without looking up, but your fingers brushed his for half a second longer than they should have.

His hand was warm, calloused and steady, and instead of pulling away, he lingered. Just a breath longer. Just enough to make your skin tingle where he touched you. You hated that it made your pulse skip. Hated it even more that he seemed to know exactly what it did to you. Jake gave you that heartbreaker wink before peeling away to join the others, the beer already raised in a half-salute. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

You watched him walk, shoulders still squared from the cockpit, tags clinking lightly against his chest, and tried not to let your eyes linger too long. Penny had, of course, seen all of it. As she restocked the limes with a knowing look, one perfectly sculpted brow lifted in dry amusement. “You keep looking at him like that,” She murmured, voice low as she tossed a handful of garnishes into a silver tray. “He’s gonna think that you actually like him.”

“He already thinks that.” You rolled your eyes, mostly to distract from the flutter blooming in your chest. “Because you do,” She countered without missing a beat, slicing through a lemon with precision. “Might as well admit it before you combust.” You didn’t answer. Not because she was wrong, but because she wasn’t. And you hated how easily she saw through you. The truth was… you did like him. Too much. In ways you didn’t want to admit out loud.

Jake Seresin had wormed his way past your sarcasm and rolled eyes and cool indifference like it was nothing. And the scariest part? He hadn’t even tried that hard. “I’ll be right back.” You muttered, grabbing five beers from the cooler and sliding them onto a tray with practiced ease. You tucked a cold can of Coca-Cola into the front pocket of your apron, Bob’s usual, always sipped with quiet contentment while the others knocked back drinks like they were on shore leave. Penny caught the gesture and smirked.

“Go get your man.” You didn’t dignify her with a reply. Just rolled your eyes and turned on your heel, weaving between the crowds with practiced grace, the tray balanced effortlessly in your hands. But your stomach flipped all the same, traitorous and fluttering, because the moment your eyes found Jake again, laughing with Bradley. And you weren’t sure how long you could pretend you weren’t. Taking a deep breath, and squaring your shoulders you shook those thoughts from your head.

“You all look like you could use a pick-me-up.” Every head at the table turned toward you, some sluggishly, others like your voice alone had jolted them back to life. “A beer for you,” You chirped, placing the cold glass in front of Mickey, who looked like he’d barely survived the day. His forehead rested on the edge of the table until he forced himself upright. “You’re an angel.” He groaned, already reaching for the glass like it might bring him back from the dead.

“And a Coke for you.” You placed the soda down with a satisfying clink in front of Bob, who was seated slightly off to the side, content with his quiet corner and a half-eaten bowl of peanuts. His cheeks turned pink as he straightened his glasses and smiled shyly. “For my favorite WSOs.” You added with a playful wink. Both men flushed under your gaze and responded with a thank you, in perfect unison.

You kept moving, passing out drinks with ease and affection. Natasha muttered something about you being a godsend as she reached for her beer, lifting it in a silent toast before taking a long, grateful sip. Rooster gave you a wink and a crooked smile that probably worked on half of San Diego, though it never really had an effect on you. Javy nodded with an appreciative grin, and Reuben gave you a friendly fist-bump.

“For my favorite pilots.” You teased, grinning as you finally came to rest beside Natasha. She leaned her head onto your shoulder with a contented sigh, her hair brushing against your cheek. “Marry me.” She mumbled, half-serious, half-drunk on exhaustion. Before you could even talk, a familiar voice, smooth, smug, and laced with that Southern twang, broke the silence. “That’s just cruel,” Jake drawled. “I thought I was your favorite.”

Your head turned before you could stop yourself. And just like that, your heart didn’t just skip a beat, it slammed into your ribs like it was trying to break free. Jake stood at the pool table, cue stick in hand, body bent low as he lined up a shot. His back arched just enough to make your mouth go dry. His biceps flexed as he adjusted his grip, veins prominent, forearms corded with strength. His khakis clung low on his hips, his flight belt hanging lazily from a loop.

He looked ridiculous. Unfair. Like he’d walked straight out of a damn recruiting ad, but dirtier. Infinitely more dangerous. Jake’s head lifted slowly, eyes cutting toward you from beneath those long lashes. The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk when he caught you looking. Caught staring. “You wound me, sweetheart,” He added, standing to his full height. “All that charm, and I don’t even rank in your top five?”

You masked your thudding heart with a dry laugh. “I said favorite pilots,” You shot back. “Didn’t say anything about most high-maintenance.” The squad erupted in low chuckles, a few of them tossing mock “oofs” in Jake’s direction. Jake only grinned, unbothered, sauntering toward the group with that same easy swagger that made it impossible to tell whether he was teasing or flirting, or both. You forced yourself to look away, turning back toward the tray.

Yet, your stomach was doing somersaults, and the heat creeping up your neck wasn’t from the warm summer air drifting through the doors. You leaned your hip against the edge of the table, tray balanced on one hand, the soft clink of glass against wood fading into the background as you glanced around the table. Everyone looked a little less dead now, drinks in hand, shoulders relaxing bit by bit. “Do I need to talk to Maverick for all of you?” You teased, eyes flicking from one exhausted pilot to the next.

Bradley groaned loud enough to turn heads. “Please do. Tell him we're human. Or at least that some of us are.” Natasha scoffed, lifting her beer toward her mouth with a half-glare, half-laugh. “We were human. Until Mr. Hotshot over there decided he could outfly Mav.” All eyes slid toward Jake. “Okay, whoa. Let’s not point fingers here.” He was already making a face. “You tried to buzz Maverick,” Mickey interjected, half-leaning across the table with animated hands. “In a tight turn. In a no-fly zone.”

“And missed.” Reuben added between mouthfuls of peanuts, a smug grin spreading across his face. Jake raised both hands, feigning innocence with the precision of someone who’d practiced. “I wasn’t trying to buzz him. I was maneuvering. Strategically.” Javy snorted covering it up with a cough as he received a glare from Jake. “And we all got punished for it,” Bob chimed in quietly, lifting his Coke as if to toast to their shared suffering. “One hundred push-ups.” You winced at his words, that sounded brutal.

“In flight suits.” Reuben groaned, rubbing his shoulder like the soreness was still setting in. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter, the image forming vividly in your mind, Jake, cocky as ever, probably smirking even as Maverick made them drop. The others glaring daggers at him while dripping sweat onto the tarmac. Jake, of course, leaned into the attention with no shame. “You’re welcome, push-ups build character.” He grinned, sliding into the empty chair beside you with smooth ease.

You barely had time to register the motion before his arm draped over the back of your chair, knuckles grazing your shoulder. “You’re lucky they didn’t bury you under the tarmac.” Natasha muttered, but her lips twitched. Jake leaned a little closer, the heat of his body now radiating into your side. His voice dropped a note, low and velvety. “You know, I think I could use a little personal motivation to recover from today.” Your breath caught before you could control it.

His fingers brushed lightly against the bare skin of your upper arm as they “accidentally” adjusted across the tables edge. You turned toward him, ready to make some smart remark, maybe put him back in his place before he got too cocky again, but your gaze collided with his, and just like that… you froze. His eyes weren’t just green, they were alive with something deeper. Mischief, sure. But behind it, a flicker of something that made your stomach swoop. Like he wasn’t just teasing you tonight. He was waiting.

“Jake—”

“Y/N!” Your name snapped through the air like a whip, pulling you back to earth. You turned sharply toward the bar where Penny stood, waving a bar rag like a battle flag. “Bus just pulled up, I need you.” You groaned under your breath but moved fast, peeling yourself away from the table. Jake’s arm slid off your shoulders with a warmth that lingered longer than it should have, his fingers brushing your back as you stood. The moment broke, but not before you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Try not to cause anymore trouble while I’m gone.” You grabbed the empty tray and backed away from the table, shaking your head. “No promises, sweetheart!” He called after you, voice lazy, teasing. But his eyes, they lingered. Watching you like a man who knew the exact altitude you’d started falling. You spun on your heel and disappeared behind the bar, pulse still hammering, trying to remind yourself that you were here to work.

But even as Penny tossed you a bar towel and pointed toward the flood of sailors crowding toward the taps, all you could think about was the warmth of Jake’s body next to yours, and how dangerously easy it would be to let yourself fall. Thankfully, the flood of newcomers provided the perfect excuse to busy your hands and bury your thoughts. You moved, mixing cocktails with quick flicks of the wrist, pouring beers until foam kissed the rim, sliding credit cards back with a polite nod and a practiced smile.

Every small task became a wall, something to hide behind. Something to keep your mind off of Jake. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. As the crowd dwindled and the bar quieted into a low murmur, the shield began to crack. The last round of locals had migrated toward the dartboard. The jukebox slowed to soft rock. A few scattered voices still rose in laughter near the back where the Dagger Squad remained, sunburnt, beer-drowsy and content.

You peeled off your apron with a sigh and glanced at Penny, who gave you a reassuring nod and a knowing smile, motioning for you to take a breath, take a break. Your feet moved before your heart could object. You stepped out from behind the bar, every movement purposeful, steady, because if you hesitated, you knew the ache lingering just beneath your ribs might crawl up into your throat and give you away. You smoothed a hand down your shirt and walked toward the group, fully prepared to ask if they wanted one more round before last call. But then you heard it.

Jake’s voice.

Clear. Familiar. Cruel. Coated with disgust. “I just cannot stand her.” The words stopped you mid-step, your sneakers suddenly glued to the hardwood floor. The air left your lungs in one cold rush, and your feet carried you just far enough to place yourself behind the wooden beam beside the jukebox, half-hidden in the low light, half-ashamed for eavesdropping, but too frozen to move. “She walks around following me like a puppy, flirting, even her voice is annoying.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears, louder than the low hum of music, louder than the clatter of a dropped glass in the far corner. His voice cut straight through you, each syllable like a shard of glass. “She just doesn’t get the hint. I’m not interested in girls like her.” The blood drained from your face. You knew it. God, deep down, you always knew it. Jake Seresin was never going to want someone like you.

You’d seen the women he flirted with, tall, perfectly made-up, curves in all the right places, confident, playful, bright in the way that lit up a whole room. You? You were just the bartender. The convenience. The friend. The joke. The girl with rough hands from long shifts. The girl who hid behind sarcasm because confidence never came easy. The girl who, despite everything, had let herself believe, hope, that the way Jake looked at you sometimes meant something real. A dull ache bloomed in your chest. You pressed your hand against it like that would stop it from spreading.

At least now you knew. At least now the daydream could die. Now you could stop pretending. You swallowed down the lump clawing its way up your throat, nails digging into your palm as you pivoted, quick, silent and fast, back toward the bar. You didn’t even bother pretending to smile. Didn’t care who saw your glassy eyes or the way your breath came out shaky as you ripped the apron from its hook and slung it over the counter.

Penny turned, concern flickering across her face clearly noticing the entire shift in your demeanor, but you simply waved her off with a weak motion and a whispered goodbye. Not trusting your voice to hold steady. Not trusting her not to ask. If she so much as asked if you were okay, you’d break. You were out the door before Jake could even glance up. Before he could offer that sweet, mocking drawl. Before he could try to walk you to your car like he always did, like it meant something. Your heart couldn't take it. Not now. Not after that.

Back at the bar, Jake still reclined in the chair, nursing the same beer he hadn’t touched in ten minutes, finishing his train of thought with a huff. “I just hope Mav doesn’t put her on our training rotation again,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve told her time and time again I’m not interested,” He continued with a groan. “She just doesn’t get the hint that she’s not my type.” Mickey nearly choked on his drink.

“Yeah, Hangman, we all know what girl is your type.” He grinned, elbowing Bob. Bradley leaned in, all smugness and raised brows. “The pretty bartender you make eyes at every time she’s near? The one you nearly punched me over for breathing near last week?” Jake froze. Bradley tilted his beer toward him, that smirk spreading. “The one you pretend not to care about, then sulk like a teenager when she walks away with anyone else?” Javy whistled. “Dude, just admit it. You’re into her. Bad.”

Jake ran a hand over his face, jaw tightening. “Shut up before she hears you.” But as he turned to glance toward the bar, expecting to find you rolling your eyes behind the counter, maybe catching his gaze just long enough to blush, his brows drew together. You weren’t there. Your station was empty. No apron. No sarcastic smile. No parting wave. Just… gone. His chest tightened without reason. You never left without saying goodnight.

A flicker of unease passed through him, but the others were still laughing, throwing teasing comments like darts, unaware of the sudden shift in his expression. He forced a grin, let the moment pass. But something inside him knew. Something felt wrong. And you, already halfway down the boardwalk with tears blurring your vision, didn’t get to hear the rest. Didn’t get to hear the way his voice softened when he talked about you.

You were cautious, careful, even. Every move you made around him became intentional. Guarded. Since that night, since the moment his words gutted you like a blade between the ribs, you’d started pulling away. Not all at once. No. That would’ve been too obvious. And despite the ache still lodged in your chest like a stone, you refused to let Jake, or anyone else, see you unravel. Instead, it was subtle. Gradual. A slow withdrawal masked as busyness, exhaustion, distraction.

When Jake came to the bar now, you didn’t linger. You took his order without looking him in the eye, handed him his beer with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. No teasing remark. No small talk. Just efficient, impersonal service. The kind you gave to strangers. The kind you gave to men you didn’t want to know. And you definitely didn’t allow his touch to linger, not that he’d had much chance.

Gone were the moments where his fingers brushed yours over a glass, or the way his hand would rest at the small of your back when you passed too close. You kept distance now. Measured it. Maintained it like it was a lifeline. You didn’t let him close. And Jake? He noticed. At first, it was subtle confusion. A longer-than-usual pause when you walked away. A look that lingered too long as you joked with Bob or nudged Natasha’s shoulder with a grin that used to be his.

Then it turned into something else, hesitation, maybe even hurt, though if it was, he didn’t show it outright. Luckily, or maybe tragically, the squad had been kept busy by Maverick all week. Long hours on the tarmac. Briefings that dragged past sunset. Extra sims, surprise drills, and mock dogfights that left them sore, sweating, and barely able to keep their eyes open when they dragged themselves into the Hard Deck each night. It gave you an excuse.

To work the bar, serve the drinks, and disappear behind orders before Jake could try and ask what was wrong. It was easier this way. Safer. You told yourself it would fade, the sting, the weight in your chest, the memory of hearing her voice is annoying and I’m not interested in girls like her whispered in that same drawl that used to melt you. But it didn’t fade. It stayed. Like smoke in your lungs.

You heard it in the silence after your shift when the beach was quiet and the waves were the only sound. You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when someone mentioned his name in passing. You even dreamed about it, twisting memories into warped versions where his words echoed again and again, his face turned away from you, laughter in his throat while you stood invisible behind the jukebox. You hated how much it hurt.

You hated that it still mattered.

The fifth night after it happened, the bar was quieter than usual, just a slow Thursday, a break between storms. You were stacking clean glasses behind the bar when Jake walked in alone. No squad. No backup. Just him. He looked tired. Disheveled in a way that felt different than post-training exhaustion. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much. His hair was messier than usual, shirt a little wrinkled, tags tucked into his collar like they were suddenly too heavy to wear out in the open.

You felt his eyes on you the second he stepped through the door. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. He approached the bar slower than normal, his boots echoing too loudly in the now-quiet space. You busied yourself with organizing lemons. Limes. Anything not him. He stopped a few feet short of the bar. Didn’t speak. Not right away. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low, cautious, unsure. “You alright?” You kept your gaze focused on the citrus you were already over-slicing. “Fine.”

“You’ve been distant.” He murmured, like he was still trying to piece it together. “Did I do something?” You shrugged. Cool. Detached. “Just tired, Jake.” A lie. But he didn’t push. He just studied you, jaw working slightly like he was chewing on whatever thoughts were flooding in. “Right,” He said eventually, voice quieter. “Of course.” You turned to put the knife down, finally meeting his eyes for a split second. And it nearly undid you.

Because Jake wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t cocky. He looked…confused. A little wounded. The way someone does when they’ve lost their grip on something they didn’t even know they were holding. But you couldn’t tell him the truth. You couldn’t admit that the thing you’d overheard, the words that weren’t meant for your ears, had unraveled you completely. Because what if you were the only one who misunderstood?

What if, worse… you hadn't? So you turned away. Left him standing there with his fingers curled slightly over the edge of the bar, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or walk away. Jake didn’t push. He never did. But that didn’t mean he didn’t notice. And tonight, you knew he’d felt it, that little bit of space you’d suddenly started putting between the two of you. Because if he kept getting closer, you wouldn’t just fall.

You’d crash.

The days blurred. Long shifts, short sleep, aching feet, and a heart you couldn’t seem to quiet. You kept your rhythm sharp, precise, like it was armor. You showed up, moved through the motions, mixed drinks, gave smiles, told stories to sailors who needed a little kindness. And avoided Jake Seresin like he was a fault line waiting to break beneath your feet. You weren’t cold. Just distant. Detached in a way that made you feel like you were watching your life from the outside in.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Late one night, the bar winding down into a lazy hum, Penny passed you a glass of water and leaned her elbows onto the bar. You felt her gaze before she spoke, quiet, steady, knowing. “You alright, Y/N?” You didn’t look at her. Just nodded, wiping down a spill that didn’t need wiping. “I’m fine.” It was clipped. Dismissive. Enough to signal that the door was closed. You had mastered the lies and excuses, yet Penny wasn’t stupid.

She knew you like the back of her hand. She watched you for a few seconds longer, watched the way your eyes didn’t meet hers, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for the towel. She gave a tiny, imperceptible sigh, then pushed away without pressing no matter how much she wanted to know what was wrong with you. Safe to say, you were grateful for it. Because if she had asked again, your walls might’ve just cracked.

Jake wasn’t doing any better. After your "talk", if you could even call it that, he’d been a wreck. Not the kind anyone outside the Dagger Squad would immediately notice. No, Jake Seresin still smiled at the rookies. Still strutted across the tarmac with his usual confidence, boots scuffing against the concrete, sunglasses low on his nose like he didn’t have a care in the world. But those who knew him best could see the cracks forming.

The way he flinched when your name was mentioned. The way he scanned the bar every time he walked into the Hard Deck, hoping, praying, that this would be the night you looked at him like you used to, eyes soft, smirk tucked behind your lip, leaning on the bar like you were daring him to flirt first. But that look never came. And it was driving him insane. Even in the air, his escape, his safe place, he felt off. Slower. Sloppy in a way that set off alarm bells in every seasoned pilot’s gut.

His reaction times were lagging, the sharp, lethal precision that earned him the call sign Hangman dulled under the weight of something heavier than G-forces. Natasha had picked up on it immediately. “You’re flying like you’ve got a piano strapped to your back,” She muttered through comms one afternoon after a sim run went sideways. “The hell’s going on with you?” Jake’s jaw had locked so tight, he didn’t even answer. Back on the ground, it was no better.

Bradley had cornered him near the locker room the next morning. “You’re off, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.” He told him bluntly. Jake ran a hand through his hair, matted from the helmet. “I’m fine.” Even he didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re not.” Jake simply shrugged. “Let it go, Rooster.” But they didn’t. Not really. They just watched. Waited. Wondered what the hell had happened that turned cocky, unshakable Jake Seresin into a man unraveling from the inside out.

What they didn’t know, what he wouldn’t dare say aloud, was that it was you. The problem was you, or more accurately, the way you’d slipped through his fingers before he even realized how tightly he’d been trying to hold on. He didn’t understand it. How things had gone from warm glances and shared touches and that night where you had almost let something real slip between you… to now. To this cold distance. Where you wouldn’t so much as look at him unless it was absolutely necessary. And the worst part?

He didn’t know what he’d done.

The nights dragged on like this. Jake would come in with the squad, sit down like nothing was wrong, but the light in his eyes was gone. His jokes were duller. His smirk half-hearted. Even his beer sat untouched longer than usual, condensation dripping down the bottle as he watched you move around the bar like a ghost he couldn’t reach. Sometimes, he’d almost say something. His hand would twitch, or he’d lean half out of his seat, like he was on the verge of getting up.

Of walking over. Of fixing it. But you never gave him the chance. You never looked long enough to invite it. A deep, sinking pull in his gut. Like something was breaking open inside him and he didn’t know how to stop it. And so the distance remained, a thick, aching thing that hovered between you both, invisible to everyone else but suffocating just the same. Neither of you said a word. Neither of you walked away. But neither of you dared to move closer, either.

And it was killing you both.

Four days later, the Hard Deck was full, buzzing with heat and voices and that low, salty tension that clung to late summer nights on the coast. Dagger Squad was there, scattered across their usual pool table. Jake wasn’t with them yet. And for once, you were thankful. You could breathe without feeling his eyes track your every move. Or so you thought. You were behind the bar when you saw her walk in. Tall. Glossy.

Designer jeans that clung perfectly to her long legs and a strappy black tank that dipped low in the back. Blonde hair curled, nails perfect, and a walk like she owned every pair of eyes in the room. You recognized her instantly, one of the women you’d seen Jake flirt with a few times before. Only this time… she wasn’t looking at you. She was looking for him. And then, like a movie in slow motion, Jake walked in. He hadn’t seen her yet.

He was laughing with Bradley, dragging a hand through his hair, unaware of the way her eyes locked on him like a target. She moved toward him with purpose, lips already curling into a smile, like she knew he’d be hers the second he looked up. Your chest constricted so sharply it almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You turned away fast, heart hammering like you’d been punched. God. You were such an idiot. What were you expecting? That he’d pine over you?

That he’d choose you over someone like that? You braced your hands on the edge of the bar, the stainless steel biting into your palms. Don’t cry. Don’t cry here. Not in front of him. You grabbed two beers off the counter, trying to ground yourself in the moment. If she was what he wanted… fine. You weren’t going to compete for someone who’d already made their choice. But you could prove that he didn’t affect you anymore. At least, not on the surface.

So when you saw Bradley standing alone near the dartboard, you moved toward him without thinking, hips swaying just a touch more than usual, the corner of your mouth lifting in a practiced smirk. “Hey, Bradshaw,” You breathed as you passed him a beer, your fingers brushing his arm as you leaned close. “You winning?” He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in your tone, then chuckled low in his throat, catching on quickly. “I am now.” You laughed, light and teasing, and let your hand linger just long enough to be seen.

It wasn’t real. Not really. But it didn’t have to be. Not when Jake was watching. Because he was watching. Across the room, Jake's head snapped around the second he heard your voice. He’d been leaning against the bar, cornered by a girl with glossy lips and a laugh that grated on his nerves. She was touching his chest, twirling her straw between her fingers like a goddamn prop, but he hadn’t registered a single word she’d been saying.

Not since he walked in and saw you glowing in that golden Hard Deck light, laughing with everyone but him. But now? Now you were touching Rooster? His jaw clenched. There it was, that look. That flicker of heat buried deep in his eyes, something possessive and raw curling beneath his cool exterior. He was trying to keep it contained. Failing. You’d been giving him nothing but distance all week. Cold shoulders. Professional smiles.

And now you were here, cozying up to Bradley fucking Bradshaw, touching his arm like it meant something. Jake barely acknowledged the girl in front of him. Didn’t even glance her way when she laughed again, too loud, too fake. He stepped away like she wasn’t even there, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he moved. Fast. Direct. Heat rolling off him like the pavement in July. You tried to stay cool. Calm. Unbothered. But the second you felt him behind you, everything inside you began to splinter.

His shadow fell over you before his voice did, low and rough, like he was holding back something sharp. “Can we please talk?” No drawl. No swagger. Just those five words, spoken low enough for only you to hear. You turned slowly, lifting your gaze to meet his. And what you saw there made your throat go dry. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together like he couldn’t trust what might come out next. His breathing was shallow.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just finished a sprint. And his eyes, God, those eyes, were burning. Not with arrogance. Not even with anger. But with desperation. Desperation and hurt. Something cracked in your resolve. You'd spent days convincing yourself you didn’t care. That you were over it. Over him. That whatever you thought was between you had been imagined, one-sided. Stupid. But the way he was looking at you now? There was nothing one-sided about it. You hesitated. Your mouth didn’t move. But your heart answered for you.

You nodded.

And Jake exhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in days. Wordlessly, he led you outside to the back patio where the air was cooler, salt-stung and quieter than the inside. The string lights overhead glowed gold against the dark, and the music became just a dull vibration through the wood beneath your feet. Jake stopped near the railing, raking a hand through his hair like he didn’t know whether to speak or scream. His chest rose, then fell, like the effort to stay composed was costing him something.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even demanding. It was tired, frayed around the edges. You folded your arms across your chest, forcing your spine straight, your eyes sharp. “Nothing.” Jake scoffed. Harsh. Humorless. “Bullshit.” He stepped forward. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. You won't even look at me anymore.” You turned your face away, blinking too fast. The ache in your throat burned. “Maybe I’ve just been busy.” He exhaled through his nose, slower this time. “Did I do something?”

You wanted to scream. To shove the words into his chest and make him feel what you’d been carrying since that night. But fear twisted around your tongue like barbed wire. So you said nothing. Jake took a step closer. Slower now. Careful. Like you were something on the edge of shattering. And you hated it, hated how much you wanted him to reach out. To touch you. To say something that made it all make sense. “I—I heard what you said,” You whispered, voice thin and raw. His brow furrowed.

“That night. After training.” You swallowed hard. “You were talking to the squad. You said you weren’t interested. That I wasn’t your type.” A bitter laugh escaped your throat, hollow and trembling. “God, it’s my fault, really. I was stupid enough to believe that Jake Hangman Seresin, serial flirt, top gun, legendary pain in the ass, would ever want someone like me… when he could have Malibu Barbie throwing herself at him.” The words spilled out before you could catch them. Sharp. Bare. Bleeding.

Jake flinched. Confusion flashed first, wide-eyed, disoriented, then understanding slammed into him like a punch to the gut. “No,” He breathed, face paling, panic crashing behind his eyes. “You thought I was talking about you?” Your silence was answer enough. He stumbled back half a step, hands dragging down his face. Like he needed to wipe the guilt from his skin just to breathe. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.” His voice cracked. Rough. Gutted. “I wasn’t talking about you. God, no. I didn’t even know you were there.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You looked away, arms tightening around yourself like armor. “It does matter,” He snapped, voice raw. “You think I could ever, ever, talk about you like that?” His voice faltered, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair again, pacing once before turning back. “You think I’d look at you and say your voice is annoying? That I’m not interested? Are you serious?” You finally met his gaze, and what he saw nearly dropped him to his knees.

You weren’t angry. You were hurt. Really hurt. “I don’t think you meant to,” You whispered. “But you don't see me. You never do.” Jake looked like he’d been hit. The silence stretched, tangled between you, trembling and thick. Then he stepped closer. One step. Then another. His voice came softer now. Hoarse. Frightened. “I see you.” You shook your head. “I see you,” He repeated, louder this time, like if he said it enough it would finally reach you. “More than anyone ever has. And it scares the hell out of me.”

Your lips parted. A sound escaped, half-breath, half-sob, and the first tear slipped free before you could stop it. You turned your face away, but his hand lifted, gently brushing the drop from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. He hesitated, fingers twitching near yours, unsure if he was allowed. Then, with a breathless whisper, “Darlin’… I don’t want Malibu Barbie in there,” You blinked brows drawing in confusion. His hand hovered near yours, trembling.

“I want you. The girl who makes Rooster blush. The one who doesn’t back down when I flirt, who gives it right back. Who knows when I’m lying through my teeth even when I don’t.” He reached again, this time slower, curling his hand around yours like it was sacred. Like letting go would ruin him. To his surprise, you let him. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there, like they’d always belonged there. And God help you… they did.

You were silent for a long time. Then, finally, so quiet it almost wasn’t real, you spoke pushing past the lump in your throat. “I thought I wasn’t enough.” Jake’s heart cracked clean in two. “You’re everything,” He whispered. “Everything, Y/N." Jake’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand like he couldn’t stop touching you now that you’d let him. His gaze was locked on yours, open in a way you’d never seen before, no walls, no smirk, no cocky bravado. Just Jake. Real. Unfiltered. Bleeding.

“I’ve been gone for you since the day you rolled your eyes at me instead of blushing.” You blinked, caught off guard. He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so wrecked. “I flirted. God, I poured it on. You remember? That night I tried to buy you a drink and you told me to grow up and learn how to pour my own?” A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “You called me a heartbreaker.” You whispered recalling the moment as if it were yesterday. “Because you were,” He whispered, voice cracking just slightly.

“You are.” You swallowed, hard, but he didn’t stop. “I kept telling myself I just liked the chase. That I could move on. That you were just another pretty face behind the bar, except—” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “You’re not.” Your brows knit, but you didn’t look away. “I told you about my dad.” Jake’s voice dropped, softer now. “I didn’t even realize I’d done it until after. I’ve never talked about him. Not to anyone. Not like that.” The memory came back instantly. That night after last call, lights dimmed, your elbows resting on the bar between you.

He’d looked so tired, so open. You’d asked one small question, something about his hometown, and suddenly he was talking about Texas and silence and a man who never really told his son he was proud. Jake stared at you now, breathing hard like he was barely holding himself together. “You didn’t say anything when I told you. You just… listened.” He looked down, eyes catching on your joined hands. “You let me be someone I don’t let anyone see.” He swallowed. “I noticed everything about you, Y/N.” Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I know you hate wearing your hair down when you’re working because it sticks to your lip gloss and drives you crazy. I know you pretend to be annoyed when Bob leaves peanut shells on the bar, but you never actually throw them away until after he leaves, because you don’t want to make him feel bad.” Your eyes stung. His voice was reverent now, like he was listing truths he’d memorized like scripture. “I know you tie your apron the same way every night, double knot on the left, even though you’re right-handed,"

"You hum when you count cash. You clench your jaw when you’re about to cry and you never cry in front of people, and—” He exhaled, blinking fast. “I know how it felt. That night you sat beside me after training, shoulder to shoulder, not talking much.” He was close now. Closer than before. “I replay that night more than I want to admit,” Jake murmured. “The way your knee brushed mine and you didn’t move it. The way you leaned into me without even realizing it. I wanted to grab your hand so bad, but I was scared it’d ruin it. Scared you’d pull away.”

You hadn’t realized your breath had hitched until he reached up, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m not scared now.” You were blinking back tears. “I was falling for you then,” He breathed, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “And I’ve just kept falling. Every damn day. Even when you stopped talking to me. Even when it felt like you were slipping through my fingers and I didn’t know why.” His voice dropped to something trembling and soft. “You’re it for me, Y/N."

"The real thing. No games. No stupid lines. Just you.” You opened your mouth and closed it. Shaking your head, just slightly. “But I’m not your type.” You whispered, voice thick with emotion. Jake smiled, and it wrecked you. “Darlin’,” He coaxed, stepping even closer, pressing your joined hands gently against his chest. “You are every type I didn’t know I needed. You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted to stay for.” Your heart was a drumbeat in your throat. Jake leaned in, breath warm and uneven between you.

“I want late nights on this patio with you. I want to sit on your kitchen counter while you complain about your day and steal your snacks. I want you in my bed. In my arms. In my life. All of it. You.” The tears spilled freely now. “I don’t want Malibu Barbie, or any of those girls who laugh at jokes I didn’t even tell. I want the girl who saw straight through me before I even knew who I was.” Your fingers clutched his shirt now, knuckles white. Jake leaned his forehead gently against yours, voice barely a whisper now.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The words hung there, raw, open, real. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest lifted. Because he meant it. And he’d never looked more terrified… or more certain. Your breath caught. There it was, laid bare between you. His heart, stripped and beating in your hands. Jake Seresin, the man everyone thought was untouchable, cocky, invincible was standing here, terrified. Loving you with everything he had. For the first time in weeks, the fear that had been curling like smoke in your chest started to ease.

But it didn’t vanish. Because you were still scared. Not of him. Of you. Of how badly you wanted this. How deeply you felt it. How vulnerable it made you to need someone this much. You lifted your head slowly, his forehead still resting lightly against yours, your breaths mingling in the salt-tinged air. “I love you too Jake.” You whispered, and it cracked something open inside both of you. His eyes squeezed shut as he let out a slow, unsteady breath, like he’d been drowning, and those words were the air he’d needed for weeks.

“But I’m scared,” You admitted, your voice trembling, fingers still clutching his shirt. “Scared that this is just a moment. That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m not what you want. That I’ll never be enough.” Jake opened his eyes, and the look on his face made your chest cave in. There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. Just devotion. He cupped your face like you were something fragile but precious, like he was honored just to hold you. “Y/N…” He breathed, stepping even closer, until your body was flush against his.

“I’m gonna spend every damn second we have proving just how wrong that voice in your head is. Every second.” You blinked fast, your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to reach him. “I’ll show you,” He whispered, thumb sweeping along your cheek. “Not just once. Not just tonight. Every day. I’ll show you in the mornings, when you’re grumpy and still half-asleep and stealing the covers. I’ll show you when you’re mad at me, and I’ll deserve it, but I’ll still be there, because I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, just barely.

Like he didn’t want to overwhelm you, only remind you he was there. “I’ll show you when things get hard. When I have a bad day, and you have worse, and we’re tired and angry and still choosing each other anyway. That’s love, darlin’. And I’ve got it bad for you.” Your breath hitched, and your hands came up to grip his forearms. “I’ll prove it in every single look, every word, every time I hold your hand or brush your hair behind your ear or make you laugh after a long shift,” He murmured.

“I’ll remind you that you’re it for me. You’ve always been it.” The tears returned, but this time they came softer. You looked at him through the blur, voice nearly lost. “What if I fall even harder?” Jake smiled, gently resting his forehead against yours again. “Then I’ll be there to catch you. Every damn time.” You didn’t mean to lean in first. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, wild with devotion, soft with fear. Maybe it was the way he said you’re everything like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Maybe it was just that you couldn’t take it anymore, the aching distance, the space you’d both been tiptoeing around for too long. But suddenly your lips were on his. It was slow, searching. Like you were both discovering what it meant to be held this close by someone who knew you, who had seen you, in the mess, in the fear, in the fire, and chose you anyway. Jake let out a broken breath against your mouth.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he wanted to admit, and kissed you like it might kill him not to. It started slow, trembling. His hands cradled your face with aching reverence, thumbs trembling slightly against your cheekbones. But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted on a gasp, everything between you snapped, weeks of tension combusting all at once. He kissed you harder. Hungrier.

One hand slid into your hair, curling into your ponytail, while the other held your waist like he needed you closer. Like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you. His mouth moved against yours with heat and purpose, lips molding, tongue brushing yours, breath hitching as your bodies pressed together like magnets pulled tight. You whimpered softly against his mouth when he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, the sound swallowed by him as if he’d been starving for it.

He tasted like mint and beer and Jake, home, somehow, even in the chaos of it. Your teeth grazed, breath catching. Then your tongues slid together again and it was messy and warm and real. His hand fisted gently in your hair. You pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, dizzy from how easily your body molded to his, how his chest rose and fell in stuttering exhales, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. He kissed you like it was a promise.

And you kissed him like it was the first breath after drowning. Jake finally broke the kiss, gasping softly, but only just enough to press his forehead back to yours, breath mingling, both of you shaking. “Believe me now?” Jake grinned, the edges of his mouth still curved from that kiss, the one you were still trying to catch your breath from. He leaned in, nudging your nose with his playfully. Your lips twitched into a smile, still dazed. “It’s hard not to after a kiss like that.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm and rich, before dipping his head to press one last, lingering kiss to your lips, this one slower, softer, like a promise more than punctuation. “Come on,” He murmured against your mouth, hand already sliding into yours. “I want to show off my girl.” Your heart fluttered hard in your chest, giddy and unsteady. His girl. You could definitely get used to that. The two of you walked back toward the patio doors hand-in-hand, the cool ocean breeze still trailing behind you.

Jake was practically glowing, his grin wide, his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. You could feel his thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckles as you walked, grounding you in the surrealness of the moment. As you stepped into the warm buzz of the Hard Deck, the shift in the room was instant. Bradley let out a long, low whistle, raising his beer. “Well, finally.” You flushed instantly, heat crawling up your neck as Natasha gave you a knowing grin from across the table. Even Penny was grinning from behind the bar, sharing a look like they’d known all along.

Jake didn’t even hesitate. Still beaming, he strolled right up to the squad’s table, pulled out an empty chair, and dropped into it without letting go of your hand. Before you could react, he tugged you gently down into his lap. You gasped, startled by the sudden PDA, hands bracing against his chest as he held you there, one arm wrapped around your waist like a vice, the other resting lazily on your thigh. His body was warm beneath you, solid and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now that he had you, really had you, Jake Seresin clearly had absolutely no intention of letting go. The squad erupted in cheers and teasing jeers, beers clinking, boots scuffing against the wooden floor. But then something caught your eye. You watched, wide-eyed, as Mickey, Reuben, and Javy each reached into their wallets and started sliding bills across the table, straight into the waiting hands of Natasha and Bradley. “Hold on,” Jake barked, brows shooting up. “You assholes had a bet going?”

“Please. We’ve been placing bets since the second she didn’t slap you the first night.” Natasha leaned back smugly, counting her winnings with all the grace of a champion poker player. “I thought I heard someone say ‘by Valentine’s Day or bust.’” You muttered, staring at Bradley as he fanned out a crisp stack of twenties. Jake turned, brows raised in mock betrayal. “Bob.” You looked toward the quietest member of the group, who was sheepishly sliding a twenty toward Natasha, cheeks flaming.

“Not you too!” You gasped dramatically. “I-It was obvious.” He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were all just waiting for the two of you to stop being blind and realize you were already in love.” Mickey stayed matter-of-factly. Jake groaned, shaking his head with a dramatic flair. “Unbelievable.” But then he turned, eyes softening as he looked at you. “Well you’re right about one thing Fanboy, damn straight I love her.” He declared, suddenly and loudly.

His words were loud enough to carry over the music, his drawl curling around the words like honey. The table lost it, laughter exploding around you, but all you could do was stare at him, your cheeks burning, your heart thundering in your chest as he tugged you tighter into him, pressing his lips to your temple, warm and unashamed. And just over Jake’s shoulder, you caught a glimpse of the blonde from earlier, the one who’d been leaning against him when your heart had first started to break.

Her mouth twisted, her eyes narrowed. She scoffed, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the bar without so much as a backward glance. Only, Jake didn’t even see her leave. Because his focus was entirely on you. Not some bottle blonde who he didn’t know the name of. As you leaned back into his chest, the smell of salt and citrus and something utterly Jake wrapped around you like a memory, you realized you weren’t afraid anymore. Not of falling. Not of love. Not with him holding you like this, like he’d waited a lifetime to.

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[mrsevans90]

By The Horns: Part Eight

Attn: Sooo I was trying to get this done before the holiday but we had a lot going on and all so it’s late lol, but I hope y’all enjoy nonetheless!

Word Count: 2,622

Pairing: Bull Rider Sy x OFC Collins Cooke (CC)

Summary: Collins and Sy attend Walter’s 4th of July party together.

Warnings: 18+, oral (female and male receiving)

Previous Part:

Part Seven

After their first rodeo, Collins goes to watch Sy twice more, and no woman even dares to approach him, which hasn’t gone unnoticed. “So… scared off all the buckle bunnies huh?,” Walter teases her. “You’ve seen me fight Walter. They should be scared,” Collins smirks. “Yeah, yeah. Little baddie. You don’t scare me though,” he says as he playfully puts her in a headlock.

“Me being around ruined your chances though? I’d hate that,” she says as she straightens out her hair. “They never took much interest in me,” he shrugs. “Seems like a shame to me. You’re a nice enough guy, good lookin’, responsible,” Collins says before Sy cuts the corner. “Good lookin’? You must be talkin’ about me”, he smiles. “Actually she was talking about me,” Walter goads. “What?,” he says before Collins leans up and gives him a kiss.

“I was just sayin’. Walter was tellin’ me he doesn’t get many dates is all, and that doesn’t make sense to me,” she shrugs. “Oh so you were empathizin’,” Sy comments. “Yeah. Nothin’ wrong with Walter. He needs a girlfriend,” Collins replies. “Maybe we could—,” Sy begins before Walter cuts him off. “Oh no. The two of you aren’t playing matchmaker for me,” he shakes his head. “And why not?,” Collins sasses. “I just— focus on your blossoming relationship. I’ll be fine”, he insist.

“Well… okay, but my cousin Melissa is gonna be in town next week and she’s cute. Lot more docile than I am as well”, Collins says. “More docile… as if you have a docile bone in your body,” Walter chuckles. “I’ll—,” Collins says before Sy catches her about the waist. “Now, now darlin’. Can’t have you clobberin’ my manager and best cousin,” Sy tells her. “Oh have you invited her yet?,” Walter then asks. “I was gonna tonight. Baby, would you like to go to a barbecue at Walter’s for the fourth? Lots of the other bull riders and their partners’ll be there. I usually go, but I don’t wanna go without you,” he says.

“Sure,” Collins agrees. “Alright then. It’s a pool party so wear your bathing suit and bring a side or dessert of some sort. Sy and I cover the meats and drinks generally,” Walter adds. Collins nods as she leans back against Sy. “I’ll pick you up Friday around one if that’s alright. I usually get there an early to help out,” Sy tells her. “That’s fine with me”, Collins agrees.

Friday rolls around and Sy arrives at one as promised and nearly buckles at his knees when he sees Collins in her bright pink sundress. “Oh darlin’,” he breathes as he takes her in his arms. “What?,” she laughs as his stubble tickles her cheek. “I ain’t ever seen nothin’ prettier,” he tells her, bringing a light blush to her cheeks. “It’s not too much right? I’ve got a change of clothes in my bag and all if it is and—,” she gets out before he stops her. “You’re perfect,” he insists before giving her a kiss.

When they arrive Walter and a few other guys are there already setting up. Walter smiles brightly when he sees the two of them. “Glad you two are here,” he says before hugging each of them. “I hope butterfinger cake is okay. We stuck it in the fridge before heading out here,” Collins mentions. “Sounds delicious,” he replies. “Baby these are two of my coworkers I guess you could call them, Theo and Rhys,” Sy introduces.

“So you’re the little lady that wrangled in the big bull, huh?,” Theo teases. “That’d be me,” Collins smiles. “Good for you,” Theo nods. “Thanks. Now, how can I help?,” she asks. They all get to work setting up a buffet of sorts, getting drinks on ice, and finally Walter lights the grill just as more people arrive. “Ahhh!,” someone squeals from the doorway.

“Darcy come on now sugar. You’re gonna scare her off before you’ve even met her,” Theo groans. “Oh you hush. I’m Darcy, Theo’s wife. Me and all the girls have just been dying to meet you! We’ve been hoping for Sy to calm down for years now. You don’t know how happy it makes us. We’re all like family, you understand?,” she blabbers. She seems nice enough but it takes Collins a moment to process. “Oh Collins.. d— did I overstep?,” she frets.

“No, not at all. I just… wasn’t expecting all of that,” Collins chuckles. “See,” Theo says as he wraps his arms around her from behind and pulls her close. “I am a bit extra. Don’t mean no harm though I promise. You wanna come lay out over here with us girls awhile?,” she asks hopefully. “Sure, I’d like that,” Collins replies. “Good. You boys round us up some drinks,” Darcy says before walking away. Theo just shakes his head before Collins shrugs and follows her.

Whenever she gets over to a lounger, Sy watches as she sheds her dress. Underneath is a bikini that matches the shade of pink of her dress. “Fuck,” he breathes before he thinks much about it. “Easy there,” Walter teases. “Huh?,” he stammers while turning his head in Walter’s direction. “Easy. Little Sy doesn’t need to make an appearance. This is a family event,” Walter teases with a shit eating grin. “Shut up,” Sy mumbles.

When the food is done, the table fills up quickly. “Underestimated seating”, Walter says, looking around. “S’alright,” Sy says as he pulls Collins into his lap. “Sy,” Collins whispers in his ear. “Yeah?,” he questions mischievously. She gives him a pointed look before he laughs. “You just look so good baby. Been havin’ a hard time controllin’ this thing all evenin’,” he whispers. “Wanna go for a swim after eating? Cool water might help,” she comments. “Dunno if seein’ you all wet’ll help or not, but I’m not gonna pass that up,” he says, earning an eye roll from Collins.

When they’re done eating and talking a bit, Sy grabs Collins up and jumps into the pool with her. “That’s not what I had in mind honey,” Collins glares when they come up. “Honey? Callin’ me pet names now huh?,” he smiles. “You just can’t let nothin’ be can you?,” Collins huffs. “Can’t let you be Collins Cooke. I’m too far gone,” he says before kissing her like no one is watching. “No banging in the pool!,” Walter shouts before splashing them.

“Hey!,” Collins and Sy say in unison. “Just saying,” Walter replies. “You are such a shit stirrer you know that?,” Collins tells him. “Yeah but you’re my friend anyway soooo…,” he trails off with a grin. “That could change,” Collins deadpans. Walter places a hand over his furry chest and gasps. “CC how could you? After everything we’ve been through too,” he fake sobs. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” she tells Sy. “Yeah layin’ it on a little thick ain’t he?,” Sy agrees. “I can hear the both of you,” Walter comments, making them laugh.

The night goes on, the two of them mostly in their little bubble after having socialized with everyone a fair amount. It’s nearly eleven by time Walter and Theo set off the fireworks. Collins is wrapped in a towel, sat in Sy’s lap on Walter’s back lawn. After watching a few shoot off Collins leans back further, tucking her face into Sy’s neck. “Alright there darlin?,” he asks. “Mhmm, just a little tired,” she replies. “I should probably be gettin’ you home, I’m tired myself”, he says.

“Where do you live?,” she questions. “Just up the road a bit, why?,” he asks. “I’ve got extra clothes. We could just go there since it’s closer. I don’t want you drivin’ if you’re tired,” she says before placing a soft kiss to his neck. She nuzzles her head closer and feels his pulse racing. “Y— yeah we could. You sure baby?,” he asks. “Yeah. I want a shower and sleep… And I kinda still want to be with you, if that’s okay,” she tells him. His arms tighten around her, before he kisses the top of her head. “Course it is. Let’s go say our goodbyes,” he tells her before helping her up.

“Leaving already?,” Walter asks as they approach. “Yeah man. It was fun, but my little darlin’s done got tired so we’re gonna head out,” Sy tells him. “Thanks for coming,” Walter says before pulling Collins in for a hug. “Wouldn’t have missed it,” she replies as he lets her go. “You two be good,” he says with a wink. “I’m always good,” Collins scoffs before walking away, making Walter laugh.

Sy just smiles to himself before following after her.

Collins has lightly dozed off by time they reach Sy’s. She startles when he lifts her out of his truck. “Just me baby,” he says softly. “My bag,” she mumbles. “I got it,” he assures her. She lets herself rest against him as he carries her inside before asking to be put down. She takes in her surroundings. The words rustic and masculine come to mind before Sy takes her by the hand and leads her to the master bathroom.

“Alright so I might have some shampoo under the sink. I didn’t think this through… bein’ buzzed I usually just wash what little hair I have with soap. Ah. There it is and…,” he trails off when he raises up and finds Collins stark naked. “C— Collins what are you… darlin I—,” he stammers. “I’m gettin’ a shower. Wanna join?,” she asks. His brain short circuits for a moment, her slender little body there before him. “Yeah,” he finally breathes just before she steps in.

He quickly strips and steps in behind her. He sits the shampoo aside and wraps his arms around her. “This okay?,” he questions. “Yeah. I wanted to keep bein’ close to you,” she admits, and it’s all he needs. He moves even closer, pulling her body flush to his. “You’re perfect baby,” he says against her cheek. She turns her head up and pulls him down for a kiss before turning in his arms.

When she pulls away she’s face to face with his strong, hairy chest. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she comments, running her fingers through his chest hair, then down his muscular back. She can feel his hard cock jump between them. She doesn’t look just yet, but it feels massive. “Let me clean you up darlin’,” Sy then says before walking her back beneath the water to wet her hair.

After gently cleaning one another and drying off, Collins wraps her arms around Sy and pulls him in for more kisses. Before it’s over, she’s jumped up into his arms for a better reach. “Killin’ me CC,” Sy murmurs as he lays her down on his bed. “You can touch me… if you want. Would that help?,” she whispers. “Damn sure ain’t gonna hurt,” he gets out before kissing her again and letting his hands roam.

He can’t help but think just how perfectly her body fits in his hands. “I— I’ve gotta taste you baby. Please,” he begs. “Taste me where?,” she asks, lips swollen from kisses. “All over, but I’m dyin’ to eat your pussy baby. If you don’t want it, that’s okay but you can’t blame a man for tryin’,” he says, eyes still pleading. Collins knows she’s soaked and has pressure building down there. She worries her lip for a moment before looking into his eyes.

They’re soft… so soft for her. He then leans down and kisses her gently before kissing across her cheek to her neck. “Ain’t even worried about myself I just— want you,” he murmurs into her hair, and that’s all it takes. “Yes,” she says and Sy doesn’t hesitate. He moves down her chest, sucking one breast into his mouth and groans, nearly all of it fitting, before giving the other the same treatment. He feels Collins shudder at he kisses down her stomach, and down to her thighs.

She lets him open her up for him, watching as his pupils dilate further, his breath fanning over her mound. “Thank you,” she hears him say before kissing her clit. Goosebumps erupt over her skin when he kisses it again. Then when his tongue darts out, it doesn’t take long for Collins to get carried away. She couldn’t lie to herself, the man ate pussy like he was eating a five start meal. Starved and appreciative.

He lets his hands roam, squeezing her breasts, her ass, kneading her hips as he suckles her clit. Collins doesn’t realize all the noise she making, but Sy does. Every little whimper, every moan is noted, and he does whatever made her make that sound over again. He holds her hips in place, watching as she gaps. “Gonna come,” she rasps just before Sy feels her pulsing in his mouth. It’s damn near enough to make him release but somehow his cock only feels as if it gets harder.

When Collins finally calms down she sits up. “Get up,” she tells him, and he readily obeys. She feels like she’s on fire, and wants to taste him as well, but when she’s met with the behemoth between his legs her eyes widen in shock. “What the fuck is that?,” she says before thinking, making Sy laugh uproariously. “That’s me darlin’,” he says, taking her face in his hands and giving her a kiss. “Jesus Christ,” she says as she reaches out and lets her fingertips run down the shaft.

“Now baby you ain’t gotta—,” he gets out before her hand wraps around him, her thumb just touching her middle finger. “I’m gonna… unless you don’t want me to,” she says, suddenly becoming a bit timid. “Of course I want you to. I just don’t want there to be no pressure darlin’. You’re in charge here,” he gets out. “Damn right I am. Just didn’t know this is what you were workin’ with. How’s this ever supposed to fit in me,” she says as she strokes him lightly.

Sy was about to say something, but words leave him at the mention of him being inside of her. He didn’t ever think they’d get to this point, let alone more. She strokes him a bit more before lapping at the precum on the head of his cock. “Collins I— I don’t think I’m gonna last too long here baby,” he shudders just as she seals her lips around him once and pulls off. “That’s okay,” she says before getting back to it. She works his cock head, only slipping down the shaft a little, his size being a bit much for anything further.

He cups her face in one hand and looks down to see her looking up at him. “You gotta st— stop baby I’m gonna spill in your mouth,” he nearly whimpers. “I don’t want to stop,” she tells him before continuing. “Ohfuckohfuck,” he huffs as his cock swells. He’s mindful not to push forward, not wanting to hurt Collins, but the orgasm he has is nearly blinding, and once she’s finished he all but collapses after being on his knees.

Collins climbs on top of him, bringing his attention to her. She leans in close to his face just before he flips her and gives her a lingering kiss. She caresses his face, letting her nails rake through his beard lightly. “You really are mine, aren’t you?,” she says, finally feeling it to be true. “I am, and you’re mine,” he said before scooping her up onto the bed. Collins tucks herself into his chest, Sy rubbing her back softly. “Goodnight,” she says. “Night darlin’, love you,” Sy replies.

[mrsevans90]

Omg!!

at least we were electrified ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 23.6k words (argh it's too short)

summary: you’re the only pilot who ever beat hangman in the air—and he’s been obsessed with you ever since. now you're stuck training together, sparring with every word, and pretending you're not seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off.

warnings: enemies to lovers, slight rivals to lovers, mdni, smut, bathtub sex, slow soft sex, emotional sex, face sitting, oral (f receiving), multiple rounds (3+), breeding kink, overstimulation, begging, praise kink, cockwarming, aftercare, bath aftercare, love confessions during sex, jake seresin is down bad and soft and obsessed, mutual pining resolved, this man will absolutely cry during sex and then keep going, soft dom jake, reader rides him, sleepy post-sex cuddles, taylor swift inspired, based on “dress” from reputation, both of them get emotionally wrecked in the most beautiful way

notes: i cannot believe i wrote this filth in the middle of work anyway, you guys voted for this to be posted first, so expect my rooster x rival pilot!reader to be posted after this fic hahaha thank you for enabling me once again, i love you all even though jake seresin now lives in my brain rent free and won’t stop being a menace

masterlist

your callsign is crash.

You hit the deck with textbook precision, wheels screeching against the tarmac before the jet finally hissed into silence. The canopy cracked open, letting the salt-thick wind in as you exhaled slow through your comms. Another clean run. Another win. The flight crew scrambled into motion below, yellow shirts waving you in, but you barely heard them over the rush still pumping through your veins.

Meanwhile, a second jet came in behind yours—less graceful, slightly late, and visibly annoyed. Jake “Hangman” Seresin touched down like the landing had personally offended him. You watched from the edge of the flight line as his Super Hornet taxied in, his moves tight and rigid, posture too stiff to be casual. You could feel the heat of his frustration radiating from across the tarmac.

Once your boots hit the ground, you pulled your helmet off, tucking it under your arm as you made your way toward the hangar. The late-afternoon sun beat down hard, and your flight suit stuck to your skin in places you didn’t want to think about, but the satisfaction of today’s victory dulled everything else. Inside, the air was cooler—barely—and the metallic scent of jet fuel still hung heavy in your nose as you peeled the zipper down to your chest.

Then, his shadow stretched long across the hangar floor behind you.

“Hell of a move out there,” he drawled, voice slick with that Texas edge he sharpened like a knife.

You didn’t turn around right away. Instead, you leaned against the bench, unfastening your gloves with slow, deliberate movements. “You mean the part where I left you hanging in my six? Or the part where you stalled trying to catch up?”

There was a beat of silence, and then you heard his boots close the distance. Not storming. Not angry. Just… deliberate. Controlled. Like a predator who knew patience was part of the kill.

Finally, when you met his eyes, he was standing a little too close, heat rolling off him like he never left the sky.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake muttered, jaw tight, voice low enough to make it feel private.

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, giving him that slow, crooked grin he hated. The one that said I know I’m better, and you do too.

“Like you’re proud of it.”

You stepped in, just enough to make him flinch—not back, never back, but enough to make something in him lock up.

“Oh, I am,” you said, voice syrup-thick with challenge. “I’m very proud of it.”

Jake’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second—quick, sharp, dangerous—before it came right back up. He was smiling now, but it was the kind of smile that came with teeth.

“Cocky, Crash,” he said, voice like a spark on gasoline. “Might wanna watch that altitude before you stall out next.”

But you didn’t answer. Not with words. Not yet. Because you knew exactly how high you were flying.

And more importantly, you knew he was chasing.

Before either of you could throw the next punch—verbal or otherwise—the hangar doors groaned open again, letting in the rest of Dagger Squad with the kind of loud, casual chaos only they could bring. Payback was the first to speak, his voice echoing off the walls as he pulled his helmet off and shook out his damp curls.

“Well, if it isn’t Crash and Burn,” he grinned, tossing a glance between you and Jake. “How’s the air up there, sweetheart?”

You smirked. “Clean. Unlike your record.”

Coyote let out a low whistle, already unzipping his flight suit. “Damn, she’s still got fire left in her and just smoked Hangman at ten thousand feet. Man’s gonna need therapy.”

Jake didn’t take his eyes off you. “I don’t need therapy. I need better wingmen.”

“You need humility,” you replied, tossing your gloves into your locker with just enough force to make a point.

Then came Phoenix, swaggering in with her usual post-flight strut and zero patience for testosterone-soaked one-liners. “Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing vaguely between you and Jake, “can it wait until after we all shower and don’t smell like burned jet fuel and fragile egos?”

Fanboy laughed under his breath, already halfway to stripping down. “You sure? This is better than Netflix.”

Harvard and Yale brushed past you on their way to the lockers, both nodding politely before catching on to the tension and exchanging a glance that said oh great, it’s happening again. You didn’t care. You didn’t exist to be anyone’s entertainment. Not even Dagger’s. Especially not Jake’s.

You made your way to the female side of the locker room, where a metal divider sectioned off the space—standard setup, rigidly enforced. No overlap. No excuses. You walked like you weren’t burning, even as you peeled out of your flight suit and let the cool tile of the shower area offer temporary relief.

Meanwhile, through the thin wall, you could still hear them—Jake’s voice louder than the rest, no doubt throwing around some snarky excuse for why he got beat again. You rolled your eyes under the stream of water, letting it scald your skin and wash away the sweat, but not the irritation.

Not the heat.

Then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, his voice filtered through the locker chatter again.

“Crash thinks she’s untouchable just because she got lucky once.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers tightening around the bottle of shampoo. Once? That was your third win in five days, and you both knew it.

Over in the male locker room, the conversation was shifting. Rooster’s voice cut through next, calm but edged in something sharp. “You’re obsessed, man. You’ve been spiraling since the first time she beat you. Admit it.”

Jake responded too fast. “I’m not obsessed.”

There was a short pause, and then Payback’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Sure you’re not. That’s why you talk about her in your sleep.”

You didn’t mean to smile, but it happened anyway—quick and gone, like turbulence.

By the time you emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around your neck and flight suit half zipped again, the squad had already started to head out. The locker room buzz had died down to a low murmur of sarcasm and soap. Phoenix passed you at the doorway, giving you a nod and a raised brow.

“He’s still pacing,” she said under her breath. “You’re in his head, Crash.”

You just shook your head, brushing past her without comment. Jake Seresin could burn through every ounce of pride he had and it still wouldn’t be enough to eclipse yours. You didn’t need to be in his head.

You were already in his airspace.

The corridor between the locker room and the flight debriefing room was narrow, lined with flickering fluorescents and the hum of vents that couldn't quite beat back the post-flight heat. You moved through it with practiced ease, boots scuffing against the tile in sync with your steady breathing, body still thrumming from the high of the sky. You’d flown clean, sharp, and unapologetically fast. Faster than him. Again.

Then, just as you rounded the corner past the exit hatch, you caught him.

Jake leaned against the wall like he belonged there, one arm braced high over a locker, hair still damp, towel slung lazy around his neck like it hadn’t been weaponized in half a dozen locker room showdowns. His flight suit hung open to the waist, dog tags swinging with every shift of his frame. His eyes flicked up the moment he saw you, dark and unreadable—but not unreadable enough.

You paused mid-stride, giving him a glance sharp enough to cut through any lingering sweat-fog between you.

“If you’re waiting for an apology,” you said, tone dry as desert wind, “you’ll be collecting dust.”

Jake pushed off the wall, slow like it meant nothing, like he wasn’t waiting at all. “You think I want an apology?”

“I think you want something,” you replied, not bothering to stop walking as he fell into step beside you.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling through the narrow hall like smoke. “You always this arrogant after a flight?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to give him your profile. “Only when I fly better than the guy who won’t shut up about being the best.”

Jake’s grin twitched wider, but there was no warmth in it—just edge. “You don’t fly better than me, Crash. You fly dirtier.”

You stopped short, the words hitting a little too close to something you didn’t care to name. “Funny. I thought getting results mattered more than looking pretty for the scoreboard.”

He leaned in then, just enough to make you feel it. The space tightened. The air thinned.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he said, voice low enough to make you forget anyone else even existed on base, “and I might start thinking you want me to bite back.”

You blinked at him, expression carefully blank, even as heat crawled up your neck. “Bite harder, Seresin. You’re already choking.”

For a second, you swore he forgot how to breathe. His jaw twitched, and his fingers curled at his sides like he needed something to grip. He stepped back before he did something stupid—or worse, something obvious—and ran a hand through his hair like it could tame what was already out of control.

Then, from the corridor ahead, Coyote’s voice rang out, oblivious and perfectly timed.

“Briefing room in five! Mav’s not gonna wait!”

You didn’t spare Jake another glance as you brushed past him, but you could feel his stare burning into your spine like afterburner exhaust. You walked faster, not to get away, but because you knew he’d follow.

And he did. Because whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

It was just about to enter a new altitude.

You broke into a jog the second Coyote’s voice echoed down the corridor, knowing full well that if you were even a minute late, Maverick would make you run the entire flight line in full gear as penance. Not that you’d mind the workout—but the humiliation? You weren’t about to hand that over, especially not with Jake Seresin breathing down your neck like a heat-seeking missile.

Behind you, you could hear his boots pounding against the tile, fast and cocky, like he was trying to pass you just for the hell of it. Typical.

Then, with the door to the briefing room coming into view and Jake gaining a little too much ground, you made a split-second decision. A barely perceptible shift of your elbow. A subtle, graceful move of your foot.

Not enough to trip a normal man.

But Jake Seresin was not a normal man. He was an ego on legs and pride in motion, and pride, as always, made people sloppy.

His shin clipped your boot. It wasn’t hard—it didn’t have to be. Momentum did the rest.

There was a sharp, stuttered curse, followed by the unmistakable sound of six-foot-something of Navy muscle stumbling mid-sprint. He flailed for half a second, arms windmilling, before regaining his balance, barely catching himself on the wall with a thud that echoed like thunder.

You kept running.

By the time you burst through the briefing room doors, your breathing was under control and your expression was as smooth as your landing had been earlier that day. Maverick was already standing near the front, arms crossed and brow raised in that unreadable instructor expression he’d perfected years ago.

“You’re cutting it close, Crash,” he said, nodding toward the clock.

You slipped into your seat with a shrug. “Better late than sloppy, sir.”

Just then, the door slammed open again.

Jake stormed in, hair even messier than before, dog tags clinking violently against his chest as he shot you a look that could’ve grounded aircraft. You smiled sweetly, already leaning back in your chair, hands behind your head like you had no idea what he was so worked up about.

He didn’t say a word. But his glare said everything.

Phoenix coughed into her fist, clearly holding back a laugh. Payback nudged Coyote with his elbow and muttered something that earned him a full-bodied snort. Even Rooster lifted his brows in mild concern-slash-amusement.

Maverick narrowed his eyes at both of you, clearly sensing the hostile weather front in the room.

“Glad you two could join us,” he said dryly. “Now sit. Down.”

Jake dropped into the seat across yours, still fuming, still wordless. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel it—every molecule of heat radiating off his body like his fury alone could melt steel. There was a tightness in his shoulders that didn’t ease, even as the briefing started and the screen flickered on.

Still, you leaned in just a little and whispered, voice barely above a breath.

“You should watch your step, Seresin.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at you.

But you knew you’d just declared war. And you were already winning.

The lights dimmed as Maverick keyed the projector, the screen flickering to life with a grainy playback of the final dogfight of the day. The room hushed immediately, the air shifting from casual post-flight sarcasm to focused, near-surgical attention. All eyes faced forward, shoulders squared. Whatever rivalry burned beneath the surface would have to wait—at least for now.

“Alright, let’s start with the final engagement,” Maverick said, stepping to the side as the video played from the onboard camera of your jet. “North of Bravo Six, two thousand feet above deck, lead aircraft—Crash.”

A few heads turned toward you, though no one spoke. You didn’t need to bask in it. The screen spoke for itself. Your Super Hornet banked hard into a tight split-S, dodging Jake’s pursuit and twisting into a vertical climb that should’ve stalled you out if you hadn’t already throttled preemptively and calculated the airspeed differential in advance. It was clean. Precise. Dangerous as hell.

“Now that,” Maverick said, turning to face the room again, “was a bold move. Most pilots would’ve blacked out halfway through that climb. Crash here timed it down to the damn second and pulled out with two Gs to spare.”

You sat straighter in your seat, but didn’t grin. You didn’t have to. Instead, you nodded once, calm and composed, like it was exactly what you expected to hear.

Across the row, Jake stiffened, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw ticked the way it always did when something didn’t sit right—and apparently, you being right was what bothered him.

“Sir, with all due respect,” he started, voice clipped, “that maneuver wasn’t bold—it was reckless. She dove straight into a negative pitch at a rate that would’ve flattened most pilots. If her timing was even half a second off, she would've stalled out and taken both of us down.”

You turned to him then, brow raised, calm as glass. “But I wasn’t off, Seresin.”

Jake didn’t back down. “That doesn’t change the fact that it was reckless.”

“Actually,” you said, tone even and deliberate, “it does. I factored in the barometric drop from the marine layer, calculated the drop-off in air density, and initiated the climb before your nose even cleared my tail. I had twenty-three hundred feet of vertical to bleed speed and an angle of attack set at precisely sixteen degrees. You were flying by instinct. I was flying by math.”

The silence that followed was almost smug. Payback muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “damn”, and Phoenix just raised her brows at Jake like you walked into that one, didn’t you?

Meanwhile, Maverick simply crossed his arms and nodded, clearly not surprised.

“She’s right,” he confirmed, glancing at Jake before turning back to the screen. “That was some of the cleanest risk mitigation I’ve seen from a junior officer. She knew her limits. More importantly, she knew your limits, too.”

The jab landed harder than any turbulence. Jake looked away, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his molars grinding.

You didn’t gloat. You just kept your eyes on the screen, watching as your jet pulled out of the maneuver with smooth, practiced grace while his frame lagged behind—sharp, but not quite sharp enough.

Then, without needing to be prompted, you added, “Also, that wasn’t a dive. It was an accelerated vertical escape into a high-speed climb. If I had pulled two seconds later, I would've clipped the wake vortex. But I didn’t. So maybe instead of calling it reckless, we start calling it what it was.”

Jake muttered under his breath, something just shy of a curse, and you smiled to yourself—small, barely there, but satisfying all the same.

Maverick exhaled like he was hiding a grin. “Alright,” he said, “let’s move on.”

Maverick clicked to the next frame, pausing on a still image of your Hornet mid-climb, the vapor cone beginning to bloom from your wings. He narrowed his eyes at the angle, thoughtful, and then turned slightly, directing his next question toward the room—but you could tell it was meant for you.

“Alright, walk me through this. You initiated the vertical afterburner climb here—” he pointed to the timestamp, “—but you didn’t switch to combat spread until two seconds later. Why wait?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Because I needed Hangman to commit.”

That earned you a few startled glances. Maverick tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Elaborate.”

You sat up straighter, sliding your flight data tablet closer and tapping to bring up your own recorded metrics. The graph glowed pale blue on your screen as you began.

“He was tailing too close for a clean break. If I broke right into spread, he would’ve mirrored it and stayed locked in. But by delaying and keeping him in the pocket, I forced him to stay on my vector while I manipulated speed bleed through vertical gain. He was flying with nose authority, but not enough roll control at that angle to compensate for thrust lag.”

You tapped the chart, zooming in on the data.

“The second he hit ninety percent throttle and lost yaw stability, I banked left—just outside his field of correction. That gave me a clean line to reposition and full weapon sim lock before he could recover trim.”

There was a long pause. The room stayed quiet. Even the air vents seemed to hum a little softer.

Then Payback let out a low whistle. “She baited him.”

Phoenix blinked. “That wasn’t just instinct. That was textbook manipulation of enemy error.”

Rooster gave a single, incredulous laugh under his breath. “Holy shit, she played you like a violin.”

From across the room, you heard Fanboy mutter, “I’m not even mad. That was art.”

You stayed composed, unbothered, because it wasn’t the first time you’d outflown someone by outthinking them—but it was the first time you did it in front of all of them.

Meanwhile, Maverick just nodded slowly, visibly impressed in the way that meant something. “That’s the kind of situational awareness most pilots don’t develop until they’ve logged ten times your hours.”

You nodded, calm. “I’ve always liked math, sir.”

That got a few more chuckles, the kind laced with genuine awe and no small amount of respect. Even Phoenix cracked a smile, bumping her knee lightly against yours in a rare show of squad affection.

And Jake? Jake looked like he’d just been punched in the gut, stripped of rank, and made to salute you all in the same breath.

His mouth opened like he had something to say, but nothing came out. His jaw tightened instead, his grip on the edge of the table white-knuckled and furious. He stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. Because this wasn’t just your win—it was your arrival. And no one, not even Hangman, could deny it anymore.

The briefing wrapped with Maverick’s final nod, and the squad filed out in clusters—boots scuffing, side comments exchanged, the occasional lingering glance in your direction. You didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were about. You had just executed a maneuver that would probably be added to training tapes, and you made it look like muscle memory.

Meanwhile, Jake didn’t say a word.

He stood slower than the rest, arms folded tight across his chest, that unreadable look on his face carved from pride, heat, and something just short of fury. You could feel it before you turned—his eyes dragging over your shoulder blades like a targeting laser. Still, you didn’t look back. Not until you stepped into the corridor.

Then, as if you’d conjured him, you heard his voice behind you. Sharp. Icy.

“Real clever stunt in there.”

You turned on your heel, facing him fully now. The hallway was quiet, most of the squad already vanished into other rooms, the locker halls, the mess. Out here, it was just you and him. Just enough space to make something dangerous feel inevitable.

“You mean the one that worked?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jake took a step forward, his gaze locked on yours. “You humiliated me.”

You arched a brow. “I outflew you. That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he snapped, closing the distance again, “you calculated me. Used me. Like a move on a goddamn chessboard.”

You tilted your head slightly, biting back the smile that wanted to surface. “And you’re mad because I did it better than you?”

“I’m mad,” he growled, stepping in until the space between you could barely hold a breath, “because you’re not just flying dirty—you’re flying like you’ve got something to prove.”

“Maybe I do.”

Jake’s eyes scanned yours, lingering too long on your mouth before he caught himself. He looked furious. He looked obsessed. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to fight you or—

“You’ve been gunning for me since the second you walked into this base,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. “What is it? You think you’re better than me?”

You leaned in just slightly, close enough to make him shift, to feel that tension coil between you again.

“I know I’m better than you,” you whispered. “But it kills you more because I’m right.”

He laughed then—short, humorless, almost breathless. It didn’t soften anything.

“Careful, Crash,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “you keep pushing and one day I’m not gonna let you walk away with just a smartass line and a smile.”

You stepped closer again, toe to toe now, and stared him down like you were locked at altitude.

“Then don’t.”

The words came out low, clean, and lethal.

Jake’s breath hitched, and you watched the war play out behind his eyes—the one between pride and want, fury and restraint. His hand twitched at his side, like he didn’t trust it not to reach for you.

Then, from around the corner, someone’s voice called out—Rooster, maybe, or Coyote, you couldn’t be sure. The sound broke whatever fragile, electric moment was about to combust.

Jake took a slow step back. His jaw clenched again, but this time, he didn’t say anything.

He just turned and walked away.

And for some reason, that was worse than anything he could’ve said.

The Hard Deck was glowing with neon and noise, the jukebox throwing out some Tom Petty track while pilots crowded around pool tables, beers in hand, laughter spilling like spilled salt across the floorboards. You were leaned over the edge of the far table, cue balanced against your thumb, eyes narrowed in focus. Rooster stood beside you, arms crossed, already grinning like he knew you were about to win.

You made the shot—smooth, clean, corner pocket—and straightened with a cocky tilt of your head.

“Damn, Crash,” Rooster said, nudging your shoulder, “you’ve been on fire lately. What’d Jake do, give you all his luck?”

You laughed, passing him the cue. “If Seresin gave me anything, it’d come with a side of unresolved trauma.”

Rooster barked a laugh, lining up his own shot. “You’re not wrong.”

Meanwhile, at the bar, the doors swung open with a gust of salt air, and Jake strutted in like the devil himself had opened the door just for him. Coyote trailed at his side, followed by Harvard, Yale, Fritz, and Omaha—Jake’s usual entourage when he needed backup for his ego. He spotted you almost instantly. You didn’t look, but you could feel the shift in atmosphere the second he zeroed in.

Then he strolled over, beer in hand, the swagger turned up to eleven.

“Well, well,” Jake drawled, coming to a stop right beside the table, “didn’t realize you and Bradshaw were dating now. Should we start calling you Mrs. Rooster?”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned one elbow on the table, cocked your head, and shot him a smile so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

“Jake,” you said sweetly, “if jealousy had a face, it’d still be prettier than yours.”

The reaction was instant. Coyote howled. Rooster nearly choked on his drink. Harvard and Yale exchanged wide-eyed glances. Omaha laughed so hard he had to grip the edge of the table for balance.

Even Phoenix, just now walking over with Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Halo in tow, caught the tail end of it and raised her brows. “Damn,” she said, sipping her beer. “Y’all starting early tonight.”

“Starting?” you said, turning to face her with a smirk. “I’ve been cooking him since he walked in.”

Jake’s jaw ticked, but he covered it with a smug shrug. “We’ll see who’s cooked when I wipe the floor with you.”

“In what, delusion?”

“Nope. Pool.” He stepped closer, snagging the spare cue from the rack and twirling it between his fingers like it was a weapon. “You and me, Crash. Best of five.”

Rooster set his drink down and gave Jake a look that fell somewhere between exasperated and knowing. “Hangman, you sure you wanna do that? She’s been on a streak.”

Jake didn’t look away from you. “I like streaks. Especially when I get to break them.”

You stepped forward, grabbing the chalk and spinning it slowly in your fingers. “Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on, “but don’t cry when I make you look bad in front of your fan club.”

He grinned, sharp and wild. “Just don’t choke when the heat’s on.”

The squad began to gather around, drinks in hand, forming a loose circle around the table. Phoenix climbed onto a nearby stool with her beer. Fanboy leaned against the wall, already grinning. Bob stood a few paces back, quiet but invested. Payback and Halo threw down a few bills on the corner of the table, already betting on the outcome.

You racked the balls, slow and steady, hands precise. Jake stepped to the other side, chalking his cue like it was part of some ritual. Then you both leaned over the table, eyes locked.

Two apex predators in one room, each convinced they were the only one worth watching.

The air snapped tight around you, and neither of you missed.

Jake broke first. The cue ball cracked against the rack with a sharp, brutal snap, scattering the solids and stripes with precision that bordered on violent. One dropped. Then another. You leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him circle the felt like a predator sizing up terrain he already thought he owned.

He sank a third before he finally missed—barely, by inches. The crowd gave a collective breath, and then it was your turn.

You stepped into position like you belonged there. Your hips grazed the table’s edge. You lined up your shot, cue gliding through your fingers with practiced ease. One tap—clean, sharp—and the ball dropped.

“CRASH!” Rooster whooped from the sideline, raising his beer like a trophy.

“Let’s go, baby!” Phoenix yelled over the music.

“Hot damn,” Payback grinned. “She don’t miss.”

“Crash! Crash! Crash!” Fanboy and Halo chanted in rhythm, smacking their drinks against the bar in time.

You didn’t react to them—not outwardly. But your next shot curved with just the right amount of English, bouncing off the side rail and sinking your second with a casual kind of grace that looked like you were barely trying.

Jake’s voice cut through the noise. “Show-off.”

You smiled without looking at him. “Better than a sore loser.”

You nailed a third. Then a fourth. When you finally missed—only slightly, the cue ball grazing too far right—it was Jake’s turn again. He moved with fire now, slick and deliberate. He lined up three shots in a row, executing each with brutal efficiency. Coyote clapped like it was the Superbowl.

“HANGMAN!” he yelled, riling up Harvard, Yale, and Omaha into a full-blown cheer squad.

“Let’s go, Seresin!”

“Clean kill, baby!”

“Send her crashin’!”

The Hard Deck was fully invested now, drinks forgotten, crowd circling the table as people pressed in for a better view. The jukebox volume had been dialed down, not officially, but like the bar collectively understood something bigger was happening here. It was more than pool. It was battle. Banter. Bravado and blurred lines.

Your next turn had to be perfect. And it was.

You pivoted around the table, spinning your cue once before sinking a bank shot so clean the crowd actually gasped. Your corner pocket stroke after that was surgical—snapping the eight into position like you’d choreographed it in your head three plays ago.

"CRASH!" the crowd erupted again, louder now, voices echoing off the walls.

Rooster leaned back, hollering. “She’s cookin’!”

Phoenix threw both hands up like a ref signaling a touchdown. Bob even smiled—Bob smiled.

Jake didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But his grip on the cue tightened enough to make his knuckles white.

Then he stepped up, wordless, and went to war.

His next shot curved like poetry—sleek, exact. Another fell, then another. Harvard screamed his name. Yale slammed his hand against the nearest stool.

The scoreboard was nearly even.

You were two apex predators circling a kill neither one wanted to share. And the kill was glory. Admiration. Each other.

But no one in the room could miss the difference now. Jake was damn good. But you? You were unbothered.

You were better. And the whole damn bar was watching.

By the time you lined up your next shot, the score was dead even. One ball left for each of you, eight still waiting like a final dare. The crowd had gone near silent now, the kind of hush that happens when people realize they’re witnessing something unrepeatable. The jukebox kept spinning something low and slow, but even the music sounded like it was holding its breath.

Jake was posted up against the far corner, cue slung casually over his shoulder, but his eyes never left you. He watched you like a man waiting for a lightning strike—like he wanted to be hit. You felt the burn of his stare trailing down your back, across your legs, over your arms as you bent slightly to study your angle.

You didn’t look up at him. Not yet.

Instead, you backed up just a little—slow, measured, deliberate—and bumped into him with a subtle sway of your hips.

“Oops,” you murmured, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

He didn’t move.

You shifted again, cue stick low in your hand, angling to line up—right as the tip of it just so happened to swing directly between his legs with a gentle tap.

Jake inhaled sharply, catching it with both hands as he flinched back half a step.

“Oh my god—” Fanboy choked somewhere in the crowd.

“Did she just—” Payback was laughing, doubled over.

Coyote barked, “Direct hit!”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “She’s playing dirty tonight.”

You turned your head slightly and looked up at Jake over your shoulder, your smile sugar-sweet and fake as sin. “Sorry, Hangman. You were standing way too close to the danger zone.”

Jake was frozen—like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle you, kiss you, or throw you across the damn table. His jaw flexed. His eyes burned. And there was this twitch in his fingers, like every bone in his body wanted to grab you and do something about it.

You moved back to your shot without another word, leaned down, and sank the last ball with surgical precision.

The crowd exploded. “CRASH!” they screamed in unison, fists pumping, laughter and cheers flooding the bar like someone had just won the Super Bowl.

You didn’t look at Jake, but you felt him behind you. Still. Staring.

Like you’d knocked the wind out of him—and he was trying very, very hard not to beg for more.

Jake didn’t say anything after you sank the final shot. He just stood there for a second, cue slack in his grip, gaze locked on the pocket like he could will the outcome to change. But the eight-ball was gone. So was his win. And the cheers echoing through the Hard Deck were all for you.

You passed by him without a word, just a slow, deliberate glance that said everything he needed to hear. The crowd was still riled up, people clapping you on the back, offering drinks, showering you in affection like you were the patron saint of pool table warfare. And maybe tonight, you were.

Meanwhile, Jake drifted toward the bar, alone. He didn’t limp, exactly, but his pride definitely did. He ordered something sharp—whiskey, probably—then leaned against the counter, nursing the glass like it could drown the sting. His eyes flicked to you more than once, but you didn’t look his way again. Not yet.

That’s when she approached.

A tall brunette in a slinky black tank and heels too impractical for a place with peanut shells on the floor. She leaned on the bar beside him like she was in a perfume commercial, all breathy smiles and glossy eyes. Jake saw her. Of course he did. And predictably, his expression smoothed into that practiced smirk, the one that usually knocked people flat before he even said a word.

“Well hey there,” he said, voice lower now, just shy of sultry. “You lookin’ for something?”

She smiled, coy. “Yeah,” she said, dragging out the word with a lilt. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me get it.”

Jake leaned in slightly, shoulders shifting. He sipped his drink and gave her that full Seresin tilt-your-head-and-look-charming move. “Well now, that depends,” he said smoothly. “What exactly are you looking for?”

There was a pause. A beat. A little twist of the universe.

Then she leaned closer, cupping her drink between both hands, and said with a little wink:

“Crash’s number.”

Jake froze.

It was microscopic, but you knew him. The twitch in his temple, the sudden flare in his nostrils, the faint noise that might have been a strangled laugh or a dying breath—he was flabbergasted.

“Come again?” he asked, blinking once.

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Crash. You know, the one who just smoked you on the table? God, she’s so hot. Like, I almost asked her myself, but—” she swirled the straw in her drink, “—you looked like you might have an in.”

Jake took a slow step back like she’d just hit him with a taser.

You, across the room, turned just in time to catch the moment. His eyes flicked toward you, burning with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. And you? You just smirked. Cool. Effortless. Like you knew.

Because you did.

His glare hit you like a storm cloud. You met it with sunshine.

And in that exact moment, the only thing more bruised than Jake Seresin’s ego… was his dignity.

The bar emptied in waves, laughter spilling out onto the parking lot like the tide receding after one hell of a storm. Most of the guys were buzzed or straight-up hammered—Fanboy giggling against Halo’s shoulder, Coyote yelling something about karaoke into the night, and Payback dramatically fake-snoring in the bed of someone’s truck. Bob, ever the responsible one, was helping Phoenix wrangle Rooster into handing over his Bronco keys before he could insist he was “totally fine” to drive with a beer still in hand.

You sighed, catching the jingling keys mid-air after Phoenix tossed them your way. “I’ll drive him,” you said simply. “He’s two blocks from my place anyway.”

“Crash for MVP,” Phoenix muttered, dragging Fanboy toward her Jeep like a tired babysitter clocking out.

You rounded the Bronco, throwing open the driver’s door just as Rooster plopped into the passenger seat with a dramatic groan, head already tilted back like he planned to fall asleep the second you hit the road. You reached for the door to close it behind you when—

A hand slapped flat against the frame, stopping it mid-swing.

You didn’t have to look. You knew who it was.

Jake Seresin stood there, still reeling from the night, still wearing that perfect mix of ego and frustration like a custom-tailored flight suit. His other hand braced against the Bronco’s roof, effectively caging you in with his arms and the dark and the heat rolling off him like summer thunder.

“What,” he said, low and sharp, “are you doing to me?”

You turned, leaned your hip into the seat casually, unbothered. “Driving a friend home. Want me to call you a cab?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

You tilted your head, gaze traveling slowly over his face. “You're going to have to be more specific, Seresin.”

Jake leaned in just a little closer, breath warm near your ear, voice dipping into something dark and quiet. “You’re under my skin. In my head. Hell, I dreamt about you last week and woke up pissed off and hard.”

You blinked once. Then smiled.

Calm. Controlled. Deadly.

“Must’ve been a good dream if it lasted long enough to piss you off.”

Jake exhaled like it pained him. His eyes searched yours, wild but tethered, and his mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace.

“You’re driving me insane,” he muttered.

“Good,” you replied, brushing past his shoulder deliberately as you leaned forward to grab the seatbelt. “Maybe that means you’ll stop talking for once.”

But just before you could buckle yourself in, his hand shot out again—catching the seatbelt strap right by your fingers. The movement was fluid, unfairly fast, and suddenly you were nose-to-nose again, your breath catching before you could stop it.

“You keep poking the bear, Crash,” he said, mouth barely moving. “You really think I won’t bite?”

Your lips parted—just slightly, just for a fraction of a second. You felt it in your gut, in your thighs, in the base of your damn spine. But before you could answer, before you could say something biting or kiss him or deck him—

He stepped back.

Fully. Cleanly. Smirking like the devil after a sermon.

“Sweet dreams, hotshot,” he said with a wink.

Then he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire circulatory system with one sentence.

And in the silence that followed, you buckled your seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, and stared at your own reflection in the windshield.

Because goddamn him… you were thirsty now.

The Bronco rumbled down the coastal highway, headlights cutting through the early a.m. haze like spotlights on a bad decision. The window was cracked just enough to let in some sea air, though it didn’t do much to cool the wildfire that Jake Seresin had lit in your bloodstream thirty minutes ago.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, lips pursed, trying to focus on the road and not the fact that your pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment that smug bastard backed away like he hadn’t just whispered his way into your frontal lobe.

Meanwhile, Rooster was passed out in the passenger seat, limbs loose and tangled, head tilted back so far he was nearly kissing the ceiling. He snored once, then muttered something about "Mav's fault" before going limp again.

You almost laughed—until, completely unprompted, he shot up straight, eyes still closed, and bellowed into the night:

“YOU SHAKE MY NERVES AND YOU RATTLE MY BRAIN—”

You nearly swerved. “Oh, my God—”

Rooster slapped the dash like it was a piano and launched into the next line: “TOO MUCH LOVE DRIVES A MAN INSAAAAANE!”

You blinked at the road, deadpan. “Are you serious right now?”

But he was already gone again, flopping sideways against the window like someone had unplugged him. You stared at him for a beat, jaw slack, then back at the road with a slow, broken laugh. “You are a menace.”

Still, the second you hit the red light, your thoughts slid right back where they’d been since Jake cornered you. His voice. His eyes. That goddamn heat that crawled under your skin and made your spine twitch. You tried to shake it off, but your thighs had other ideas—pressing tighter like you could trap the thought and suffocate it before it reached your core.

No such luck.

Because it had been months since you let yourself think about anyone like that. Even longer since you touched yourself to the idea of someone who knew your name, let alone whispered it like a curse.

But now? All you could think about was his voice in your ear, hot breath on your neck, that smirk that made you want to throw hands and then straddle him right there on the Bronco hood.

It was disgusting.

It was shameful.

But it was so, so hot.

You sighed sharply, punching the gas when the light turned green. “God, I am so using my vibrator tonight.”

Rooster stirred beside you, one eye cracked open. “Did you say something?”

You kept your face forward. “Nope. You’re dreaming.”

He nodded solemnly. “Dreamin’ of piano bars.”

Then he passed out again. You kept driving.

And tried very, very hard not to pull over and scream into your palms.

Rooster blinked up at you with bloodshot eyes and a stupid smile, legs still tangled on the Bronco’s seat. “I’m just… I’m just gonna sleep here,” he mumbled, arms crossed like he thought he was making a strong case.

“No, you’re not,” you snapped, already half-dragging him out the passenger side door. “You're not dying of heatstroke in your own damn driveway, Bradshaw.”

He groaned dramatically, but let you help him stand. It was like guiding a baby giraffe in flip-flops—knees wobbling, weight shifting every direction but forward. Eventually, with a key dug out of his back pocket and a lot of grunting, you got him to the front door. Then inside. Then to the couch, where he dropped like a sack of aviation-grade potatoes.

You threw a blanket over him with a muttered, “Don’t puke on this, or I’m setting you on fire,” and turned to leave.

But not before locking the door behind you like a good friend. And then? Then you ran.

Like full-on, boots-slapping-asphalt, Olympic sprinted down the sidewalk, because your place was only a few blocks away and every second between now and your own bedroom felt like torture. The whole way, your mind was an endless loop of Jake’s voice—gravel and heat, laced with that godforsaken smirk: “You keep poking the bear, Crash… you really think I won’t bite?”

You fumbled with your keys when you got to your door, nearly dropped them twice, cursing under your breath like you were being hunted by the ghost of your own horny decisions. Finally, you got it open, stepped inside, slammed the door, and locked it behind you with a click that felt like salvation.

Then came the shower. A quick, cold rinse that didn’t even try to calm you down—just enough to wipe off the sweat from the bar and the shame from sprinting like you were in the Hunger Games. You didn’t even dry your hair. Just scrubbed your teeth, spat, wiped your face on a towel, and bee-lined straight to the nightstand.

And there it was. Your true co-pilot. Your vibrator.

You didn’t even hesitate. Pulled open the drawer, grabbed the vibrator like it owed you backpay, and collapsed on the bed with a groan that came from somewhere deep in your soul.

“God damn you, Seresin,” you muttered, flicking it on.

And then you let yourself finally, finally take the edge off the way only a desperate, pissed-off pilot with Jake Hangman Seresin living rent-free in her head could.

- Jake -

Jake Seresin was in hell.

Not literal hell—not the flames and brimstone kind—but the slow, grinding, full-body, carnal kind that made his brain short-circuit every time you so much as breathed in his direction.

And right now? You weren’t just breathing.

You were doing push-ups.

In the dirt.

Sweaty, flushed, jaw tight with focus, and wearing that goddamn fitted undershirt that clung to your back like a second skin. Every time your arms bent, your triceps flexed in the most unfair way imaginable, and every time you exhaled, he swore he could feel it in his spine.

Meanwhile, Mav paced behind the group like a disappointed father, barking out counts while the entire squad groaned under the weight of hangovers and regret.

“Push-up number forty-two! You wanna be late to my tarmac? You better be ready to earn it!”

Jake didn’t even care. Let him do fifty. Hell, let him do a hundred. He deserved it for the things he did to the mental image of you last night—things he was still recovering from.

Because after you strutted out of the Hard Deck like the devil in boots, all victorious smirks and slow blinks, Jake had barely made it home before he was jacking off with the desperation of a man trying to exorcise you from his bloodstream. He didn’t even bother putting on music or pretending it wasn’t about you. It was disgusting. It was shameful. And it was the only thing that got him to sleep.

But it hadn’t helped.

Not even a little.

If anything, it had made it worse. Because now he knew what it sounded like to moan your name, even if it was just in his own head, and now here you were, doing push-ups beside Phoenix, sweat rolling down the side of your neck like a damn baptism, and Jake’s mind was already halfway to hell again.

He clenched his jaw, gritting through another rep.

God, the way your body moved—like you didn’t even know how distracting you were. Your hair was pulled back, messier than usual, little strands clinging to your cheeks. Your lips were parted just slightly, breath steady, focused. But your ass? Perfectly arched. Your back? Shimmering. And every time your chest lowered to the ground, he had to dig his fingers into the gravel just to keep from groaning.

“Fifty!” Mav shouted. “That’s the price for being a squad of hungover jackasses!”

The group groaned and collapsed onto their stomachs, catching their breath.

Jake rolled onto his back, arm over his eyes like it could block out the sight of you—but it was too late. You were burned into his retinas. Into his frontal cortex. Into the pulse in his pants that was now pressing insistently against his flight suit like it had any right to ask for round two.

He peeked at you from under his forearm.

You were grinning now—fucking grinning—and wiping your forehead with the hem of your shirt, revealing just a sliver of skin at your waist. Just enough to ruin his morning, afternoon, and potentially career.

God help him. He wanted you so bad it felt like a fever.

And the worst part? You knew.

Jake had survived missile lock, blackout spins, G-force trauma, and enough high-risk training exercises to make most people piss themselves.

But nothing—nothing—had ever tested his willpower like the way you stood in front of him now, chugging from your water bottle like the heat didn’t bother you, like your shirt wasn’t plastered to your skin, like your sports bra wasn’t visible under white cotton like the setup of a goddamn wet dream.

He watched a droplet of water slip from the corner of your mouth, trail down your chin, and disappear down your neck.

He blinked slowly.

Focus.

But there was no focusing. Not when the sun was kissing your collarbones, and sweat had turned your skin into something glistening and golden. Not when your shoulders looked like they could cut steel and your legs were carved like a Roman statue—lean, powerful, flexed with every shift of weight as you leaned over to tie your boot. You didn’t even bend like a normal person. You bent like a temptation.

Meanwhile, Jake was standing next to Coyote, nodding absently at something about flight rotations, pretending he wasn’t one heartbeat away from turning around and walking headfirst into the ocean just to cool down. He clenched his jaw again. If he did it any harder, his teeth would break.

You tossed your water bottle into your duffel, then stretched your arms overhead, back arching just slightly, shirt rising with the motion. Jake caught a glimpse of the slope of your lower stomach and swore he saw God. Or maybe the Devil. Whoever made it so that looking at you felt like a punishment.

You yawned next, like it was nothing—like the whole squad wasn’t already down bad, but Jake? Jake was on the edge of a breakdown. You rubbed your neck, turned toward Phoenix, and laughed at something she said. That sound? That laugh? Jake wanted to trap it in his hands and crawl inside it.

He shifted on his heels, forced himself to look away, but it was no use. Every time he glanced at you—every flick of your wrist, every cocked eyebrow, every stupid smirk—you just looked hotter.

Hotter than last night.

Hotter than when you beat him at pool.

Hotter than when you hit him in the balls with your cue stick and smiled about it.

He was so screwed.

And not in the fun way.

Every single part of you was a problem. From the way you stood with one hip popped, weight balanced like you were permanently ready for takeoff, to the way you looked in that damn flight suit—zipped down just low enough to hint at the curve of your collarbones, sleeves pushed to your elbows like you didn’t even know you looked like sex personified.

Jake knew that if you told him to get on his knees, he’d do it without thinking.

He hated that about himself.

Worse, he was starting to like that about himself.

And the next time you smirked at him, like you knew exactly what you were doing, like you felt how hard he was trying not to think about what your thighs would feel like wrapped around his head?

He nearly groaned out loud. So, Jake tried to play it cool.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms, squinted at the tarmac like there was something—anything—more important out there than the way you adjusted your hair with a slow, careless drag of fingers that damn near made him whimper. But the second he thought maybe, maybe, no one had noticed the mental gymnastics he was doing to stay upright—

Coyote leaned in with the subtlety of a brick and dropped the line like a live grenade. “So… how’s that chastity belt feelin’, Hangman?”

Jake’s head snapped to him. “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me,” Coyote grinned, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he turned his whole body to face him. “You’ve been eye-fucking Crash since warm-ups.”

Rooster snorted from behind, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Bro, he nearly passed out at push-up number twenty. Man was suffering.”

Jake scowled. “I was focused.”

“Yeah,” Rooster nodded. “On her ass.”

Coyote laughed loud enough to draw a glance from Halo and Phoenix. “Dude, you looked like a Victorian husband watching his wife show ankle. I thought you were gonna faint.”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it, and then pointed a finger in Rooster’s direction. “You were singing in your sleep last night. ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ In falsetto.”

Rooster just shrugged. “Yeah, and you were singing her name while holding your drink like it was holy water. So what’s your point?”

Jake flushed. Fully. From the neck up. A violent, betrayed shade of red.

Coyote leaned in closer, voice lower now, like he was trying to counsel a man who just lost the war. “Just admit it, Seresin. You got it bad. Like… ‘late night sock drawer’ bad.”

Rooster made a choked-off sound that was half-laugh, half-gag. “You think he cried after?”

“I think he cried during,” Coyote replied solemnly.

“Y’all done?” Jake muttered, jaw clenched like he was trying to chew through steel.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Rooster grinned. “Because if you don’t do something about it soon, you’re gonna combust mid-flight.”

Jake rolled his eyes and turned away, desperate for a distraction, anything, but then he looked up—

And saw you again. Walking toward the hangar. Hair tied back.

Sunlight bouncing off your cheekbones like it knew he was watching.

He cursed under his breath and shut his eyes. Yeah.

He was doomed. And his so-called friends? Not helping.

The water was hot. Scalding, even. But Jake stood under the spray like he wanted to boil the memory of you right off his skin.

It wasn’t working.

He scrubbed a palm down his face, leaned a forearm against the tile, and exhaled slowly, hoping the heat would drown the ache that had settled in his gut since yesterday. But every time he closed his eyes, you were right there—smirking, sweating, stretching, tying your damn boot like you knew he was watching.

The worst part? You did know.

The water hit the back of his neck, rolling down his spine, but all it did was make him feel hotter. He clenched his jaw, tried to think about anything else. Flight schedules. Fuel consumption ratios. Maintenance reports. Hell, even Mav’s disappointed dad voice.

But then he remembered the way your shirt had clung to your chest during push-ups, and it was over.

He groaned low in his throat and thunked his head against the wall.

Get a grip, Seresin.

And then—

“Hey, Hangman,” Coyote’s voice echoed from across the shower stalls, loud and evil. “You better not be jacking it in there, man. We still got drills.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “I’m not, asshole.”

Rooster laughed somewhere behind him. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s been like ten minutes and we haven’t heard you breathe.”

“I swear to God—” Jake turned slightly, water still cascading over his back, face red from heat and humiliation.

“Hey,” Fanboy added, “if you are, at least aim down, alright? Shared pipes.”

Coyote coughed. “Dude, I’m begging you, not near the drain.”

“I will punch all of you.”

Then, like an angel dipped in irony, Bob’s voice drifted in—calm, diplomatic.

“Guys, don’t tease him,” he said gently.

Jake sighed in relief.

Then Bob added, “He’s clearly going through it.”

Jake tensed.

“Poor guy’s got a crush,” Bob finished, completely deadpan.

The showers erupted.

Laughter echoed off the tile, a few slaps ringing out as someone clapped the wall, someone else mimicking kissing sounds. Jake wanted to crawl into the drain and disappear.

He shouted over the chaos. “She’s not a crush! She’s a menace!”

“Yeah,” Rooster called, voice thick with smug, “a sexy, sweaty menace.”

Coyote chimed in, “Who lives rent-free in your right hand, bro!”

Jake groaned, turned the water off, and slammed his palm against the tile. “I hate all of you.”

Bob, towel wrapped around his waist, peeked around the edge of the stall with a perfectly innocent expression. “Need a minute, Hangman?”

Jake grabbed the nearest bottle of shampoo and chucked it at him.

The ramp buzzed with energy as Mav stepped back from the line of jets, arms crossed like he was about to scold a bunch of toddlers. He gave his usual pre-flight breakdown—tight formation, real-time targeting drills, and "keep your egos on the ground, I don't need another set of wings lost to pissing contests."

Jake stood next to his bird, helmet tucked under his arm, nodding along like he was listening. But really, his eyes kept flicking toward the jet two rows down. Your jet.

And inside it?

Bob.

Because of course Maverick decided to pair the smartest WSO in the group with the one person guaranteed to send Jake straight into therapy. Just a casual “Bob, you’re with Crash today,” like it wasn’t the equivalent of handing a match to a man already drenched in jet fuel.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

Meanwhile, you were tucked into your cockpit, already pulling your helmet down, adjusting your gloves like you were born for this. You didn’t look his way—not even once—but that somehow made it worse. Because it meant you weren’t doing it to tease him. You were just being yourself. Just competent and composed and so goddamn hot in your gear he couldn’t see straight.

Then Bob turned.

Met Jake’s eyes through the open cockpit.

And smirked.

Jake narrowed his eyes immediately, jaw tightening. He gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head—the universal sign for don’t you fucking dare.

Bob shrugged. Smiled wider.

And then he leaned into the cockpit and adjusted your helmet straps for you—gently, methodically, like a gentleman helping royalty with her crown. His gloved fingers moved with practiced care, and you?

You smiled.

Warm, soft, that soul-melting smile that Jake had never been on the receiving end of. And just to make sure Jake died fully and completely, you reached up and patted Bob’s cheeks.

Twice.

Like you were blessing him for his service.

Jake made an actual, audible sound—somewhere between a scoff and a choking cough—and had to take two steps back before he threw his helmet across the tarmac.

Coyote’s voice crackled in his ear through comms. “Hangman, your blood pressure okay, man?”

Jake growled into his mic, “Shut up.”

Bob gave a thumbs-up, turned toward the ladder, and waved at Jake on his way down.

Jake glared so hard he saw red behind his visor.

Then he finally climbed into his own jet, muttering under his breath the whole way.

“Touch her again and I will replace your shampoo with engine degreaser, Floyd.”

- You, Crash - 

The hangar was still buzzing when the jets touched down, the echo of roaring engines slowly fading as everyone rolled out from their cockpits, adrenaline cooling into sweaty exhaustion. You popped your canopy with a lazy grin, helmet under one arm, flight suit unzipped just slightly at the top to let some air in. Meanwhile, Jake climbed out of his own jet like a man climbing out of a grave, every movement a little stiffer than usual, a little tighter in the shoulders. He didn’t say a word as he walked past you.

He didn’t have to.

You’d smoked him.

Again.

It wasn’t even close.

You’d cut him off mid-roll, anticipated his throttle push like you were reading his mind, and pulled a counter-maneuver so fast and clean the tower had to replay it twice to confirm it was even legal. Mav’s voice had crackled through comms after the final pass—“Goddamn, Crash. That was art.”

Jake hadn’t said anything then, either.

Now, the squad was gathered in the debriefing room, still sweaty in their flight suits, the lights dimmed just enough to keep the projector screen visible. Maverick stood at the front with a remote in one hand, flipping through the recorded flight footage with a casual grace that always made him seem ten years younger. The screen showed a slow-motion replay of your final maneuver—your jet slipping into a controlled stall, dropping altitude just enough to force Jake to overcorrect and shoot wide, right into your six.

“Alright,” Mav said, glancing back at the room, “Crash, walk us through that last move.”

Without missing a beat, you stood up and stepped toward the screen, eyes tracking the footage like it was muscle memory. “He went high on the third loop, which meant his velocity would drop faster on the vertical. I knew if I stalled into a break and cut my throttle just enough to slip into his blind spot, I’d force him to reacquire visual manually. But by the time he did, I was already behind him.”

You didn’t say it to brag. You said it like you were pointing out a weather pattern or explaining the laws of gravity. Calm, steady, with the easy confidence of someone who knew their craft inside and out.

Mav nodded slowly, visibly impressed. “That was textbook.”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Textbook, but ballsy.”

Rooster muttered under his breath, “That’s our girl.”

Meanwhile, Jake sat in his chair, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was trying to hold his ribcage together. His jaw was locked, lips pressed in a tight line, and he refused to look at anyone—especially you.

Coyote nudged him. “She’s not even sweating, man.”

Jake didn’t respond.

Bob, bless his diplomatic heart, tried to lighten the mood. “At least you didn’t crash into the ocean.”

Jake glared at him like he was about to eject in the classroom.

You finished your analysis, stepped back, and gave Mav a small nod.

He smirked at you. “Nicely done, Crash. I’m running that clip for the next class.”

You shrugged, already sinking back into your seat. “It was just physics.”

Jake let out a slow, audible exhale that sounded dangerously close to a growl.

- Jake -

The Hard Deck was loud with end-of-day energy—pool balls clacking, jukebox humming, pitchers of beer sweating on every table. You were in the middle of it all, perched on the edge of the squad’s usual booth, laughing as Phoenix tossed a peanut at Fanboy’s head and Bob tried to explain the physics of beer foam to Rooster. Everyone was talking over everyone, a storm of noise and movement and warmth that dulled the sting of today’s brutal flight.

Then, casually, you stood and stretched. “Gonna grab another drink,” you said, waving off Halo’s offer to come with.

None of them noticed when the man intercepted you halfway to the bar.

At first, it seemed harmless. Just some average guy—civilian, definitely—leaning in with that drunk, too-smooth smile, asking your name like he didn’t already know it. You gave a polite nod, tried to turn toward the bar, but his body shifted to block the way. His voice dropped lower. His eyes dragged down and back up like you were inventory.

Meanwhile, across the bar, Jake had been half-listening to Payback and Harvard argue about jukebox etiquette, but his eyes had been on you the whole time. It wasn’t on purpose. Not really. He just always seemed to know where you were. And when your shoulders stiffened just slightly, when your smile flattened into something tight and fake, he felt it like a change in pressure.

Without a word, Jake stood.

The guy didn’t see him coming at first, too busy leaning closer, murmuring something that made you shift your weight back. But Jake saw it all. The way your jaw clenched. The way your arms folded—not relaxed, but defensive. And that was enough.

Jake crossed the floor like a storm, his presence immediate and hot, and then he was right there, between the guy’s shoulder and your space, voice low and sharp.

“She said move.”

The man glanced over, smirking like he was being challenged to a game. “This your boyfriend or something?” he asked, eyes still on you.

Jake didn’t even blink. “Walk away.”

But the guy didn’t. He chuckled, slow and ugly, and then leaned forward like he had something clever to say. “She doesn’t seem like she needs protecting. But if she does—hell, I’d volunteer.”

Jake’s fist hit the guy’s face before the sentence even finished.

The bar exploded into shouts.

You immediately stepped between them, pressing both hands flat against Jake’s chest, holding him back. “It’s not worth it,” you said quickly, voice low but firm, eyes flicking between Jake’s clenched jaw and the stunned man stumbling back. “Let’s just go back. Come on.”

Jake’s chest heaved beneath your palms, his eyes burning holes through the guy’s face, but he didn’t move—not forward, anyway.

Behind him, Rooster and Coyote were already out of their seats, Payback cracking his knuckles like it was a warm-up round. Phoenix stood halfway up on the booth, eyes sharp, while Bob muttered something that sounded like “oh boy, here we go.”

Then the man made his second mistake.

He sneered at you, lip split, ego bruised, and muttered, “Typical pilot bitch. Probably thinks flying makes her special.”

The silence was instant.

Even the music felt quieter.

Then you turned.

And decked him.

Your fist cracked against his jaw so hard his knees buckled. He dropped to the floor like a sack of disgrace, and you surged forward, ready to land another—but Jake caught you around the waist, arms locking across your stomach, pulling you back just in time.

“Let me go!” you shouted, trying to twist free, face flushed with fury. “I’m not done!”

“You’re done,” Jake muttered, half-laughing, half-panicked, holding you tight as you kicked back lightly against his shin.

“Coward ass, limp-dicked, mansplaining fossil of a—”

“Crash,” Jake warned, barely restraining the smile breaking across his face.

The bar was chaos now—cheering, clapping, voices rising. Rooster and Coyote were already dragging the guy toward the door like bouncers, Payback holding it open while Penny stood behind the bar with a dishtowel and one raised brow. “Toss him,” she said flatly.

And they did.

Jake hadn’t said a word as he guided you out the back of the Hard Deck, his hand still warm against the small of your back. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the lingering chaos inside—cheers, music, Phoenix probably trying to convince Penny not to ban the squad for the hundredth time. Out here, it was quieter. The breeze off the water was sharp and salty, cooling your skin where it burned from the fight.

He led you past the deck, past the strung-up lights and weather-worn picnic tables, toward a row of old wooden lounge chairs facing the beach. They were half-sunk in sand, tilted like drunk old men, but the moment Jake eased you toward one, you jerked away from his touch.

You rounded on him, voice still tight with leftover fire. “Why’d you hold me back?”

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting the bite in your voice. “Because you were about to break his jaw,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“So?”

He exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a slow step back like giving you space might defuse you. “So, you already won. The guy was on the ground.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing. The moonlight made your features sharp, feral, still coiled like a spring. “Yeah, and I wanted to finish it. You didn’t have to touch me.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, his own frustration peeking out beneath the surface. “Jesus, Crash. You think I did that to what—control you? Embarrass you?” He scoffed and shook his head. “I was trying to get you out of a bar fight before you lost your commission. You punched him once. That was enough.”

Your jaw clenched, lips parting like you were ready to snap back, but the words got tangled in your throat. The worst part was—you knew he was right. The second worst part? He hadn’t been rough about it. He hadn’t dragged you out. He’d been gentle. Almost… careful. And for some reason, that made you angrier than anything.

You looked away, fists still tight at your sides. “I didn’t need saving.”

Jake’s voice dropped, low and soft. “Didn’t say you did.”

He sat down slowly in one of the lounge chairs, elbows on his knees, watching you with that same unreadable expression he wore in the cockpit. Somewhere between studying you and preparing to be burned by you.

Then he added, almost like a confession, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

Jake laughed, but it wasn’t amused—it was bitter, tired, raw. “You think this is about wanting you?” he said, voice cutting through the night air like a blade. “You think that’s the whole story?”

You squared your shoulders, already bracing for whatever self-righteous bull was about to come out of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I bruise your ego? Again?”

Jake’s eyes flashed. “No, what bruised my ego was busting my ass for two years at the Academy just to have you breathing down my neck like a damn shadow every step of the way. You wanted it more than anyone. More than me. I won, Crash. And you still made it feel like I lost.”

You stepped closer, chest tight, voice sharp. “Yeah, you won. Top of the class. Best scores. Best pilot. Everyone sang your damn praises like you were the second coming of Maverick. And I? I was second. Always second.”

Jake flinched, just slightly, but you saw it.

“I was second to you in every damn brief, in every damn report card. And you want to know what that did to me?” you continued, your voice rising with every word. “It made me better. It made me sharper. It made me come back swinging every time just so I could finally say that I beat Jake fucking Seresin.”

Jake's expression tightened. “So that’s what all this is? This whole time? You’ve been trying to settle a score?”

“You’re damn right I have,” you said, breath shaking now, “because no one talks about who came in second. No one remembers her name. And I knew—I knew—if I couldn’t be the golden boy, I was going to be the storm that beat him.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric.

Jake ran his tongue across his teeth, pacing a few steps before whipping around again. “You think I had it easy? That it was all just handed to me? You think I liked being put on a pedestal I didn’t ask for, being the one everyone expected to fly perfect every damn time or else I was a failure?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the crack in his voice. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He was breaking.

“They never gave me space to mess up,” he continued, quieter now, but more dangerous. “They just expected me to win. And when you came in second, you had something to chase. I didn’t. I had something to lose. Every second. And then you showed up again at North Island, all sharp edges and scars, and suddenly I wasn’t the best anymore. Suddenly you were beating me. Outflying me. Outthinking me.”

He stopped, looked at you.

“You think I hate you for it,” he said. “But I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Then what, Seresin? What the hell do you feel?”

Jake stepped closer, breathing hard, eyes burning.

“I feel like you’re the only person who ever made me doubt myself,” he whispered. “And I hate that I fucking need you because of it.”

You shook your head, scoffing as your arms dropped from your chest, hands balling into fists at your sides. “You think I wanted to make you doubt yourself? That was never the point, Seresin. You were already standing on the podium. I just wanted to prove I deserved to be there too.”

Jake looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. “You think I didn’t know that?”

“You didn’t act like it,” you snapped. “You never once looked back. Not when they gave you that medal. Not when they handed you command over a squad you didn’t even respect. You didn’t look back at the person who came in second, who gave you a run for your goddamn money every time.”

“I couldn’t look back,” Jake said, voice low and shaking. “Because if I did, I knew you’d catch me.”

You blinked.

And then he continued, stepping closer like every word was pulled from a place he’d buried deep. “I saw you every damn day after graduation—when you got posted to Fallon, when your name popped up on the ranking boards. Every time I turned around, you were climbing higher. You were everywhere. And I couldn’t breathe, because I knew the minute you got the same chance as me, you’d be better.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because hearing it from him—from the golden boy who never broke—felt like the world cracking open.

Jake let out a breath, almost a laugh, except it sounded like it hurt. “I hated you for it. And I hated myself for hating you. Because no matter how hard I tried to outrun you, you kept showing up. Stronger. Sharper. Smarter.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper now. “So you tried to ignore me.”

Jake nodded slowly. “Yeah. Because if I acknowledged you, I had to admit you were everything I wasn’t.”

That made your chest tighten, your mouth part slightly with something soft and unspoken. But the fire hadn’t burned out yet—it was just turning blue-hot, simmering low and dangerous.

“So what now?” you asked, tone still laced with heat, but not just the angry kind. “You wanna tell me I’m good enough and shake hands and call it even?”

Jake's eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and there was something dark and hollow in his voice when he said, “I don’t want even with you. I want everything.”

The words knocked the air right out of your lungs.

And still, you stood your ground.

Because for all the fury, all the tension, all the years of circling each other like predators in the same sky—this was the moment that stripped it all bare.

And you had no idea what would happen next.

“You think you’re the only one who sacrificed something?” you yelled, chest rising and falling so fast it felt like your ribs might crack. “I gave up everything to be here! My family, my fucking sanity, years of grinding just to prove that I could be better than the boy they called untouchable!”

Jake was shaking now, fists clenched at his sides, face red with anger and something deeper, something that had been boiling under the surface for years. “And I never asked you to! I didn’t make you chase me!”

“No, you didn’t!” you shouted, voice almost hoarse now. “But you sure as hell enjoyed knowing I was always behind you!”

That did it.

Jake surged forward, hands gripping your face so fast, so rough, it made you stumble back a step—and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was a collision. A spark catching flame after years of dry kindling. His mouth crashed against yours like he was drowning in it, like kissing you was a punishment and a reward at the same time. Meanwhile, your hands curled into the front of his flight jacket, dragging him closer, not because you wanted to be held but because you wanted him to feel everything he’d made you carry.

Then, he bit your lip.

And you gasped against him, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, gripping like he’d been starved for this exact contact. There was no space left—only the taste of anger and adrenaline and longing on his tongue.

And still, neither of you pulled away.

Not even for air.

His mouth was frantic against yours, all heat and teeth and helpless, frustrated longing. There was no finesse—no clever lines or slow lead-up. Just years of tension detonating between your lips. He kissed you like he hated himself for it. Like he couldn’t stop. Like the taste of you might ruin him, but he wanted it anyway.

You couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to.

Because the way his hands moved—sliding up your spine, gripping the back of your neck, then curling into your hair—it felt like a man trying to memorize you. Meanwhile, your fingers fumbled at his collar, bunching the fabric of his jacket like it was the only thing anchoring you. Your teeth clashed, lips bruised, but you didn’t let go. Neither of you did. Then his tongue slid past your lips and you groaned into him—soft and guttural, like something sacred just cracked wide open.

Jake pulled back just barely, panting, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were wild, his jaw tight, voice gravel when he finally spoke.

“I hate how bad I want you.”

Then he kissed you again—harder this time, like the words had cost him too much, and only your mouth could take the sting away. Your body curved into his as you answered with your whole damn soul, kissing him like revenge, like release, like all the nights you’d laid awake thinking about this moment and hating yourself for it.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because the more you kissed, the hungrier it got. The more his hands explored your waist, your ribs, the way your flight suit clung to your body like a second skin—the more he knew he’d never be able to look at you again without remembering the taste of your mouth and the fire of your fury.

And he didn’t care.

He kissed you like a man gone mad.

And you let him.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding back for years—because he had. Every sparring match, every smirk, every insult thrown across briefing rooms and bar tables, they’d all been smoke screens for this. And now that the dam had broken, he wasn’t stopping. Couldn’t.

Your back hit the nearest lounge chair, and he followed, crowding you against the weathered wood like the night itself was bending around the two of you. His hands slid down your waist, then up again, palms splayed like he was trying to cover every inch of you at once. Meanwhile, you curled your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—a low, feral sound that made your knees weak.

He kissed you like your lips held answers he didn’t know he was asking. Then he pulled back just long enough to breathe, his forehead against yours, his voice rough and breathless.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him back in, crashing your mouth against his again—faster this time, deeper. His tongue found yours, hot and messy and perfect. The kiss turned hungry, frantic, like you were both starving and the other was the only thing left to devour.

Jake’s hands slipped under your flight suit, fingertips skating across bare skin, and it hit you like a gut punch—how long you’d wanted this. How long you’d hated wanting it.

But right now? You didn’t care.

Because his mouth was on your jaw, then your neck, then back to your lips like he couldn’t stand being away for more than a second. Then he breathed your name between kisses like a prayer and a curse, and your nails raked down his back through his shirt, trying to get closer, closer, still not close enough.

And God—when he bit your lower lip and tugged, just enough to make you gasp?

You almost lost it.

Your breath came in short, sharp pants—ragged and desperate. Your lips were red and kiss-swollen, smeared with the taste of him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his damn flight jacket like you could anchor yourself there. Jake’s hands were everywhere—your hips, your lower back, gripping you like he didn’t know where to touch first, couldn’t choose, so he chose all. His thumb dragged slow, filthy circles against the side of your neck, reverent in the most unholy way.

But you tilted your head back and let out a laugh, breathless and soaked in want, more of a whimper than a joke.

“Let’s not fuck on a beach chair like drunk teenagers,” you rasped against his mouth, voice wrecked and ruined.

Jake just looked at you, eyes wild, pupils blown wide. His mouth was parted like he wanted to bite down on the words you just said and swallow them whole. He blinked once, slow—like processing language took too much effort while his cock was already rock-hard and straining against the front of his jeans.

Then he exhaled, a groan caught halfway between frustration and reverence. He pulled back just enough to glare at you like you’d just suggested celibacy.

“My car,” he growled, voice hoarse and lethal. “Now.”

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of his truck, door slamming behind you. The inside was hot—day-warmed leather and sun-stale air—but it didn’t matter. Jake didn’t even touch the key. He turned, jaw tight, eyes burning like he could already see you bent over the console. He stared at you like a man seconds from snapping.

You stared right back.

And then?

You pounced.

Your knees straddled his lap before he could even speak, thighs spreading like a prayer turned sacrilegious. Your mouth crushed into his, all teeth and spit and hunger. The kiss was messy, obscene—more tongue than technique, more need than patience. Jake groaned deep in his chest as you rocked against the bulge in his jeans, hard and hot and already leaking.

His hands shot down to grip your ass, squeezing like he could mark his name there. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, voice broken. “You gonna ride me right here?”

“Unless you want me dripping down your thigh instead,” you hissed, and he swore, low and guttural, fingers fumbling to shove your panties to the side.

The truck shook with the force of your bodies—seat springs creaking, windows fogging like sin was sweating from your skin. His hand slid between your legs, cursing again when he felt how wet you were. “Shit,” he groaned, pressing two fingers inside without warning. “So fucking ready for me.”

You moaned against his neck, hips rolling down on his hand like your body knew him, like it had been waiting on this exact moment forever. “Jake,” you breathed, and his name on your lips damn near undid him.

He dragged his soaked fingers back out and smeared them along your inner thigh, grinning like a bastard. “You’re fuckin’ dripping, baby,” he murmured, eyes dropping to watch it. “Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Let’s get out of here first, yeah?”

You nodded, nails digging into his shoulders, and he kissed you again—harder, dirtier, tongue deep in your mouth like he wanted to taste every filthy thought in your head.

And still, still, it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He started the engine with a jerk, jaw tight, knuckles pale from how hard he gripped the wheel. You shifted in your seat beside him, thighs still spread from straddling him moments ago, breathing like you’d just finished a damn marathon. The heat between you? Still alive. Still feral.

Jake didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. His voice would’ve cracked or cursed or begged. Instead, he yanked the gear into reverse with a force that nearly made the whole truck shudder.

You sat there, smug and aching, dress bunched up too high on your thighs, no underwear in sight because he had shoved them into your jacket pocket like a trophy. His scent was on your neck. Your slick was probably still drying on his jeans.

The silence was thick—dangerous. Carnal.

Jake’s jaw was clenched so hard it could’ve cracked stone. His right hand gripped the gearshift, but you felt the twitch in his fingers. Like he was seconds away from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat instead.

You shifted again, slow and shameless, and let out a little sigh. Just to test him.

His head snapped toward you for a second—eyes dark, wild, starving—then back to the road.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “You trying to get me arrested?”

You smirked, dragging one hand slowly down your own thigh, deliberately, until it brushed over your knee. “I dunno,” you murmured. “You’re the one with the loaded weapon.”

He choked. Literally choked on a breath. “If I crash this damn truck, it’s on you.”

You leaned closer, voice all syrup and sin, whispering, “I’m soaked, Jake.”

His groan was primal, a sound pulled straight from the chest of a man two seconds from wrecking. “Keep. Talking. And I will pull the fuck over.”

“Then pull over.”

The growl that ripped from his throat was almost a laugh—dark and wrecked and barely human. His hand shot across the console, gripping your thigh, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises. “You are not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” you purred.

The rest of the drive was a war. His hand stayed tight on your leg, dragging higher every few seconds, testing just how much self-control he had left. Your skin buzzed beneath his touch, your whole body humming with anticipation. Every red light was a goddamn curse. Every green one, a lifeline.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, neither of you had spoken in minutes—but the air was so heavy it could’ve been sliced with a blade. Jake slammed the gear into park, killed the engine, and turned to you.

No words. Just fire in his eyes.

And you? You looked right back at him. Still smug. Still aching. And so very ready.

The front door slammed behind you with a sound that echoed off the walls, low and final, like the starter pistol to something primal. Jake didn’t bother with the lights. There was no need—he knew this house in the dark, and he was already walking you backward down the hallway, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other gripping your jaw like he could keep you right there, right where he needed you.

Your breath hitched when your spine hit the cool wall, and he was already on you—mouth hot and unrelenting, tongue sliding past your lips like he owned every gasp he stole from you.

Meanwhile, your hands yanked his shirt up, impatient and clumsy, fingers skating over hard muscle and warm skin. He groaned against your mouth when your nails scratched lightly down his abs, but he didn’t stop kissing you.

If anything, he got rougher—teeth scraping your lower lip, then sucking it between his like he wanted to leave a mark. You kicked your shoes off blindly, one hand fumbling behind you for anything to hold onto as his thigh slotted between yours and pressed up, hard. Your hips rolled instinctively, a whimper escaping you before you could catch it.

Then Jake pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes glittering in the low light like something dangerous. His voice was low and hoarse, barely more than a breath. “Bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t hesitate. He let you lead the way, but only for a moment—his hands stayed on your hips, guiding you down the hallway like a man possessed.

By the time you stepped over the threshold of his room, he was already peeling your dress over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. It hit the floor with a soft whisper, but the sound was drowned out by the rustle of clothing and the hiss of breath through clenched teeth.

Jake didn’t stop moving as he undressed you, didn’t slow down even when his fingers found bare skin and heat and soaked thighs. He cursed, soft and reverent, under his breath, then leaned in to kiss the hollow of your throat. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin with each syllable. “You’re dripping for me.”

You were. You knew you were. And still, you didn’t care. You just wanted him—on you, in you, wrecking you. His touch was rough now, greedy. He walked you backward again until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were falling, legs spread, chest heaving, completely bare under the sharp, hungry gaze of a man who looked like he was deciding whether to kneel or devour.

Jake dropped to his knees like it wasn’t even a question.

Then, with one hand on your thigh and the other spreading you wider, he leaned in and tasted you.

His mouth was hot and slick and obscene, dragging through your folds with a slow, deliberate hunger that made your hips jerk against the sheets. Jake groaned into you like your taste was the only thing he’d been craving for days, maybe years. H

is tongue was relentless, flat and wide one second, then sharp and focused the next, circling your clit like he was memorizing the exact pattern that made you tremble. Meanwhile, his fingers bruised into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, because you were already writhing, already on edge from the buildup that started the second he growled “my car.”

You gasped, back arching as he sucked harder, and that only earned you another moan from him—deep and guttural, vibrating straight through your core. The sound sent shivers down your spine and made your thighs try to clamp shut, but his grip was unrelenting.

Jake didn’t just want you to take it—he wanted to wreck you with it. He wanted your legs trembling, your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to nothing but curses and moans tangled in his name.

Then he slid two fingers inside you, slow and thick, curling them just right, and your cry was sharp enough to echo. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging, anchoring, not because you wanted him to stop, but because it was too good. It was too much.

He was fucking you with his fingers and devouring you with his mouth like the world was ending and this was the only way he wanted to go out.

“Jake—shit—Jake, I—” You couldn’t even finish the thought. Every time your voice rose, he doubled down—faster, deeper, filthier. His mouth was soaked, your slick coating his chin, and he didn’t care. He groaned into it, tongue flattening again as your thighs began to shake. You were so close you could taste it, breath catching, legs threatening to give out.

“Come on,” he growled, voice low and wrecked against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And you did.

It hit you like a wave breaking loose, your entire body arching, gasping, clenching down on his fingers while your orgasm tore through you with vicious force. Your thighs shook. Your hands tightened in his hair. Your voice broke apart on his name as he kept licking you through it, slowing only when your legs finally gave out, twitching against the bed like you’d been electrocuted from the inside out.

But he didn’t stop.

Not really.

Even as your body trembled, even as your breath stuttered in your chest, Jake was already rising, standing between your knees, dragging his shirt off over his head. His chest heaved. His mouth glistened with you. His eyes? Still feral.

And then he reached for his belt.

He yanked his belt free with a sharp snap, the leather whispering through denim loops like a warning. Then, without a word, he unbuttoned his jeans, the fabric straining around his thighs as he shoved them down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking.

He stroked himself once, slowly, eyes locked on your bare, trembling form sprawled across his sheets, your chest still rising and falling in the aftermath of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to savor you, stretch this moment out, but restraint was slipping from his fingers fast, unraveling with every second you laid there, slick and spread and waiting.

Meanwhile, you reached for him, your touch greedy as your hand wrapped around his wrist and tried to pull him closer. He let you, but barely—he resisted just long enough to press the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your folds, dragging it slow, wet, and taunting. The sound alone was sinful, sticky and obscene, your slick coating him so thoroughly it made him shudder.

Then he pushed in—just the tip at first, then more, inch by devastating inch—and you both moaned at the same time, the kind of sound that was deep and guttural and torn straight from the soul.

Your walls stretched around him, velvet heat pulling him in, and Jake cursed under his breath as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, staying there for just a second—breathing heavy, hands on either side of your ribs, trembling with the effort it took not to lose it right there.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You feel—Jesus, baby—you feel like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t answer. You could barely breathe. You just nodded, wide-eyed, hands clinging to his shoulders as he started to move—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust dragging against the most sensitive parts of you with precision. Meanwhile, your moans turned needy, breath hitching with every grind of his hips, every wet slap of skin against skin.

Then he sped up, and the rhythm shifted—less careful, more feral. He fucked into you with a purpose, hips snapping forward like he was chasing something with every thrust, dragging moans and curses out of you until all you could do was hold on.

One hand gripped the headboard above you for leverage while the other tangled in his hair, desperate for something to anchor yourself as your body rocked under the weight of his. Jake leaned down to press his mouth to your throat, biting just hard enough to make you cry out before soothing it with his tongue, hips still slamming into you with relentless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking against the wall in time with each thrust. Your skin was slick with sweat, your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to keep him deep, to keep him there.

And Jake? He looked completely wrecked—hair wild, muscles tight, sweat dripping from his brow as he kept chasing that high, as he fucked you like he wanted to leave an imprint on your soul.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Jake’s rhythm started to falter—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer effort it took to hold back. His thrusts grew sharper, deeper, hips snapping forward with that brutal precision that made your breath catch every time he bottomed out.

Meanwhile, his eyes were locked on where your bodies met, watching his cock disappear into you again and again, coated in your slick and glistening in the low light like the filthiest fucking dream. His mouth dropped open with a growl that vibrated in his chest.

“God, you take it so well,” he hissed, voice low and wrecked. “Fucking perfect—so fucking tight for me.”

Then he leaned in, face flushed and hair damp with sweat, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow even filthier. “You ever think about what you’d look like,” he murmured, thrusting deep enough to make you cry out, “round and dripping, full of me?”

Your moan was instant, raw, involuntary.

Jake grinned, sharp and unholy. “Yeah,” he groaned, snapping his hips hard, making you jolt up the bed. “Bet you’d look so fucking good carrying me. All swollen, leaking for days—fuck, baby, I could make you mine. Over and over, till your pretty little body can’t hold any more.”

He was feral now, hips punishing, one hand reaching to grip your thigh and push it higher against your chest, folding you in half so he could get deeper. His cock dragged against your walls just right, brutal and perfect, making stars dance behind your eyes. You were gasping now, clutching at the sheets, fingers white-knuckled from how hard you were hanging on.

Meanwhile, Jake was falling apart right above you. “You want that, don’t you?” he growled, voice slurring with lust. “Wanna feel me come inside, wanna know I fucked you so deep, so good, you’ll still be dripping when you wake up.”

You couldn’t even form words. You just nodded, moaned, whimpered—anything to tell him yes, please, more.

Then his hand slid down to your lower stomach, pressing down lightly while he thrust, making you feel everything. “Feel that?” he whispered, completely wrecked now. “That’s me. All of me. Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby. Gonna come so fucking deep you’ll feel it in your throat.”

The way he said it—like a promise, like a prayer—was enough to send another wave of heat crashing through you. Your second orgasm slammed into you with no warning, tearing a cry from your throat as your walls clamped around him, squeezing, milking, begging.

Jake snapped.

He cursed viciously, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock pulsed, spilling into you with a low, guttural moan that sounded more like a man losing his religion. He stayed there, locked tight against you, hand still pressing your belly, like he wanted to feel his cum take root.

Even as you trembled beneath him, aftershocks rippling through every inch of you, Jake didn’t move. He just kissed your throat, your collarbone, your lips—slower now, reverent, but still with that edge of obsession burning in his touch.

And then? He pulled back just enough to look down between your thighs… and smiled.

The air was thick with sweat and sex, the room dim and humming with the afterglow of what you just did—but your pulse hadn’t slowed. Neither had your hunger. Jake lay flat on the bed, chest still rising and falling hard, face flushed and jaw slack, utterly wrecked from the way he’d come inside you. He looked dazed—blissfully fucked-out and completely unaware that you were far from satisfied.

You shifted beside him, still trembling a little, but a new kind of heat lit beneath your skin. Then, without a word, you swung your leg over his hips and settled yourself on top of him, thighs spread wide, still sticky from his cum. He blinked up at you, confused at first, but then your fingers wrapped around his cock again—slick and still rock-hard despite the fact he’d just finished inside you minutes ago.

He groaned, long and broken. “Fuck, babe—give me a second—”

But you didn’t give him anything. Not mercy. Not pause. Not relief. You just smiled slow, fingers stroking him deliberately from base to tip, your palm gentle at first, then tighter, then featherlight just to make him twitch. Meanwhile, your hips ground down against his stomach, heat rubbing into skin, body still greedy and dripping.

Jake’s hands flew to your thighs like he could steady himself, but his eyes were already wild. “Shit,” he muttered, head pressing back into the pillow. “Too much. Too—fuck, I’m still—”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in sin. “You said you could handle me. So… handle it.”

Then your thumb dragged over his tip, spreading his own slick around the head, and he jerked, muscles twitching like he’d been shocked. His breath hitched, chest stuttering, hands tightening on your legs.

“You’re killing me,” he gasped.

“Good,” you purred, eyes locked on his. “Then maybe you’ll learn not to think you can fuck me once and call it a night.”

You leaned forward, hand still working him slow, torturous, squeezing just enough to make him twitch and throb under your palm. He was sensitive, overstimulated, every nerve on fire—and you knew it. You thrived on it.

Jake was panting now, voice strained and begging. “Please. Baby, I swear—fuck—stop teasing. Let me—let me come inside you again, please—”

But instead, you dragged your soaked core along the length of his cock without letting him in, slick smearing over him like temptation incarnate. You rocked your hips once, twice, just enough to let the head catch at your entrance, and his hands flew up like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down or beg harder.

Then, with a smirk and no warning, you sank down onto him in one slow, devastating push.

His entire body arched. A sound ripped from his throat—something between a moan and a curse, utterly helpless.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’m not gonna last—”

“I don’t care,” you whispered, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced against his chest. “You’re mine tonight. I’ll take what I want.”

And you did.

You rocked your hips slow at first—taunting, grinding down until his cock was seated deep, then rolling your pelvis just enough to make him twitch beneath you. His hands flew to your thighs again, gripping hard like he was trying to ground himself, but you slapped them away, breathless and wicked.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured, grinding down harder this time, your cunt clenching around him so tightly it made him gasp. “You don’t get to hold on. You just get to take it.”

Jake looked up at you, eyes wild and pleading, sweat dripping down his temples. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue, but no words came—just a broken moan as you lifted your hips and sank back down, slow and deliberate, making sure he felt every inch. He was already throbbing, overstimulated, your walls squeezing him like a velvet vice, and the way he whimpered under you only made you ride him harder.

Then you started to pick up the pace.

Each bounce made the bed creak under you, your thighs slapping against his as you moved faster, harder, chasing the edge with no mercy. Your tits bounced with every thrust, sweat rolling down your spine, and Jake was completely wrecked.

His head was tipped back, mouth open, eyes fluttering, and his cock pulsed inside you like it was trying to come again already—hot and aching and too much.

“Fuck, fuck—I can’t—I’m gonna—” he babbled, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other hovering like he didn’t know if he should grab you or pray.

You leaned down then, your lips brushing his ear, voice thick and filthy and pure control. “You’ll do nothing unless I tell you to,” you whispered. “You hear me? You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

Jake whimpered. He actually whimpered, and the sound shot straight through your core like lightning. You rode him faster now, chasing your own high, slamming down on him with every bounce, making his cock hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. You clenched hard around him just to feel him twitch again, and he cursed—loud and raw—like it physically hurt to not come.

“Baby, please,” he begged, voice broken. “Please, I can’t—let me, fuck, let me come—”

But you didn’t slow down. You slammed down harder, faster, feeling him stretch you wide and full, every thrust making your thighs quake and your breath stutter. You were close—so close—and you wanted to drag him there with you. Not gently. Not sweetly. Ruthlessly.

You ground your hips in tight, punishing circles, your nails dragging down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake. “Beg for it,” you said, panting, your voice high and wrecked with pleasure. “Beg me to let you fill me again.”

Jake nodded, desperate, his voice nothing but air and agony. “Please—fuck, please, I need to—I wanna come inside you again, wanna fill you up, make you messy, baby, please—please—I’ll give you all of it, I swear—”

And with a final, devastating grind of your hips, you pushed yourself over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you so hard it ripped a scream from your throat. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, fluttering, pulsing, and Jake snapped.

He surged up, hips lifting off the bed to meet yours one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a loud, hoarse cry—cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you again, even more this time, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped down your thighs.

You collapsed on top of him, bodies slick and trembling, his cock still twitching inside you as your breath mingled in the heavy air.

But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You barely had time to breathe.

Jake’s cock was still inside you, still thick and hot, twitching with the aftershocks of his second orgasm, but he didn’t soften. Not even close. Instead, he gripped your hips in both hands and flipped you effortlessly, your back slamming into the mattress with a gasp before you could react.

The sudden shift knocked the air from your lungs, and before you could speak, he was already on top of you again—eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat glistening across his chest like sin itself.

“Round three,” he growled, voice low and savage, dragging his cock out just enough to make your cunt clench. “You think I’m done with you?”

You barely had time to answer before he shoved back in, one hard, brutal thrust that made you wail.

“Do you have any fucking idea,” he hissed, pulling out again, slow and deliberate, “how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this pussy?”

He slammed into you again, harder, deeper, making the whole bed rattle beneath you. You clawed at the sheets, head thrown back, thighs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

Jake didn’t stop.

“Every goddamn night,” he gritted out, thrusting in time with every filthy confession. “In the shower. In my room. On base. Anywhere I could get my hand around my cock and picture you moaning like this.”

Then his hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding—just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. His hips snapped against yours, brutal and fast, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

You were already sore, already overstimulated, and yet you wanted more. You wanted it rougher. And Jake? Jake was giving it to you like he had a grudge against your body and worshipped it all at once.

“You made me wait,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, your legs pushed back until your knees nearly touched your chest. “Made me suffer. Made me fucking ache for this.”

You tried to respond—tried to tell him yes, to beg for more, to say you were sorry—but all that came out was a strangled moan as he slammed into you again, making your voice catch and your vision blur. Your nails dug into his biceps, clinging to him like you were drowning in the heat and weight of him.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t letting up.

His pace stayed relentless, cruel even, the kind of rhythm that bordered on punishment. His cock pounded into you like it belonged there—like it had always belonged there—and his words spilled out in low, breathless curses between every thrust.

“You think riding me was enough?” he rasped, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “You think I was just gonna let you get on top, get your pretty little orgasm, and walk away?”

He thrust harder—deeper—and your entire body jolted, the bed slamming into the wall.

“No,” he growled. “Now it’s my turn. And I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you again. Until you’re ruined.”

And god, you were.

You could feel the mess between your thighs, the raw ache of your pussy from being used and stretched and filled again and again, and still—it wasn’t enough. Still, you wanted more. And Jake? He wasn’t even close to finished.

Jake pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered from the loss, from the aching emptiness he left behind—but he didn’t give you a second to mourn it. Instead, he grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and hauled your ass up into the air.

Your knees barely hit the mattress before he had you positioned how he wanted—spine arched, face pressed into the sheets, and cunt on full display, flushed and dripping with the mess of everything he’d already given you.

“Stay just like that,” he growled, voice so low and rough it scraped through your spine like a knife. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he shoved back in, one hard, vicious thrust that made you scream into the pillow. He didn’t ease in. Didn’t rebuild the rhythm. He just fucked you—raw, hard, and punishing. His hips slammed into your ass over and over, the sound obscene, echoing off the walls with every brutal snap.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets, mouth open in a silent gasp, tears pricking your eyes as the pace pushed past pain and straight into ecstasy.

Meanwhile, Jake was groaning behind you, loud and ragged, hands gripping your hips like handles. “You hear that?” he growled, slamming into you harder. “That’s how fucking wet you are. You did this. You made me like this.”

He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear the broken sob that slipped out of you. “God, I’ve waited so long to ruin this pussy,” he spat, driving into you deeper, harder, until the mattress shook and your legs started to give out. “All those nights with my fist wrapped around my cock, thinking about bending you over like this, fucking you so deep you can’t even stand after.”

Then his hand slipped between your thighs and found your clit—already swollen, already throbbing—and rubbed it in tight, merciless circles. The double stimulation made your back arch, a high, helpless moan ripped from your throat as your walls fluttered around him again, already spiraling into another orgasm.

Jake felt it. Saw it. And it only made him fuck you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come again. Milk my cock. I want to feel it—want to feel you break around me.”

And you did.

Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, white-hot and blinding, your thighs shaking violently as your pussy clenched down on him, tight and relentless. You screamed into the sheets, body going slack beneath him as wave after wave ripped through you, each one more devastating than the last.

But Jake didn’t stop.

He kept going, chasing his own end like a man possessed, fucking you through your orgasm and into another, his moans turning into curses, then into praise. “So fucking good. So tight. You were made for this—fuck, baby, I’m gonna fill you up again. Gonna breed you so full it leaks out of you for days.”

His thrusts turned erratic—deep, savage, hungry—and then he buried himself one final time, cock throbbing as he came hard inside you, spilling deep with a loud, wrecked groan. His hips rocked through it, dragging it out, grinding into you as his cum filled you again, hot and endless, dripping down your thighs before he even pulled out.

You collapsed beneath him, completely destroyed, gasping and twitching, skin marked with sweat and teeth and everything in between.

Jake dropped forward over your back, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside you, and murmured against your shoulder:

“…still not done.”

Jake didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Even as you collapsed into the mattress, your limbs boneless and your cunt aching from how hard he’d just fucked you, he stayed buried inside you—hard again before he’d even finished panting into your neck. You felt the twitch of his cock still lodged deep, felt the drip of his cum leaking down your thighs, and just as you sucked in a breath to beg for a pause, he growled low and dark right in your ear.

“Get back up.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, legs trembling beneath you, but he didn’t ask twice. He dragged you up by your hips, repositioning you like a ragdoll, ignoring your protests, your stuttering cries of Jake, I can’t— because he knew. He knew your body better than you did by now. Knew you’d take it. Crave it. Come again before you even realized you could.

Then he started to move.

This time, it was brutal from the start. No buildup. No mercy. Just pure, punishing rhythm—deep, raw thrusts that had your voice breaking open in cracked sobs. You were already overstimulated, your clit throbbing with every slap of his hips against your ass, your walls fluttering weakly around him as he shoved his cock deeper into you, harder.

“You think I’m done?” he snarled, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your head back again, your spine arching beautifully beneath him. “Nah, baby. I’ve barely fucking started.”

He slammed in again—hard enough to shove you forward on the bed—and your hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, legs struggling to hold your own weight. But Jake caught you, kept you upright, one arm wrapped under your stomach as he fucked you harder, faster, the wet slap of skin-on-skin growing downright filthy.

“Feel that?” he groaned, grinding deep, cock twitching. “That’s the third load dripping outta you. Gonna make it four. Gonna pump you so full, it’s all you can smell. All you can feel.”

You sobbed into the pillow, throat raw from moaning, and still—still—your body rocked back against him, desperate, greedy, utterly ruined. You didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know your own name. All you knew was Jake. The way he filled you. The way he broke you.

Meanwhile, his hand reached down again, fingers working your clit with ruthless speed, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your entire body seize. “One more,” he muttered, voice barely a breath now. “Give me one more. Milk my cock again, baby. Show me you can.”

You didn’t even have time to answer.

Your orgasm tore through you like a goddamn explosion—loud, vicious, legs giving out as your pussy clamped down so hard around his cock, it made him curse. Your cry was sharp and raw, the kind of sound that came from deep inside your chest, and Jake rode it out like a man starved, fucking you through it, into it, until you felt yourself tipping into a haze that was almost too much.

He came again—loud, wrecked, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he spilled another hot, endless load inside your already used cunt. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t slow down. He pressed in, grinding, as if trying to force every last drop as deep inside you as he could.

Then he collapsed over your back, panting against your spine, chest heaving, body shaking from the sheer force of it.

And still, the only thing he could say—raw, reverent, filthy—was:

“…fuck.”

The room was quiet now—just the heavy rise and fall of breath and the soft hum of night air spilling through the open window. Your body was still trembling, skin slick with sweat and streaked with the rawness of everything he’d done to you, but the moment his arms wrapped around you from behind, the chaos softened.

Jake didn’t speak at first.

He just held you—tight and sure, like you were something precious. His lips pressed into the curve of your shoulder, a kiss so gentle it almost made you cry. And then, when he finally moved again, it wasn’t with hunger or force. It was careful. Reverent. Like he knew he’d already ruined your body and now he wanted to worship it in the wreckage.

He rolled you onto your back, slow and easy, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he settled between them again. His cock was still hard—of course he was, this was Jake—but there was no rush in the way he reached for you. He cupped your cheek, thumb dragging along your bottom lip, and whispered:

“You okay?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat, heart aching from how tender he sounded. And just like that, Jake leaned in and kissed you—really kissed you. No tongue. No teeth. Just slow, deep pressure. Lips brushing. Breaths mingling. Like he was pouring every filthy confession back into your mouth in the shape of love.

Then he entered you again—slowly this time.

Your breath caught. You were sore, still so swollen from everything that came before, but the stretch was familiar now. Comforting. Home. He sank in inch by inch, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed against your lower stomach, grounding you, holding you open for him.

And when he was fully inside you—deep and still, his hips flush against yours—he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost like he was in awe. “You feel like heaven.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t rough now. It wasn’t fast. It was slow, aching, like he wanted to feel every pulse, every squeeze, every breathless whimper you gave him. He rocked into you gently, hips rolling with that practiced ease that spoke of pure control, his gaze locked on your face like watching you fall apart beneath him was his new religion.

Meanwhile, your arms wound around his shoulders, dragging him closer, your chest brushing his with every deep, dragging thrust. The sounds now were softer—the wet glide of his cock inside you, your breath catching, his low, broken moans melting into your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And he meant it.

Every touch, every kiss, every deep, slow stroke of his cock inside your raw, used body—meant something. This wasn’t just fucking anymore. This was his heart, bared and messy and desperate to be felt. His lips pressed to your jaw, your eyelids, your throat. Like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like he wanted to kiss every part of you that had just taken him like that and now still, somehow, loved him enough to hold him this way.

He reached down between your bodies again, fingers ghosting over your clit—not fast, not rough, just soft circles, teasing and devoted. Your hips twitched, breath catching, and he whispered, “Give me one more, baby. Just one more. Let me feel you like that again.”

And you did.

You came slowly this time—quiet, shaking, moaning his name like a prayer, like you were unspooling thread by thread. Your walls fluttered around him, warm and wet and full, and Jake groaned as he followed you over that edge, coming deep again—but this time with a soft, aching moan, one hand curled into your hair as he buried his face in your neck and just breathed you in.

You held each other there, still joined, his cum leaking down your thighs, your heart thudding steady against his chest.

And in that silence, in the aftermath, Jake kissed your temple and whispered,

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Jake didn’t rush. Didn’t pull out right away. He just stayed there for a few more seconds, cock still nestled deep inside you, chest pressed against yours, his breath warm where it fanned against your collarbone. You could feel the aftermath—his cum leaking down your thighs, your body trembling with leftover pleasure, your heart beating so hard it hurt. You were used, ruined, absolutely undone.

And he kissed you like you were holy.

Then, finally, he pulled out slowly—so careful, so gentle—and sat back on his heels, just watching you for a second like he couldn’t believe you were real. His thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip, and then he whispered, voice rough but soft, “Don’t move, baby. I got you.”

You heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the floor, the rustle of water running. A second later, the lights in the bathroom dimmed low, and the sound of the tub filling made your already-tired limbs melt deeper into the sheets. You could barely lift your head when he returned, one arm sliding beneath your back, the other under your thighs, and he carried you—completely naked, completely spent—into the bathroom like you were something fragile he’d accidentally broken and now wanted to piece back together.

The tub was already half full, steam curling in the air, and Jake had dropped a few drops of something into the water—lavender-scented, soft and floral, the kind of thing that told you he cared. Really, truly cared.

He stepped into the tub first, sitting down with a grunt, and then gently lowered you in with him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapping around you the second you hit the water. The heat enveloped your sore muscles, the ache between your thighs soothed by the softness of it, and you sank into him with a breath that sounded like the first real inhale you’d taken in hours.

Meanwhile, Jake’s hands never stopped moving.

One cradled your thigh under the water, thumb tracing lazy, slow circles over the bruises he’d left. The other brushed over your stomach, then up to your ribs, then back down again—just touching, just being.

You felt him shift, reaching for a soft cloth, and then he began to wash you, starting at your collarbone and working down. It wasn’t sexual. Not now. Not after what you’d just done. It was… intimate. Reverent.

“I made a mess of you,” he said against your shoulder, lips barely moving. “Gotta take care of my girl now.”

You hummed, eyes closed, breath hitching just slightly when the cloth brushed between your thighs. Jake slowed, soft as anything, cleaning you up with such care it almost made you cry. He kissed your shoulder again, then your jaw, then nuzzled into the side of your face with a low, satisfied sigh.

“God, I love you like this,” he whispered. “Soft. Safe. Mine.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss him. It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that doesn’t beg for more but just is—like a heartbeat. Like breathing.

And then the two of you sat there, soaking in the warmth, his cum floating between your legs, your bodies tangled and still, like nothing existed outside the walls of that steam-heavy room.

The bathwater had gone a little cooler, the lavender bubbles clinging to your skin in soft ribbons, and your back was still nestled to Jake’s chest—his arms loose around you, lips brushing every so often against your temple like he couldn’t help himself. The chaos of the night had finally calmed, but under the surface, there was still want. Not lust. Not hunger.

Need.

You’d tipped your head back, resting it on his shoulder, fingers lazily trailing over his thighs under the water when you murmured, “You remember that Taylor Swift song?”

He huffed a little against your cheek. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

You smirked, voice low and barely a breath. “Dress. The part that goes: I’m spilling wine in the bathtub, you kiss my face and we’re both drunk.”

Jake froze, then let out the softest exhale—like something in his chest cracked. “God. Yeah.” Then quieter: “That’s what this feels like.”

You turned, slow, just enough to see his face—wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead, eyes soft and ruined. You kissed him, and it tasted like salt and lavender and exhaustion. You were both drunk off it. Drunk off each other.

Jake shifted behind you, adjusting, and you felt the way his cock stirred beneath the water—half-hard, barely there, but responding to the heat of you, the softness of you leaning into him.

Your hand slid down without thinking, curling around him gently beneath the bubbles, and he groaned quietly into your mouth, his hand tightening just a little on your waist.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, and instead of answering with words, you lifted yourself just enough to turn around and straddle him, knees pressing into the slick porcelain, water lapping over the edge. The shift made the whole tub creak beneath you, but you didn’t care.

Jake looked up at you like you were something out of a dream, his hands finding your hips again like they belonged there, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left earlier with reverence now.

And when you sank down onto him—slow, so achingly slow—it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was like melting. Like coming home.

His head dropped forward, forehead pressing to your chest, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you rolled your hips with gentle, fluid rhythm. The water sloshed with every movement, bubbles slipping down your back, and the whole thing felt suspended in time—like if you stopped breathing, the world would too.

Jake’s lips found your throat, then your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts, pressing kisses there like he needed them to live. And when he looked up at you again—eyes glassy, mouth parted—he whispered, “If I get burned, at least we were electrified.”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, your hands tangled in his wet hair. “We are,” you breathed. “We always have been.”

The rhythm stayed slow. Sweet. Every thrust was deep, gentle, intentional—your foreheads touching, lips brushing, his hands slipping down to cup your ass under the water as he rocked into you with that aching, all-consuming kind of tenderness. Like he didn’t just want to come inside you again. He wanted to leave a piece of his soul behind.

“Everyone thinks they know us,” he murmured, his voice cracked open now, his thrusts growing slower, more reverent.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “But they know nothing about us.”

Jake moaned quietly as your name slipped from his lips like a promise, and your hips stuttered as your orgasm built slowly—sweet, soft, warm like honey melting in your veins. You clenched around him, your breathing shallow, and Jake was right there with you—coming with a low groan that vibrated against your chest, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot, lost in the warmth of the water and the mess of both of you.

You stayed like that—panting, connected, tangled up in each other, water cooling around your bodies and steam curling in the air like a sigh.

And when he finally spoke again, it was so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.

“I’d drown in you a thousand times,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Just to feel this.”

The water had gone quiet again, soft ripples fading around your bodies as you rested on his chest, your heartbeat finally slowing. Jake’s arms were still around you, one hand lazily gliding up and down your spine, and your cheek was pressed against the slope of his collarbone where it felt safe—sacred, even.

The air was heavy with lavender, and the only sound left was your breathing and the occasional creak of the tub when either of you shifted.

Jake hadn’t said much since the last kiss. Just held you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

But then—soft. Almost too soft to hear—he whispered, “Can I tell you something without you laughing?”

You tilted your head, brows furrowed gently. “Jake. I’d never laugh at you.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly. His throat bobbed against your temple. Then he exhaled a shaky breath, and everything about him shifted—no swagger, no cocky grin, just Jake. Raw. Honest. Terrified.

“I think I’m obsessed with you,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Not in some unhealthy, possessive way. Not like that. Just—fuck, like I think about you all the time. You’re in my head even when you’re not trying to be. When I fly, when I sleep, when I’m laughing at something dumb on my phone—I’m wondering if you’d laugh too.”

You blinked. Your heart fluttered. And he didn’t stop.

“I’ve replayed every time you’ve touched me. Every sound you made. Every look you gave me. I think I’ve imagined kissing you in more places than I can count. Not just the sexy shit. I mean, like… the back of your hand. The corner of your smile. Your shoulder when you’re falling asleep.”

His hand was trembling slightly where it rested against your back, but his voice kept steadying the more he spoke. The more he gave.

“I wanna know every version of you. I want the quiet mornings and the late-night breakdowns. I want to kiss you when you’re angry and hold you when you’re too tired to talk. I want all of it.”

You could barely breathe.

And then he leaned his head back against the porcelain edge, looking up at the ceiling like the weight of what he was about to say might crush him.

“But none of that matters unless you want it, too,” he whispered. “So I’m asking. Just once. No games, no pressure. Will you let me? Let me love you? All the way? Because I swear, I won’t fuck it up. I won’t let you down.”

He turned back to you then, eyes glassy but so clear—like he was laying down every weapon, every mask, every part of him that pretended not to need.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” he said. “Just… let me.”

And there it was.

Not just love. Not just lust. Not just obsession. But devotion. Willing, reverent, forever kind of love. The kind that sits quietly in the bathroom at 2AM, holding you in a bathtub that smells like lavender and memories you haven’t even made yet.

Your voice came soft, trembling, nearly swallowed by the gentle ripple of water around your bodies. “Yes.”

Jake froze.

You felt it in the way his chest stopped moving, in the way his hand clenched ever so slightly at your hip. Your head was still against his shoulder, cheek damp from bathwater and emotion, but when you tilted your face up and looked at him—really looked—his eyes were already glassy. Not from lust. Not from tension. But from the sheer weight of being seen.

“Yes,” you whispered again, surer this time. “Love me, Jake. Please.”

His breath caught, like you’d just ripped the last bit of air from his lungs and replaced it with something sweeter. And then his hand came up to cup your jaw—slow, gentle, almost reverent—as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just everything.

His lips moved over yours with unspoken promises, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on your cheeks, and you melted into him—soft and slow and safe. The water shifted around you, warm and quiet, wrapping you both in a kind of hush that felt sacred. Jake’s mouth broke from yours only to kiss your jaw, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. Every touch was a vow.

Then, barely audible, he murmured against your skin: “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

You climbed into his lap again, this time not out of hunger or heat—but closeness. Wanting to be so near to him you didn’t know where your body ended and his began. You settled over him gently, your knees on either side of his waist, your arms looped around his neck like he was the only thing anchoring you.

When you sank onto him this time, it was slow. So slow. Like you needed to feel every inch of him stretch you, fill you, remind you that this? This was what love felt like. His cock pressed deep, and you both let out shaky, stunned breaths—like the fit of it was just as emotional as it was physical.

Jake buried his face into your neck, his lips parting on your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer. “So good,” he breathed. “So fucking good. You’re everything.”

You rocked against him in slow, lazy rolls of your hips, bodies slipping and gliding beneath the water, skin against skin. It was gentle, loving, like every thrust was a heartbeat. A reminder. He held you close, his hands traveling up and down your spine, over your ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts in quiet reverence.

Meanwhile, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as your lips found his jaw, his cheek, his temple. “I’m yours, Jake,” you whispered, lips grazing his skin with every word. “I always was.”

That made him shudder—a full-body reaction, like the weight of your words had sunk right through his bones. His hips bucked up a little harder, a little deeper, and his mouth found yours again. It wasn’t frantic. It was full—his tongue gliding against yours like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted when you gave him your heart.

“I want this,” he murmured between kisses. “Every night. Every morning. I wanna wake up with you like this. I wanna hold you when you're tired. I wanna—fuck—I wanna make love to you until you're too full of me to ever forget it.”

You whimpered into his mouth, your body trembling with the slow, warm build of pleasure that came not from force—but from feeling. The way he touched you. The way he kissed you. The way he looked at you like you were the only real thing he’d ever known.

He was close. You both were. But neither of you rushed it.

Because this time? It wasn’t about release. It was about belonging.

Jake’s breathing hitched as you rocked against him, his hands splayed wide across your lower back, fingers sifting through the suds to hold you steady. He was so deep inside you, and yet he kept whispering like it still wasn’t close enough. “You feel like… everything,” he breathed. “Like I’ve been chasing this without even knowing.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder, the crook of his neck warm and slick beneath your lips. You pressed soft kisses there—one after another—until you felt his pulse jump under your mouth. He was trembling now. So were you.

That quiet build between your thighs, that familiar ache curling in the base of your spine—it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brutal. It was tender. It was yours.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered, voice breaking. “With you. Like this.”

Jake’s hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you forehead to forehead. His nose brushed yours. His eyes were wide and aching as he nodded, as he begged, “Yeah, baby. Please. Come with me. I need to feel it. Just you and me.”

And when you did?

God, it was gentle. But devastating. Like something cracked open inside you. Your body went still, legs trembling around his waist, head falling back slightly as your orgasm swept through you like warm rain—waves, slow and shattering, moans slipping past your lips like prayers.

Your walls clenched down around him, and you felt him let go too—his breath caught, his whole body shuddering as he came deep inside you, thick and slow, his arms locking around you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

There were no words for a moment.

Just panting. Soft cries. The sound of water sloshing as you both stayed tangled, still joined, not ready to let go.

Jake buried his face into your neck, whispering, “I love you,” like it was something he’d been dying to say. “I fucking love you.”

You cradled his head to your chest and kissed his temple.

“I love you, too.”

He eventually stood, the water cooling now, and carried you out of the tub like you were made of silk and sunlight. He dried you off with that same reverent touch—one towel for you, one for him—and tucked you beneath the covers with care, as if the warmth of your body might flicker out if he moved too fast.

In bed, he curled behind you, bare chest pressed to your spine, his hand slipping to rest low on your belly, where his warmth lingered inside you still.

There were no more words left. Only silence. Soft breathing. The sound of your hearts syncing under the hush of the night.

And as your eyes fluttered shut, as the moon spilled soft light over your tangled limbs and tear-streaked cheeks, you felt it again—that current between you. Not fire. Not thunder.

Just electricity.

Because maybe the world wouldn’t understand what you were. Maybe they’d never know how much you’d given each other. How much you’d bled to arrive at this place—naked, vulnerable, utterly seen.

But at least?

At least you were both electrified. 

[mrsevans90]

the fool, the golden boy, and everything in between ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [epilogue]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 26.5k words (so short, i am sorry)

summary: jake seresin was the golden boy—cocky, fast, untouchable. the kind of man who flew too close to the sun and smirked when he burned. but then he met you. and you didn’t just ground him—you remade him. you were the reckoning he never saw coming. and somehow, between old wounds and second chances, you built a life together. a home full of laughter, bickering, and soft kisses between chaos. and now? now the golden boy is a fool in love, wrapped around your finger and utterly whipped for the tiny, sleepy baby cradled on his chest—his son, his softest landing yet.

notes: goodness, we’ve come to the epilogue now—wild, right? from enemies to lovers, to co-commanders, to baby-making soulmates… it’s been a ride. thank you for being here, for reading every chaotic chapter, and falling in love with these two fools right alongside me. and hey, who knows—i might drop a few bonus chapters if anyone’s curious about post-baby chaos or wedding shenanigans (hint hint). just say the word. ♡

warnings: filthy smut, breeding kink, pregnancy sex, soft!jake, jealous!jake, public teasing, emotional angst, comfort, fluff, domestic chaos, baby fever, hurt/comfort, jake being obsessed with you (as he should), and language that would make cyclone retire early. 18+ only. don’t read this on your grandma’s kindle.

part one , part two , part three , part four , part 5

masterlist

Six months ago, you would’ve sworn—sworn on seared pride and buried rage—that you would never, not in a thousand lifetimes, so much as touch a hair on Jake Seresin’s head. And yet, here you were now. Bare skin tangled in cotton sheets, a warm, familiar weight pressed behind you, his arm slung over your waist like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. The morning light filtered through the blinds, golden and drowsy, casting lazy stripes across your shared bed. Jake’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady against your back, and without even realizing it, your breath synced to his.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It hadn’t been awkward in a long time. It was... quiet in the way only true comfort could be. The kind you didn’t question. The kind you couldn’t fake. Jake was still asleep behind you, mouth parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in a rhythm you knew like your own. He’d shifted once already, tugging you closer in his sleep, and when he’d murmured your name into the curve of your shoulder, half-conscious and warm as a prayer, you’d closed your eyes and pretended not to hear it. You hadn’t trusted yourself not to melt.

Meanwhile, the apartment was still. Only the distant hum of the ocean outside and the occasional creak of wood settled into the quiet. Somewhere under a heap of Jake’s Navy hoodie and your half-zipped duffle bag was your phone, buzzing silently with texts from the squad. You ignored it. There was no flight today. No emergency debrief. No Hell Day looming. Just a soft morning, sunlit and slow, wrapped in sweat and afterglow and the scent of his skin.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not officially. Not even the squad, which was a miracle in itself considering Payback couldn’t keep a secret to save his life and Fanboy was nosier than a Sunday tabloid. It wasn’t shame. It was protection—of rank, of respect, of careers neither of you could afford to gamble. You were the higher rank. You knew what people would say. And Jake, for all his reckless charm, hadn’t argued once. When you explained it—halting, careful—he’d just nodded, cupped your jaw in his hand, and said, “Then we wait. For as long as you need.”

Still... you had your suspicions. Jinx side-eyed you more than usual. Ruin had made one too many jokes about pilots suddenly “growing up overnight.” Maverick? Well, Maverick just watched you both like he knew every damn thing and was waiting for you to admit it. But they never said a word. Because you’d earned your place. Because Jake had changed. Because your glare could still cut glass when you wanted it to.

Then Jake stirred behind you with a low, sleepy groan, voice thick with dreams. “You’re thinkin’ too loud again, sunshine.”

You smiled into the pillow before you could stop yourself. “Am not.”

“Are too,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his voice barely a breath.

And for a moment, the world outside your bedroom faded. All the years and wounds and mistakes blurred into the kind of peace you never thought either of you could deserve.

“So… about last night,” he drawled, voice husky with sleep and something thicker.

You rolled your eyes, but you could already feel the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “Don’t start,” you warned, your voice barely above a murmur. “I’m still recovering.”

Jake chuckled, low and smooth. “Recovering? Sugar, I was the one who couldn’t feel his legs for a solid ten minutes.”

You shoved him lightly, and he grabbed your hand before you could pull away. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, slow and reverent. “You know I mean it, right?” he said. “This… you. Me. All of this.”

Something in your chest softened, melting like sugar over heat. He wasn’t just joking anymore. There was that quiet, tender honesty again—the one he didn’t always wear so openly, but never faked when it showed up.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, closing your eyes against the weight of it all. “I know,” you whispered. “And I do too.”

“You should be sore,” Jake murmured, voice thick with sleep and sin, his palm already sliding between your thighs like he owned the space there. “Because last night? I didn’t just fuck you—I ruined you.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it hitched halfway, because his fingers were already brushing over your folds—wet, swollen, aching from how hard you’d come hours ago and already greedy for more. “You sound pretty cocky for someone who begged me to let you come,” you shot back, lips curved in lazy defiance.

He grinned, slow and wolfish, and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your neck, just below your ear. “Damn right I begged. You make me pathetic,” he whispered, voice a rasp, fingers circling your clit like he was playing a song only you got to hear. “You make me lose every last bit of control.”

Your body arched, hips tilting up to meet his touch. God, he was barely doing anything and you were already soaking his fingers. It wasn’t fair. He knew exactly how to take you apart—what made you whimper, what made you scream. And the worst part? He loved knowing it. Loved watching you fall apart because of him.

“Jake,” you whispered, already breathless.

He kissed down your chest, lips wet and hungry, until his mouth closed over your nipple and you gasped. He sucked hard, biting just enough to make you jolt. Then he pulled off with a pop and looked up at you, pupils blown wide, sweat already beading at his temples.

“Spread your legs for me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. The second you did, he shifted down and dragged his tongue up your center in one slow, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God,” he growled, voice muffled against your cunt. “Just me. And you’re gonna pray to me anyway.”

He devoured you—no finesse, no teasing, just filthy, open-mouthed hunger. His tongue circled your clit, then flicked it quick and merciless while two fingers slid inside you, curling, pumping, coaxing you toward that edge with ruthless precision. You were already shaking, already crying out his name like a chant.

“Fuck, Jake—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, lifting his head just enough to speak while his fingers stayed buried deep. “Let me hear it. Let the neighbors fucking know who owns this pussy.”

Your orgasm hit hard—violent, shaking, stars behind your eyes. You came with a broken scream, thighs clamping around his head, and he moaned like he loved it. Because he did. He lived for it.

He slid up your body, mouth shiny, beard slick with you, and kissed you like a man deranged.

“Taste that?” he rasped. “That’s mine.”

You were still trembling when he flipped you over, dragged your hips up, and shoved his cock in with one brutal thrust that made your mouth fall open. No teasing. No easing in. Just Jake, raw and ready and filthy.

He fucked you from behind, one hand twisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so hard you’d have bruises for days. His thrusts were fast, deep, punishing—like he was trying to ruin you all over again. And God, he was.

“Say it,” he growled, snapping his hips so deep you sobbed. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, voice high and desperate.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Jake—fuck—I’m yours!”

He bent over your back, mouth pressed to your neck. “You’re gonna come on my cock again. Gonna feel me so deep, you won’t be able to sit without thinking of me.” He reached around and rubbed your clit hard, fast, relentless. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shattered again—body locking, cunt spasming around him, and Jake cursed as he came too, loud and guttural, hips jerking, spilling into you like he needed to mark you from the inside out.

The only sound left in the room was the ragged panting of two people who had just seen God—and decided He wasn’t enough.

He collapsed next to you, chest rising and falling fast, pulling you against him with shaking arms.

“I should’ve fucked you like that years ago,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

You laughed, dazed and warm and still pulsing with aftershocks. “Would’ve saved us a lot of bullshit.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to earn you like this.”

The shower was scalding, steam curling into the air like smoke off a battlefield. Your body was still buzzing, thighs aching, skin raw from the way he’d taken you—twice, maybe three times if you counted what he did with his mouth before that last round.

And yet, here you were. Back against the cool tile, water running down your shoulders, your legs wrapped around Jake’s waist like you hadn’t just come undone minutes ago.

His mouth was on your neck, your jaw, your collarbone—biting now, not kissing, like he was trying to leave proof you were his. “Fuckin’ can’t get enough of you,” he growled, hands gripping your ass like he was holding on for dear life. “I just had you and I still want more. What the hell did you do to me?”

You whimpered, grinding against him, feeling how hard he already was again. “Maybe I wrecked you.”

He looked up—wild, flushed, pupils blown to hell—and grinned. “You did. And now I get to return the favor.”

He slid in with one brutal thrust, and the sound you made was damn near filthy—a broken, strangled gasp that bounced off the tile. You were still so sensitive, still stretched from before, and he knew it. He could feel every twitch, every pulse of your walls clenching around him.

“Jesus, baby,” he hissed, forehead pressed against yours, hips grinding slow and deep. “You’re so tight like this. So fuckin’ wet—”

“It’s the shower,” you managed, but your voice cracked halfway through.

“No,” he snapped, slamming into you again, making your head hit the wall. “That’s me. That’s your body needing mine.”

And fuck, he wasn’t wrong.

He rocked into you like he was trying to break something open—slow, punishing thrusts that had you shaking, water and sweat mixing down your back. One hand held you up, the other slid between you to rub tight, hard circles on your clit.

“Jake—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasped, biting your bottom lip between his teeth. “You’re gonna come again. Right here. On my cock. Against this wall. Let it drip down my thighs. Let me feel it.”

You were already so close. Every thrust dragged across every nerve ending. Every grind of his fingers sent sparks up your spine.

“Do it,” he demanded. “Come on. Give it to me.”

And when you came—again—your whole body snapped. Your back arched. Your legs trembled. You screamed into his mouth and clenched around him so tight it nearly broke him.

He followed instantly, hips jerking, spilling into you with a groan that echoed like a thunderclap in the wet heat of the shower. His whole body went tense, then slack, and he buried his face in your neck, panting like he’d just flown a Mach 10 mission and barely survived.

For a while, the only sounds were the water, your ragged breathing, and the distant hum of reality returning.

Then Jake leaned back, looking at you with a cocky little smirk and wrecked, reverent eyes.

“Round three?” he asked, like a fool.

You laughed, legs still trembling. “Let me stand first, you absolute menace.”

He grinned, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “I’ll hold you up, baby. Always.”

You didn’t even make it out of the bathroom.

He was still toweling off, chest flushed, abs glistening, hair dripping into his eyes—Jake in his final form—when you turned, yanked the towel from his hips, and shoved him down onto the counter like he was the plaything now.

He blinked, stunned and stupidly turned on. “Baby—”

“Shut up.”

Your voice was low. Commanding. Dripping with authority that had his cock twitching back to life in seconds. You climbed into his lap like it was your throne, dragging your fingers up his chest, watching the way his breath hitched under your touch. His hands flew to your hips, ready to grip, control, guide—

“Touch me and you don’t get to come.”

His hands froze. Just like that.

His eyes met yours—wide, glassy, pupils blown so far there was no green left. Just hunger. Just desperation.

You lined him up and sank down slowly, painfully slow, inch by inch, keeping your eyes locked on his the whole time. Watching him break. Watching the cocky fighter pilot beg with his eyes. His head fell back, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt.

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

“Nope,” you said, grinding your hips in slow, torturous circles once he was buried deep. “Just me. And I’m going to ride you ‘til you forget your own name.”

He choked on a moan, hands twitching at his sides like they were dying to grab, anchor, survive. You started to move—hips rolling, slow at first, deliberate. Your pace was lethal. Pure torment. Every drop of you squeezed around him like a vice and he was losing it.

“Please—please, Rogue—let me touch—”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice a venomous purr. “Didn’t I just warn you?”

Then you started to fuck him. No rhythm, no mercy. Just frantic, reckless movement, skin slapping, breath shattering. His head fell forward, mouth open, and you could feel how close he was. His thighs were trembling under yours, stomach tight, every muscle locked down.

“You like being used like this?” you whispered, hand wrapping around his throat—not tight, but enough to own him. “Like being just a cock for me to ride?”

His groan was feral, strangled. “Fuck, yes. Anything you want. Anything—”

You moved faster. Harder. Your nails dug into his chest, your breath ragged, your thighs burning. And he watched you, wide-eyed and reverent, like he was witnessing a goddess losing her mind in the sky.

When you came, it hit like a bomb. You cried out, body locking, nails raking down his chest. And when you leaned forward, mouth crushed to his, letting him feel the quake of you unraveling—then you whispered, “Now you can come.”

And fuck, did he obey.

Jake let out a growl so deep it shook his chest against yours, then snapped, hips jerking up into you as he spilled inside, trembling, breathless, completely and utterly wrecked.

You stayed there, on him, around him, both of you panting, shivering, sweaty. His hands finally found your thighs, holding you like you were all that kept him grounded.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

You smirked, dragging your fingers down his cheek, then tugging his face up so he met your gaze again.

“You still cocky, flyboy?”

He looked at you—fucked-out, flushed, breathless—and whispered, “Marry me.”

“Shut up.”

You were barely off his lap when he grabbed you—one arm around your waist, the other under your thighs—and walked you back toward the bed like you weighed nothing. His cock was still hard, already twitching back to life, slick with your release and his own, and you knew the second your back hit the mattress—

He wasn’t done.

He hovered over you, jaw clenched, eyes blown black. Not cocky. Not smirking. Just obsessed.

“I need it,” he rasped, voice ruined. “Need to feel you come around me again. Need to get deeper. Need to fucking breed you.”

Your breath caught. Everything inside you clenched—because fuck, the way he said it? Like he meant it? Like it wasn’t just some filthy talk but a mission statement?

“Jake—” you breathed, already squirming, already soaked again.

He gripped your thighs, pushed them back, wide and open and helpless, and growled, “You’re gonna take every drop. Gonna let me fuck you full and keep it in.”

Then he slammed into you in one brutal stroke.

You screamed—high and wrecked—as your body arched, already raw and sore and overstimulated. And he just groaned, deep in his chest, like your tight, used heat was all he’d ever wanted.

“That’s it,” he grunted, thrusting hard, fast, balls slapping against you with wet, obscene sounds. “That’s my girl. So fuckin’ perfect. So ready for me. Your pussy wants it, doesn’t it?”

You nodded frantically, gasping. “Yes—yes, please—fill me—”

“Oh, I will,” he growled, slamming into you harder. “Gonna put a baby in you. Gonna fuck you so deep your body has to take me.”

He grabbed your jaw, forced your eyes to his. “Say it.”

“Put a baby in me,” you cried, wrecked. “Breed me, Jake. Fill me up.”

That broke him.

He lost all rhythm, hips pounding into you like a man deranged, sweat dripping, hair stuck to his forehead. He grabbed your hips and forced you down on him with each thrust, chasing that final high, that last act of claiming.

“Take it,” he snarled. “Take it like my good fuckin’ girl. My wife. The only one I’ll ever breed.”

You came hard, body locking up, a scream tearing from your throat as you clenched around him like a vice.

And then Jake snapped—hips jerking once, twice—and he came with a guttural moan, pouring into you, hot and endless, thick ropes spilling so deep you swore you could feel it in your chest. He kept moving, slower now, grinding it in with each lazy thrust, like he was trying to make sure not a drop got wasted.

When he finally collapsed, body pressed to yours, both of you drenched in sweat and panting like you’d just run through hell and back, he didn’t pull out.

No. He stayed inside.

“Not done,” he whispered, lips pressed to your throat. “Gotta keep it in. Gotta make sure it takes.”

You laughed—broken and breathless. “You trying to give me twins now?”

He chuckled, still inside you, still rock hard. “I’ll give you a squadron if that’s what you want, baby.”

And the worst part?

You almost wanted him to.

You didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep—still full, still warm, still claimed—until his mouth brushed over your lower stomach.

Soft. Reverent. Filthy.

“Think you’re holding onto me already,” he murmured, voice wrecked and raw, lips ghosting over the curve just below your belly button. “Think your body’s already makin’ a home for it.”

You whimpered, barely able to lift your head, thighs still slick and shaking. “Jake… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered. He was between your legs again before you could breathe, dragging your legs open slowly, carefully, tenderly—like you were breakable now. “You will. Just one more. Let me love you like this. Let me seal it in.”

You shivered. Because holy hell, you were ruined and overstimulated and aching—and you wanted it anyway. Wanted him.

He didn’t slam into you this time. No, this time he pushed in slow, inch by aching inch, watching your face like a man watching the sunrise after war.

You gasped—so full, too full—but he stilled the moment he bottomed out, letting you feel the stretch, the heat, the intimacy of it.

“That’s it,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Just feel me, baby. Let me stay in you. Let me fill you again. I need to.”

And he moved—slow, deep thrusts that had you keening, trembling, tears springing in your eyes because it was too much and not enough all at once.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he groaned, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “You were made for this. Made to take me. Made to be mine.”

His hand slid between your bodies, rubbing tight circles over your clit again, and your whole body bucked—pleasure sharp, unbearable, blissful.

“Jake, I— I can’t—please—”

“Yes, you can. Just one more, sweetheart,” he whispered, mouth at your throat. “Come for me. Milk my cock. Take all of it. I wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll still be leaking when you walk tomorrow.”

You shattered. Screamed. Clawed at his back like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your orgasm tore through you like fire—hot and electric and endless.

And Jake? He followed—groaning your name, pressing so deep into you you swore he touched your fucking soul, spilling into you again, harder this time, longer, like his body was trying to carve a legacy inside you.

When he finally collapsed, still inside, still hard, he wrapped his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

“I hope it sticks,” he whispered, one hand cradling your lower belly, the other stroking your thigh. “I want everyone to see you swollen with me. I want the world to know you’re mine.”

You were too gone to answer—just clung to him with everything you had left.

But in your chest?

You were already hoping it stuck too.

The sun had risen higher than you’d expected. Its golden light spilled lazily through the open window, warming the tangled sheets and the well-wrecked bed you still lay in. You blinked at the clock sluggishly, brain swimming in post-orgasm haze, only to see the glowing red numbers: 9:03 AM. Your heart jumped in mild panic as your eyes widened. “Shit,” you rasped, voice still hoarse from sleep—or more accurately, from the downright sinful things Jake Seresin had done to you just hours ago. “I’m late for work.”

Before you could fully bolt upright, a warm hand pressed lightly to your stomach, keeping you anchored to the mattress. “Relax,” Jake murmured beside you, voice rough with sleep and still laced with that smugness that always meant he was hiding something. “I already called Jinx. Told him you’re not feeling well.”

You blinked again, disoriented. “You—what?”

He grinned, sleepy and cocky, propped up on one elbow, his other hand lazily smoothing over your waist beneath the oversized shirt he had put on you sometime after round three or four—when you’d passed out cold and he, the menace, had tucked you into bed like you weren’t the same woman who’d ridden him raw against a bathroom mirror. His boxers hung low on your hips, loose and warm and entirely his. “Said you woke up with a fever,” he added. “And you’re showing...symptoms.”

You scoffed, pressing a hand to your forehead dramatically. “Oh? And what symptoms would those be?”

Jake leaned in close, voice barely a whisper as he brushed a kiss to your jaw. “Soreness. Fatigue. Uncontrollable trembling in the legs.” His hand squeezed your thigh pointedly. “Classic post-Seresin syndrome.”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillow. “They’re going to know, Jake. Jinx is not stupid.”

“Let them know,” he replied with a shrug and a wicked smile. “I also called Maverick. Told him it was an emergency.”

Your head shot up. “Jake—what kind of emergency?!”

“The kind that involves a bed, a lot of sweat, and you screaming my name,” he said without missing a beat.

You smacked his arm with a pillow, laughing despite yourself, cheeks already heating from embarrassment. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

“Nah,” he drawled, pulling you closer and kissing your cheek. “They’ll just be jealous.”

Then, as the laughter started to die down, the room softened. Jake reached for his phone, scrolling through a playlist before one quiet, scratchy old tune began to play from the speaker—some 60s ballad that your dad probably danced to with your mom in the kitchen when they were young. You arched a brow. “Really? You’re playing this right now?”

Jake stood and offered you a hand, completely unbothered by the fact that you were both half-dressed and still radiating sex like the whole damn house couldn’t tell. “Dance with me,” he said simply, like it was the most normal thing to do at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday after being thoroughly fucked into the mattress.

“I’m not dancing with morning breath,” you said, sliding out from the covers on shaky legs. “Give me thirty seconds before you start pretending we’re in a rom-com.”

Meanwhile, Jake just watched you with soft, fond eyes as you disappeared into the bathroom. He didn’t need the music or the sunlight or the moment to feel perfect—but hell, they didn’t hurt.

You returned a few minutes later, face washed, teeth brushed, hair loosely tied back. His shirt was still hanging off your frame, sleeves too long, collar wide and falling over your shoulder. He was already waiting in the middle of the room, hand extended again, expression gentle now—no smirk, no teasing. Just him. Just Jake.

And this time, you took it.

His hand closed around yours, warm and sure, pulling you gently into him like gravity had nothing on the way your bodies naturally fit together. You rolled your eyes a little as the soft croon of the old song filled the room—something wistful and full of crackling vinyl charm, the kind of music old souls kept hidden away for rainy days and love-drunk mornings.

Jake pressed a kiss to your temple and swayed with you slowly, guiding your hands to his shoulders while his rested at your waist, fingers splayed just beneath the hem of his shirt. The motion was simple, lazy, just a soft back-and-forth like neither of you had anywhere to be—and you didn’t, not today. Because he’d made damn sure of that.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, though you made no move to step away. You even rested your head against his chest, letting his steady heartbeat lull you deeper into the haze.

“And yet you’re still dancing with me,” he murmured, spinning you a half-step before pulling you back in close, chest to chest, nose brushing yours. “Must mean I’m doing something right.”

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated, even though your lips were already curving into a smile. “The bar is so low, Jake.”

“Good,” he smirked, dipping his head so his mouth hovered near your ear. “Means I can clear it without spilling you.”

You snorted, but didn’t protest when he tightened his arms around you and rocked you gently, rhythm matching the slow tempo of the song. Then, in a moment that caught you off guard, his voice dropped even softer.

“I could dance with you like this forever, you know.”

That made your breath hitch—not because it was cheesy, but because he meant it. He always meant it when he got like this—when the cocky smirk faded and that rare, unguarded honesty bled through. You lifted your head to look at him, to meet those sea-green eyes full of everything he couldn’t say out loud in a crowd, but always told you when the world was still and the room was quiet.

“I’d let you,” you whispered, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. “Even if it’s to music like this.”

Jake chuckled, twirling you lazily before pulling you back into his arms again, your bare legs brushing his as you swayed. “Don’t act like you’re not secretly into it.”

“I am not,” you said with faux offense.

“Sure,” he said, lowering his mouth to yours. “That’s why your hips are moving like you’re in a black-and-white movie and I’m about to carry you off to war.”

You kissed him before he could say anything else—just a soft press of lips, slow and sweet and so wildly at odds with the way he’d wrecked you hours ago. Then you buried your face in his chest again, letting the song wrap around you both like a second blanket.

And in that little cocoon of music and stolen time, nothing else mattered.

Not Maverick. Not Jinx. Not Ruin. Not the Dagge Squad. Not the world outside those walls.

Just him, and you. And the music between your breaths.

The song faded into silence, leaving only the soft hum of the morning and the lazy beat of Jake’s heart beneath your ear. He didn’t move right away—just held you like he was trying to memorize the exact way you fit against him, the smell of your hair, the quiet way you sighed when you felt safe.

Then, without warning, his arms tightened around your thighs and lifted you clean off the ground.

You squeaked in surprise, arms flying around his neck. “Jake!”

He grinned, cocky and unbothered, carrying you like it was nothing. “What? You danced. You earned breakfast delivery.”

“I can walk—”

“I know you can. I just don’t want you to,” he said smugly, brushing a kiss to your cheek as he padded barefoot toward the kitchen, both of you still dressed in barely-there remnants of last night’s chaos. His shirt on you, his boxers barely clinging to your hips, and his scent absolutely everywhere.

When you entered the kitchen, the smell hit first—eggs, bacon, toasted sourdough, and the lingering whisper of coffee.

“Wait,” you blinked. “You cooked?”

Jake set you gently on the counter, your legs dangling as he turned back to the stove and grabbed a plate. “Yeah, I’m a man of many talents. Fighter pilot by day, domestic god by morning-after.”

“You cooked before or after you wrecked me into a coma?”

“Little of both,” he said over his shoulder, plating eggs with a precision that was honestly terrifying. “Had the bacon going before round two. Turned it off. Turned you on. Multitasking.”

You stared, vaguely scandalized. “You timed our sex between flipping bacon?”

Jake looked over, eyes glinting. “Well, not intentionally, but if we’re giving out awards…”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin creeping across your face. “Unreal. You’re unreal.”

He handed you the plate, then picked up a second for himself and leaned against the counter beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Eat up. Gotta rebuild your strength.”

You gave him a flat look. “Jake.”

“Baby, I’m just saying... you’re gonna need it. We’re not leaving this house today.”

Your stomach flipped, and not just from the scent of breakfast.

Meanwhile, the coffee maker burbled behind you, sunlight pouring in through the window like the universe was in on the joke—like it knew the two of you were wrapped in something bigger than just heat and hunger.

Something softer.

Something permanent.

You took a bite, and he watched you, eyes lingering on your lips like he hadn’t just kissed the life out of you three times over. And as the music shifted to another slow tune in the background, he reached out again, brushing your thigh with the back of his fingers.

“After breakfast,” he said, voice low, “you’re mine again.”

And you believed him.

Because you always were.

After breakfast and a bit of lingering—okay, a lot of lingering, with Jake nibbling kisses along your shoulder every time you tried to put your plate in the sink—you finally managed to peel yourself away and head for the bathroom to shower properly. You shut the door behind you with a firm but playful “Stay out, Seresin,” and heard him let out the most dramatic groan from the hallway, like you’d just exiled him from paradise. Which, honestly, you kind of had.

By the time you stepped out, hair still damp, fresh-faced and finally wearing real clothes instead of his shirt and boxers, Jake was sprawled on the bed like a man in mourning. One arm tossed over his eyes, the other resting across his bare chest like he was waiting for someone to come and play a sad country song over his broken heart. He lifted his head the moment he heard your footsteps.

“You dressed?” he asked, voice a mix of genuine betrayal and outrage. “You got out of the shower and got fully dressed without calling me back in?”

You glanced down at your jeans and tank top, drying your hair with a towel. “Yes, because unlike you, I have errands to run. We need milk. Also vegetables. We can’t survive on bacon and orgasms.”

Jake let out an actual whine, sitting up on the bed and reaching for you like you’d just announced you were enlisting for war. “But why do you have to go? We were having such a nice time. There’s eggs. We have leftovers. I’ll cook again. I’ll make pancakes. You like pancakes.”

You raised an eyebrow as you tugged on your shoes. “Pancakes aren’t gonna keep us alive when we run out of coffee and toilet paper, Jake.”

He stared at you for a second, then dramatically stood up, completely naked and unbothered by it. “Take me with you.”

“No.”

His jaw dropped. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean, you’ve ruined my entire body. My legs still feel like jello. I’m going to do the one normal thing today that doesn’t involve being pinned against a surface, thank you very much.”

Meanwhile, he crossed the room like a puppy denied his favorite toy, trailing behind you as you grabbed your keys and shopping list. “Please let me come,” he said, voice pitiful. “I’ll carry the bags. I’ll push the cart. Hell, I’ll even use the self-checkout without complaining.”

You turned around, arms crossed. “Jake. You don’t even like grocery stores.”

“But I like you in grocery stores,” he insisted, eyes wide with devotion and desperation. “You get this little furrow between your brows when you’re deciding between two brands of pasta sauce and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I need to witness that again.”

You tried not to smile, but your lips were already twitching.

“I’ll behave,” he added, now clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “I won’t even make a scene when you ban me from the snack aisle again. Scout’s honor.”

“Jake, you weren’t a scout.”

“Fine, but I am a fool. For you. Let me come, babe. I’ll wear a shirt. I’ll even brush my hair.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your tote bag. “I don’t know what spell I put on you, Seresin, but it’s clearly too strong.”

Then, while you weren’t looking, he grabbed a shirt off the floor and began putting it on with the speed of a man trying to make a plane.

Jake, did, in fact, not behave.

It began well enough—he held the basket like a gentleman, followed you through the produce aisle without once trying to juggle the apples, and even nodded seriously when you debated the merits of frozen versus fresh spinach. For a brief, shining moment, you thought maybe—maybe—he would actually make it through one single errand without devolving into chaos incarnate.

That illusion shattered somewhere near aisle five.

You had turned to check the grocery list—half-distracted by the absurd number of brands under the “almond milk” label—when Jake’s voice echoed out like a proud child: “Babe. Look what I got.” He was grinning like he’d just won the lottery, holding up the very last box of your favorite double-chocolate cookies, the ones that were almost always sold out.

Except you were pretty sure those hadn’t been on the shelf a second ago.

You narrowed your eyes. “Where’d you get that?”

He tried to look innocent, which only made him look more guilty. “It was just... there. On the edge of the display.”

Suspicious, you glanced past him—and that’s when you saw the child. Maybe seven or eight years old, standing just down the aisle, eyes wide and watery, lower lip trembling in real-time horror. His small hands were still frozen in the air, like he’d just reached for something that wasn’t there anymore.

“Oh my God, Jake,” you hissed, smacking his arm. “Tell me you didn’t just steal cookies from a child.”

Jake looked between the boy, the box in his hands, and you. Then he leaned closer, voice hushed and defensive. “Okay, first of all, he was taking too long. It was like a three-second window and he wasn’t committed. I was.”

“Give them back!” you whisper-shouted.

But Jake was already stepping back, holding the box over his head like it was the golden idol in a temple full of booby traps. “It’s the last one,” he said, the tiniest, most chaotic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Survival of the fittest.”

Then he stuck out his tongue at the kid.

You were horrified.

The child’s mouth started to wobble. His eyes brimmed with tears.

“Jake, he’s going to cry!”

“Run!” Jake shouted, already grabbing your hand as he turned on his heel and sprinted down the aisle with you in tow.

You both darted past the paper towels and dish soap, breathless with shock and a little too much laughter, while Jake clutched the box of cookies like it was the Declaration of Independence. Shoppers turned their heads. One woman gasped. Another glared. But neither of you stopped until you rounded the corner and ducked into the cereal aisle, hiding like criminals.

Panting, you leaned against the shelf, trying to catch your breath. “You’re insane. I cannot take you anywhere.”

Jake was grinning ear to ear, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You can’t leave me anywhere, either. That’s the real problem.”

Then he offered you the box with a dramatic little bow, like he was gifting you a national treasure. “For my queen.”

You snatched it and smacked his arm again, trying not to laugh. “We’re going to hell.”

“We were already on the list,” he said, winking. “This just bumped us up to first class.”

Once the cookie heist adrenaline wore off, you both returned to your regularly scheduled shopping—albeit with a few more giggles under your breath and the occasional glance over your shoulder, just in case the child’s parents were plotting revenge. Jake behaved for the next few aisles, which in his case meant only tossing two unauthorized bags of snacks into the basket and humming the Star Wars theme song under his breath while pushing the cart with entirely too much swagger.

And then you passed the baby section.

It was tucked into the corner, just past the seasonal displays, where pastel-colored onesies hung on little plastic hooks and tiny socks were bundled together like clouds. It wasn’t even on your radar—until Jake suddenly stopped walking.

You glanced back and saw him frozen mid-step, basket in one hand, staring wide-eyed at a rack of baby clothes like it had just whispered state secrets to him. His face was lit with something ridiculous—wonder, mischief, and the kind of open awe that made your stomach twist.

“Jake?” you called, cautiously.

He turned toward you, eyes still locked on the rack. “We should get these.”

You blinked. “Get what?”

He was already moving, grabbing a tiny navy-blue onesie that said Daddy’s Co-Pilot in white lettering. Then he picked up another—this one soft gray, with a little jet embroidered on the front and a patch that read Squad Goals.

“They’re on sale,” he said like that explained anything.

You squinted. “Jake. We do not have a baby.”

“I know,” he said, not looking the least bit discouraged. “But look at this one. It’s got aviators printed on the butt. That’s hilarious. C’mon.”

You walked closer, lowering your voice. “You’re seriously proposing we buy baby clothes just because they’re cute and discounted?”

Jake looked at you then, really looked at you, that playful glint softening into something warm beneath his gaze. “No,” he said, quieter now, thumb brushing along the edge of the fabric. “I’m saying... maybe we could use them someday. And in the meantime, I’d like to imagine it.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but your heart had already jumped straight into your throat. Because for all the teasing and chaos and chaos-causing, Jake Seresin was standing there holding a onesie with a tiny fighter jet on it, looking at you like you were the missing piece in every future he’d ever imagined.

Then, before the moment could get too heavy, he held up the onesie again and added, “Also, this one says My Daddy Flies Faster Than Your Daddy, and I kind of need it.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you pulled the cart forward. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected, tossing the onesie into the basket like it belonged there. “Let me dream, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers still brushed his gently when he caught up with you—and you didn’t move away.

Not even when he reached into the basket again, pulled out the ridiculous jet-butt onesie, and held it up to his chest like he was already imagining matching flight suits.

You sighed, long and exaggerated, but it didn’t hide the way your lips twitched when he started making plane noises under his breath and pretended to fly the onesie like it was on a carrier launch sequence. The man was a literal naval aviator—a decorated, sharp-as-hell fighter pilot—and yet here he was, making vroom sounds with baby clothes in a grocery store like a five-year-old with a new toy. It should’ve been absurd. It was absurd. But it was also Jake.

And Jake was impossible to stay mad at when he looked this damn happy.

“Alright, Hangman,” you muttered, tossing another onesie into the basket—one that said Future Wingman with little dog tags printed across the front. “We buy three, and that’s it. We’re not starting a collection for someone who doesn’t exist yet.”

He beamed at you, actually beamed, and for a second you forgot you were in the middle of a Target next to a display of car seats and pacifiers. His fingers curled gently around your wrist as you moved to push the cart forward again, grounding you in place.

“You’d be a great mom,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost too serious for the moment.

You froze, blinking at him. “Where the hell did that come from?”

He shrugged, but his gaze never left yours. “Just thinking. Watching you plan and make lists and drag me through produce aisles like it’s war prep. You’re organized. Patient. And you didn’t let me return the cookies after I emotionally traumatized a child.”

“You literally stole from him,” you pointed out.

Jake smirked, unapologetic. “All I’m saying is—you take care of people, even when they’re ridiculous. That’s kind of your thing.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. Your hand tightened a little on the cart handle, the soft rustling of plastic packaging the only sound between you. And then, like he could sense the emotional weight tipping just a little too far, Jake bumped your hip with his and grinned. “Also, I’m like ninety percent sure if we ever do have a kid, they’ll come out with a pilot helmet and ask for clearance to taxi.”

You barked out a laugh, the tension breaking like sunlight through clouds. “They’ll come out with attitude, that’s for sure.”

“And perfect hair,” Jake added, flipping his own with dramatic flair.

You gave him a look. “I will personally shave your head if that attitude passes down.”

“Worth it,” he said, sliding his arm around your waist as the two of you finally made your way to the checkout line. “Totally worth it.”

Meanwhile, a passing elderly couple gave the two of you a smile—the kind reserved for people who look like they’ve figured it out, like they’re just starting something real and don’t even know it yet. Jake nodded politely, but once they passed, he leaned in close to your ear.

“We’re buying matching flight suits for Halloween next year. It’s not a suggestion.”

You laughed, shaking your head as the cashier started scanning. He was chaos, he was relentless, and he was yours—God help the world when that baby ever did exist. Because if Jake Seresin had anything to do with it, the poor kid would be flying paper airplanes before they could walk.

The sun was warm on your skin as you stepped out of the grocery store, bags in hand and the gentle hum of a perfect morning settling between you. Jake, of course, had insisted on carrying everything—even the lighter bags you clearly could’ve handled yourself—but he strutted down the sidewalk with all the pride of a man protecting national treasures. You didn’t argue. You just adjusted your sunglasses and strolled beside him, listening to the paper rustle with every step.

You passed a few little storefronts as you headed toward the car—bakeries with hand-lettered signs, a florist already putting out midday bouquets, and a vintage record shop that immediately caught Jake’s eye before you tugged his sleeve and pointed to a tiny bookstore tucked between a café and a candle shop. The display was charmingly crooked, with a chalkboard sign out front that read Half Off Paperbacks, Full Price Escapes.

You gave his sleeve another playful tug. “Come on, we’re going in.”

But Jake had stopped walking.

His head had whipped to the left like he’d just seen something he wasn’t supposed to, body going a little stiff. His grip on the bags shifted, like he was about to bolt—or do something deeply suspicious.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

He glanced back at you, far too casual for someone acting so obviously not casual. “Hey, babe, go on ahead. I’ll be back in a sec.”

You blinked. “Where are you going?”

Jake hesitated. “Just, uh... there was a... navy buddy I think I saw across the street.” He pointed vaguely in the opposite direction, nowhere near the traffic lights or crosswalks. “Just wanna say hi real quick.”

“You wanna cross four lanes of traffic to maybe say hi to someone who might not be your friend?”

He nodded, grinning with that innocent who-me? expression that never fooled you. “Exactly. Won’t be long.”

You stared at him, unblinking. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He raised his hand like he was taking an oath. “Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a scout, Seresin.”

He winced. “Right. Forgot you remembered that.”

Still, you let him go. You rolled your eyes and shoved the bookstore door open, muttering under your breath about chaotic pilots with secrets and terrible excuses. A little bell rang as you entered, and the familiar, dusty smell of old pages and quiet corners wrapped around you like a soft blanket.

You wandered between the shelves aimlessly at first, fingers trailing the worn spines, until you hit the graphic novel section—and there it was, practically glowing on the middle shelf.

A Star Wars comic.

Not just any issue, but the one Jake had been whining about for a week—the continuation of the arc he’d blazed through at 2 a.m. with a bowl of cereal in hand and zero patience for cliffhangers. You’d told him to go buy it himself. He hadn’t. Typical.

You pulled it from the shelf, flipping through the glossy pages, already imagining his smug little smile when you handed it to him. For all his cockiness and chaos, Jake Seresin had the attention span of a golden retriever with too many toys and not enough time. He would absolutely devour this one by sundown.

You brought it to the register, paid in cash, and tucked it into one of your grocery bags, smiling to yourself as you stepped back outside.

But Jake wasn’t waiting where you left him.

He was across the street, looking shifty as hell, standing near one of those boutique jewelry stalls that sprouted like wildflowers in this part of town.

Your brows lifted.

What the hell was he up to?

You barely had time to process the scene before Jake noticed you watching him. His head jerked up from the stall—eyes wide, like a kid caught red-handed in the cookie jar for the second time in one day—then he grinned, bright and crooked, and took off into a full jog across the street.

“No running!” the vendor called after him, waving a paper bag, but Jake just offered a sheepish salute and sprinted toward you like the sidewalk was a runway and you were the touchdown point.

You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed, but the sight of him bounding toward you—with the wind tousling his hair, grocery bags swinging in one hand, and something clutched carefully in the other—made your chest tighten in that familiar, dangerous way.

He stopped just short of you, slightly breathless but beaming, and held something out between you.

A bouquet.

Not just any bouquet—white lilies. Your favorite. The petals still held traces of dew, edges soft and glowing in the sunlight, and Jake’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he offered them like they were the most sacred thing he could give.

“For you,” he said, a little bashful now, that confidence softening into something boyish and warm. “I saw them and... I dunno. Thought they looked like you.”

You blinked. “Like me?”

He scratched the back of his neck, still holding the bouquet toward you like he wasn’t sure if you’d take it. “Yeah. Kinda impossible to miss, kinda... I dunno. Bright. Clean. Right.” His voice dipped a little, the words less rehearsed now, more raw. “Didn’t wanna leave without them.”

Your hands reached out on instinct, wrapping around the stems. They were cool against your skin, firm and freshly cut, and your fingers brushed his when you took them. “Jake...”

“I know,” he said quickly, trying to downplay it even as his ears turned pink. “It’s corny. I just... wanted to get you something. Something real.”

Meanwhile, your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, wild and sure all at once. You stared at him, this ridiculous man who stole cookies from children, flew jets for a living, made plane noises with baby clothes, and now stood in front of you—nervous, hopeful, and holding lilies like they were some kind of vow.

So, you leaned forward and kissed him—soft and slow and right there on the sidewalk, lips pressed to his like you’d waited your whole life for this exact moment. And maybe you had.

Then, when you pulled back, you smiled and said, “You’re lucky I like flowers. And bad liars.”

Jake grinned, exhaling like you’d just let him breathe again.

“I’m lucky you like me,” he said, brushing a stray hair from your face. “Even when I’m the worst.”

“And the loudest,” you added.

“And the hottest,” he said shamelessly.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, looping your arm through his as you started walking again, grocery bags and lilies in tow, the comic still tucked safely inside like a secret surprise.

The sharp clack of your boots echoed through the halls of North Island as you moved with the practiced confidence that only came from years of doing this job and doing it damn well. The sun outside was already brutal, casting heat across the tarmac, but inside the debriefing room, the air was cool and sharp with tension. The Dagger Squad had assembled early—some perched on the edge of their chairs, others leaning back like they didn’t have a care in the world—but all eyes turned the moment you walked in.

You wore the uniform like it was etched into your skin, every patch earned, every rank commanding respect without needing to say a word. Behind you, Ruin and Jinx followed, their expressions unreadable save for the way they both slid a very knowing glance in your direction. You met them with a hard stare, unflinching. Jinx smirked and Ruin arched a brow, but neither said a word. Wise. You didn’t have the energy for their commentary—not after yesterday’s chaos, and definitely not with Jake sitting two rows back, looking at you like you’d hung the stars and wrote the manual on gravity.

Which, to be fair, you sort of had.

You moved to the front of the room, clearing your throat once. The chatter died instantly.

“Dagger Squad,” you began, voice sharp and clear, “as of last month, your status as a provisional unit has officially ended. You are now a fully recognized elite squadron under North Island’s command structure.”

There were a few exchanged glances, a low whistle from Payback, and an unmistakable fist-pump from Fanboy. You kept your expression flat, but your eyes flicked toward Jake—who was, unsurprisingly, not paying attention to the details. His chin was resting on his hand, eyes fixed on you with that same ridiculous, love-struck awe he always tried to hide but never succeeded in doing.

You ignored him and continued.

“Six months ago, we launched the Gauntlet. A multi-phase crucible to evaluate this squad’s operational effectiveness. Each of you was pushed to your limit—physically, mentally, tactically. Not just to see how well you fly, but how well you adapt when everything goes wrong.”

Your gaze swept the room. There were no green pilots in here. Every single person had earned their seat—some with blood, some with bruises, and all with absolute grit.

“Fuel-starvation, altitude suppression, no-comm blackout tactics. Every element of the Gauntlet was designed to find your pressure points. And for four more months after that, we watched. We observed. We threw you into unannounced drills, paired you with different command chains, monitored your formation cohesion, and tracked every recovery you made under stress.”

Behind you, Jinx crossed his arms and Ruin gave a quiet nod. They’d been there for all of it—your wingmen not just in the sky, but in the planning room, in the briefings, in the chaos. The three of you had built the test together. Survived it together. And now, the countdown had begun.

“In another four months,” you said, steady, “the three of us rotate out of North Island. New command will take over, and you’ll be on your own.”

The reaction was immediate—a ripple of disbelief, frustration, and disappointment threading through the squad. Bob sat a little straighter, like maybe he misheard. Phoenix's brow furrowed. Even Hangman looked rattled, though he schooled it fast.

“Make no mistake,” you said, firm, “this isn’t a punishment. You’ve graduated. You’re ready. But the mission structure is evolving, and so is the command. You’ll be taking point on live ops across the Pacific corridor starting next cycle. The next time you fly together, it won’t be for training. It’ll be for real.”

Meanwhile, Jake hadn't moved.

He was still looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—like the speech, the assignment shifts, the impending command change didn’t even register on his radar. And honestly, you could feel it. His stare burned into the side of your jaw, warm and steady, and when your eyes flicked over to meet his—just for a moment—he had the audacity to wink.

You almost lost your composure.

Almost.

But instead, you reset your shoulders, flicked your eyes back to the squad, and said, “Debrief begins in ten. Final Gauntlet data packets are loaded in your files. Study them. You’ll be replicating Phase Three this Friday with Maverick observing. Questions?”

The room didn’t erupt exactly—but it rumbled. Subtle at first, like a brewing storm over the open ocean. The kind you could feel in your bones before it cracked the sky.

Fanboy was the first to speak, hand shooting up before you even dismissed the floor. “Wait—leave?” His voice cracked halfway through, and he didn’t even try to hide it. “As in... permanently?”

You exhaled slowly. “As in we’ve completed our rotation. We’re being reassigned to the Pacific Theatre Command for intel design and integrated air defense simulation. Forward strategy.”

“But that’s not—fair!” he protested, standing now, arms thrown in the air like you’d just announced the squad was being grounded. “We just got good at this!”

Payback muttered something about mutiny under his breath, and Bob nodded with all the solemn weight of a man who’d just been told the family dog was moving out.

Then Phoenix leaned forward, elbows on the table, her expression sharp. “So that’s it? We get through hell, pass your little flying crucible, and you’re just... gone?”

Ruin let out a soft, measured sigh. “You didn’t pass, Trace. You survived. There's a difference. And we’ve trained you to stand on your own.”

“But we don’t want to,” Fanboy interrupted, clearly on the verge of something dramatic. “You three—you're like the brain and the anger and the wrath of God. How are we supposed to function without that terrifying combo?”

That earned a small snort from Jinx, who was trying—and failing—not to smile. “We’ll still be in the Navy. You’re not losing us. We’re just not in your hangar anymore.”

“And besides,” Ruin added, tilting his head toward you, “the wrath part’s staying with you a little longer. Rogue’s got a longer leash. She’ll be the last to rotate out.”

Fanboy looked at you like you’d betrayed him personally. “Then at least take me with you. I’ll carry your bags. I’ll cry silently in meetings. I’m very adaptable.”

Jake chuckled low from his seat, but didn’t speak. His eyes were still locked on you—not with concern, not even with amusement, but with that same silent, unwavering pride. Like he was watching the best thing he’d ever seen and didn’t want to interrupt.

You ignored the butterflies in your gut and leveled the room with a stare. “This squad doesn’t depend on us. We were just the match. You are the fire. What you’ve built—what you’ve survived—that’s yours now. And what’s coming next? It’s going to demand everything from you. The training wheels are gone. You’re flying solo.”

Fanboy visibly slumped. “You’re so mean when you’re inspirational.”

You allowed the corner of your mouth to twitch. Just a little.

Then, behind you, Jinx added, “And for the record? You’ve got the best damn chance out of any unit we’ve trained. Don’t waste it wishing we were still here yelling at you.”

That silenced the room. Not in defeat—but in understanding. These pilots had bled for this squadron. They’d clawed their way through blackout drills, near-failures, and your infamous no-warning 0400 strike alarms. They were the best. Because you made them the best. And now, they had to be it.

Meanwhile, Jake hadn’t moved a muscle.

And even though you were surrounded by elite pilots and two of the most formidable officers in the Navy, it was still his eyes you felt anchored to—the quiet promise that even when duty pulled you apart, he’d still look at you like you were gravity itself.

The door swung open at the far end of the debriefing room, and the energy shifted immediately.

Captain Pete Mitchell—callsign Maverick—stepped in with that usual mix of casual defiance and command presence that still turned heads no matter how many decades he’d been in the cockpit. Dagger Squad straightened, and even Jinx and Ruin reflexively stood a little taller as Maverick approached. He gave a nod to the room, then looked directly at you, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of something respectful in his eyes.

“Commander Rogue,” he said, voice low but carrying. “Permission to take the floor?”

You gave a crisp nod. “It’s yours, sir.”

He turned toward the Daggers, hands behind his back, shoulders squared. “You’ve all come a long way since I first saw you fly this deck. Some of you were cocky as hell.” His eyes flicked briefly to Hangman, who didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Some of you didn’t believe you’d make it. And all of you were thrown into a crucible none of you were ready for.”

He paused.

“But you survived it. You earned your wings all over again under these three.” He glanced over to you, Ruin, and Jinx, nodding once. “This squadron wouldn’t be what it is without their leadership. Their brutality.” A pointed look at you. “And their belief in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourselves.”

You felt something twist in your chest, but you kept your posture sharp, unmoving.

Then Maverick turned back toward the front. “I’ll be taking over interim command as they prepare for rotation. I won’t be recreating the Gauntlet—” more than one pilot visibly exhaled at that “—but I’ll be reinforcing the systems they’ve put in place. You’ll keep flying hard. You’ll keep pushing. And you’ll keep proving that this isn’t just a name on your patch. It’s a legacy.”

There was a quiet, collective breath taken across the squad, a shift in the weight of the moment. You could feel it settle in their bones. Then Maverick relaxed just slightly, the edge of formality lifting.

“Oh—and one more thing.”

He looked at you three again, this time less like an officer, more like someone who knew what it was to build something and have to walk away.

“Penny and I are throwing a small thing at our place Friday night. Just a thank you. Nothing formal. You three in?”

Ruin didn’t miss a beat. “Hell yeah, we are.”

Jinx clapped once. “I will eat so much potato salad. And I’m bringing bourbon. The expensive kind.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize we were celebrating just yet.”

Maverick gave you that slight grin—the one that always meant he knew more than he was letting on. “You built a family, Commander. That deserves at least one good night.”

You hesitated only a moment. “...Sure. We’ll be there.”

And just like that, the weight of transition felt a little lighter. A little warmer. You weren’t just handing off command—you were leaving it in good hands. In capable hands. And whether they realized it yet or not, Dagger Squad had already become something stronger than any one officer.

Meanwhile, behind the rest of the group, Jake tilted his head and mouthed something at you when no one was looking.

“You’re still the boss.”

Friday night rolled in slow and golden, spilling soft light through the blinds as you stood in front of the mirror, dabbing a final touch of highlight along your cheekbones. Your uniform had been replaced by something more casual—black jeans, a fitted tee under an open button-down, sleeves cuffed, dog tags still tucked beneath your collar because some habits refused to die. You were going for that lethal mix of effortless and “don’t mess with me,” and it was working, if you did say so yourself.

You leaned in closer, fixing the wing of your eyeliner with the precision of someone who once flew through a canyon at Mach speed. Outside, a breeze rustled the palm trees. The smell of charcoal already teased the air from somewhere distant, and your stomach rumbled in agreement.

Then came the whine.

“Baaaabe...”

You didn’t even blink. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet!”

“I do, actually. You’ve been trying to seduce me out of this barbeque for the last hour.”

Jake’s reflection appeared in the mirror behind you—half-shirtless, towel still slung around his neck from the shower, hair damp and tousled in a way that was definitely intentional. He looked like sin and Southern charm and bad ideas wrapped in golden-boy packaging. And he was pouting.

Full lips. Puppy eyes. Bare chest. Weaponized everything.

“Look at us,” he said, walking up behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder. “We could just stay in. Watch some old movie. You know... something with a loose plot and convenient fade-to-blacks.”

You smirked, grabbing your mascara. “Jake. You mean sex. You’re describing sex.”

“Netflix and chill is a cultural institution,” he murmured against your neck. “It would be rude to abandon tradition.”

You snorted and flicked him away with the back of your hand. “You’re not getting me out of this, Seresin. I want ribs. I want brisket. I want potato salad that’s mostly mayonnaise and regret. And I want to see Ruin try to pretend he doesn’t cry when Maverick gives speeches.”

Jake groaned, dramatic and loud, flopping onto the edge of the bed like you’d wounded him. “But you’re hot, and you smell like vanilla and sharp decisions, and I just shaved. This is prime conditions for a full-blown house arrest scenario.”

You turned and gave him a look over your shoulder. “We made a promise. We show up. We eat meat. We thank Penny for putting up with all of you.”

“But you’re my meat,” Jake mumbled into the mattress.

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw stars. “That is disgusting, and I’m telling Maverick you said that.”

Jake peeked up, grinning. “Tell him. He’ll be proud.”

You ignored him, stepping away from the mirror to grab your shoes and slide them on. “You’ve got ten minutes to get dressed or I’m leaving without you.”

He sat up immediately. “Do you think Hangman would really miss a party thrown by the legendary Maverick? The man literally saved the Navy’s ass and then married a woman who owns a boat bar. He’s my hero.”

You gave him one last look—messy hair, towel, bare chest, and that wide, stupid grin.

“Then get your ass in gear, Hangman. We’re going to a barbeque.”

The engine purred under your control, the windows down just enough to let the salty California breeze snake through your hair as you cruised down the winding road toward Maverick and Penny’s place. The sky was slathered in that perfect sunset gradient—deep orange bleeding into rose and lavender, like the whole horizon had set itself on fire just to show off.

Jake sat in the passenger seat, finally dressed, finally presentable—well, barely. His button-down was undone halfway, and his aviators hung lazily off the collar like an afterthought. He looked criminally good, lounging with his arm against the open window, tapping the dashboard to the beat of a country song you weren’t even sure was playing. All smug confidence and denim-wrapped thighs—until he suddenly snapped upright like he'd been hit by lightning.

“WAIT.”

You slammed the brakes on instinct, the tires skidding slightly against the pavement as your hand shot out across his chest, years of flight protocol kicking in like second nature.

“What the hell, Seresin?!”

Jake turned to you, eyes wide with panic, breath caught somewhere between full-blown anxiety and chaotic energy. “We can’t arrive together.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They’ll know!” he said, flailing one arm toward the dashboard like it was somehow guilty in your imagined crime. “Ruin and Jinx already gave us that look. And now we’re gonna show up in the same car? We might as well walk in holding hands with matching wedding bands and a neon sign that says ‘Been boning for months, thanks!’”

You stared at him, then slowly pulled the car over to the side of the road, parking beneath a palm tree that cast swaying shadows across the hood. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“I am, and I hate it,” he whispered, staring ahead like a man who’d seen the future and didn’t like what it held. “They’re gonna say things. Hangman cannot be the punchline. I’m the one who makes the punchlines.”

You leaned an elbow on the steering wheel and looked at him coolly. “Relax.”

Jake turned to you like you’d just solved climate change. “...You have a plan?”

“I always have a plan.”

“Does it involve a rooftop insertion or a stealth op under the grill?”

You reached for the gear shift and smirked. “Just trust me, Lieutenant. You get to make your dramatic solo entrance like the attention-starved manchild you are. I’ll be there already, drink in hand, pretending I barely remember your name.”

Jake looked both horrified and delighted. “Oh my God. You’re unhinged.”

“And you love it.”

He sighed, sinking back into the seat like the weight of the world had been lifted. “I really do.”

You glanced at him once more before hitting the gas again, pulling the car back onto the road. “Now shut up and let me execute the op. I’ve got a very specific window if I want to get there before Maverick starts one of his war stories.”

“And when do I show up?”

“When the ribs hit the grill.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Ruthless. Sexy. Tactical.”

You grinned. “I know.”

By the time you pulled up to Maverick and Penny’s place, the backyard was already buzzing—grill smoking, music humming low through crackling outdoor speakers, and pilots strewn across folding chairs and patio steps like sun-dazed dogs. Someone had already opened the good whiskey. You could smell the ribs in the air, and it was divine.

You parked just far enough down the street to make it look casual. Intentional. Not at all like you’d spent fifteen minutes strategizing this exact entrance.

Jake had slipped out of the car a beat later, adjusting his shirt like it was armor, running a hand through his hair for the tenth time since you left the base. He followed a few paces behind you, like he wasn’t totally sure if this was a setup or a blessing. But either way, he was in it now.

You pushed open the side gate and stepped into view just as the golden hour light hit the backyard, sunglasses still perched on your nose like you were walking into a runway instead of a barbeque.

Heads turned instantly.

Rooster raised his beer. Bob blinked twice. Coyote said “Well, damn,” under his breath, and even Phoenix sat up straighter on the picnic table like something had just clicked in the Matrix.

And then they saw him.

Jake, hands in his pockets, trying his best not to look too happy. He trailed behind you by a few steps, gaze caught somewhere between “kill me now” and “I would die for this woman.” His cheeks were faintly pink. Not from sunburn.

You tugged your sunglasses down just enough to meet the crowd’s suspicious silence, cocked a hip, and said with full authority, “Seresin hitched a ride with me. Said his car battery died because he left it running while trying to fix his hair.”

A beat.

Hangman made a wounded sound, halfway between a scoff and a betrayed gasp. “That is not what happened—”

You raised a hand. “Don’t worry. I logged it under ‘pilot incompetence.’ Already filed the incident report.”

Phoenix choked on her drink. Rooster laughed so hard he nearly dropped his plate. Bob looked between the two of you like he was watching a courtroom drama unfold.

Jake, for his part, just looked devastated. Shoulders drooped. Eyebrows knitted together. He glanced around at the others, eyes wide like an injured golden retriever trying to understand why no one was standing up for him.

“She made me ride in the backseat like cargo,” he mumbled, voice quiet and wounded.

“I should’ve made you sit in the trunk,” you shot back easily, brushing past him.

The group howled.

You could feel Maverick and Penny watching from the porch, and when your eyes flicked toward them, Mav just gave you a subtle nod, a ghost of a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. Penny raised her glass slightly, sipping it like she’d known this would happen from the moment she set the guest list.

Meanwhile, Ruin and Jinx were already posted near the grill, absolutely giggling behind their beers like two school kids who knew exactly what game was being played.

Jake finally caught up to you, falling into step at your side, voice low. “You are evil.”

You smirked, reaching out to straighten his slightly wrinkled collar. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

He blinked. “You’re lucky I’m into terrifying women.”

You leaned in, close enough for only him to hear. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell them you asked me to pick out your shirt.”

He groaned into his hands as you strutted away, completely and utterly victorious.

The sun had dipped lower now, casting long amber shadows across the backyard as the barbeque roared to life—flames licking the grill, the scent of charred meat and smoke curling into the air like a battle cry. Maverick, ever the wise host, had somehow vanished just as responsibility was about to be handed out. Penny, with that sly glint in her eye, passed the spatula off to you and Jake with a grin that said “have fun” and a wink that promised chaos.

Which was, of course, exactly what followed.

“No, no, absolutely not,” Jake declared the moment you both stepped up to the grill, eyeing the meat like it had personally offended him. “Last time you cooked anything, Rogue, I swear the burger mooed when I bit into it.”

You turned slowly, spatula in hand like a weapon. “Excuse me?”

“I’m still in therapy.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “The center was pink, not raw. That’s called flavor, Lieutenant.”

Jake dramatically pointed to the steak on the tray. “That is called endangerment of personnel. I’m not trying to get salmonella in front of my squad. Again.”

You snapped the tongs open twice, as if testing their readiness. “And what about the last time you cooked, huh? You incinerated the chicken so badly I thought we were being attacked by a drone strike.”

“That was intentional.”

“That was arson,” you fired back, flipping a rib with so much force it slapped the grill with a loud hiss. “You seasoned it with gasoline.”

Jake grabbed the seasoning with a flourish, shaking it over the slab in front of him like a showman. “Better than the time you thought garlic powder and cinnamon were interchangeable!”

“That was one time! And I was distracted because you kept licking the damn spoon and flexing like you were auditioning for a cooking calendar.”

He grinned, unfazed. “Still got the job though, didn’t I?”

You leveled him with a look so cold it could’ve frosted the grill, then turned to flip the next slab of ribs.

Meanwhile, the Dagger Squad had gathered in a loose semi-circle a few feet away, holding their plates like theatergoers watching a chaotic stage play. Bob had slowly stopped chewing, mesmerized. Phoenix was barely holding in her laughter, Rooster whispered “five bucks says Rogue throws him into the pool,” and Coyote was holding up a phone like he was definitely filming this for evidence.

Jake leaned in, voice lower now, playful. “You know this whole ‘bickering in public’ thing? It’s dangerously close to foreplay for us.”

You didn’t even glance at him. “Touch my ribs again and I will throw you onto that lawn chair so hard it becomes part of your anatomy.”

Jake took a small step back and raised his hands. “So hot when you threaten me.”

The grill hissed louder as if groaning in protest at the combined heat—flames, meat, and whatever fiery tension was practically vibrating between the two of you. The smoke curled up, and somewhere behind you, Maverick’s laugh floated through the breeze, followed by Penny yelling, “Don’t set anything on fire this time!”

You both called back, in perfect unison: “No promises!”

The grill kept sizzling like it was trying to warn everyone that something unholy was about to happen. You and Jake were still locked in your verbal knife fight—tongues sharper than the skewers, egos even bigger than the brisket—but the meat was cooking, and somehow, no one had died yet. A win.

You reached for the sauce, elbow-deep in rib duties, when a familiar voice slinked up behind you like a cat that had way too much confidence for someone who still couldn’t land a perfect vertical descent.

“Well, well, Commander Rogue,” Rooster drawled, leaning on the picnic table with a grin that was a little too smug. “Didn’t know you moonlighted as a grill master. Should I be impressed? Or concerned?”

Jake didn’t look up, but his jaw flexed just slightly as he flipped a steak with what could only be described as violence.

You didn’t miss the tone, but you played along, lips quirking. “You should be concerned. I’ve got full jurisdiction to throw people into the pool for flirting with their superiors.”

Rooster grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Wouldn’t be the first time I got wet for a woman in command.”

Jake coughed so hard it almost sounded real. Almost.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath. “No, no, no—this is not happening.”

Rooster stepped a little closer, resting his elbow on the grill’s side, eyes flicking over you like you were a target he was just brave enough to chase. “You know, if you ever need help in the kitchen, I’m real handy with my hands.”

Jake dropped the tongs.

Clatter. Sizzle. A moment of sheer disbelief.

“You okay there, Seresin?” Rooster asked innocently.

Jake bent to grab the tongs, muttering, “Oh, just dropped my will to live.”

You smirked, but before you could fire back, Jake straightened up and slid way too close to you, all heat and muscle and the smell of citrus body wash. He leaned an arm casually on the grill right next to yours, cutting off Rooster’s line of vision.

“Actually, Rooster,” he said smoothly, “she already has help in the kitchen. Certified, in fact. I passed the meat handling seminar twice.”

You side-eyed him. “One of those times you were asked to leave.”

“Still counts,” Jake fired back, then turned slightly toward Rooster, voice perfectly pleasant but with just enough bite beneath it. “Anyway, you might want to cool it. Wouldn’t want you to get burned, Bradshaw.”

Rooster blinked. “...From the grill?”

Jake smiled. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

The tension was palpable. Phoenix was now openly eating chips and watching like it was her favorite soap. Bob whispered something to Coyote, who mouthed “Oh, it’s getting good.” Even Penny glanced out the kitchen window, eyebrows raised like should I intervene? Or is this foreplay?

Rooster, to his credit, chuckled and held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Standing down. Don’t want to come between a man and his meat.”

You almost choked on your soda.

Jake gave him a tight smile. “Good choice.”

As Rooster walked off—still smirking, because of course he was—Jake turned back to you, bumping your hip gently with his.

“You liked it, admit it,” he muttered, voice low so no one else could hear. “Got all jealous and southern and everything.”

You rolled your eyes. “You threatened him with steak energy.”

Jake beamed. “That’s love, darlin’.”

Dinner was in full swing now, the backyard steeped in that warm, dusky glow that made the ribs glisten and everyone’s cheeks a little more sun-kissed. Laughter spilled from the picnic tables like smoke, plates were stacked with dangerously unhealthy amounts of meat, and Penny had finally broken out her famous strawberry bourbon.

You’d barely sat down on one of the benches, cold drink in hand, ribs stacked on your plate like you were claiming dominance through protein, when he appeared.

“Room for one more?” Rooster asked, already sliding into the seat beside you without waiting for an answer.

You blinked at him, then shrugged, scooting just an inch to the left—not too much, but enough to keep up appearances. “Sure, Lieutenant. Long as you don’t steal my cornbread.”

Rooster leaned in with a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Unless it’s the kind with jalapeño in it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It is.”

“Then I’m dreaming,” he said smoothly, nudging your shoulder.

Across the table, Jake Seresin paused mid-bite.

His fork hovered above his brisket like it was caught in enemy fire. His seat had been stolen—his seat—and now he was forced to sit directly across from you, watching Rooster lean in a little too close, laugh a little too loud, and eat his damn jalapeño cornbread.

You didn’t even need to look at Jake to know he was internally combusting. His jealousy was so loud it might as well have been on AM radio.

“So,” Rooster said, mouth full of buttery heaven, “remind me again—what exactly do I have to do to earn a second round of training from you, Commander?”

You took a slow sip from your drink. “Well, first? Learn how to finish the first round without crashing into a mountain.”

“Ouch,” he winced, but he was grinning.

Jake stabbed his rib so hard the table shook. “You doing okay over there, Hangman?” Phoenix called from the next bench, sipping her drink.

“I’m great,” he said through gritted teeth. “Fantastic. Loving the seating arrangement. Real cozy.”

Rooster leaned back slightly, throwing one arm along the back of the bench behind you. Jake’s eye twitched. Twitched.

You leaned in to whisper, “He’s doing this on purpose.”

Jake muttered back, “He’s dead to me.”

You smirked, playing innocent. “He’s got good teeth though.”

Jake dropped his fork with a clink and muttered, “I will commit a war crime.”

Meanwhile, Ruin and Jinx were not helping. They were watching this unfold from their own corner of the table, laughing into their drinks, whispering like two agents of chaos blessed with front-row seats to the slowest breakdown of a very territorial pilot.

“Man,” Jinx said under her breath, “I haven’t seen Seresin this twitchy since the last time we locked him in a sim with Rogue and cut his comms.”

Ruin chuckled. “If he flips this table, I called it.”

Jake exhaled sharply, then stood with the slow precision of a man trying very hard not to commit violence in front of his superiors. “I’m gonna go get more potato salad.”

Rooster called after him, “Bring me some if it’s the spicy kind!”

Jake didn’t even turn around. “I hope it’s empty.”

Jake returned five minutes later, holding a single scoop of sad, unspiced potato salad like it had personally insulted him, which—judging by the way he slammed the paper plate down in front of his seat—maybe it had. His jaw was tight. His eyes locked on the table, not on you and Rooster, who were now deep in a suspiciously lively conversation about call signs gone wrong.

You were laughing—genuinely, stupidly laughing—and it sent Jake spiraling.

“So, wait,” you said through your giggles, nudging Rooster’s arm. “Someone actually called you Beanstalk once?”

Rooster grinned. “Mhm. Right out of the academy. I was lanky, awkward, and apparently climbed everything like a freaking kid on a jungle gym.”

“Oh, my God,” you wheezed. “That’s terrible.”

Across the table, Jake finally snapped his head up. “It wasn’t that bad. I’ve heard worse. Hell, I’ve been called worse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Jake blinked. “Uhhh…”

Jinx leaned over, oh-so-helpfully. “Didn’t someone call you Blondie Backfire for a while?”

Ruin spit out his drink.

Jake glared. “That was one time and it was not my fault that missile malfunctioned, JINX.”

Rooster smirked, clearly enjoying this. “Blondie Backfire? That’s kinda hot.”

Jake stood again, like his chair had personally offended him now too. “I’m getting a drink.”

“I thought you had a drink,” you said sweetly, glancing at the full cup beside his plate.

Jake blinked, then picked it up and dumped it in the grass. “Now I don’t.”

Rooster was cackling now, leaning into you like you two had been friends forever—his arm definitely still behind you on the bench, his voice low and conspiratorial. “He’s real twitchy tonight.”

“Mmhm,” you said, not hiding your grin as you watched Jake stalk toward the drink table like it owed him something.

“Think he’s mad?”

You shrugged. “He’ll live.”

Meanwhile, Jake grabbed a cup with such force it cracked in his hand.

Maverick wandered by just then, side-eyeing him with that ageless pilot wisdom and decades of dealing with emotional men in uniforms.

“You good, Seresin?” Mav asked casually.

Jake stared into the drink cooler like it held the answers to all of life’s betrayals. “Peachy, sir.”

Maverick raised an eyebrow. “Sure looks like it.”

Back at the bench, you were sipping sweet tea, eyes flicking over to Jake’s back as he muttered curses at the ice cubes. Rooster was definitely trying to be charming, and you were definitely letting him. A little.

When Jake finally returned, he didn't sit. He just stood behind your bench, arms crossed, the picture of a man scorned. You leaned your head back and looked up at him with a faux innocent blink.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Jake leaned down so his mouth was by your ear, voice low and dangerous. “You are testing me.”

You smiled without turning. “And you’re failing.”

Rooster, still oblivious—or pretending to be—took another sip of his drink and said, “You know, I always liked the idea of two strong pilots clashing. Very Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Lots of tension. Chemistry.”

Jake leaned in just a fraction more. “Keep talking, Bradshaw. I dare you.”

Rooster raised a brow, catching the shift in Jake’s voice for the first time. He glanced between the two of you, pausing, brow furrowing just slightly—like a man suddenly doing very important math.

Jake straightened up. Smiled sweetly. “So, Bradshaw… how much do you like your kneecaps?”

Rooster blinked.

You turned back to your plate like none of that just happened.

It was always going to be chaos. That much was clear the moment Maverick handed off hosting duties and disappeared toward the grill like he hadn’t just left the two most unhinged pilots on base at the same damn picnic table. The only question was when someone—Jake—would break.

The answer?

Exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds after Rooster leaned in just a bit too close and said, “You’ve got something on your cheek.”

You blinked, lifting your napkin, but Rooster caught your wrist midair with that signature lazy grin. “Let me,” he offered, thumb already reaching for your face.

Jake’s soul left his body.

He’d been watching—burning—from behind your bench, fists clenched, drink abandoned, and knees bouncing like he was trying to keep himself from launching over the damn table. Rooster’s fingers hovering near your cheek were the last straw.

“That’s it.”

The words were low. Clipped. Nuclear.

Rooster turned slightly, eyebrow raised in confusion, but before he could blink, Jake rounded the bench, hand snaked around your waist, and dragged you up into him like a man possessed.

“Wait—Jake—” you started, caught off guard.

Too late.

His lips crashed into yours with zero warning and absolutely no chill. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was full-on, toe-curling, spine-arching claiming. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of desperation that screamed mine in every tongue imaginable. One hand anchored at your hip, the other threaded through your hair, tilting your head just right so he could deepen the kiss—and God, did he ever. You barely remembered where you were. The backyard? The whole damn planet?

Everything else blurred.

Rooster froze—mouth open, hand still awkwardly raised from where he’d almost touched your face. Phoenix gasped so loud it echoed. Bob dropped his fork. Jinx let out an unholy screech. Ruin shouted, “FINALLY!” like he’d been holding it in for a year.

When Jake finally pulled back, breath ragged, lips flushed, pupils blown wide, he kept you tucked against him. Possessive. Proud. Like he’d just walked off a battlefield holding the enemy’s flag.

You blinked, completely dazed. “...What the hell, Seresin.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, eyes still locked on yours. “He was gonna kiss you.”

Your eyebrows flew up. “So you assassinated him with PDA?”

He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Rooster stood there, arms half-raised in surrender, lips twitching into a grin despite himself. “So… I’m guessing the whole ‘we hate each other’ thing was an act?”

Jake turned to him, expression flat. “Back off, Bradshaw.”

Rooster gave a mock salute. “Yessir. Message received.”

Phoenix stood up and slow clapped. “Oh my God. This is so much better than the time Coyote accidentally tasered himself in the sim.”

Jinx doubled over, nearly spilling his drink as he wheezed out, “I told you! I told you! I said if Seresin had to watch another man breathe in Rogue’s general direction, he’d explode like a malfunctioning Sidewinder!”

Ruin was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes, pointing at Jake like he’d just witnessed the second coming. “I had ‘six weeks’ in the betting pool. SIX. You made it three and a half!”

Jake didn’t care. Jake looked like a man who had just sunk a carrier with one missile. He tightened his hold around your waist, pulled you close again—though this time it was soft, grounding, not a declaration of war—and dropped a smug kiss to your cheek. “Couldn’t help it. He was flirting. And you were letting him.”

You tilted your head at him, one brow raised. “I was not letting him.”

“You giggled,” Jake deadpanned.

Phoenix walked past behind him, muttering loud enough for the entire backyard to hear, “Yeah, you definitely giggled. It was alarming.”

You elbowed Jake, not hard enough to hurt but definitely enough to remind him who the real threat was. “You ruined the cover, genius. Now they know.”

Jake shrugged unapologetically. “Worth it.”

Rooster, back at the table and dramatically fanning himself with a napkin, piped up, “I don’t know what hurts worse—the whiplash or the fact that you two have been lying to us for MONTHS.”

Bob finally found his voice. “Wait… months?!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can we not do this here—”

But it was too late.

The squad had descended, circling you both like wolves high on gossip and baby back ribs. Phoenix sat down next to Rooster, eyes gleaming. “Okay, spill. When did it start? Who confessed first? Was it during that awful storm in El Centro? Wait—was it after the Gauntlet debrief? I KNEW it!”

Jinx cackled. “Bet it was the Gauntlet. Nothing says romance like emotionally traumatizing a squad together.”

Jake looked entirely too pleased with himself. “It was classified.”

Ruin raised an eyebrow. “Was?”

You groaned. “Apparently it’s not anymore.”

Maverick chose that exact moment to stroll back over, beer in hand, looking like he’d just finished listening to Penny relay the entire scene. He stopped, glanced at the crowd, then looked between you and Jake—arms still around each other, your cheeks flushed, your eyes narrowed at the squad like you were weighing the pros and cons of a group court-martial.

“Congratulations,” Maverick said dryly. “You’ve managed to turn a barbecue into a briefing.”

Jake stood straighter. “Sir.”

You straightened, too. “Sir.”

Maverick gave a long-suffering sigh, then sipped his beer. “Next time, just tell us before one of you claims the other like a caveman.”

Jinx burst into another fit of laughter. “TO THE CAVEMAN!”

And because pilots have no chill, someone actually raised a toast.

Jake grinned, unapologetic. “You’re welcome.”

You shook your head. “You’re insane.”

And he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, and whispered just for you: “For you? Every damn time.”

Four months had passed since the great barbeque incident—the day Jake Seresin, golden boy and world-class flirt, had snapped like a dry matchstick and blown your secret sky-high in front of half the Dagger Squadron and most of command. You’d gone to bed that night with his arms wrapped tightly around you, his mouth muttering sleepy apologies against your shoulder, and still woken up at dawn ready to kick his ass in the name of professionalism.

From then on, the two of you drew a line. You returned to work with your head held high, uniform crisp, voice clipped and clear in the briefing rooms. There were no lingering touches, no slip-ups, no soft eyes across command tables. If anyone thought you were bending the rules, they were wrong. Because you were Commander Rogue—the superior officer. Jake was your subordinate, no matter how many times he'd kissed you breathless or whispered that he’d follow you into hell. On base, you were steel. At home, you were his.

Today, the debriefing room was full. The walls hummed with low chatter and boots tapping against the tile floor. The Dagger Squadron sat shoulder to shoulder, still sharp despite the lazy summer heat outside. Maverick leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and eyes alert. Hondo grinned beside him, and Warlock gave you a polite nod as you passed. Even Cyclone was present, his usual scowl fixed firmly in place like the sky might fall if he dared to look pleased. You stepped up to the head of the room, flanked by Jinx and Ruin, both standing at attention with the calm swagger of people who had seen these pilots at their very worst—and brought them out better.

The chatter died down the moment you stepped forward. You let the silence stretch, just long enough to demand respect.

Then you began. “One year ago, the Dagger Squadron was reassembled here in North Island. You were selected not just for your skill, but for your grit, your trust, and your ability to adapt under pressure. We trained you hard. We tested you harder.”

A small chuckle rippled through the room at that, likely remembering the Gauntlet—your very own personal brand of torture.

You continued, voice steady. “Some of you flew better. Some of you fought harder. Some of you cried behind hangars when you thought no one was watching.”

Fanboy visibly flinched. Yale wiped at his eye like something definitely flew into it. Payback patted his back in brotherly solidarity while Phoenix smirked beside them, sharp and unbothered as always.

“After the mission’s success, we were tasked with observing the squad’s progression over the next four months,” you said, glancing at Jinx and Ruin, who both nodded. “And as of today, that evaluation period has ended.”

Your tone dipped slightly—so subtle, but just enough to suggest finality. Across the room, shoulders began to tense. Rooster tilted his head. Bob leaned forward. The Dagger Squad had seen enough exits to know what this sounded like.

“We know what you’re thinking,” Jinx cut in, voice smooth and teasing, eyes dancing with mischief. “You think this is goodbye.”

Ruin folded his arms. “You think we’re packing up and heading back to Top Brass HQ.”

You waited. The room went still.

Then you smiled.

“Well... you’re wrong.”

A beat of silence—then chaos.

Cheers erupted instantly. Phoenix laughed loud and bright, slapping her hand on the table. Rooster threw both arms in the air like he’d just been handed a winning lotto ticket. Payback whooped. Coyote grinned like he’d just been gifted free beer for life.

Fanboy made a sound that could only be described as a sob. “You’re—you’re staying?!” he choked out, grabbing Yale’s arm for emotional support. Yale, who was also now wiping tears, nodded wordlessly.

You smiled, chin lifted with pride. “As of today, the three of us have been assigned permanent duty here in North Island. The Dagger Squadron is no longer a temporary experiment. You are officially designated as an elite, high-readiness strike force under our command.”

Jinx added, “You’re stuck with us, losers.”

Ruin grinned. “Hope you didn’t make retirement plans.”

While the squad practically lost their minds, your eyes wandered—just briefly—across the room. And there he was.

Jake Seresin didn’t cheer. He didn’t clap or shout. He just smiled—soft, slow, and warm enough to melt through titanium. He looked at you like you were his home and his future all at once. It wasn’t cocky or wild. It wasn’t the grin of a man who’d just won something.

It was the smile of someone who’d known all along that this was where you were meant to be.

- Jake -

Now, Jake stood in front of the mirror, hands braced on the counter, heart pounding like he was about to walk into a goddamn carrier launch. His dress whites were pressed to perfection, gold buttons gleaming, but he couldn’t stop adjusting the collar, couldn’t stop the way his fingers trembled when he reached for his watch.

Tonight wasn’t just another Navy event. Tonight, everything changed.

He swallowed hard and let his gaze drift upward—to the reflection of the man staring back at him. Not the boy who used to walk through college halls like he owned the place. Not the golden child who thought charm could solve anything. No—this was the man who broke hearts and then learned to stitch them back with calloused hands and the quiet ache of humility. And he owed every inch of that growth to her.

You.

He remembered the girl you used to be—sharp-eyed and smarter than any of them, walking with a stack of textbooks and no patience for bullshit. He’d seen you as a challenge back then, something to conquer, to use. And use you he did. You’d carried his files, cleaned up his messes, wrote papers he claimed credit for with a wink and a promise he never kept. You were the soft answer to his arrogance. And he, in all his careless glory, treated you like a footnote.

But you weren’t one. God, no.

You outranked him now. Humbled him. Unmade him.

Jake exhaled, slow and steady, thinking about that night on your birthday—the night you should’ve been out celebrating, but instead found yourself sitting alone under a bleeding sunset. You’d been a vision, wrapped in solitude and silence, and still somehow he was the one who got to speak. Got to beg. Got to fall apart.

And you—damn you—you let him. You let him come undone, then held him while he stitched himself back up. You didn’t forgive him right away. You didn’t fall back into his arms like a storybook. No, you made him work. You made him earn it. And that was the moment Jake Seresin knew he would never be that boy again. Because you didn’t need a golden boy. You needed a man. And he was going to be that man, or die trying.

Now, tonight, he wasn’t just going to be Jake. He was going to be yours.

He had the ring. He had the words. And he had the kind of love that didn’t come easy—but burned deep. You weren’t just the girl he wanted to marry. You were the girl who changed him. You were the girl who looked at the mess he was and saw potential, not ruin.

Jake Seresin would never stop proving he was worthy of you.

And tonight?

Tonight someone was going to become Mrs. Seresin.

The Hard Deck was humming with life that evening—laughter spilling out from open doors, glasses clinking, music threading through the salty ocean air like a second heartbeat. Jake stood near the back of the bar, leaning against a post, eyes locked on you as you threw your head back laughing at something Phoenix said. Penny, Halo, and Amelia were gathered close, drinks in hand, forming a loose circle of warmth and light around you. And there you were, right in the middle of it—eyes bright, lips pink from laughter, that soft glow on your skin that came from golden hour and good company.

Jake knew he had to do it now or he’d never do it at all.

He didn’t bother to cut through the crowd with swagger like he used to. No cocky strut, no loud greeting. Just a quiet step forward, weaving around dart players and off-duty aviators until he was by your side. You didn’t notice him at first—your hand was around a chilled glass, the other gesturing as you recounted something that made Amelia gasp and Penny roll her eyes fondly. But then Jake’s hand gently grazed your back, fingers brushing lightly at the small curve where your shirt met your skin.

“Can I steal you for a minute?” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You turned, giving him a slight side-eye and a teasing scoff. “Jake. We just got here.”

“I know,” he said, shifting on his feet. “But I was thinking… maybe we could take a walk. Just us.”

The groan you let out was exaggerated, and he grinned despite himself. You tipped your head back like he was asking you to run a marathon barefoot. “Jake, I just got a drink. Can’t it wait a bit?”

Before he could say anything else, Phoenix nudged your shoulder. “Go,” she said simply, sipping her beer with a knowing smirk.

“Seriously,” Penny added, giving Jake a glance that was equal parts amused and suspicious. “Let the man be dramatic. He looks like he’s gonna explode.”

Halo snorted. “You two are so married already.”

Even Amelia, perched on a barstool and pretending not to be interested, piped up with a shrug. “It’s romantic. Go.”

You narrowed your eyes at them, suspicious, but Jake saw the way your lips twitched. Still fighting a smile. Always trying to act like you weren’t soft for him—when you were the softest thing he’d ever touched.

“Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass down. “But I swear, if you brought me out here just to complain about who ate the last of your cereal again—”

Jake grinned, already lacing his fingers through yours. “I promise, it’s not about the cereal.”

He didn’t miss the glint in your eye as you allowed him to lead you out of the Hard Deck, past the blur of dart boards and pool tables, through the open doors and onto the soft crunch of sand. The cool breeze kissed his skin, and the low rustle of waves became a steady backdrop as you walked side by side, your bare feet sinking into the warm grains beside his boots.

But Jake could feel it—the weight of every eye behind them. The squad pretending not to watch. The sidelong glances. The elbow nudges. Rooster probably whispering something to Bob, who was terrible at hiding his reactions. And Maverick? Oh, he definitely knew something was up.

Jake swallowed, his pulse ticking high and hot beneath his collar. Every step made the ring in his pocket feel heavier, like gravity itself was conspiring to keep him grounded in the moment. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could feel the ears. The eyes. The weight of what he was about to do.

And all he could think was: God, let her say yes.

The ocean whispered beside them, waves folding into the shore with lazy rhythm, and for a while, neither of them spoke. You walked slightly ahead, bare feet sinking into the damp sand while your hand remained laced in his, fingers warm and certain in a way that still made Jake’s heart ache a little. The sky was a quiet spill of lavender and silver, the last remnants of daylight fading like old photographs. Somewhere in the distance, someone lit a firepit, the faint scent of smoke curling on the breeze.

Jake cleared his throat, squeezing your hand gently. “Y’know,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “I still remember the first time I saw you wear that smug little smirk you give when you know you’ve outsmarted everyone.”

You glanced over your shoulder, one brow arched, amused. “Which time? I do that a lot.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “You do. And I used to think it was annoying.”

You tilted your head, still walking, now kicking a seashell gently out of your path. “Used to?”

Jake chuckled softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “Now I think it’s terrifying. In a hot way.”

You snorted, eyes rolling, but the corner of your mouth twitched, betraying the smile you tried to hide. Then, slowing down until you were walking shoulder to shoulder again, you let your gaze wander to the horizon. The ocean stretched endlessly, horizon bleeding into sky, and the stars had begun to peek out one by one.

Jake looked at you—really looked. At the wind-tousled strands of hair sticking to your cheek, the slight wrinkle of your nose when the breeze turned sharp, the way your posture relaxed only when it was just the two of you. Out here, you weren’t Commander Rogue. You were just you. His girl. The one who wrecked him, rebuilt him, and then let him love you anyway.

“I don’t say it enough,” he murmured, eyes still on you. “But I’m proud of you.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone, then gave him a side glance. “For what?”

“For everything,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder. “For not just surviving, but thriving. For being the kind of leader I never had the guts to be. For being smarter than me. For loving me even when I didn’t deserve it. For forgiving me… when I damn well didn’t earn it.”

Your steps faltered, just slightly, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Instead, you slowed even more, the two of you coming to a gentle stop where the surf could nearly lick your feet. The breeze carried salt and the faintest hint of laughter from the Hard Deck, but all Jake could hear was the quiet thud of his heart.

You looked at him then, brows drawn together with something softer than surprise. “I didn’t forgive you right away.”

“I know,” Jake nodded, eyes locked on yours. “And I’m glad you didn’t.”

There was a long pause, the kind that felt full and necessary. Then you looked away, lips quirking slightly, eyes fixed on the stars. “You’ve changed, Jake.”

“So have you,” he murmured. “But not in the way people think.”

You turned back, curious. “What do you mean?”

Jake stepped closer, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re still that girl who used to show up ten minutes early with your whole life in your backpack and too many dreams in your eyes. But now? You know your worth. You don’t shrink anymore.” He smiled, something tender and unguarded. “You used to orbit around people who didn’t deserve you. Now you walk straight through ‘em.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but your eyes softened, and your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.

Then Jake added, voice lower now, “I still can’t believe I’m the one who gets to walk beside you.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat, and nudged his side with your elbow. “You’re being sappy.”

“Can’t help it,” he said with a shrug. “Sand, sunset, and you in that dress? It’s over for me.”

He grinned when you rolled your eyes again, but this time you leaned in and rested your head lightly on his shoulder. Jake exhaled, shoulders easing, and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close as the waves rolled in and the moon rose behind the clouds.

He didn’t ask yet.

Not tonight.

But the weight of the ring in his pocket felt a little warmer now.

They stood like that for a while, molded into the quiet hush of the shoreline, your head on Jake’s shoulder and his arm snug around your waist like it had always belonged there. The kind of silence that didn’t demand words — the kind born from knowing someone’s weight, their shape, the rhythm of their breath. Occasionally, the wind would toss your hair gently against his jaw, and every time, he would press a soft kiss to your temple like a reflex he never wanted to break.

Eventually, your feet began moving again, slow and aimless as the two of you wandered along the sand, letting the tide chase your toes. The Hard Deck was nothing but music and gold light behind you now, swallowed by distance and salt air. Jake didn’t mind. He was more interested in the way your hand swung with his, the subtle skip in your step whenever the cold water kissed your skin, the little giggle you bit back when he splashed you once with his foot.

Then, as you passed a spot where driftwood lay bleached and worn, you slipped off your sandals and let yourself climb onto one of the larger pieces like it was a balance beam. Jake’s hand stayed at your hip, steadying you — even though you didn’t need him to. He just wanted to. Meanwhile, you smirked down at him, playful and sharp, and said, “Still think I’m just a detour?”

Jake’s breath hitched, but his smirk answered for him first. “Nah,” he murmured, reaching up to tug your hand until you stepped off the log and into his arms. “I think I took a lifetime-long wrong turn, and you were the destination the whole damn time.”

You groaned, resting your forehead against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “That was so cheesy, Seresin.”

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”

Still holding you close, Jake let his chin rest atop your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin sun-drenched and ocean-kissed. It hit him then, all at once — how much he wanted to keep this. Not just the beach, not just the moment. You. All of you. The good, the hard, the brilliant and bossy and brutally honest commander who had turned his whole damn world upside down.

“I ever tell you how I used to dream about this?” he asked suddenly, voice low against the top of your hair.

You leaned back slightly to look at him, curious. “Dream about what?”

“This,” he said, motioning vaguely to the waves, the stars, the distance from everything but each other. “Us. Not just the fantasy stuff — not just the kissing and the staying in bed all day and you stealing all the covers — but this. Walking with you. Talking with you. Laughing with you like nothing ever got broken.”

Your smile dimmed, but not with sadness. There was something softer there now — something raw and real. “Jake…”

“I know I screwed it up,” he cut in gently. “I know it took too long to get here. But I still dreamed about it. I still thought about you. Every time I passed a girl with a sharp tongue, I thought, ‘She’s not her.’ Every time someone rolled their eyes at me, I thought, ‘She would’ve decked me by now.’ I kept comparing everyone to you, and they all fell short.”

You inhaled deeply, blinking up at him, but before you could speak, Jake reached up and brushed a thumb along your jaw. “I know we’re still figuring it out. I know we’ve still got baggage and scars and maybe even a few leftover landmines. But I’m in this. All the way.”

You searched his face for a moment, heart fluttering in a way that was both familiar and terrifying. Then, with a sigh, you leaned into him once more, your hands slipping beneath his jacket to curl into the back of his shirt. The sound of your heartbeat against his was steady now — not racing, not panicked. Just sure.

Jake smiled into your hair, eyes closed.

And under the stars, beside the sea, with the taste of your breath still warm on his skin, he knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t going to wait much longer.

Jake pulled back slightly, just enough to really look at you. The way your eyes caught the starlight, the way your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of his collar — like you didn’t even realize you were clinging to him, like your hands had learned him so well they reached for him on instinct alone. His throat tightened. Not with nerves, not really. With the weight of it. Of you. Of everything you’d been through and still chosen to stay for.

Then, wordlessly, Jake took a step back.

You blinked, confused for a moment as he let your hands slip from his grip. But then he exhaled, slow and certain, and he reached into his back pocket — and your heart skipped. Stumbled. Froze.

Meanwhile, Jake was already lowering himself to one knee in the sand.

You froze in place, arms limp at your sides, lips parted and eyes wide. The ocean behind him caught the moonlight, waves crashing soft like applause, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Jake cleared his throat, but his voice didn’t shake when he began.

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time. At first, it was just a daydream. A maybe. Something I didn’t even think I deserved. Hell, something I definitely didn’t think I’d ever earn. But then, you gave me a second chance. You let me prove that I could be more than the kid who didn’t know how to love someone right.” He smiled up at you, that cocky, sunlit grin softened by something deeper — devotion. “You turned the golden boy into the fool. And I’ve never been more grateful to be foolish.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, eyes already stinging. Jake kept going.

“You humbled me. You outranked me — literally and metaphorically — and thank God for that. Because I needed to be humbled. I needed to be taught that love isn’t a reward for good behavior. It’s something you earn by showing up. By trying. By apologizing and meaning it. By choosing someone even when it’s hard.” His voice thickened, but he didn’t stop. “You made me want to be better. Not for a medal. Not for a promotion. But for you.”

Then, his voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. “You are the strongest, smartest, most terrifyingly brilliant woman I’ve ever met. You know me in a way no one else ever has. You see me — even when I didn’t want to be seen. Even when I didn’t like what was underneath. And you stayed. You stayed, Rogue.”

He opened the small box then, and the ring glinted like a promise — a simple band, nothing overdone, but so clearly chosen with care. It looked like you. Honest. Steady. Sharp in its elegance.

Jake’s eyes locked on yours, and his voice barely made it past the catch in his throat. “So now I’m asking. Not just as the man who loves you — but as the man who wants to spend the rest of his life making up for every moment I wasn’t there. Commander. Rogue. The love of my life.”

He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling with the force of it. “Will you marry me?”

For a second, nothing moved. Not the wind. Not the waves. Not even you. It was as if time had gone still, the world narrowing down to the two of you beneath the stars. Jake could feel his heartbeat in his throat, behind his eyes, hammering inside his chest like it wanted to escape. His knee pressed into the sand, his hand holding the box steady, but everything else inside him trembled — because this was the leap. This was the real dogfight. Not in the sky, but here on the ground, where love didn’t just take courage, it took surrender.

Then, you exhaled — a breath caught somewhere between disbelief and joy — and your hands rose slowly, trembling as they covered your mouth. Your eyes were wide, wet, disbelieving in that way that shattered him because how could someone like you ever be surprised that someone would want you forever?

“Jake,” you whispered, barely audible over the hush of the surf. “You… idiot. You absolute dumb, reckless—” You were already crying, and Jake felt his own vision blur again. “Of course. Of course it’s yes.”

And just like that, time slammed back into motion.

Jake let out a breath that collapsed into a laugh, choked and giddy, like someone who had just survived something dangerous and divine. He surged up from the sand before you could even finish wiping your cheeks and pulled you into him, arms tight around your waist, mouth pressed to yours like a vow. It was desperate and tender and all-consuming, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he still didn’t believe this was real — that he’d asked and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t stopped spinning from the sheer weight of it.

Meanwhile, your hands were in his hair, in his collar, gripping him like you were trying to hold him to the ground, like you were both afraid he might disappear. He kissed you again, and again, and again, only pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathless.

“You said yes,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “You actually said yes.”

You nodded, smiling through your tears. “I did. I said yes, Seresin. Try not to crash the moment.”

Then, he laughed, bright and loose, the sound ringing out into the night air like a victory bell. He held you close, one arm wrapped around your back, the other still holding the ring between you as if the universe needed to know you were spoken for.

He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands and kissed you like a man who had just found the rest of his life.

As the kiss finally broke — sweet and slow, your noses brushing gently as you pulled away — the sound of cheering erupted behind you like a wave crashing against the shore. Jake blinked in surprise before turning his head toward the Hard Deck. The windows were lit up like a festival, filled with blurry silhouettes of your people practically bouncing against the glass. Maverick was grinning from the bar like he’d known all along, Penny beside him wiping at her eye. Amelia was practically climbing the table to see better, Phoenix and Halo were whooping like the sky had just given them permission, and Fanboy had both hands over his heart, dramatically swaying like he might pass out from joy.

Then came the flood — the doors of the Hard Deck swung open, the Dagger Squad pouring out, voices rising in a wild crescendo. “Let’s goooo!” Bob shouted, cheeks flushed and smile bright, while Payback let out an actual bark. Rooster clapped his hands like he was starting a standing ovation, already whistling through his fingers.

Jake laughed, dizzy with all of it, his hand not once letting go of yours. He held it up like a trophy, flashing the ring like a kid showing off a prize from a claw machine. You rolled your eyes, but your smile was all love, all firelight and softness as you leaned in close enough for only him to hear.

“And now,” you said coolly, brushing your thumb over his ring finger, “we’ve got to choose a godfather and godmother really carefully.”

Jake blinked, confused. “What?”

You bit your lip to hide the smirk. “Because I’m pregnant.”

For exactly two seconds, Jake stared at you, face slack like his brain had quite literally shut down. Then his jaw dropped. “Wait—wait, what?”

You didn’t say anything, just lifted one eyebrow and gave the faintest nod.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” he asked, voice climbing with each word until it nearly cracked. His free hand shot up to his head like he was checking if this was a hallucination. “I’m gonna be a dad?!”

You snorted, and before you could say another word, Jake actually let out a full-blown shout and jumped up, fist in the air like he’d just won the Super Bowl. “I’M GONNA BE A DAD!”

The crowd from the Hard Deck went absolutely feral. Bob actually screamed. Yale dropped his drink. Rooster almost fell to his knees in the sand. Maverick just buried his face in his hands with a laugh, while Jinx and Ruin looked like they’d just been hit by a tidal wave of unfiltered joy.

Jake turned back to you, grabbing your waist and lifting you slightly off the ground as he spun in one giddy circle, laughing the whole way. “You’re serious?” he gasped. “You’re not just saying that to win the proposal?”

“I’m serious, you absolute idiot,” you said, both laughing and crying now. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

Jake didn’t kiss you this time. He just stared — wide-eyed, jaw slack, the sun hitting his face as he tried to process all of it. And you could see it. The exact second it hit him. That his future wasn’t just a woman anymore. It was a family.

And it was real.

The car ride home was quiet, sure — but not peaceful. It throbbed. Each second was soaked in everything unspoken: the glitter of a brand-new ring on your hand, the ghost of the cheers in your ears, and Jake fucking Seresin stealing glances like he didn’t know whether to cry or pull over and fuck you in the backseat till you saw stars. Like he was one breath away from breaking, but holding it in just to savor the ache.

You parked. The engine died. But neither of you moved.

The porchlight spilled gold over the front of the house, casting long, lazy shadows like it knew what was about to happen. Jake turned to you, slow and reverent, his eyes devouring you like you were his favorite goddamn prayer. His fingers brushed along your jaw with this impossible tenderness, and he whispered, hoarse, “You sure you’re real?”

You tilted your head into his touch, lips parted. “Was just about to ask you the same thing.”

The door barely clicked shut behind you before the air snapped.

He didn’t lunge. He didn’t pounce. Jake was slow — agonizingly slow. He closed the distance like a man approaching holy ground. Because that’s what you were now, weren’t you? His woman. His wife-to-be. The mother of his child.

And fuck, if that didn’t wreck him.

“I need to be careful,” he breathed, his thumb brushing over the stretch of your lower belly, barely a curve yet — but his whole soul already bowed before it. “You’re mine. All of you. Both of you.” His voice cracked on the last word. And that’s when it all snapped loose.

He kissed you, open-mouthed and starved, like a man lost at sea who just found land. His hands slid up your sides, under your shirt, thumbs teasing the underside of your tits till you gasped into his mouth. He growled, low in his chest, “You better tell me now if you want soft, baby, because I am barely hangin’ on.”

You smirked against his lips. “You’re gonna be a dad. You really think I want soft?”

That broke him. He stripped you bare with unhurried hands and filthy eyes, every inch of you kissed, licked, marked. He dropped to his knees like it was instinct, spreading your legs with gentle hands, and just looked.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re already so wet, aren’t you? Fuckin’ soaked, all for me.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then sucked a bruise right there, claiming skin like it was sacred. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

When he did? Oh, God.

His tongue was sinful. He licked you with slow precision, devouring every drip, every whimper, like he was starving for you. And when he slipped two fingers inside you, crooking them just right?

You screamed.

“Shh,” he smirked, lips shiny, voice gravel. “You’ll wake the neighborhood, sweetheart. Let ‘em know you’re mine, huh?”

You came with his name on your lips and his tongue still buried in you, but that wasn’t enough for him. Not even close.

He pulled back, unzipped his jeans, and let his cock slap against his stomach — flushed, hard, throbbing.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growled. “Every inch. You’re fuckin’ made for me. Look at you. Fucking perfect, pregnant with my kid, and still so greedy for my cock.”

And then he pressed in.

So slow. Too slow. The stretch burned, and it was glorious. You clawed at his back, panting, writhing, begging — and he just watched you fall apart under him like he was memorizing it.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, holding himself still inside you. “You feel that? How tight you are? This pussy’s mine. You’re mine. All of you.”

You whimpered, bucking your hips, but he pinned you down with one big hand on your hip.

“Uh-uh. I’m gonna fuck you slow, sweetheart. I wanna feel you. Every squeeze, every breath. Wanna fuckin’ watch you fall apart.”

And he did.

Every thrust was deliberate, deep, filthy. He rocked into you with precision, dragging moans from your chest and curses from your lips. His hand stayed on your belly, protective, reverent, even while he was ruining you.

“You’re gonna carry my kid, wear my ring, and still beg for this cock every damn night, huh?” he rasped, sweat dripping from his jaw. “You like it. You love being full of me. Stuffed and leaking.”

You moaned — helpless, wrecked, blissed-out.

He kissed your temple, slow and sweet, even as he fucked you harder. “I’ll be careful,” he swore. “But I ain’t pullin’ out. Not ever again. This pussy’s got a job now — stayin’ warm and full of my fuckin’ cum.”

When he finally came — deep inside you, groaning your name, shaking with it — he didn’t stop moving. Just rocked you through it, slow, deep thrusts while you clenched around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And when it was over? When you were trembling in his arms, filled to the brim with him and still gasping?

Jake kissed your ring, your lips, and your belly.

And then he whispered, “Next round, I want you on top. Wanna watch those tits bounce while you ride me.”

You climbed on top of him, naked and lazy and smug, his hands immediately going to your thighs like they belonged there. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, hair sticking to his forehead. Wrecked. Gorgeous. Already getting hard again under you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, awe in every syllable. “Gonna ride me with my fuckin’ baby inside you?”

You grinned, leaning down until your lips brushed his. “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Oh, it’s exactly what I wanted.”

He grabbed his cock, guiding it up between your folds — slow, teasing strokes that made you both gasp. You were still soaked, still sensitive, and when you finally sank down onto him? He shook.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed. “Still so tight. You tryna kill me?”

You rocked your hips, slow and deep, letting him feel every inch. “Maybe.”

Jake’s hands went to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise but holding back, letting you set the pace. His eyes dropped to your stomach — just the faintest curve — and his breath caught.

“You’re carryin’ my kid,” he said like a prayer. “And now you’re sittin’ on my cock like it’s yours.”

“It is mine,” you whispered, grinding down until he cursed. “You gave it to me.”

He moaned, long and low, hips bucking up just once before he caught himself. “Fuck, baby. Don’t say shit like that unless you want me to come already.”

You rode him slow — hips rolling in a rhythm that was more tease than thrust, more ache than relief. He let you set the pace, but he couldn’t stop watching. The way your tits bounced. The way your belly shifted when you moved. The way his cock disappeared into you like you were made for it.

“You feel that?” you whispered, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. “How deep you are? Right where you belong?”

Jake growled, grabbing your ass with both hands, kneading it as he groaned. “You’re filthy. Fuckin’ filthy. And I love it.”

You sped up, riding him harder now — still slow, still controlled, but punishing in the way your walls clenched and your moans broke. Jake’s head tilted back, sweat beading at his brow, his whole body straining under you.

“Let me see,” he begged. “Touch yourself. C’mon, baby, lemme watch you fall apart.”

You obeyed, fingers slipping between your legs to rub tight circles over your clit. You clenched down on him, moaning loud, breath hitching, vision blurring. He watched every damn second of it — eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing left in the world.

“You look so fuckin’ perfect,” he groaned. “Ridin’ me like that, carryin’ my baby. Fuck. I could come just from lookin’ at you.”

You tightened around him and that was it — Jake lost it.

He slammed up into you, losing control for just a second, and you welcomed it — met every thrust with one of your own. He grunted, voice rough and raw, “Take it. Fuckin’ take all of it, baby. You want more, don’t you? Want me fillin’ you up over and over till you’re drippin’ with it?”

You came with a strangled moan, clenching hard around him, and that was what finally broke him.

Jake groaned your name like a curse and a prayer, hips stuttering, spilling into you again, deep and messy and so much. He held you down on him, grinding through the aftershocks, panting, swearing, kissing your belly like it was holy.

And then he whispered, dazed, “What the fuck did I do to deserve you?”

You smiled down at him, blissed out and aching and full in every sense of the word.

“You knocked me up,” you said sweetly.

Jake laughed — breathless, ragged — and ran a hand down your spine.

“Then I guess I better keep doin’ it.”

You barely made it to the bathroom. Your legs were shaking, cum dripping down your thighs, and Jake — still flushed and breathless from round two — followed behind like he was stalking prey. The water was already running when he pressed you against the cool tile, his hands rough on your hips, mouth hot on your neck. The steam rose around you like smoke, wrapping both of you in something feral and thick.

"Look at you," he rasped, licking a stripe up the column of your throat. "Still fuckin’ leaking from me. You're mine, baby. Walkin’ around full of me, full of my kid, and now you’re lookin’ at me like you want more."

You whimpered — didn’t even deny it.

He spun you gently, pressing your front to the wall, and dropped to his knees behind you. Spread your legs. Didn’t even wait.

His tongue buried itself in your cunt like he was starving. He groaned against you, wet and obscene, licking up his own cum as it spilled out of you.

“Fuckin’ messy,” he growled, voice vibrating against your soaked folds. “Can’t even keep it all inside you, can you?”

He licked every drop clean. Then sucked your clit, slow and relentless, until your knees buckled and you were begging — stuttering his name like a sin.

“Please, Jake—”

He stood behind you, dragging his cock through your folds, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance without pushing in.

“You want more of my cum in you, baby? You want me to fuck you with our baby inside you, stuff you full again?”

You moaned — needy and feral — grinding your ass back against him. “Yes. God, yes.”

Jake didn’t ask again. He slid into you from behind, one hand braced on your hip, the other splayed across your belly. His cock filled you slow — too slow — stretching you open again, making you feel every damn inch.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed, hips pressing flush to yours. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect. Just takes me.”

He started moving — deep, hard thrusts that smacked your hips into the tile, but never strayed from that possessive grip on your belly. Like he was claiming you and the life growing inside you in one goddamn motion.

“You like this, huh?” he panted. “Gettin’ bred in the shower? My cum dripping out of you while I fuck you right back open?”

You couldn’t speak. You just moaned, fingers clawing at the slick wall, body arching into every thrust like it was instinct. He bent down, pressing his chest to your back, voice dark and thick in your ear.

“This pussy belongs to me now. Every time I fuck you, you get tighter. Hungrier. Like your body knows what it’s made for.”

You whimpered, lost in it, and Jake grinned.

“Gonna keep you pregnant, baby,” he growled. “Keep fuckin’ filling you up till this belly’s round and swollen with my kid. Gonna make sure everyone knows who fucked you like this.”

He slammed into you harder. The slap of skin echoed in the shower, filthy and fast, water cascading over both your bodies like it couldn’t wash away any of the sin.

“I want you so full you feel me for days,” he groaned. “Gonna fill this tight little cunt again. You ready for that?”

You nodded frantically, clenching around him. “Please, Jake. Fuck, please—need it—need you.”

That broke him. He slammed into you once, twice, and then spilled inside you with a shout — hot, thick pulses of cum painting your insides while he held you there, cock twitching deep, his whole body shaking with it.

And even after he came, he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside you. Held your hips, kissed your spine. Murmured filth and praise and a little bit of love against your neck while your bodies pulsed and throbbed and trembled together under the water.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he whispered. “Gonna end up with a whole squad of little Seresins runnin’ around if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

You looked over your shoulder, dazed and fucked-out. “Might not be a bad thing.”

Jake grinned. “Then I guess we better practice.”

Jake watched you step out of the shower, water still clinging to your skin, and something in him snapped. You caught the look — dark and feral, low on patience but high on obsession — just as your back hit the cold counter.

“Get your hands on the sink,” he growled, voice rough as gravel, still dripping wet, cock already hard again. “Now.”

You did it without thinking. Bent forward, palms flat, steam curling in the mirror in front of you. You could see yourself. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen. That barely-there swell of your belly.

And then Jake was behind you.

He kicked your legs apart, wrapped a firm hand around your throat from behind, and leaned down till his lips brushed your ear. “Look at you,” he rasped. “Fucked three times already and still so needy. Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

You whimpered, pushing your hips back against him. You could feel his cock pressing against your ass, hot and heavy and so ready.

“Oh, you want it,” he said, cocky and breathless. “You want me to bend you over this sink and fill you again while our baby’s still soaking in the last load I gave you.”

And then — fuck — he slid into you.

No teasing this time. No softness. Just one brutal, delicious thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and had your knuckles going white against the counter.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he growled. “I want you to watch me fuck you. Watch how good you look when you’re getting bred like this.”

You lifted your head, lips parted, face flushed. In the mirror, you saw it all — the way your body trembled with every thrust, the way his hand stayed right on your belly, protective and possessive, even while he was ruining you.

“God damn,” Jake grunted, pounding into you so deep you saw stars. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect. Warm and tight and already so full. But it still wants more, huh?”

You moaned — high and broken — and he gave it to you.

He fucked you hard, relentless and punishing, hips slapping into your ass with obscene sound. One hand on your belly, the other slipping between your legs, rubbing tight circles over your clit that had your knees buckling.

“Feel that?” he panted. “That’s me. Stuffin’ you full over and over till you’re dripping. You’re gonna see it — dripping out of you down your thighs, all over this sink, ‘cause your greedy little cunt can’t hold it all in.”

You came with a cry, body spasming around him, and Jake lost it.

He slammed into you, once, twice, and then came with a snarl — hot and so much — his cock twitching inside you as he filled you again. But he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside you, grinding slow, watching his cum spill out and slide down your thighs in the mirror.

Jake kissed your shoulder, rough and breathless. “Fuckin’ look at that,” he whispered. “You’re dripping, baby. Dripping with me. I could spend the rest of my life right here — fucking you full, watching it leak out, and doing it all over again.”

You met his eyes in the mirror, ruined and flushed and glowing. “Then do it,” you whispered.

Jake grinned. “Oh, I plan to.”

You were still bent over the sink, arms trembling, breath stuttering out of your lungs as your thighs twitched from the last orgasm. His cum was dripping down your legs, thick and hot, pooling at the backs of your knees.

And Jake? He stepped back, panting, eyes locked on the mess between your legs like a man possessed. His fingers brushed your inner thigh, catching a trail of it — and when he brought it to his mouth, licking it off with a groan?

Something unholy took over. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re leaking. Look at this shit — I just filled you up and you’re wasting it. Can’t let that happen.”

And then he dropped to his knees. No hesitation. No teasing. Just hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open, face diving in like he was starving — like the only thing that mattered was tasting everything he left inside you.

His tongue licked a slow stripe from your knee up to your center, catching every bit of cum as it dripped out. He moaned against your pussy, deep, filthy, obscene.

“Jesus fuck, baby,” he groaned, lapping at your folds. “You taste like me. So fuckin’ good — sweet and messy and mine.”

He started eating you out from behind, tongue pushing into your soaked cunt, licking up the mix of both of you like it was dessert. Every moan vibrated against you. Every filthy word was soaked in praise.

“Gonna fuckin’ clean you up with my mouth,” he panted. “Get every drop back where it belongs. Can’t let this pussy waste a thing, not when it’s mine.”

You were shaking. Boneless. Gasping his name like it was the only word you knew.

He used his fingers now — spreading your folds so he could see the mess, groaning like it drove him insane. And it did.

“This right here?” he whispered, licking a drop off your clit. “This is what I want every day. You, bent over, leaking with my cum, and me down here takin’ care of it like a good fuckin’ man.”

You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, punishing circles. Your hands fumbled for the edge of the sink, trying to hold on as he licked you clean and brought you to the edge again — your third, fourth, who-the-fuck-knows at this point.

And when you came, again, shuddering and sobbing and completely undone, Jake groaned into your cunt like it fed him.

He didn’t stop until your legs were shaking, your pussy was clean, and your breath was just little broken gasps.

Then he stood, slow, smug, lips glistening. He kissed your shoulder, your neck, and finally your lips — letting you taste just how wrecked you were.

And he whispered, warm and dark, against your mouth: “Next time, sweetheart… you’re gonna sit on my face. And you better be leaking.”

Later, you lay tangled in his arms, the room quiet save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the steady beat of Jake’s heart beneath your ear. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine, and you could feel his smile in the kiss he pressed to your temple.

“Mrs. Seresin,” he murmured, voice thick with love and sleep.

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Not yet.”

“Soon,” he whispered, pulling you closer. “And forever after that.”

And in that moment — wrapped in his arms, the future glowing just ahead — you believed it.

The first month after your engagement passed in a haze of quiet wonder. You and Jake moved through the days like you were still in a dream, passing the ring between your fingers when the world felt too loud, whispering “fiancé” like it was a secret only you two were allowed to hold. The pregnancy symptoms hadn’t kicked in just yet—just the whisper of fatigue, the occasional bout of nausea, the way your heart raced when he touched your stomach like it already held galaxies. Jake read every article he could get his hands on, even highlighted some (in three colors), and kept a growing folder on his phone called baby research. You laughed, but part of you melted too.

By the second month, the nausea hit with a vengeance. You found yourself curled on the bathroom floor more times than you could count, your head resting on Jake’s thigh while he rubbed your back and whispered comfort like prayers. He tried to cook for you—God help him—and after two failed attempts at scrambled eggs and a melted plastic spatula, you both agreed he was banned from the kitchen unless supervised. Meanwhile, he started keeping saltines in his pockets like some over-prepared dad scout and offered them to you with the most serious face imaginable, which made you want to cry and laugh at the same time. Hormones. Yay.

The third month brought cravings. Horrible, chaotic, unpredictable cravings. You once burst into tears because you wanted fried pickles and caramel ice cream at the same time. Jake, bless his golden soul, did not question the science of your hunger. He just got in the truck at 11 p.m. in his boxers and a hoodie, drove thirty minutes, and came back victorious. “Anything for my girls,” he declared, smug. You, still mid-bite, glared. “Jake,” you said with narrowed eyes. “It’s a boy.” He raised a brow. “Nope. I googled your symptoms—nausea this early? That’s a girl. Plus, your feet are colder.” You blinked. “I’m literally growing a person. Every symptom makes sense.” He smirked. “Exactly. Girl.”

By the fourth month, you were officially showing. Just a bump. A little one. Enough for Jake to start whispering to your stomach when he thought you were asleep, saying things like, “Hey, you don’t know me yet, but I’m your dad. I’m sorry for being dumb sometimes, but I promise, I’ll learn.” You didn’t always cry. But sometimes? You really did. Especially after HR cornered you gently with a memo in hand, officially placing you on maternity leave. You cried in the car with the door open, muttering that you were still capable and just needed another month. Jake held you through it, one arm around your shoulders, the other cradling your belly. “You’re not leaving the sky,” he whispered. “You’re just giving someone else a reason to fly.”

The fifth month was when the bickering intensified. Jake, now fully convinced he was correct, began baby-name debates with “girl options only.” You countered by buying a onesie that read Future Maverick with little aviator wings stitched on the chest. Jake recoiled dramatically. “That’s your call sign,” he pointed out. “The baby’s gonna need something more badass. Like Viper 2.0.” You tossed a pillow at him. “You think we’re having a damn F-14, not a human child.”

Meanwhile, the baby kicked for the first time. And both of you forgot the argument instantly.

Jake dropped to his knees, hands trembling, eyes wide. “Did—did he just kick?” You looked down at him, smug. “He?” Jake’s face faltered. “I mean—they. They kicked.” You just smiled, threading your fingers through his hair. “Gotcha.”

Then came the sixth month, where the weird dreams began. You swore you were fighting aliens with a diaper bag and a lightsaber. Jake swore he saw your belly grow three times in one night. The both of you were sleep-deprived, emotionally unstable, and yet somehow, more in love than ever. He started painting the nursery without telling you—badly—and you ended up helping, barefoot on newspaper, both of you speckled with pale green. “It’s gender-neutral,” Jake declared proudly. You raised an eyebrow. “So is white, but go off, Picasso.”

But even with the teasing and the chaos, something in Jake had changed. He was softer now. Quieter, sometimes. Like the world had finally tilted into focus. Every day he’d pull you close, rest his forehead against yours, and murmur something low, like, “Thank you for giving me this.”

And you would answer, always with a smile: “It’s ours.”

By the seventh month, there was no hiding it anymore. Your walk had slowed, your back ached more often than not, and the little kicks had turned into full-blown somersaults that made Jake leap up mid-conversation and yell, “She’s practicing her turns!” To which you’d calmly respond, “He is literally kicking my bladder, not flying a sortie.” It was an ongoing war, this baby-gender debate, and both of you were committed to your sides like two stubborn admirals refusing to yield.

Meanwhile, the Dagger Squad had become fully invested. Phoenix took it upon herself to host a “neutral” baby shower, complete with cake pops, tactical onesies, and a betting board on the baby’s gender. Fanboy made spreadsheets. Yale cried twice while writing a toast. Rooster tried to be the godfather in advance by bringing you smoothies and casually flexing in front of Jake, who responded by following you everywhere like a loyal guard dog.

“You’re not the one carrying the baby,” you told Jake one evening when he insisted on buckling your shoes for you.

“I know,” he replied, kissing your knee, “but I’m the one who loves both of you. So you better get used to me hovering.”

By the eighth month, Penny had dubbed you the Hard Deck Queen. You barely made it three feet inside without being swarmed—Amelia made a habit of talking to your bump like it could respond, Bob offered calming teas, and even Cyclone started opening doors with a muttered “Commander Rogue coming through.” You were glowing, sure, but also perpetually annoyed, emotional, and sweaty. Jake, the fool, found this adorable.

And then the incident happened.

One night, Maverick threw a low-key dinner for the squad, and someone (Harvard) let slip that you had been voted “Most Likely to Scare the Baby Into Good Grades.” You’d blinked. Then narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?” But before a proper roast could commence, Jake had stood and clinked his glass like a proud husband at a wedding.

“I just wanna say,” he began dramatically, “that my wife—sorry, fiancée—is the strongest, smartest, most terrifyingly hot woman I’ve ever known. And also…” He paused. Then looked directly at you. “She’s wrong. We’re having a girl. And I will be a girl dad if it kills me.”

Chaos ensued.

Rooster yelled “Team Boy!” from across the table. Coyote called it “too early to declare.” Yale and Fanboy cried again. You just sat there, hand on your belly, staring at Jake like you couldn’t believe he made breathing this annoying.

In the ninth month, you took leave from nearly everything. Not because you wanted to—but because you had to. Your feet were swollen, your hips were sore, and the baby had taken up residence in your lungs like it was subletting space. You cried when you saw your uniform hanging in the closet, and again when you realized you couldn’t zip it anymore. Jake caught you both times, arms wrapping around you gently, forehead resting on your shoulder.

“I miss flying,” you whispered once.

He kissed your temple. “You’ll fly again. Right now, you’re building the best wingman we’ll ever have.”

Your days were slower now, softer. The nursery was finished—aviation-themed, of course—with hand-drawn clouds Jake had painstakingly painted himself. Maverick and Penny dropped by often with food, gifts, and very unsolicited parenting advice. Hondo gave Jake a stern lecture about burping techniques. You nearly peed yourself laughing.

But at night, it was just the two of you again. Jake would talk to the baby through your belly, reading flight manuals in a bedtime voice, making little jokes that made you snort and then wince. “She likes my voice,” he’d whisper. You rolled your eyes. “He’s trying to sleep.”

It was supposed to be a chill afternoon. Just a couple of hours at the Hard Deck, some mocktails, light banter, and Rooster trying to convince Jake that the baby was going to come out with his jawline. But then, without warning, your glass slipped from your fingers, clinking gently against the floor as your hand went to your belly. You blinked once. Twice. Then you stood, very slowly, and calmly said the words that sent a shockwave through the bar.

“Oh, my water just broke.”

For a second, there was silence. Dead silence. Like the music itself paused to listen. Then—

“OKAY. EVERYONE. STAY CALM!” Jake barked, standing so fast his chair skidded backward and hit Yale in the shin. “SHE’S HAVING THE BABY. I REPEAT—THE BABY IS COMING—STAY CALM—”

No one was calm. Least of all Jake.

He spun in three full circles, pointing to people like he was issuing deployment orders. “Phoenix! Towels—I don’t know, just in case? Rooster! Clear the path. Bob, I need—uh—what do I need?”

“You need your fiancée,” you said dryly, hands on your hips, looking far too composed for someone whose child was on the way. “Preferably not abandoned in the middle of a bar.”

Jake had bolted halfway to the car by then, keys in hand, but your voice—laced with unimpressed Command energy—yanked him back like a leash. He reversed course so fast it was almost cartoonish, scrambling back to your side with wild eyes and flailing arms.

“Right, right, yep, no—baby first—yes, okay,” he muttered. “We’ve trained for this. Flight manual said breathe. And support. And snacks. Wait, did we bring the hospital bag?”

“It’s in the car,” you said, wincing slightly as another contraction hit. “Seresin, if you leave me one more time, I will hobble my way to labor and then make you watch the full delivery standing.”

Jake paled. “Never. Never again. I’m glued to you. Like a barnacle. I am your barnacle.”

Meanwhile, Penny had already called ahead to the hospital, Maverick was handing you your go-bag like a seasoned Navy vet ready for deployment, and Amelia was snapping blurry photos, whispering, “This is going in the baby album.”

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Jake had one hand on the wheel and the other on your knee the entire time, muttering affirmations under his breath like some half-prayer, half-pep talk. “You’re doing great. You’re amazing. We’re gonna meet them. I swear I didn’t mean to say it was a girl this whole time. Boy or girl, I love them. I love you. Did I say that already? Okay, I’ll say it again.”

You groaned through a contraction, gripping the door handle tightly. “Jake, please. Focus.”

“I am focused. Hyper-focused. This is me being a calm and rational father,” he said, taking a corner a bit too fast. “Also, I might throw up.”

But eventually, finally, the hospital doors opened before you like a miracle. Nurses were already waiting, a wheelchair ready, and Jake was practically vibrating out of his skin with nerves. He followed your stretcher like a man possessed, clinging to your hand the second you allowed it, whispering again and again, “You’ve got this. We’ve got this. I love you.”

The contractions were getting closer, sharper, and everything smelled like disinfectant and adrenaline.

Still no baby yet. But soon. So very soon.

The delivery room was a battlefield. Monitors beeped in rhythm with your rising pulse, nurses moved like clockwork around you, and the doctor’s calm instructions barely registered over the white-hot pain pulsing through your body. You were soaked in sweat, your legs were in stirrups, and the pressure building inside you felt like the sky was trying to fall out of you in one violent, miraculous moment.

Jake was beside you. Barely.

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” you screamed, clutching his hand in a death grip that had him hunched over in pain. “I SWEAR TO GOD, JAKE SERESIN, IF YOU EVER LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN—”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Jake yelped, tears already streaking down his cheeks as he tried to both breathe and not pass out. “You’re doing amazing, baby, I swear! I’m never touching you again unless you tell me to. I swear it. You’re—oh my God—is that the head?!”

“STOP LOOKING!” you shrieked. “WHY ARE YOU LOOKING?! STAY BY MY FACE!”

“I’M TRYING TO BE SUPPORTIVE!” he cried, wiping his nose with his shoulder as he braced your hand to his chest. “I’ve never been so scared in my life—God, you’re so strong, I love you, I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done!”

“DAMN RIGHT YOU ARE,” you shouted, nearly ripping his arm from the socket as another contraction slammed through you. The doctor calmly told you to push, and the nurse offered words of encouragement, but all you could focus on was Jake’s wide, tear-filled eyes and the fact that you’d probably break every bone in his hand before this was over.

Meanwhile, Jake was trying not to fall apart. He had flown combat missions, been shot at, survived some of the worst conditions known to man—but none of that compared to watching you fight through the pain like this. He’d never seen anything so terrifying. Or so holy.

“You’re almost there,” the doctor said with a calm that made you want to slap him. “One more push. Come on, Mama. You’ve got this.”

“I hate you,” you told Jake, bearing down with all the strength left in your body.

Jake sobbed. “I love you, too!”

And then—just like that—time split wide open.

There was a cry. Small. Loud. Angry. The sound of life punching its way into the world.

Your body went slack with exhaustion, your chest heaving as you stared at the ceiling in disbelief. The pain ebbed, not gone but dulled, and your hand—still gripping Jake’s—relaxed ever so slightly.

Jake gasped. “Oh, my God.”

The nurse was cleaning the baby, the doctor already congratulating you, but all Jake could do was cry harder as he turned to you with trembling lips and whispered, “You did it. You—baby, you did it. Look—look, it’s our kid.”

Then the nurse placed the tiny, wrinkled, squirming bundle into your arms. Your eyes widened. Your breath caught. And for a moment, nothing existed but this small miracle against your chest, this impossibly warm, impossibly loud creature with your nose and Jake’s pout.

“He’s perfect,” you whispered, barely able to believe the words.

Jake froze. “Wait—he?!”

You looked up with a smug, exhausted grin. “Told you it was a boy.”

Jake Seresin’s knees nearly gave out.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, utterly undone, leaning over to kiss your forehead and then the baby’s. “I’m a dad. I’m really a dad. You're a mom. And he’s—he’s so small—do they always come out this small?! Oh my God, you made him. You made this whole person, babe.”

“You helped,” you muttered with a tired smirk.

Jake laughed through his tears, sitting beside you on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling your shoulder and the other brushing over your son’s impossibly soft head. “He’s ours,” he whispered like it was a secret he was still trying to believe. “We made a whole-ass person.”

You didn’t speak—just leaned your head against his and closed your eyes, letting the weight of it all settle. Your son snuffled gently against your chest, a little fighter already, full of voice and storm and love.

And Jake? He was already gone for him. For both of you.

The room had quieted into something sacred. The dim overhead light hummed faintly, casting a soft golden glow over pale blue walls and the low beeping of machines that monitored steady, rhythmic signs of life. The chaos of labor had given way to something still and warm. You were fast asleep now, your face slack with exhaustion, cheeks flushed, one hand curled against your chest like even in sleep you were still tethered to the memory of holding him.

Meanwhile, Jake sat shirtless in the reclining chair tucked in the corner of the hospital room, the baby swaddled snug against his bare chest, skin-to-skin as the nurse had instructed. His dog tags hung just above the bundle, catching the light every time he breathed a little too hard. The soft rise and fall of his chest matched the slow, steady rhythm of the baby’s tiny breaths. Jake had one large palm curved protectively over his son’s back, his thumb tracing slow, reverent circles. His other hand rested behind the baby’s head, cradling it with the sort of gentleness no one had ever thought Lieutenant Jake Seresin capable of.

His eyes, though—those were something else entirely.

“Hey, little guy,” Jake whispered, voice just above a hush. “We haven’t officially met yet. I mean, not outside the womb where you’ve been doing karate on your poor mom’s organs for the past few months.”

The baby didn’t stir. He was tucked against Jake’s chest like he belonged there, utterly content, as if he knew this heartbeat by instinct alone.

Jake chuckled under his breath, voice still watery with disbelief. “You’re… you’re really here.” He glanced over at your sleeping form, gaze softening like it always did when he looked at you. Then, he tilted his head back down. “She did everything, you know that? She brought you here. Fought like hell. Cursed me out like a sailor and nearly broke my fingers, but—God, I’ve never loved anyone more than I do her. You’ve got one hell of a mom, kid.”

He looked down again, lips twitching into a grin. “And you? You look just like me. That’s probably gonna be a problem later.” He traced his pinky along the baby’s soft cheek. “You’ve got my chin. My mouth. Even my ears, damn it. She’s gonna be so mad when she realizes she carried you for nine months just to give birth to my clone.”

The baby let out a small hiccup of air, nose scrunching as if offended. Jake grinned wider. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You’ve got her fire, though. I can already tell.”

Outside the window, the world had gone still, the deep blue of night wrapping around the city like a blanket. In that corner of the room, though, time didn’t exist. There was just Jake—once the golden boy, the hotshot, the reckless one—and now… just a man. A father. Holding the future in his arms like it was the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done to me already,” he whispered, bending to press a kiss to the top of his son’s downy head. “But I promise you this—I’m not gonna miss a single moment. Not one. I’m gonna be here. Every day. Every late night bottle, every scraped knee, every stupid little joke. You’re stuck with me, little man.”

He leaned back slowly, eyes growing heavy now but still glued to the tiny miracle against his chest.

“I love you,” Jake whispered one last time. “And I love your Mommy. More than anything. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

Then, just as the night deepened outside, Jake closed his eyes, rocking slowly in the chair, the baby warm and steady in his arms.

Morning sunlight filtered gently through the half-drawn curtains, casting soft, golden stripes across the hospital bed where you sat propped up against a mountain of pillows. Your hair was messy, your eyes still heavy with sleep, but none of that mattered—not when your son was latched to your chest, tiny fingers curling against your skin like he’d known you forever. You watched him in awe, blinking slowly as the waves of love, exhaustion, and straight-up disbelief washed over you in equal measure.

Meanwhile, Jake stirred in the corner, shirt half-on, hair a wild mess of blonde tufts standing at every angle. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, blinked blearily—and then his gaze landed on you.

He froze. A beat passed. Then another. And then, Jake Seresin—naval aviator, call sign Hangman, heartbreaker of yesteryears—grinned like an absolute menace.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice still thick with sleep. “Like father, like son.”

You blinked up at him. “Excuse me?”

Jake leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, that familiar cocky tilt playing at his mouth as he motioned to your chest—where your newborn son was feeding contentedly, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “Look at him. Locked in. Zoned out. Completely infatuated. Yeah. That’s my boy.”

You stared. He didn’t even blink.

Then you groaned, adjusting your arm around the baby as you shot him a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “You are unbelievable.”

Jake grinned wider. “I mean, c’mon. You knew what you were getting into when you said yes to marrying me.”

“You were crying in a chair twelve hours ago,” you reminded him.

“And now I’m witnessing greatness in action.” He stepped closer, crouching beside the bed as he placed a gentle kiss to your temple, his hand brushing softly over the baby’s head. “Also, I will never recover from how ridiculously beautiful you look right now.”

You narrowed your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “I haven’t showered, I’m leaking milk, and I just gave birth.”

Jake gave a dreamy sigh. “Still the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. And our son clearly agrees.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “You’re a menace.”

He leaned in closer, his voice softening now, gaze flickering between your face and the tiny bundle nestled against you. “I’m a menace in love.”

You laughed under your breath, your free hand finding his and squeezing it gently. “You better be. Because this little one is already a full-time job.”

Jake chuckled, brushing another kiss along your jaw before whispering, “Good thing I already got the job of a lifetime.”

“We have to name him eventually,” Jake murmured, his voice low and lazy, like the words were slipping through the late afternoon light.

You tilted your head to glance up at him. “We do,” you agreed. “And no, we’re not naming him after a jet.”

Jake feigned offense. “What? F-18 has a nice ring to it. Or Raptor. Ooh—Falcon.”

You snorted, laughing softly as you shifted the baby’s weight in your arms. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw something at you.”

“I’d dodge anyway,” he smirked, before softening again. “Alright. No jets. What are you thinking?”

You glanced back down at your son, his mouth puckered slightly in sleep, little brows already starting to resemble Jake’s. “I’ve always liked the name Theodore,” you said quietly, the name rolling off your tongue like a secret you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “It sounds strong. Timeless. Like someone who matters.”

Jake blinked. Then looked down at the baby like he was seeing him for the first time all over again. “Theodore,” he repeated, testing it out. “Theo.”

“Theo,” you echoed, voice hushed with affection.

Jake stared for a moment longer, then smiled—soft and deep, the kind that only ever reached his eyes when he was looking at you or, now, at the tiny human who somehow made both of you feel brand new. “He does look like a Theodore.”

“I know, right?” You let your head rest back against him again. “Theodore Seresin. Has a nice ring to it.”

Jake grinned like he’d just won a dogfight. “It’s perfect.”

He reached down and gently touched the baby’s cheek, his thumb barely brushing the soft skin. “Hi, Theo,” he whispered. “Welcome to the world, little man.”

Who would've thought? That the quiet girl once overlooked and the golden boy once too proud would end up here—no longer adversaries, no longer almosts. Just two people, side by side, bruised and rebuilt, holding the life they made between them. In a world made of roaring engines, heavy medals, and call signs stitched onto uniforms, it was never the victories in the sky that defined them. It was this—late afternoons wrapped in quiet laughter, soft kisses pressed to sleepy foreheads, whispered arguments over baby names and midnight feeds. It was love, loud and unruly, tender and patient.

And somehow, in the mess of all the years, the heartbreak, the second chances—they became a little family.

The fool, the golden boy, and the miracle they named Theodore.

[mrsevans90]

the golden boy becomes the fool ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part five]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 22.3k words (i am so sorry)

summary: jake seresin was the golden boy, then there was you, the fool. he had everything—charm, swagger, a future carved out in medals and glory. you were the quiet one, the weird one, the girl he used and tossed aside like a joke. years passed. ranks changed. you rose. he stayed the same, until suddenly he didn’t. thrown back together in the sky and on the ground, bitterness turned to tension, and tension lit a match neither of you were ready to put out. old wounds were reopened, truths finally spoken, and under texas stars, it wasn’t the fool who broke—it was the boy who begged. and now everyone’s asking the same thing: how the hell did the golden boy become the fool?

warnings: angst, unresolved tension, sexual tension, emotional monologues, past bullying, mutual pining, late-night realizations, texas farm setting, childhood trauma, muddy chaos, jake seresin being painfully in love, emotional breakdowns, slow burn, redemption arc, accidental co-showering, stubborn idiots in love, soft!jake, rogue being a baddie, found family feels, one (1) dog named bingo, and a swing set that saw everything. oh, and did we mention? angst.

notes: finally we are in the last part. to be honest, this was supposed to be just two parts and look where we are… part five. thank you so much for the love, for screaming with me in the tags, for the asks, for everything. i cried writing this. like actually. and oh, did i mention that we will have an epilogue? yeah. buckle up again, babe. it ain’t over just yet

part one , part two , part three , part four , epilogue

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

- Jake - 

Somewhere between Rogue’s final words in the boardroom and the low hum of the air conditioning unit above, Jake started drifting. Not physically — no, his boots were still planted, his arms folded like always, that cocky lean still balanced just right. But in his mind? He was spiraling. Because now, now it was starting to dawn on him: this wasn’t about petty ranks, or her showing off, or the universe punishing him for being an asshole once upon a time. This was about how badly he’d fucked up, and how thoroughly she’d risen from it.

At first, he told himself she was bluffing. That she couldn’t possibly be that good. That maybe this was still the nerdy girl who lit up when he remembered her birthday and blushed when he asked if her puppy was still alive. Then she started talking tactics, commanding a room full of aviators and admirals like it was second nature. And it hit him like Gs to the chest — this was not some lucky rise. This was calculated, earned, forged in fire and fury. Meanwhile, he’d spent the years coasting on talent and charm, grinning his way out of reprimands and leaving his wingmen to hang when it counted.

Then came the real gut punch: the memory of her birthday. Not the part with the cake or the puppy. No — the look on her face when her parents smiled at him. The look that said this is the closest you’ll ever get to mattering to me. And he’d still walked away. Walked away like she was nothing but a sweet girl who wanted too much, too fast — when in reality, she was everything he could’ve hoped to become. And he humiliated her.

Back then, it was so easy. He made jokes at her expense because they made his friends laugh. He forgot her name on purpose just to watch her cover up the hurt with a smile. He told himself she wasn’t important — but only because he didn’t want to admit that she was. And now, here she was: outranking him, outflying him, outclassing him in every possible way. Meanwhile, he was sitting in a debriefing room, unusually silent, drawing side glances from Fanboy and Phoenix like he might be having a stroke.

Jake didn’t know when the silence stopped being peaceful and started feeling like drowning. The squad was talking around him now — soft jokes, nervous energy, half-assed optimism — but it all sounded far away. Because in his head, her voice echoed louder than the rest. The calm command of it. The sharp edges hidden beneath the steel. The way she said, “I was just warming up.” And he couldn’t stop wondering — how much of her command came from pain? How much had he put there?

And worst of all… if this was revenge?God help them all.

But what if it wasn’t? What if she never needed revenge — because she won?

And yet, part of him still clung to denial like it was his last parachute. Because if this wasn’t revenge, then it was worse. If this wasn’t personal — if she wasn’t targeting him — then he didn’t matter at all. That would mean she wasn’t even thinking about what he’d done. That she had risen without him in the picture. That he was just… collateral.

The truth burned more than he wanted to admit.

He’d always been the guy. The one everyone remembered. The one who smiled too wide, flew too fast, talked too much. The one who could get away with anything — until now. Until her. Rogue. The name echoed in his skull, rough and wild. He remembered the way she used to sit quietly, the way she’d light up at every crumb of attention he tossed her. How easy it was to take her for granted. Now, she didn’t flinch when he spoke. She didn’t chase. She didn’t even blink.

And yeah — fuck, maybe that’s what rattled him the most.

She was steady. Cold as steel. Calculated, poised, terrifying in her control. Meanwhile, he couldn’t get through a single day without watching her hands, waiting for a glance, parsing every word she said like it held some secret message just for him. But it never did. Not anymore.

He started wondering when the scales had tipped. Maybe it was during the dogfight — when she’d pulled that impossible maneuver, practically bent the laws of physics, and left him choking on altitude. Or maybe it was earlier. That moment in the hangar, when she looked at him like a stranger. That moment when her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, “You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”

God. She hadn’t just outgrown him, she’d left him in the dust.

And what stung wasn’t just the pride. It was the sudden awareness that everything she was — everything she’d become — had happened without him. She had built this legacy on the bones of what he broke, and now she wore it like armor. Commanded fleets. Designed the Gauntlet. Wore the Navy’s respect like it was stitched into her uniform. And he?

He was still trying to figure out how the hell he lost her before he ever even had her.

Meanwhile, the squad kept throwing him glances, poking him for reactions he didn’t give. Rooster said something, probably another crack about how hot she was. Jake didn’t even flinch. His mind was too far away, somewhere between regret and awe, caught in the eye of a storm that had her name written all over it.

He’d laughed at her once — humiliated her in front of friends. Told her she was just some PoliSci nerd who got lucky being around someone like him. Now he was the lucky one, just to breathe the same air. And the worst part? She didn’t seem angry. Didn’t seem wounded.

She seemed finished. Finished with him. Finished with the memory. Finished with needing anything from Jake Seresin. And that terrified him more than anything else in the world.

He didn’t hear when Payback called his name the first time. Barely registered it the second. It wasn’t until Phoenix threw a pen at his chest that he blinked, jolted back into the present like a man surfacing from deep water.

“Jesus, Seresin,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

He wanted to laugh. If only she knew.

Because truthfully, he had. She was flesh and blood, standing tall in that flight suit — but she was also a phantom of every stupid thing he’d ever said, every choice he couldn’t take back. And now she haunted him in the worst possible way: by thriving. By being better. By being so far above him it felt like a cosmic joke.

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not without unraveling.

He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the debriefing screen even though nothing was playing. He didn’t know how to explain it — the way guilt had sunk in slow and mean, like a knife twisting over years. Back then, he’d thought she’d bounce back. Thought she’d grow out of it, forget about him, find someone more her speed. Not...turn into someone who made admirals hold their breath. Not outrank him. Not be the best goddamn pilot he’d ever gone up against.

He wasn’t used to losing. Not in the air. Not in life. But this? This wasn’t losing. This was a reckoning.

And what made it worse — what really clawed at the insides of him — was the realization that she wasn’t trying to make him feel it. She wasn’t looking at him with revenge in her eyes. She hadn’t dragged the squad through hell just to watch him squirm.

No. She was just doing her job. Brilliantly. Mercilessly. Like she was born to wear command on her shoulders. Like he’d never mattered at all.

And that was the twist of the knife.

Because if she had hated him, maybe he could’ve worked with that. Anger, he could handle. Fury, he could fight. But indifference? That kind of silence? It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

So he sat there, quiet. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. While the others whispered and stretched and griped about the Gauntlet, Jake was somewhere else. Lost in a memory of a birthday candle, a puppy named Bingo, and the girl who had once looked at him like he hung the stars — back when he barely even knew her name.

And now? Now the whole damn Navy knew hers.

Rogue. Hell of a call sign. Hell of a woman.

And hell, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he’d ever stop paying for the day he decided she wasn’t worth remembering. But where the hell did she go?

That sunshine girl — the one with messy notebooks and a smile that could power a damn jet engine — where did she vanish to?

Jake pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the headache behind his brow to quiet down. His teammates were still talking, vague mutters about the next flight schedule, about fuel consumption ratios, about anything but her. But for him, there was nothing else.

Because when he looked at Rogue — Commander Rogue — he didn’t just see the sharp angles and medals and ruthless authority. He saw echoes. Shadows. Glimpses of someone who used to bake brownies for old folks and let him copy her social science notes just because he’d grinned at her once. God, she was so easy to please back then, wasn’t she? All it took was his attention — even if it came wrapped in mockery, even if it was half-hearted, even if it hurt.

And now?

Now she looked through him like he was just another report on her desk. Just another cocky pilot who needed to be broken down and rebuilt.

Jake stared at the faint scuff marks on his boots, letting the silence stretch.

Maybe that sunshine girl didn’t disappear. Maybe she’d been scorched to ash. Burned out by the very heat of his cruelty, until all that was left was steel. Maybe he’d looked at gold and called it dirt. Maybe he’d clipped her wings, thinking she’d never fly without him, and she turned around and soared so far above that now he was the one grounded.

He didn’t deserve her warmth. He never had. But damn it — he missed it.

He missed the way she used to tilt her head when she talked about theories he didn’t understand. He missed the way her voice cracked just a little when she got too excited, the way her eyes sparkled when she believed in something. And even if he’d never admitted it back then, he missed how she believed in him.

Jake hadn’t realized how dark his world had gotten until she walked back in — not with her sun, but with a storm.

She was lightning now. And maybe that made sense.

Because sunshine forgives.

Lightning remembers.

The debriefing room was thick with tension and silence, stale air and the kind of fatigue that only came from barely scraping through a day like Hell Day. The squad sat in various degrees of slouch and stretch, groaning and muttering like overworked soldiers in a trench. Jake hadn’t said a word since the last evaluation — not even when Fanboy elbowed him gently and whispered some sarcastic remark about being emotionally constipated. He just sat there, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded, thoughts swimming miles away from this room and the people in it.

Then the door opened.

He didn’t even look up at first — probably Hondo coming to collect one of them or Mav stepping in to remind them to hydrate. But the sound of boots, the tempo of those confident steps, pulled at something in Jake’s chest like a thread unraveling from old cloth. He lifted his head, just in time to catch a flash of black flight suits — Rogue, Ruin, and Jinx — walking past the debriefing room window. Their faces were unreadable, all business and command, and there was something in the set of Rogue’s shoulders that made Jake’s body move before his brain even caught up.

He shoved out of his chair with such force it squeaked across the tile. He didn’t excuse himself, didn’t check if he stepped on someone’s boot — and based on Payback’s startled grunt, he probably did. He nearly tripped on the step down from the raised platform but caught himself with a sharp curse under his breath. The squad stared, confused and half-concerned, as Jake threw open the door and bolted into the hallway.

“Commander Rogue!” he called out, voice cracking slightly with urgency.

The three of them stopped.

Rogue turned first, her expression unreadable, eyes sharp under the harsh fluorescent lights. Ruin raised a brow, exchanging a look with Jinx, who just crossed his arms and waited.

Jake jogged toward them, slowing only when he was close enough to speak without yelling. His breath came in fast, uneven pulls, and he hadn’t even thought about what to say. All he knew was that if he didn’t talk to her now, if he let her slip away one more time, he’d lose something he couldn’t name.

“Can we talk?” he asked, trying to sound composed, failing miserably.

Rogue didn’t answer right away. She glanced at her watch, then looked over her shoulder, clearly weighing something. “We have somewhere to be,” she said, her tone clipped but not cold — efficient.

“Please,” Jake added, and that word came out quieter, almost desperate. “Just five minutes.”

Ruin let out a low hum and tilted his head toward Jinx. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Jinx replied, already stepping back.

“We’ll give you the room,” Ruin said to Rogue, then cast Jake a warning glance — not threatening, but definitely cautious. Like he was letting Jake borrow something precious on the condition that he didn’t break it.

Once the two men turned away, Jake followed Rogue in silence as she led the way down the corridor, toward the temporary officer’s office the Big Three had been using since their arrival. Her strides were purposeful, heels of her boots clicking softly against the polished floor. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. And for the first time in his life, Jake Seresin wasn’t sure if he should.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, the kind that sounded louder when tension clung to the air. Rogue walked ahead, moving toward the desk at the far end of the room, her posture still poised and unreadable. Jake lingered just inside the doorway, blinking as he took it all in — the quiet space that somehow screamed the presence of three elite operators even in their absence.

It wasn’t a sterile office. It was lived in.

To his left, a small side table had three neatly stacked folders, the corners dog-eared from frequent flipping. One had a cracked navy emblem, the kind only handed out at high-clearance briefings. Above it hung a photo — an unfiltered snapshot of the Big Three: Rogue in the middle, standing tall between Ruin and Jinx. All three were in flight suits, helmets under their arms, the open sky behind them.

Their grins were wide, real, the kind captured between war and silence. Rogue had her sunglasses shoved into her hair, and the wind had caught her braid just enough to give it movement. Jake stared at it longer than he should’ve.

Near the couch — a beat-up leather one that sagged slightly on one side — were two hoodies tossed lazily over the armrest. One read “Death Before Dishonor” in cracked white letters. The other had Get Wrecked stitched in scarlet red on the chest, clearly Ruin’s sense of humor bleeding through.

On the coffee table sat an abandoned protein bar wrapper and an energy drink can with its tab popped but barely sipped. A flight helmet sat beside it — Rogue’s. Her call sign, ROGUE, stenciled across the side in thick matte letters, scuffed and worn at the edges.

Jake's eyes trailed along the shelves. No dust. Books on naval tactics, missile systems, aerospace combat strategy — well-used. A sticky note stuck out of one of them, the handwriting tiny and precise. He couldn’t read what it said from here.

And pinned to the board by the desk was another photo. It wasn’t labeled, but Jake recognized the location — somewhere in the Middle East, by the look of the sand and the sky. The three of them again, this time wearing gear heavier than regulation. Bulletproof vests. Goggles pushed to their heads. War paint smudged and smeared with sweat. Rogue stood at the front, chin lifted. The leader. Always had been, hadn’t she?

Jake swallowed hard. This wasn’t some office thrown together for convenience. This was their ground. Their turf. It was built off years of flying, of bleeding, of trusting each other with their lives over and over again. He was just a guest here. A trespasser with a fractured past and guilt-riddled shoes.

She didn’t tell him to sit. She didn’t offer him water or some smooth way to start the conversation. She simply turned, leaned back against the desk, crossed her arms, and looked at him with unreadable eyes — the same way she had that night she’d left him speechless on the hangar floor.

“Talk,” she said, not cruelly. Not kindly either.

Jake stared back, hands clenching at his sides. God, where the hell did he even begin?

Jake hesitated, the words stalling at the back of his throat like they were jammed behind the pressure of years unspoken. Rogue didn’t blink. Her gaze was a scalpel, sharp and still, dissecting him before he even opened his mouth. She didn’t need to raise her voice — her silence already screamed volumes.

“I just…” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and shifted on his feet like a guilty schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “If this is about what happened back then—”

“It’s not,” she cut in, calmly. Coldly.

Her voice was even, professional, clipped in the way only officers who’ve given too many post-op debriefings know how to deliver. She didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t soften. She simply corrected him like he was misreading a report.

Jake’s jaw twitched. “It’s not?”

“No.” She stood upright now, uncrossing her arms and stepping closer — but not intimately. She didn’t let him forget where they stood. “You think this is some kind of personal vendetta, Seresin? That I clawed my way through the ranks, designed an entire Navy-certified evaluation gauntlet, and got assigned command on a strategic permanent squadron initiative just to settle an old score?”

He opened his mouth — a reflex — but couldn’t say a damn thing.

She didn’t wait.

“I am here because I earned it. Because I bled for it. Because I sat through mission after mission where people didn’t come back, and I made sure the next ones did. That’s why Warlock signed off. That’s why Cyclone listened. That’s why Maverick respected my word when I said I’d take the lead.”

Jake swallowed, shoulders tensing. “I’m not saying you didn’t—”

“But you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “By assuming this is about you, you’re reducing years of work, risk, loss, and leadership into a high school grudge. You’re disrespecting me. You’re disrespecting Jinx. Ruin. Every damn WSO and pilot who built this alongside me.”

The words hit like thunder — quiet, steady, but impossible to ignore. Jake felt himself shrinking under the weight of them.

“And just so we’re clear,” she went on, voice lowering, more controlled now — like a storm sharpening to a blade, “even if I wanted revenge, I would never risk my integrity, my crew, or my career for it. Unlike you, I don’t use people as stepping stones when I’m running scared.”

Jake flinched. It was subtle, but Rogue caught it. She always caught everything.

“I’m not here to ruin Maverick. Or the Dagger Squad. I fought for them. I reviewed every file, every hour of flight data. You think you’re the only one who cared if they stayed? If this squadron was approved, I fought for it harder than any of you realize.” Her voice cracked slightly — not with emotion, but with restrained fury. “You don't know how many times I had to defend this program. And not once — not once — did I use you as my reason for being here.”

Jake finally found his voice, quiet and thin. “Then why did you say yes to this talk?”

“Because Jinx and Ruin would have called you a coward for running after me in the hallway,” she said, dryly. “And because part of me hoped… maybe you’ve changed.”

She looked at him — really looked — and something unreadable passed through her expression, too fast to name.

But then it was gone, and she stepped back behind the desk.

“You’ve had your say, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“No,” Jake said, louder this time — steadier. “I’m not leaving.”

Rogue’s hand froze halfway toward a folder on her desk, her fingers curling slowly as if resisting the urge to throw it at his head. Her brows lifted, that calm mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of disbelief — or maybe it was disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not leaving,” Jake repeated, jaw tight, eyes fixed on hers. “Not until we settle this.”

“What exactly do you think there is to settle?” she snapped, voice sharp now — the edge of command laced with a storm of personal fury she had long tried to bury under layers of discipline. “You think this is unfinished business? That I owe you some kind of closure? After what you did?”

Jake blinked. “We never talked. Not really. I—I didn’t know what you were going through—”

“And you never asked!” she cut him off, stepping out from behind the desk so fast the chair rolled back with a soft groan of its wheels. “You never once asked me what was happening. Not when you humiliated me in front of your friends. Not when I handed you your damn project so you wouldn’t fail your class. Not when you let people mock me like I was some punchline.”

Her voice trembled on that last word — not from weakness, but from years of venom held tightly in the back of her throat. Jake took a step back, stunned, like he hadn’t expected her to still be carrying all of it. As if his sins were something time alone could wash away.

“You really think I’ve been up at night plotting revenge on you?” she laughed bitterly. “Jake, I forgot you for years. Or tried to. I erased you because it hurt too much to remember what it felt like to believe someone saw me… and then watch them toss me aside like I was nothing.”

“I never meant to—”

“You did mean to.” Her voice dropped. “You wanted your friends to laugh. You wanted to feel cool. And I was just… collateral.”

Jake’s mouth parted. The words he’d rehearsed, the apologies he’d thought might help, all died in his throat. Because she was right. And now, standing in front of her — not sunshine anymore, not soft and sweet, but steel and thunder in a commander's uniform — he realized that even if she forgave him, he’d never stop being ashamed of who he’d been.

But shame didn’t stop his anger from flaring. “Then why the hell did you fight for us to stay, huh? Why go through all this if you don’t even give a damn anymore?”

“Because I do give a damn,” she hissed. “Just not about you. This isn’t about your guilt, or your closure, or your redemption arc. I fought for Maverick because he deserves better. I fought for that squad because they have potential, even if they’re reckless idiots. I didn’t do this to prove something to you—I did it because it’s my job.”

She stepped closer, her voice low now, seething. “So don’t you dare stand here and twist my work into some schoolyard drama you never outgrew.”

Jake stared at her — lips parted, breath heavy, like he was about to say something else.

But Rogue just looked at him like he was a memory she’d already burned once.

Then, flatly: “Are we done?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, like the words were caught somewhere between pride and regret, tangled in barbed wire he didn’t know how to pull free without bleeding for it. Then he exhaled, sharp and quiet, and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“No,” he said finally, voice rough. “We’re not done. Not until I say what I came here to say.”

Rogue gave him a look—dry, sharp, dangerous. But she didn’t speak. She folded her arms and waited, a soldier in command, daring him to step wrong.

Jake let out a shaky laugh, eyes not quite meeting hers. “You think I don’t know I was a dick back then? Because I do. I know it every time someone looks at me like I’m some goddamn hero, and all I can think about is the girl who smiled at me like I was worth something—and how I spat on that.”

He stepped closer, the weight of his boots heavy on the office floor. “I was stupid. I was selfish. I thought you were just this weird, sweet, nerdy girl who’d get over it. But you didn’t. And I didn’t. And now you’re standing here in a uniform that outranks mine, giving orders, saving asses—including mine—and all I can think is, damn. I deserve this.”

He paused, chest heaving.

“But I don’t want them to pay for it. Not the squad. Not Mav. They didn’t screw up—you didn’t screw them over. I did. And if this whole thing is about revenge, if it’s some twisted full-circle karma, then fine. I’ll take it. I’ll walk away. Hell, I’ll quit the damn Navy if that’s what you want.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Like a man who finally saw the ruin he left behind and realized too late it had bloomed into something unstoppable.

“But don’t punish the rest of them because I was an asshole.”

There it was—Jake Seresin, laid bare. Not smirking. Not cocky. Just raw and scared and desperate to fix a wound he never thought would still be bleeding.

Rogue didn’t flinch. Not once. She stood there, spine like steel beneath her flight suit, arms still folded like she was holding herself back from hurling something—maybe the truth, maybe a fist.

“Oh, so now you want to fix it?” Her voice was low, razor-sharp. “Now that your cushy little ego is bruised, you suddenly care about consequences? Jake, you weren’t just an asshole. You made me the punchline. You played with someone who would’ve walked into fire for you.”

Jake opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a hand, like a blade. “You humiliated me, in front of your friends. In front of myself. You knew how I looked at you. You let me do your work. You let me believe you cared.”

She was breathing harder now, eyes burning—not just with anger, but betrayal, exhaustion, something bone-deep and old. “And now, what, you want a neat little bow on it? A ‘sorry’? A ‘let’s not ruin this for everyone else’? I have news for you, Lieutenant—this is my job. I don’t play god. I don’t hold grudges over people’s careers. That’s you. That was always you.”

Jake flinched at that—visibly, quietly. But she didn’t stop.

“I didn’t design the Gauntlet for revenge. I did it because I’ve nearly died out there. Because I've watched people burn up in the sky because someone wasn’t ready, someone wasn’t honest, someone thought charm was a substitute for leadership. So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to go easy on a team that still flies like cowboys with something to prove.”

Then, softer—but only slightly, and somehow more terrifying for it—she said, “This isn’t about you anymore.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “It was never about me, huh? Then why are you still this angry?”

Her silence was immediate and blistering.

When she did speak, her voice was calm. “Because I expected better. Because once upon a time, I thought you were going to be great. And now all I see is someone still trying to crawl out of the wreckage he made.”

Jake stared at her, speechless.

And then—

“I’m not doing this,” she muttered, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “You want to talk like adults, you know where to find me. But this pity parade? This guilt-fueled performance?” She shook her head. “Spare me.”

She reached the door, hand on the handle.

“Wait.”

His voice cracked. Not loud, not sharp—just hoarse and human. And that alone made her pause. Just for a breath.

Jake crossed the space between them in two strides. Not to block the door, not to touch her—he didn’t dare—but just enough to make her stop. Just enough to say it.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Not like she was surprised. More like she was exhausted. Like she’d waited years to hear those words and now that they were finally spoken, they rang hollow in the air.

Rogue turned, slow and deliberate. Her eyes swept over him, scanning for the trick, the loophole, the out. Because Jake Seresin never just said sorry. Not without a catch. Not without a punchline.

And yet—there it was. No grin. No wink. Just a man who looked like he’d finally run out of ways to pretend he hadn’t wrecked everything that mattered.

“For what?” she asked.

He faltered. “For... everything.”

“That’s not an apology,” she snapped. “That’s a blanket statement. That’s what people say when they want to be absolved without being accountable. So try again, Lieutenant. What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Jake swallowed. His throat felt tight, raw.

“I’m sorry for using you,” he said. “For making you think you mattered to me when I didn’t even have the guts to admit you did. I’m sorry for letting other people laugh at you, for laughing with them. I’m sorry I was a coward who needed someone like you to lift me up, and the second you did, I kicked the ladder out from under you.”

Her arms had dropped to her sides now, fingers flexing slightly. But her expression didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were until you were already gone,” Jake finished, quieter now. “And I’m sorry I still think about you every damn day, even when I know I don’t deserve to.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Rogue stood still, unreadable, a statue carved out of every moment he’d let her down.

Then, finally, she spoke. “You don’t get to apologize and expect forgiveness like it’s some kind of trade.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t expect anything.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not giving it.”

Then, as if she were brushing the entire moment off her shoulders like dust, she stepped toward the door again. “And don’t worry about dinner tomorrow,” she added, almost too casually. “It’s totally fine if you don’t come. Really.”

Her hand hit the door handle. No hesitation this time. And with her back still to him, she said, “I’ll see you in the sky, Hangman.”

The door closed behind her, and Jake was left standing in the space where a second chance used to be.

Jake walked the corridor like a man returning from war—shoulders squared, boots heavy, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked granite. His flight suit felt too stiff, too hot, like it was suffocating him from the inside out. Every footstep echoed in his ears louder than it should’ve. He didn’t look back. Not once. Not after the door closed behind her. Not after she said his call sign like it was just another name on her checklist. No emotion, no hint of what he used to mean. Just Hangman. Just another damn pilot.

By the time he reached the debriefing room, the sound of the others inside bled into the hall—low murmurs, the scrape of boots against tile, someone cursing under their breath about the heat. He paused for just a second outside the door. One beat. Two. Then, with a sharp inhale, he threw on the only armor he had left: a smirk.

Jake swaggered into the room like nothing happened. Like his heart wasn’t a bruised peach inside his chest. His chin was up, his grin sharp as ever, and when Coyote shot him a look—half worried, half suspicious—he just flashed a wink and dropped into his seat.

“Miss me?” he drawled, leaning back like he hadn’t just been torn apart in a quiet office two halls over.

Across the room, Rooster gave him a narrowed stare, but didn’t push. Bob glanced at him and then at Phoenix, silently asking a question neither of them knew how to phrase. Even Fanboy and Halo had gone quiet, watching him like he might combust if touched too hard.

At the front, Maverick stood with his arms folded over his chest, Hondo just to his right. The air shifted when they noticed Jake’s return, but Mav didn’t comment. Instead, he cleared his throat, stepped forward, and nodded once, firm.

“Alright,” he said, tone clipped. “I just finished a conversation with Commander Rogue.”

Jake’s smirk twitched. He didn’t move otherwise.

“She reviewed every maneuver, every decision, every comm log. Every one of your flights during the Gauntlet,” Maverick continued, his eyes moving from one pilot to the next. “And she’s made her recommendations.”

There was a collective inhale. The kind that filled the room with a buzzing anxiety, a quiet thrum beneath the silence. Phoenix sat straighter. Rooster leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him. Jake kept his mask on, resting one ankle over his knee like he didn’t care. Like he hadn’t just begged her to forgive him, and failed.

Maverick’s voice dropped a note lower.

“She was thorough. And blunt.”

Of course she was.

Jake didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider.

There was a long, loaded pause as Maverick closed the folder in his hands. The sharp clap of it echoed in the room, followed by a beat of silence. Then he looked at them all—really looked—and the ghost of a smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.

“She approved it,” he said.

It took a second to register.

Then it hit them like a missile.

A breath released collectively around the debriefing room, like a pressure valve had finally been turned. Maverick didn’t say it outright, but the weight in his voice, the lack of disappointment in his tone—it was enough. They had passed. Maybe not all with flying colors, maybe not without bruises or scars to their egos, but they were still standing. Still in this. And more importantly, still a squadron.

Phoenix gave a low whistle and leaned back in her chair, throwing Bob a look that said, I told you we’d survive. Bob just blinked, dazed but visibly relieved, like he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Fanboy fist-bumped Payback under the table, a quiet gesture that still earned a grin. Fritz clapped Halo on the shoulder, muttering something about “not getting shot out of the sky” being cause for celebration. Even Omaha and Yale, usually reserved, broke into rare, crooked smiles.

Hondo chuckled from the side, and Maverick just gave a tired, proud nod. “Commander Rogue said you all passed—barely, but you passed. She said she’d rather keep a team that learns than perfect strangers who don’t.”

“Yo,” Coyote said, twisting around to face the rest of them, “I say we celebrate tomorrow. Properly. Barbecue at the beach?”

“I second that,” Rooster chimed in, already looking way too excited. “We got through Rogue’s personal hellscape and lived to talk about it. That’s worth a drink or five.”

Harvard raised an eyebrow, nodding thoughtfully. “And food. A lot of food.”

“I’m not grilling again,” Halo warned, deadpan. “Last time y’all nearly set the sand on fire.”

“That was Fanboy,” Payback said quickly, pointing an accusatory finger. “He thought kerosene was cooking oil.”

“It was labeled confusingly,” Fanboy argued.

Jake stayed quiet, still sitting in that deceptively relaxed posture, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. He chuckled along, but it was thinner, a little too practiced. When Rooster elbowed him in the ribs and asked if he was in, he just offered a lazy shrug.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

The squad kept tossing out ideas—who’d bring what, who’d be in charge of music, how many coolers they’d need for beer—and somewhere in the blur of chatter, someone casually mentioned inviting the big three.

“They’re part of the team now, right?” Yale said, tapping his pen on the table. “Might as well include them.”

“Yeah,” Fritz added. “Maybe if we feed them, they’ll go easy on us next time.”

“They don’t eat,” Fanboy muttered dramatically. “They feast on our fear.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes but smirked. “Still. Wouldn’t kill us to ask. Especially Commander Rogue—”

No one knew tomorrow was her birthday. No one but one person.

Jake’s jaw tensed, but his smile didn’t falter. He nodded absently, muttering something noncommittal about “good idea.” But behind his eyes, gears were turning. Because he knew. He remembered the date before he remembered her rank, before her call sign was etched into his damn skull.

She wasn’t just Rogue. She was his sunshine. Once.

The Hard Deck buzzed with its usual late-night charm, lights dim and golden, music humming beneath the rhythm of laughter and beer bottles clinking. Dagger Squad clustered around a corner booth, half-shouting over each other about marinades, playlists, and who was bringing what to tomorrow’s beach barbecue. Penny was behind the bar, laughing as Fanboy attempted to mix his own drink and nearly set off the soda gun. It was loud, chaotic, and warm.

Meanwhile, Jake Seresin sat perched at the far end of the bar, staring into the amber depths of a half-finished glass. He wasn't sulking, exactly—but he wasn’t glowing either. His usual charm, the cocky swagger, the teeth-and-dimple grin—it was all there, but thin as tissue paper. A performance. He'd laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at plans he didn’t plan to join, and now he was here, hiding in plain sight with his jaw tight and his eyes distant.

Maverick had been watching him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. He nursed his own drink nearby, leaned against the bar with that weather-worn stillness of a man who had lived through things most people only feared in theory. Eventually, he stepped over and sat down beside Jake without a word. For a few minutes, they both just watched the room, letting the weight of the silence settle between them.

Then Maverick spoke, low and without fanfare. “You alright, Hangman?”

Jake didn’t look at him. He smirked instead, lazy and easy. “Peachy, Cap.”

Maverick nodded slowly. “Sure doesn’t look that way.”

Jake finally glanced sideways, his eyes guarded but not cold. “I’m good. Just tired. Long week.”

“Yeah,” Mav said, letting the word stretch with meaning. “Hell of a week.”

Another beat passed. Jake swirled the whiskey in his glass and chuckled under his breath. “You gonna do the whole mentor thing now? Sit me down and tell me I’m spiraling?”

“I’m not your therapist,” Maverick said calmly. “But I’ve been where you are. Stubborn. Stupid. Pretending like nothing’s wrong when everything’s falling apart.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Then he exhaled hard and said, “I was a real asshole to someone once. A long time ago.”

“Just once?” Maverick joked, and Jake snorted.

“Alright, wise guy.”

Maverick let him speak, didn’t press. Jake tapped the edge of his glass, his gaze locked on nothing in particular. “She was... good. Kind. A little weird, honestly. Smart in a way that scared me. And I made it my goddamn mission to ruin that.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“I thought I was being funny. Cool. I don’t even know why—I think I just... couldn’t handle it. So I humiliated her. Over and over. Like it was a sport. And she still looked at me like I hung the damn moon.” Jake’s voice dropped. “Then one day, she stopped.”

Maverick was quiet. Then he said, “And now?”

Jake shook his head. “Now, she’s—” But he cut himself off.

Mav already knew. He didn’t need the name. Didn’t need the full picture. He’d seen the way Jake looked at her during briefings. The way his bravado twitched when Rogue walked into the room. The way he clammed up every time her voice took command. Maverick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t blind.

“You remind me of myself,” Maverick said softly. “Back when I was your age, I made a lot of choices that cost me things I didn’t know I’d miss until they were long gone. There’s a danger in thinking we’ve got time. In thinking we can burn bridges and still cross back over later.”

Jake didn’t respond, but he didn’t deflect either.

Maverick took another sip and looked over at the squad laughing across the room. “This job—it’ll take everything if you let it. Your body. Your mind. The people you love. You gotta decide what matters, Jake. And if someone mattered to you, even once—don’t let pride be the reason you lose them for good.”

Jake finally looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, he just nodded.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Maverick saw it in his eyes: he knew.

Jake looked away again, his mouth tightening, shoulders drawing in ever so slightly. He ran a hand down his face, fingers catching on the edge of stubble like he could scrub away the guilt gathering beneath his skin. His voice, when it came, was quieter—almost foreign to him. “But what if it’s too late?”

Maverick’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then it’s too late,” he said simply. “But you still show up. You own what you did. You stand there and take it. And maybe they never forgive you. Maybe they slam the door in your face.”

Jake’s lips pressed together. The idea clearly unsettled him. He was used to being liked, even when he didn’t deserve it. He was used to being the golden boy.

“But,” Maverick went on, tapping his finger against the bar, “you do it anyway. Because that’s what we do. That’s what aviators do. We don’t get to cherry-pick the consequences of our actions. If you left damage behind, you don’t run from it. You clean it up. Even if the person never lets you back in—you clean it up because it’s the right thing to do.”

Jake nodded once, but there was a bitter curl to his mouth. “You ever say something so cruel, you still hear it years later? Like it’s stuck under your skin?”

Mav didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. “Yeah. I have. Still do. Every damn day.”

Jake stared down at the bar top. “I didn’t just screw up. I killed something. She—God, Mav, she looked at me like I was a stranger the other day. Like she didn’t even remember the boy I used to be.”

“And maybe,” Maverick said gently, “that boy wasn’t worth remembering.”

Jake flinched. But it wasn’t meant to hurt—it was meant to land.

Then Maverick leaned in, voice low. “But you’re not him anymore. Are you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

“Figure out who you are now,” Mav said. “Then go be that person. Whether she forgives you or not? That’s on her. But the man who walked in here tonight... he’s got a chance. Don’t waste it.”

Jake didn’t move for a long time. The clatter and laughter of the Hard Deck carried on around them, but it was like he wasn’t in the room at all.

Then, finally, he nodded. Just once. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Maverick watched him for a moment longer, his eyes distant like he was seeing something from long ago, something that never really left him. Then he breathed out slowly, leaned back on the stool, and nodded toward the exit.

“Go now,” he said. “Before the years stack up like bad debt and you realize you can't pay it off.”

Jake blinked. His brows drew slightly together.

“Don’t wait for the right moment, Jake. There isn’t one,” Mav added. “Just the one you choose. I waited too damn long, you know? Penny—she didn’t make it easy. I’d hurt her more than I had the right to, but she still showed up. And I…” He shook his head, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “I was a goddamn coward. Kept thinking I’d fix things tomorrow.”

Jake glanced over at Penny then. She was behind the bar, her hair up in a loose bun, laughing at something Bob had said. The light above her shimmered against her skin like she was glowing from the inside out. Jake saw the way Maverick looked at her—the way his whole world tilted ever so slightly toward her, like she was north on a compass.

And that’s when it hit him. Jake Seresin had never looked at anyone like that. No—scratch that. He had once. Years ago.

When she wore a stupid party hat and carried a puppy in her arms, surrounded by candles and family and cake and joy. When her laugh sounded like sunlight. When her hand found his under the table and he thought, this is what forever might feel like.

And now she walked past him in command stripes and called him Lieutenant.

- You, Rogue - 

The Texas sun filtered through the windshield like an old friend, golden and familiar, and yet you kept your sunglasses on—not because it was too bright, but because the ache in your eyes hadn’t quite left since you left North Island last night.

You had taken the first flight out, the earliest one available, and didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Not to Rooster, who had made you laugh more than he should’ve been able to. Not to Coyote, who’d offered to carry your bag. And certainly not to Jake Seresin, who had stood in that damn office with those wide eyes and that desperate voice, thinking a single I'm sorry could sew up everything he’d ripped open.

Now, your hands gripped the steering wheel of your mom’s old truck, the same one you learned to drive in when you were seventeen, and the tires hummed against the backroads you used to know like the lines of your palm.

Tall grass danced in the breeze on either side of you. Fences leaned where they always had, weathered by years and still standing. You didn’t need a map for this part of the world—this was home. This was where the sun rose slow and the air smelled like cedar and freedom.

You’d gotten the text early this morning. Change of plans, sweetheart. We’ll celebrate at the old house. Bring an appetite. And maybe don’t wear white—your brother’s bringing the horses in.

You’d smiled at that. It had been a long time since you'd driven this stretch of road. Since you’d seen the wild dogs running along the fence lines or the rusted mailbox that still had the dent from when Jake once hit it with his truck mirror on a dare.

God. Jake.

His voice had replayed in your head all night. That man—no, that boy—had stood in front of you like he still had a right to your time, to your air, to your name in his mouth. And for a second—just a second—you had wanted to believe him.

But the past doesn’t just disappear. Not when he’d humiliated you. Not when you had spent nights trying to convince yourself you were imagining it all. Not when he walked away back then and pretended you didn’t matter.

And now? Now he begged you to let him settle things. As if your pain could be negotiated.

You clenched your jaw, adjusting the volume of the radio, letting the old country songs wrap around your thoughts like smoke. You didn’t forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You weren’t doing any of this for him.

You’d come this far—become this woman—for yourself. Because you had learned how to command rooms, how to fly faster than anyone else, how to hold your head high even when your heart burned like hell.

Meanwhile, the familiar arch of trees opened up ahead and the house came into view. The white porch. The worn shutters. The yard where you used to set up obstacle courses for your bike and trip over your own feet. The same swing still hung from the oak tree.

You exhaled. Today was your birthday. And for once, it wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.

You were home.

You parked the truck in the dirt patch just to the left of the barn, dust kicking up behind you like the ghosts of old summer days. The door creaked when you opened it, a familiar sound that tugged at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.

Everything was the same. The chipped blue paint on the fence. The faded plastic chairs stacked by the porch. Even the smell—warm earth, hay, a hint of rosemary from your mother’s garden—smelled like memory.

You stepped out slowly, boots crunching on gravel, and tilted your head up to the sky. Texas blue. Endless and unapologetic.

Inside, you could hear your mother laughing with someone—probably your brother—and the sizzle of something on the stove. You didn’t go in just yet. Instead, you wandered around the side of the house, past the rusted wind chimes, letting your hand trail along the familiar wooden siding like it could anchor you to something real. Something before everything.

Before the Navy.

Before Top Gun.

Before Jake Seresin broke your heart and then had the audacity to stand in front of you like a damn open wound pretending he could heal something he didn’t even understand.

You paused by the swing. It swayed gently in the breeze, unbothered by the years. You sat, slowly, gripping the rope like it might tether you back to seventeen—the girl who had once looked at Jake like he’d hung the stars. She didn’t exist anymore. But sometimes, on mornings like this, she whispered from somewhere deep inside you.

And God, the nerve of him. Standing there with his pretty mouth and that I’m sorry like it meant something. He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Not really. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just what he said to you that day back then—it was what he didn’t say. The silence that followed. The way he turned away and never looked back. Until now.

Now, when you’d become someone. When you wore medals and held rank and had the power to ground squadrons with a signature.

Now he wanted to talk.

But you weren’t that girl anymore. And this wasn’t about him.

You smiled despite yourself.

Rising to your feet, brushing your palms on your jeans, you turned back toward the house. The sun was warm against your back. The air smelled like cinnamon and barbecue and honeysuckle. You weren’t ready to let Jake back in. Not yet.

But you were ready to celebrate the woman you’d become.

Because today? Today was your damn day.

The screen door hadn’t even finished creaking shut behind you when the stampede began.

Little feet slapped against the worn floorboards as your nieces and nephews burst from the hallway like a pack of wild horses. They were bigger now—older, louder—but still the same blur of joy and sugar-smeared cheeks as they flung themselves at you.

“Auntie!” one of them shrieked, and your heart cracked open just a little more.

You caught two in your arms, staggering slightly with the force of their enthusiasm. The oldest tried to look cool but you saw the grin tugging at his mouth before he lunged in for a hug too. 

Behind them came your mother, wiping her hands on a dish towel and already reaching for your face like she had to confirm you were real. “There’s my girl,” she whispered, voice a bit too watery. Your father, quieter as always, stood just behind her, but you knew the emotion was there in his eyes. He pulled you into a brief but firm hug.

Then came the rest.

Your brothers—bigger and broader than you remembered, one already holding a beer, the other pretending not to tear up. Your grandparents, slow but steady, offering words of pride in their soft, worn voices. Aunts and uncles who made jokes about medals and jet fuel, cousins who squealed and poked fun at your rank while hugging you tightly.

You barely had time to breathe.

Laughter bloomed in every room. The table groaned under the weight of food. Music played from the old speakers by the window, some twangy country song you hadn’t heard in years but could still hum along to. You were home. And for a moment, just a moment, the ache in your chest dulled. Just sunshine and sweat and summer in Texas.

Until—

“Damn, y’all didn’t tell me she was gonna look this good.”

The voice sliced through the haze like a whipcrack.

Low. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your whole body locked up.

No.

No.

No no no no no.

You turned so slowly you could feel the blood drain from your face before it even reached your toes.

And there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Standing in your childhood kitchen like he belonged there.

Wearing a plain white t-shirt clinging just a little too well to his broad chest, jeans slung low on his hips, and scuffed cowboy boots that had seen more dirt than you were ready to admit you missed. His blonde hair was slightly messy, a bit damp, and his face was flushed like he’d just come in from outside. Like he’d been working. Or running. Or maybe pacing in nervous circles wondering if you’d show up.

He had sweat on his neck.

Your mother, traitor that she was, beamed from beside the stove. “He’s been here since this morning! Helped fix the gate. Fixed the porch swing, too.”

You stared at her, unblinking.

Jake met your gaze from across the room, and he smiled—slow and dangerous and laced with something like hope. “Hey, sunshine,” he drawled, like it hadn’t been years. Like he hadn’t broken your heart. Like you weren’t standing in front of him with a thousand unspoken things catching fire behind your ribs.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

So many people in this room.

So many things you could throw.

Your mouth dropped open before your brain even caught up with your body. And what came out next was entirely involuntary.

“What the fuck—”

“Ay!” your mom snapped, voice sharp as a whip. “Language!”

Jake had the audacity—the actual gall—to throw his hands up in mock dismay, laughing like this was a damn sitcom. “Yeah, sunshine,” he added, all wide-eyed innocence. “There’s kids present. Watch your language.”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then your eyes narrowed, lips curling back into something not quite a smile. “You’re joking,” you muttered under your breath, fury simmering under your skin like a Texas thunderstorm just seconds from breaking loose.

“Oh, she’s definitely not joking,” your older brother said, already backing out of the kitchen with his beer like he wanted no part of this incoming Category 5.

Your little niece tugged on your sleeve. “Auntie, who is that cowboy?”

Jake winked at her, all smooth charm and self-satisfaction. “I’m Uncle Jake, darlin’. I used to—”

You cut him off with a stare that could curdle milk.

He grinned wider.

Your hands clenched at your sides. You had dreamed of this moment—Jake Seresin begging at your metaphorical altar. Groveling. Crying. Maybe slipping on a banana peel and falling into a pile of cow dung while you sipped sweet tea on a porch swing, untouched and unbothered.

Not this. Not him in your house. Not here, where the walls still whispered childhood secrets and the air still smelled like soil and sun. This was your place. Your safe haven.

And now it was full of him.

Jake, standing there like he belonged. Looking at you like he always did—like he saw you. All of you.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you hissed, stepping toward him as your family slowly scattered, sensing something heavy crackling in the air.

Jake shrugged, casual as hell. “Your mom invited me. Would’ve been rude to say no.”

“Would’ve been smart to say no,” you muttered.

Your mother clucked her tongue again from the stovetop, giving you the kind of look that had once kept you from sneaking out after curfew. “He’s our guest, sweetheart. Be polite.”

Jake leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a particularly beautiful storm he couldn’t wait to chase. “Yeah,” he echoed, voice dipping lower. “Be polite, Rogue.”

You wanted to throttle him.

Instead, you straightened your shoulders, took a breath, and gave him the most saccharine, venom-laced smile you could muster.

“Welcome to the party,” you said, voice dripping with southern hospitality and suppressed rage. “Try not to choke on the cake.”

You were going to kill him. Not figuratively. Not symbolically. Kill. The kind of murder you could only get away with because you were loved—deeply, endlessly—by nearly everyone in this yard.

And the worst part? He knew it.

Jake Seresin, with that stupidly white t-shirt clinging to his chest like sin, was roaming your childhood home like he’d grown up beside you. Laughing with your uncle, throwing a ball with the boys, helping your grandpa adjust the damn barbecue coals like he belonged there.

No. Nope. Not today, Satan.

You turned sharply on your heel and marched straight to the little ones—your nieces, your nephews, your cousins’ kids—because at least they wouldn’t ask questions about why your ex crush who shattered your heart into military-grade shrapnel was casually flipping ribs in your backyard.

“Auntie, can you help us with the lemonade stand?” little Mila asked, tugging on your hand, her curls bouncing as she ran ahead.

“Yes, baby,” you sighed, following her like she was your designated emotional support human. “Let’s go make a small fortune before the grown-ups get too drunk to notice they’re tipping us real money.”

She giggled, and just like that, your shoulders dropped a little. Being around the kids always did that. They didn’t care who you were in the sky. They didn’t know about commands or squadrons or callsigns or men who left you when they promised they wouldn’t. They just knew you made the best strawberry punch and that you gave the biggest pushes on the tire swing.

So, you spent the next hour ducking the ache in your chest by being useful. Fixing the lemon mix, adding way too much sugar because Mila insisted, handing out tiny cups to your cousins and childhood neighbors.

You caught up with your Aunt Lou, who still talked with her hands and smelled like gardenia. She pinched your cheek and asked, “When are you getting married?”

You almost choked on a grape.

Meanwhile, your uncle pulled you aside and told you the crops were better this year. Your younger cousin asked about the Navy—not about Jake—and your Granfather gave you a nod of approval that still meant everything.

You wove in and out of the crowd like muscle memory. This was your world. These were your people. This house, this land—this life—shaped you. It was sacred.

And yet, he was here. Like a shadow clinging to your sun.

You did everything to ignore him. Didn’t glance his way. Didn’t listen to the sound of his laugh or notice how often he kept checking where you were. You refused.

But there was no escaping it—the hum in your chest, the crackle in your spine, the way your whole damn body knew he was watching you.

And you’d be damned if it didn’t set you on fire.

He just had to do it.

You were halfway through helping the kids repaint the old wooden lemonade sign—your hands streaked with pastel pink and yellow, your hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun that still had wisps falling loose from the Texas heat—when you heard the familiar sound of children’s laughter crescendo into a shriek of delight.

That’s when you looked up. And saw him.

Jake Seresin, all tall and smug and golden, crouched low in the grass with Mila balanced on his back like a tiny, squealing cowboy. Her tiny arms were stretched like wings, and he was galloping across the lawn on all fours, making horse noises—actual horse noises—as the other kids chased after him.

“Giddy-up, Hangman!” one of the boys shouted between wheezes.

“Yeehaw!” Jake whooped, and it was so stupidly charming you almost forgot to hate him.

Almost.

The kids adored him. Of course they did. He was a walking Disney Channel character with cowboy boots. He let them climb him like a jungle gym. He gave Mila his sunglasses and called her “Commander Cool.” He high-fived every single child like he was campaigning for mayor of the backyard.

And then—then, as if the universe weren’t cruel enough—he glanced over. Right at you.

Eyes locked.

He grinned.

Not the cocky, I-know-you-want-me grin. No. This one was softer. Almost bashful. Like he knew he’d been caught being good and didn’t mind it.

You blinked.

Your heart hiccupped.

Then you glared.

Hard.

His grin widened like the absolute menace he was. He gently helped Mila off his back, ruffled the boy’s hair, and made his way toward the drink table like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just disarmed you with joy and children and that damn dimple.

You turned back to the sign and scrubbed at a smudge of pink paint like it had personally wronged you.

He was trying to worm his way in. You could feel it.

And worse?

It was working.

Of course he wasn’t done. Jake Seresin never quit while he was ahead. Not when there was a mountain to climb or—more accurately—a woman to win back with the same stubbornness that once drove you up the wall and straight out of his life.

You kept your back turned to the lawn, laser-focused on helping Mila paint the corner of the lemonade sign. It was something about the way her tiny fingers clumsily held the brush, her tongue poking out in fierce concentration, that almost made you forget he was still here.

Almost.

Because then you heard him.

Not his boots—he was good at hiding his approach when he wanted to—but his voice. Low, sweet, casual.

“You missed a spot.”

You didn’t even need to look up to know he was standing behind you. You could feel the heat of his presence like sunlight pressing against your spine.

“You’re gonna smudge the paint if you keep hovering like that,” you muttered without turning around.

Jake crouched down beside you, just close enough for his arm to brush yours.

“You sure? Looked like you needed help.”

You gave him a pointed glance. “I don’t need anything from you.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you’d want a break. It’s your birthday, after all.”

You scoffed, dipping your brush back into the pale yellow paint. “Didn’t think you’d remember.”

Jake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out something folded. Paper. You recognized the edges before he even handed it over.

The sketch.

Your sketch.

The one you’d done on a napkin years ago—of the farm, of the porch swing and windmill and stars. You thought it had been lost in the fallout. Turns out, it had been with him all along.

“I carried it,” he said softly, not trying to smile this time. “Through Pensacola. Through Fallon. Hell, even had it on me in Lemoore. Kept it in my flight bag.”

Your fingers trembled around the brush. You swallowed. Hard.

“Why are you showing me this now?” you asked, voice too thin, too fragile for your own liking.

“Because I’m not good with words,” he admitted. “But I kept this. Every time I saw it, I thought of you. I still do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw the paintbrush at his stupid, perfect face. But Mila giggled beside you and tapped your arm with a tiny yellow-streaked hand, and somehow, somehow, you kept it together.

You inhaled slowly.

Then, like a switch had flipped, you plastered on a calm smile, turned your head just enough, and whispered:

“You’re still a jackass, Seresin.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m your jackass. Right?”

You didn’t answer. You stood, handed Mila the paintbrush, and walked off without a word.

He stayed crouched there, that damn sketch still in his hands, watching you walk away like you were the last star in a dying sky.

You told yourself you weren’t going to look.

You swore you’d steer clear, keep your head down, stay with the kids or the cousins or literally anyone who didn’t make your pulse do Olympic sprints in your throat. But no. Of course not. Of course you looked.

Because he was on a damn horse.

And not just on a horse—riding it like he was born in a saddle, one hand casually gripping the reins, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He sat straight, easy in the way only someone who knew what they were doing ever could. His shirt clung to his back just enough to make you forget how to breathe, a thin sheen of sweat darkening the white cotton at the collar and down his spine.

You hated him.

Jake Seresin, of all people, had the nerve to look like a goddamn cowboy catalog cover while chatting with your brother, who was laughing like they’d been best friends since elementary school. They were talking about something mechanical—tractors maybe? Fencing? You couldn’t hear, too far across the yard, but Jake tipped his head back to laugh and your brother clapped him on the shoulder like he belonged there.

Like he’d always belonged there.

“Stop staring,” your cousin whispered beside you, eyes full of amusement as she handed you a glass of sweet tea.

“I’m not,” you muttered, sipping too fast and promptly choking on the ice.

Your cousin didn’t buy it for a second. “Mmmhmm. Girl, you might as well be writing his name in the clouds.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from the corral, back toward the porch, your jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. But the image was seared behind your eyes now—Jake’s long legs, the easy grin he threw at your brother, the way the sunlight kissed his cheekbones as he swung down from the saddle like it was nothing.

You didn’t want him to be beautiful. You didn’t want him to fit in so easily here. This was your space. Your home. Your family.

And yet… he wore it like it had always been his, too.

You pressed a hand to your chest, felt the traitorous flutter there, and cursed under your breath.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’d deal with this. With him. With all of it.

But right now? Right now, you needed to not melt into a puddle on the damn porch.

Girl, listen—he had no business being that fine.

You’d tried. Swore up and down to every relative, every sticky-fingered kid clinging to your legs, that you were not going to fall into the trap that was Jake Seresin and his dumb, gorgeous cowboy energy. You were here to celebrate your birthday, not combust into flames.

But then—then—he did something unforgivable.

He took his shirt off.

It started simple enough. He was helping your uncle haul a bale of hay from the shed—one of those heavy ones, wrapped tight, stacked tall. You watched from the shade of the porch with narrowed eyes and a paper plate in your hand, just trying to enjoy your damn macaroni salad. You weren't even looking at him. Not really. Just... in the vicinity.

And then the man tugged at the back of his shirt, lifted it clean over his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck like this was a Marlboro ad come to life.

Time paused. The sun wept. Your fork clattered onto your plate.

Tanned skin, broad shoulders, that stupid tattoo on his shoulder blade you used to trace with your fingertips in the dark—all of it was on full display. His abs weren’t just abs; they were architectural. Like if God had sculpted a man from summer heat and Southern charm and said, “Yup. That’s the one that’s gonna ruin her peace.”

He slung the hay over one shoulder and laughed at something your cousin said, the sound low and smooth, dripping in Texas. Then he spit to the side—spit, for God’s sake—and somehow even that was hot.

“What in the cowboy smut novel is this,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.

Your mom passed behind you and gave you a little hum of amusement. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d say someone’s got a type.”

“I don’t,” you snapped. “He just… looks hydrated.”

And maybe you were not.

Because now he was leaning on the fence, shirt still off, muscles flexing as he talked to your older brother like they were planning your family’s next barn renovation. His fingers tapped absently on the wooden post, drawing your eye down, down, down—

“Need a drink?” someone asked beside you.

You didn’t even know who said it. You just nodded and reached for whatever they had.

Water. Wine. Holy water.

At this point, you’d drink it all.

You just needed to breathe.

The house was full. The yard was fuller. There were children sprinting like tiny missiles across the porch, uncles hollering about the grill, your mother fussing about potato salad and forks. And him. Jake Seresin, the unholy Texas mirage, was walking around shirtless like he didn’t just ignite your central nervous system every time he smirked.

So you slipped away—quiet as a whisper—toward the old well tucked behind the barn, the one your grandfather built with his bare hands. It was quiet there. Still. You could almost hear your heartbeat, feel the wind in your hair. That familiar creak of the wooden bucket, the low hum of cicadas in the grass. You rested your hands on the worn stone edge and exhaled.

Just one minute. One moment of peace. No chaos. No memories. No him.

“You always ran off here when you were mad,” came the voice behind you—smooth, low, and damn near sinful.

You didn’t even jump. You just groaned.

“For the love of—” You turned. “Do you own a shirt?”

Jake Seresin stood there in all his shirtless, sun-kissed glory, arms crossed casually over his chest. There was a sheen of sweat on his collarbones and a devil-may-care look in his eyes that made you want to throw something at him. Preferably your dignity.

“Probably,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “Didn’t think I’d need one. Not when it’s this hot out.”

“Go away.”

“Can’t. Kinda like the view.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to ignore the way your pulse leapt. “If you’re here to flirt, try again when you aren’t radiating ‘country boy thirst trap’ energy.”

He grinned. “I don’t remember you complaining about it last time.”

“Yeah, well…” You looked back at the well, swallowing hard. “Last time, I was young. Stupid.”

Jake took a few more steps until he was right beside you, the heat from his body sinking into your skin. He didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough that the air felt charged—like lightning waiting to strike.

“I was stupid too,” he said, quieter now. “But not about you.”

You froze. His voice was lower, more honest. The kind of voice you remembered from nights wrapped in his arms beneath a quilt of stars, when he whispered promises against your skin he never had the courage to keep.

You looked at him then, really looked.

And for a second, it wasn’t Commander Rogue or Lieutenant Seresin standing in that golden Texas sun.

It was just you. And him. 

The silence between you shimmered—tight, fragile, electric.

Jake was too close. Too warm. Too Jake.

You could smell the sun on his skin, that familiar scent of old leather, cedarwood soap, and whatever reckless sin made him walk around like that in broad daylight. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, while your own lungs forgot how to work. Every nerve ending in your body was on high alert, tuned to the space between his mouth and yours.

He wasn’t touching you—but god, it felt like he was. Like his heat had fingers, like his gaze was dragging along your collarbone and down your spine. Your grip on the stone edge of the well tightened.

“Still mad?” he asked, low, like he was trying not to spook you.

You turned your head slowly. “Is that a serious question?”

Jake gave a soft, crooked smile—the kind that used to undo you, back when you were foolish and seventeen and let that mouth talk you into the backseat of his truck.

He leaned a little closer. You felt it before you saw it: the flex of his arms, the slight roll of his shoulder as he planted a hand against the well, boxing you in. Not forceful. Not trapping. Just... a little too intimate. A little too familiar.

“You’ve always had a temper,” he murmured.

“And you’ve always been an arrogant jackass,” you shot back, heart pounding.

He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Yeah. But you used to like that.”

You hated the way your body remembered. The way it leaned just slightly into his space before your brain caught up and screamed, abort mission. You turned your face away—big mistake. His breath brushed your cheek.

“You used to like me,” he added, voice like gravel dragged through honey.

“I also used to believe in Santa Claus.”

That made him laugh. And god, that laugh. You remembered it in the worst ways—in dark barns and truck beds and your childhood bedroom when you swore you could keep a secret from the whole damn town.

You tried to step back. Your shoulder hit his arm.

He didn’t move.

Instead, his eyes dipped lower, taking in the line of your throat, the heat flushing your neck. You could see it then—the moment his cocky little grin faltered. The shift. The hunger. Like he’d just remembered the exact sound you made when his hands were on your hips and his mouth was on your skin.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice raw now. Quiet. “Even when I should’ve. Even when I didn’t deserve to.”

You felt your pulse slam against your ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not when every inch of you was screaming, don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him—

“Auntie!”

The two of you snapped apart like teenagers caught behind the barn, you nearly bumping your elbow on the stone lip of the well. Jake blinked, disoriented for half a second, before scrubbing a hand down his face and stepping back.

A herd of small feet came rushing around the corner, your nieces and nephews tearing toward you like a tactical strike team. One of them had a cowboy hat too big for his head; another clutched a popsicle that was now just red sugar water dripping down her arm.

“Auntie, Auntie! Come play tag with us!”

“Uncle Jake’s it!” one shouted, smacking Jake on the hip and running away squealing.

Your jaw twitched. “Uncle—what?”

Jake gave a helpless shrug, smirking like the devil himself. “Guess I got promoted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve known them for less than twenty-four hours.”

“And yet I’m already the favorite,” he said, casually starting to jog after the kids, chest still annoyingly bare, voice all sugar and sin. “You better keep up, sunshine.”

You glared at his back as he disappeared into the trees behind the barn, chased by three of your brother’s kids and what felt like the rising heat of your own blood pressure.

The worst part? You wanted to follow.

God help you.

By the time you caught up to them—shoes soaked, jeans streaked with specks of damp soil—Jake had already been tackled into the grass by a pack of laughing children. One clung to his back like a baby koala, another tried pulling his boot off, and the youngest had climbed onto his stomach with a triumphant yell of, “Victory!”

“Help,” Jake groaned dramatically, his hands pinned by tiny, sticky fingers. “I’m under attack. Man down. Send reinforcements.”

You stopped short at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over your chest, breath stilling for half a second.

God, he looked... absurd.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, catching in the droplets of water clinging to his hair. His white shirt from earlier had vanished—long forgotten or maybe tossed aside somewhere in the chaos—and his jeans were now grass-stained and muddied at the knees. One of the kids had drawn something across his chest with blue chalk, and another had clearly poured water from the bucket left beside the well.

Jake Seresin, golden boy, Navy pilot, hotshot of North Island—absolutely wrecked by five small children.

It made something in your chest ache.

“Stop staring and get over here, Lieutenant Commander!” he called from the ground, giving you a lopsided grin. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

“Not likely,” you said, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

And then the smallest—Avery, your niece—sprinted up, grabbed your hand, and beamed up at you.

“Come on, Auntie! You’re on my team!”

You were halfway through the word “Wait—” when Avery yanked you straight into the mess.

Your boots sank into the mud with a wet squelch. Your balance wobbled. And then, like some twisted cosmic joke, Jake reached up and tugged—lightly, playfully—on your wrist just as you tried to catch yourself.

You landed with a soft oof right beside him in the grass. Mud splattered up your arms and soaked through your shirt.

“Jake!” you gasped.

He blinked innocently. “Oops.”

Before you could lunge for him, he was already rolling out of your reach, laughing, the kids cackling with delight as they jumped in after him.

And suddenly, like it hadn’t been years of anger and silence and ghosts between you, like there weren’t a thousand things unsaid still lodged in your throat—you were laughing, too.

The sound was light. Real. It hadn’t been pulled from you like a demand or forged like armor. It just… slipped out.

Jake looked over from where he lay sprawled on the grass, hair wild, dirt on his cheek, and something almost reverent in his gaze.

“Sunshine,” he murmured under his breath, so quiet even the wind barely caught it.

You didn’t hear him.

But maybe, just maybe, part of you felt it.

- Mom -

From the edge of the porch, camera in hand, your mother watched the chaos unfold in the muddy clearing with an expression somewhere between wonder and suspicion. She stood still, the warm light of late afternoon catching in her silver-streaked hair, her apron smudged with flour from the pies cooling behind her.

She hadn't meant to come out here. Not really. She just wanted to get a peek at the noise—children squealing, someone yelling “mud war!”—and maybe call everyone in for lemonade. That’s all. But what she found instead made her stop dead in her tracks, heart twisting in her chest.

There you were. Laughing.

Muddy from head to toe, grass in your hair, sleeves rolled up, chasing after one of your nieces with wild joy in your eyes that she hadn’t seen in—God, how long had it been?

And right beside you… him.

Jake Seresin, the Texas boy with charm sharp as spurs and a reputation that had, once upon a time, made her raise an eyebrow more than once.

He was covered in mud too, shirtless and grinning, water dripping down his jawline as he hoisted your nephew up in the air like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the kids had drawn a smiley face on his back with marker. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care.

Her breath caught.

And then it happened—you stumbled back from a slip in the wet grass, and Jake reached out without even thinking, catching you by the waist, steadying you as if his body still remembered the shape of yours. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, startled. He said something she couldn’t hear, and you rolled your eyes, trying to shove him off—though not very hard.

Her fingers moved before she even realized.

Click.

One photo. Then another. Then another.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But there was a knowing tug in her chest—like an old song she hadn’t heard in years playing quietly in the background of her thoughts.

You looked like a girl in love.

And Jake? Well… he looked like he had just remembered what it felt like to come home.

She lowered the camera slowly, eyes never leaving the pair of you, and smiled just a little to herself.

“Maybe,” she murmured under her breath, “just maybe.”

- You, Rogue - 

You didn’t mean to fall.

One second you were lunging after your nephew, hand outstretched to snag the edge of his shirt before he could escape the muddy ambush you and your niece had planned. The next, your foot slid in the wet grass, your arms windmilled, and then—

You were airborne.

“Shit!”

You barely got the word out before someone caught you mid-fall, arms wrapping around your waist, the rest of you crashing against something—someone—solid and stupidly warm and annoyingly familiar.

“Gotcha,” Jake drawled right against your ear, like a cowboy catching a tumbleweed.

And just like that, he had you. Picked you up. Just… scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all. His bare chest was damp from sweat and hose water, his jeans soaked and clinging to strong thighs, and you hated the way your breath caught at the feel of him. At the sound of his damn laugh when your muddy hand smeared across his shoulder.

“Put me down!” you shouted, squirming in his grip, even as the kids screamed with laughter around you.

“Nope,” he grinned, spinning with you in his arms. “You look like trouble, darlin’. Gotta keep an eye on you.”

You slapped at his chest, legs kicking. “You’re the one with a smiley face on your back, you idiot!”

He paused mid-spin. “Wait—what?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. The sound cracked out of you raw and surprised. The chaos around you—the kids yelling, someone spraying a hose again, your brother hollering something from the porch—it blurred into a warm blur of color and sound as Jake finally dropped you gently onto a pile of soaked grass.

You landed on your butt with a graceless thud, hair a mess, shirt clinging to your back, and mud streaked down your arms. Jake stood over you, grinning like the damn sun, and offered you a hand like a gentleman.

You took it.

Just to pull him down with you.

He yelped, hit the ground with a grunt, and for a second—just one heartbeat-long second—you both lay there, breathless and laughing, side by side in the summer haze, the world spinning around you in children’s shrieks and distant music and the smell of grilled corn and cut grass.

You turned your head. He was already looking at you.

The sky above was impossibly blue. His eyes were impossibly green. And for a split second, you swore the whole damn world slowed down.

You didn’t kiss him.

But God, it was close.

- Jake -

Jake wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Maybe it was the moment your laugh cut through the summer air like something ancient and wild, or maybe it was when your muddy hand smeared across his bare chest and you didn’t apologize—just glared at him like you were still that girl who could outmatch him in every way that mattered. Maybe it was earlier, back when he caught you mid-fall and realized that you still smelled like salt and sunshine and the kind of life he never thought he deserved.

Whatever the hell it was, it hit him like a bullet. Fast. Deep. Irreversible.

You were in front of him now, yelling something at one of the kids, your hair sticking to your neck, droplets glinting on your skin like gold in the dying light. The sun hit you just right—like it always had—and he felt that ache all over again. That same gut-punch he felt the first time he saw you grin under the Texas sky years ago, before he messed it all up with his arrogance, his ambition, his own damn fear.

Meanwhile, you were so alive. That’s what wrecked him. It wasn’t just your smile or your voice or the way your jeans hugged your hips—it was the way you moved like you belonged here. Like the earth and sky were built around you. You weren’t just beautiful, you were real. Real in a way most things in his life weren’t.

Then you looked at him. Brief. Barely a second. But you looked at him with those eyes—sharp and guarded and unknowingly soft—and Jake knew. He knew, in the most terrifying, infuriating way, that he was in love with you. Not some crush. Not some what-if. Love. That stupid, all-consuming kind.

He kicked at the grass, trying to shake the thought loose. Tried to convince himself it was the sunstroke or the adrenaline or the leftover tension from every unsaid word between you two. But it wasn’t. It was just you. And the quiet knowing that the second he saw you again, this version of you—commanding and sun-drenched and laughing through mud and kids and chaos—he was a goner.

And worst of all? He didn’t know if he deserved even a second of it. Not after everything. Not after the years. But damn if he didn’t want to try.

Jake Seresin swore the sun had nothing on you.

He’d spent years in cockpits, chasing horizons, burning through the sky like he had something to prove—and maybe he did, back then. But none of it, none of the blinding sunsets or golden-glow mornings that kissed the edges of the world like something out of a dream, ever touched what you looked like in this moment. Hair messy and pulled half-back with a strand falling loose against your cheek. Mud on your knees.

Shirt clinging to your spine in the heat. And that smile—God, that smile—sharp as ever, soft where no one else got to see. He remembered it. He’d never forgotten. It haunted him in the quiet and crept into his thoughts on missions and long flights, the ghost of it grinning like it had unfinished business.

Meanwhile, you were laughing with your cousin’s kid, crouched in the grass like you belonged to the wild. You flicked water at Jake and didn’t even look his way, too focused on teasing the children, too alive to notice the way his entire world tilted. It was maddening. It was holy. It was like watching the kind of woman poets write about and soldiers carve names into locker doors for—except you were real. And you hated him. And maybe he deserved it.

He ran a hand through his hair, watching as you stood up and stretched, the sun hitting the line of your waist in a way that made him clench his jaw. It should’ve been illegal. That easy sway in your hips. That tired but proud glint in your eye like you knew you ruled this little corner of earth and had no plans of giving it up.

Then you bent down to scoop a toddler into your arms, spinning her, laughing as she screamed with delight. And Jake…well, his knees almost gave out.

Not because he imagined you holding his kid like that—though, Jesus Christ, he did—but because it reminded him of everything he’d tried to shut out.

How warm you could be. How dangerous it felt to love someone who glowed from the inside out. And how badly he wanted to earn even an inch of that warmth again.

He tore his eyes away, just for a second, just to breathe—but it was no use. You were everywhere. In the sky. In the dirt. In the back of his goddamn mind. A storm in boots and a baseball cap. A fever he could never shake.

And Jake Seresin was parched. Starving. Hopelessly, humiliatingly thirsty—for a woman who looked at him like he was a closed chapter. A footnote. But still…he stayed. 

Because watching you now, sun-kissed and mud-streaked and all fire? It was the closest to heaven he’d ever gotten.

Jake didn’t realize when the noise around him faded—the laughter, the barking dogs, the clatter of beer bottles and ice buckets—until all that remained was the soft lilt of your voice somewhere across the yard.

You were bent at the waist again, helping one of your nieces wash off a muddy hand, and the light struck your profile like it was painting it for keeps. He could trace every angle by memory. He had, once. Quiet nights in his bunk. Long flights with nothing but time and guilt.

And now, the fantasy was whispering again.

It started small—just a flicker in the back of his mind. You in that kitchen you’d once dreamed about. Windows wide open. Coffee brewing. A dog at your feet. Then it deepened.

A blur of tiny footsteps racing across a hardwood floor, squeaky with morning. A giggle that sounded like you. A scowl that mirrored his. And then you, barefoot in the hallway, holding a sleepy-eyed toddler on your hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake blinked hard, suddenly warm beneath his collar. He wasn’t the kind of man who let himself want like that. Not anymore. But the image burned anyway—you and him in a little house tucked somewhere quiet, the kind of place where he could build what he never thought he deserved.

Maybe a swing in the front yard. Maybe a pickup in the driveway with a car seat in the back. Maybe he plants lilies along the fence because you once offhandedly said they were your favorite, and the look on your face when you saw them? Worth every sunburn and scraped knuckle.

He’d never even bought a girl flowers before. Never stayed long enough to learn what they liked. But with you? Lilies. White, soft, stubborn things. Grew in the sun. Survived the storms.

Just like you.

Meanwhile, you stood up and laughed again, brushing your hands off on your jeans. One of the kids tugged at your hand, pulling you back toward the yard, and Jake felt something in his chest twist. Not ache. Not quite. It was want—raw and deep and bigger than anything he’d felt in years.

He wanted to be the one you turned to. The one who carried in the groceries and kissed your temple just because. The one who gave you lilies every damn birthday, no matter where he was in the world. The one you leaned into when the world got loud.

Jake Seresin wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t that simple.

But God, for the first time in his life, he wanted to try.

And if you’d let him—just give him one more chance—he’d give you the whole damn garden.

He didn’t notice you walking up at first. He was too far gone, stuck in that half-dream where your hand fit perfectly into his and the world was quieter, softer, wrapped in summer cotton and the scent of lilies. But then your shadow crossed his boots, and your voice—sharp, familiar, home—sliced clean through the haze.

“Seresin,” you said, firm as ever.

He blinked up, caught like a deer in headlights. Your arms were crossed, your brows drawn together like they always did when you were irritated. There was a smudge of dirt on your cheekbone, a streak of dried mud on your shirt, and somehow you still looked like you could knock the wind out of him without even trying.

You didn’t wait for him to come up with something clever.

“You’re muddy,” you said, blunt and unimpressed. “Go clean up. Dinner’s soon, and my mom will actually murder you if you track dirt onto her porch.”

That tone. That exact brand of annoyed-but-secretly-concerned that made him grin before he even meant to.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Jake drawled, lazy and smug, “you always talk this sweet to your guests, or am I just special?”

Your eyes narrowed into something that could’ve cut steel.

“Don’t push me, Hangman,” you warned, voice low. “You are already on thin ice.”

He lifted both hands, palms up, like he was some innocent cowboy who’d never done a damn thing wrong in his life.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But you didn’t smile. You just gave him one last glare—like a warning shot—and turned on your heel. Your boots squelched softly in the dirt as you headed back toward the house, leaving him blinking after you, still half-caught in the image of you in a sundress and muddy boots, tossing him that same frown thirty years from now with a ring on your finger.

Jake exhaled slowly, watching you disappear into the crowd.

Get it together, Seresin.

Dinner was coming.

And so was trouble.

The guest room was small but warm, the kind of place that smelled like cedarwood and old books, like history and a lifetime of love carved into the floorboards. Jake dropped his duffle bag by the edge of the bed, the springs creaking just a little when it hit. He paused, blinking at the sight of another bag already there—dark green canvas, fraying a little at the seams. Not his. He frowned.

Probably belonged to one of your brothers. Or a cousin. Or a friend of the family passing through. The house was full of bodies and boots and energy, after all. He didn’t think too hard about it. The need to get clean tugged at him harder than the mystery of who claimed what.

Your mother had been sweet, as always, showing him the room like he wasn’t the guy who’d broken her daughter’s heart clean in half once upon a time. She smiled kindly and said, “There’s hot water. Fresh towel’s hanging. Go clean up, darlin’. You look like you rolled through hell and back.”

And he had—in a way.

So, he peeled off his shirt first, tugging the fabric over his head and feeling the dried mud crumble like dust onto the hardwood. His boots came next, then the rest of his clothes. The bathroom mirror caught a glimpse of his reflection—sunburned shoulders, flushed cheeks, that damn stubborn smirk still ghosting across his mouth like a man who had no right.

Jake stepped into the shower and twisted the knob. Steam poured in seconds later, curling up around him like a memory.

The water hit him hot and hard, sluicing over skin and sweat, washing the afternoon off his shoulders. But the thoughts didn’t go away. If anything, the quiet made them worse.

He braced one arm against the tile, head down, water beating across the nape of his neck—and that’s when she showed up.

Not in person, no. In his damn head.

You, soaked in rain and mud, laughing in the yard as kids screamed and chased each other. You, yelling at him to clean up, but eyes flicking down his bare chest like you couldn’t help it.

You, standing under the Texas sun, defiant and glowing, fire in your glare and something soft flickering underneath. A kind of softness he remembered. A kind he used to know.

Jake exhaled, long and low, like he could breathe you out. Like the heat of the water could chase your face from his mind. But it didn’t.

It got worse.

Your voice. Your eyes. Your mouth.

His hand curled into a fist against the slick tile wall.

"Get it together, Seresin," he muttered to himself. "This ain't the time."

But God, it had been a long time. And suddenly, the idea of you sharing this room—of that duffle bag maybe being yours—hit him with the force of a jet engine.

Oh, he was screwed. And not in the way he wanted.

- You, Rogue -

The sun had started its slow descent behind the fields, casting golden rays that poured into the corners of the farmhouse like warm honey. You’d just about had enough of the noise, the chaos, the squealing of kids using your childhood bedroom like it was a damn jungle gym. Your old dresser was littered with dolls that weren’t yours, stuffed animals whose eyes stared blankly, and one suspicious-looking crayon mural on the closet door that hadn’t been there twenty years ago.

You pouted. Unapologetically.

Your father had chuckled, all gravel and warmth. “Spare guest room’s empty, sweetheart. You can crash there for now.”

You didn’t argue—just nodded, already tugging your duffel bag from beneath a pile of someone’s blanket fort. That morning, you had dropped your stuff in the guest room before helping your mom out front.

Now, covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and sticky child-handprints, you pushed the door open and let it shut behind you with a soft click. It was quiet in here, cooler too, the way old farmhouses always held the chill of dusk in their bones.

You locked the door out of habit, drew the curtains, and stripped down without ceremony. Your robe was nowhere in sight—probably left in the trunk of your car—but you weren’t about to go looking. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you padded barefoot across the hardwood, steps quiet as you made your way toward the bathroom.

Then you paused.

There—on the bed. Something that definitely wasn’t yours. A second duffle bag. A wrinkled T-shirt. Socks. Boxers. Oh, for the love of—

You rolled your eyes with the weight of a thousand exasperated sighs, arms folding as you marched across the room to investigate. Maybe it was one of your cousins. Or maybe—

The bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam.

And then—

“Well… well,” came a drawl, slow and rich as molasses.

You whipped around, eyes wide.

Jake Seresin stood there in nothing but a towel, drops of water tracing the carved lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, glistening like he was carved out of sin and every bad decision you ever made. His hair was damp, mussed perfectly without trying. His smirk? Lethal.

And oh—his eyes locked on you, towel-clad and stunned mid-step, and lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Would you look at that,” he said again, voice lower now. “Talk about walking into paradise.”

You blinked.

He grinned.

And the towel around your body felt suddenly very, very insufficient.

The steam curled from the bathroom like smoke from a lit match, clinging to the air with the scent of cedar soap and something sinfully masculine. You barely had time to process the fact that the mystery toiletries on the sink weren’t yours before the door swung open—and there he was.

Jake Seresin.

Dripping wet.

Shirtless.

Smug as hell.

And wrapped in a towel that was doing the bare minimum.

His broad shoulders glistened, golden from the remnants of the setting sun slipping through the curtains. Water ran in rivulets down the defined lines of his chest, cutting through the faint dusting of freckles and tan like the universe was outlining sin itself. That damn smirk curled onto his lips the second he saw you—towel wrapped tight, hair damp, standing in front of the bed like a deer caught in a thunderstorm of what the actual hell is happening.

He didn’t even flinch. No shame. No embarrassment. Just that cocky, damn-near-illegal glint in his eyes as he leaned lazily against the doorframe, water still dripping off the ends of his hair, traveling down the slope of his neck and vanishing behind the cotton barrier wrapped snug on his hips.

“Well,” he drawled, voice deep and slow like whiskey on a southern summer night. “Wasn’t expecting company… but I gotta say, I’m not mad about it.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Words were there—maybe a curse, maybe a scream—but none made it out. Instead, you just stared. At him. At his bare chest. At the way his abs flexed subtly when he shifted. At the slight dip of the towel where his hipbone peeked out like a damn invitation to ruin your life.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you finally hissed, clutching your towel tighter with both hands like it was a lifeline.

Jake blinked, faux-innocent. “Your mom said the spare room was free. Guess we both had the same idea.”

You were going to combust. Not from embarrassment—no, that ship had sailed the second you caught a glimpse of the way a single droplet of water trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the fold of the towel—but from sheer, blinding, seething indignation.

“This is my room,” you snapped.

“Looks like it’s our room now, darlin’,” he said, cocking a brow as his gaze slipped—not rudely, but boldly—from your face down to the curve of your towel-wrapped figure. “Unless you want me to leave.”

You wanted to punch him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something.

And maybe—just maybe—you wanted to drop the towel and see if he’d still be standing there all smug.

Jake must’ve sensed that dangerous crossroads of thought because he stepped forward slightly, his voice dipping. “You gonna kick me out, sunshine? Or are you gonna admit that you missed me?”

You scoffed, cheeks burning. “I didn’t miss you. I forgot you existed.”

“Oh,” he murmured, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, eyes still on you like you were something sacred and forbidden. “Then why are you staring like that?”

You weren’t staring. You were not staring. Absolutely not. You were simply—

Then his towel slipped just an inch lower on his hips, and you made a noise in your throat that could only be described as a choke.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart,” Jake teased, grinning.

You snapped out of your stupor like you'd been slapped. “Put some damn clothes on.”

“Say please.”

“Jake.”

He winked, slow and lazy, then stepped back toward the bathroom door. “Alright, alright. I’ll be good.”

He turned—and you got a full view of his back muscles working under skin still damp from the shower. You gulped.

The door closed behind him.

And you just stood there, staring at the space he’d been in, cheeks burning, pulse racing, and towel clutched like a lifeline.

Hell.

This was going to be a long weekend.

By the time Jake exited the bathroom, the air around him was thick with the scent of soap, aftershave, and smug satisfaction. He was still towel-drying his hair, now dressed in a white t-shirt that clung too well to his chest, and a pair of jeans that hung low on his hips in a way that should’ve been outlawed in polite society. His boots were off—thank God—but that cocky, heat-soaked grin? That was very much still on.

He passed you with a small nod and a whistle-soft, “Don’t take too long now. Dinner’s soon, birthday girl,” before tossing his damp towel onto a nearby chair like he owned the damn place.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Because the second the door clicked shut behind him, you lunged into the bathroom like it was your last salvation.

The moment the door locked behind you, your back hit the wall, and your towel nearly slipped with the force of your breath. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a five-mile sprint—not walked in on a man you allegedly forgot you were in love with. The steam in the room hadn’t dissipated yet, and it wrapped around your skin like a memory, thick and too damn hot.

You blinked.

His soap still clung to the air. His scent still lingered in the steam.

You cursed under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Why the hell was Jake Seresin always ten times hotter when you were actively trying not to think about him? Why did he have to look at you like that? Talk to you like he had all the time in the world and nothing to lose? Stand there like a walking sin with a towel hanging so low on his hips you were pretty sure your ancestors felt that down their spines?

You were burning up.

Not just from the heat in the room, but from the fire crawling up your neck and down your spine like molten sugar and hellfire. That man had the audacity to exist like that—just exist—with a smirk and soft drawl and biceps that looked like they could throw you over a fence.

And you let him.

You watched him.

You remembered every drop of water sliding down his chest, every twitch of that cocky little smirk, every brush of his voice when he said your name like he’d never forgotten it.

God, you needed a cold shower inside a blizzard under a glacier.

Instead, you groaned and stepped under the still-warm spray of water he’d left behind, muttering curses to yourself as if that would rinse the images of him out of your head.

They didn’t. They only got worse. Because now you could see him there, in this space—his footprints still on the mat, his breath still clinging to the mirror. And your knees might’ve wobbled just a little as you gripped the edge of the sink and whispered to yourself—

“Get a grip.” But you didn’t believe it. Not even a little.

You were finally clean. The kind of clean that only came after scrubbing off not just mud but the weight of the entire day — your skin warm from the water, your hair damp and curling against the nape of your neck, steam fogging up the mirror like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. You’d taken your time, hoping the silence might scrub away the image of Jake Seresin standing shirtless in the same damn bathroom just minutes ago. It didn’t work.

Wrapped snugly in a towel, you turned toward the door, ready to put an end to this spiral — only to realize something crucial. Your clothes. Your actual, decent, non-humiliating clothes? Still in your duffel bag. Which, naturally, was not in the bathroom. No. It was on the bed. Out there. With Jake.

Your stomach dropped. Your face flushed instantly with heat that had nothing to do with the shower. You stared at the bathroom door like it had personally betrayed you.

You considered your options. You could march out, wrapped in nothing but your towel, and grab the bag yourself — risk walking past the man who’d already seen far too much. Or, you could bite the bullet. Ask for help. Humble yourself.

Groaning under your breath, you cracked the door just slightly and peeked through the gap. Jake’s voice drifted through before you could even speak — humming off-key to some old country song like he was just a man enjoying his own company and not the reason you were considering climbing out the bathroom window.

You exhaled sharply and said his name. “Jake?”

The humming cut off, replaced by a beat of silence. You could hear the shift of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboards as he turned toward the door. Then, far too amused for your liking, he answered, “Well, well. Sunshine. Miss me already?”

You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “I need my duffel.”

Another beat. You knew exactly what kind of grin was spreading across his face. The smug one. The one that belonged to a man who had never once let you live anything down.

“You mean the one out here? With your clothes in it?” he asked, faux-innocent.

You closed your eyes. “Yes, Jake. That one.”

A low chuckle rolled from his chest, and you heard him moving, footsteps heading toward the bed. “I got you,” he said. “Only because it’s your birthday. And because I’m a gentleman.”

You didn’t grace that with a reply. Just pushed your arm through the crack in the door, fingers wiggling impatiently. The second the canvas of the duffel hit your palm, you yanked it through — but of course, Jake couldn’t help himself.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’ve dreamed about this moment before.”

You were already turning away when he added, just loud enough to reach you, “Didn’t say it was a dirty dream.”

The door shut on his smirk, and you leaned your forehead against the cool tile, clutching the duffel bag like it was a shield. Your pulse was still hammering. Your ears were red. You hadn’t even changed yet and already you felt half undone.

Inside the steam and silence, you whispered to yourself, “You are not losing your mind. You are not attracted to him again. You’re just... hot. It’s just the weather.”

But even as you unzipped your bag, you couldn’t deny the truth.

Jake Seresin, the human migraine, was getting under your skin again. And he hadn’t even really started yet.

The backyard had been completely transformed. String lights were strung between trees and porch posts, glowing amber for the deepening blue of a Texas evening later. Long tables had been set with checkered cloths and mismatched plates, pitchers of iced tea and lemonade sweating on every surface. The smell of grilled meat lingered heavy in the air, tangled with the warm, comforting scent of sun-warmed grass and citronella candles. Laughter echoed like a hymn — soft and constant, as if the whole world had taken a breath and decided to stay right here.

You stepped into it dressed and clean, your hair still damp, pulled back in a quick braid that clung to the back of your neck. You had slipped into a loose cotton dress that your mother had left on your childhood bed, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone softer than what the Navy hardened.

Your boots hit the porch step with a solid thud. Then you scanned the crowd — cousins shouting over a cornhole match, your uncles gathered around a cooler, your aunts near the grill gossiping like it was religion. And right there in the thick of it, beer in hand and talking to your brother like he’d belonged all his life, was Jake.

He looked up like he felt you before he saw you. His eyes met yours across the backyard, and for a moment, the noise faded out. He was wearing a clean white t-shirt now, sleeves rolled up, jeans low on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower — the cocky bastard looked every inch like the boy you used to curse under your breath and secretly stare at. But this wasn’t some reckless flyboy anymore. This was a man, and that was somehow worse.

You tried to act unaffected, crossing the yard with your chin high and spine stiff. But the way Jake stood up when you got closer — the way he pulled out the chair beside him, grinning just slightly — you knew he was going to get under your skin again. He always did.

“Birthday girl,” he greeted as you dropped into the seat, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

The plate in front of you was empty for two seconds before Jake reached for it and started piling on food like muscle memory. Ribs, your aunt’s corn pudding, slices of brisket, and a scoop of the macaroni your cousin swore she made from scratch but absolutely did not.

“This much brisket?” he asked, shooting you a look.

“You’re lucky I don’t shove it down your throat.”

Jake grinned like you’d just told him a love poem. “Threatening violence on your birthday. Classic you.”

“You want me to add the fork in your eye to my wish list?”

“I missed you,” he said under his breath, and that? That almost made you drop your glass. Almost.

The table was loud — too loud, and the warmth in your chest too unfamiliar. Jake passed you the cornbread without asking, refilled your lemonade like he had every right to. He didn’t push. Didn’t flirt. Just stayed close, smiling whenever you spoke, listening when you didn’t.

Then came the moment you’d been dreading.

“Happy birthday to you…”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hand as your family sang with full volume and zero tune. Jake leaned in close, voice low beside your ear.

“No use hiding, sunshine. Take it like a pilot.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he just laughed. He never even looked at the cake — his eyes stayed on you the whole time, like you were the flame, not the candles.

When it was time to blow them out, he leaned in again. “Make a wish.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I already got what I wanted.”

His brows lifted in surprise. “Oh yeah? Me?”

“Silence,” you deadpanned, then took a bite of cake like you didn’t notice the way his smile turned into something tender.

Your mother raised a toast. Your father gave a speech. The table clinked glasses and passed plates, and through it all, Jake didn’t move from your side. And you let him stay.

Dinner had long wrapped, but the yard still buzzed with life. Lanterns swung lazily from the trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the evening. Kids shrieked and laughed as they ran barefoot across the grass, dodging sprinklers and slipping in the mud.

Adults lingered in clumps around the grills and tables, voices lowered now, soothed by full bellies and the sweetness of homemade pie. It was the kind of night that made time feel like it bent a little — like it curved inward and held everything close.

You were about to help clean up when a familiar sound cut through the hum of conversation. A wheeze. A low huff. Nails on the wooden porch.

You froze.

And then you saw him.

“Bingo?” you breathed out, like the word alone might summon him closer.

The old Labrador came hobbling down the porch steps, slower than he used to be, his once-golden fur now dulled to a soft cream shot through with gray. His tail swayed, not wagging as wildly as it had when he was younger, but still moving, still trying. Still happy.

You dropped down into the grass without a second thought, your dress catching on a twig, your hands reaching out. “Hey, old man,” you whispered, cradling his tired face. “You still remember me?”

Bingo leaned into your hands and licked your cheek, huffing softly against your skin. You laughed, even as your throat tightened, and blinked against the burn behind your eyes.

And then, like gravity — like clockwork — Jake was there. He moved into the scene like he belonged, crouching down beside you, boots sinking into the earth. His gaze softened at the sight of the dog.

“Damn,” he murmured, running his hand down Bingo’s back with a tenderness you hadn’t seen in years. “Still kickin’.”

“He’s a tough one,” you replied, not looking at him.

“I always knew he’d outlive all of us,” he said with a lopsided grin, still looking at the dog. “Still got better instincts than half the squadron.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Bingo huffed again, content to lean his weight against both of you — like he didn’t care about time, or history, or everything unspoken hovering between the two people he loved most.

Then your mother’s voice called out from the porch, light and warm, “Hey! Let’s get a picture. Come on — just like the one from before!”

You looked up, heart sinking just a little.

Before.

Before everything.

Still, you didn’t argue. Not when your dad had already joined your mom on the steps, waving you both over. Not when Bingo began trotting that way with all the shaky dignity he could muster.

You stood and followed, wiping your hands on your dress. Jake moved beside you, just far enough not to touch, but close enough to feel.

On the porch, the photographer — your cousin Ellie — arranged you quickly. “Okay,” she chirped, “just like before! You and Jake in the middle. Bingo between you. Your parents on either side.”

You and Jake took your places, shoulders brushing. You both knelt again. Bingo plopped his butt between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake glanced at you, his arm settling gently behind Bingo’s back. “Ready?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just smile, Seresin.”

The camera clicked. And there it was. A snapshot.

You in your old boots and a sundress, Jake in a white T-shirt and jeans, his hands muddy and hair a mess. Your parents standing tall and proud on either side. And Bingo, the last link to who you used to be, smack in the middle.

You felt something lodge in your throat when you stood. Something small, sharp, and unspoken. You didn’t know what it meant yet. Maybe you didn’t want to.

Jake’s hand brushed yours when he stood beside you. You didn’t flinch, but you didn’t reach back, either.

The swing creaked as you sat down, the familiar groan of old wood and rusted chains filling the quiet air like a memory. The sun had dipped lower now, slanting gold across the horizon, painting shadows long and low across the fields you once called home.

You swayed gently, toes brushing the dust-soft ground, fingers curled loosely around the chain links. The cool breeze carried the scent of cut grass, barbecue smoke, and rain that had never quite come.

And then you heard footsteps.

Not rushed. Not hesitant either. Just… there. Steady, familiar. And you didn’t have to look to know.

You kept your eyes on the sky, the pale orange bleeding into pink. “If you’re here to bother me again,” you said, voice calm, cool, unreadable, “I swear to God, Seresin—”

“I’m not here to bother you.” His voice was quiet, too quiet for Jake Seresin, and that alone made your hands tighten around the swing’s chain. “I just… saw you come out here. Thought maybe—” He paused. “Thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone.”

You snorted. “You thought wrong.”

He didn’t answer. You heard the rustle of grass as he walked around, and then he was in your peripheral vision, hands in his back pockets, boots scuffing the dirt like he was twelve years old and about to confess to breaking a window.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t sit.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said finally, voice low. “To today. To any of this.”

“No one asked you to.”

“I know.” A pause. “Your mom did.”

You closed your eyes briefly, jaw clenching. “Of course she did.”

He shifted again, then leaned against the old post of the swing set. You could feel his gaze, hot and heavy, but still you didn’t turn.

“I meant what I said. Back there, in the office.” His voice was quieter now, steadier somehow. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?” you asked, tone sharp like a snap of wire. “You weren’t lying now, but you were lying then. You lied to me, Jake. You used me.”

“I was a kid,” he murmured.

“So was I,” you snapped, finally looking at him. The anger rose like a tide, quick and bright. “But I didn’t turn someone’s heart into a party trick.”

Jake didn’t flinch. He just looked at you, solemn and still. “You left.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said you left.” His jaw worked. “You didn’t just walk out of my life, you disappeared from the damn map. No calls. No message. Nothing. I turned around and you were just… gone.”

Your chest tightened. “I left because I had to. Because staying meant looking at the version of myself I became around you—small, pathetic, invisible.”

“I never wanted you to feel that way.”

“But you didn’t stop it either,” you said, standing now, fury crackling beneath your skin. “You stood there while they laughed. While I was trying so hard not to cry in front of everyone. And when I gave you everything I had—my time, my loyalty, my belief—you threw it back like it was nothing.”

Jake’s voice came out quieter. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”

You laughed, cold and bitter. “You think this is about a grade? About a project? You were the first person to make me feel like I was worth seeing, Jake. Like maybe I wasn’t just the weird, quiet girl who loved jets and read manuals for fun. And then, when it mattered… you made me feel like I was a joke.”

Silence stretched between you. The wind pulled gently at your dress, lifting strands of hair across your cheek. Jake’s face was pale in the soft light, his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know what the hell to say.

Finally, he stepped forward. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m not asking for that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking for?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Maybe just… to not be a ghost in your story anymore.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t the boy you remembered—too smug, too handsome for his own good, too damn reckless with hearts that weren’t his. This man in front of you was older, weathered in ways you hadn’t expected. He wore guilt like a second skin, pride chipped away beneath a uniform and call signs and medals that didn’t erase the kid who once broke you.

But still.

It wasn’t enough.

“You’re not a ghost,” you said finally, voice soft but cold. “You’re the bruise that never fully faded.”

And with that, you turned back to the swing, sitting down again with a sigh. The air felt heavier now, but somehow clearer too. Jake didn’t say anything else. He just stood there, watching the woman he once thought he could forget.

Meanwhile, the cicadas began their slow chorus. The stars blinked into being, one by one. And neither of you moved.

Jake exhaled. It was shaky, like it had been trapped in his chest for years. Then, quietly: “I know I don’t deserve to ask anything from you.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, but you said nothing.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. You didn’t move. Not away. Not toward. Just still.

“But I’m going to say it anyway,” Jake murmured. “Because I’m tired of letting the best things in my life slip through my fingers just because I was too proud or too scared to admit I screwed up.”

There was a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. But it cracked on the next breath.

“I used to think you were a detour,” he said, his hands clenched at his sides. “Just a stop along the way. A girl who knew too much about engines and didn’t laugh at the right jokes. But you… God, you were everything. I just didn’t know it yet.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted in disbelief.

“You were fire wrapped in softness. You were brilliant, and kind, and so damn loyal it scared me. And I—” his voice broke, and he looked away for the first time, dragging a hand through his hair like he was trying to hold himself together.

Then he looked back. And his eyes… they were wet.

“I was the fool. Not you. I was the coward who needed everyone to think he was cool, even if it meant throwing away the one person who actually saw me. Really saw me. And I hurt you. I used you. I mocked what you gave me like it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered more than anything.”

His throat bobbed, his voice raw and cracking as he stepped even closer, as if the distance between you was burning him alive.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispered. “You don’t even have to look at me again. But I needed you to know... I love you. I never stopped.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, the words hitting like a punch to the chest.

Jake’s shoulders shook now. He tried to breathe, but it came out a choke. He covered his mouth with his hand, tried to blink it back, but the tears were already falling—silent, slow, like the kind that don’t beg for pity. Just truth.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ve loved you since the day you handed me that stupid project and told me not to fail. I just didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you.”

You stood slowly, eyes locked on his. He was crying, nose pink, jaw trembling—Jake Seresin, who never flinched in dogfights, who never let anyone see the cracks.

And now, all of him was cracked wide open. Just for you.

Your voice was quiet at first. Almost too quiet to hear above the creak of the swing swaying slightly behind you. But Jake heard it—heard you—and the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to keep control, tried to keep steel where there was only the slow-melting ache of grief.

“I wanted to forget you,” you whispered, eyes burning. “And God, I tried. For years. I told myself you didn’t mean anything. That it didn’t matter how you looked at me like I was worth nothing in front of your friends. That it didn’t matter how you let them laugh, let them joke about the quiet girl who knew too much and felt too much.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself you didn’t mean it. That maybe you were just young. Stupid. Caught in the wrong moment.”

Jake stood frozen, barely breathing, eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever mattered. Because you were.

“And now?” you continued, voice breaking at the edges. “Now you show up like this. With words I waited for years to hear. And it’s not that I don’t want to believe you—God, Jake, part of me wants to. But I’m terrified.” Your voice cracked completely now, tears slipping down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for this. “Because if I forgive you… if I let myself fall for you again, and you leave—if you break me again—I won’t come back from that.”

Jake’s face crumpled. All of his armor, the cocky smirks, the playboy confidence, the golden-boy glow—shattered. He stepped closer, slowly, then dropped to his knees right there in front of you, in the dirt, like none of it mattered. Because it didn’t. Not if he couldn’t reach you.

“I won’t leave,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I won’t hurt you again. I swear to you, I swear on everything I’ve got left—I will never, ever let you feel like you’re not enough. Not again.”

His hands were on your waist, trembling, grounding him. His forehead lowered against your stomach, and you felt his body shaking—not with cold or nerves but with something deeper. Something broken and rebuilt, still raw at the edges.

“I love you,” he said again, almost pleading now. “And I know that word isn’t enough. I know I’ve got a hell of a mountain to climb to prove it. But I’ll do it. I’ll prove it every damn day for the rest of my life if you let me. I’ll give you every flower, every sunrise, every second chance you thought you’d never get.”

He looked up at you, eyes wet, voice soft but sure. “I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not running. Not from you. Not from us. I will never leave you behind again.”

And as you looked down at him—at Jake Seresin, on his knees, shaking in your arms, eyes wide and begging like prayers—you realized he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness.

He was asking for forever.

You stared at him, at the man kneeling in the dirt like he wasn’t born of sky and pride but forged from something heartbreakingly human. Jake Seresin—your first betrayal, your oldest wound, your almost. His hands were still on your waist like a tether, like if he let go, he’d float off and lose you again.

And God, your chest ached with it—with the heat of his words, the trembling in his shoulders, the way his eyes never once strayed from yours. You wanted to run. You wanted to scream. You wanted to collapse into his arms and never let go.

Instead, you knelt in front of him.

It startled him—his breath caught, his eyes widened like he didn’t expect you to meet him on his knees. But you did. Slowly. Carefully. As if any sudden move might break you both again.

“I used to imagine what this would look like,” you said, your voice rough, lips trembling with the effort it took to speak. “You, apologizing. Me, finally getting to ask why.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head, not finished.

“I used to think if I ever saw you again, I’d slap you. Or worse. And maybe I should’ve.” You laughed wetly, bitter and exhausted. “But then you looked at me. Not the way you used to—God, not like that—but like I was real again. Like I wasn’t just something you stepped over to get where you wanted.”

Jake’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He was still crying—quietly now. Steady. Like it wasn’t a thing he could stop, just a thing he carried.

You reached up, thumb grazing his cheek, brushing a tear away. “You were my first heartbreak, Jake. And maybe that means I’ll always flinch when you get too close. Maybe I’ll always wonder if I’m just a placeholder again.”

Jake gripped your wrist gently, turning into your palm like it was the only lifeline he had.

“But maybe,” you whispered, “I want to find out.”

His breath hitched. “You do?”

“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice cracking with a laugh, with something like fragile hope. “I’m still scared. But if you’re willing to do the work… if you’re really in this, Jake—then yeah.”

His mouth was trembling now, his shoulders shaking harder. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I don’t want pretty speeches,” you warned, even as you leaned closer, forehead pressed to his. “I want the truth. I want actions. I want the man you are now—not the boy who broke me.”

He nodded, over and over like he couldn’t believe you were saying this, like he needed to etch the words into his heart before they disappeared. “I’ll be him. For you, I’ll be him.”

Then, finally—finally—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. And Jake folded into you like he’d been waiting years just to breathe again.

A quiet, shared exhale against the tender press of foreheads—him on his knees, you holding him like he might fall apart if you let go. And maybe you would too. You could still taste the ache between you. Years of silence, of what-ifs and almosts and never-agains. But in that moment, wrapped in the soft amber of dusk and the hush of the farm behind you, there was only one truth left.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle, not entirely. It was hesitant, then desperate, then sure. The kind of kiss that tasted of memories and apologies, of pain soothed and promises rewritten. His hands cradled your face like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he was scared you’d vanish if he blinked. And you held him like he was no longer the boy who hurt you, but the man who swore he never would again.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. You looked at him—really looked—and there it was: the wonder in his eyes, the salt of old regrets on his lips, the trembling hope in his touch.

“You’re crying,” you whispered.

“I’ve been crying since I saw you in that swing,” he murmured, grinning through it now. “You kissed me.”

“You begged,” you shot back with a smirk, cheeks burning.

Jake laughed, forehead against yours again. “Damn right I did.”

And somewhere behind you, the sounds of laughter and music and clinking glasses carried from the house. But in the quiet between heartbeats, it was just the two of you. No call signs. No ghosts. No armor.

Just the girl who ran wild in the fields and the boy who didn’t know what he had until she left.

Funny, really.

Once, you’d been the fool for loving him. The quiet one. The invisible one. The girl no one expected to rise.

And he—he’d been the golden boy.

But life has a wicked sense of humor.

Because now, as he knelt there beneath the stars, still trembling from the kiss you gave him, there was no mistaking it:

The golden boy had become the fool.

And he’d never been happier to be one.

[mrsevans90]

Sy: Happy 4th darlin’. What’s say we end this night with a bang.

You: God you’re so cheesy.

Sy: Yeah but I know by the look in your eyes you’re about to let me nurse on that pretty little clit of yours before stretching your pussy on my fingers… on my cock.

You’re left speechless, arousal humming through you.

Sy: See there. Always know how to get my perfect girl goin’. Come here.

Within seconds you’re stripped and laid on your back, and as the night carries on Sy makes you see fireworks over and over again.

[mrsevans90]

Andy Lister, stunt double extraordinaire.

[mrsevans90]

the fool unmakes the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part four]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 17.9k words (a short one, i am sorry)

summary: after weeks of brutal training, the squad faced rogue’s final test — the evaluation gauntlet, a mission she designed to break them or make them. each phase pushed them to their limits, testing how well they could fly, adapt, and survive. by the end, they were bloody, bruised, and barely standing, but still standing. rogue, once a nobody in jake seresin’s past, now held his future in her hands. the fool unmakes the golden boy... but can he rebuild himself before it’s too late?

warnings: angst, slow burn, humiliation, second chances, regret, rivalry, second person pov (flashbacks), third person pov (present), mentions of emotional manipulation, sexual tension, reader is unhinged but in uniform, jake is a menace turned mess, this is fictional and i do not really know how the navy works, i just researched, the fool unmakes the golden boy.

notes: we’re officially down to the second to the last part of the series—can you believe that?! are you guys ready for the chaos, the heartbreak, the closure (or maybe not)? thank you so much for sticking around, screaming in the tags, crying in the inbox, and breathing life into this fic. tag list will be in the comments as always. enjoy, and buckle up.

part one , part two , part three

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

The fluorescent lights of the briefing room buzzed faintly overhead, the only sound besides the low rustle of flight suits and the occasional shift of boots against the polished floor. The air was cold—not from the temperature, but from the pressure. Something unspoken hung in the oxygen, thick as jet fuel. Tension curled in every corner, stiffened every spine.

Every member of Dagger Squadron was seated, backs straight, posture just shy of parade rest. Not because they were ordered to, but because the atmosphere demanded it. These weren’t rookies—they’d seen combat, flown the impossible. But the way Warlock stood at the front of the room now, hands clasped behind his back, face carved from stone? This wasn’t standard ops.

“Gentlemen. Ladies,” Warlock began, his voice cutting clean through the silence. “Today’s operation is not a drill.”

He stepped aside slightly, allowing the three visiting commanders to step forward: Jinx, Ruin, and Commander Rogue. Their presence alone shifted the room’s energy. All three were in full flight suits, squadron patches glinting under the lights, ribbons and bars meticulously affixed. They didn’t look tired. They didn’t look rushed. They looked like they belonged there—and like they owned the air you breathed.

“You’re about to undergo what the Navy designates as GAUNTLET-EVAL 2A-BRAVO,” Warlock continued. “Unofficially? We call it Hell Day. Designed to test every inch of your training and tactical adaptability—under fire, under pressure, under silence.”

He let the silence stretch for a second.

“Five phases,” he said. “Rotating structure. New team assignments. Unstable conditions. This isn’t about flying well. This is about whether you can fly smart. Whether you survive when everything you rely on is stripped from you.”

The words hit like gunfire. Fanboy shifted in his seat. Bob’s jaw tightened. Even Payback looked like he’d started to sweat.

“Commander Ruin,” Warlock said, giving a nod.

Ruin stepped forward, voice sharp and formal—like steel on ice. “Phase One: Simulated Missile Evasion. Your radar guidance will be degraded. Some of you will have intermittent blind spots. Others? You’ll be targeted with digital lock-ons by real-time intercept controllers.”

He glanced at the WSOs in the room. “Those of you in the backseat—you’ll need to adapt faster than you ever have before. Use your ears, your eyes, your gut. That stick in front of you won’t save your pilot if your system reads ghosted locks. Do not treat this like sim.”

“Phase Two,” Jinx said, stepping up with a clipped nod. “Fuel-Starvation Combat. Each element will fly a six-minute combat window with simulated limited reserves. Your birds will read fuel-starved at random intervals—you won’t know when. Mission success will require a kill confirmation before your gauge hits the red. If you’re wasteful, sloppy, or take too long lining up a shot? You're out. And so is your teammate.”

Coyote swore under his breath. Yale ran a hand down his face.

“And Phase Three,” said Rogue, stepping forward with the quiet authority of someone who did not repeat herself. “Altitude Suppression Exercises. You’ll be flying dangerously low terrain courses—ground radar disabled, terrain alerts muted. You will navigate by instinct, topographical memory, and your own damn eyes.”

The squad didn’t move, but every breath in the room got just a little tighter.

She continued, tone unflinching, crisp. “There will be no safety rails. If you lose altitude control or deviate beyond five meters of the approved flight line? Mission fail. Strike off the board.”

“Phase Four,” Jinx rejoined. “Mixed-team dogfight. You’ll be reassigned to fly with a completely different element. You may be paired with a solo wing or unfamiliar WSO. There will be no time for chemistry or warm-up. We want to know: Can you adapt, or do you crumble when your rhythm breaks?”

“And finally,” Rogue said again, stepping forward once more, her voice dropping a note lower. “Phase Five: Comms Blackout.”

The words dropped like a pin in a cathedral.

“Final phase. No radios. No intercoms. No GPS. No data links. You will fly with nothing but what you know and what you see. Total blackout conditions. You will be evaluated not just on flight path, but survival instinct and tactical prioritization.”

Phoenix stared ahead. Rooster looked like he forgot how to breathe. Even Hangman—cool, cocky, unshakable Hangman—didn’t so much as twitch a smirk.

“This is a full-spectrum psychological and performance pressure test,” Ruin said. “One designed to measure who you are when your wing breaks, your comms go dead, and the fight comes to you.”

No one dared speak.

And then Rogue stepped forward one last time, her gaze sweeping the room with the weight of an admiral and the bite of a dagger.

“There are no freebies,” she said. “No do-overs. You fly as a team—or you burn trying. The sky doesn't care how skilled you are if your crew can't count on you.”

A beat. “Any questions?”

For a moment, no one moved. The tension was so dense you could hear the slow click of someone’s molars grinding. Then, inevitably, it was Fanboy—always just brave enough to speak, never quite brave enough to do it without sweating—who raised a shaky hand.

“Uh—sir, ma'am?” he said, voice just a notch too high as he glanced between Rogue and Warlock. “Respectfully… is there a pass/fail marker for each phase? Like, are we graded per round or…?”

His question trailed off under Rogue’s gaze, which didn’t even harden—it simply remained. Cool. Impenetrable. Watching him like a hawk eyeing a shaky sparrow.

It was Maverick who answered. “No.” He stepped forward then, hands on his hips, voice casual—but the undertone was iron. “This is a cumulative evaluation. Meaning it doesn’t matter how well you do in one round if you fall apart in another.”

He gave them a look. The kind that said I’ve seen better pilots die with less warning. “If you fail this evaluation, you don’t get reassigned. You don’t get benched.”

He let the words hang. “You get cut.”

The silence cracked like a whip.

Coyote leaned forward slowly. “Cut from—what, exactly? This program or…”

Maverick looked around the room. His eyes swept across them—Yale, Fritz, Phoenix, Bob, Hangman—until he landed on Rooster and stayed there for a second longer.

“You all put in requests to be permanently stationed here. To form a long-term, active-strike detachment under Command North Island. That request is pending final evaluation.”

Another beat.

“This,” Maverick said, sweeping a hand to indicate the board behind him—HELL DAY burned across the top in red—is that evaluation.”

Now it landed. Now they got it.

Bob’s shoulders fell back slightly, like someone had punched the wind out of him. Halo muttered a quiet “Shit” under her breath. Even Payback, who never blinked at chaos, exhaled through his nose, slow and tight.

Rooster leaned over and whispered to Phoenix, “So basically, we’re fighting for our Navy lives.”

“No,” Phoenix muttered back. “We’re fighting for our place. This is home now.”

Hangman, arms crossed, leaned back in his seat with his jaw ticking. But his eyes were trained forward, and his mouth—normally cocky, normally smug—was set in a thin, unreadable line.

Cyclone stepped forward this time.

“This program is designed to push you beyond your limits. To expose your faults, test your instincts, and gauge your capability to function under chaos. You have the next hour to suit up, prep your aircraft, and meet us on the tarmac. If you’re late—you’re already failing.”

He paused.

“And if you think the sky will show you mercy… remember who designed this program.”

Everyone slowly looked at Rogue. Her arms were still folded, head tilted just slightly. And she said, calm and quiet:

“You’ll learn more about yourselves today than you have in your entire careers. My job is to make sure it hurts.”

Not a threat. A promise. No one moved. No one breathed.

The air in the debriefing room was thick—coated with the tension of unspoken fears and cold truths, waiting to crash down like a hammer. Maverick and Warlock stepped aside, giving the floor—no, the battlefield—to the three visiting commanders.

Ruin was the first to speak, stepping forward with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who knew silence could be louder than shouting.

“I’ve been observing your squad for the past seventy-two hours,” he said. “And if I had to call it now? This team would never survive a live strike mission.”

The sentence landed like a punch to the ribs. His gaze swept the room, steady and unflinching. “You’re not cohesive. You’re not fluid. Your mid-air decision-making is delayed, your communications are messy, and some of you—” his eyes flicked to Hangman “—seem to think ‘lone wolf’ is a personality trait worth rewarding.”

Hangman didn’t move. But his jaw tightened, his arms folded deeper, the smirk nowhere to be found.

“You are flying like individuals,” Ruin said. “And individuals get shot down.”

Then Commander Jinx stepped forward, tone less severe but no less cutting. He gave a short nod toward Rooster, Payback, and Coyote. “Some of you show initiative, but that initiative isn’t matched with trust. You second-guess each other. You cut corners. You fly as if everyone around you is expendable.”

His eyes were sharper now. “That’s not boldness. That’s arrogance. And arrogance gets your team killed.”

A beat passed. No one dared move, not even Bob, who sat ramrod-straight, hands clenched on his knees like a reprimanded schoolboy.

Then Rogue stepped forward.

“You’re Top Gun graduates,” she began, voice level and exacting, like a scalpel sliding against bone. “You made it through a program designed to weed out the weak, the slow, the selfish. So tell me—why are you still flying like cadets?”

No one answered. Her words hung heavy in the air.

“I watched you panic at the first sign of radar distortion. I watched your formation fall apart the second we hit terrain suppression. You don’t speak to each other. You bark commands. You assume. You improvise. And when one of you pulls a Hangman and bails on the fight—” she cast Jake a glance like a blade, “—the rest of you don’t cover, you collapse.”

Jake didn’t flinch, but that tightness in his chest? Yeah. It was real.

“This is Hell Day,” Rogue said, tone calm but razor-sharp. “Not a game. Not a simulation with trophies at the end. This is the line in the sand. You want to be a permanent unit under North Island? This is your last chance.”

Her gaze swept them again, slower this time, weighing them like scales. “You pass this gauntlet, you earn your stripes. You fail, your names are off the list before the ink’s dry.”

She turned. “See you in an hour.” Then she walked out, boots echoing like a war drum down the corridor. Ruin and Jinx followed, then Warlock and Cyclone did the same thing.

And in their wake, the silence in the room was deafening.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Rogue, Jinx, and Ruin before the room plunged into a silence so thick it felt like it had mass. No one looked at each other. No one moved. It was the kind of quiet that settled over a group right after being gutted, cut open by words sharp enough to leave bruises but clean enough to leave no blood behind.

Maverick stood still for a moment longer, then pushed off the wall and stepped into the center of the room. He didn’t need to raise his voice. He never had. His presence did all the heavy lifting.

“You think that was harsh?” he said, eyes scanning each one of them. Rooster, still tight-jawed. Fanboy, swallowing down panic. Bob, as pale as paper. Fritz, practically vibrating under his own skin. “Good. It was supposed to be.”

He let that hang for a beat. Not for effect. For honesty.

“Those three? They’re the best there is. The Navy doesn’t send them in unless they’re preparing for the worst-case scenario. Which means you—” he pointed, hand slicing through the air like a blade, “—are the worst-case scenario right now.”

A ripple went through them—tiny flinches, shame wrapped in uniforms.

Maverick’s voice softened, just a hair. “You’re not hopeless. Not by a long shot, but you’re not ready. And the truth is... if you fail today, then I fail too.”

The squad blinked, collectively stunned. The words hit harder than any insult, because they weren’t an attack. They were a confession.

“I put in for this squadron,” Maverick continued, voice steady. “Fought to have you stationed here. I told Command you were worth building something around. That with time, you’d be not just good—but untouchable. That with the right leadership, you’d fly like gods.”

He looked at Rooster last—just a moment longer than the rest.

“If you don’t make it through Hell Day… that’s it. Command pulls the plug. This detachment goes back to dust. You all get reassigned, scattered, maybe grounded. And me?”

Maverick gave a small, humorless laugh.

“They’ll hang my wings up for good. No more cockpits. No more North Island. I won’t fly again.”

The silence after that was different. Not stunned, not ashamed—but weighted. Grounded in something deeper than nerves or ego. It was the realization that they weren’t just carrying their own careers on their backs.

They were carrying his, too.

“So yeah,” he said, tone flat now. “This isn’t just another exercise. This is the whole damn sky. And whether or not you get to stay in it… depends on what you do out there today.”

He turned toward the door but paused one last time. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Gear up.” Then he left them with that and walked out—shoulders squared, pace even.

The kind of walk that said: I’ve given you everything I can. Now show me you deserve it, clowns.

Coyote was the first to move, his boots hitting the deck as he turned to Yale and Harvard with that quiet, cool confidence he always wore like a second flight suit. “Alright,” he said, pulling them closer into a tight triangle of conversation. “Forget the pride. Forget the scoreboards. We’ve been handed our asses, yeah? But we’ve also seen how the Big Three move. So we adapt. We fly tighter, faster, smarter.”

Yale nodded, eyes flicking over a mental checklist. Harvard was already tapping into his mental nav map, murmuring comms protocols and countermeasures. Coyote’s voice stayed steady, layered with urgency but never panic. “We don’t improvise. We execute. And if either of you lose me out there, keep flying the plan.”

A beat passed. Then all three nodded as one.

Across the room, Fritz dropped into a low squat, drawing a rough diagram on the floor with his finger. Omaha and Halo crouched around him, eyes locked in. “They want Hell Day?” Fritz said, his grin tight but genuine. “Let’s give ’em something biblical.”

He sketched out an evasion maneuver from yesterday’s drill, tweaking it with a wild new angle. “Jinx and Ruin like to pin and collapse—so we spread, bait, and regroup. Controlled chaos. You follow me into a tailspin, I better see you right behind me when I pull out.”

Omaha chuckled. Halo muttered something about needing a will, but they listened. They trusted him. For better or worse.

Then, there was Rooster. He leaned against a bulkhead, arms crossed, eyes low. Payback and Fanboy hovered nearby, both waiting. When he finally spoke, it was slower. More grounded.

“We’re not gonna outfly them,” Rooster said. “But we can out-think them.”

Fanboy raised an eyebrow. Payback tilted his head. Rooster straightened. “They want panic? We give them clarity. They want to isolate us? We move like a damn shadow.”

He pointed between them. “You two have instincts. I’ve seen it, but we’ve got to trust them. No second-guessing. No damn hesitation. We don’t win by trying to be the Big Three, we win by being the best us.”

They nodded. Rooster ran a hand through his hair, gaze drifting toward the door Rogue had walked through. For a second—just one—his expression softened.

And then, there was Hangman. He stood apart, like always, arms folded, watching Phoenix and Bob talk quietly. He let them finish before walking over, voice clipped.

“You both good?” he asked.

Phoenix looked at him like he was a landmine. “Define ‘good.’”

“Alive enough to keep up.”

Bob, ever diplomatic, said nothing, but he nodded.

Jake sighed and leaned in slightly. “I know what they think of me. I know what you think of me.” His voice dropped lower. “But I’ve been watching, too. And you’re the only pair I’d bet on to hold this formation when shit hits the fan.”

Phoenix blinked. “Are you actually… being serious?”

“As a goddamn stall warning,” he replied, deadpan.

A silence fell between them—then, grudgingly, Phoenix smirked. “Alright, Bagman. Try not to ditch us this time.”

Jake didn’t answer, but the flicker in his eyes? That was a promise.

The lights in the tactical auditorium dimmed slightly as the massive screen flickered to life, casting a cool, bluish glow over the gathered squad. It displayed a wide-angle aerial view of the base’s training grid, complete with overlays—flight paths, threat markers, and real-time data feeds. Every radar blip and atmospheric reading scrolled in clean military font, efficient and cold. In the corner of the screen, a small countdown ticked steadily toward zero.

Element One was up first.

In the lower portion of the feed, the view shifted to ground-level cameras capturing the tarmac. Yale was already climbing into his jet, movements smooth but tight with nerves.

Harvard followed close behind, clutching his helmet under one arm while the other checked gear with the muscle memory of someone trying not to overthink. Coyote approached last, all swagger and ease, but there was tension behind his eyes—a razor-focus that only surfaced when instinct overrode ego.

From his seat in the upper row, Maverick leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees, jaw locked. “Coyote’s holding steady,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Let’s see if they hold formation under pressure.”

Hondo, seated beside him with his arms crossed tight over his chest, gave a single nod. “We gave ‘em the playbook. Let’s find out who actually studied it.”

Cyclone sat like a statue, hands clasped in front of his mouth—not praying, but waiting, like a man who knew better than to hope. Warlock tapped in a few commands to re-center the feed, isolating cockpit cams and tactical overlays. His expression was unreadable.

Behind the brass, the rest of Dagger Squad filled the auditorium—tiered seating holding a dozen of the Navy’s best, each of them suddenly looking like students on test day. No one spoke. Even Hangman, normally the loudest in any room, had gone silent.

Rooster bounced one leg restlessly. Fritz gnawed on the edge of his thumb. Bob’s hands were locked so tightly in front of him they’d turned a little pale. Phoenix’s jaw could’ve cracked marble.

And at the back of the room, Rogue stood still. Arms folded, back straight, chin slightly tilted, her eyes locked on the screen like she could see beyond it—like she’d already memorized the flight grid, the threat algorithms, the timing of every simulated missile.

Her presence was quiet, unflinching. Jinx stood on her right, Ruin on her left. The three of them could’ve passed for statues—commanders turned sentinels.

“Element One launching in T-minus twenty,” came the voice over intercom. Cool. Precise. No emotion.

On the screen, the jets were taxiing forward. Canopies sealed. Afterburners shimmered like coiled flame. Yale took lead position, Coyote peeled left, and Harvard’s cam flickered as he toggled his systems into combat mode.

“This is it,” Warlock said, almost under his breath. “No more training wheels.”

Jake Seresin didn’t say a word. He was watching the screen, but not really. His mind wandered—kept drifting back to her. To Rogue. She wasn’t even flying in this round, and yet somehow… somehow it felt like her test, too. Like the air itself had shifted the moment she stepped into the room.

The countdown hit zero.

And the sky opened up.

PHASE ONE: SIMULATED MISSILE LOCK-ON EVASION

The tactical auditorium dimmed as the screen flickered to life, the Navy’s top-of-the-line simulation feed bathing the room in muted blue. Everyone was seated—Rogue, Jinx, and Ruin standing in the back like silent executioners, arms crossed, unreadable.

Maverick sat at the far right beside Warlock and Cyclone, his jaw tense. A clipboard rested in his lap, but his hands hadn’t moved.

"Element One," came Warlock's voice over comms, calm but clipped. "You are cleared to begin Phase One. Missile evasion sequence commencing in three… two… one."

On-screen, the three jets roared through digital sky, trailing through the mock-up of enemy airspace. Clear skies. Nothing but open air and bad intentions.

Coyote was up front, confident as ever, banking left in a sharp arc like he was out for a joyride. "Piece of cake," he muttered over comms. "Eyes up, boys. Let’s make this look pretty."

They lasted ninety-two seconds.

The first lock hit Yale square on his six. He didn’t catch the missile warning fast enough. Harvard fumbled through the electronic warfare suite, trying to deploy flares, but deployed chaff instead. The simulated missile didn't care. Target terminated.

The second lock came for Coyote—who panicked. He turned too sharp, too wide, and blew straight past altitude protocol. The sim flagged him as compromised.

The third? A double-lock. Rogue had programmed it herself. Impossible to shake unless both pilot and WSO executed perfect timing with countermeasures.

They didn’t. They stalled out trying to recalibrate radar.

Target terminated.

Inside the auditorium, the silence was suffocating. Nobody said a word. On the screen, the jets banked for home—simulated smoke pluming from digital fuselages.

Harvard looked like he wanted to punch the seat in front of him. Yale kept his helmet on longer than he needed to.

Coyote stepped into the room first, chewing the inside of his cheek, too proud to look embarrassed but too smart not to know what this meant. Rogue didn’t say a word. Neither did Jinx. Ruin just scribbled something on his notepad, then looked up with a flat expression.

Cyclone cleared his throat. “Not a great start.”

Maverick’s eyes slid toward the squad, but he said nothing. Not yet.

And just like that, Element One had set the bar… six feet under.

"Element Two, you're up. Commence launch protocol. Simulated hostile territory ahead." Warlock's voice was steady through the room, but there was something sharp in it now—a scalpel-edge warning that echoed through the comms and across the auditorium. The air had changed. Everyone in the room had felt the flop of Element One. Now there was pressure.

The screen flared again as Fritz taxied onto the runway. Omaha and Halo followed seconds behind, the rumble of their engines overlaid by the polished hum of the sim’s interface.

In the back of the room, Maverick leaned forward slightly, arms crossed. Rogue stood a few paces to his left, jaw tight. Jinx and Ruin exchanged no words—just watched.

The first few minutes were clean. Fritz swept low, sharp and technical, holding formation like a textbook. Omaha and Halo worked in sync, the latter calling threat angles, the former adjusting flight path to intercept windows.

"Good start," murmured Hondo, mostly to himself.

And then came the first lock.

"Missile warning. Rear arc—closing fast!" Halo’s voice echoed through the room, not panicked, but high-strung.

"Deploying—flaring now," Omaha said, dropping countermeasures.

Too early.

The sim adjusted. It read the timing like a hawk reads wind. Missile still tracking. Fritz pulled hard starboard, trying to draw fire.

It clipped him anyway. Target terminated.

“Dammit!” Fritz’s voice barked through the speakers as his feed turned grey. Back at his seat in the auditorium, Coyote let out a slow, whistling exhale. He knew that sting too well.

Another lock came for Omaha and Halo—this one with double pressure, courtesy of the phase’s randomized lock algorithm. Halo tried to reroute the radar jammers, fingers flying over controls, but in the sim there’s no lag, no second chances.

"Break left!" Omaha called out. But Halo didn't have time to finish the ECM cycle.

They got lit up mid-turn.

Target terminated.

The silence in the auditorium was heavier now. Embarrassed coughs. The squeak of a boot shifting on the floor. You could hear the weight of every unfinished breath.

Fritz strode in with his helmet tucked under his arm, jaw flexing. He didn’t speak. Omaha looked straight ahead, as if eye contact would shatter whatever thin resolve he had left. Halo’s lips were pressed into a line so tight, it looked like she’d cracked something in her mouth.

Jinx finally stepped forward, voice low and calm.

“You executed procedure as if the threat was in the manual.” His eyes narrowed. “The threat isn’t in the manual.”

Ruin added without looking up, “You knew what was coming. And you still died. Fast.”

No one looked at Rogue. Not yet. Her silence hit harder than any critique. Just a glance toward the screen, then down at the clipboard in her hand, as if she hadn’t already written down exactly what they’d done wrong the moment the flares dropped.

Payback muttered something under his breath to Fanboy—something about a “meat grinder”—but shut up quickly when Warlock looked their way.

Maverick didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The failure stung enough without him saying a word.

“Element Three, you are cleared for takeoff. Sim begins in T-minus fifteen seconds.” Warlock’s voice rolled over the comms like thunder. It was routine now—but this time, the weight was different. The first two elements had burned out fast. Command expected failure now.

Rooster sat in the cockpit, gloved fingers flexing over the throttle. He glanced once at the screen, where the data from Element Two’s failure still glowed like an open wound. His jaw clenched tighter.

In the auditorium, Maverick watched him in silence. Rogue hadn’t moved a muscle since the last debrief. Jinx had crossed his arms again. Ruin had his notepad open, pen tapping slow and steady. Cyclone stood stiff at the back, muttering something to Warlock under his breath.

And then the jets launched.

Rooster peeled into the sky first, followed by Payback and Fanboy tight on his six. The formation was flawless—tight but not suffocating, aggressive but clean. You could almost hear Maverick exhale through his nose. This… this was flying.

The first missile lock came fast. A sharp screech in their ears. Simulated heat-seeker, rear vector.

“Missile lock—eleven o'clock low,” Fanboy barked.

“Copy,” Payback said. “Deploying flares—now!”

Bright blooms flared behind the jet, perfectly timed. The missile swerved and veered off course. The auditorium lit up with the clean evasion ping. First of the day.

Rooster cut high and right, anticipating the second lock before it even sounded. He knew how this sim worked. He knew the gaps in the radar, the delay between tracking signals. This wasn’t guessing—this was instinct, skill, legacy.

The next lock came for Rooster himself.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t flinch. He dipped beneath cloud cover, twisted sharply, and flipped his jet upside down before pulling a reverse burn that left the entire control room watching with held breath.

The missile missed.

“Jesus Christ,” Yale muttered in the audience. “He flew that like a Stark.”

Harvard elbowed him. “Shut up. They’re still in it.”

Last lock came in hot. Triple-pressure this time. No warning. A bug in the algorithm? Maybe. Rogue’s doing? More likely.

But they still handled it. Fanboy adjusted the ECM suite with one hand while calling out angle differentials with the other. Payback rerouted power from their radar to the flare pod. Rooster drew fire with a wide barrel roll, clean and fearless.

All targets evaded.

The screen blinked once—then green.

Element Three: Phase One — PASSED.

The auditorium went dead quiet for a second. Then Maverick, without smiling, nodded once and muttered, “That’s how it’s done.”

Even Cyclone didn’t have a complaint—though his silence was probably louder than anything he could’ve said. Jinx raised a brow. Ruin scribbled faster. Rogue… almost looked impressed.

Almost.

Rooster’s team entered the room first. Rooster pulled off his helmet, sweaty and wired, and walked like he hadn’t just dodged death three times in five minutes.

Payback grinned wide. Fanboy tried to keep his cool but bumped shoulders with Fritz on the way to his seat. Coyote gave them a slow clap, sarcasm laced with genuine awe.

Rooster slumped into his chair and leaned back.

“That was brutal,” he whispered.

Jake said nothing. Just kept his eyes on the screen.

Because Element Four was next. And this? This was his round.

“Element Four, prepare for launch.” The comms crackled, but Jake didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.

He adjusted his gloves with surgical precision, ran through the checklist without so much as a glance, and rolled out like he owned the damn sky. Because that’s who he was—or at least, who he’d always told himself he was.

Phoenix’s voice cut through the headset as they aligned on the tarmac. “Try not to ditch us this time, Bagman.”

Bob added dryly, “We prefer living today.”

Jake smirked, teeth flashing. “Then keep up.”

Their jets roared down the runway—three shadows against the rising sun, sleek and lethal. From the observation room, Maverick leaned forward. Rogue didn’t. But her eyes sharpened, tracking every micro-movement on the display.

The sim snapped into play.

First lock-on: Hangman.

And just like that—he dropped.

Not from the sim. From the sky.

A full-body nosedive that would’ve gotten most pilots grounded. But he dared the missile to follow. It did. He pulled up at the last second, flared once, spun sideways, and let the missile eat sky instead of his tail. A clean evasion.

“Showoff,” Phoenix muttered, but even she had to admit—it was tight.

Next lock: Phoenix and Bob.

“Lock’s hot, seven o'clock high!” Bob called.

“Got it. Hang on,” Phoenix snapped, pulling hard left.

Bob was already in the panel, rerouting countermeasures. He fired a pulse, jamming the tracker for just enough time for Phoenix to cut through a dive and bleed altitude without stalling. Their flare drop came a breath before impact—missile lost its mind and swerved into open air.

Second evasion, successful.

Ruin blinked once, watching Bob’s replay data. “That was sharp.”

Third and final lock: Simultaneous triple-hit attempt. A dirty move—almost unfair. But they handled it like a squad who’d been waiting for exactly this.

Hangman took high, dragging two locks his way. Phoenix cut wide left, Bob deploying microbursts of ECM bursts. The three danced across the airspace like wolves through a burning field—fast, lethal, reckless.

All three survived. All locks evaded.

Element Four: Phase One — PASSED.

The reaction in the observation deck was audible.

Rooster let out a long breath, part impressed, part annoyed. “I hate that he’s good,” he muttered.

Fanboy grinned. “But damn, that was sexy.”

Payback elbowed him. “You scare me, man.”

Maverick nodded once, slowly. Cyclone even cracked a rare, tight-lipped approval. Hondo whispered something like “Hot damn,” under his breath.

Jinx raised a brow. “Did he really just pull a spiral dive into a lock zone?”

Ruin answered, “Yes, and he weaponized it.”

Rogue, for the first time all day, actually looked down at her clipboard. Then she said, barely audible, “Textbook arrogance. Borderline genius.”

When the trio walked back in, Hangman looked like he hadn’t broken a sweat. Phoenix rolled her eyes but bumped his shoulder. Bob—quiet as ever—just gave a tiny smirk, then nodded toward Rogue.

She met his gaze. No smile. No nod. Just the flicker of acknowledgment in her eyes.

Jake sat down—cocky, golden, and victorious, but he wasn’t looking at the screen. He was looking at her.

POST-PHASE ONE ASSESSMENT

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Jinx said, his tone razor-clean, not raised, but cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “Half of you would be dead if that were live combat.”

Yale shifted in his seat. Harvard scratched the back of his neck.

“Element One,” Jinx turned, locking his gaze on them. “Your response times were embarrassing. You flared late, your formations were loose, and when I ran a stress-signal overlay? You were panicking. Not thinking. Panicking.”

Coyote opened his mouth. Closed it. Harvard slouched deeper into his chair.

Jinx didn’t let up. “You didn’t fly like a team. You flew like three guys trying to survive their own war.”

Then Ruin stepped forward, calm but clipped. “Element Two—your WSO coordination was nonexistent. Halo, your ECM use was five seconds too late. Five. In real time, that’s the difference between jamming a lock-on and getting your pilot killed.” He turned to Fritz. “You broke off from your team twice. You left Omaha blind and vulnerable.”

Omaha’s jaw twitched.

“You know what we call that in combat?” Ruin asked flatly. “A body bag.”

There was silence. A cold, bitter silence. Then came Rogue.

She stepped forward with the kind of grace that didn’t need height or yelling. Just presence. She stopped dead center, arms behind her back, voice cool and clear:

“You all want to be permanent here in North Island,” she said. “You want to earn the patch. The wings. The right to fly alongside Top Gun’s best.”

A beat.

“You have not earned that yet.”

Rooster swallowed.

“Element Three,” she said, turning just slightly toward Rooster, Payback, and Fanboy. “Your maneuvering was efficient. Clean. Fanboy, your tactical awareness was excellent. Payback, your radar control was smooth. Rooster…”

He sat a little straighter.

“You flew like someone who wants to be better than his name.”

Rooster blinked. Then blinked again.

“But don’t let one green mark make you cocky,” she added, her voice sharpening like a blade. “One phase doesn’t make you a squad. It makes you lucky.”

Then her gaze turned, slower now—measured.

“Element Four.”

Jake’s smirk had been waiting in the wings, ready to flash. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed. Phoenix narrowed her eyes.

“You passed,” Rogue said flatly. “But not because of coordination. You passed because you have a WSO who knows his craft…” Her gaze flicked to Bob. “A pilot who flies clean…” Then Phoenix. “And a wingman who plays hero for show.”

Jake’s brows ticked up.

“Your stunts work in training. In war, they get people killed.”

Phoenix, beside him, muttered, “Thank you.”

Rogue’s tone didn’t waver. “You want to impress me, Lieutenant Seresin? Try showing up for your team when it counts.”

Jake said nothing. He just stared at her. And for once, he didn’t smile.

Rogue stepped back. “Phase Two starts in thirty. I suggest you study your failures. Because if you don’t learn from them today…”

She glanced at Cyclone and Maverick behind the glass. "…you won’t be here tomorrow.”

PHASE TWO: FUEL-STARVATION EMERGENCY DRILL

“Element One, launch cleared. Good luck,” came Warlock’s calm voice through comms.

From the observation room, all eyes tracked the three dots rising fast into the sky, already vectoring toward the narrow corridor designated for this drill—an impossibly tight space designed to simulate combat in terrain too dangerous for full-thrust navigation.

It was a brutal phase.

Your fuel gets cut by 40%. You’re expected to evade threats. Navigate without full throttle. And complete two precision maneuvers—all before your jet’s emergency fuel reserve kicks in.

The goal? Survive. The message? Adapt or die.

Inside the sky, it was all systems go. Coyote led like a different man—cool, decisive, not trying to be flashy, just focused. His voice came calm over comms.

“Yale, take right flank. Harvard, eyes up. If the sim throws us a warning light, we need to bleed altitude fast and make the corridor.”

“You got it,” Harvard replied, already tuning the radar feed to passive-only, conserving what little power they had.

First threat came early—a simulated bogey just out of missile range. Yale was quick on the bank, slipping low into the canyon wall as Coyote mirrored above, forcing a wide separation in their paths that baited the bogey into following the solo target.

Harvard made the call. “They’re biting on Coyote.”

“Let ’em chew,” Coyote grinned into his mic. Then, at the last second, he pulled a feint bank into a shallow dive—hard enough to fake an engine failure.

It worked. The bogey overshot. Yale flared just once and vanished down a cloud line.

They regrouped at checkpoint Bravo with less than 22% fuel remaining. Then came the hardest part—emergency climb-out with simulated fuel starvation.

“Harvard, we have enough to push?” Yale asked, tone tight.

“You’ve got thirty seconds of stable thrust,” Harvard said. “After that? We’re flying on prayer.”

And still—they climbed.

Coyote took lead again, angled them into formation, and for a full seven seconds, the three jets climbed with near-perfect synchronicity—like they were born to fly low and rise high.

When they cleared the mark, comms lit up.

Element One: Phase Two—PASSED.

In the observation room, Maverick gave a sharp nod.

Warlock murmured, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Rogue didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. But there was the barest, barest lift of her brow. Maybe it was respect, or maybe it was relief.

Coyote, Yale, and Harvard landed with clean grace. As they walked off the tarmac and back toward the hangar, Coyote couldn’t help but toss a glance toward the glass where Command watched. He didn’t smile, but he walked taller.

“Element Two, cleared for takeoff,” came the comm from Hondo in the control room.

In the observation bay, the Dagger Squad sat with tight jaws and bouncing knees. Rooster leaned forward. Bob kept his arms folded. Hangman was eerily silent.

Out the window, Fritz took to the air first—his jet cutting through the low dawn haze like a blade. Omaha and Halo followed, trailing just behind in a smooth formation.

It looked cleaner already. More precise. More intentional.

Down in the mission corridor—between two jagged mountain ridges digitally rendered in the sim—they hit the throttle cut. Fuel-starvation protocols kicked in. Lights on their consoles blinked amber.

Halo’s voice was crisp. “Throttle restricted. Engine output holding steady. Begin evasive pathing.”

“Copy,” Omaha responded. His tone wasn’t shaky this time. It was sharp. Locked in.

Fritz banked hard left, guiding the element into a shallow dive to shed altitude and buy precious seconds of power. He didn’t outpace them. He didn’t go rogue. He flew like a man with a team.

Jinx, watching from the bay, gave a subtle nod.

Then came the fake missile lock—a pressure test.

“Incoming lock, 2 o’clock high!” Halo barked.

“Cut climb, bank low,” Omaha ordered.

Fritz mirrored, staying tight in formation. Not too close. Not reckless. Halo initiated countermeasures before the warning hit red.

Flares. Clean. Timed. Controlled. It looked like muscle memory. Like they’d been listening this time.

They skimmed along the canyon floor, then rose for the emergency climb. The jets groaned—less fuel meant less forgiveness—but Omaha’s handling was fluid, guided by Halo’s near-perfect timing.

Fritz flanked right just in time to avoid the virtual cliff wall that lit up red on the observers’ screen. It was the kind of move that would've killed them last time.

Not today.

Element Two: Phase Two—PASSED.

Inside the observation room, Rooster blinked in surprise.

Phoenix whispered, “No freaking way.”

Even Warlock leaned back, arms crossed, impressed.

Ruin arched a brow. “Didn’t think the hero would follow orders.”

Rogue, quiet behind them, murmured, “They learned. That’s what matters.”

Cyclone didn’t say anything. But he looked—almost—pleased.

“Element Three, you are cleared for launch,” came Warlock’s voice.

From the glass of the observation bay, the trio of jets streaked into the sky in seamless, surgical fashion.

Their communication was already tight before they even reached the phase zone.

“Throttle cutting in three,” Fanboy called.

“Copy, go dark,” Payback answered.

“Lead copies. Let’s dance,” Rooster replied, voice low, grounded.

The moment fuel starvation kicked in, they adjusted their altitude—not overcorrecting, not panicking. Rooster descended just enough to keep velocity while conserving precious thrust. Payback shadowed close behind, and Fanboy was already plotting the terrain layout on limited HUD.

“Threat incoming,” Fanboy noted. “Bogey sim, high altitude. Trying to force a climb.”

Rooster grinned. “Not today.”

Instead of climbing, he dove. Hard. Straight into a low-pressure dip between two ridges, pushing Gs with precision, not bravado. Payback followed immediately—no hesitation, no delay.

Fanboy popped countermeasures right before the sim lock would’ve tagged Rooster. “Flares out. We’re clear.”

Checkpoint Bravo? Reached in record time.

They began their climb-out early, not in panic, but in strategy. Rooster was already managing throttle by feel, while Fanboy read out the last drops of juice like a heartbeat.

“You’ve got twelve seconds of climb,” Fanboy said.

“I only need seven,” Rooster replied, and pulled up clean.

All three jets crested the climb with fuel gauges nearly scraping bottom. But they made it. Every maneuver was controlled. Every call was clean.

Element Three: Phase Two—PASSED.

In the observation bay, Maverick smiled. Not smirked. Smiled.

“Damn good flying, kid,” he muttered.

Even Rogue’s expression flickered into the territory of pleased.

Jinx, arms crossed, chuckled. “Told you he wasn’t just a pretty face.”

Ruin gave a small nod. “Efficient use of burn and countermeasures. Smart WSO timing.”

Jake—silent in his corner—watched Rooster’s name flash PASS on the screen, jaw clenched tight.

On the tarmac, Rooster pulled off his helmet, curls wild and grinning, and slapped Payback’s shoulder.

“Textbook,” Fanboy breathed, like he almost couldn’t believe it. “We did it.”

“Damn right we did,” Rooster said.

But his eyes lifted to the tower. To the room above. To her. And when he saw the faintest tilt of Rogue’s head—just barely a nod? Rooster’s grin widened like a sunrise.

“Element Four, cleared for takeoff,” Hondo said, more like a prayer than a command.

The jets launched in clean order—Phoenix and Bob rising together, sharp and aligned. Jake, of course, took off last, his jet roaring off the tarmac like a dare.

From the control room, the observers tracked the telemetry as they banked toward the low-altitude corridor that marked the beginning of Phase Two. Inside the sim zone, the moment hit—throttle restriction.

Power drop. Lights dimmed. Fuel counters blinked with warnings.

“Throttle is bleeding,” Bob warned. “Oxygen mixture still clean. You’ve got eighty seconds before optimal stall.”

“I’ve got it,” Phoenix muttered, already shifting altitude.

But Jake? Jake didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled up.

“Uh, Hangman?” Phoenix’s voice was ice-edged. “That’s not the route.”

Jake said nothing. Just maneuvered left, banking toward the north curve of the canyon.

“Are you seriously peeling off? Again?” Phoenix snapped. “We’re not playing games here—”

“Relax,” Hangman finally cut in. “I’ll draw the lock. You follow the escape vector. Keep your nose clean, Ace.”

Bob cursed softly into the mic. “We're not splitting! That wasn’t the briefing!”

On the screens, it became a dance of desperation. The lock-on sim targeted Phoenix’s jet. Bob flared. Too early.

“Shit!” he muttered. “Countermeasures wasted—”

Jake doubled back. Now flying above the canyon, dragging the sim bogey off Phoenix.

On paper? Impressive. In a real combat op with fuel starvation? Deadly.

Jake pulled a hard dive back toward formation, catching the rest of the corridor with seconds to spare. Phoenix and Bob followed, rattled but technically intact.

They hit the climb. Barely. Just barely.

Element Four: Phase Two—PASSED.

In the observation room, there was a collective groan of tension—like holding in a scream.

Cyclone muttered under his breath. “One day he’s gonna pull that stunt and it won’t end in a pass.”

Maverick didn’t speak. He just crossed his arms, face unreadable.

Jinx looked unimpressed. “Showboating doesn’t win wars.”

Ruin tapped his notes. “WSO coordination out of sync. Phoenix is overcorrecting. Bob’s timing’s thrown.”

Rogue’s voice was low. “Hangman nearly got them all killed… again.”

On the tarmac, Phoenix shoved her helmet into Jake’s chest.

“You ever leave me again, I’ll put you in a hospital.”

Jake just smirked. “But we passed, didn’t we?”

Bob looked like he was physically restraining himself from throttling him.

Back in the auditorium, Maverick took a slow breath, then turned to the seated teams.

“Phase Two, complete. Halfway through the Gauntlet.”

And his tone made one thing clear: That was the easy part.

POST-PHASE TWO ASSESSMENT

“Do you understand what you did wrong?” Ruin’s voice wasn’t raised, but it cut through the room like steel through silk. His sharp eyes scanned the trio—Hangman, Phoenix, Bob—without mercy.

“This is not a solo hero simulation. This is not ‘get the headline and leave the rest behind.’” He tapped the tablet in his hand, then held it up. “This is a breakdown of WSO-to-pilot latency from that run. Bob? You were reacting to threats before Phoenix gave you the all-clear. Because she was reacting to someone else’s flight path instead of flying her own.”

He looked to Jake now. Dead center.

“And you—” he said, tone tightening, “—pulled a maneuver that, in a real-world op, would’ve drained your fuel reserve past recovery. You get maybe twenty more seconds in the air before you're falling into the ocean. With your team still flying. That is not bravery, Lieutenant. That is recklessness.”

Jake’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Jinx stepped forward next, arms folded over his chest. His face held a tight, bitter kind of frustration—the look of someone who’d seen too many cocky pilots burn too bright and too fast.

“I don’t give a damn how many perfect landings you’ve made,” he said to Hangman. “Your instincts are sharp—but you keep flying like the sky owes you something.”

He shifted to Phoenix and Bob. “Phoenix, you could’ve pulled that out clean. But you hesitated. Because you didn’t know where your lead was. You’re fast, but you’re flying distracted. That’s how people die.”

Then finally, a glance toward Bob. “And you, Bob… you flew scared.” It was gentle. But somehow worse.

Then came Rogue. Still. Silent for too long.

When she stepped forward, her boots made no sound—only presence. The kind that didn’t need volume to command a room. The kind that made every spine in the auditorium straighten without meaning to.

She stopped in front of the squad, her eyes cool, calm, and cutting. Her voice was quiet, but it rang out like a warning bell.

“You almost failed,” she said, flatly. “And let’s be clear—almost is too damn close when you’re flying low and dry.”

Her gaze moved to Phoenix first, steady and unflinching. “I’ve seen you fly. You’re better than that. But you let someone else’s mistakes shake your confidence.”

Then to Bob, whose shoulders already looked like they were carrying a storm. “Your instincts are solid, but you need to speak up. You’re not a passenger in that seat, Lieutenant. You’re half the damn aircraft.”

And finally—Jake Seresin. Hangman. She looked him in the eye. No malice. No fire. Just pure, surgical exhaustion. “You left them. Again.”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight.

“You’ve made a habit out of playing the lone ace. Flying like it’s just you in the sky. But this isn’t about you anymore, Hangman. You don’t win a war by getting a kill. You win it by bringing your people home.”

The whole room tensed, as if even the air itself had stopped breathing. No one moved. No one dared. Then she added, silk and steel wrapped in one final blow: “Pull that again, and I’ll pull your wings.”

Maverick didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching Hangman with a look that almost bordered on sympathy—but didn’t quite make it.

Ruin broke the tension with a clipped nod. “Phase Three begins in thirty. Dismissed for gear check and prep. Don’t waste it.”

They all stood. Bob looked gutted. Phoenix stone-faced. And Hangman? He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

PHASE THREE: ALTITUDE SUPPRESSION EXERCISES

The jets tore through the horizon like bullets from the barrel—Element One entering the low-fly zone with the roar of thunder.

From the tactical auditorium, all eyes were glued to the screen.

The terrain was brutal. Canyon drop-offs. Jagged cliff faces. Narrow curves that didn’t forgive.

“Altitude holding at sixty-five feet,” Harvard’s voice crackled through the comms.

Coyote grunted. “Still green on warnings?”

“Yeah. But I’m getting twitchy down here.”

“Then don’t look down.”

They pressed forward.

But it happened at the curve. One of the worst ones—tight bend left, then a sudden dip in elevation.

Coyote overcorrected. His jet tilted slightly off-axis, scraping the proximity sensor’s warning zone.

BEEEEP.

“Shit,” he hissed.

Back in the control room, the alarm lit up on screen. Terrain Alert Triggered.

“Recover. Recover now,” Harvard was calling out, urgent but composed.

Yale, flying lead on the second bird, was already reacting—pulling too early to compensate. But in doing so, he climbed. Not enough to crash, but enough to kiss the sensor limits.

Second Alert Triggered.

Two warnings. One phase.

They weren’t falling out of the sky, but the system had no mercy.

Onscreen, the red indicator sealed their fate.

ELEMENT ONE — PHASE THREE: FAILED.

The auditorium went silent.

Coyote leaned back in his seat, jaw clenched. Harvard dropped his helmet beside him with a heavy thud. Yale looked like he wanted to disappear into his flight suit.

From the front of the room, Maverick gave a low exhale.

“They were too jumpy on the curve,” Hondo muttered.

“Lost cohesion,” Warlock agreed. “Overcorrection cost them the pass.”

Cyclone said nothing. Just watched. Took notes.

Rogue stood with her arms folded. No expression.

But Jinx murmured low to her, “They’re flying scared now. That last phase shook ‘em bad.”

She didn’t argue.

From his chair, Coyote looked up. “Damn near kissed that mountain.”

Phoenix, watching from behind, muttered under her breath, “You also kissed our chances of a group pass.”

“Hey,” Coyote shot back, but it didn’t hold bite. “At least I didn’t abandon my team.”

That got a snort from Bob. Even Jake lifted a brow—but didn’t rise to it.

Maverick stood then. “Next element. Gear up.”

Element Two launched hard and fast, bursting across the threshold like they had something to prove. Which, to be fair, they did.

Omaha’s voice was steady at first. “Altitude at seventy. Holding green. Radar pings minimal.”

“Copy that,” Halo replied. “Path forks at the ridge—bank left. No, wait—hold on…”

There it was. The ripple of indecision.

Fritz, flying solo ahead, was already diving into the canyon path, but too aggressively. His wingtip scraped turbulence and dragged a microburst up from the ravine—buffeting Omaha’s jet with unexpected force.

Alarms started to chirp.

“Watch your line—!” Halo barked, but it was too late. Omaha overcorrected—nose up by just a fraction.

BEEEEP. TERRAIN ALERT TRIGGERED.

“Dammit!” Fritz called over the comms. “You climbin’? You can’t climb here, we’re in the red zone—”

“I know, I know!” Omaha was already diving to compensate, heart pounding.

But that one beep was all it took. The onboard system registered the spike. Alert sounded in the control room.

Then Fritz made his mistake.

Frustrated, he tried to whip his jet into a show-off roll—something clean to make up for the mess behind him, but the canyon didn’t give space for pride.

His angle tipped too wide. Just enough.

Second Alert Triggered.

Back in the auditorium, Cyclone didn’t even flinch. “That’s it.”

ELEMENT TWO — PHASE THREE: FAILED.

Onscreen, both jets leveled off shakily as they climbed back into open airspace. Down in the seats, Fritz yanked off his helmet and dragged a hand through his hair. Halo slammed her clipboard into her lap. Omaha looked like he’d just watched his career catch fire.

“Don’t say it,” Fritz muttered before anyone could open their mouth.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Rooster mumbled, but Phoenix gave him a sharp look.

Bob blinked like he was watching a slow-motion car crash. “That canyon’s cursed.”

Hangman muttered under his breath, “Or maybe y’all just don’t know how to fly it.”

It earned him a hard side-eye from Phoenix, but no rebuttal.

Up front, Rogue leaned in toward Jinx and Ruin.

“They panicked the second Fritz hit turbulence.”

“Didn’t adjust,” Jinx said. “Didn’t trust their instincts.”

“They tried to fly like individuals,” Ruin added. “This was a team exercise.”

Rogue nodded once. “And the canyon punished them for it.”

Warlock stood. “Phase Three: halfway through. Next up—Element Three. Rooster, Payback, Fanboy. You’re up.”

Rooster pushed to his feet, jaw set. Fanboy gave Bob a little nudge for luck. Bob didn’t return it.

Jake stayed seated. Quiet. For once.

Element three launched like ghosts, slicing through the atmosphere with precision born of determination.

Rooster took point, his eyes narrowed, every ounce of his easy-going charm stripped away. He wasn’t flying for fun now—he was flying for pride. For permanence. For Maverick.

“Rooster, holding steady,” he said into comms, his tone all grit. “Reading altitude at sixty.”

“In the green,” Fanboy confirmed. “Adjust five degrees starboard for upcoming rock rise.”

“Copy. Already there.”

Payback tucked in close behind, his movements clean, restrained. No room for flash here—just function. Fanboy’s voice came like a steady heartbeat, clear and calm.

“Next bend's tighter than it looks. Drop two clicks.”

“On it,” Payback replied. His bird skimmed just above the canyon floor, wings slicing through thin air with razor precision.

The entire tactical auditorium was silent.

Maverick leaned forward.

Even Rogue arched a brow.

They didn’t just fly well.

They flew like one.

No alerts. No chatter. No hesitation. They melted through the terrain like ink through water—dangerously close to ground but never kissing it, dancing between death and dominance with every turn.

Onscreen, the final checkpoint appeared. The trio shot through it like an arrowhead.

Clear.

ELEMENT THREE — PHASE THREE: PASSED.

Back in the room, Maverick let out a low breath, the hint of a grin curling on his lips.

Jinx muttered, impressed, “Crisp. Calculated. No wasted motion.”

“They trusted each other,” Ruin added.

“Rooster led like a damn pro,” Rogue murmured.

Rogue’s eyes stayed locked on the screen even as the jets disappeared. “They’re finally listening.”

Down below, Rooster yanked his helmet off and cracked a relieved grin. Fanboy pumped a quiet fist. Payback let out a laugh.

“That was clean,” Rooster said.

“That,” Fanboy echoed, “was beautiful.”

Across the room, Hangman leaned back, jaw ticking. Phoenix didn’t look at him. Bob was bouncing his knee like he already knew what was coming.

“Element Four, on deck,” Warlock called. “Last team. Then assessment.”

Phoenix stood first. Hangman followed—slower. Like he knew he was walking into a storm.

The canyon loomed ahead, hungry as ever. Carved by wind, shaped by war games, it had no patience for arrogance.

Jake Seresin was many things—cocky, sharp, dangerously charming—but when he stepped into that cockpit, his grin faded into grit.

“Hangman, rolling in,” he said into comms, voice even.

“Phoenix and Bob, locked on your six,” Bob returned. “Altitude sixty-three. Steady.”

Phoenix’s voice was cool. “Stay clean, Jake. No stunts.”

“No promises,” Hangman muttered—but his hands were sure, his touch disciplined.

He dipped into the canyon like a knife cutting through silence. For a moment, they flew like ghosts.

The walls rose and dipped around them, harsh cliffs barely feet away. Every movement was monitored. Every turn, calculated. The jets rode the air like it owed them nothing.

“Coming up on compression zone,” Bob warned. “Watch that draft.”

“Copy,” Phoenix echoed, already adjusting.

Hangman took the next curve smoother than expected, almost textbook. Almost like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

Because he wasn’t. He was trying to win.

They stayed low. So low the Earth threatened to reach up and scrape them from the sky. But they didn’t trigger a single alert.

Not one. At the final stretch, Hangman dipped his wing just slightly—nothing dramatic, but enough to reassert control.

To say: I’m still here.

And then—clear.

ELEMENT FOUR — PHASE THREE: PASSED.

In the tactical auditorium, murmurs began to rise. Maverick tilted his head, a flicker of respect in his eye.

“He flew smart,” Warlock admitted. “Didn’t leave them behind this time.”

“He kept the pack,” Ruin said dryly. “That’s new.”

Rogue nodded. “He remembered they were there. That’s a first.”

Jinx cracked a half-grin. “Maybe he’s learning.”

Rogue didn't smile—but she didn’t scowl either.

Onscreen, Phoenix and Bob were already unstrapping. Bob looked exhausted. Phoenix looked smug. And Jake? Jake stood by his jet, helmet under one arm, looking like a man who just heard the universe whisper ‘not bad’ in his ear.

POST-PHASE THREE ASSESSMENT

Jinx stepped forward first, expression unreadable beneath the weight of the rank on his chest.

“Let’s be clear,” he began, voice clipped and cold, “Phase Three was not designed for flair. It was not designed for creativity. It was designed to test your ability to follow orders under pressure, fly surgically, and work in harmony—especially when the walls start closing in.”

He turned his eyes toward Element One.

“Coyote. Yale. Harvard.”

Coyote’s shoulders tightened. Yale already looked like he was bracing for an ejection seat. Harvard stared straight ahead, lips pressed in a thin line.

“You triggered three terrain alerts between you,” Jinx said flatly. “Not one. Not a fluke. Three. Each a warning. Each a chance to adjust. And each time, you did not.”

He crossed his arms. “You flew like you were each in your own simulation. Not like a team.”

Silence. Then Ruin spoke, eyes sharp behind his aviators.

“You ignored WSO protocol. Harvard’s guidance was brushed aside more than once, and Yale—if you override your WSO’s recommendations in a red zone, you'd better be damn sure you’re right. You weren’t.”

Harvard flinched, but said nothing.

“And Coyote—” Ruin’s voice lowered. “You led like a ghost. A step too far ahead, no audible coordination. You left them trying to play catch-up at sixty feet off the deck.”

Coyote looked up, jaw clenched. “Sir, I take full responsibility—”

“You should,” Ruin interrupted. “But that won’t fix the damage.”

He stepped back.

Then it was Rogue’s turn.

She didn’t pace. She didn’t raise her voice. She just stood there—calm, composed, eyes locked like a missile scope.

“I gave you this evaluation to break habits that will get you killed,” she said. “Today, you confirmed my fears. You don’t fly as a unit—you fly as individuals hoping for a miracle.”

A beat of silence. “Miracles don’t survive terrain alert zones.”

Oof. Even Maverick winced a little.

Cyclone made a small motion as if to speak, but paused. Let her finish.

Rogue’s voice dropped. “This is not about one bad flight. This is a pattern. From Day One, Element One has struggled to communicate, to execute, and to listen. If this were live combat, you would’ve been wiped from the sky before Phase One ended.”

Yale swallowed hard. Harvard blinked rapidly. Coyote… stayed still. But the shame sat on all of them like a weighted G-suit.

Rogue finally took a step back. “You have one phase left. One shot to prove to this room—and yourselves—that you belong in a permanent squadron.”

She didn’t need to say what would happen if they didn’t.

PHASE FOUR: MIXED-TEAMS FORMATION COMBAT

The roar of twin engines cracked across the early sky as Team A took off, Hangman at the stick and Fanboy reluctantly strapped in behind him. From the tactical auditorium, Rogue’s arms were folded tightly as her sharp eyes tracked the jet on the screen.

She didn’t need to hear a thing to know how the cockpit conversation was going — or not going. Jake Seresin wasn’t known for cozy small talk in the air, and Fanboy looked like he was already regretting everything. Hangman pulled hard right, banking before Fanboy had even fully calibrated the sensor readouts. That drew a subtle groan from the observers.

Meanwhile, in the control room, Maverick leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “If he doesn’t let Fanboy call that bandit, he’s going to get tagged.” And sure enough, within moments, a simulated lock warning flashed red across their display. Rogue didn’t blink. “He won’t listen,” she muttered, almost to herself. “He never did when it mattered.”

Back in the sky, Fanboy was trying his darndest to communicate. “Jake, we’ve got two bogeys at six, climbing fast. I suggest—” But Hangman was already peeling off, executing a sharp, ego-driven maneuver that would’ve looked slick if it hadn’t left Fanboy scrambling to reorient the targeting system.

The attack was fast and relentless, simulated missiles trailing them like hounds. Jake evaded one, but took a virtual hit to his wing a second later. The alarms in the cockpit were deafening.

Despite Fanboy’s increasingly sharp calls, Hangman kept flying as if he were alone. The final nail came when they split around a canyon ridge and Hangman simply… didn’t check if Fanboy was still with him. The assessment was brutal: Fanboy tagged out of the fight, left behind. Simulated mission: failed.

Meanwhile, Team B — solo-flying Phoenix — was already launching. The moment her wheels left the tarmac, the room leaned in. She had no WSO, no backseater calling threats or angles. It was just her and her instincts. Rogue exchanged a glance with Jinx. “She’s got grit,” Jinx murmured, and Ruin nodded slowly. “But she’s going to need more than that.”

Phoenix’s flying was sharp, economical. She tracked the simulated threats well, weaving between low terrain and high-speed missile trails with steady control, but she wasn’t invincible. Two simulated enemies came in at opposing angles, forcing her into a dangerous dive that nearly kissed the treetops. From the ground, the dagger squad held their breath. Bob, hands clenched into fists, mouthed something that looked like a prayer.

She pulled out of the dive just in time, launched a flanking maneuver, and scored a simulated lock — but it was a costly move. Her engines screamed in protest, fuel levels dipping low. She made it back through the gauntlet, yes — but not unscathed. Evaluation: marginal pass, with warning notes on fuel management and risk over-calculation.

Meanwhile, Team C was preparing to launch. Rooster was flying with Halo in the backseat — a pairing no one expected but somehow made a twisted kind of sense. Bradley had a thing for controlling the tempo, but Halo was used to aggressive, snappy responses. Their dynamic would be interesting. As their jet screamed into the air, Ruin leaned over to Rogue. “Wanna place bets?” Rogue just smirked.

Team C tore into the sky with a grace that surprised more than a few watching. Rooster had a swagger to his takeoff—textbook clean, almost too clean. In the backseat, Halo immediately got to work, fingers flying over the control panels, syncing up their comms and sensors like she was born for it. Maverick arched a brow. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Bradshaw’s actually listening to someone.”

Meanwhile, in the observation deck, Bob sat on the edge of his chair, his leg bouncing as he watched the readouts. Payback elbowed him gently, but even he looked tense. Rooster wasn’t the most... flexible flyer. He had control issues, he had ego, and he had a temper. But Halo? Halo was quick, clinical, and vicious with her targets.

The sim dropped two incoming hostiles in their path and Rooster immediately banked into a defensive climb. Halo’s voice came over the comms—calm, clipped, exact: “Missile lock in three seconds, deploy countermeasures on my mark.” Rooster did.

For once, he didn’t argue. The flare burst lit up the sky, and the lock broke. In the auditorium, Rogue sat straighter. She’d seen him fly too hot before. Too reckless. But right now? He was trusting someone else to guide him.

They pressed forward into a canyon pass, Rooster pulling a tight corkscrew that Halo sharpened with a radar sweep. “Contact at ten o’clock, 300 meters—bank now!” He did. Just barely. They looped around the threat and doubled back, taking it out from behind with a clean, clean simulated missile hit. The room erupted in murmured disbelief.

From his spot beside Hondo, Jinx grinned. “Huh. Maybe Halo should fly with him permanently.”

Rogue didn’t smile, but her voice was dry. “Maybe Halo should fly with all of them. They might learn something.”

Back in the sky, Rooster and Halo cleared the final stretch. They’d lost some altitude in the second phase of the fight and dipped into what would’ve been dangerous terrain, but nothing disqualifying. Evaluation: strong pass. A few overcorrections from Rooster, a few moments Halo had to bark him back in line—but all things considered? Damn solid teamwork.

Meanwhile, Team D was already lining up for launch: Fritz and Bob, an unlikely duo if there ever was one. Fritz was fast and twitchy, all nerves and throttle, while Bob was methodical and precise. Ruin leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. “This one’s going to be interesting.”

The roar of jet engines flared again as Fritz and Bob—Team D—took to the skies. From the very start, it was clear this duo was fighting two different battles. Fritz’s takeoff was too quick, too sharp, and Bob barely had time to catch up with the systems calibrations before they were already banking toward their first simulated engagement.

In the tactical auditorium, the silence was tense. Phoenix had one brow lifted, arms crossed tight, while Payback muttered something to Halo about betting ten bucks on whether Bob would puke. But Rogue wasn’t laughing. Her eyes tracked the jet’s path like a hawk, her fingers steepled under her chin. “Fritz is flying scared,” she said finally, voice low and even.

Maverick nodded slowly. “Too fast. He’s trying to outrun the sim.”

And he was. Fritz’s maneuvers were all over the place—sharp jerks, risky dives, constant speed spikes that made Bob’s life in the backseat a living hell. Bob tried to keep pace, voice clear in the comms: “Fritz, I’ve got a lock coming from nine o’clock, suggest we break left and counter with—”

But Fritz cut him off, literally and figuratively, slamming the stick into a vertical climb that nearly flipped them. The sim registered a missile hit to the tail, flashing red across the auditorium monitors. One strike. Then two.

“Fritz, I need thirty seconds to reconfigure targeting—slow it down!” Bob called out again.

But he didn’t. He didn’t listen. In a final desperate move to escape the remaining “enemy” jets, Fritz rolled them into a canyon dive without warning. The maneuver was flashy, reckless… and it left them fully exposed. Third lock. Simulation: terminated. They were out.

Back in the observation room, the silence stretched. Bob’s face flickered on screen as the jet banked back toward base, his expression unreadable behind his helmet—but no one missed the stiffness in his shoulders. He looked like a man who’d tried to hold a storm together with duct tape.

Jinx let out a long breath. “Poor Bob,” he muttered.

Ruin didn't say anything. Rogue stood slowly, her arms still crossed over her chest, eyes locked on the screen as the feedback report began to populate in red. She didn't speak either—but the line of her jaw tightened, and every pilot in the room felt the weight of it.

Four teams. Four very different results. Four very different lessons learned.

POST-PHASE FOUR ASSESSMENT

In the debriefing room, the air was still thick with tension as the screen dimmed, signaling the end of Phase Four. No one spoke at first. The big three stood at the front, arms crossed, their expressions unreadable.

Maverick stood off to the side, lips pressed into a firm line, while Cyclone and Warlock exchanged quiet glances behind him. The squad wasn’t dismissed—not yet. There was still judgment to pass.

Commander Ruin stepped forward first. His voice was steady, clipped, sharp. “We’ll begin the assessment of Phase Four. This was a test of coordination. Pilots and WSOs were paired to measure how well they could operate under live-fire pressure simulations—no training wheels, no safety nets. Just trust and timing. And for most of you… that trust cracked.”

He turned slightly toward the seated teams.

“Team A,” he started, eyes on Hangman and Fanboy, “You showed promise—briefly. Fanboy maintained solid tactical awareness and adapted well to your unpredictability, Lieutenant Seresin. But there’s a reason this isn’t a solo sport. You left him chasing your shadow more than once. You finished the phase, but you did it alone. Again.”

Hangman didn't flinch, but his jaw ticked slightly.

“Team B,” Ruin went on, glancing at Phoenix. “Solo pilot. You flew well, precise and composed. But your reaction to unplanned threats was slower than it needed to be. You kept your head, but you played it safe. Too safe. Not a failure, but not a command performance either.”

Commander Jinx was next. He stepped forward with his usual dry edge and smiled without warmth. “Team C.” His eyes landed on Rooster and Halo. “Now this was unexpected. Bradshaw—Rooster—you actually followed orders. Halo ran the backseat like she was born there, and it showed. Minor faults in timing, but if I had to drop a team in live combat tomorrow? I’d want you two together. You passed. Comfortably.”

Rooster tried not to grin. Halo gave a small nod, professional, but proud.

“Team D.” Jinx’s tone dropped. “Yale, you’re a smart pilot. We’ve seen it. But solo flying in this phase doesn’t mean lone wolfing it. You were reactive, not proactive. You survived by the skin of your teeth—and only because the sim gave you mercy. Pull that in a real op, you’re a heat signature on someone’s screen.”

Yale swallowed and said nothing.

Then came Rogue. She stepped forward, slow and calm, her voice cool and composed—like she was reading out a weather report and not the fate of reputations.

“Team E,” she said. “Fritz and Bob. This could’ve worked. But it didn’t. Fritz, your flying was chaotic. You flew too fast, too hard, and ignored the intel coming from your WSO. Bob was working three jobs just to keep you alive in the sky. You weren’t a team. You were a near-miss stitched together by sheer luck. It was sloppy, and frankly, dangerous. You failed.”

Fritz looked down. Bob stayed perfectly still.

“Team F,” she continued, turning to Omaha. “Solid flying. Nothing spectacular. You lacked aggression when it counted. You passed the phase, barely, but I’d like to see what you can do under actual fire. That hesitation? It’ll get someone killed.”

“Team G,” Rogue said. “Payback and Harvard. You were disjointed. No clear leadership. Harvard, you were giving out data, but Payback, you didn’t use it. You flew like you were alone, but you weren’t. You passed the minimum bar. Don’t celebrate it.”

Finally, she looked toward Team H. “Coyote. You flew solo, and you flew smart. Calculated moves. You didn’t make waves, but you didn’t make mistakes either. That kind of clean flying? It’s respected. You passed.”

The silence that followed was heavy and echoing. The squad looked like they’d been hit by a wave of cold water. Heads down. Eyes on the floor. Except for Rooster, who looked like he was riding a high, and Hangman—expression unreadable, but posture tense.

Jinx exhaled and added, “This was Phase Four. Phase Five is worse. It’s not about your jet. It’s not about your WSO. It’s about instinct. If you can’t survive without all your toys, without your voice on the comms, then you shouldn’t be in a cockpit.”

And from Rogue, a single parting remark: “You’ve got one last shot to prove you belong here. Don’t waste it.”

PRE-PHASE FIVE: DEBRIEFING

The room had gone still the moment Rogue entered.

There was something about the way she carried herself—shoulders squared, chin up, eyes razor-sharp—that made even the most seasoned pilots sit a little straighter. The projector buzzed quietly behind her, casting muted blue light over the tactical auditorium, but all eyes were fixed on the woman at the front of the room.

She stopped just before the screen, boots clicking against the polished floor, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her flight suit bore the unmistakable markings of command: a nameplate that read Rogue and a glinting insignia above it that meant she outranked every single person seated before her.

“This is Phase Five,” she said without preamble, her voice cool and clipped, the kind that didn’t ask for attention—it commanded it. “The final evolution of the Evaluation Gauntlet.”

There was a ripple of held breath among the pilots. Across the front row, Rooster leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. Bob adjusted his watch. Hangman merely blinked—expression unreadable.

Rogue’s gaze swept the room like a radar sweep, measured, methodical, and unflinching. “Everything you’ve done until now? Fuel drills. Altitude suppression. Formation combat. It was prep. Controlled burns.”

She took a step closer to the front, the faint metallic jingle of her boots grounding the tension in reality. “Phase Five is different. Phase Five is what happens when all systems fail. No comms. No radar. No IFF tags. You’ll be flying deaf, blind, and mute, and your mission is simple: survive.”

There was a sharp shift of posture from Fritz in the back. Yale cast a glance toward Coyote, who didn’t look away from Rogue once.

“You’ll be split into two strike teams,” she continued. “Team One will consist of Elements One and Two. Team Two is Elements Three and Four. You will enter the airspace together, but without the aid of comms or active radar. You will not be informed of your allies’ positions. You will not know who is friend and who is threat. You’ll rely on visual ID only. And if that sounds difficult?” She paused, letting the silence linger just a second too long. “That’s the point.”

Fanboy let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Phoenix kept her jaw tight. Somewhere near the back, Payback shifted in his seat, clearly uneasy.

Rogue turned toward the tactical screen as it blinked to life, displaying a sprawling flight grid. “Three bogeys will be in the sky with you,” she said. “Silent. Invisible. Hunting. You will not see them on your screens. You won’t hear their voices. They will be watching you. Tracking your movement. Testing your instinct.”

Behind her, the screen lit up with faint heat trails—jagged, erratic, unpredictable.

“Ghost Unit will consist of Commander Jinx. Commander Ruin. And myself.”

Heads snapped up. Eyes widened. Rooster sat straighter in his chair, visibly alert now. Hangman blinked, but said nothing. Only Bob whispered under his breath, “Oh, shit.”

Rogue gave them a second to absorb that. Then, calmly, she continued. “This is not just about flying skill. This is about situational awareness. Communication without words. Survival under pressure. You will be expected to execute evasive maneuvers without radar lock warnings. You will not be told who is tracking you. And if you think you can cheat the system?”

Her voice dropped into something just shy of a smirk. “You won’t.”

From the corner, Maverick finally spoke. “You pass this, maybe, you get permanent squadron placement in North Island.”

Cyclone added, “You fail it? That’s your record. Your future. And it goes all the way up.”

There was no false dramatics in that room. Only the kind of hard truth that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Rogue gave them one final glance, sharp as a blade. “Briefing ends in ten. You launch at dawn.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out—leaving the room thick with the scent of fuel, adrenaline, and the unmistakable weight of dread.

PHASE FIVE: COMMS-BLACKOUT TACTICS

- Team One -

The sky above North Island was a war zone waiting to happen. There were no friendly comms, no radar pings, no quiet check-ins. Just four jets belonging to Team One, cutting clean through the upper airspace like knives through fog, every cockpit running silent. No one said a word—because no one could.

Coyote was flying point, a lone figure in his own jet, his gaze sharp and constantly scanning. Behind him, Yale flew in tight formation, Harvard in the backseat of their two-seater, already tensing for whatever the Navy had loaded into this hell-phase. Fritz and Omaha flanked close on the other side, Omaha with Halo backing him up in the rear seat, her WSO instincts already prickling like static on the skin.

From the tactical auditorium, Team Two watched in total silence, eyes fixed on the feed. There was nothing to hear—no comms—and not much to see either. The skies looked clean. Too clean. Wrong kind of clean.

Maverick leaned against the railing, knuckles white. Warlock didn’t move a muscle. Hondo exchanged a quiet look with Cyclone, who was unreadable as always.

Meanwhile, the four jets of Team One tried to maintain cohesion. It was only a matter of time.

Ruin struck first, low and fast. A blur across the lower screen, almost undetectable. He swept beneath Fritz’s jet, tagged the underbelly with a simulated lock-on, and was gone again before the other three pilots even registered it.

Fritz flinched—tight, instinctive—but kept flying. Still, it counted. One out.

Then came Rogue.

She appeared like a ghost written into the clouds, slicing between Yale and Coyote without setting off a single alert. Coyote attempted a hard bank left, trying to signal, but without comms or radar, it was a desperate flail in the dark. Rogue slid beneath him, kissed his six o’clock, and painted him out. No effort. No hesitation.

Up in the viewing room, Payback let out a long whistle. Rooster muttered something like “Jesus,” and Bob didn’t blink.

Meanwhile, Harvard tapped his panel as if muscle memory would save him, but the systems were dead. Halo gestured from Omaha’s backseat, but by the time Omaha adjusted course, Jinx was there—steady, unshakable, and surgical. His simulated fire took them both in one clean shot, the kill logged before Omaha even flared.

That left Yale and Harvard alone, or so they thought.

Rogue dropped from above in a tight inverted spiral, so fast it rattled the auditorium’s sensors. Yale tried to juke left, but Rogue mirrored him perfectly, her jet shadowing his every move. There was no shaking her. She pressed in, an inch behind their tail, like a specter written out of some forgotten war.

The tag landed. Their screen went red.

Four jets out. In less than three minutes.

No sound filled the auditorium except for the soft static of the quiet sky. Even Hangman had nothing to say.

Team One returned to base without a word. They didn’t need Rogue to say it aloud. They had failed—and they hadn’t even known when it happened.

Now the question was: would Team Two survive any better?

- Team Two - 

The sky had never felt so wide—and yet so claustrophobic.

Rooster led the way. His hands were tight on the stick, eyes flicking over terrain, clouds, shadows—anything that could mask a threat. He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Not in this phase.

Payback and Fanboy took a wide angle to the left, covering high altitude. Across their flank, Phoenix flew low with Bob locked in and ready. Hangman ran solo, of course, cruising near the back but cutting across the formation in quiet, confident streaks. He didn’t look worried. Not yet.

From the auditorium below, Maverick leaned forward slightly in his seat. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath.

Warlock didn’t speak. Cyclone had his arms crossed, watching with the focus of someone who could see a failure forming ten miles away.

Then came the flicker.

No one on the team saw it—but Jinx had entered from the north quarter, looping below altitude and accelerating fast. Phoenix sensed something in her gut—pure instinct—but by the time she adjusted, Bob shouted and gestured wildly. Too late. A red mark flared across their data feed. Tagged. One down.

Yale cursed under his breath in the silence of the auditorium. “They’re gonna pick us off,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Meanwhile, Rooster dipped low, banking sharply. His jaw was clenched, sweat gathering at the base of his neck. He felt her. He felt her in the air. Somewhere.

“Come on,” he whispered, scanning the sky.

Rogue was above him, upside down. For just a second, she hovered like a blade over soft skin. But she didn’t strike. She watched. Calculated. Then pulled away without a sound.

Rooster jerked in his seat, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. Halo tried to signal something—unsure, uneasy—but they had to keep moving. Rooster was breathing hard now, not because he was tired. Because she was hunting, and he knew it.

Across the sector, Hangman made a sudden cut through cloud cover, diving just above Payback’s six. Whether it was intentional or just an ego trip, no one knew. Fanboy signaled frantically. They were falling apart.

And that’s when Ruin and Jinx struck.

They rose from below, threading the needle between Payback and Fanboy, landing two clean simulated hits before either of them could even react. Their jet jolted—red light blaring across the observer feed. Done.

“Dammit,” Maverick muttered.

“Chaos,” Hondo added. “Textbook chaos.”

Rooster was barely keeping it together. His breath was shallow, but he moved sharp. Quick. Rogue passed him again—this time at eye level. He caught a flash of her helmet, the tail of her jet—and this time, he turned to chase.

Halo tried to steady him. No comms. Just instinct. Rooster pulled hard right, weaving. Dodging. She tried to trap him in a pincer—textbook ambush—but Rooster ducked low and twisted out of it. Not today. Not this time.

In the hangar, Cyclone let out a tight breath. “She missed?”

“No,” Maverick said, watching. “He dodged.”

Rooster pulled out hard, just in time to see Hangman speeding past.

The two locked eyes—just a moment.

And above them, Rogue turned her jet. Slow. Like a predator changing direction. The fight wasn't over.

And Team Two still had a shot.

Rooster’s heart slammed against his ribs, each beat loud enough to drown out the silence in his cockpit. He had no comms. No radar. No mercy.

But he had her. And God, that was worse.

Behind him, Fanboy’s hands hovered over every switch, muscle memory ready to react, but instinct had to take the wheel now. He couldn’t see her—but he knew she was close. Every warning system was dark. That was the whole point. You either felt her or you fell.

Across the open sky, Hangman curved out, trying to reposition, but he wasn’t coordinating with anyone. His flying was sharp—too sharp. Like a blade without a hilt. There was no balance, no tether. He cut through the sky like he always did: fast, alone, and risky.

“Where is she?” Fanboy mouthed, eyes darting—

Then everything happened at once.

A shadow above. A blinding climb below.

And then—she was upside-down again.

Rogue came in like a phantom. From beneath Rooster’s jet, she rolled inverted, slicing between his F-18 and Hangman’s trajectory with millimeters to spare. Her jet twisted in a corkscrew so tight it defied everything taught in flight school. Aerodynamically insane. Mechanically reckless.

And flawlessly executed.

Rooster’s entire body jolted.

She should’ve stalled. She should’ve blacked out, but instead—she leveled above him, wings tilted at an angle no sane pilot attempted, and in the space of two heartbeats, she was gone again.

“Jesus Christ,” Payback hissed under his breath.

Meanwhile, Phoenix, on the far edge of their invisible grid—saw the tail smoke and dove. A desperate move. She knew the game was stacked against them, but hell, she wasn’t going down without swinging. She cut into Rogue’s path, but he never stood a chance.

Ruin came from behind, tagged him clean, and peeled off without fanfare. Coyote slammed his fist against the console.

Down to three.

In the auditorium, Fritz leaned over to Yale, whispering like a war veteran in a trench. “She broke physics.”

Yale nodded slowly. “That was… illegal.”

Back in the sky, Rooster was pushing his limits now. Pulling hard Gs. Chasing the shadow of a jet that had outpaced him before the game even began. He thought maybe—just maybe—he’d find an angle. Something to surprise her.

But when he pulled up over the ridge—

She was there. Waiting.

She hadn’t run. She led him there.

And the moment he saw her—tail angled slightly, canopy turned just enough to give him a glimpse of her helmet—he knew.

She tagged him before he even reached her six.

Red light. Simulation kill. Done.

Bob smacked the side of the cockpit. “No way.”

Rooster didn’t say anything. Just stared at the sky.

That left one.

Hangman.

Jake Seresin gritted his teeth, pulling into a climb as his HUD flashed with warning symbols. Not from radar—just terrain. He flew low, hard, cutting sharp and tight, like a predator with something to prove.

He wasn’t flying for points.

He was flying for pride.

Behind him, Rogue’s jet curved in. Silent. Fast.

And this time, he heard her coming—not from the sound, but from the feel.

She pulled another impossible maneuver—a slip-turn-to-dive from above, dropping her altitude in a move that should’ve torn the wings off her jet.

She held it steady.

Jake barely managed to roll away, adrenaline slamming through him.

She missed—but just barely.

And now he was turning, chasing, fighting her tail like his life depended on it.

From the ground, Maverick sat forward.

“They’re dancing now,” he said quietly.

And in the sky, Rogue didn’t run.

She invited him in.

Jake pushed the throttle to its limits, sweat slipping down the curve of his jaw.

“Come on,” he muttered, voice raw. “Come on, Rogue. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

But she didn’t come to him.

She led.

Rogue didn’t fly like anyone Jake had ever fought—not even Mav. She didn’t chase kills. She played the long game. She baited. She disappeared. She commanded the sky.

It was infuriating.

And God help him, it was intoxicating.

He dove into her wake, chasing the ghost of her vapor trail, trying to get a clean lock even though he had no radar, no instruments, nothing but memory and muscle and a gut feeling in overdrive.

She dipped low toward the mountain line, her jet carving across the terrain like a blade slicing silk. Jake followed, nose down, vision tunneling as the Gs pressed into his ribs. Trees blurred beneath them. One wrong move and he’d be a fireball.

But Jake didn’t let go.

He couldn’t.

He had to catch her.

Had to prove he could still match her—even after all this time.

Even after all the ways he’d failed her.

He didn’t know what this dogfight was anymore. A test? A message? A punishment? All of it? Maybe. Probably.

She flipped vertical—straight up into a climb so steep it made Jake hiss through his teeth. No sane pilot would do that with no radar. You’d stall. You’d lose sight.

Unless—

Unless you wanted to lose them.

Jake pulled up behind her, jet screaming, heart in his throat.

And then she cut the throttle.

“What the—?”

He nearly slammed into her tail.

Rogue didn’t stall—she hung in the air for a second too long, like gravity couldn’t touch her, and then she rolled out beneath him.

Jake yanked his stick, his jet groaning in protest, and followed the twist—barely keeping her in his visual.

She was toying with him.

From the ground, Maverick had stood up.

“Did she just—?”

“She did,” Warlock said, eyes wide.

“She baited the collision just to force a high-G split,” Hondo muttered. “Ballsy.”

Jake was panting now, jet trembling under the strain. He pulled into the climb, trying to regain altitude, but she was already behind him.

He couldn't see her. He felt her. Like lightning about to strike.

And then the simulator tagged him.

Dead.

Kill confirmed.

Jake ripped off his oxygen mask, tossing it to the side, chest heaving.

In the sky above, Rogue banked once—smooth, controlled—and disappeared into the blue.

The auditorium was silent. Maverick blew out a long breath and dropped back into his seat. Cyclone looked half-annoyed, half-stunned.

Warlock smiled. “Well, that was something.”

Down below, Jake’s fists clenched around his flight gloves.

Not from shame.

From adrenaline. From want. From the sick, gnawing feeling that even now, even after all these years—

He still couldn’t catch her.

Not in the sky.

And not in real life.

POST-PHASE FIVE ASSESSMENT

The debriefing room felt colder than it should have, sterile under the harsh fluorescent lights. The squad sat in stiff silence, backs straight, eyes forward—but no one looked comfortable. Their flight suits were still clinging with sweat, the scent of burnt adrenaline still clinging to their skin. No one cracked a joke. No one shifted in their seat. They knew better.

At the front, Cyclone stood beside Warlock, both of them as unreadable as ever. Hondo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, though his gaze was sharp and assessing. Maverick, unusually silent, sat at the far end of the room, elbow on the table, thumb pressed to his temple like a man halfway through a migraine.

Every few seconds, his fingers would tap twice against his jaw, his tell when he was deeply, deeply worried.

Meanwhile, the three commanders stood facing the squad. Jinx was the first to step forward, his voice clipped and clear. “Your performance today wasn’t just about flying. It was about communication, adaptation, trust. And to be frank—those were the exact areas most of you failed.” His eyes swept across them without hesitation. “You flew scared. You flew reactive. And too many of you were waiting for someone else to take the lead. That gets people killed.”

Then, after a beat, he looked toward Phoenix and Fanboy. “Solo flyers abandoned. WSOs left scrambling to adjust. It's one thing to fall behind. It’s another to watch your backseater flounder because you left them hanging.”

Ruin stepped forward next, his tone colder, more clinical. “WSOs—your job is not to just ‘keep up.’ You are the eyes, the radar, the tactics. You are half the brain in that cockpit, and yet today, too many of you hesitated. You weren’t asserting, weren’t predicting, weren’t fighting for control of the backseat.”

He fixed his eyes on Bob for a beat too long. “A good pilot without a good WSO is a broken compass. You need to stop apologizing for existing and start commanding your seat.”

Finally, Rogue stepped forward. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her voice calm—so calm, it was terrifying. “The purpose of Phase Five was to test your instinct. It was designed to strip you of crutches; radar, comms, visual support, and force you to fall back on the one thing that separates elite pilots from dead ones: intuition.”

She let the silence stretch for just long enough.

“Some of you adapted, but most of you didn’t.” Her gaze passed slowly over the squad, but it lingered on Jake for a second longer. “There were moments today when I saw flashes—sparks of something that could be great. But sparks don’t light fires if you keep dousing them with ego or fear. You have to choose.”

Then she looked at Maverick and gave a small nod. “Captain.”

Maverick rose from his seat, his expression unreadable. “You heard them. No excuses. No sugarcoating. I know you’re tired. I know it was brutal. But the reality is—if this had been a real mission, half of you wouldn’t have made it home. And that? That’s on me.”

He turned, resting his hands on the table, voice tightening. “If you fail this evaluation… the Navy won’t just shut this program down. They’ll pull my command. I won’t be flying anymore. So when I say this was your last chance—know that it was mine, too.”

Now, the room truly fell silent. No one moved. Not even Hangman.

Maverick straightened. “You’ve got one final debrief tomorrow. Then we find out if you made the cut.”

And with that, he stepped back, leaving the squad to sit in the deafening weight of everything that had just been said.

The tension hung thick, like a noose cinched just a bit too tight. No one dared break the silence at first—not even Rooster, whose usual wisecracks had vanished somewhere between Ruin’s cold stare and Rogue’s scalpel-precise takedown.

Fanboy exhaled, long and shaky. “Dude… I think I just had a near-death experience. While sitting down.”

Next to him, Yale ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Fritz was pale, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a second round. Omaha hadn’t moved at all, like he was trying to make himself invisible.

Harvard cleared his throat and leaned forward just a little. “Did… did anyone else feel like they were going to throw up the entire time Rogue was speaking?”

Coyote let out a low whistle. “I am gonna throw up.”

“Dibs on the corner,” Bob mumbled, trying to look smaller than usual. His eyes were wide, locked on the front of the room like she might materialize there again.

Payback groaned and let his head fall back against the chair. “Bro. We got absolutely vaporized.”

Rooster let out a breath through his nose. “I mean, she did say ‘no freebies.’ We just thought she was being dramatic.”

Yale snorted, bitter. “Yeah, well. Joke’s on us.”

Meanwhile, Jake hadn’t moved. Not a word, not a glance. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the spot Rogue had just been standing. The usual swagger was gone, replaced by a brooding silence that was somehow even louder than the squad’s groans.

Phoenix elbowed him. “Well? Got something to say, Hangman?”

Jake blinked slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly. “She flies like war.”

Rooster turned. “What?”

Jake looked down, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

- Jake -

Jake Seresin hadn’t moved. Not for a long while after the debriefing ended. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the answers might be carved into the concrete if he stared hard enough.

Revenge? Was that what this was?

Because hell if it didn’t feel like it.

She’d stood up there, calm and ruthless, flaying them open one by one with words wrapped in steel. Not cruel—no, that would’ve been easier to ignore. But clinical. Unforgiving. Accurate. She hadn’t needed to scream or humiliate to twist the knife. She’d just told the truth. Her truth. The one she’d earned, the one she'd bled for, and the one that now towered over him like some ghost he couldn't outrun.

He leaned back, pressing a palm to his face with a bitter exhale. Rogue. No—you. You weren’t just here. You were everywhere. In the air, in the silence, in the way the whole squad had gone dead quiet the moment your boots hit the floor.

The same girl who used to carry a tote bag full of political theory books and do his stupid social studies assignments like it was nothing.

The same girl whose name he’d once forgotten.

Now? He couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, guilt blooming like an old bruise. Maybe this was revenge. A well-earned, high-ranking, Navy-sanctioned serving of humiliation. A masterclass in making someone feel small without lifting a finger. And maybe he deserved it.

Because the truth—the one he didn’t say out loud—was this: Jake Seresin remembered every second of what he’d done to you.

And worse? He remembered how bright you used to look at him. Like he hung the damn sun. 

And now? Now you didn’t even flinch in his direction.

You just outflew him. Outranked him. Outclassed him.

He stood up, slowly, like his body was suddenly too heavy for the bones inside. Still thinking, still stewing, still trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. Because there was no easy apology for what he did. No one-liner that could dig him out of a grave he’d been burying for years.

And God help him—he was starting to think you’d built this whole gauntlet just to prove to the Navy, to the world, and to him… that you never needed him to begin with.

And it was working.

- You, Rogue -

INT. OFFICER’S BOARDROOM

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting a sharp, sterile glow over the conference table of the Intelligence Officer’s Boardroom. Everyone was already seated. Jinx and Ruin flanked each other, uniforms sharp, eyes alert.

Across from them sat Admiral Simpson, his posture ramrod straight, arms folded tightly over his chest; to his right, Commander Bates, silent but observant as always; and beside them, Captain Mitchell—Maverick—shoulders relaxed, but his gaze piercing.

Lieutenant Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), callsign Rogue, stood at the head of the room beside the briefing screen. Her expression was unreadable, voice clipped in crisp, practiced cadence that echoed with years of command and combat experience. She held a clicker in her hand, advancing the first slide of the post-evaluation review with clinical precision.

“Gentlemen,” she began, tone even, formal, “this Evaluation Gauntlet was designed to measure the operational readiness, tactical flexibility, and aerial cohesion of this candidate unit—callsign Dagger Squad—under conditions simulating combat pressure beyond the standard training thresholds.”

Click.

Another slide. A breakdown of the phases, each marked with timestamps, altitude metrics, and comms performance indicators.

“The structure was developed using declassified threat-response patterns from live-action operations across three distinct theaters,”

Rogue continued. “We adapted scenarios previously executed by Ghost Squadron personnel, incorporating the same decision fatigue, altitude suppression, and electronic warfare variables we encountered in those missions. Each phase was engineered to simulate real-world aerial warfare under contemporary threat conditions.”

She advanced another slide, this one displaying a digital overlay of each phase objective.

“The Gauntlet was not simply a skills test. It was designed to expose friction, within the team, between roles, under fire. Communication, instinct, adaptability. These are the pillars that distinguish a squadron fit for sustained deployment from one that fractures under duress.”

Cyclone’s brow twitched slightly in what could have been approval. Warlock nodded once, slow and measured.

“Request for permanent squadron status requires a demonstration of total aerial interoperability,” Rogue said. “The Navy does not authorize permanent postings on sentiment. We authorize them on survivability. A squadron that can think as one, move as one, and recover as one.”

She paused there, eyes scanning the room before continuing.

“Failure in any one phase; comms, tactical maneuvers, WSO-pilot coordination, translates to vulnerabilities in theater. The Gauntlet is designed to expose those weaknesses. It’s not meant to discourage. It’s meant to prevent body bags.”

A beat of silence. Heavy. Sharp.

“The mission profiles were cleared for evaluation use by Atlantic Command,” Rogue added. “Each parameter was adjusted to reflect performance expectations for top-tier strike fighter squadrons operating at classified threat levels. The structure was not arbitrary. It was mission-informed.”

Maverick leaned forward slightly at that, arms resting over the edge of the table. “And the results?”

Rogue’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll get to that in a moment, sir.”

Rogue clicked to the next slide—no frills, no dramatic flair. Just data. Brutal, clean, and unflinching.

“Phase One: Simulated Missile Evasion under Limited Radar Support.”

She scanned the room, her voice steady. “Elements One and Two failed to achieve a successful lock-break within the designated window. Evasion protocols were either delayed or improperly executed. Missile simulations scored direct hits in under thirty seconds on average. Element Three passed with tactical precision—minimal chatter, high situational awareness, and proper use of terrain masking. Element Four passed, but barely. Poor spacing on ingress almost compromised the mission. The only reason they cleared the kill zone was a sharp pullout by Ghost intercept unit—Ruin and Jinx.”

She didn’t soften the language. There was no room for it.

“Phase Two: Fuel-Starvation Emergency Drill mid-Dogfight.”

Rogue turned to face the screen again. “Elements One and Two recovered, showing significant improvement. Adaptability increased under pressure. Element Three again demonstrated exemplary synchronization. Element Four displayed recklessness—specifically Hangman disengaging without confirmation from his WSO team. Phoenix and Bob were left exposed during a simulated strike run. If this had been live combat, the outcome would have been catastrophic.”

She advanced to the next slide. Mav’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

“Phase Three: Low-Altitude Terrain Suppression.”

Aerial graphs flickered on screen, showing flight paths, dips, and abrupt climbs. “All four elements successfully completed this phase. Element Three led with clean terrain-hugging maneuvers and exemplary altitude regulation. However, Element One scraped the 250-foot floor twice. That’s breach-worthy in active theaters.”

Another slide.

“Phase Four: Mixed-Team Combat Integration.”

At this, her gaze swept across the seated commanders. “Of the eight improvised teams, four completed the combat drills successfully. The others showed disjointed communication, poor reaction timing, and in some cases, reckless maneuvering during blackout intervals. Hangman and Fanboy succeeded—barely. Phoenix, flying solo, showed exceptional judgment but overcorrected during a blind dive and would’ve clipped hard deck in a real mission. Rooster and Halo passed. Fritz and Bob nearly failed due to radar mismanagement. Payback and Harvard succeeded with the best WSO-to-pilot comms efficiency. Coyote underperformed.”

Rogue clicked again. A black screen appeared—no numbers, no metrics.

“Phase Five: Comms-Blackout Tactics.”

A moment of silence stretched, thick with heat.

“Ruin, Jinx, and I flew the sky as opposition. We provided no comms, no radar feed. The squad had to navigate through sensory silence. No guidance. Only instinct. The results were telling.”

She faced the officers again.

“Element One was eliminated within forty-two seconds. Element Two managed to stay in the sky for two minutes, but lost all coordination. Element Three lasted four minutes, with Fanboy and Payback showing high-pressure resilience. Element Four survived longest, due to Phoenix’s evasive ingenuity and Bob’s recalibration instincts. But even then—they were caught. No confirmed kills, no breakouts. Just survival.”

The silence afterward was suffocating.

Jinx folded his hands over the table, finally speaking up. “We’ve trained squadrons for years. What we saw was potential—but not readiness.”

Ruin’s voice followed, measured but stern. “Too many pilots talking over their WSOs. Too many solo operators forgetting the sky doesn’t forgive selfish flying.”

Rogue let their words settle, then added the final stroke.

“This wasn’t sabotage. It wasn’t cruelty. It was a crucible. If they want North Island, they have to earn it. Otherwise, they don’t belong here.”

Her eyes met Maverick’s. “All that’s left now is your judgment, Captain Mitchell.”

Cyclone inhaled through his nose, sharp and slow. Warlock sat back in his chair, hand to his mouth in thought.

And Maverick? His face was unreadable.

The room pulsed with the tension of it, all eyes shifting to him, the weight of the squadron’s future pressing into the air like G-force. He didn’t look at anyone right away. He kept his eyes on the screen, though it was blank now. Just black glass reflecting his own tightly-set jaw.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Controlled. The kind of calm that came before a storm.

“I trained these pilots. Every one of them. I watched them grow, fall, get back up. I saw potential that reminded me of myself back when I thought pulling off stunts made me invincible.” He shifted in his seat, elbows resting on the table, fingers interlocked.

“But potential alone doesn’t cut it when you’re flying combat sorties at Mach 1 and people’s lives are on the line.”

Cyclone opened his mouth, but Maverick kept going, voice rising just enough to press the air tight.

“You said it yourself, Commander Rogue, this wasn’t cruelty. It was a crucible. And if we’re honest?” He glanced at her, then to Jinx and Ruin. “They cracked.”

A long exhale left his chest, deflating some invisible armor.

“But I’ll tell you this. If we leave it at that—if we stamp their failure and call it done—then I’ve failed more than they have. Because I didn’t just teach them how to fly. I taught them how to survive. And they did survive. They made it to the end of that gauntlet, bruised, bloodied, egos shattered—but alive.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, resting both hands on the table as he leaned forward, his tone heavier now.

“You want my judgment? Here it is.” His gaze swept the room.

“Ground them, and we lose every ounce of fight they’ve got left. But let me take them back into the sky, let me drag the rust and doubt out of them piece by piece—and you’ll have a squadron that can go to hell and back and not break.”

He straightened again, shoulders squared.

“I’ll take responsibility. I’ll train them again from the ground up if I have to. I’ll make them into a unit. One worth keeping here.”

A pause.

“And if I can’t?”

Maverick looked directly at Cyclone, then Warlock, his voice unflinching.

“Then I walk. Because I don’t deserve to fly with them if I gave up before they were ready.”

The silence after was sharp.

Cyclone stared at him. Warlock exchanged a glance with Hondo, who hadn’t said a word this entire time.

Then Cyclone sat back with a sigh, his voice tight. “Captain Mitchell… we will discuss your proposal.”

Rogue tilted her head slightly. She studied him. And for the first time, her expression cracked—not into a smile, but something harder to define.

Respect, maybe. Or regret.

Rogue stood slowly.

The quiet scrape of her chair against the floor was the loudest sound in the room for a beat. She didn’t move like someone uncertain. She moved like someone calculating every motion. Her posture was straight, shoulders squared beneath the weight of her rank, of her history, of everything she’d built to stand here and be listened to.

“There is no need for another evaluation,” she said, voice like steel dragged through silk. “You asked us to test them. We did. Extensively. You asked for an answer. You have one.”

She stepped forward, her hands clasped behind her back, boots clicking sharply across the floor as she faced the table, now standing between Maverick and the top brass.

“I don’t hand out false confidence, Captain. And I don’t coddle pilots with potential but no discipline. You’re right. They survived. Barely, yes, but you see a future in them, and I see that fire still buried under bravado, beneath the mess.”

Then her gaze shifted, landing squarely on Maverick.

“I’ll support your decision. I will sign off that this unit remains intact as a provisional squadron, on the condition that from this point forward, you are solely responsible for their performance. You fall short again, Maverick?” Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “I won’t be signing anything next time.”

Maverick gave a quiet nod. There was something unspoken in his eyes, gratitude wrapped in grim understanding.

Rogue turned to the other commanders.

“Admiral,” she addressed Cyclone. “Captain,” to Warlock. “Gentlemen.”

She looked to her left, gave Jinx a brief nod. He stood without a word, his smirk faint but approving. Ruin followed—ever the shadow, smooth and unreadable.

The three of them moved in practiced precision. Like the room wasn’t full of brass, but simply another mission they’d completed. Another theater of war exited clean.

As Rogue stepped to the doors, she paused for only a second.

“Let them know they’ve got one shot left,” she said, voice quiet but cutting. “It’s up to them what they do with it.”

Then she was gone, Jinx and Ruin flanking her, boots echoing down the corridor like the judgment of ghosts.

[mrsevans90]

the fool haunts the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part three]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 18.7k words (lmfao)

summary: jake seresin is still an asshole. years later and he still walks like the world owes him a favor, still smiles like he knows all your secrets. maybe he does. the tension between you and him crackles like a live wire—too much history, too many things left unsaid. and now, somehow, after all this time, your parents went ahead and invited him to your birthday dinner like he's just an old friend, like he didn’t break you and walk away. how the hell are you supposed to survive saturday night with jake seresin at your kitchen table?

warnings: mentions of emotional manipulation, humiliation, past bullying, unresolved trauma, toxic academic crushes, petty jealousy, sexual tension, competitive flying, hangman being hangman, reader being so done, awkward family dynamics, birthday dinner chaos pending, and one golden boy who doesn’t know what to do with the consequences of his actions.

note: i did not expect for this series to blow up—seriously, thank you so much for all the love and chaos you've poured into it. i’ve officially decided to make this a five-part series (since we’re now in part 3, that means two more to go hehe). tag list will be in the comments because you are all too many (and too powerful). again, thank you so much <3

part one , part two

masterlist

your call sign is rogue.

The morning haze hadn’t lifted from the tarmac, and already the air was electric—buzzing with adrenaline, nerves, and the unspoken threat of humiliation. Maverick was still barking orders, Hondo was double-checking comms, and jets shimmered in the gold-tinged light like beasts waiting to be unleashed.

Hangman pulled his helmet over his head and sealed it with practiced ease, but the routine didn’t dull the edge that had sharpened along his spine since the moment he saw her this morning.

Rogue.

It was ridiculous, really, how she hadn’t said more than a few words, hadn’t even looked at him long, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. That glance—half a second longer than it should’ve been. Enough to make him wonder. Enough to make him spiral.

He climbed into his bird, ran through pre-flight checks like muscle memory was the only thing keeping him grounded, and tried not to glance at the sky every two seconds.

Because that’s where she was.

Already up there. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

The rest of Dagger had scattered to their own jets, still a little sluggish from last night, still nursing bruised egos from yesterday’s verbal demolition. Rooster muttered something about wanting to make a “better impression” today and was currently psyching himself up with an embarrassing amount of chest-puffing confidence. Phoenix didn’t even dignify that with a response. Bob, bless him, just looked like he was trying not to throw up.

“Call signs locked,” Hondo’s voice crackled over comms. “Tower cleared for launch. Let’s see what the kids learned yesterday.”

Jake smirked, flipping switches with ease. Kids. That’s what they were to the Big Three, wasn’t it? Just kids playing dress-up in the Navy’s finest. It burned a little. But it also lit a fire.

He liked the heat.

“Element Four, ready for takeoff,” Jake said into the comm.

“Copy that, Hangman,” came Rogue’s voice, sudden and unexpected.

It froze him for just a moment. Not Maverick. Not Hondo. Not even Jinx.

Her.

There was a pause on the comms—just a beat, but long enough to feel intentional.

“Impress me.”

Two words.

And Jake Seresin’s entire bloodstream turned to jet fuel.

The launch was smooth. Fast. Precise. Coyote would’ve said “sexy,” but Jake wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He hit altitude and locked into formation behind Phoenix and Bob, already scanning the horizon.

Nothing.

Clear skies.

But he knew better now.

They were up there. Rogue. Jinx. Ruin.

The predators.

Jake flexed his fingers around the throttle and grinned.

“Let’s dance,” he muttered.

And then? The clouds broke. And the hunt began. They came from the east.

Fast. Silent. Surgical.

A flash of sun off a fuselage, then nothing—just the screaming of comms as Phoenix swore under her breath and Bob went full DEFCON 1 in the backseat.

“Contact—three o’clock high!”

Jake yanked his stick hard, peeling upward into the burn of the sun, heart already slamming. The second he cleared the turn, he saw it—two jets breaking formation across the sky like sharks circling the surface.

Jinx and Ruin.

“Shit,” Phoenix hissed. “They’re already splitting us.”

“I’ve got eyes—” Bob’s voice came through, clear but shaking. “Ruin’s on us.”

“Correction,” Phoenix said. “We’re on their radar.”

Jake was climbing fast, keeping high above, scanning for the third ghost in the machine.

“Where the hell is Rogue?” he muttered.

That’s when it happened.

A whisper of motion in his periphery.

He banked, hard, just in time to see her cut through the clouds like a damn blade—no hesitation, no wasted movement. She slipped beneath him, inverted for half a second, and then flipped upright behind his tail like she’d just appeared out of thin air.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake breathed.

“Element Four, you’ve got a friend,” came her voice again—cool, amused, way too casual for the chaos she’d just dropped into.

He dove.

She followed.

Every turn he made, she shadowed tighter. Every juke, every flare—she answered faster, smoother, like she knew what he’d do before he did it.

Jake gritted his teeth. “Not this time.”

He pulled a hard S-turn, trying to bait her into overshooting. She didn’t fall for it. Instead, she matched his roll and slid back in like a puzzle piece.

“Hangman, you good?” Phoenix called over the comms.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. Not while he was dancing this close to death.

He dipped low toward the sea, slicing through a gust of wind, pulling every trick he’d buried in his bones. This was his game. His sky. His name on the leaderboard.

But she stayed there.

Right on his six.

And then—without warning—she vanished.

“Where—?” Jake turned sharply, almost disoriented. “Where’d she go?”

No answer.

Static.

The sky was empty.

He leveled off, breath ragged, heartbeat hammering like fists on a war drum. He didn’t lose people in the sky. That wasn’t how this worked. He was Hangman.

But she was gone.

“Element Four,” Rogue’s voice cut in again, crisp and sudden. “You’re dead.”

Jake jolted. Looked up.

There she was. Directly above him. Upside down. Wings tipped in salute.

“I—what the—how the hell did you—” he started, mouth dry.

“Better luck next round, cowboy,” Rogue replied, flipping out of view with impossible grace.

Jake just sat there in the cockpit, stunned silent.

Behind him, the comms erupted with chatter.

“Did he just get Top Gun’d?” Yale asked.

“Man, she mavericked him!” Fanboy laughed.

Rooster howled. “She went full Pete Mitchell on your ass!”

Jake didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

He just watched the shrinking speck in the sky that was her jet disappearing into the light, and swallowed the burn in his chest.

Not defeat. Not yet. It was something worse.

Admiration.

Jake didn’t speak for the rest of the flight.

Not a word.

While the other teams regrouped and Rooster proudly rehashed how he at least lasted more than five minutes this time (he didn’t), while Fanboy dramatized Yale’s screaming over comms and Phoenix muttered curses about how the hell do you counter a formation breach like that, Jake stayed quiet.

Because what could he say?

He’d been hunted.

Outflown.

Outmaneuvered.

Outmatched.

And worse—she made it look easy.

Back on the tarmac, the Dagger Squad trickled out of their aircraft one by one, boots hitting the asphalt with less swagger than usual. There were no jokes, no loud victory calls, no shared high-fives. Just exhausted sighs and glances exchanged like we lived, but did we win?

Jake was the last to descend from his jet, and for once, no one was watching him.

They were all looking up.

Because Rogue was landing now.

Smooth. Silent. A predator returning from a kill with no need to gloat. Her aircraft touched the ground with the calm confidence of someone who didn’t need applause to know they were terrifying.

She pulled off her helmet as she walked toward the hangar, wind tossing her hair just enough to make her look untouchable. Ruin and Jinx joined her, both equally composed, but it was her they watched. Her lead they followed.

“Okay,” Phoenix exhaled, hands on hips, voice low. “I know we’ve all been mentally annihilated today, but can we at least admit she’s... kind of insane?”

“In the hottest way possible,” Rooster added quickly.

“She made Hangman go silent,” Fanboy whispered, eyes wide. “He hasn’t said a thing in, like, seven minutes.”

Payback raised his brows. “Is that a record? Should we alert the Navy?”

Jake didn’t bite.

He just peeled off his gloves and stared at the place where she’d disappeared into the building.

Not with anger. Not even with frustration.

But determination.

He’d never chased something he wasn’t sure he could catch.

Never wanted something that felt like it might break him to hold it.

And now?

Now he couldn’t stop.

She was Rogue.

And she just rewrote every rule he thought he knew about the game.

And Jake Seresin?

He wasn’t done playing.

Jake found her behind the hangar.

Not on purpose. Not really. He'd told himself he was just heading that way for fresh air, for space—anything to clear the static still ringing in his skull after being shot down so spectacularly. But the second he turned that corner and saw her there, half out of her flight suit, arms crossed as she stared out toward the open sky, he stopped.

She hadn’t heard him.

Or maybe she had and just didn’t care.

Typical.

His boots crunched on gravel as he stepped forward. “Got a second?”

She didn’t move at first. Then—slowly—she turned. Calm. Cool. The same unreadable mask she wore in the sky.

Except up close, he could see the flicker in her eyes.

Recognition. Resentment. And something sharper.

“I thought I made myself clear,” Rogue said. Her voice was steel-wrapped silk—softer than it should’ve been, but every syllable cut. “We’re professionals now. That’s all there is.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Thick with years. Bitterness. Memories that felt like glass under the skin.

He took a step closer.

“You disappeared,” he said quietly, like it was an accusation. “One day you were just... gone.”

Her eyes flashed. “After what you did? What did you expect me to do, Seresin—stay?”

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“You didn’t even remember my name.” Her voice rose—sharp, slicing. “You humiliated me. Again and again. And I was too stupid to walk away. So yeah, I left. I saved what little self-respect I had left.”

Jake opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was there to say? She was right. He’d been cruel. Thoughtless. Blinded by ego and the way it felt to have someone orbit around him like he was the goddamn sun.

And now?

Now she was the one burning.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, softer now.

“Don’t,” she cut in, shaking her head. “Don’t give me some half-assed apology because you feel guilty all of a sudden. You were an asshole, Seresin. A pretty one, sure, but an asshole nonetheless.”

He laughed once—bitter and dry. “Still think I’m pretty, huh?”

She didn’t smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Another silence. The wind picked up, tugging at her loose sleeves, the hum of jets in the distance filling the space between them.

Jake stepped forward again.

“Look... I’m not here to dig up the past, but you—us—we didn’t exactly leave things clean.”

“There was nothing to leave,” she replied, cool again. Composed. But her fingers tightened on her arms. “It was all in my head, remember?”

Jake looked away, jaw working. “I was young. Stupid.”

“And now?”

He looked at her. Really looked.

Her face was older now. Sharper. But still her. The girl he never bothered to see clearly back then. The one who’d smiled at him like he mattered, when all he did was crush her under his heel without even realizing it.

“Now?” he said slowly. “I want to know if it’s too late to do it right.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t turn away.

Just stared at him, stone still, like she was reading the flight path of a storm rolling in.

“Let me talk to you,” he said. “Not as Hangman. Not as some cocky bastard. Just—Jake.”

A long pause.

Then she tilted her head slightly and said, “Try again tomorrow, Seresin.”

And she walked away.

Just like before.

Only this time, Jake Seresin stayed frozen in place— remembering her.

He stood there long after she’d gone.

The wind picked up again, rougher now, tugging at the edges of his flight suit. Gravel shifted beneath his boots as if even the earth wasn’t sure what to make of the silence she’d left behind.

Try again tomorrow.

It echoed. Not like an invitation—no, not quite. It was a warning. A challenge. A memory wrapped in razor wire.

Jake raked a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.

God, she used to be soft. Sweet. The kind of girl who showed up to lectures early with highlighters organized by shade and a smile that made the worst days feel like they meant something. She used to hum to herself when she thought no one was listening. She’d tug at her sleeves when she was nervous. She used to blush so easily.

She used to be sunlight. Golden and stupidly kind and his, even if he hadn’t deserved her.

And now? She was titanium.

No more warmth. No more shy glances. No more late-night texts asking if he needed help cramming for a test she wasn’t even in. The sunshine had hardened into steel, and the girl he remembered was gone.

No—not gone. Evolved. Sharpened. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He still remembered the way she used to look at him. Like he mattered. Like he could’ve been someone worth loving, if he’d just stopped playing the role of the golden boy long enough to see her.

But he didn’t. He’d laughed when she said something earnest. Rolled his eyes when she worried. Forgot her name in front of his friends and still watched her smile through it.

He’d been cruel in the way only the self-absorbed could be. And now she stood in front of whole squadrons—ranks above him, stronger, unbothered—like nothing had touched her. Like she had never been soft for him.

He should’ve known better.

Jake Seresin could outrun missiles. Could outfly the best. Could drop a line and have people eating from the palm of his hand in less than a sentence. But he couldn’t take back the way he crushed a girl who would’ve handed him the whole damn sun.

And she? She didn’t flinch anymore. She just left him standing there, quiet for once, tasting regret like blood in his mouth. Tomorrow, she’d expect more from him.

And for the first time in years, Jake wasn’t sure he could deliver. Not like he wanted to. Not like she deserved.

Right?

- You, Rogue -

You were not a fool.

Not anymore.

There was a time—God, how embarrassingly not long ago—when you would’ve dropped everything at the sound of his voice. When a sideways glance from Jake Seresin could undo hours of self-assurance you’d built like armor. When he didn’t even need to try.

One smirk, one offhand compliment—hell, just a hey, sunshine—and you’d melt. Every time. You’d tell yourself it was harmless, that he didn’t mean it the way you hoped he did, and that maybe someday he would. Maybe if you just stayed close enough, bright enough, soft enough, he’d eventually see you as more than a name he had to be reminded of before class.

But you weren’t soft anymore. And he—well, Jake Seresin had grown up. Sort of.

He still had that cocky drawl, still walked like the world owed him something, still carried that signature smirk like a blade hidden in his back pocket. But he’d filled out, too. Sharper around the edges. Taller, broader, a little quieter than the loudmouth he used to be. There were shadows now.

Not enough to call him mature, but enough to prove that life had, at some point, punched him in the jaw and left a mark.

And he still looked at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn’t know he’d failed years ago.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting, sometimes. To see his face again. To hear that voice. To realize just how much of your past you carried like phantom weight in your chest.

You’d buried that girl.

The one who made excuses for him, who smiled through humiliation, who brought him to an elderly home on her birthday and thought it was romantic.

She was gone.

You killed her yourself.

Jake just handed you the blade.

What he never knew—what he probably still doesn’t know—is that his words and actions were the reason you made it here. North Island. Commanding officers. Call sign Rogue. You outranked him now. You outflew him. You outlasted every version of yourself he tried to keep small. And you did it not out of vengeance, but necessity. Because if you didn’t change, you would’ve shattered.

You transferred that same week he humiliated you in front of everyone. Didn’t say goodbye. Packed up your books and your dignity and left behind every hallway that smelled like heartbreak and cheap cologne.

You rewrote your life, one brutal choice at a time—no more attachments, no more chasing, no more becoming smaller to make someone else feel big.

You found power in silence. Discipline in pain. And when you flew for the first time as a student pilot, it felt like freedom had a form. You flew like a woman with nothing left to lose and everything left to prove. And the Navy noticed.

It wasn’t easy. You’d cried in locker rooms, gotten bruised so bad you couldn’t sleep, failed simulations, broke your voice screaming over comms in your early days. But you never stopped. You didn’t let yourself. You couldn’t afford to.

Because somewhere in the back of your mind, Jake’s smirk always lingered. His voice. The way he laughed when you mispronounced a military term. The way his friends looked at you like you didn’t belong.

You took all of it and built a weapon from the pieces.

Now you stand on the same tarmac, under the same sun, and look at him without flinching. He sees someone he doesn’t recognize. And you?

You see someone you survived.

You were not a fool.

Not anymore.

You weren’t the fool, but you had been the lesson.

And God, didn’t it hurt to learn it the hard way?

You still remember the exact moment something inside you cracked—that awful afternoon with too many people, too much laughter at your expense, and Jake at the center of it all like the sun you used to orbit. You’d shown up with the best intentions, heart full, arms literally carrying the weight of his success. A half-finished project, a nervous smile, and a quiet kind of hope he’d finally see you.

And he had, but not in the way you needed.

He’d seen you as the punchline. The backup. The girl who would always say yes, always stand in the corner smiling while he took the stage.

And you smiled through it. That’s what guts you the most—how you smiled.

But something had shifted inside you after that. Slowly. Quietly. Like a star pulling in on itself before it explodes. You didn’t cry right away. You didn’t scream or break dishes or storm out in a blaze of fury. No—you went home. You pet your dog. You told your parents you were tired. And then you packed.

It was over before anyone knew it.

You applied for a transfer with hands that shook but a heart that no longer did. You didn’t tell a soul—not your classmates, not your professors, and certainly not Jake. And when the approval came, you left like a ghost, leaving only the memory of what you could’ve been behind.

Then you buried yourself in training.

You became someone unrecognizable even to your own reflection—someone sharper, faster, smarter. Someone who no longer apologized for taking up space. You studied with an obsession that bordered on religious. You stopped decorating your notes with hearts and started underlining every rule of engagement. You started flying with ruthlessness. You started winning.

They gave you Rogue because that’s what you became. You didn’t follow. You didn’t beg. You didn’t break. You led.

And when command started whispering your name in rooms you weren’t supposed to enter, you stayed quiet. You let your reputation speak for itself. They called you young, but dangerous. Brilliant, but cold. Unforgiving. Merciless in the sky.

You liked that.

Because softness had been your downfall once.

And now—now you stood at the top. With your own team. With your own respect. And now he had to stand in the back row while you gave orders. Now he had to watch the woman he’d overlooked turn into the kind of person he couldn’t ignore if he tried.

You didn’t need revenge.

You didn’t even need his apology.

All you needed was this—the silence in your chest when you saw him again, and it didn’t hurt anymore. The control in your voice when you spoke to him. The fact that you could stand five feet from the boy who once wrecked you and feel nothing but steel in your spine.

You were not his anymore.

You were not anyone’s.

You were yours.

And he knew it.

He saw it in your eyes. The version of you he lost because he never cared enough to hold onto her.

And you?

You never planned on letting him catch up.

You were not here to be seen.

Not by him, anyway.

Not by the boy who’d once made you feel small enough to apologize for your own heartbeat. Not by the squad who stared at you like you were made of fire and ice all at once. Not even by the commanders who fought beside you, respected you, called you by your call sign and never once asked who you used to be.

Because who you used to be didn’t matter anymore.

She didn’t make it through.

You did.

You didn’t come to North Island to make a statement. You didn’t need to. You were here because you earned it—through sleepless nights, bleeding knuckles, the sting of failure so many times it etched itself into your muscle memory. You earned it in rooms where no one thought you belonged. You earned it in the silence of your own discipline, in the sacrifices no one asked you to make.

And yeah, maybe Jake Seresin was part of the reason you pushed so hard. Maybe he lit the fuse without even realizing it. But he didn’t build you. He didn’t break you either. He was just the match that sparked something you didn’t even know was there.

Now, standing above him in rank, in skill, in every way that counts—God, wasn’t that something?

But it wasn’t triumph you felt. Not really.

It was clarity.

You watched him flinch when he saw you. Not visibly, not in a way anyone else might notice. But you knew him. Or at least you used to. You saw the subtle twitch in his brow, the way his mouth opened just a second too late, the way his eyes searched your face like they were chasing the ghost of a girl he never bothered to remember.

And you gave him nothing.

Not warmth. Not cruelty. Not that smile he used to take for granted.

Because he didn’t deserve the old you. And the new you didn’t have anything left to give.

Maybe he thought you’d still be sunshine.

Maybe he expected soft edges, lingering glances, forgiveness wrapped in nervous laughter.

But that girl was gone. You buried her with your first flight suit. You said goodbye the moment you pulled your name from the student registry and left without a word. You let her die quietly, and in her place, you built a woman who no longer needed to be noticed to be known.

Now?

He saw you.

Really saw you.

And you could feel him scrambling to figure out what it meant.

But you wouldn’t give him the answer.

You’d already done your time in his orbit.

Let him spin now.

Funny, wasn’t it?

How something so ugly—so cruel, so humiliating—could become the very thing that carved you into who you were meant to be. How the breaking of your heart in a crowded college hallway, in front of the boy you’d once mistaken for the center of your universe, could end up being the start of everything.

It was twisted. Unfair. Brutal. But real.

And sometimes, in the quieter moments—late at night after a mission, in the stillness of your bunk with nothing but the soft whir of air conditioning and the pulse of your own breath—you let yourself think about how absurd it all was.

You were supposed to be a lawyer.

That was the plan. The dream sewn into your chest by your father’s pride and your mother’s faith. The stable path. The noble one. A life of polished arguments and courtrooms and family dinners at the end of a long day.

But Jake Seresin had shattered that version of you.

And somewhere in the ruins, you found your wings.

You hadn’t known what you were looking for when you transferred. Just that you needed out—needed more. You didn’t even know you wanted the sky until the recruiter smiled at you like you had fire in your file. Until someone finally looked at you like you were capable instead of convenient.

And when you took that first step into the flight academy? You never looked back.

The ground had never felt right, not really. Too slow. Too small. But the sky? The sky demanded your strength. It gave nothing and expected everything, and you rose to meet it every time. You bled for it. You trained until you couldn’t see straight. You burned your lungs raw chasing excellence.

And somewhere in all that effort, you became you.

Not the version molded by expectations, not the girl waiting in the wings for someone else’s affection. You. Commanding. Capable. Respected. Someone your old self wouldn’t even recognize—someone she’d cry for, in awe.

So yeah. It was twisted.

That it took Jake Seresin breaking your heart—laughing at it, really—for you to dig deep enough to find your own. That the pain he caused you became the pressure that forged steel where soft parts used to be.

But there was a certain poetry to it, too. Because now, you stood higher than him. Not just in rank or reputation—but in soul.

You didn’t need him to see that. You didn’t need anyone to.

But the fact that he did? That was just gravity flipping on its head.

Because once, you would’ve followed him anywhere.

Now? He couldn’t even keep up.

And maybe that was the real victory—not the rank, not the call sign, not the awe in the eyes of the squad who whispered “Rogue” like it was a warning and a prayer. Not even the way Jake’s smirk faltered every time you looked through him like he was no more significant than static on the radio.

The real victory was this: Peace.

Not the quiet kind, not the passive type that came from pretending things didn’t hurt. No—this was the peace that came after the fire. The kind earned through years of burning and rebuilding. The kind that came from knowing you didn’t need to prove anything anymore.

Not to Jake. Not to the world. Not even to yourself.

Because you had. Over and over. In every simulation, in every classified mission, in every backbreaking hour you’d spent getting better, sharper, colder when you had to be. You earned it when you learned to fly faster than the men who underestimated you. You earned it when command trusted you to lead. You earned it the moment you stopped asking for permission to be great.

You didn’t need to be understood anymore. You were finished being explained.

And Jake? He’d probably never understand. Not fully.

He would stare at you across briefings, try to decipher the weight behind your words. He’d frown when you gave orders like they were law, not suggestion. He’d smile sometimes like he wanted to remind you of the version of himself that maybe—maybe—wanted to change. He would think about that summer he could’ve kissed you but didn’t. He would remember the way you lit up when he looked at you.

And now you didn’t look at him at all. You were the mystery he never solved.

The consequence he never considered. And even if he tried to apologize—and part of you thought he might, eventually—you weren’t waiting for that moment.

You had too much to do. Too many lives to lead. Too many skies left to tear through.

Let him carry the guilt. Let him sit in that silence he used to weaponize. Let him wonder what you would have said if he’d just—just—looked at you a little sooner, a little softer.

But it’s too late for “what ifs.”

He taught you that. And now?

Now the sky was yours.

It was always the sky.

Even back then, when you sat in lecture halls pretending to take notes while sneaking glances at him across the room—Jake Seresin, with his swagger and his Southern drawl and his stupidly perfect jawline. You were already looking up. You just didn’t know what you were chasing yet.

You thought it was him.

You thought if you smiled bright enough, tried hard enough, stayed good enough, he’d finally see you. Like really see you—not just as the quiet PoliSci girl who did his homework, who brought him coffee before tests, who once skipped her own brother’s birthday just to help him rewrite an essay he’d waited until the last minute to start.

He never even said thank you. And you never asked for one.

Because fools don’t ask for flowers—they bring them. And God, you brought him bouquets. You never told him that your favorite was lily, soft and white and honest. He never asked. And maybe that was the problem.

That indifference cut deeper than cruelty ever could. That was the kind of pain that shaped you. Carved you out. And the beautiful, terrible thing about pain like that? It doesn't just leave a scar.

It makes space for something new.

So you filled that space with something wild. Something free. Flight.

And it saved you.

The Navy didn’t ask for your softness. It didn’t want your heart-shaped notes or baked birthday cookies or gentle smiles. It wanted your grit. Your edge. Your ability to perform. And for once in your life, that was enough. More than enough. You flourished. You rose. You fell in love with something that didn’t need you to shrink yourself.

You were no one’s sunshine anymore.

You were the storm.

And now? Now you stood in briefing rooms where he sat. Now you walked past him in your flight suit, chest lined with ribbons and badges you earned. Now you barked orders over comms and didn’t flinch when your voice cut through the noise like a blade.

You were the kind of woman that men like Jake Seresin didn’t just regret.

You were the kind of woman they remembered.

And that was better than revenge.

It wasn’t about getting even anymore. It wasn’t about proving him wrong. It wasn’t even about proving yourself right.

It was about you.

Finally, fully, you.

No longer a background extra in his story. No longer the sweet girl with the soft voice and the hopeful eyes.

You were Rogue.

A commander. A force. A name that carried weight, that made even seasoned pilots sit up a little straighter.

So let him stare. Let him stew. Let him wonder what it would’ve been like if he’d just held your hand at the nursing home that night instead of checking the time every ten minutes. Let him remember the picture your mom forced you two into—him in that stupid party hat, you with the puppy in your arms and a grin that hadn’t yet learned how to lie.

Let him hold that memory. 

You had skies to conquer.

The glass in your hand had long since gone warm, condensation tracing lazy paths down your fingers as you leaned casually against the bar. The buzz of laughter, music, and neon humming from the old jukebox behind you blended into background static. You were half-listening to Jinx retelling a story about a mechanical failure in Okinawa—animated, as always—while Ruin gave him that deadpan look that somehow still managed to convey God, shut up without saying a word.

You laughed anyway, soft but genuine, eyes half-lidded from the long day of flying and the sharper edge of adrenaline that still hadn’t fully faded. The adrenaline of command. Of dogfighting. Of leading.

Of winning.

And maybe, if you let yourself admit it, the adrenaline of being seen.

Not by him. Not anymore.

But still.

You felt it.

That quiet tension pulling at the air like static. The unmistakable awareness that somewhere in the room—no, not somewhere, you knew exactly where—a pair of green eyes hadn’t stopped watching you since you walked through the door. Like you were some ancient riddle he used to know the answer to but had long since forgotten. Like if he stared long enough, hard enough, the past would realign itself and you’d look at him the way you used to.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t give him that. You didn’t even flick your eyes toward his corner of the bar, though you could feel his gaze like a spotlight aimed right between your shoulder blades.

Instead, you angled your body toward Ruin and Jinx, sipping your drink like your bones weren’t humming from the burn of it all.

“Seresin’s been awful quiet,” Jinx muttered around the rim of his beer, subtle but sharp as ever.

“Think he’s still licking his wounds,” Ruin added without missing a beat, eyes trained on the rim of his glass as he swirled what was left of his whiskey. “Didn’t expect Rogue to come out guns blazing, I bet.”

You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth quirking up like you knew a secret the world hadn’t figured out yet.

“Don’t talk about the wounded while they’re still bleeding,” you said coolly, voice low enough that only your two teammates could hear. “It’s bad manners.”

That earned a laugh out of Jinx—short and sharp, the kind that made people turn their heads.

You didn’t.

Not toward him.

Because you weren’t here for stares across crowded bars. You weren’t here for apologies late and hollow. You weren’t here for the version of Jake Seresin who suddenly remembered your name and the weight of everything he’d thrown away.

You were here to lead. To fly. To drink. To live.

So you tossed back the rest of your drink, the glass clinking gently as you set it down, and offered Jinx and Ruin a sly smile.

“Who’s up for pool?”

Behind you, green eyes narrowed. A heartbeat skipped.

But you didn’t turn around.

You didn’t need to.

Rooster was... persistent.

Not in the way Jake used to be—the loud, look-at-me, king-of-the-room kind of persistent. No, Bradley Bradshaw was clever about it. He lingered, not loomed. Slipped into your orbit with that easy smile and boyish charm that didn’t demand attention, but earned it.

He cracked jokes that made even Jinx laugh, and that alone should’ve been an achievement worth medals. He asked questions about your flying—not your past. Never about Jake. Never about things that didn’t belong to him.

And it was working.

Slowly. Stupidly. Against your better judgment. You found yourself softening.

He handed you a pool cue with a crooked grin and said, “You know, I heard they call you Rogue ‘cause you broke the sound barrier and some poor ensign’s ego in the same week.”

You blinked. Fought the twitch at the corner of your mouth.

“Only half true,” you said coolly, chalking the tip of your cue. “I broke his nose, not his ego. That stayed intact. Unfortunately.”

Jinx snorted into his beer.

Rooster whistled low. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“You already have,” Ruin muttered without looking up.

Rooster looked alarmed for all of two seconds before you tilted your head, finally smiling—sharp, but not unkind.

“I’m kidding,” you murmured.

Sort of.

And that should’ve been the end of it. You were just easing into the rhythm, relaxing a little. The day’s tension was lifting, the bar warm with noise and the low lull of camaraderie. Rooster lined up a shot beside you and bumped your shoulder gently, not flirty, just... familiar.

And then.

Of course.

Jake Seresin materialized like a ghost that didn’t know it was dead.

“Didn’t know pool tables came with commentary,” he said, voice smooth as ever, but tight. Too tight. The kind of tight you recognized from high-stress airspace and too-late regrets.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just exhaled, slow. Controlled. Like the air around you had dropped ten degrees.

Rooster, bless him, didn’t even flinch.

“We’re just admiring Rogue’s form,” he said with an easy smile. “She’s kind of a legend, in case you missed the last twenty-four hours.”

Jake’s jaw twitched. “Oh, I didn’t miss it.”

His eyes flicked to yours. And finally—finally—you met his gaze.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

Just looked.

And something inside him stumbled.

You could see it. The confusion. The frustration. The unspoken why are you laughing with him but not me? And maybe even something colder—why does he know you now when I never did?

But that wasn’t your burden to carry anymore.

“You here to play?” you asked, voice steady. “Or just spectate?”

Jake licked his lips. Hesitated. “I can play.”

You handed him the chalk without breaking eye contact.

“Then try not to embarrass yourself this time.”

Jinx choked on his drink. Rooster coughed suspiciously into his fist. Ruin just sipped his beer like this was the best entertainment he’d seen all year.

Jake, to his credit, only smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

And you?

You turned your back on him. Stepped beside Rooster. Aligned your shot with calm precision and felt the weight of the past slip just a little further off your shoulders.

He could follow if he wanted.

But he'd never catch up.

You hadn’t meant to linger. You’d meant to disappear, to let the silence you left behind speak louder than any final word. But the bar was crowded, and your boots slowed on the hardwood before the back corner where Penny kept the jukebox. Just close enough.

Close enough to hear them.

Rooster’s voice came first, low and uncertain, the kind of tone men used when they knew they were poking something sharp.

“Hey, man… what did you mean back there? About her. When you said ‘used to’—you know, like used to ramble?”

There was a pause. A familiar one.

Jake Seresin always did that. Let silence stretch just long enough to make people think he was going to say something real—only to snatch it back behind a grin. You didn’t turn. You didn’t breathe. You just listened.

“Did I say that?” Jake finally said, voice light, careless. That same fucking tone he used back in college when he’d forget your name but remember your answers. “Must’ve been someone else. I’ve never heard her talk politics. Just shootin’ down MiGs and egos.”

Rooster huffed a laugh, but it was hesitant. “You sure? Sounded kinda... specific.”

“Bradshaw,” Jake drawled, that grin audible in his voice now, “don’t tell me you’re falling already. That’s dangerous. Girl like that? She eats pretty boys like you for breakfast.”

“Okay, first of all,” Rooster said, mock-offended, “I am ruggedly charming, not pretty. And second of all, I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh.”

That was Jake. Smug. Slippery. Too clever to say anything that could come back to bite him. You could almost see the shrug he’d probably given with that response. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. Like he hadn’t gutted you in front of half your college. Like he wasn’t now pretending you were a stranger wearing your own face.

Your jaw tensed, but your expression stayed even. You’d expected this.

You knew him.

He wasn’t ready to tell the truth. Not to Rooster. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to himself.

Fine.

Let him act like he didn’t know you. Let him lean into the lie.

Because when the truth finally caught up with him, it wouldn’t be whispered in the dark.

It would roar in daylight.

The sun hadn’t even cracked the horizon yet, but you were already running like hell.

Boots pounding against the tarmac, wind tearing past your face, breath steady and sharp in your lungs. The world was a blur—gray, gold, the pale shimmer of dawn bleeding into the sky like spilled gasoline. You weren’t just sprinting. You were cutting through the air. Carving out a path with every step like it owed you something.

And maybe it did.

Who would’ve thought? You—you—the girl who used to fake asthma to skip P.E., who couldn’t run a full yard without gasping like a fish out of water, who once tripped over her own laces during a middle school track tryout and cried in a bathroom stall for thirty minutes.

Now look at you.

Commander. Ace pilot. Weaponized airstrike in human form. And still—you ran.

Not because you had to. Not because it was part of some strict Naval routine. Because it was the only thing that kept your thoughts from devouring you whole.

You’d barely slept. The memory of Jake’s voice, Jake’s smirk, playing on loop inside your skull like a broken radio transmission.

“Did I say that?”

Coward.

You’d expected guilt. Anger. Denial. Maybe even a confrontation. But instead he took the one road that hurt the most—pretending. Like you were nobody. Like you were just another pilot who happened to fly too well for her call sign.

Like he hadn’t once stood on your porch with cake on his fingers, smiling into a camera beside your parents. Like he hadn’t once made you believe you mattered.

The worst part? You almost forgot how much it still hurt.

You’d spent years killing that version of yourself—dismantling her. The girl who’d waited in the library past midnight for him to show up. The girl who used to pick apart her own words, wondering if she’d said too much or not enough. The girl who wrote his name in notebooks.

But she still lived in there, didn’t she?

You could feel her ghost in your chest every time you saw him. A version of you with ink-stained fingers and too-big dreams and a heart held out like an offering. She hadn’t run like this. She’d stayed.

You were running for her now.

The burn in your calves, the ache in your chest, the raw air in your lungs—it all felt like penance. Like proof that you’d outrun what he made you feel. That the version of you that once loved him could be buried beneath speed and distance and the scream of jet engines.

The tarmac blurred. The sky bloomed orange.

And still—you ran.

Because no matter how many stripes you wore or how high your rank climbed or how many people called you Rogue with reverence in their voice—

Part of you would always remember the quiet devastation of hearing him forget your name.

And part of you would never stop trying to outpace it.

He shouldn’t have been there. Not at that hour. Not in your space. Not here, where the runway belonged to you and the dawn hadn’t yet burned away the silence.

But of course—of course—he showed up.

You heard him before you saw him. The crunch of boots meeting gravel in sync with yours. The heavy, steady rhythm of breath, just off your pace enough to be intentional. Your eyes flicked sideways.

There he was.

Jake Seresin.

Sweat darkened the edges of his gray Navy tee, clinging to the planes of his chest and the curve of his biceps. His skin gleamed with that dewy gold sheen only the sunrise could paint, jaw tight, blonde hair mussed by wind and salt and too much swagger.

God help you—he looked good. Unfairly good.

He caught your eye and smirked. “Didn’t peg you for an early bird, sunshine.”

That name—sunshine. It should’ve made you wince. Should’ve dragged you back to that porch light flickering above your front door and a birthday cake you never finished. But it didn’t—not this time.

This time it pissed you off.

You didn’t break stride. “You really gonna follow me around now, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, I dunno,” he drawled, breath barely catching even at a sprint. “You always run from your problems like this?”

“I’m not the one pretending not to know someone I spent an entire semester cheating off.”

“Ouch,” Jake said, but his tone stayed light—smug, annoying, Jake. “I gave you credit. I just didn’t say it out loud.”

You shot him a withering look, but it was hard to hold the glare when his shirt stuck to his back like that, and the muscles in his arms flexed every time he pumped forward to keep up with you. He’d always been a walking ego in a perfect body—but somehow, seeing him like this again, in motion, stripped back to sweat and salt and sun—it stirred something.

Unfortunately.

You picked up speed.

Jake matched it with ease, grinning like this was a game he was winning without even trying.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “you used to blush every time I looked at you.”

You scoffed. “You used to look through me.”

That stopped him for half a breath. Just long enough to shift the air between you—just long enough for something real to slip through. His grin faltered, then steadied, like a pilot correcting for turbulence.

“And now?”

Your jaw clenched. You didn’t answer.

But your silence wasn’t submission. It was a challenge.

He ran beside you for another lap, the two of you circling the tarmac like opposing forces drawn to the same line in the sand. Every time his arm brushed yours, your breath hitched—not from effort. From memory. From rage. From him.

Because this wasn’t college anymore.

And you weren’t his sunshine anymore.

You were the storm now.

Your lungs were burning—but not from the run.

Not from the laps you were clocking around the tarmac at dawn. Not from the ache in your thighs or the dull stitch tugging at your side. No, this was something else. Something hotter. Slower. The kind of fire that curled beneath your skin and made the back of your neck itch, like static clinging to every hair on your body.

Because Jake Seresin was still beside you.

And he was still smirking.

“You always run this fast,” he said, not even breathless, “or is this just for me?”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to. You could feel him watching you. His gaze dragged like velvet over your collarbone, dipped low to where your shirt clung to the line of your waist. He was close—too close—and every time your strides synced up, his arm brushed yours. Bare skin on bare skin. A jolt. A flash of heat.

You shouldn’t have liked it.

But your body hadn’t gotten the memo.

“I run this fast,” you said coolly, “when I’m trying to outrun stupid.”

Jake laughed—an actual, deep laugh that rumbled in his chest and made your stomach flip. He ran a hand through his hair, and the sweat on his skin shimmered like gold in the rising light. It was almost infuriating how effortless he looked. Like he hadn’t just stepped back into your life after years of silence and chaos and unspoken regret.

“Still got that sharp tongue, huh?” he murmured. “You used to trip over it when you talked to me.”

You turned to him this time. Just a flick of your eyes—but it was sharp enough to slice.

“That’s because I hadn’t learned yet.”

He arched a brow. “Learned what?”

“That you weren’t worth the stutter.”

That earned you another grin—lazy, dangerous, so Jake. His smile was a weapon, and he knew exactly how to use it. But this time, there was something else behind it. A beat slower. A flicker of something unspoken sitting behind his eyes. Something curious.

He liked this version of you.

And he didn’t even bother hiding it.

“Damn,” he said, chuckling. “Look at you. All grown up. Flying circles around us. Outranking me. Talking back.”

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am.” He glanced over at you again, his smirk softening. “But not in a bad way.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Jake Seresin was a problem.

Because standing still, he was unbearable. But in motion—running beside you, laughing with you, tossing back flirty little grenades with every breath—you could almost forget how much he hurt you.

Almost.

But not quite.

You slowed your pace suddenly, then came to a stop, hands on your hips, chest rising and falling in controlled bursts. Jake halted beside you, gaze already sliding across your frame like muscle memory. His expression faltered for a split second—like he wanted to say something real. Something honest.

You didn’t give him the chance.

“Careful, Seresin,” you said, breathless but steady. “Keep looking at me like that, and people are gonna think you care.”

Jake tilted his head. That smirk—god, that smirk—never left.

“Maybe I do.”

And fuck.

There it was.

Not a jab. Not a joke. No armor behind it. Just four words that hit like a heat-seeking missile.

You held his gaze. Let the silence stretch. Let the burn settle in your chest, your cheeks, your core.

“Then you’re even dumber than I remember.”

You turned on your heel and walked off the tarmac.

But not too fast.

You wanted him to follow.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

The silence behind you was deafening—and delicious. The sound of Jake Seresin, speechless for once in his life, was a better trophy than any kill mark on your fuselage. You walked like you owned the damn runway, because, frankly, you did. Every inch of concrete beneath your boots remembered who you were. Every whisper of wind carried your call sign like reverence.

Rogue.

Not sunshine.

Not the girl who blushed at his smirks.

And as you slowed your stride at the edge of the tarmac, pausing just before the hangar doors, you allowed yourself a small, satisfied smirk. Because you knew he was still standing back there, probably blinking like he just got hit by a jetwash of regret and a full-speed reality check.

Good.

You turned slightly—just enough to glance over your shoulder. And yep. There he was.

Frozen.

Hands on his hips, shirt clinging to his chest, jaw clenched like he just got slapped with a memory he hadn’t asked for.

Your voice cut the distance like a scalpel. Cool. Lazy. Deadly.

“You should work on your cardio, Lieutenant,” you called. “You’re falling behind again.”

His brow lifted. That cocky grin twitched back into place—but it was off-kilter now. Strained. Shaken.

“And here I thought we were running together.”

You gave him a long once-over. Took your time with it. Let your gaze flick up and down, slow, assessing, unimpressed.

Then you said, smooth as silk and sharp as broken glass, “You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. Just tossed him a wink and disappeared into the hangar, your boots echoing like the final beat of a war drum.

And Jake?

He stayed there, staring after you like the runway had cracked open beneath him.

Because he’d lost a lot of things in his life—games, bets, even teammates—but losing the upper hand to the PoliSci girl he once humiliated?

That was new.

And it rattled him like hell.

- Jake -

He wasn’t planning to run.

Jake Seresin didn’t do early mornings unless a jet or a mission demanded it. Rest days were for sleeping in, for nursing black coffee and nursing bigger egos. But something had gnawed at him since the night before—since Rooster leaned against the Hard Deck bar with that dreamy look in his eye and said, “I bet Rogue runs in the mornings. Probably gets all sweaty, all flushed, y’know? God, I’d run next to her every damn day if she let me.”

Jake had scoffed at the time, thrown a peanut at Bradshaw’s head, and said something about keeping it in his pants. But the image? It burned. The thought of you—Rogue—in that gray Navy tee and compression shorts, running with that same fire you flew with? He’d be lying if he said it didn’t do something to him.

So here he was. At sunrise. Laced up, half-regretting his decisions, half-fueled by pure, stupid ego. He told himself he was just getting in a workout. Told himself it had nothing to do with the way you’d walked off yesterday like you hadn’t once been the girl who smiled just because he looked at her. Like you weren’t still crawling under his skin like the damn ghost of every mistake he never fixed.

And then he saw you.

You were a blur at first—just a flash of movement at the edge of the runway. But as he jogged closer, his heart stuttered, caught, then kicked into overdrive.

You were flying.

Feet pounding in perfect rhythm, breath even, arms slicing through the air like you were slicing through cloud cover. Your shirt clung to your back, and the early light traced every muscle, every curve. Your hair was pulled back, but a few wisps had escaped, framing your face like something out of a dream he didn’t dare admit to.

Jake slowed to match your pace, falling in beside you without a word.

You didn’t even blink.

Not at first.

Just a glance, sharp and uninterested, before returning your focus to the horizon like he wasn’t worth the extra breath. That stung more than it should’ve. Hell, that glance alone knocked the wind out of him harder than any G-force he’d ever pulled.

Still, Jake being Jake, he smirked. “Didn’t peg you for an early bird, sunshine.”

Your jaw flexed at the name. That old name. The one he’d used once—once—back when he didn’t know how to appreciate softness. Back when he didn’t know it came in the form of a girl who stayed up late doing his social studies papers and believed in the best of him, even when he gave her every reason not to.

You didn’t respond.

And for the first time in a long time, Jake Seresin didn’t feel in control.

He felt like the boy on the porch again—wearing someone else’s smile in someone else’s home, posing for a picture he never deserved.

Jake rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down slow, like maybe he could scrape the heat off his skin. But it wasn’t the sun making him burn.

It was you.

He stood there, still frozen on the tarmac, the echo of your boots fading behind him but ringing in his ears like gunfire. He was sweating—yeah, sure, he’d tell himself it was from the run—but the truth was, he hadn’t even realized he’d stopped breathing until you turned that head of yours, tossed him that wink, and walked away like you hadn’t just knocked the goddamn wind out of his lungs.

“You were trying to keep up. I was just warming up.”

Jesus.

That wasn’t just a line. That was an execution.

And he took it—stood there like a damn fool while you carved his ego open and didn’t even flinch. You didn’t soften, didn’t fumble, didn’t look back. You knew exactly what you were doing. That smirk you wore? That wasn’t payback. That was power. And you wore it like it was tailored to your skin.

Jake shifted his weight, the gravel crunching under his boots, but even that sounded too loud, too clumsy compared to the silence you left in your wake. His heart was pounding—fast and uneven, a rhythm he didn’t recognize. His body wanted to chase after you, call your name, match that swagger with his own. But his pride?

His pride was smart enough to stay put.

He clenched his jaw, exhaled hard through his nose, and muttered under his breath, “What the fuck was that?”

Because here was the truth, ugly and raw: you got under his skin like no one else ever had. Not because of who you used to be—but because of who you were now. You didn’t just change. You became. And Jake wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kiss you senseless or drag you back down to earth where he stood—confused and way too turned on for a man who used to ignore your birthday parties.

You’d grown sharp.

Beautiful, brilliant, untouchable.

And the worst part? You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Jake Seresin didn’t get rattled.

Except, apparently—by you.

The water was hot—too hot, probably—but Jake didn’t turn the knob. He let it scorch down his back, let the sting keep him grounded. Palms pressed flat against the tile, head bowed under the spray, jaw tight. Steam rolled off his shoulders like smoke, coiling thick in the air, but it didn’t burn away the memory of you.

Nothing could.

He’d been quiet all evening. Didn’t join the squad at Hard Deck, didn’t banter, didn’t smirk his way into the center of the room like usual. Because all he could think about—all he could fucking think about—was you. On that tarmac. In the gray tee. In your skin. In your power.

And now?

Now it was unbearable.

You haunted him—not like a ghost, no. Ghosts whispered. You roared. You cracked through him like sonic boom and flame and the impossible arch of your jet in the sky. You didn’t just exist—you announced.

He slammed a fist lightly against the tile, more frustration than force. Water splashed down, dripping off his fingertips. Still, you stayed. In his head. On his skin. In the too-hot air wrapping around his body like a memory he couldn’t shake.

You were different now. Stronger. Louder. Dangerous.

And God help him, hotter.

He remembered the way your mouth curved when you told him he was just trying to keep up. The glint in your eyes. That wink that made his knees buckle like a rookie.

Jake swore under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. He shouldn’t be thinking like this—not about you. Not when the last thing you’d given him was a verbal gut punch followed by the kind of exit that would’ve made a movie director weep.

But the truth was in his gut now. Raw and hard and real.

He wanted you.

Wanted the edge of you. The bite in your voice. The heat in your glare. The strength in your silence. You weren’t some daydream anymore. You weren’t sunshine. You were fire.

And Jake Seresin?

He’d never been good at staying away from things that burned.

The water was still blistering hot.

It rolled in rivulets down Jake’s bare back, carving paths through tension knotted across his shoulders. His head was pressed to the tile now, arms braced on either side like he could physically hold himself up against the weight in his chest. But it wasn’t the steam that had him breathless—it was you. Still you.

Everything about you crawled beneath his skin. That voice, calm and vicious in equal measure. The casual cruelty of your smirk. The twist of your lips around words that were meant to sound dismissive, but came off sharp and unforgettable. The wink you tossed over your shoulder like it meant nothing. But it did, didn’t it?

Because Jake Seresin was hard as a damn rock, and it wasn’t from the run.

It was you—how you looked in that flight suit, the subtle shift of muscle in your arms, the way your braid swayed when you walked like even your hair knew how to command a room. There’d always been something about you. Even back then, when you were wide-eyed and soft-voiced, pencil always tucked behind your ear and your heart bleeding in your notebook margins. But now? Now you were thunder.

And he? He was standing there like a storm-struck fool—aching, panting, utterly undone.

He laughed under his breath, short and humorless, scraping a hand down his face. “I need to get laid,” he muttered, as if some faceless girl could scrub you from his memory. As if his body wouldn’t recoil at the thought of anyone else who wasn’t you.

You ruined him. Not with love, not even with hate—but with something in between. Something more dangerous. A slow, searing hunger that had no resolution. You were too sharp now. Too fast. Too much. And that made it worse—because Jake didn’t just want you in his bed. He wanted to conquer you. He wanted to chase the fire in your eyes and see if it burned hotter beneath your skin.

Water pounded against the floor as he leaned his weight into the wall, eyes squeezed shut. He imagined your mouth—smirking, cruel, just a little breathless. Maybe your voice would crack if he kissed you hard enough. Maybe you’d break your own rule and whisper his name like it still meant something.

Maybe. But he wouldn’t get that. Not now. Not from you.

You weren’t sunshine anymore.

You were lightning, and Jake?

Jake was already burning.

- You, Rogue -

You stood at the head of the debriefing room, fingers tapping the edge of the console—not out of nerves, but rhythm. A slow, calculated beat. You’d already loaded the footage. Already memorized every frame. The lights dimmed as the projector came to life behind you, casting the black-and-white mission timestamp in the center of the screen.

They didn’t know what was coming.

That’s the part that made it worth it.

You could feel their eyes—some curious, some anxious, and some, in true Top Gun fashion, already carrying too much cocky air. Fritz sat slouched with his arms crossed like this would be another cakewalk. Payback and Fanboy exchanged a low whisper that you let slide—for now. Rooster straightened in his seat as soon as you turned. Jake… well, Jake was leaned back with one leg kicked out and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he had something to say, but he hadn’t figured out the words yet.

You didn’t give him time.

“This was two years ago,” you began, your voice calm, clipped, efficient. “Off the Horn of Africa. Hostile airspace. Navy intel had been compromised. Three pilots. No backup.”

The screen flicked into motion. A dizzying blur of G-force maneuvers, warnings blaring across the HUD, radar systems lighting up like Christmas trees. Rooster blinked. Phoenix leaned forward. Even Hangman’s smirk dropped half a notch.

“Command didn’t send us in with permission,” you said. “They sent us in with orders.”

Your eyes didn’t leave the screen as your voice carried. “I was flying lead. Jinx had right wing. Ruin in the backseat, scanning every damn thing that moved. Enemy aircraft scrambled within five minutes of entry. We didn’t wait for them to shoot.”

The footage showed it—Jinx peeling into a high-G climb, your jet banking hard beneath incoming fire, Ruin’s voice crisp over comms, all three of you weaving through a web of chaos like it was choreography.

“I want you to pay attention to the formation,” you said, pointing as the enemy jets moved into view. “They outnumbered us. Four to one.”

Halo swore under his breath. Fanboy shifted in his seat.

“Ruin’s countermeasures?” you continued. “Took out one. Jinx pulled vertical, dropped behind the leader, tagged another. I handled the last two.”

You didn’t have to say more. The footage showed it all—your jet cutting like a blade, engine screaming as you executed a maneuver that the sim reports still called ‘the anomaly’ because no one else had replicated it since.

And then—radio silence.

The feed paused, frozen on the final second of the mission timestamp.

You turned back to the room, letting the quiet stretch long enough to make them squirm.

“You’ve all been in the air,” you said. “You know what it feels like to fly. But until you’ve been in a sky that doesn’t want you to come back alive—you haven’t really earned the wings you wear.”

No one said a word.

Even Jake was quiet.

You tilted your head, letting the pause sharpen into something just shy of uncomfortable.

“This is what we’re training you for. Not glory. Not headlines. Just survival.”

Your gaze swept the room—Rooster, fidgeting slightly. Phoenix, chewing her lip. Bob, locked in, absorbing everything. And Jake?

Jake Seresin sat still. Very still. Watching you like he hadn’t decided yet whether this was a fever dream or the beginning of a reckoning.

You tapped the console again. The screen went black.

But the weight in the room?

That stayed.

A low hum of silence still clung to the debriefing room like smoke. You hadn’t moved from your place at the front, arms crossed now, eyes cutting sharp across the squad like you were daring anyone to blink first.

But it wasn’t you who broke the silence.

It was Commander Ruin.

He stepped forward from the shadows at the back, tall and quiet and deliberate in the way that always made a room seem smaller when he entered it. His flight suit was pristine—badges clean, collar high, expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice didn’t rise. It landed.

“My job,” he began, “was to keep us alive.”

Simple. Cold. True.

Ruin turned slightly toward the squad, his gaze sweeping over the WSOs in particular—Harvard, Halo, Fanboy, and Bob—all of whom sat a little straighter now, as if their spines suddenly remembered they had purpose.

“You think you’re there to punch buttons,” he continued. “You think your job is to watch a screen, run a few diagnostics, call out when a bandit gets too close.”

He paused.

“You’re wrong.”

The stillness in the room tightened. Even Maverick—arms folded near the back—didn’t move.

“A good WSO doesn’t react,” Ruin said. “We see ahead. We think in milliseconds. When we were up there, we didn’t have time to hesitate. My pilot”—he nodded to Jinx—“was already two moves ahead. That meant I had to be three.”

The footage flicked back on—just a frame, frozen mid-mission. Missiles closing in from three directions. Enemy radar sweeping in arcs across the screen.

“There was a moment,” Ruin said, voice low. “Where I had to decide whether to waste a flare or gamble on a hard bank through a radar blind zone. I bet on the bank. We made it out.”

You watched them all squirm. Bob swallowed. Fanboy looked like he wanted to write something down but wasn’t sure if it was the right time.

“I’m not here to babysit,” Ruin added, tone now razor-flat. “I’m here to make sure your pilot doesn’t come home in a box. That means you don’t get to freeze. You don’t get to panic. You don’t get to be anything but ready.”

His eyes found Bob last—quiet, nervous, but capable.

“You think you’ve seen pressure?” Ruin said. “You haven’t even breathed it yet.”

Then he stepped back. Not in defeat. Not in retreat.

He didn’t need to say anything else.

You glanced toward the squad, just once, before nodding.

And then all eyes shifted to Jinx.

Because the storm wasn’t over yet.

The room was still—every breath held, every set of eyes locked on the front. Ruin’s words still hung in the air like static, thick and charged.

That’s when Jinx stepped forward.

If Ruin was the quiet storm, Jinx was the iron beneath it—sharp, controlled, and deceptively calm. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean through the tension like a blade sheathed in velvet.

“You’ve seen the footage,” Jinx said, nodding toward the frozen screen. “You’ve heard what Ruin does in the backseat. You’ve seen what I can do in the cockpit.”

He paused.

“But make no mistake—none of it would’ve mattered without her.”

He turned slightly, tipping his chin toward you, where you stood to the side now—arms crossed, unreadable. Still.

“Rogue is the reason we made it out of that sky,” Jinx said, voice steady. “Her instincts—freakishly accurate. Her maneuvers—borderline insane. But they work. Every single time. She doesn't just fly missions. She builds them. Crafts them like war stories that haven’t been written yet.”

A few of the squad looked at each other—glances exchanged like whispers, like they were starting to realize what they were sitting in the presence of.

“I’ve flown with a lot of pilots,” Jinx went on. “Some of the best in the Navy. But I’ve only trusted one with my life, no questions asked.”

He looked at you again. Didn’t smile. Didn’t need to.

“She’s the best pilot I’ve ever flown beside. Period. And I say that as someone who doesn't throw compliments around. Ever.”

Rooster sat up straighter. Phoenix blinked. Fanboy looked like his brain was short-circuiting from sheer awe. Even Jake—silent in his corner—didn’t move, but you could feel the way his gaze was locked on you like gravity had found a new center.

Jinx stepped back beside Ruin, his job done. One final sentence lingered as he moved:

“Fly with her, and you either rise to her level—or get left behind.”

And for a moment, no one dared to speak.

“If that felt like a lecture,” you said, voice calm and razor-sharp, “that’s because it was.”

You let the words hang, sharp and deliberate. There was no room for misinterpretation, no softness to fall back on. The squad remained silent—some swallowing hard, others sitting stiffly in their seats like cadets, not elites.

“Being a Top Gun graduate doesn’t make you invincible. It makes you responsible. You were chosen not because you’re the best. But because someone, somewhere, believed you could be.”

You stepped forward, your boots echoing softly across the tile. The overhead lights hummed low, and their faces were cast in shades of shadow and tension. Rooster’s brows furrowed, eyes locked. Fanboy’s knee bounced once, then stilled. Hangman’s jaw ticked as he sat almost too still, too rigid.

“Potential without discipline? That’s just arrogance in uniform,” you said, your tone level but unforgiving.

You stopped walking, hands behind your back, gaze sweeping the squad. “I don’t care how many dogfights you’ve flown. I don’t care how many kills are on your record, or who your daddy was. None of that matters up there.”

You tilted your chin toward the ceiling.

“When it’s just you, your jet, and a hostile sky? The only thing that keeps you breathing is how well you’ve trained. How fast you think. How much you trust the person in your backseat. Your skill isn’t a shield—it’s a promise. To the people flying beside you. To the ones depending on you to come home.”

Phoenix gave the smallest nod, jaw tight. Bob looked like he was absorbing every syllable like gospel. Coyote exhaled through his nose, gaze heavy with a quiet mix of respect and discomfort.

You let the silence settle again before delivering the final blow.

“If you think today was hard, good. It should be. Because this is the easy part.”

And with that, you turned your head toward the console—ready to transition into the next brutal part of the lesson. They weren’t dismissed. Not even close.

The silence broke with the soft scrape of boots on tile. It was Fanboy—of all people—who spoke first.

“So, uh,” he began, half-raising a hand like a kid in class, “when you said that thing about not reacting… how the hell do you even get to that point? It looked like Ruin was playing chess with ghosts up there.”

You didn’t smile. But your gaze slid to Ruin.

He stepped forward, arms crossed loosely. “Repetition. Study. Failures. The kind of training that keeps you up at night. You learn the enemy. You learn your pilot. And then you learn to trust your gut without doubting it.”

Halo blinked. “What if your pilot doesn’t trust you yet?”

Ruin didn’t miss a beat. “Then you earn it. And if they still don’t trust you when you’ve earned it? They shouldn’t be flying with you.”

That shut him up.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “Rogue—ma’am,” she corrected herself quickly. “The maneuver you pulled today… that dive-stall-turn you used on Hangman. That’s not in any of our simulators.”

You looked at her squarely. “That’s because the sim would mark it as a crash. I found the margin. Barely.”

Bob blinked. “So you—wait, you wrote your own playbook?”

Jinx let out a breath, a ghost of amusement. “She’s been doing that since day one.”

You gave a small nod. “Only when necessary. And only when the risk doesn’t outweigh the objective. I don’t pull stunts for the sake of it. When I fly like that, it’s because there’s no other option.”

Hangman finally spoke, his voice cool. “So all of this—you three, this mission, this whole performance—was to prove what? That we don’t belong here?”

Your gaze snapped to him. Sharp. Measured.

“No, Lieutenant. We’re here to make sure you do.”

The room went quiet again. Rooster let out a slow breath. “You know,” he muttered, half to himself, “this is the first time I’ve felt like the training was harder than the damn mission.”

Jinx smiled faintly. “Good.”

You glanced at Ruin, then back at the squad.

“Any other questions before we move on?”

The air inside the debriefing room felt heavier now—thick with something unspoken. They had asked their questions, swallowed their pride, and still the tension lingered like the sharp tang of ozone before a lightning strike.

Your eyes moved deliberately across the room. You caught every glance, every twitch of discomfort. You let them squirm just a moment longer before turning toward the projector again.

But then—

“Yeah, I’ve got one,” Hangman said.

His voice was low. Measured. Not exactly challenging, but not entirely respectful either.

You turned, slowly, toward him.

Jake Seresin sat with his arms folded, that damn smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth like he couldn’t help himself. His eyes held yours. Not like the others—who looked at you with intimidation, admiration, confusion.

No. Jake looked at you like you were a puzzle with a missing piece, and he was still trying to figure out if he’d ever held it.

He leaned back a little further in his seat, boots planted wide, posture screaming ease that you knew was an act.

“What I want to know is…” he drawled, slow and Southern like honey with a razor in it, “how long did it take y’all to decide this little show-and-tell was the best way to humble us?”

There was a beat of silence. Jinx looked at you, an eyebrow raised. Ruin’s jaw shifted, unimpressed.

You took a step forward.

“It wasn’t about humbling you,” you said, tone even. “It was about waking you up.”

He raised his brows, like he didn’t quite buy it.

“Funny,” he said, voice low. “Because it felt personal.”

You tilted your head, just enough.

“And maybe it was.”

That knocked the smirk a little off-kilter.

Rooster, sitting just beside him, exhaled sharply—half amusement, half damn. The others tensed, like they’d witnessed something that might crack wide open if they breathed wrong.

You didn’t blink.

“Any more questions, Lieutenant?”

Jake’s mouth opened, then closed. He smiled again—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“No, ma’am,” he said eventually, voice a little drier than before. “Crystal clear.”

You turned back to the console without a word.

Behind you, silence settled again—except this time, it was different. Heavier.

Because whatever that exchange had been?

It hadn’t just been a burn.

It had been a warning. A history. A live wire no one wanted to touch.

And everyone in that room felt it.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to hang, taut and uneasy. Your hands rested behind your back, your stance a picture of composed authority. But your eyes flicked, just once, to the man leaning casually against the wall—arms crossed, aviators still hooked in his collar like he owned the damn sky.

Captain Pete Mitchell.

Top Gun legend. Rule-bender. Miracle worker.

And someone who, despite the medals and the legacy, stood in this room quietly—watching, calculating, letting you take the lead.

You turned your head slightly, and your voice, though calm, held just the edge of something—dry wit laced with steel.

“Captain Mitchell.”

Maverick lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

“You’re the most experienced pilot in this room. Thought you might have something to say to your squad,” you said, deadpan. “Before they start crying into their beers.”

A chuckle broke out—Rooster snorted. Phoenix muttered “brutal” under her breath. Even Jinx’s lip twitched.

Maverick pushed off the wall with a quiet sigh, stepping forward, hands now on his hips.

He gave you a nod—respectful, unbothered—before turning toward his squad like a dad walking into a room of children who just wrecked the living room.

“Where do I even begin?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Start with how we’re not complete disasters,” Fanboy offered, hopeful.

Maverick arched a brow. “That would be a lie, Garcia.”

More laughter—nervous, sheepish.

He took a breath, then looked at each of them in turn. “You’re not the worst group I’ve ever seen.”

A pause.

“But you’re not ready. Not for the level of threat these three have faced. Not for the kind of split-second decision-making that separates a near-miss from a direct hit.”

You crossed your arms, letting him have the floor.

Maverick continued, steady now. “Every one of you is capable of more. But you’re too comfortable. You lean too much on instinct, not enough on preparation. You play it safe when it counts. And up there?” He pointed toward the ceiling. “Safe gets you killed.”

His eyes finally landed on Jake—Hangman, still unreadable, still wrestling with something far deeper than he’d admit.

“And you?” Maverick added, a touch quieter. “I’ve seen you pull off impossible. But flying solo only works when you’re the one being hunted—not when you’re flying into enemy territory with six lives on your tail.”

Jake looked away first.

Maverick gave a small nod, then stepped back toward you.

You glanced at him once more, voice cool as ever. “Appreciate the honesty, Captain.”

Maverick gave the ghost of a grin. “Just doing my part, Commander.”

You turned back to the squad.

“Dismissed for now, but I suggest you use the downtime to think about how badly you want to win. Because tomorrow? There are no freebies.”

And with that, the storm finally passed.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind the last of them, and the quiet that followed felt almost sacred. A sharp contrast to the pressure and sweat from the hours before.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders once as the silence settled, then turned toward the screen that still bore traces of flight footage—glimpses of near-misses and poorly timed maneuvers.

Jinx leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed. “Let’s start with Element One,” he said, already half-sighing. “Coyote, Yale, and Harvard.”

Ruin gave a grunt, tapping the tip of a capped pen against the armrest. “Raw energy,” he said simply. “Especially from Coyote. He’s got presence. He cuts through air with confidence… but not enough foresight.”

You nodded, arms folded. “Agreed. He’s fast, but he doesn’t lead with strategy. He chases the fight. Doesn’t own it.”

“Too reactionary,” Jinx added. “Yale shows potential, though. Good instincts. But he doesn’t trust his WSO, and that’s gonna kill them one day if they don’t fix it.”

“I noticed that,” you said, eyes narrowing in thought. “He second-guessed two of Harvard’s calls mid-flight. You can’t do that at Mach 1. Not without bleeding time. Or worse.”

Ruin shifted. “Harvard… knows what he’s doing. Comms were tight, calculations fast. But he’s hesitant. Like he’s waiting for permission to assert himself.”

“He needs to stop flying like a passenger,” Jinx muttered. “The WSO isn’t a damn co-pilot. He’s the second brain in the bird. You either fly as one, or you fall as two.”

You sighed softly. “Coyote has natural leadership, but he doesn’t take control when he should. Yale plays it safe, which holds them both back. And Harvard’s got a sharp mind, but no bite.”

“They’re one clean fight away from being dangerous,” Ruin said. “But right now? Too messy.”

You walked over to the table, flipped the mission data tablet, and let your fingers hover just a moment over their names.

“Let’s see if they can bleed the ego out tomorrow,” you murmured. “Or if it bleeds them instead.”

Jinx gave a quiet, knowing chuckle. “On to Element Two?”

You nodded at Jinx, settling against the edge of the desk, arms folded as you stared at the flight footage still paused on-screen.

“Element Two,” you said, voice flat but firm. “Fritz, Omaha, and Halo.”

Jinx scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “Fritz flies like he’s late for a bar fight.”

Ruin grunted in agreement, arms crossed. “Solo fliers like him are always tricky. He’s fast, I’ll give him that. Confident. But reckless. No sense of greater formation tactics. He doesn’t watch his six—because he’s too busy chasing a kill.”

“He’s cocky,” you muttered. “And worse, he doesn’t even hide it.”

“Omaha’s not bad,” Jinx added thoughtfully. “Cleaner flight path than Yale. Sharper awareness. But he hesitates when the fight shifts suddenly. When we rerouted on them mid-air, he froze.”

“He’s structured,” you said. “Solid under predictable conditions. But the second we threw unpredictability into the mix, he cracked. Only held on because Halo was in his ear.”

Ruin finally sat forward, pen tapping again. “Halo’s good. Surprisingly good. Fast thinker, sharp read on terrain. His math is instinctual, not memorized—and that’s rare.”

“But—” Jinx cut in, nodding knowingly.

“But,” Ruin echoed, “he lets Omaha override him too often. You could hear it in his voice mid-fight. Doubt creeping in.”

You tilted your head slightly. “He’s playing wingman in the backseat. That’s not his role.”

“They’re like… a competent trio tied together by duct tape and bravado,” Jinx said. “A house of cards. One strong gust and they collapse.”

You nodded slowly. “Fritz is a liability right now. And if Omaha keeps ignoring his WSO, Halo’s going to stop trusting his calls altogether.”

“And when that happens?” Ruin finished, voice low. “They’re done.”

You let the silence stretch again, your mind already shifting gears toward how to break them apart and rebuild something stronger.

“They’ll learn,” you said at last. “One way or another.”

And then, without pause, Jinx leaned forward, flipping the data tablet to the next page.

“Element Three,” he said. “Rooster, Payback, and Fanboy.”

Ruin leaned back with a sigh that wasn’t quite annoyed, but definitely tired. “They were the most cohesive unit out there. No question. Rooster’s leadership shows.”

You nodded once. “He has presence. That’s hard to teach.”

“But not impossible to cloud,” Jinx added, eyes narrowing.

You tilted your head slightly. “Explain.”

Jinx gestured toward the screen. “He’s got this… overcompensation thing going. Especially when you’re in the air.”

Ruin chuckled. “Man was flying like he had a ring in his pocket and a song in his heart.”

You didn’t react—but your silence said enough.

Jinx smirked and continued. “He’s good. Damn good. Tracks fast, adjusts clean. But he’s watching you too much when he should be watching his field.”

“He loses focus the moment you engage,” Ruin added. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. He pulls wide. His angles shift to mirror yours, not defend his team.”

“He’s starstruck,” Jinx said plainly.

You exhaled through your nose, gaze darkening slightly. “That gets people killed.”

“He means well,” Ruin offered. “But well-meaning doesn’t cut it in a kill zone.”

You stepped toward the projector, tapping the timestamp on a moment where Rooster pulled too far from Payback. “Here. He lost distance when I shifted positions. Should’ve held formation.”

Jinx nodded. “It’s not a fatal flaw. Not yet. But it’s enough to make him vulnerable.”

Ruin grunted. “Payback and Fanboy are solid, though. Not brilliant, not reckless. Just solid. They follow orders. Communicate well.”

“Fanboy’s read on you was impressive,” you admitted. “He didn’t flinch. Even when you closed in.”

“Payback’s the only one so far who pulled his WSO’s suggestions without hesitation,” Ruin added. “That kind of trust? Rare.”

“But they follow Rooster,” Jinx pointed out. “And if he falters—”

“They fall with him,” you finished.

Silence again. A heavy one. Because it wasn’t about their skill anymore—it was about their ability to survive each other.

“They’re a tight unit,” you said slowly. “But they’ve built their rhythm on Rooster. And if he keeps letting his pride tangle with his hormones…”

Jinx smirked. “That boy is one compliment away from proposing.”

You didn’t laugh.

You simply tapped the screen once, closing the page.

“They have potential,” you said. “But they need to remember the mission comes before the admiration.”

Ruin gave a small nod. “They’ll either get sharper tomorrow… or get shot down.”

You glanced toward the screen again, already switching to the next roster.

“Element Four.”

The name at the top of that list?

Hangman.

You tapped the screen, and Element Four’s footage came to life—Hangman, Phoenix, and Bob mid-flight, frozen in moments that already told the story before a single word was spoken. There was no need to read between the lines. Jake Seresin had written them bold.

Jinx leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his expression darkening with something between disappointment and disdain. “Hangman,” he muttered, dragging out the name like it left a sour taste in his mouth. “Still flying like the world owes him something.”

Ruin didn’t look up from the playback, but the click of his pen was sharper this time. “Still flying like he’s alone. Like he wants to be.”

You folded your arms across your chest and let out a quiet sigh. “He left Phoenix and Bob behind the second I entered the zone. Didn’t even flinch.”

“That’s his thing, isn’t it?” Jinx said, his tone flat. “They don’t call him Hangman for nothing. He’ll leave his team hanging to dry just to swing in later and look like the hero.”

“And that’s not just selfish,” Ruin added, finally lifting his eyes. “It’s dangerous. He flies with precision, sure. But no strategy. No accountability.”

“And yet,” you said, your voice sharper now, “he’s annoyingly effective.”

You hated admitting it, but it was true. Jake had managed to weave through the traps you’d laid, cutting across the sky with the same arrogance and control that made lesser pilots resent him and instructors reluctant to praise him. But for every brilliant maneuver, he left his team exposed. For every kill he nearly scored, Phoenix and Bob had to scramble behind him to cover the gaps he didn’t seem to care he’d left.

“Phoenix covered his six three times,” Ruin said. “Bob gave him WSO readings that probably kept his tail intact. And what did they get for it? Nothing. He bolted the second we went offensive.”

“He doesn’t fly with them,” you said, staring at the paused frame on screen. Hangman, bright and bold, breaking formation. “He flies with his reflection.”

Jinx leaned forward, tapping the timestamp where Phoenix had called out—desperate, angry, frustrated—and got nothing but silence. “This right here? This is what kills people. That moment when he makes it about himself.”

Ruin exhaled, his voice low. “He’s a brilliant pilot. I’ll give him that. He’s fast, aggressive, deadly—but only when he’s flying solo. The second he has to rely on someone else, or someone else has to rely on him, everything fractures.”

There was a beat of silence between you. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

“He doesn’t trust anyone but himself,” Jinx said, his voice quieter now. “And if he keeps flying like that, one day someone’s not going to make it home.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at the still of his jet, isolated and gleaming against the sky like it belonged to a different mission entirely.

“I used to think he didn’t care,” you murmured at last. “That he just wanted the spotlight. Now I think he’s afraid of what happens if he lets someone else in.”

Jinx didn’t respond. Ruin just nodded, slow and thoughtful.

You closed the file, let the screen go dark, and sat back in your chair. No words left. No need to say more.

The debrief was over.

But the ghost of Hangman’s flight lingered in the silence, impossible to ignore.

You didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t climb back down.

Instead, Jake leaned his weight casually against the jet, elbows resting on the edge of the fuselage like he belonged there—like he hadn’t just poked every raw nerve on his way up the ladder.

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the cockpit systems powering up, the distant whine of a jet taxiing far across the tarmac. You adjusted a dial, checked the screen, willed your pulse to settle.

“So,” Jake started, and his voice wasn’t cocky now. It was quieter. Uncertain, maybe. “Your parents still around?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah,” you said, slowly. “They’re good. Still busy. Mom’s on night shifts more often now. Dad took a part-time mentoring role at the university. He says it keeps his brain from rotting.”

Jake nodded, his eyes on the horizon. “That sounds like him.”

You paused, narrowing your eyes just slightly. “You remember my dad?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Hard to forget a guy who tried to interrogate me while carving a roast chicken.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

Then he added, more carefully this time, “And… Bingo? That little gremlin still around?”

That stopped you cold.

Your hands faltered on the switch panel, fingers curling lightly over the controls.

He remembered.

Of all things—for all the months, the years, the distance and the venom—he remembered the name of the fat, stubborn little puppy you carried into your birthday party in a ridiculous pink sweater.

Your throat tightened. You swallowed once before answering.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “He’s… old now. Slower. Greyer. But he’s still kicking. Still barks at the mailman like it’s his job.”

Jake let out a quiet laugh, something soft and unguarded that tugged at your ribs in a way you hated. “Damn. I figured he’d have retired by now.”

You stared ahead, trying not to let it show on your face—that stupid flutter in your chest. Because this wasn’t supposed to matter. He wasn’t supposed to matter. But that name—just one word—and suddenly you were nineteen again, laughing too loudly while a muddy puppy tried to eat a birthday candle.

And for a second, it wasn’t a war between you. Just a silence shared between two people who once almost meant something.

Jake looked at you then, properly. And said, quieter still, “You were always good with loyalty.”

You didn’t answer.

You just exhaled, sharp and slow, and looked away.

Because God, he remembered Bingo.

Jake finally pushed himself back from the side of the jet, exhaling like the weight of that brief conversation had scratched at something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“I should let you do your thing,” he said, voice returning to its usual swagger but… softer. Less forced. “You’ve got Commander stuff to do. Probably a hundred emails to ignore.”

You gave him a look. “Go away, Seresin.”

He smirked. “See? There’s that warm charm you’re known for.”

Then he turned and started climbing down the ladder, boots hitting each rung with practiced ease. You waited until he was almost at the bottom before following, one hand braced on the metal, the other still gloved and steady.

But your boot hit something slick—grease maybe, or dust—and your grip faltered.

The ground came up faster than you expected—

“Whoa—got you!”

Jake’s arms wrapped around you like muscle memory. One arm locked firm around your back, the other gripping your elbow tight as your body hit his with a thud and a sharp breath.

Chest to chest.

Face to face.

Your fingers instinctively curled against the front of his flight suit, his scent—aviator and soap and jet fuel—flooding your senses.

His eyes were wide for a split second, green-gold and startled. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

Because damn it, your breath had caught.

And because his face—so close you could see the faint freckle on his jaw, the crinkle at the edge of his eye, the exact shade of gold in his lashes—was tilted just enough that if you moved even an inch—

Jake’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

Seconds stretched.

And then—your voice, low and tight, broke the spell. “You can let go now.”

His arms didn’t move right away.

But eventually, his hands loosened. You stepped back, the air between you suddenly feeling colder, sharper.

Jake looked away first.

“Nice catch,” you muttered, adjusting your gloves like nothing had happened.

He gave a dry, almost breathless laugh. “Anytime, Commander.”

And for a second, it almost sounded like a promise.

You didn’t want to show it—but your hands were still shaking slightly from the almost-fall. And Jake Seresin was still there, hovering in the corner of your vision like a shadow you couldn’t quite outrun.

Then your phone buzzed.

You pulled it from your pocket without thinking, grateful for the distraction. “Hi, Ma,” you greeted, voice automatically softening despite the storm still brewing in your chest.

Jake didn’t move. Just shifted against the support beam, his arms crossed and eyes casually trained on you—like he had nothing better to do than loiter in your orbit.

“Oh, sweetheart!” your mom chirped through the speaker. “I was hoping to catch you! We’re still doing dinner this Saturday, right? Your brothers are flying in, I just got off the phone with the airline—”

You closed your eyes for a beat. “Mom, I told you. I don’t need anything big.”

“Nonsense,” she said, immediately dismissing you. “You’re never home. Let me cook something. I already invited the neighbors. Mrs. Patel is baking that cake you like. Your father wants to break out the grill. You have to come.”

You huffed a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’ll try to make it. Depends on how flight schedules are—”

“Oh!” your mother interrupted, as though a thought had just struck her. “Do you remember that blond boy? Ser-something? He was in that picture I found in the attic—the one where you’re holding Bingo in that pink sweater. What was his name again? I swear he was always hanging around—”

Your stomach flipped.

Your fingers curled around the phone tighter.

“Mom,” you said sharply. “Let’s not—”

Jake shifted like he sensed his name in the ether. His brows lifted with amusement, that annoying little smirk playing at the edge of his mouth like he already knew.

“Seresin!” your mom cried in victory. “Jake Seresin! That’s it! Didn’t he join the Navy too? Maybe he’s still around—you should invite him, honey!”

“Mom.” Your voice dropped into that warning tone you hadn’t used since you were seventeen and grounded. “Please.”

“Why not?” she asked innocently. “You two were such a sweet pair—”

Before you could blink, Jake stepped in and snatched the phone right from your hand, smooth as sin and twice as smug.

“Hey there, Mrs. (Last Name),” he drawled, charm already turned up to eleven. “It’s Jake. Jake Seresin. Nice to hear your voice again, ma’am.”

You stood there in stunned silence, watching this grown man grin like he hadn’t just hijacked your call with your mother. Your face was on fire. Your hands balled into fists.

“Oh my God! Jake!” your mother all but squealed. “My husband and I were just talking about you the other day—hold on, he’s right here—!”

“Jake. Give it back,” you hissed, lunging for the phone.

He held it above his head like you were fifteen again, like you hadn’t outranked him now, like this was still a game and not a battlefield.

“Yes sir, still flying,” Jake said into the phone, effortlessly slipping into that smooth, golden boy rhythm. “No crashes yet. Still addicted to caffeine. Working on the smartass part.”

You growled low in your throat. “Seresin—”

He turned away slightly, shoulder blocking you like this was his private show now. And then—of course—it came.

“Oh, Jake,” your mom gushed. “You have to come to dinner Saturday. You remember where the house is, right? Come by early—we’d love to see you.”

Jake’s gaze flicked back to you. Met your fiery eyes.

And he smiled. Not his usual cocky smirk. No, this was something softer. More dangerous.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma’am.”

He handed the phone back with a wink.

You took it slowly, eyes never leaving his face. “I hate you,” you said flatly.

“Aw, Commander,” Jake murmured, already walking away, his voice dripping with teasing delight. “You say the sweetest things.”

And just like that—he was gone.

And your mother? She’d just invited the boy who’d once shattered your world to your birthday dinner.

God help him.

You stared down at your phone like it had personally betrayed you.

The call had ended minutes ago, but the last words still echoed in your head like a siren: “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma’am.”

You were going to combust.

You turned in a slow, stunned circle on the tarmac, your boots grinding against concrete, before stopping dead in your tracks. You inhaled through your nose. Held it. Counted to five. Let it out.

Then—you let the panic explode.

“Are you kidding me?!” you shouted at absolutely no one, throwing your hands up toward the sky like it could offer some divine intervention. “He hijacks one phone call and suddenly he’s family again?!”

You stormed in a tight circle, muttering furiously under your breath. “He gets one sympathy invite and now what, he’s gonna charm my mom into baking him a separate cake? My dad’s gonna offer him a beer and talk about golf again like he didn’t vanish from my life like a ghost in a frat boy body?!”

You stopped pacing and pointed at nothing. “This is why I don’t answer calls on the tarmac! This is why boundaries exist! FUCK!"

Some poor mechanic glanced over from twenty feet away. You shot him a death glare. He quickly found somewhere else to be.

You took another breath, shoulders rising and falling with the force of it. Then you looked down at your phone again. The photo on the screen was still of your family, all smiles and party hats from last year. You groaned.

“Ughhh, they’re gonna love him again.”

Your mother, who had adored him from the moment he’d shaken her hand with that charming smile and offered to help her bring groceries in. Your father, who had once tried to teach him how to grill ribs and called him ‘a kid with potential’. And your brothers—God—they’d probably fist-bump him and offer him a beer.

You could already hear it.

“Damn, Rogue, you let that one get away?”

You paced faster now. Considered your options. Could you fake a mission emergency? Request a transfer? Break your own ankle and check into the infirmary?

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, still simmering. “He hijacked a call. He smirked. He winked. And now he’s coming to my birthday dinner like it’s the freaking prom all over again.”

You growled, letting your head fall back as you dragged your hands down your face.

Jake Seresin is coming to dinner.

And your mom? She was probably setting a plate for him already.

Your boots echoed like gunfire down the corridor as you stormed off the tarmac, fury simmering under your skin like hot oil. Your hands were fists, your jaw clenched so tight it ached, and your phone might as well have been a live grenade in your pocket.

The first room with a closed door was the mission planning office. You shoved it open without knocking, fully prepared to pace a damn hole in the tile—and paused only slightly when you saw Jinx and Ruin inside, both lounging like kings in folding chairs with an open bag of trail mix between them.

They blinked at you.

Then, in perfect synchronicity, both raised their brows.

“Whoa,” Jinx said, tilting his head, “who punched your ego?”

Ruin chuckled low. “She looks like she just took a missile to the soul.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, hard enough to make the whiteboard rattle.

“Don’t,” you warned, your voice sharp and volatile. “Don’t even start with me.”

The room fell quiet.

Jinx slowly lowered the trail mix. “Noted.”

Ruin sat up straighter. “So… do we get the story, or are we just gonna vibe in this unholy rage aura you’ve got going on?”

You let out a strangled noise—a hybrid between a scream and a sigh—and started pacing. “He took my phone. My phone. Hijacked a call from my mother. And you know what he did? He charmed her. He charmed my mom. And my dad! And then he told them he’d come to my birthday dinner! Like it’s the most normal thing in the damn world!”

Jinx blinked. “Wait, he? Who’s he?”

“Hangman,” Ruin said, already halfway there.

“Hangman,” you spat, dragging your hands down your face. “Jake freaking Seresin, demon of my academic youth, ruiner of quiet thoughts, destroyer of my self-respect—that man.”

Ruin made a soft ooooh sound like he’d just witnessed a celebrity scandal.

Jinx leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me that Hangman got invited to your birthday dinner by your mom?”

“She was delighted,” you hissed. “Practically squealed. And my dad said—get this—‘Glad to hear you’re still flying, son.’ Son. Jake Seresin is not their son. Jake Seresin is a recurring nightmare I never asked for and certainly never invited to my kitchen table!”

There was a long, reverent pause.

Then Ruin murmured, “That’s poetry. Keep going.”

You let out a choked laugh-sob of pure rage. “And he smirked the entire time. Just stood there looking all golden and charming and like he hadn’t torn me in half back when I was doing his social studies homework like an idiot.”

“Yikes,” Jinx muttered. “I mean. We did wonder why you snapped the pencil in half last week when someone mentioned ‘Texas charm.’”

You whirled on them both, eyes blazing. “If either of you breathes a word about this to anyone—anyone—I will personally fly a low-altitude mock run over your bunk at three a.m. for the next month.”

Ruin raised his hands. “Commander’s honor.”

Jinx saluted with two fingers and a barely-suppressed grin. “Scout’s promise. Still, though... this is gonna be one hell of a birthday dinner.”

You groaned again and dropped into the nearest chair like the weight of the world had finally crushed you. Your head thudded back against the wall.

“Why does he have to be pretty?”

Jinx passed you the trail mix. “Because the universe has no mercy.”

Ruin tossed a peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Okay. So let me get this straight. Your mom invited Hangman to your birthday dinner. He accepted. With joy. And you… are going.”

“I have to go,” you muttered bitterly, grabbing a handful of trail mix like it might save you from drowning. “It’s my birthday. My whole family will be there. My parents will cry if I skip it and I don’t have the heart to ruin Mrs. Patel’s cake again.”

“Again?” Jinx asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Long story. Emotional breakdown. Frosting everywhere.”

Ruin snorted. “God, I love being your friend.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead into your palms. “They’re gonna love him again. He’s going to walk in with that smile and that drawl and just... serenade my entire bloodline into collective amnesia. They’ll forget he was ever a jerk. They’ll forget how he made me cry on my seventeenth birthday. They’ll ask me why I don’t bring someone like Jake Seresin home more often.”

Jinx gave you a look, half-smirking, half-concerned. “So… just for my own clarity… we are talking about the guy who you once described as ‘a beautifully wrapped landmine dipped in honey,’ right?”

You groaned.

“Because, like…” he continued, swirling the trail mix bag, “I don’t think it’s completely unreasonable to say there’s still something there. You’re vibrating like a tuning fork and he hasn’t even flirted with you yet.”

Your head snapped up. “There is nothing there.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m furious.”

“You’re still blushing,” Ruin added helpfully.

You stood up abruptly, the chair squealing under the motion. “I swear to God—”

Jinx grinned, utterly unfazed. “You can swear all you want. But if that boy shows up on Saturday wearing his good jeans and holding a bottle of wine like it’s a peace treaty, I’m not saving you.”

“You’ll be there?” you asked flatly.

He paused. “Wait—are we invited?”

“Hell no,” you said, snatching the trail mix from him and pointing a threatening finger at both of them. “Not unless you wanna see what my mom is like after three glasses of Moscato. And my dad asking you about your five-year plan.”

Ruin held his hands up again, laughing. “Okay, okay, we’ll behave. But seriously—what are you gonna do?”

You stared at the wall like it might offer divine instruction. “I have no idea. Pretend I’m emotionally stable. Smile. Drink wine. Avoid eye contact. Cry into Bingo’s fur if necessary.”

Jinx stood, stretching. “Solid plan.”

“Flawless,” Ruin agreed. “Should go great until he shows up in that stupid leather jacket looking like a Nicholas Sparks fever dream.”

You buried your face in your hands again.

And in the silence that followed, the only thing you could hear was the memory of your mom’s voice: You have to come, Jake. It wouldn’t be the same without you.

You were so, so screwed.

- Jake -

Jake Seresin was glowing.

Not the kind of glow that came from a good flight or a clean debrief. Not even the smug kind of glow that followed a dogfight win—though he’d had one of those too, thank you very much.

No. This glow? This was dangerous.

It was the shine of a man who had just been invited to dinner by the family of the one woman he thought he’d never see again. The girl he once humiliated in front of a hundred people now wore commander’s stripes and eyeliner so sharp it could slice through glass. And somehow, despite everything—despite everything—she didn’t slam the door in his face.

Instead, she answered the phone.

And now? Well. He had dinner plans.

“Alright, sunshine cowboy,” Phoenix said, elbowing him as she passed by with a fresh beer. “You’ve been smiling for twenty minutes straight and it’s freaking everyone out.”

Jake leaned against the edge of the bar at Hard Deck, arms crossed, chin tilted just a little higher than necessary. “Can’t a man enjoy the vibe?”

“The vibe?” Bob muttered from a barstool, sounding skeptical.

“The vibe,” Jake confirmed. “Great flying. Cold beer. Music. Friends.” He waved toward the piano, where Rooster was already warming up, spinning his lighter in that overly confident way he always did.

Fanboy raised a brow. “You’re glowing like you won the lottery.”

Jake just took a long sip of his drink, smirking behind the rim. “In a way... maybe I did.”

Rooster, currently distracted with setting up his usual spot at the piano, only half-registered Jake approaching until the blonde pilot was suddenly right beside him, leaning down slightly, all charm and quiet mischief.

Jake’s voice was soft—barely audible over the music and laughter. “She invited me to her birthday.”

Rooster blinked. “Who did?”

Jake didn’t answer. Just smiled a little, slow and knowing. The kind of smile that dripped with secrets. Then, casually, he added, “Let’s just say, some ghosts don’t stay buried.”

And with that cryptic line, he clapped Rooster on the shoulder and backed away, leaving him blinking after him in absolute emotional chaos.

Rooster stared down at the piano keys. Blinked once. Twice.

Then, in true Rooster fashion, he let out a long, trembling sigh and launched into “Great Balls of Fire” like he was trying to exorcise the heartbreak of a man who had just watched a stranger walk away with his soulmate.

“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain—”

Hangman only laughed, spun his drink, and took another long, satisfied sip.

Oh, this weekend was gonna be fun.