pagesfromthevoid - Tumblr blog

pagesfromthevoid · 10 hours ago

Text

HE GOT ON HIS KNEES AND BEGGED

FUCK WE LOVE IT WHEN JAKE SERESIN IS SO DOWN BAD

I really didn’t know if they’d get together and I woke up and immediately checked your blog and now I’m SOBBING

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

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.

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.

136 notes · View notes

pagesfromthevoid · 21 hours ago

Note

What’s your favorite heart emoji? I’m personally a 💗 enjoyer.

Ooh I really like 💕💕💕

#cress talks too much

2 notes · View notes

pagesfromthevoid · 21 hours ago

Text

‘You should only send hearts to ppl you’re romantically involved with’

WRONG! BOUNDLESS PLATONIC LOVE, WARMTH, AND ENTHUSIASM BE UPON YE!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

120K notes · View notes

pagesfromthevoid · 22 hours ago

Text

Screaming at the top of my lungs. Holy hell.

We love perv!bob

(This image is courtesy of @cyber-nya lmao)

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband.

He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast.

He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth.

You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on.

You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department.

For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team.

Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend.

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks.

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life.

Marry me.

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be?

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live.

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage.

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.”

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.”

“I can call in sick?” he offers.

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.”

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal.

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.”

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.”

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted.

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.”

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.”

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits.

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open.

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.”

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift.

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture.

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him.

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes.

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better.

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up.

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door.

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great.

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when—

“Excuse me.”

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?”

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it.

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.”

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.”

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?”

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.”

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.”

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze.

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.”

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—”

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt.

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.”

“It wasn’t that hard.”

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?”

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.”

He raises his brows. “Impressive.”

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?”

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—”

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving.

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?”

“A number,” he replies, too quick.

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.”

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.”

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.”

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle.

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you.

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?”

“Can I at least get a name?”

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.”

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers.

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals.

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military.

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy.

Hence, no military.

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up.

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer.

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob:

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home.

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower.

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin.

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?”

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?”

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?”

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.”

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing.

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two.

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give.

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated.

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever.

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it.

Which is honestly kind of a miracle.

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt.

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have.

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place.

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away.

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder.

“Yeah, but he was military.”

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.”

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.”

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?”

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.”

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life.

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?”

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?”

“A military hookup.”

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.”

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?”

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.”

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.”

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over.

And you know he’s right. It is too risky.

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say.

But who you do, too.

- Bob -

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn.

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.”

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom.

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left.

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet.

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake.

Bob Floyd knows that sound.

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song.

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh.

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress.

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does.

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening.

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable.

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit.

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him.

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear.

But Bob hears everything.

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t.

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets.

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has.

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager.

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you.

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come.

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you.

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too.

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers.

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful.

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent.

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze.

He hates himself almost instantly.

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years.

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you.

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind.

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it.

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing.

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers.

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively.

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels.

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and—

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open.

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it.

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him.

Every damn time.

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed.

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning.

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen.

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in.

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message:

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note.

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of.

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie.

And how does he know that?

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before.

That would be insane. Perverted, even.

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way.

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?”

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?”

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?”

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day.

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.”

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.”

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together.

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut.

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad.

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous.

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.”

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet.

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away.

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you.

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning.

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.”

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary.

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?”

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.”

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—”

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.”

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?”

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—”

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.”

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife.

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?”

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk.

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat.

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.”

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?”

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.”

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats.

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away.

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him.

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages.

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is.

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you.

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you.

God. What is wrong with him?

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else.

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin.

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore.

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown.

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?”

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?”

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor.

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue.

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.”

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut.

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.”

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.”

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.”

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.”

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?”

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.”

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks.

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—”

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?”

“Didn’t get that either.”

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?”

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.”

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh.

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.”

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot.

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning.

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.”

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you.

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?”

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.”

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.”

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite.

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one.

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?”

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?”

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.”

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.”

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?”

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?”

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.”

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?”

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.”

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.”

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?”

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.”

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben.

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?”

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now.

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight.

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.”

Jake scoffs. “Why me?”

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.”

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters.

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.”

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.”

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.”

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears.

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name.

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown.

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.”

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return.

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands.

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion.

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe.

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway.

And—

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard?

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him?

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not.

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall.

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit.

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible.

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face.

And now Bob wants to die.

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having.

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base.

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion.

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago.

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless.

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew.

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.”

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is.

His cock twitches.

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high.

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there.

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door.

And God—he sees you.

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement.

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk.

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of.

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?”

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.”

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?”

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.”

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling.

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go.

God, did you notice?

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right?

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation.

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door.

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively.

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud.

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him.

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body—

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out.

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door.

Fuck.

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.”

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking.

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder.

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him.

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way.

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act.

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny.

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you.

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times.

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.”

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic.

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.”

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately.

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light.

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.”

His stomach drops.

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?”

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again.

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?”

Bob frowns. “What dinner?”

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.”

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it.

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.”

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.”

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.”

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.”

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.”

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—”

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.”

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again.

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!”

“Love you too,” Bob mutters.

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator.

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him.

It doesn’t.

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time.

Again, it doesn’t.

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up.

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it.

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin.

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture.

That’s all.

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together.

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control.

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in.

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and—

His cock brushes the pillow.

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat.

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way.

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane.

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher.

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him.

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal.

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over—

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright.

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it.

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases.

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame.

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion.

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control.

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment.

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen.

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire.

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water.

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you.

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair.

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home.

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker.

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him.

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door.

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary.

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those.

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?”

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door.

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.”

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV.

“What happened?”

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows.

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’”

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh.

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’”

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence.

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.”

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded.

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.”

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.”

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.”

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?”

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you.

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret—

But you cut in first.

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.”

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?”

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.”

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next.

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.”

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.”

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.”

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years.

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come.

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck.

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.”

Bob nearly chokes.

“I’m heading to bed,” you add.

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.”

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away.

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific.

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close.

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum.

- You -

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you.

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning.

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe.

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out.

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk.

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef.

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is.

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come.

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it.

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones.

“No way.”

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice.

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.”

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose.

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless.

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was.

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?”

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.”

“Isn’t this whole island a base?”

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?”

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block.

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.”

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?”

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?”

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.”

He grins. “And?”

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.”

“But I’m worth it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.”

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.”

He frowns. “What does that even mean?”

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you.

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake.

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.”

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?”

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.”

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.”

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen.

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone.

He looks up. “Wait, just—”

“See you later, pretty boy.”

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home.

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way.

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker.

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good.

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and—

Freeze.

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered.

What the fuck?

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island.

He’s home early.

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches.

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot.

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.”

Oh God. That’s Bob.

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release.

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are.

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing.

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away.

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door.

And stop breathing.

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move.

And fuck, is it moving.

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead.

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there.

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific.

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious.

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move.

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper.

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who—

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.”

—who looks so fucking hot right now.

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on.

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles.

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall.

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight.

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps.

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—”

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing.

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt.

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles.

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked.

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful.

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin.

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing.

God. You need something. Now.

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate.

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head.

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality.

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big.

And God, you want it.

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids.

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit—

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate.

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore.

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart.

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base.

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you.

You fuck yourself harder.

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well.

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes.

“F-fuck—”

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come.

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse.

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now.

Well, shit. That’s new.

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast.

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy.

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room.

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other.

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone.

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did.

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right?

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen.

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed.

Well. He would, after a release like that.

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.”

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.”

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it.

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board.

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward.

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island.

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.”

“Oh, that was nice of him.”

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible.

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine.

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?”

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.”

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?”

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him.

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip.

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name.

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down.

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?”

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.”

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge.

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that?

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance.

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him.

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue.

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying.

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot.

When the hell did that happen?

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it.

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you.

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth.

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth.

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything.

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together.

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up.

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married.

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day.

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning.

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to.

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different.

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today.

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird.

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right?

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling.

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs.

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you.

At this point, you’ll try anything.

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building.

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral.

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week.

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?”

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.”

Her brows lift, as if to say and?

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.”

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?”

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—”

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.”

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob.

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about.

Fuck.

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.”

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.”

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.”

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee.

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.”

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building.

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land.

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.”

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?”

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.”

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance.

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy.

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner.

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place.

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—”

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?”

Oh. This is Maverick.

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile.

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—”

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.”

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?”

“Nope.”

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?”

You nod. “Works for me.”

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet.

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open.

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?”

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?”

“Yep.”

“And how long have you been in love?”

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.”

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate.

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?”

You nod, but it’s not convincing.

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—”

“No way.”

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar.

“It’s you.”

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut.

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes.

Your stomach lurches.

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin.

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up.

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps.

Bagman?

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze.

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?”

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.”

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside.

Oh no... Hangman?

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman.

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying.

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests.

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad.

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly?

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking.

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through.

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear.

And then—

Bob.

He steps through the doorway—

And freezes.

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright.

The silence is deafening.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out.

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.”

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face.

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.”

Maverick chokes beside you.

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.”

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes.

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.”

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.”

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs.

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?”

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.”

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.”

“Everything I say is funny.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—”

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?”

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either.

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet.

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid.

He looks furious. Downright murderous.

At first, you thought it might be at you.

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.”

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself.

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest.

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked.

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you.

Your stomach swoops.

And suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Because Bob Floyd is jealous.

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams.

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you.

And for a second, you almost believe it.

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away.

He loves you.

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—”

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?”

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond.

You swallow hard and step forward.

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.”

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes.

There’s a gasp. A chuckle.

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters.

But none of it matters.

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop.

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists.

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next.

But you do.

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down.

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim.

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment.

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers.

You’re already gone.

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild.

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?”

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.”

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion.

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly.

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.”

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more.

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.”

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in.

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin.

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak.

“Payback,” the taller one says.

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.”

You laugh softly, nodding again.

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in.

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…”

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.”

“Details,” he sighs wistfully.

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?”

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when—

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.”

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.”

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door.

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.”

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!”

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door.

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?”

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious.

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.”

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other.

Then—

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again.

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd.

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more.

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.”

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.”

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath.

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin.

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it.

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely.

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to.

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate.

God, you want him desperate.

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps.

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him.

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear.

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs.

You want to be sore tomorrow.

You want him sweaty and wild and undone.

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does.

But first—you want him to ruin you.

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely.

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce.

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts.

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves.

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then—

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped.

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest.

He steps inside—and your breath catches.

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner.

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them.

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?”

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you.

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor.

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—”

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.”

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving.

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours.

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow.

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs.

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips.

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours.

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.”

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?”

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning.

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips.

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.”

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this.

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts.

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you.

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin.

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.”

That’s all he needs.

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares.

Because nothing else matters now.

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.”

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning.

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor.

You flinch. He doesn’t.

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours.

Then he drops to his knees.

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin.

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.”

His hands urge your legs wider.

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core.

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him.

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.”

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking.

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.”

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire.

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more.

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough.

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding.

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough.

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking.

And he doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close.

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.”

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks.

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse.

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.”

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought.

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you.

He stares.

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—”

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.”

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick.

Your breath stutters.

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens.

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper.

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.”

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness.

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot.

Your breath hitches.

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.”

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in.

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.”

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him.

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good.

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper.

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.”

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again.

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders.

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.”

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours.

You both freeze.

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life.

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control.

And then it hits you.

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.”

He goes still—completely still.

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it.

But then—

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world.

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes.

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard.

You both cry out.

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way.

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything.

He is everything.

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself.

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.”

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost.

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.”

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor.

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone.

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.”

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything.

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—”

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest.

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.”

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you.

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine.

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.”

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.”

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis.

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.”

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes.

The vase topples.

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile.

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—”

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it.

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh.

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares.

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.”

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide.

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.”

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look.

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing.

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.”

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush?

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel.

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?”

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.”

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch.

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach.

His brows pull together. “What is it?”

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.”

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you.

Then he nods. “I thought so.”

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?”

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head.

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?”

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.”

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.”

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters.

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again.

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again.

904 notes · View notes

pagesfromthevoid · 23 hours ago

Text

Sneak peek at the finale of Spirit Week (I am, in fact, going to make yall sad before I make you happy). The first part is from Mavericks POV 🫡

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster x reader #top gun #top gun maverick #miles teller #miles teller x reader

15 notes · View notes

pagesfromthevoid · 1 day ago

Text

Okay so I am drunk but it’s okay

I applied for the content specialist position that’s at the district. It’s like a resource teacher job for the entire county.

So uh. Manifest I guess guys

#cress talks too much #worst case they say no

6 notes · View notes

pagesfromthevoid · 1 day ago

Text

“A short one” MEANWHILE IRS 17k

Thank you for blessing us twice (though I think you posted part three last night idk I woke up to it and now I’m drunk and so very excited to read part four 😭😭😭

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.

194 notes · View notes