#Miles teller
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MILES TELLER The Gorge (2025)
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rooster is not a leech (except when he is) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 1]
pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader
word count: 10.7k (oops)
summary: bradley bradshaw should’ve gotten the callsign leech with the way he stuck to you since college. he followed you everywhere, through the academy, every flight, every base. you never told him to stop, not really. until one day, you finally said the words—let go. and he did. he actually let go. but when he stopped trying, why did it suddenly feel like something was missing?
warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.
note: english is not my first language, so please be kind. i wrote this in the middle of the night, raining heavily outside while “iris” by goo goo dolls was playing on loop. this is just something that sat in my chest too long and needed to breathe. thank you for reading.
part two
masterlist [part 2]
your call sign is sunbeam.
You knew fate was a smug little bastard the second you walked into the academy’s briefing room and saw him. There he was—Bradley Bradshaw, in the flesh, mustache thicker, smile cockier, and posture still carrying that same brand of infuriating confidence like the world owed him a high-five for showing up. He hadn’t seen you yet. You considered ducking back out. Honestly, if there’d been a vent large enough, you would’ve crawled through it. But your boots were already echoing against the tile, and his head turned.
The moment your eyes met his, the entire room fell away for him. He stood so fast his chair nearly flipped backward. “No way,” he gasped, as if God had delivered you straight to his personal wishlist. “Sunbeam?!”
You resisted the urge to sigh through your teeth. “Bradshaw.”
His grin widened, shameless and bright, like he was starring in some reunion special where only one of you had read the script. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re actually here! I thought—well, I hoped, but I didn’t know—I mean, I put your name into that database search like five times just to—”
“Bradley.”
He shut up. Briefly. His eyes scanned you, like he was checking for damage, like the four years hadn’t just been years—they were famine, exile, and he was seeing light for the first time. And you? You just stared at him. Quiet. Blank. Letting the silence stretch in that wonderfully uncomfortable way only you had ever mastered. Because if you’d learned anything in college, it was this: if you waited long enough, Bradley would start talking again just to fill the silence.
You weren’t wrong.
“God, you haven’t changed a bit. Still got that resting glare, huh?” He nudged your shoulder like you were best friends reunited at a wedding, not two adults thrown together again by cruel chance. “Still wear those dead-inside eyes like a badge of honor. I missed that. I mean, I missed you, obviously. But that too.”
You didn’t answer. Just blinked at him. Long and slow.
“Right, sorry, I should shut up.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, and sat back down, clearly not shutting up at all. “I just… I can’t believe we’re finally gonna fly together again.”
And oh, did you fly. Every assignment. Every damn deployment. It didn’t matter if the mission was recon, escort, or hell-dive—you could bet your last ration bar that Rooster would be there.
You could’ve gotten assigned a WSO from a completely different squad, and somehow Bradley would pull strings or trade favors or “coincidentally” end up slotted as your wingman.
There were times you wondered if he bribed someone. Or if he had dirt on every CO.
Maybe he was the dirt.
It got to the point where you stopped asking how or why. You just accepted it. Like gravity. Like taxes.
Like the fact that every time you zipped up your suit, you’d hear his voice chattering from the locker next to yours, saying something like, “Your helmet looks good today. Real aerodynamic.” Or, “Did you sleep okay? You looked a little murdery this morning—more than usual.”
At first, you thought the others would question it. They didn’t. They just got used to it. Because by the time the Dagger Squad came around—years into this strange, lopsided partnership—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had cemented his role as the enthusiastic golden retriever to your chronically unimpressed house cat.
Phoenix noticed it first. “So, uh… does he always talk that much?”
You stared at the floor. “Yes.”
Hangman snorted. “And she always look at him like she’s mentally measuring his coffin.”
“Also yes,” Phoenix replied, eyes wide.
They watched, in horrified fascination, as Bradley launched into a detailed monologue about some new band he found on vinyl, how the drummer reminded him of you, how maybe you two should start a band—“You could be the bassist. You look like a bassist”—all while you slowly chewed a protein bar and stared blankly at the wall behind him. You weren’t even nodding. Just enduring.
It wasn’t love. Not on your end. At least not obviously. It was more like… tolerance. Deep, patient, bone-deep tolerance for the man who had once given you a call sign like Sunbeam and then made it everyone else’s problem.
“Why does he call you that?” Coyote asked once, during a long deployment.
You didn’t even look up from your maintenance checklist. “Because he doesn’t shut up.”
Across the hangar, Bradley was mid-ramble about constellations and how you once told him Orion was overrated.
“And she says it like she’s bored,” he said proudly. “But I know she’s secretly passionate about space. She just hides it like everything else.”
You didn’t correct him. You never did. Not once.
It became a game. For them. Not for you, obviously. You were simply trying to live your life in peace and silence and protein bars. But for the Dagger Squad, observing Rooster’s one-man devotion tour had turned into the squadron’s favorite reality show.
They started keeping score.
“He’s said her name fifteen times in the last hour,” Payback whispered, eyes wide, jotting something on a little notepad. “That’s a new record.”
“He made her coffee again,” Fanboy pointed out. “Three creams, no sugar. That’s love. Or a cry for help.”
“I think he’s nesting,” Phoenix added, arms crossed as she watched Rooster adjust your seat in the jet before you even got to the cockpit. “Like a bird. Bringing shiny things to the one he’s trying to mate with.”
You were aware of all of it. Every look. Every snort. Every dramatic reenactment of your interactions that happened two feet away, like they thought you were deaf just because you refused to engage. And still—still—you said nothing. Because saying something would validate their nonsense. And you? You didn’t negotiate with chaos.
Bradley, of course, was blissfully unaware. Or worse—he was aware, and just didn’t care.
One morning, he brought you a bagel. Not just a bagel.
A custom bagel. The exact one you used to get back in college from that one overpriced hipster café with the annoying tip jars labeled “Star Wars” vs “Star Trek.” That café had shut down five years ago. You had mentioned it in passing once, probably half-asleep and pissed off about the lack of decent breakfast on base.
But somehow, Bradley had remembered.
“Boom,” he said with a grin, holding out the bagel like it was a peace offering to a feral cat. “Sesame, toasted, cream cheese, pepper flakes, and a little honey. Just like old times.”
You stared at the bagel. Then at him. Then back at the bagel.
“Did you rob someone?”
He gasped, wounded. “Excuse you, I couriered that. Special delivery from San Diego. You’re welcome.”
You took the bagel. Not because you wanted to encourage him. But because you were starving and he was right. It was just like old times.
“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, biting into it.
He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “But I wanted to. Anything for my Sunbeam.”
Phoenix choked on her coffee across the room. You didn’t even blink.
Later that week, Bradley rearranged the locker room just so yours would be next to his again. You never agreed to this. You never asked for this. But there it was—your nameplate suddenly moved, your gear transferred neatly, and a sticky note taped to your helmet that said:
“i missed you. this is cohabitation now. ~r.”
You stared at it for a solid minute.
Then you calmly peeled the note off, walked over to Bradley—who was stretching unnecessarily in front of a mirror like some tragic Top Gun calendar shoot—and handed it back to him without a word.
He took it, smiled, and folded it into his wallet like it was a love letter.
Hangman witnessed the whole thing and immediately muttered, “I’m telling you, it’s like watching a wolf try to flirt with a statue.”
Phoenix nodded solemnly. “No. It’s worse. It’s like the statue lets him.”
You learned to accept certain facts as constants in your life. The sun would rise in the east. Gravity would do its thing. And Bradley Bradshaw would find a new, profoundly unnecessary way to remind everyone within a five-mile radius that he knew you first.
“Oh yeah, Sunbeam used to fall asleep in lectures with her eyes open,” he was saying one afternoon on the tarmac, while you methodically checked the flaps on your F/A-18. “Scared the hell outta me the first time. I thought she died. Turns out she just disengages from reality like a light switch. Isn’t that adorable?”
You didn’t even pause. You just yanked the panel open a little harder than necessary.
“I have not known peace,” you muttered under your breath.
“Did you say something?” he chirped, leaning his elbows on your wing like you were having a moment.
“She did,” Hangman answered for you, appearing with a smirk and a handful of popcorn. “She said she’s actively drafting your murder in her head.”
Rooster only laughed. “Classic Sunbeam.”
And then there was the base-wide Rooster Alert System—coined by Phoenix—because no matter where you went, he showed up. Like clockwork. Like taxes. Like glitter at a children’s birthday party.
You went for a run at six a.m.? There he was, jogging up beside you, too chipper for someone who hadn’t had caffeine yet. You went to grab a snack from the vending machine? He popped out of the hallway like some sort of clingy airman jack-in-the-box, saying, “You want my granola bar? It’s peanut butter. Just like you like.”
You hadn’t told him your favorite granola flavor in years.
“Do you have, like… a tracker on her?” Bob asked once, dead serious.
Bradley just smiled. “No. But her soul and mine are cosmically linked.”
You stared at him. “I will un-cosmically unlink us.”
He winked. “You always say that.”
The worst part wasn’t even the talking. It was the commentary team he’d unknowingly recruited. Dagger Squad started giving running analysis like it was an Olympic sport.
“Oh look, he’s fixing her helmet strap again,” Payback muttered, crouched beside Fanboy and Coyote behind a storage crate. “That’s the third time this week.”
“Still no ‘thank you,’ though,” Fanboy whispered, scandalized. “Do you think she’s gonna snap and shove him into the ocean?”
“Honestly, I think she’d miss him,” Coyote said. “But only in, like… a ‘this is too quiet now’ kind of way.”
You knew they were watching. You knew every move you made around Rooster was being documented like a wildlife special: Here we see the elusive Grumpus Sunbeamus in her natural environment, ignoring the over-affectionate Roosterus Clingicus.
“Hey,” Bradley said one morning during pre-flight checks, gently brushing something invisible off your shoulder, “you know, if you ever wanted to hang out outside of training, I’m down.”
You glanced at him. “We hang out every day.”
“No, I mean like... not at work. Like movies. Or drinks. Or mini-golf.”
“Mini-golf?” you deadpanned.
“Okay, bad example. But you’d look good swinging a putter.”
You blinked at him once. Then turned away without a word.
“...She’s thinking about it,” he whispered behind you.
“No, she’s not,” Phoenix called from across the room.
You were in the hangar, tucked beside your jet with the sun dripping low through the open bay doors. The golden hour light slanted across the concrete floor like a mood filter, softening the sharp edges of the world—not that you noticed. You were busy swapping out a busted nav panel, hands deep in wires, trying to make sense of a system that didn’t want to be understood. Peaceful. Focused.
Then came the footsteps.
You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. You could tell it was Bradley from the rhythm. Always just a little too heavy on the heel, a little too eager in the pacing, like even his feet couldn’t wait to be near you.
“Hey, Sunbeam,” he said softly, like he thought if he said it quieter, maybe this time you’d say his name back.
You grunted in reply, not pausing your work.
He sat down cross-legged across from you, his back against a crate, like this was storytime and you were the campfire. A moment of silence passed. You savored it. It was rare.
Then, tragically, he began.
“I was thinking the other day,” he said, which was always a bad sign, “if we ever weren’t in the Navy, like, say we were just... two regular civilians, I think you’d run a bookstore.”
You stopped moving. Not because you were touched. But because—what?
He nodded seriously, gesturing with both hands. “Yeah. Like a tiny one. Corner lot. Dusty shelves, quiet jazz. You’d sit behind the counter and judge people’s taste in fiction. Maybe knit. Maybe glare at people who talk too loud.”
You stared at him. “You think I knit?”
He grinned. “You look like you secretly knit. Like angry knitting. Spite scarves.”
You went back to your wires.
Bradley leaned his head back against the crate and smiled up at the ceiling like it had the answers to everything. “And I’d come in every day and buy the weirdest books just so you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like, ‘That author’s a hack.’ And I’d be like, ‘Yeah, but I thought the cover was neat.’”
You didn’t respond.
“Then I’d ask you what you’re reading, and you’d pretend not to answer, but you’d leave a copy by the register the next day. Dog-eared. And that’d be your way of saying I’m not the worst.”
You slowly looked up. “Are you high?”
He laughed, full and loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just on life. And maybe jet fuel fumes. Hard to tell.”
You let your gaze settle back on the panel. “You’re a lunatic.”
“And you’re still talking to me,” he said, utterly unbothered. “Progress.”
Silence.
Then, casually, he pulled something from the inside pocket of his flight suit and held it out to you. It was a patch.
Not just any patch—your callsign, Sunbeam, stitched in your usual yellow and burnt orange, except this one had a small embroidered rooster just below it. Not his full patch, not Rooster, just a tiny little chicken, peeking out smugly like it lived there.
You stared at it. Then at him.
He raised his eyebrows. “What? I thought it was funny. And, you know... accurate. You may be a Sunbeam, but you’re my Sunbeam.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I will burn you alive.”
He smiled so bright it could’ve powered a damn aircraft carrier. “See? There’s that sunshine.”
You weren’t trying to make him jealous.
In fact, you weren’t trying to do anything beyond finishing your post-flight diagnostics and maybe, maybe, drink a bottle of water without someone appearing like a golden retriever with boundary issues. But Rooster had wandered off for a second—probably to go flirt with the vending machine or whatever it is he does when he disappears—and in that fleeting, blessed moment of quiet, Bob slid into the space beside you with a nod and a clipboard in hand.
“Your rudder inputs were clean,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact. “Flawless on descent. You clipped the throttle smoother than I’ve ever seen you do.”
You glanced up at him. “You were watching?”
Bob shrugged, faintly smiling. “You always fly tight. Makes it easy to watch. Hard to miss.”
It wasn’t a line. Bob didn’t do lines. He said it like it was a scientific observation. And maybe that’s why you let the corner of your mouth twitch upward, just for a second, before going back to your own list.
Bob tapped his pen against his thigh, hesitating a beat. “I was also wondering…” he began, voice low, “did you ever finish that book you brought on deployment? The one with the red cover. Looked like poetry.”
You blinked. No one ever asked about the books. Rooster always called them your “silent weapons” and then launched into his usual running bit about how your “resting murder face” should be studied by psychologists.
But Bob? Bob noticed the cover color.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Finished it last week. It was better than I expected. Kind of hurt, but in a good way.”
He nodded. “I like those kinds of stories. The ones that don’t try to heal you, just… sit with you in the dark for a while.”
That made you pause.
No one ever talked like that to you. At least, not without trying to attach a tracking device and propose marriage in the same breath.
“Yeah,” you said again, softer this time. “Exactly that.”
Bob smiled. Then, surprisingly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared paperback, holding it out like a peace offering. “This one’s like that. If you’re interested.”
You took it, carefully flipping through a few of the worn pages. The lines were underlined. Notes in the margins. A few faint coffee rings on the corner.
He read this. He lived in it.
Your fingers brushed the cover as you turned it over. “Thanks, Bob.”
That’s when you heard it.
The sound of a very specific, dramatic throat-clear. The kind that belonged to someone who absolutely could not stand being left out of a conversation for longer than two consecutive minutes.
“Wow,” Rooster said, standing behind you both with his arms crossed and his eyebrows fighting for dominance. “It’s, uh… real book club hours over here, huh?”
You didn’t turn around. “Go away, Bradley.”
“Funny,” he muttered, walking around to insert himself directly into your line of sight. “I leave for two seconds and suddenly Bob’s got you talking like you’re not legally required to ignore everyone on this base.”
“She talks to me all the time,” Bob said gently, still not picking up the battlefield tension radiating off Rooster.
“Oh I’m sure she does,” Rooster bit back, plastering on a grin that was two shades too bright. “Sharing books, huh? That’s cute. Real deep. Real emotional. I should’ve known it was the poetry that would finally crack her.”
You turned a page in Bob’s book. “It wasn't poetry. It was the silence.”
Rooster’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. Just a heartbeat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels like a sulking toddler denied dessert.
Bob, bless his soul, remained oblivious. “I just thought she might like it,” he offered. “It’s kind of slow-paced. Thoughtful.”
“Oh yeah?” Rooster said, voice climbing an octave. “That’s cool. I’ve got a book too. It’s a graphic novel. About a fighter jet that turns into a robot. Very thoughtful.”
You looked up slowly. “Are you… jealous of Bob?”
He gasped. “What? No! Jealous? Me? Of Bob? Pfft.”
Bob tilted his head. “You sound kind of jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re pouting,” you said plainly.
“I don’t pout.”
You stared at him. He pouted harder. It was like watching a Labrador lose a game of fetch to a cat.
There was a long silence. Rooster shifted again, clearly realizing this wasn’t going the way he planned.
“I brought you jerky,” he tried weakly, holding up a sad little plastic bag like it was a peace treaty. “Peppercorn. Your favorite.”
Bob blinked. “She doesn’t like peppercorn. She likes teriyaki.”
Rooster’s mouth dropped open like he’d just been stabbed.
You took the jerky without comment and handed it to Bob, who pocketed it politely.
Rooster stared at you. “Et tu, Sunbeam?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Stop using Latin. You don’t know what that means.”
“I know betrayal when I see it.”
You stood, tucking the book under your arm. “You gonna cry?”
Rooster opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, he opened it again.
Then, with the grace of a truly defeated man, he muttered, “Maybe a little.”
And as you walked away with Bob, calmly discussing character development and sentence structure, Bradley Bradshaw stood behind you like a kicked puppy, arms crossed, muttering to himself about how the real emotional literature was found in comic books.
The book was only the beginning.
After that day, Bob started showing up more. Not in a clingy, leech-on-your-soul kind of way. Just… consistently. Quietly. He had a rhythm to him, like good jazz. Never pushed. Never demanded. Just offered something—an observation, a book, a coffee—and let the silence hold space instead of filling it with noise.
You liked that. And Rooster hated it.
You and Bob sat together in the ready room during briefings now. It wasn’t a planned thing. You just always seemed to pick the same seats. And when you talked—God forbid—he listened. Actually listened. Rooster, three seats over, always looked like he was trying to solve calculus in his head. Eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching against his notepad, occasionally glancing over with the tragic longing of a romcom protagonist who’d just realized the girl next door was on a date with someone normal.
You caught him staring during debrief once. You didn’t say anything.
Bob noticed, though. Because of course he did.
“He okay?” he asked under his breath.
You didn’t look up from your checklist. “He’ll survive.”
“You sure?”
You shrugged. “He survived four years without me. He’ll manage four feet.”
Bob smiled faintly and passed you his pen when yours ran out of ink. You accepted it with a nod. Meanwhile, Rooster watched from across the room, gnawing on his highlighter like it had personally wronged him.
It only got worse from there.
You started spending breaks with Bob in the hangar’s quiet corner, the one where the breeze came through just enough to keep things cool, where the light slanted perfectly across the concrete and made everything feel a little less like a military base and a little more like… a place.
Bob brought crossword puzzles sometimes. Sometimes you filled them out together in companionable silence. Other times, you talked—about nothing important. Music. Stories. Flight technique. The exact point at which caffeine became counterproductive for mental clarity. Bob had theories.
One afternoon, you were halfway through filling in the word equilibrium when Rooster walked by with two coffees in hand and a bounce in his step that deflated immediately when he saw who you were sitting with.
“Oh,” he said loudly, pausing mid-stride. “You guys are here. Together. Again. That’s… great.��
You didn’t even look up.
Bob did, offering his usual warm little nod. “Hey, Bradley.”
“Bob,” Rooster said, voice tight as he dramatically sipped from one of the coffees. “Hey. You want one of these, Sunbeam? I brought options. Vanilla cold brew or, uh… hazelnut.”
“I already got her one,” Bob replied, lifting the cup next to you. “Plain black. No sugar.”
Rooster blinked. His whole world shattered in a single moment. “…She drinks it black?”
You finally glanced up. “Since college.”
“I—okay.” Rooster sat down on the bench beside you like he’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I’ve been putting cinnamon syrup in your drinks for years.”
“I’ve been pouring them out for years,” you replied evenly.
Bob choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough. Rooster looked devastated.
“You could’ve said something.”
“You don’t listen.”
“Yes I do!”
You leveled him with a look. “What’s my favorite author?”
“Uhhh…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bob in betrayal. “Okay, that’s not fair, he’s a librarian in human form—”
“He’s a WSO.”
“And a book nerd. You’re emotionally cheating on me.”
“I was never emotionally dating you.”
“You’re emotionally something-ing me.”
You ignored him and went back to the crossword. Bob leaned closer, scanning the half-filled boxes.
“‘Eight-letter word for a balanced state of opposing forces,’” he murmured. “You already nailed it.”
“Equilibrium,” you said at the same time, writing the last few letters in.
Rooster slumped. “You guys even finish each other’s crosswords now?”
You didn’t answer. Bob smiled.
Rooster pouted so hard he could’ve powered a wind turbine off the force of his sigh.
“Fine,” he said, dragging himself up off the bench like gravity had it out for him personally. “I’ll just… go polish my plane alone. Like a sad, betrayed, caffeinated man.”
“Bye,” you said without inflection.
He paused mid-walk.
“…Love you too.”
Bradley was glaring.
Not just watching. Not idly observing or casually monitoring or curiously glancing.
No. He was full-on, arms-crossed, mouth-twisted, jaw-tight glare mode, posted up at the end of the Hard Deck bar like a tragic movie villain who’d been double-crossed by love and was now plotting world domination… or, at the very least, someone’s mild emotional inconvenience.
Because there you were. Again. With Bob.
Sitting in a corner booth with those damn low lights softening your edges, like the universe was putting a spotlight on how not miserable you looked without him. You were leaning in slightly, listening to Bob say something—something no doubt devastatingly intelligent and weirdly charming in that quiet way Bob had—and then, you laughed.
Bradley’s stomach sank like an aircraft carrier hitting a minefield.
“She’s laughing,” he muttered into his beer.
“She’s allowed to laugh,” Phoenix said beside him, not looking up from her pool cue.
“Yeah, but not like that.” He gestured vaguely, eyes locked on the way your shoulders shook with amusement. “That’s her real laugh. The one with the nose scrunch. I haven’t seen that laugh in weeks.”
Coyote leaned in on the other side, nursing his drink. “Dude. They’re just talking.”
“They’re bonding.”
“They’ve been bonding for months,” Fanboy added from across the table. “We all see it. You’re the only one acting like it’s a crime.”
Bradley groaned and thunked his forehead against the bar. “Why Bob, though? I mean, Bob? I’ve been trying to get her to laugh for like a decade and all it took was one poetry book and a crossword?”
“Bob listens,” Phoenix said.
“I listen!”
“No, you monologue,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”
He sat up, eyes wide. “Are you saying I talk too much?!”
Everyone just looked at him.
He deflated. “Okay, fine, yes, I know. I get excited. I have thoughts. And feelings. And deep emotional convictions about her, alright?! Is that a crime?”
“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawled as he approached with his beer, “I say this with love. You look like a golden retriever who just watched their owner adopt a cat.”
“I’m gonna throw up,” Bradley muttered, dramatically dropping his head into his hands. “She hates me now. I ruined it. I should’ve played it cool, should’ve just been normal, but noooo, I had to follow her around like a lost duckling for the past ten years, and now she’s emotionally defected to Bob.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Bob said calmly, appearing out of nowhere with an empty glass in hand.
Bradley shrieked. “JESUS CHRIST—how long were you standing there?!”
“Long enough,” Bob said, unfazed, as he slid the glass onto the bar and nodded politely at Penny.
Everyone stared.
“Where’s—where’s she?” Bradley asked, panic rising in his voice like a kettle about to blow.
“She went to the jukebox.”
Bradley practically jumped off the barstool. “She likes music.”
Bob nodded. “Yes. Most people do.”
“I could’ve picked her song,” Bradley said, borderline hysterical. “I have playlists. Playlists, Bob. For her. One’s called ‘Sunbeam Vibes’. It’s acoustic. It has themes.”
“That’s… a lot,” Bob offered carefully.
Bradley slumped back down, burying his face into his crossed arms. “She’s never gonna choose me,” he said, voice muffled. “Not like this. I’m just a background character in the Bob Show now.”
Phoenix patted him on the back. “You’re not a background character.”
“Really?” he sniffled.
“No. You’re like… the comic relief that accidentally makes people cry near the end.”
“I don’t want to be the comic relief! I want to be her main character!”
“You’re pouting,” Bob observed gently.
“I know!” Bradley groaned. “I hate it! But I miss her and she’s right there and she looks so happy without me and she laughed at your joke, which isn’t fair because I’m the funny one.”
“She didn’t laugh at my joke,” Bob said softly. “She laughed at yours.”
Bradley’s head snapped up. “What?”
“I just reminded her of something you said during a mission years ago,” Bob replied, casual, kind. “The one where you told the tower that ‘Sunbeam’s got it handled and I’m just here for moral support.’ She remembered it. Thought it was cute.”
The whole squad went quiet.
Bradley blinked. “She remembered that?”
“She remembers a lot more than you think.”
And then Bob turned, grabbed his refill from Penny, and headed back toward you—no rush, no smugness, just that Bob energy. Steady. Present. Unshakable.
Bradley watched him go. Watched you look up as Bob slid back into the booth. Watched the small smile you gave him. It wasn’t the one you gave Bradley, no—but it was real. It was warm.
He sighed and let his forehead fall back to the bar. “God,” he whispered. “I should’ve been quieter.”
Phoenix handed him a napkin. “You still can be.”
He stared at it. “It’s too late. She’s in Bob’s book club now. I don’t even know how to read emotions, let alone poetry. I’m a golden retriever in a library.”
“No,” Coyote said, finally breaking into a grin. “You’re a rooster in love.”
And for the first time that night, Bradley didn’t argue.
He just sighed.
And pouted.
And whispered, “Do you think she still wears that hoodie I gave her back in college? The one with the chicken on it?”
“Absolutely not,” Phoenix said. “Burned it.”
Bradley groaned again. But then—barely, faintly—he heard your laugh ring out again from across the bar. And he smiled. Just a little. Even if it hurts.
Rooster woke up that morning with a feeling.
Not a bad one. Not a gut-clenching we’re-about-to-fly-into-a-hurricane kind of feeling. More like a warm, fluttery, I’m-about-to-see-my-person-and-remind-them-we’re-destined kind of feeling. He even did his hair extra nice. Perfect swoop. Subtle cologne. Crisp undershirt. His callsign patch had been ironed the night before.
Because today? Today was training flights.
And historically—historically—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had always been paired with you.
It was a known fact. A sacred tradition. A celestial bond. Sunbeam and Rooster: light and feathers. Grit and chaos. Sugar and salt. He talked, you blinked. It worked. The whole damn Navy knew it.
So when Maverick started calling out the pairings for the day, Rooster stood tall with all the pride of a man seconds away from hearing his name next to yours.
“Sunbeam,” Mav said, scanning the list.
Bradley straightened his back. Smiled.
“You’re with Hangman.”
Rooster’s face broke.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Tilted his head slightly like maybe his ears malfunctioned. “Excuse me?” he squeaked.
Hangman, already walking toward you, shot Rooster a wink over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, partner.”
You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at Rooster. You just nodded, grabbed your helmet, and walked toward your temporary jet like this wasn’t the biggest betrayal since Brutus took a dagger to Caesar’s spine.
Rooster stood frozen. Still waiting. Still hoping. Still trying to comprehend what parallel universe he had just been dropped into.
“Rooster,” Mav said.
“Yes, sir,” he replied tightly.
“You’re with Coyote.”
Bradley nodded. Then turned directly into a wall.
Not on purpose. He just… misjudged. That’s how scrambled he was. That’s how personally wounded he felt. He ricocheted off the wall with a muttered “I’m fine,” and stomped after Coyote like a sulky six-year-old being told he couldn’t sit next to his crush on the bus.
The flight was fine.
Which is to say, it was technically successful, but Rooster flew like a man emotionally concussed. Missed a cue. Forgot to say “copy” once. Got called out by Mav for radio silence.
And the whole time, you and Hangman were in the sky above him, probably outmaneuvering clouds and swapping war stories like a functional pair of professionals. Disgusting.
Back on the ground, Bradley ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the bench like it had personally orchestrated his heartbreak.
“Everything okay?” Coyote asked carefully.
Rooster slumped down, legs splayed, arms limp at his sides. “She didn’t even look at me.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Coyote blinked. “You mean your flight partner for life who was assigned someone else for literally one session?”
“It’s the principle,” Rooster said, voice raw with indignation. “We have history. We’ve got muscle memory. Telepathy. I look left—she’s already flying formation. I tap the stick—she knows I want to be evasive. I say ‘Hey, I saw this cool vinyl shop last week,’ she says nothing, but she hears me.”
Coyote snorted. “You need a nap.”
“I need her,” Rooster muttered, head falling back against the wall. “I need her flying with me. Not Jake ‘I-do-barrel-rolls-for-attention’ Seresin.”
Hangman chose that exact moment to stroll in, still in flight gear, grinning like a cat who just got adopted by a lactose-intolerant mouse.
“Gotta say,” Jake drawled, “Sunbeam? Hell of a wingwoman. Smooth, precise, unshakable. No unnecessary chatter. Dream partner.”
Rooster’s eye twitched.
Jake leaned in a little closer. “She even said my turns were ‘efficient.’ I almost cried.”
Bradley stood so fast the bench screeched. “She complimented you?”
“I mean,” Jake shrugged, “she didn’t say much, but I felt it. Like… spiritually.”
Rooster made a noise somewhere between a growl and a wounded gasp. “She’s never complimented me. Not once.”
“That’s because you never shut up long enough to earn one,” Phoenix called from the other end of the locker room.
“I’m expressive!” Rooster snapped.
“You’re emotionally codependent,” she said. “And clingy.”
“Sunbeam doesn’t mind.”
“She paired with Hangman without blinking.”
Rooster looked like someone had just stolen the sun.
“…You think she’s tired of me?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Like, actually tired?”
Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Like, hypothetically?”
“No. Like, in reality. What if… what if all this time I’ve been this loud, flappy goose honking around her while she’s just quietly praying for Bob or Hangman or literally anyone else?”
No one answered. Which only made the silence worse.
Rooster slumped again, defeated. “I peaked in college. I was the golden retriever who imprinted on a stray cat, and she’s been tolerating me like a recurring allergic reaction ever since.”
Hangman patted his shoulder. “That’s the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m gonna change,” Rooster whispered.
Phoenix raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”
“I’m gonna stop talking.”
“…For how long?”
“Forever.”
“You won’t make it twenty minutes.”
“I will if it means she misses me,” he said dramatically. “I’m gonna be mysterious. Brooding. Emotionally distant. Like Bob, but with better sunglasses.”
They all stared.
“Watch,” Rooster said, dragging a hand down his face. “Next time she walks into the room, I won’t even look up.”
He turned and faced the wall. Silence.
And then the door creaked open, you walked in.
The room went still.
Rooster clenched his jaw. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
You walked right past him, looked at Coyote, and said, “Hey. You left your notes on the runway.”
Then, walked out.
Coyote blinked. “Thanks.”
Bradley slowly turned back to the group, face pale. “She didn’t even see me.”
“She did,” Bob said from behind a locker door. “She just didn’t acknowledge you.”
Rooster whimpered.
Bradley was dying.
Not physically. No, he was in perfect health. Heart rate steady. Vitals fine.
Emotionally? Spiritually? Existentially?
Gone. Absolutely obliterated.
Because you—his Sunbeam, his ride-or-die, his emotional support stoic—were laughing.
With Jake Seresin. In public. In the middle of base. In broad daylight with witnesses and everything.
Bradley was crouched behind a Humvee, sunglasses askew, clutching a protein bar he no longer had the will to eat.
“What the hell are they even talking about?” he whispered to Bob, who had unfortunately been dragged into this surveillance operation against his will.
Bob squinted from behind his own sunglasses, arms crossed. “It looks like Hangman’s telling her a story.”
“A story? What kind of story?”
“I don’t know, man. A funny one?”
Bradley squinted harder. You were leaning against the fence, arms crossed, lips twitching as Jake animatedly gestured like he was reenacting a high-speed maneuver. You said something. Jake barked out a laugh. And then—
You smiled. A real one.
Not the forced, strained kind you gave Rooster when he followed you around quoting Top Gun lines in his best impression of “charm.” No—this was casual. Comfortable.
Like you enjoyed him. Bradley felt like he was going to throw up.
“I have to stop this,” he muttered, standing abruptly.
Bob caught his arm. “What are you gonna do? Run over there and declare your eternal love? In front of Hangman?”
Bradley flinched. “No. I was just… gonna say hi. Casually. Like a guy who also exists in this general area.”
Bob didn’t let go. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“I always sweat when I’m emotionally compromised!”
Bob sighed. “Bradley. Look. Maybe she’s just… being friendly.”
“Sunbeam doesn’t do friendly,” he hissed. “She does annoyed. And cold. And occasionally concerned when someone’s bleeding.”
“She was friendly with me.”
“That’s because you speak in whispers and smell like libraries!”
Bob blinked. “Thanks?”
Bradley ran a hand down his face and peeked again.
You were sitting now.
You were sitting with Hangman. Oh no.
Oh no.
Hangman said something else—probably something stupid and Texan—and you laughed. Not the nose-scrunch one, but a shoulder-shaking one.
Bradley staggered back like he’d been shot.
“She’s falling in love with him,” he whispered, clutching his chest. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna be replaced by a man who wears cologne to flight training.”
Bob patted his shoulder. “She’s not falling in love with anyone. She probably just likes his stupid story.”
“What story could he possibly tell that’s better than the one where I saved her from a malfunctioning cockpit door and got a concussion?!”
“You also threw up on her boots that day.”
“That was months later! She knows that!”
Bob just gave him a look.
Bradley crumbled.
That night at the Hard Deck, Rooster didn’t sit with the squad.
He sat at the bar. Alone. Nursing a whiskey he didn’t even want, sulking like a man who just watched the love of his life be wooed by the human embodiment of a country song.
The worst part? You weren’t even doing it on purpose.
You weren’t leaning into Jake’s side. You weren’t flipping your hair or batting your lashes. No, you were just… listening. Occasionally giving him a rare smile. Saying a word here and there. Just existing.
And somehow that was worse. Because you never looked like that around him.
“Alright,” Hangman said, sliding up beside Bradley with that damn smug grin, “I gotta ask. You good?”
Rooster didn’t look at him. “Peachy.”
“Uh huh.” Jake signaled for a beer. “You’ve been glowering at me like a cartoon villain for the past hour.”
“I’m not glowering.”
“You look like you’re about to monologue about revenge.”
Bradley exhaled sharply. “What do you want, Seresin?”
Jake leaned on the bar. “Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna, like, spontaneously combust. You’ve been watching her like a wounded Victorian husband whose wife dared to laugh at another man’s joke.”
Rooster side-eyed him. “So you are trying to steal her.”
Jake blinked. Then laughed. “What? No. Dude, I like her. Sure. She’s cool. Scary in that ‘emotionally unavailable assassin’ kind of way. But I’m not you.”
Bradley frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jake sipped his beer. “I mean you’re the one who knows what her favorite coffee is. You’re the one who follows her around like a love-sick puppy. And you’re the only person who’s ever made her roll her eyes and almost smile at the same time.”
Rooster blinked.
Jake leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. “She talks about you, you know.”
“What?” Bradley nearly dropped his glass.
“Nothing crazy. But she does. Usually when you’re not around. Usually like…” Jake shrugged. “Like she’s trying not to admit she misses you.”
Rooster stared at him, stunned.
Jake shrugged. “Anyway. Keep pouting if it helps. Just don’t let her walk away before you say something that matters.”
And then he was gone.
Later that night, Bradley sat alone outside the bar, legs stretched out, staring up at the stars.
He could still hear your laugh in his head. Still see the way you looked at Jake—open, relaxed, soft.
And for the first time, he wondered:
Maybe you weren’t drifting toward Jake.
Maybe you were just drifting away from him.
And if he didn’t speak soon—really speak—you might never drift back.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and whispered to the night:
“Please. Don’t pick him. Don’t pick anyone.”
And somewhere inside, he swore he heard your voice say:
Then stop waiting.
The next day, Rooster came back swinging.
Spirit fully revived, delusion fully reloaded.
Last night’s brooding on the patio? Over. Jake’s unsettling pep talk? Filed away for later trauma processing. This morning, he had a plan. A brilliant, foolproof, emotionally catastrophic plan:
Be normal.
Totally, perfectly normal.
Which for Rooster meant... being louder than ever.
So when you walked into the hangar, head down, clipboard in hand, face set to “resting war criminal,” Rooster popped up from literally nowhere with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever high on espresso.
“Hey, Sunbeam!” he called, jogging toward you like an idiot in aviators. “You’re five minutes early. I knew you were gonna be early. That’s so you. You’re always—y’know—early. Punctual. Military. Classic.”
You didn’t stop walking.
He kept pace beside you anyway.
“Anyway,” he continued, completely undeterred by your silence, “I was thinking, right, since we’ve got a break after drills today, we should go get food. You like food. I know you like food. Everybody likes food. Unless... do you not eat? Wait. Are you secretly a cryptid?”
You stopped.
Looked at him.
Expression flat. Voice monotone.
“Bradley. What do you want.”
His entire soul did a backflip at the sound of his name in your voice, even though you said it like it physically pained you to do so.
“I just—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Like old times.”
“No.”
“Okay—cool—no’s valid,” he stammered. “But like, is it a no because you’re busy? Or a no because you’re emotionally allergic to me now? Because I can change—”
You blinked at him once. Twice. Then turned and walked away again.
He stood there.
Alone. Rejected. Spiraling.
“Okay,” Rooster announced to the squad at lunch, dramatically throwing his tray onto the table. “I am officially a burden.”
“No arguments here,” Hangman muttered, not even looking up from his sandwich.
“I’m trying, okay?” Rooster ranted, collapsing into his seat. “I’m being sweet. I’m showing up. I’m not even being clingy anymore—I gave her space. You saw it. I gave her like ten feet this morning.”
Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “And then immediately trailed her down the tarmac talking about cryptids and food.”
“I’m making conversation!”
“You’re monologuing again,” Bob said gently, sipping his water.
“She’s just—she’s so cold now,” Rooster whined, voice going full tragic lead in a sad rom-com. “She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t snark. She doesn’t even threaten to punch me anymore. I miss when she wanted to punch me. At least then I knew she felt something.”
Hangman rolled his eyes. “Maybe she’s just over it.”
Rooster looked like he’d been physically stabbed.
“Over it?” he choked. “She can’t be over it. We had a thing. A vibe. A deeply spiritual dynamic.”
“You mean the one where you followed her around for a decade and she occasionally acknowledged your existence?” Phoenix asked.
“Exactly! That one!”
Bob cleared his throat. “Maybe you just overwhelmed her.”
“I underwhelmed her,” Rooster moaned, banging his head gently against the table. “I took her for granted. And now she’s bonding with Hangman and laughing at his jokes and probably thinks I’m just some loud idiot who peaked emotionally in 2016.”
“I mean,” Hangman started.
“Not helping,” Phoenix cut in.
Rooster slumped. “I’m losing her.”
“You never had her,” Hangman said, then paused. “Wait. Is that why you asked Mav to reassign flight pairs?”
Everyone turned.
Rooster blinked. “I—what?”
Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “You asked Mav to pair you with her again.”
Rooster went red. “I—I didn’t—technically—”
“Oh my God,” Fanboy laughed. “You’re insane.”
“She flies better with me!” Rooster cried. “We have synergy! We have unspoken communication! And I missed her laugh! And her annoyed glare! And the way she corrects my jargon mid-flight like it’s a personal offense to naval protocol!”
“You need therapy,” Bob said calmly.
“I need her back,” Rooster replied, despondent. “She’s my Sunbeam.”
“And yet you treat her like she’s a houseplant you can scream compliments at until she grows toward you,” Phoenix deadpanned.
Rooster opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.
Back in the hangar, you were reviewing mission parameters on your tablet when the clomp-clomp of heavy boots approached again.
You didn’t even look up.
“Don’t.”
“I just—”
“No.”
“But—”
You lifted your eyes slowly. Your glare could’ve frozen the sun.
Rooster flinched. “You’re really not vibing with me right now, huh?”
“Nope.”
He ran a hand down his face. “Is it the talking?”
“Yes.”
“Is it the constant attempts to insert myself into your personal schedule?”
“Also yes.”
“Is it—”
“Bradley.”
He froze.
You lowered your voice, calm, sharp, quiet like a blade in the dark. “You talk too much. You try too hard. You act like we’re still in college. I’ve changed. You haven’t. And whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”
The words hit like a missile strike.
He actually staggered back a little.
You didn’t flinch.
Didn’t apologize.
Just turned back to your tablet like it didn’t cost you anything to say it.
But it cost him everything.
And for the first time in forever, Rooster Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.
Rooster was lying on top of his plane.
Face to the sky, arms folded beneath his head, boots crossed like he was sunbathing on a yacht instead of brooding on cold metal in the middle of an aircraft hangar.
He hadn’t moved in over an hour.
No music. No phone. Just him, his self-loathing, and the sound of other people moving on with their lives without him.
He’d tried everything. The casual good-morning chats. The coffee deliveries. The dramatic Hard Deck monologues. The tragic, emotionally vulnerable pout.
And still—you treated him like he was background noise.
No, correction: you treated him like static.
And worst of all?
You were right to.
Because somewhere between college and now, Rooster had convinced himself that just being there for you was enough. That his love was this constant, obvious thing. That you’d just know.
But you didn’t want someone who hovered. You wanted someone who saw you.
And Bradley had been too busy chasing your orbit to realize he never learned your language.
He exhaled loudly.
“This is pathetic,” he muttered.
“I’ve seen worse,” a voice said below.
He flinched. Propped himself up. Squinted into the sun.
Maverick stood at the base of the ladder, aviators on, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“Oh,” Bradley groaned, flopping back down. “Great. A pep talk. Just what I need.”
“Not a pep talk,” Mav said, starting to climb. “More of a… course correction.”
Rooster didn’t respond.
Maverick climbed up and sat beside him, swinging one leg over the wing.
They were quiet for a minute. Just metal, and heat, and that heavy silence between two men too stubborn to say what they actually felt.
Finally, Maverick spoke.
“So,” he said slowly. “She shut you down.”
“Like a government program with bad press,” Rooster mumbled.
Maverick huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Heard about that.”
“Of course you did. Everyone knows. I’ve been publicly humiliated at least three times this week. She barely looks at me, Mav. She talks to Jake now.”
Mav raised a brow. “You mean the same Jake she once threatened to kill mid-flight?”
“People change.”
“So do relationships.”
Rooster sighed. “Yeah. She changed. She’s... not the girl I knew.”
“No,” Maverick said. “She’s the woman you didn’t bother to get to know.”
Rooster sat up sharply. “Excuse me?”
Mav turned toward him, calm but firm. “Bradley. You’ve been so wrapped up in chasing her that you didn’t stop to see her. You think you’re in love with who she was ten years ago. Are you even paying attention to who she is now?”
“I—of course I am—” he started, then paused. “…I mean. Kinda.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Rooster’s jaw tensed. “She was my best friend.”
“Was,” Mav echoed. “You want her back? Stop being the version of yourself that needed her in college. Be the version she might respect now.”
Bradley looked away, throat tight. “She said I haven’t changed.”
“Have you?”
That one hit like a punch.
Because no—he hadn’t. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.
He still talked too much. Still covered fear with jokes. Still loved loudly and clumsily and expected the people he loved to just get it.
But you were calm. Quiet. Sharp. You didn’t need a cheerleader.
You needed a partner.
“I just thought,” he said finally, voice quieter, “that being there for her all these years would be enough.”
Maverick’s voice softened. “Being there isn’t the same as being with someone. She’s not a planet you orbit, Bradshaw. She’s not gravity. She’s a pilot. You want to be in formation? Match her altitude.”
Rooster blinked, stunned. “That was... almost poetic.”
“I’ve had therapy.”
Bradley barked a broken laugh and stared up at the sky again. “It hurts.”
“Yeah. It does.”
“What if I already lost her?”
Mav was quiet for a second. Then said, “Then stop losing yourself too.”
Later that day, Rooster sat on the hood of his truck in the back lot, chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing.
He wasn’t gonna follow you.
Not this time.
He wasn’t gonna corner you with twenty questions or drop some poorly disguised compliment bomb or ask if you wanted to “vibe.”
He was gonna sit there, for once, in silence.
And hope that maybe—just maybe—you’d notice the absence.
That maybe you’d feel the space where he used to be.
Because if Maverick was right—and damn it, he probably was—then it wasn’t about chasing you anymore.
It was about showing up right.
Being still.
And waiting to see if you ever looked back.
It started with the coffee.
Bradley always brought two.
One for himself—black, hot, usually with a dumb doodle Sharpied onto the cup. And one for you—how you liked it, never wrong, always on time.
You never asked him to bring it.
He just... did.
But one morning, it wasn’t there.
Your locker bench was empty. No cup. No sticky note with a sun drawn on it. No annoying rooster-shaped heart beside it.
Just the sterile scent of detergent and jet fuel and silence.
You didn’t say anything. Not out loud.
But it was the first thing you noticed.
The squad noticed, too.
Not right away. At first, it felt like peace. Like a blessing.
No Rooster singing “Highway to the Danger Zone” at full volume in the locker room. No long-winded stories about gas station burritos and near-death dogfights. No sunflower metaphors or rants about vintage vinyl.
The silence was strange.
Nice, maybe. For a day.
But then it kept going.
“Okay,” Phoenix said flatly, hands on her hips. “Who killed Rooster?”
They were all sitting around the Hard Deck’s usual corner table, and Bradley was nowhere to be seen.
Coyote raised a brow. “He said he was gonna skip tonight.”
“Skip?” Fanboy echoed. “Since when does he skip?”
“He’s probably tired,” Bob offered gently.
“He’s always tired,” Phoenix snapped. “He still shows up. He shows up with jokes and weird trivia and unsolicited karaoke. He’s Rooster. He doesn’t just... go quiet.”
Hangman leaned back in his chair, swirling his beer. “Maybe someone finally broke the golden retriever.”
Everyone looked at you.
You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
Just took a sip of your drink and kept looking out at the water like their suspicions didn’t hang in the air like jet exhaust.
The next day, Bradley flew like a ghost.
Sharp. Efficient. Silent.
He didn’t crack a joke over comms. Didn’t comment on your turns. Didn’t say “Nice flying, Sunbeam,” when you touched down on the tarmac.
He just parked his bird and walked past you without so much as a glance.
And still—you didn’t say a word.
“Okay, seriously,” Phoenix hissed, cornering you in the locker room later. “What the hell is going on with Bradshaw?”
You shrugged, pulling off your gloves. “I don’t know. Ask him.”
“I did. He just gave me a polite nod and walked away like we’re strangers at a dinner party.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like it!” she snapped. “It’s creepy. It’s not normal. He’s not normal. He’s not supposed to be—mellow. I saw him reading alone yesterday.”
“He reads.”
“He was reading in silence. Like a divorced English professor. And he didn’t even look up when I passed!”
You sighed. “Maybe he’s just growing up.”
Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “No. This is something else.”
You didn’t reply.
At briefing the next morning, Bradley sat at the far end of the table. Not beside you. Not diagonally where he could pass you dumb sketches. He didn’t look over. Didn’t make a single sound.
When Mav called for flight assignments, Bradley just nodded and took his orders with no protest, no rerouting, no desperate plea to be paired with you.
And when you turned your head—just a little—expecting to catch his eye, maybe out of habit—
He was already looking away.
“Dude’s in withdrawal,” Hangman said later, not even trying to whisper. “You see him? He’s like a sad country song in a flight suit.”
Bob glanced at you. “He hasn’t smiled in three days.”
“He hasn’t talked to me in three days,” Phoenix added, insulted.
“Do you think he’s broken?” Fanboy asked.
“Or maybe he’s just... tired,” Coyote offered gently. “Y’know. Of trying.”
The silence that followed was a little too loud.
You stood. Walked out. Didn’t say a word.
That night at the Hard Deck, Bradley showed up late.
Alone. Quiet.
He didn’t go to the jukebox. Didn’t talk to Penny. Didn’t find the squad.
He just sat at the bar, ordered a water, and sipped it slowly, like it tasted the same as every regret he hadn’t said out loud.
Phoenix watched him from across the room, arms crossed. “This is weird.”
“He looks like someone stole his dog,” Fanboy said.
“He looks like someone stole his person,” Coyote corrected softly.
Hangman leaned back in his chair. “I give it a week. Tops. Then he either snaps or confesses or flies straight into the sun.”
They all looked at you.
Again.
You said nothing.
But for the first time in a long time, you glanced toward the bar.
And you saw him there.
Still.
Quiet.
Distant.
And for some strange reason, it didn’t feel like peace anymore.
It felt like something you didn’t know how to name.
You didn’t notice it at first.
Not really.
Because silence had always been your armor. Your shield. Your sanctuary. You were good at ignoring things. Better at pretending you didn’t notice them. A masterclass in indifference. Eyes forward. Orders clear. Emotions compartmentalized into labeled folders, each locked tight and shoved to the back of your mind.
So when Rooster stopped talking to you, it was easy to keep your face neutral.
No change. No flicker.
Easy.
Except—
It wasn’t.
Not for long.
Because silence wasn’t supposed to be his thing.
It crept in like a shadow, slow and subtle, soft at first—like background music fading into white noise. But over time, the quiet grew teeth. It sat beside you during briefings. It hung in the air during flights. It clung to your skin like sweat in the summer, thick and uncomfortable and hard to wipe off.
And you started to miss him.
Not that you’d ever say it out loud.
God, no.
You still remembered what you told him. The sharpness in your voice. The finality in your words. “Whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”
And he had.
He’d let go.
So cleanly, so completely, it stunned you.
No last-ditch effort. No arguments. No begging for one more chance.
Just—absence.
At first, it was peaceful.
You could move through hallways without hearing your name echo off the walls. You could sit through debriefings without a hand-drawn sunbeam doodle sliding toward you on a napkin. You could drink your coffee without seeing another cup next to yours, steaming and silent.
You told yourself you liked it.
You told yourself this was what you wanted.
But then—
Then the questions started.
Subtle things. Quiet realizations.
Like: when did the hangar start feeling so empty, even when it was full?
Why did your coffee taste blander, like something was missing, even though the recipe hadn’t changed?
When did the air feel heavier?
When did you start missing the sound of your name said in that stupid, smug, affectionate tone of his?
Sunbeam.
God, that nickname used to annoy you. Made you feel too bright. Too soft. Like he saw something in you you didn’t believe existed.
Now, no one said it.
And the silence in its place was unbearable.
You didn’t admit it at first.
Not when he walked past you without a glance.
Not when you caught him on the runway, talking quietly to Bob—quietly, not performing, not grinning, not telling stories—just nodding, listening.
Not when he sat across the room at the Hard Deck, not even bothering to try for your attention anymore.
It hit worst during flight drills.
You were paired with Hangman again. He was efficient. Skilled. He never overstepped.
But it wasn’t the same.
There was no rhythm. No instinctive trust. No push and pull that kept your pulse alive. No corny commentary over the comms. No soft-spoken “you good?” after a sharp turn. No whisper of “nice flying” when your boots hit the ground.
Just Hangman.
Just silence.
And the empty echo of someone who used to be in sync with you without even trying.
#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley rooster bradshaw#miles teller#top gun maverick#top gun fandom#jake seresin#bob floyd#natasha trace#phoenix#avengxrz#pete maverick mitchell#glen powell
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MILES TELLER The Gorge (2025)
#miles teller#the gorge#milestelleredit#mtelleredit#thegorgeedit#filmedit#scifiedit#dailyflicks#flawlessgentlemen#usermichi#userdaniel#*#gif#constance
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"I love this song!"
TOP GUN: MAVERICK (2022) | dir. Joseph Kosinski
#timthatcher#bradley bradshaw#jake seresin#sereshaw#top gun: maverick#miles teller#glen powell#mtelleredit#gpowelledit#top gun maverick#dailyflicks#fyeahmovies#tgmedit#filmedit#filmgifs#movie gifs#*#*tg:m#*gif#*kri's h(yperfixation)ot girl summer
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TOP GUN: MAVERICK | 2022
#top gun maverick#top gun#topgunedit#filmedit#miles teller#bradley bradshaw#monica barbaro#natasha trace#filmtvtoday#dailyflicks#filmgifs#fyeahmovies#userfilm#cinematv#usermovies#by yolanda#ours
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Alright Top Gun fans its time for a talk.
Since Top Gun 3 has been confirmed I've been seeing a lot of running theories and fun conversation about what will happen and who will be coming back.
It has been good and light heartedly, even with some angst, but I've been seeing a trend recently. Tom Cruise, Glen Powell, and Miles Teller are confirmed to come back and I am seeing a lot of people saying that Glen Powell shouldn't be there, especially since his character wasn't skilled enough to be on choosen for the mission.
Like wtf! Not okay my guys. Top Gun has been a pretty peaceful Fandom but this isn't okay, and its extremely unfair to Glen Powell.
#top gun fandom#top gun fanfiction#top gun 1986#top gun maverick#top gun 3#pete maverick mitchell#bradley rooster bradshaw#jake hangman seresin#tom cruise#miles teller#glen powell
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Omg!! Like obvs they’re deeming him MIA and probably dead eventually, but is he actually or is he Mav doin mav things 😭
Ashes, Ashes | 0.3 | Bradley Bradshaw
previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist
Synopsis: In which Maverick didn’t make it home after the Uranium mission. He’s missing, presumed dead. There are things that have to be done — someone has to take care of the house, the bills.
So, Maverick’s daughter is back in Fightertown for the first time since she was in elementary school. There’s a gaping hole in both of their lives now, and somehow, the world’s supposed to just keep on turning without him.
warnings: bradley bradshaw x minimally descriptive oc avery mitchell. age gap (23/33), smut, angst, hurt / comfort, mentions of character death, mourning, military inaccuracies. This entire fic and my blog is an 18+ space, minors do not interact. Do not repost.
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“Look, it’s the handling, the engine and the exhaust — it’ll cost more to fix this pile of crap than it’s worth. Impound it and get yourself something worth running, sweetheart.”
That was the conversation that had kick-started Avery’s extended stay at Bradley Bradshaw’s house.
Bradley had rolled his eyes, and stepped in, but he had walked away from the shop agreeing with the mechanic. It wasn’t about the money, or the condescending tone the mechanic had used; he just knew that the second these particular problems were fixed, another one would pop up.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” He had explained, nodding his head as he breezed along the coastal route. It’s like the 70s follow him where he goes, thrumming through the speakers and apparent in the grainy Polaroid tucked into his sun visor, observable also in his vintage Ray-Bans. “I’ll drive you around for a couple more days, and we’ll find you something to drive.”
Her style isn’t so historic. Wind swept through her blow-dried hair, her lips glossed and her t-shirt bearing sight of a band older than herself. She picked at the soft, spring shade of varnish on her nails. Practically squirming in her seat as he laid out the plan, helpless to do anything but nod.
Of course, she was grateful for the notion of this guy being so willing to put himself at an inconvenience just so that she would be able to get around. Taking a handout from a practical stranger just isn’t something that comes so easily.
She was really only expecting the car issue to take a few days. So, two and a half weeks later, she’s a little disgruntled to be still waking up in Bradley’s spare bedroom.
Formerly his home gym, there’s still a weight rack in the corner, a closet full of clutter, rubber flooring mats and a big workout bench that’s now squashed against the far wall — but there’s a futon in there too that makes a halfway decent bed.
It’s better than being at Maverick’s.
She has learned by now that he gets up early and works out in the backyard, sometimes going for a run down by the bay, makes himself — and often her — breakfast, and then claims the bathroom for an hour.
It’s his bathroom, so she can’t exactly complain, but she has started to wonder exactly what it is that he gets up to in there for so long.
Her routine looks a little different to his. Her shifts at the Hard Deck are tiring, and she often finishes late. For any finishes after 2am, Penny has been nice enough to send her home in a cab. Anything earlier than that, Bradley’s waiting in the parking lot or over by the pool table with his friends.
This particular morning, she wakes up later than usual, and the shower is already running.
The distractions help. The late nights help. The person sleeping across the hall helps. But, Bradley can’t shake his bad dreams. The same sea-sick feeling that sweeps him every single morning, the suffocating feeling of waking up sticky with sweat and tangled between sheets. Avery hasn’t noticed yet that he has washed his sheets five times in two weeks, like that’ll help.
Cold numbs his toes and stings at his sore, tense shoulders. The pouring water spills over his skin, prickling like pins with each droplet. The bathroom light has been off the whole time; that helps with the headaches.
Sitting on the floor of his shower has become a tortuous part of his morning routine lately. Sitting until his fingertips wrinkle and his skin starts to lose its flush. Until the cold shocks his system into operating normally again, maybe.
He likes having her around. It makes it easier to pick himself up and get out of the shower, knowing that she’ll worry. He doesn’t doubt that she cares for him — she’s a sweet girl, and he knows that in other circumstances, they would have been great friends. He’d like to be friends now, but he understands her reservations.
The second that this is all over, she’ll run home and she’ll never want to think about Mav again.
Bradley isn’t so sure what’ll give him reason to get out of the shower once she’s gone.
He wishes that he knew what happened between them. He wishes Mav had talked about her more — though, Bradley had been thrown head first into his pre-teens back then, and probably wouldn’t have listened. He doesn’t know anything about why she calls her dad by his first name, or why he let her drive that piece of shit car, or why she stopped visiting all those years ago.
Thinking about Avery, and the things left to settle, is what drags him out of his morning fog. Keeping her going stops him from thinking of his memories of that day.
She has to be at work today at noon. She’s fitting in well over there, and the other staff are great with her. Bradley spends most of her shifts around the bar, either watching sports on the TV or talking to his friends. Occasionally, when it’s quiet, he’ll walk over to the bar and sit with her.
She talks the most then. Tells him about the elementary school she attended, and its big willow tree, and the neighbourhood pool where she broke her elbow, and the guitar lessons she took as a kid. He likes those chats.
Neither one of them talk about the fact that he still hasn’t been given the all clear to return to work himself. There’s a voicemail on his phone from two days ago that hasn’t been listened to yet, from a Commander that didn’t even jnow Bradley’s name one month ago, now saying that he cares and would like to discuss a referral to a service. A shrink.
Bradley has been before, after he first pushed a kid to the floor in the playground, a couple of weeks after his dad had passed. He remembers the drive to the office, and the worry on his mother’s placating smile. He remembers his legs dangling off of the worn-out, felted armchair. The lollipops and the pages of colouring. He figures the service he’d get now might look a little different.
This morning Avery lays in her bed; she watches raindrops spill along the window pane to her right. Pretty glum weather for California, but the West Coast has always looked pretty in shades of blue. Rain splatters the sidewalk at the front of the house, almost matching the steady pattering of the shower running on the other side of her wall.
When the shower cuts out, the noise stops on one side.
She turns her head and looks to the closed bedroom door, wondering what time he had gotten up today. She had gone to bed at around two, and he had stayed up a little later. Last night they had watched Jaws together, and Bradley had revealed that he once hyperventilated in a swimming lesson as a kid because Mav had let him watch that movie way too young.
Mav didn’t ever let her watch scary movies. Well, he didn’t exactly have any rules at his place — but he heavily discouraged those kinds of movies. She can’t name a single thing she remembers watching with him.
She pushes back the sheets as the bathroom door clicks open, padding across the wooden floor to meet Bradley in the hallway. He has a fluffy gray towel secured around his waist and the meat of his palms are busy rubbing hard at his eyes.
He is very comfortable with his own body, and exceedingly comfortable with parading that body around his house. But, it’s his place, and she’s a guest and so forth — not that she finds much to complain about with the subject.
“Morning.” She sounds chirpy today, and he lifts one palm away to peek at her as he heads for his room. Leaning against the door frame with her knees together and hands crossed in front of her, offering him a small smile.
His voice is gruff and a little dry, tired sounding. “Morning. Didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Not at all.” It almost sounds like she’s about to follow him, just to keep the conversation going. He doesn’t hear her move though. “Have you been up long?”
And now that the conversation is still going, he can’t exactly slam the door in her face. He pushes it behind him, and leaves it open a crack as he replies. “Yeah. A couple of hours. There’s breakfast in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
Today, Bradley sounds beat. Usually he is chirpy enough in the mornings, excited to see her because that means his brain might finally stop reeling. It just all feels too foggy to smile today.
“I was thinking,” Avery hums, thinking on the spot now, really — he does so much to keep her functioning, and what might make a man like him smile on a gray day? “Maybe we could go do something today. Like head out to the beach.”
“In the rain?” He doesn’t mean to sound as blunt as he does, but he just can’t pick up his tone. He pulls on clean socks and buttons his jeans, wondering if there’s a frown on her face out in that hallway.
Instead, her lips are pursed in consideration. The Washington state native in her almost laughs at the idea that a little shower makes the outdoors off limits.
If she knew him better, she’d make a witty comment about him being a chicken for being afraid of a little water — but, she doesn’t know him that well at all.
“Right,” She mumbles, looking towards the ceiling. She doesn’t know this city very well at all yet, either. “Well, what do you usually do when it rains around here?”
He makes a soft scoffing sound from inside the room. She listens to him shuffling around in there as he dresses himself for the day.
Brown eyes flicker to the reflective surface hung above his dresser while his hands fasten at the button on his jeans. He rolls his shoulders almost instinctively, straightening out and eyeing his chest.
He makes an effort to clear his throat as he opens the drawer with his t-shirts.
“Hole up in the Hard Deck ‘til it passes.”
Her nose wrinkles at that. Now leaning her head back against the hallway wall, where a framed photo of Bradley and some friends from flight school sits just past her shoulder, she can’t think of much she has seen in San Diego beyond the dingy ocean bar.
“Lame.” The word passes her lips before she can really think about whether the joke will be well received, and the wince starts to creep across her features. She settles at the sound of him huffing out a sound of amusement from his bedroom.
And then, the door is tugged open and he appears. Leaning his forearm against the doorframe and raising his brows in something that isn’t either surprise or annoyance, something more pleased looking.
“Fine,” He gives a short nod, not giving much away. “Let’s do it — let’s head down to the beach. You got a coat?”
She wrinkles her nose like the idea is ridiculous. “I don’t need a coat, it’s just a little rain.”
And then, he’s standing there with his coat zipped all the way up, watching her watch the waves while wind whips at her hair and fat, heavy raindrops spill across the thin sweater she had chosen to wear.
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, because she has already declined to take his coat twice by now, but this just doesn’t feel right.
His hands are pushed deep into his pockets, and the cap tucked under his hood keeps the rain off of his face.
“I guess you’re used to this all, anyway,” He thinks out loud, lips pursed as he turns his head to look at the waves for himself. She turns her head to look at him, waiting for the second part of his thought. “All the, uh — grey skies and rain, huh?”
Avery thinks of Washington, and her lips twitch. It doesn’t look like any of it would come naturally to him at all, with a wardrobe made up of almost all shorts and short sleeves, curls that have been dyed by the sun and sunglasses on even now.
No, he’s California through and through.
”Little rain never killed anybody.” She answers him, resuming their walk, trailing boot prints through the wet sand. It takes her a second to go on. “I was thinking of taking a trip back home this weekend. You think you could find me a ride before then?”
Bradley’s footprints come to a standstill, enervated waves lapping at his boots. He doesn’t think before he speaks. “Well, I could drive you.”
She smiles, halfway wondering where this guy’s nice gestures will stop and kind of wondering if he was just raised to be this polite. “I’m sure you have better things to do this weekend than make a sixteen hour drive up the coast.”
No, he doesn’t — and after a week of nothing but constant company, he likes the thought of being alone even less than the thought of a drive like that. But, he knows he can’t tell her that.
A month ago, he would have had plenty to do on a weekend. Friends, and sports, and live music and sunsets — he hasn’t felt much like leaving the house recently. A lot of his friends were developed through service, and all of them seem to know what happened, and none of them look at him quite the same.
That’s why he prefers to wait by his car when he picks Avery up.
“I could drive you to the airport.” He acts like he’s correcting her incorrect assumption, playing it cool by digging his hands deeper into his pockets and strolling forward until they’re side by side.
“I don’t like to fly.”
“You’re scared of flying?” He doesn’t mean it as a challenge, or to be condescending — but he finds a little humour in the idea.
“I didn’t say I was scared — it’s just a lot of work,” She shrugs it off. “Buying a ticket, packing a bag, going through TSA, having an assigned seat, blah, blah, blah.”
“Did Mav ever take you up in the Mustang?”
“No,” Her answer carries less humour than his question had, and she turns to peer at him over her shoulder with that same look in her eyes. It’s a wounded kind of look, tainted with maybe something like jealousy. “Did he take you?”
“No,” Bradley’s lie comes as easily as it had when he had told it to his mother — who was worried sick about her baby boy, the day that he had made his mind up on how his life was going to go. “Nah, me either.”
Bradley’s first time flying was with Maverick, shotgun in that plane. It was the day he had decided to become a pilot for real, beyond the childhood wish to be just like his daddy — that was the day he had made up his mind.
He still remembered the look on Maverick’s face when he had uttered those words on the drive back home. It’s that same kind of wounded, air-out-of-your-lungs look.
Avery figures that Bradley is lying to her. She guesses that she appreciates what he is trying to do, and knows that he is doing it to spare her feelings rather than preserve some sort of image of her father. There’s no changing his absence, his disinterest. Not anymore, anyway.
“I’d come with you, though,” Bradley veers the conversation back in the direction it had come from. “This weekend. If you wanted the company.”
She stops walking as the tide creeps towards her soles. Watching him head up the surf, piecing him together like a puzzle, wondering what about Maverick makes him feel the need to be so kind to her. “Well, I’d just be catching up with my mom and… friends and stuff…”
“Right,” Bradley’s throat goes dry at the thought of his place being empty for an entire three days. He’ll have to find something to occupy himself. “By Friday. I’ll find you something.”
Work rolls around as quickly as that afternoon’s thunderstorm.
They ate together, she got ready for work while he trawled through used car ads, and then they took the scenic route out to Coronado. It’s a short drive, but it’s easy to make longer when you have as many questions and as great of a knowledge of the city as Bradley does.
Avery’s still five minutes early, and there’s a big smile on her face as he pulls into the parking lot.
Heavy, booming rumbles call across the sky. Thick, dense droplets of rain splatter the windshield almost faster than the wipers can work. Billy Joel plays softly through the speakers.
Bradley’s almost wincing but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as she swings the car door shut behind her, his coat finally accepted and hoisted over her head like a canopy as she makes the dash for the side door of The Hard Deck.
He hadn’t been joking earlier; folks here really do pile into that place on a dreary day like this one. It’s bustling, voices and music carrying across the parking lot when the door opens and closes behind her.
He sits back in his seat, one arm propped against the door of the car, tilting his head to catch a glimpse at the far right corner. As expected, he finds his friends there. Perched around the pool table, but not playing today. Out of uniform, but with regulated hair cuts and posture that gives them all away.
They aren’t his closest friends, besides Natasha - but there’s a closeness that comes with the job. Camaraderie or something like that; they’re people that Bradley would say he trusts. People he enjoys hanging out with, for the most part. People that would be at his wedding one day, probably.
And yet, he has been avoiding them every chance he has gotten for four weeks.
He knows that Natasha asks Avery about him when she can, and he knows that Natasha still respects him enough to not make it obvious that she’s scared for him. He’ll thank her for that at some point.
The others, though, he isn’t sure. They might ask him how he’s doing, and he wouldn’t like to take the chance. They’re just more names to add to the growing lists of texts ignored. Tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, he doesn’t give a second thought to leaving.
Avery, in a similar way, likes to keep busy.
As much as she wishes Bradley would stop bending over backwards to make her life easier, she appreciates that it means she never has to do something alone. The Hard Deck is the kind of place where alone time does not, and will never exist. Even when it’s quiet there are regulars sitting on those worn leather stools with a story and a smile.
“Newbie, I’ve got a burst keg, a line that looks like LA traffic and a bachelorette party asking for twenty Lemon Drops - pick one.” Jimmy doesn’t even have to look up to start huffing orders, handing change back to a customer and grabbing a glass to start a new order all at once.
His voice is almost lost over the Hall & Oats classic blaring from the Jukebox, but it still carries every bit of the begrudging tone that he means it to.
He’s nice enough, and he seems to have been here for as long as the place has been open — longer than the time Penny has had it for, at least. Long enough, anyway, to have decided that he knows who’s name is worth learning and who’s is not. She hasn’t taken offence to it, figuring that she’ll be out of his wispy, gray hair before he knows it.
“I’ve got the keg.” She decides, killing him with kindness and a sweet smile. He huffs in acknowledgement, or amusement, and resigns to the grinning bachelorette on the other side of the bar.
It’s surprising really, how quickly a shift passes when there isn’t a moment to stop.
In fact, she barely notices that she’s done, until Jake Seresin takes a break from bothering her while she polishes glasses. He jerks his head towards the parking lot.
“Your Uber’s outside, by the way.” Jake has made sure that Avery knows who he is already. She’s unsurprised to find him leaning over the bar with a look on his face like he’s just waiting for the penny to drop.
To aid the process, he looks over his shoulder and hikes a thumb in the same direction.
Sure enough, standing outside with his chin tipped towards the shore, leaning back against the hood of his car — there’s Bradley. Watching the night sky, totally in a world of his own.
Jake gives her a minute to stare at him while he, in turn, stares back at her. He’s not exactly counting down the seconds, but he knows the look of a woman who is taking her sweet time eyeing someone up. Fingers drumming nimbly against the bar, a smile has already stretched across his lips by the time she remembers to look back to him.
There’s a suggestion in the way his brows raise. A look in the flash of his green eyes. An absolute smugness in the smile on his face. “So, big guy taking care of you alright?”
And, in a play that Jake himself couldn’t have even hoped for, she falls right for the bait.
It’s just the cocky way his eyes glint and the subtle suggestiveness to his tone, the way his eyebrow quirks just the smallest degree.
Flush crossing her cheeks and an immediate alarm flashing across her eyes, she straightens up and puts some space between them. “No, no - it’s not like that.”
Dimples press into the corners of his lips, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he cocks his head to a twenty degree angle. His voice is pure wouldn’t-know-better, country boy innocence as he quips, “Like what?”
Realisation hits with a beat. A grin crosses her face, her body slumping in relief as her eyes roll on instinct. He’s messing.
“Ha. Ha.” She scoffs, leaning forward again to prop her hands against the bar. Just as quickly as that shock and embarrassment had crossed her face, it becomes “Don’t you have anyone worrying about you? — This late on a Friday night and it’s just you and your best buddy.”
Jake huffs out a soft laugh, checking back over his other shoulder at Coyote, tossing a round of darts by himself in Jake’s absence.
“Honey, I’m a free agent.” Jake smiles, and she gets it. She has heard the girls at the bar whispering about him every time he’s here, and she has always found him a little… underwhelming. But, the drawl in his voice when he calls her honey finally makes it click — she gets it, he’s hot.
But, it doesn’t quite work.
Her eyes flicker downward, lingering on the glossed bar top. As her mouth stretches into a smile on her own, Jake follows her gaze downward until he finds what’s got her looking so smug. His phone resting there against the surface, released absentmindedly from his palm while he had been busy getting under her skin.
She looks between him, and the bell that hangs behind her.
Now, the rule’s pretty clear about what happens to those who dare to drop their phones on the bar.
She smiles, suddenly sweet as pie, and reaches under the bar to grab her little shoulder bag. Settling it against her body, she reaches across and pats him on the swell of his shoulder.
“I’ll keep this one between us,” She hums, taking a quick glance outside at where Bradley is waiting for her, and then looking back to Jake with mischief in her eyes. “Honey.”
She leaves him with the taunt, grinning to herself about it, and just starting to think that maybe she might be able to like this place.
Brisk air catches at her hair, nipping at the thin sleeves covering her arms.
Bradley is perched against the hood of his car, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes on the ground. He hears her coming from the moment the door to the Hard Deck opens, but he doesn’t look up until she is just a couple of feet away.
He has been crying.
Instinctively, he lifts his palm and scrubs it across his face, like that will do anything to solve his red, blotchy cheeks, or still glossy eyes. He swallows thickly and clears his throat, his brows drawing together.
”Hey…” Avery slows to almost a stop, confusion settling across her face, hanging back like keeping her distance from him will protect her from what’s coming.
”Come on, we should go.” He says, his voice gruff.
Now, she does stop moving, and shakes her head.
”Tell me what happened.” She’s still soft with him, which makes it worse. It sparks an anger in him that isn’t her fault, and wasn’t her father’s — the fault is his. It’s always been his.
His breathing hitches and his fists ball at his sides. He hasn’t cried in front of anyone but Natasha in years, and now isn’t the time to start. With everything he has taken from you already, he won’t take the opportunity to grieve just because he can’t be strong.
”They left you a voicemail. You should listen to it.” His whisper is almost swept away by the coastal breeze, but she hears him just about.
Neither one of them says a word as they settle into the vehicle, seatbelts unbuckled and engine off. Avery rests her phone against her knee and lets the message play out loud, the voice of Admiral Simpson ringing out loud and clear.
As of eleven-fifty that evening, the search had been called off. The decision had been made, the paperwork was being drawn up. Maverick was gone, and there wasn’t a person in the world who could do anything about it.
…
#bradley bradshaw#bradley rooster bradshaw#miles teller#jake seresin#bradley bradshaw smut#jake hangman seresin#ashes ashes#bradley bradshaw fanfiction#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw x oc
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COMMISSION .ᐟ 🔓 ( white / b. 1987 ) ﹕on the source link you will find 354 gifs of miles teller in the gorge (2025). i don’t care what you do with these, just don’t be gross and don’t claim them as your own. if using these, give this post a reblog. thank you !
#gif pack#miles teller gif pack#miles teller gif hunt#gifsociety#fcxdirectory#gif pack commissions#gif commissions
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i was watching top gun and i saw goose and i was like “huh this guy sure looks like miles teller” and lo and behold my dad puts on maverick and there’s fucking miles teller
#top gun 1986#top gun maverick#miles teller#top gun goose#top gun rooster#yuwuli#catching up on my absolute lack of movie watching ever
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rooster doesn't care (except he does) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 2]
pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader
word count: 11.2k words (woops)
summary: you told him to let go, and he did—at least, that’s what you thought. but now, with the quiet pressing in and your chest aching for the way he used to hold on, you start to regret every word you said. you miss him, even the clingy parts, maybe especially those. and somewhere out there, he’s missing you too. one night, soaked from the rain and heavy with everything he never said, he shows up at your door. the power cuts out. the distance disappears. in the dark, you find his mouth, his hands, the truth. you lose yourselves in it, in each other, and when the morning comes, you wonder—was it love, or just what the storm brought in?
warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.
note: thank you so much for all the love on part one, i really didn’t expect it to hit so many of you the way it did. i appreciate every single comment, message, and little scream you guys sent my way! here’s part two—hope it breaks you just the right amount.
part one
masterlist
your call sign is sunbeam.
You found yourself looking for him.
Just... quick glances.
A flicker in the mess hall.
A scan of the benches during warmups.
Your eyes went to the door automatically whenever it opened, searching for the familiar shape of him, the stupid hair, the cocky strut, the dorky grin.
But he never looked back anymore.
And every time you saw him—standing with Phoenix, shoulders slouched, expression carefully neutral—you felt a crack form in the wall you’d built so high around yourself.
A fracture you didn’t know how to fix.
One afternoon, you were late to the locker room.
Training had gone long. You’d stayed behind to check reports. You expected the space to be empty.
It wasn’t.
Rooster was there. Alone. Sitting on the bench, half out of his flight suit, towel draped around his shoulders. He looked tired. Not in the usual post-flight way, but somewhere deeper—like the quiet had settled into his bones.
You froze.
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t say your name.
Not even a glance.
You changed quickly. Quietly. Sat on the opposite end. You didn’t know why your chest felt tight. You didn’t know why your hands felt cold.
For once, you wanted him to say something.
Anything.
Make fun of your laces.
Ask if you wanted tacos.
Tell you some bizarre fact about moon landing conspiracies or why birds might not be real.
But he didn’t.
He just stood, grabbed his duffle, and left.
Didn’t even glance over his shoulder.
The door clicked shut.
And the silence stayed with you.
Later that night, you opened your locker and found something tucked just beneath your spare gloves.
It was small. Folded.
A sticky note.
Your heart jumped.
You opened it.
Blank.
No words.
Just that familiar yellow square.
And yet it said everything.
You stared at it for a long time.
Longer than you wanted to admit.
And for the first time since you told him to let go—you wished he hadn’t listened.
It wasn’t sudden.
It was quiet. Gradual. The kind of shift you don’t notice at first—not until it’s already done. Not until you’re standing in the cold wondering when the sun stopped rising in the direction you were used to.
Bradley stopped looking at you.
Not out of anger. Not because he was trying to be cruel. It was the kind of distance that came from someone who finally got tired of running toward a wall that never moved. He stopped hovering, stopped orbiting. Stopped throwing himself into your gravity like it would save him from crashing.
And maybe, once upon a time, you would’ve called that peace.
But now?
Now it just felt hollow.
He still spoke your callsign—Sunbeam—but it sounded like protocol now. Cold. Clean. Like a switch had been flipped somewhere deep inside him. Like the warmth had been surgically removed.
“Sunbeam takes left flank.”
“Sunbeam, status check.”
“Copy that, Sunbeam.”
Nothing behind it. No trace of the man who once said it like it was a secret between only you and him. Like it meant something more than syllables and orders. Like you meant something more than airspace and flight paths.
You caught yourself watching him more than you used to.
In meetings, you found your gaze drifting. Just a second too long on the line of his jaw, on the tired curve of his mouth. In the locker room, you noticed the way he didn’t sit near you anymore. Not even close. He didn’t hum under his breath. He didn’t drop coffee by your locker. He didn’t meet your eyes.
And when you passed him in the hallway, he nodded. Just nodded. As if you were someone he used to know, but hadn’t seen in years.
You should’ve said something. Anything. But your throat always closed up at the worst possible moments.
So instead, you listened for him. Waited for some trace of the old Bradley to slip through.
But he never did.
And it was starting to eat at you.
You didn’t mean to say it like that.
It was a drill day. Nothing special. The sun was too hot, the sky too bright, the air humid and heavy in your flight suit. Everyone was gathered at the edge of the tarmac, running checks, prepping for launch.
You were standing with Bob, double-checking your wing alignment, when you caught sight of Rooster across the way.
He was bent over a panel, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense with focus. Sweat slicked the back of his neck. There was something tired in his posture, something heavy in the set of his shoulders.
He hadn’t spoken to you directly all morning.
You hated it. You hated how much you missed the way he used to fill the silence without even trying. How he used to make the world feel smaller and louder all at once.
You told yourself it was fine. You deserved this. You’d asked for it.
But when Mav came over the radio and started assigning pairs, you felt it—something rising in your chest before you could stop it.
“Rooster and Bob, you’re first in the air. Sunbeam and Hangman on standby.”
And that was when you said it.
Soft. Reflexive. Just under your breath, but audible enough to betray you.
“Rooster…”
You said it like it used to be. Like it meant Bradley. Like it was fond. Like it was yours to say.
And he heard it.
You knew he did.
Because he stilled.
Only for a second. The wrench in his hand paused. His spine straightened. A flicker—barely there. But you saw it.
And then—he moved.
Didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you.
Just finished what he was doing, handed the tool to Bob, and walked toward the bird.
No reaction. No acknowledgement.
No warmth.
He didn’t speak to you for the rest of the day.
Not a word.
Not even a glance.
And that night, when you sat at the Hard Deck nursing a drink you didn’t want, you heard his laugh from across the bar. It was soft. Short. He was talking to Phoenix and Coyote. A real smile tugged at his mouth—brief, crooked, tired.
But it wasn’t for you.
Hadn’t been in a long time.
You stared at the condensation on your glass. The music was too loud. The world felt far away.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel proud of being unreadable.
You just felt unseen.
The Hard Deck was warm with low noise—music, clinking bottles, laughter humming just beneath the chatter. It was a regular night, but the way you sat alone at the corner of the bar made it feel like a movie scene you didn’t audition for.
You nursed a bottle you hadn’t really touched. The condensation slipped down your fingers, gathering in small pools on the bar top. You’d been sitting there long enough that Penny had stopped checking in, which was saying something.
“Careful, darlin’,” came a voice beside you, smooth and smug. “People might start thinking you’re brooding.”
You didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Hangman.
Jake Seresin, in all his drawling, golden-boy glory. Leaning against the bar like it was built just for his elbow. Wearing that smirk like it was part of his uniform.
“I’m not brooding,” you muttered, eyes still fixed forward.
“Sure you’re not,” he said, sliding into the seat next to you, his own beer already in hand. “Just staring off into space with all the mood lighting of a noir detective. Very subtle.”
You didn’t respond.
He didn’t seem to mind.
He let the silence sit for a moment, like he was waiting for the exact right beat to pounce. And then:
“Y’know, I gotta ask… when did you start looking like someone ripped the moon outta your sky?”
You turned your head slowly. Eyebrow arched. “You practicing poetry on me now?”
“Maybe,” Jake grinned. “But only because you’ve got the energy of someone who’s haunted and refusing to call the exorcist.”
You rolled your eyes and went back to your drink. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m accurate,” he corrected, taking a sip. “It’s been what? Two, three weeks now? Since Rooster shut up and started pretending you don’t exist?”
You stiffened. Just slightly.
Jake noticed.
“Oh-ho,” he said, leaning in just a bit, voice low. “So you have noticed.”
You didn’t answer.
Jake exhaled like he’d won a bet. “Knew it. Because for someone who always claimed you didn’t care, you’re sure staring at the guy like he walked off with something important.”
You stared ahead, jaw tightening. “He’s being professional.”
“He’s being gone,” Jake said bluntly. “C’mon, Sunbeam—he used to orbit you like it was his whole job. Now? Man’s flying radio silent. No jokes. No coffee. No dumb chicken metaphors. Hell, he hasn’t even argued with me all week and I’ve tried.”
You were quiet.
Jake swirled the label on his bottle. “I gotta say, it’s impressive. You broke the guy clean. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“That’s not what I was trying to do,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
Jake stilled.
He tilted his head. “No?”
You pressed your lips together.
You hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Hadn’t meant to admit that part of you missed it—the chaos, the noise, the way he filled a room like he was made for it.
You missed hearing your name in his voice. Missed how he used to grin when you rolled your eyes. Missed being annoyed, because even when he drove you up a wall, at least you knew where you stood with him.
Now? You didn’t know a damn thing.
Jake watched your silence carefully. Like he knew he was walking a line, but couldn’t help himself.
“You didn’t want him to stop,” he said, quieter this time.
You didn’t move.
“You wanted him to back off, sure. Maybe stop hovering. But you didn’t want him to disappear. You just… didn’t know how to ask for what you did want.”
Your fingers curled tighter around the bottle.
Jake didn’t smirk now. He wasn’t teasing anymore.
“Lemme guess,” he said, voice low and even. “You thought he’d never take the hint. That he’d always come back. No matter how many times you told him to go.”
You finally looked at him.
And Jake—cocky, arrogant Jake—met your gaze with something surprisingly soft.
“You thought he’d never give up on you,” he said.
The words landed like a gut punch.
You looked away again, jaw clenched, throat tight.
He wasn’t wrong.
And that hurt more than you wanted to admit.
“I didn’t think he’d listen,” you said quietly.
Jake nodded, like that explained everything.
“He always listened,” he murmured. “You just didn’t notice how much until he stopped.”
You didn’t reply.
Jake sat back, finishing the last of his beer. He stood, stretching like a cat, then gave you one last look—something bordering on sympathy, but wrapped in his usual smirk so it wouldn’t feel too raw.
“Just sayin’, Sunbeam,” he said, tossing his bottle in the bin. “Some silences ain’t peaceful. Some of ‘em are just... empty.”
Then he walked away.
And you were left sitting there.
Staring at your untouched drink.
With no sound but your own heartbeat.
And the echo of his voice in your head.
He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
This whole pretending act—playing the part of someone who didn’t ache when you walked into a room, didn’t burn when you looked through him like he was nothing but another squadmate in a sea of uniforms—was never going to work. Not really. Not for someone like him.
Bradley Bradshaw was a lot of things. A damn good pilot. Loyal to a fault. Stubborn as hell. But he was never good at hiding the way he felt. Not when it came to you.
And now?
Now the weight of all that silence was starting to crush him.
He sat alone in the locker room, elbows on his knees, hands raked through his curls like he could physically keep himself from falling apart. The room was empty—everyone else gone home or out drinking, the buzz of the Hard Deck miles away. Just him and the dull hum of fluorescent lights, the distant whir of a fan, and the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.
He didn’t know what made it snap.
Maybe it was hearing Jake talk about you earlier, loud and smug and familiar. Maybe it was the way you didn’t even glance his way when you walked past after training. Or maybe it was that stupid, soft way you’d said his callsign the day before—Rooster—like you didn’t even know you’d said it differently, like it wasn’t the first warmth he’d heard from you in weeks.
Whatever it was, it cracked something in his chest.
He let out a breath that sounded too close to a sob.
This was pathetic.
He was pathetic.
He’d spent years being your shadow, your anchor, your idiot golden retriever, and when you finally pushed him away, he told himself he could handle it. Told himself he’d rather be near you in silence than lose you completely. Told himself he could be mature, respectful, professional.
He was so damn tired of pretending.
He missed you. God, he missed you. And not just the way you used to be together, not just the teasing or the quiet looks or the rhythm you’d found in the sky.
He missed your voice. The way you’d call him out without hesitation. The dry humor. The rare smirks. The way you’d roll your eyes but still take the coffee he brought you. The way you used to say his name like it meant something.
It used to feel like you were his gravity. Now, he was drifting. Unmoored. Lost.
He slammed a fist into the locker beside him, the metal ringing through the room. His knuckles stung, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this.”
Because he didn’t want to move on. Didn’t want to keep acting like you were just a teammate. He didn’t want the silence. Didn’t want this distance. Didn’t want this version of his life where you were close enough to touch but so far removed it made him feel like a stranger in his own skin.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He could feel it coming now—tears threatening at the edges, his chest tight with the pressure of all the words he never got to say.
I miss you.I’m sorry.I didn’t mean to be too much.I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me to go.I thought you knew I’d follow you anywhere.I thought that mattered.
He’d been so proud of himself. So convinced he was being strong by backing off. Thought that maybe, if he gave you space, you’d come back to him on your own.
But you didn’t.
And now he was sitting here, unraveling alone in a locker room, like some lovesick idiot with no clue how to fix what he never meant to break.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered to the air, voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to stop loving her.”
There it was.
The truth.
It wasn’t about pretending anymore. It never had been.
Because no matter how many times he looked away…
No matter how cold he forced his voice to sound…
No matter how many nights he told himself it was time to move on…
He couldn’t.
Because you weren’t just someone he loved.
You were the only person he’d ever been afraid to lose.
And right now? He didn’t know if he already had.
The sound of the locker room door creaked open slow.
Rooster didn’t move.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. His hands were still gripping the edge of the bench beneath him, head hanging low between hunched shoulders, breath shallow and uneven.
He’d hoped he’d have longer.
Just ten more minutes alone. Ten more minutes to sit in the wreckage of his own feelings and fall apart quietly without anyone seeing the pieces.
But life never gave him that, did it?
A pause. Then the familiar click of boots across the tile floor.
"Well," drawled a voice he knew too well, "this is a new look."
Bradley didn’t answer.
Hangman stopped a few feet away. Jake Seresin, cocky and loud and impossible to ignore. Except tonight, he wasn’t either of those things. His voice was calm. Measured.
Not mocking.
Just... there.
“Didn’t peg you for the locker-room-crying type,” Jake added, gently this time. “Not saying I’m judging. Just surprised. You usually save your dramatics for the bar.”
Bradley exhaled. A quiet, hollow breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a broken echo of one.
Jake stepped closer but didn’t sit.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Rooster shook his head.
“Didn’t think so.”
A beat of silence stretched between them, and Jake finally took a seat on the bench across from him. No smirk. No posturing. Just sat there like a mirror image—legs wide, arms resting on his knees, head tilted like he was looking at something unfamiliar.
“You’re not okay,” Jake said quietly.
Bradley still didn’t respond.
Jake let out a breath, leaned back slightly. “You know, I always thought you were ridiculous with her.”
That got a twitch. A flick of the eyes. Not much, but enough.
Jake shrugged. “The way you followed her around. The way you talked about her like she personally hung the stars. Hell, we used to bet on how long it would take you to crack a smile when she walked in the room.”
Rooster’s hands clenched tighter. His jaw locked.
“And then she told you to back off,” Jake continued, still soft, still not cruel. “And you did. Instantly. Like flipping a damn switch.”
Bradley’s voice finally scraped out, low and hoarse. “She told me to let go.”
“I know.”
“She meant it.”
“Maybe.”
That word made Rooster’s head snap up, finally—eyes glassy and red, voice rough with held-back emotion. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give me hope.”
Jake held his gaze. “I’m not. I’m just saying... maybe she didn’t think you actually would.”
Rooster scoffed. Shook his head. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” Jake agreed. “It’s not. But you and I both know she’s not made of stone. You think she doesn’t miss it? The coffee? The dumb jokes? You saying her name like it’s a secret she forgot she told you?”
Rooster looked away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter. She said what she said.”
“And you listened. Like a good little soldier.”
“I had to, Jake. I—” his voice broke, and he raked his fingers through his hair, overwhelmed. “I didn’t want to make her hate me.”
Jake let that sit. Let it land.
“Thing is,” he said after a beat, “I think she already knew how much you loved her. That was never the problem.”
Rooster closed his eyes. “Then what was?”
“I think,” Jake said slowly, “the problem was you never gave her the space to figure out how she felt. You were always so sure. Always there. Always loud.”
“And now I’m not,” Bradley muttered.
Jake nodded. “And now she’s not sure what to do with the silence.”
Bradley didn’t say anything for a long time.
When he finally spoke, it was a whisper.
“I don’t know who I am when I’m not loving her.”
Jake’s breath hitched—just slightly. And when he spoke again, his voice was quieter than it had ever been.
“Then maybe it’s time you find out.”
Another long silence. Heavier than the rest.
Jake stood slowly, the bench creaking beneath him. He didn’t offer a hand, didn’t clap a shoulder, didn’t joke.
He just looked down at Rooster—broken, unraveling, still trying to catch his breath in a war he’d lost to himself.
“I know I talk a lot of shit,” Jake said, calm and serious. “But for what it’s worth? I always thought the way you loved her was kind of beautiful.”
Then he walked out.
And for the first time that night, Rooster let the tears fall.
Not loud. Not shaking.
Just quiet.
Heavy.
Real.
Three days pass. Long, quiet, stretched thin.
Three days where you don’t see much of Rooster—not really. He’s around, sure. At briefings. On the tarmac. In the hall. But he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t hover. Doesn’t try. And for the first time since he stopped orbiting you, the silence starts to bother you.
You try not to let it. You tell yourself you’re fine. That it’s peaceful. But the truth? It feels wrong.
So when Maverick reads off the pairings at the end of the morning brief, you almost don’t catch it.
“Rooster and Sunbeam—you’re up first.”
The room quiets just enough for the beat to echo.
You blink. Glance across the table.
Rooster’s already looking at you.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t wink. But his eyes are bright again—less storm, more sunrise. There’s a flicker of something familiar behind them. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you do not want to think about.
You nod once.
So does he.
And just like that, you’re walking toward your jets side by side again.
It’s quiet for a minute. The air between you is heavy with all the things you haven’t said in weeks, and yet there’s something... lighter, too. Like the tension that used to choke your throat is finally starting to thin out.
“I, uh...” Rooster starts, adjusting his gloves. “Hope you don’t mind flying with me again.”
You glance sideways, mildly. “I’ll survive.”
He chuckles under his breath. “That’s a better reaction than last time.”
You don’t answer.
He doesn’t push.
But the edge of his smile grows a little anyway.
The flight is clean. Smooth. Almost unsettling in how natural it feels. Like you never stopped flying together. Like your birds missed each other more than you did. You fall into rhythm fast—his voice on comms is warm, calm, and this time, careful. Like he’s figured out how to match your silence without smothering it.
"Sunbeam, you got eyes?"
“Always,” you reply.
He hums. “Still like hearing that.”
You roll your eyes instinctively, but it’s a little softer this time. Less annoyance. More... muscle memory.
And when you both touch down, it’s weird. Because you’re still sweating, still processing, still tired—but you’re not irritated. Not bracing for him to say something ridiculous.
Instead, he just walks beside you. Doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t throw out a million questions or jokes. He lets the quiet sit.
“Nice flying,” he says simply.
You glance at him, and for some strange reason, you don’t look away right away.
“You too.”
He beams.
God help you, he beams.
And that’s the first crack.
The rest of the day is strange.
Because Rooster is still Rooster—but not the one who used to cling like ivy. He jokes with the others. Smiles more. Talks a little louder. But he’s not performing. Not showing off.
And when you walk into the locker room later, he’s sitting on the bench like always—but this time, when he looks up and sees you, he just nods.
No joke. No sun pun. Just... acknowledgment.
You nod back.
And when you sit across from him, you feel something strange settle in your chest.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
The next day, it’s the same thing.
You’re paired again.
You don’t question it. Mav’s clearly on a mission and you’re not about to call him out for whatever matchmaking scheme he’s cooking up. But it doesn’t feel forced.
It feels like muscle memory again.
Rooster’s voice on the comms is back to its familiar rhythm.
“Sunbeam, you ever think about how dumb this name is?”
You snort. “You gave it to me.”
“Yeah. Worst mistake of my life.”
You tilt your head. “That’s the worst?”
There’s a pause.
“Okay, second worst.”
“What’s first?”
Another pause.
Then, quietly: “Letting you think I ever wanted to be anywhere else.”
You blink. Your heart stutters.
But before you can reply, the radio goes quiet again.
Back to work.
Back to formation.
But your grip on the throttle isn’t as steady now.
Not because of nerves.
Because something else entirely.
That night, you catch him at the Hard Deck.
He’s surrounded by the squad, grinning, a beer in hand. Laughing at something Phoenix said. You watch him from the bar, unseen.
And for a moment, you feel like you’re looking at him for the first time.
Not as the leech.
Not as the golden retriever.
Not as the boy who followed you through every deployment.
Just… Bradley.
Just a man who changed. Quietly. Steadily.
A man who pulled away not to punish you—but to heal himself.
And somehow came back brighter.
You don’t say anything that night.
You just sit a few stools away, nursing your drink, listening to the sound of his laughter. Familiar. Comforting.
This time, it doesn’t grate.
This time, it makes you smile.
Just a little.
But it’s a start.
It starts small.
A coffee cup on your locker bench. No note. No dramatic gesture. Just the drink he knows you like, still warm, sitting there like it belongs.
You spot it, glance around the room. He’s across the hangar—laughing with Bob, goggles pushed back into his curls, half-listening to Phoenix rant about something that went wrong with her bird. He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t wait for your reaction.
And somehow, that’s what makes it land harder.
You drink it.
You don’t tell him you do, but the next morning, it’s there again.
He talks to you now, but it’s different.
The words come soft, casual, like sunlight warming up steel. He slips them in between mission briefings and hallway passings and cockpit checks. No more cloying metaphors. No more jokes that beg for your eye rolls. Just... him.
Real.
Relaxed.
And it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him like this without the try-hard energy. Without the need to make you laugh or look or react.
He tells you about a bird he saw on the roof of the mess hall yesterday—“just sat there like it owned the place, strutted around like Hangman with feathers.” You snort into your protein bar, and he doesn’t comment. Just smiles to himself and keeps walking.
Another day, he mentions that the clouds looked like spilled marshmallows during warmups. “Kinda dumb, I know,” he adds. But you shake your head once, and he grins at that.
You start replying more.
Not much.
Not dramatically.
But where there used to be silence, now there’s space for something else.
Like when he walks beside you after training and says, “You flew like hell today.”
And you shrug. “You didn’t crash into me, so I’ll give you a pass.”
He laughs, loud and real. “You missed me, admit it.”
You sip your water bottle. “I missed quiet.”
But you’re smiling. Just a little. And he sees it.
He doesn’t point it out.
He just bumps your shoulder once, gentle. Like a nudge you barely feel until it’s gone.
It builds, day by day.
You don’t mean to notice the way his voice lights up when he talks to Bob. Or the way he always saves you a chair during debriefings now—doesn’t announce it, just places his folder on the seat beside his and acts like it’s nothing.
You don’t mean to notice when he’s not there, either.
Like yesterday. When he didn’t show up to warmups.
No call. No excuse. Just... absent.
Your eyes flicked to the hangar doors too many times. You told yourself it was routine concern. That it didn’t matter.
Then you heard he’d just overslept. Slept right through his alarm.
You rolled your eyes. But your chest eased up the moment you heard it.
The squad starts to notice.
Phoenix eyes you both during drills. Bob smiles a little too knowingly when he catches you sharing a quiet exchange near the lockers. Even Hangman raises a brow once, muttering something like, “Look at you two being civil. World’s ending.”
You tell them to shut up, obviously.
But you’re not cold about it anymore.
And Rooster? He just shrugs and grins, shameless as ever. “Guess she’s finally seeing I’m irresistible.”
You scoff.
But you don’t walk away.
It’s a week later, after a long training run, when it finally clicks that something has changed.
You’re both sweaty, exhausted, grounded after a near-flawless simulation. You pull off your helmet, shake the heat from your neck. He’s already waiting near your bird, watching you with that familiar tilt to his head.
“Hell of a flight,” he says, voice low and fond.
You nod once, out of breath. “You didn’t suck.”
“That’s basically a love confession coming from you,” he quips.
You glance at him.
He’s beaming again—but not in that loud, desperate way he used to. It’s softer now. Worn-in. Patient.
You blink, slowly.
And then, without thinking, you say it.
“You’re being yourself again.”
He stills for a moment. Not alarmed. Just surprised.
You think maybe he’ll joke it off. Make some crack about having “gone through a phase” or how he’s always been the picture of maturity.
But he doesn’t.
He just looks at you—really looks—and shrugs.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “Guess I stopped pretending not to care.”
You nod once. Then walk past him, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You’re not ready to say anything else. Not yet.
But when you glance over your shoulder, he’s still smiling.
And this time, you don’t look away.
It’s late when it happens. Post-training dusk, the kind of hour where the sky starts folding in on itself—blue fading to gray, clouds smeared across the horizon like ash. The tarmac’s mostly empty. Everyone’s either inside the hangar or already headed home.
You’re still in your flight suit, sleeves tied around your waist, tank clinging to your back with sweat. The heat of the day’s begun to die down, but your skin still hums from the adrenaline.
Rooster’s next to you, crouched down beside your bird, checking a loose panel you mentioned earlier. You didn’t ask him to stay. He just did. As if it were second nature.
He doesn’t talk. Just works.
You don’t talk either. You just watch.
And it’s weird, because for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not trying to keep your guard up. You’re not waiting for him to say something stupid, or loud, or clingy. He’s just… here. Present. And it feels good.
There’s a comfortable rhythm to it. His hand brushing over the metal, your eyes following the path of his movements. The soft clinking of his tools. The sound of him breathing.
And then, quietly, he says, “I like this.”
You blink. “What?”
“This,” he says again, without looking up. “Us. Like this.”
You don’t answer right away. The words settle around you like dust.
He finally glances over. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.”
You meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.
It’s not intense. It’s not some cinematic, eye-locking, music-swell moment.
It’s just real.
Simple.
Sincere.
And that’s what makes your chest go tight.
He looks down again, lips twitching. “Sorry. That probably made it weird.”
“It didn’t,” you say, surprising yourself.
He pauses.
Then—just barely—you see the tension leave his shoulders.
“You ever wonder,” he says softly, screwing the panel closed, “if we’re just bad at timing?”
You inhale slowly. “I think we’re bad at talking.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. That too.”
Another beat passes.
Then he stands.
You’re facing each other again, the wind picking up just enough to brush his curls over his forehead. You’re still silent, but it’s not cold. Not tense. Just charged. Like the air before a storm.
He reaches down to hand you your helmet.
You reach out at the same time.
Fingers brush.
Only for a second. Maybe even less.
But it’s enough.
It jolts through you like static—your skin buzzing, pulse skipping, breath catching just enough to feel.
And when you look up again, he’s staring at you like he felt it too.
Neither of you moves.
The silence stretches.
Then slowly—like he’s afraid to spook you—he shifts just a little closer. Not touching. Not invading. Just... nearer. More real.
“I missed this,” he says, voice lower now. Honest. Worn thin. “I missed you.”
Your throat tightens.
You should deflect. Shrug. Walk away.
That’s what you always do.
But this time?
This time you stay.
And softly—so quietly you barely hear yourself—you say, “I know.”
His breath hitches.
And still—you don’t move.
The sky cracked open at 1432.
You remember the exact time because you were watching from the control tower, your gear still half-on from the earlier sortie, helmet tucked under your arm, eyes lazily tracking jet trails like it was just another routine afternoon.
Until his bird dropped out of formation.
It happened fast. Too fast. One second, Rooster’s voice was on the comms, steady and playful—“C’mon, Payback, bet you ten bucks I get back before you do”—and the next, static.
Then a garbled sound. Alarms. Movement.
“Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo Zero-One, engine failure, I’m going down—”
You didn’t realize you’d started running until you were halfway down the stairs.
Didn’t realize you were yelling into the nearest radio for updates until someone grabbed your arm to stop you from bolting across the tarmac.
The next few hours were a blur—Mav’s grim face, the rescue team scramble, the painful stillness of waiting for a chopper to return. You tried to play it off, arms crossed, jaw locked, face blank.
But your hands were shaking.
And when they said he was alive, you didn’t even pretend to be relieved. You just nodded once, muttered “of course he is,” and walked off before anyone could see the way your shoulders slumped.
You didn’t visit him right away. Couldn’t.
Not because you didn’t care. But because you did.
Too much.
You needed time to get your rage under control.
Spoiler: it didn’t work.
Two days later, you’re storming into the Naval hospital wing like a hurricane with one target.
You’ve already threatened two nurses with a glare alone, snapped at the front desk when they said visiting hours were almost over, and slammed the door to his room open so hard it bounced off the wall.
Bradley Bradshaw is sitting up in bed, wearing a faded hospital gown, one arm in a sling and an IV taped to the other. He’s balancing a cup of sad-looking green jello in one hand, plastic spoon halfway to his mouth.
He looks up just in time to see you standing there, fists clenched, eyes blazing.
“Hi,” he says around a mouthful, smile sheepish. “Miss me?”
You explode.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
He flinches so hard he chokes on the jello.
Literally.
He starts coughing violently, the cup rattling in his grip as he tries to breathe and also not die. You do not rush to his aid. You cross your arms and wait, face thunderous, foot tapping with fury.
Finally, red-faced and wheezing, he clears his throat and croaks, “Damn. Sunbeam. You do talk.”
“Don’t test me,” you growl, storming across the room. “You ejected, Bradshaw. You crashed. You could’ve—you—I swear to God if you say one more dumb thing I will end you myself!”
“Noted,” he rasps, wiping his mouth, eyes wide like you’re a wild animal in aviators. “Okay. Wow. So, uh, how’ve you been?”
“I’ve been losing my mind, you absolute moron!”
His brows shoot up. “Oh?”
“Don’t ‘oh’ me!” you snap, pacing now. “Do you have any idea what it was like hearing you go down? Listening to your comms cut out like that?! I thought—I didn’t even know if you—”
Your voice breaks. You swallow hard.
Rooster’s grin fades.
The silence stretches.
You stop at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, fists still clenched like you're ready to punch a hole through the hospital wall.
“You’re not allowed to die,” you mutter, low and sharp. “You got that?”
His throat bobs. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I got it.”
You glare at him a moment longer, then snatch the jello cup from his tray and stab your spoon into it before plopping it back down.
He watches the jello jiggle.
Then, softly: “...That was actually kind of hot.”
You throw the spoon at him.
He yelps and laughs and winces at the same time.
And for a second—just a second—you almost laugh too.
Almost.
It’s late when the knock comes.
You’re halfway through reheating leftovers in the microwave, thunder rumbling outside like the sky’s trying to shake loose, rain hammering against the windows with the kind of fury that drowns out even your thoughts.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
The knock sounds again—three short raps, too polite to be a neighbor, too specific to be a stranger.
You sigh, set your fork down, and pad barefoot to the door.
When you open it, Rooster Bradshaw is standing on your front step, soaked to the damn bone, curls dripping into his eyes, jacket clinging to him like seaweed.
“Hi,” he says, voice sheepish and hopeful. “Can I crash here? It’s, uh… really raining.”
You stare at him for a beat. His sneakers squish when he shifts his weight. He looks like a drenched golden retriever someone forgot in the backyard.
You step aside without a word.
He lights up like Christmas.
“Thanks, Sunbeam,” he says, stepping in and peeling off his jacket like it personally betrayed him. Water pools onto your entryway floor. “I swear I didn’t mean to get caught in this. Weather said light drizzle—drizzle, my ass.”
You close the door behind him, deadbolt clicking. “Take your shoes off. You’re dripping all over the rug.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says immediately, already toeing off his soaked sneakers. “Sorry, I should’ve brought a towel or—”
You disappear down the hallway before he can finish. When you come back, you toss a towel at his chest and drop a bundle of clothes on the coffee table.
He blinks down at the hoodie sitting on top.
It’s gray, a little worn at the sleeves, the red cartoon chicken on the front still intact after all these years. College issue. Dumb, ridiculous. He’d gotten it from a novelty stand during one of those campus events you always rolled your eyes at.
He gave it to you after a bad exam week. Said you looked like you needed something stupid to wear.
You never gave it back.
Rooster reaches down slowly, like the thing might vanish if he touches it too fast.
“No way,” he breathes, grinning wide. “You still have this?”
You cross your arms. “It’s warm.”
“That’s why you kept it?” He gasps like you just told him you were secretly married. “Not because it reminded you of me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I forgot it was yours.”
He places a dramatic hand to his heart. “That hurts. That actually hurts. You wound me.”
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you mutter, already heading back to your food.
“Still cold, still heartless,” he calls after you, towel draped over his head. “You’re lucky I find that so charming.”
Fifteen minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom in the chicken hoodie and a pair of sweats you forgot you owned. His curls are towel-dried and fluffy, his cheeks pink from the hot shower, and the hoodie’s a size too small—years of muscle added since college making it stretch a little too snug across his chest.
He spins once in place. “So? Do I look cozy or what?”
You glance at him, unimpressed. “You look ridiculous.”
“Exactly,” he says, beaming. “Full-circle nostalgia. This is emotional closure, Sunbeam.”
You say nothing. Slide over your plate of food without meeting his eyes.
He blinks. “Is this… for me?”
You shrug. “I wasn’t that hungry.”
His voice softens immediately. “You’re lying.”
You say nothing.
He smiles anyway, taking the plate and plopping onto your couch like he’s lived here for years. He digs in, humming in exaggerated delight between bites.
You don’t join him. You curl up in the armchair across the room, scrolling on your phone like you’re completely unfazed by the fact that Bradley Bradshaw—drenched, dramatic, and now hoodie-clad—is lounging in your apartment like he belongs.
But your eyes flick up every so often.
And every time they do, he’s already looking.
Still smiling.
Like rain or not, he’d walk through a thousand storms if it meant being here, in this quiet moment with you.
In your home.
In your hoodie.
And for once, you don’t tell him to shut up when he won’t stop humming between bites.
You just let it happen.
It happens halfway through his monologue about college dorm horror stories. You’re seated on opposite ends of the couch, him folded like a human golden retriever into the hoodie he hasn’t stopped mentioning, and you—with your usual detached expression—are pretending to care by occasionally grunting at the right moments.
He’s mid-sentence. Something about a raccoon, a vending machine, and someone named Kenny.
“—so then Kenny’s dumbass actually climbs into the—”
click.
Darkness.
Total.
Immediate.
And followed instantly by a loud, echoing “AAAAHHH!” from the idiot beside you.
There’s a beat of silence. Rain still hammers outside. The room is pitch black.
You blink once into the dark. “...Really?”
“I panicked!” Rooster says, voice a little too high-pitched. “That was a panic yell. Completely normal. Totally justified.”
You sigh. “Power’s out.”
“Yeah, no kidding, Sunbeam.”
There’s some shuffling as he fumbles around the couch. You hear him knock something over with his elbow. “Okay, okay, it’s fine, we’ve trained for worse. Carrier landings in storms. Midair refuels in pitch black. I can handle—OW.”
A thud.
You squint through the dark. “Did you just fall?”
“I tripped. Over your couch leg. Which, by the way, is criminally low to the ground.”
You exhale slowly through your nose, standing. “Stay there. I’ll get a flashlight.”
“Too late, I’m already blind. I see nothing but regret and betrayal.”
You don’t respond. You grab your phone from the counter, flick on the flashlight, and shine it toward the couch.
Rooster’s on the floor, tangled in the throw blanket he insisted wasn’t for “aesthetics,” hoodie slightly lopsided, curls a wild mess, and eyes squinting up at you like you’ve just rescued him from a cave.
“Oh thank God,” he says dramatically. “My savior. My light. My guiding star.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You just point the flashlight at the hallway. “Go change. I have candles.”
He groans as he rolls up, clutching his side. “If I have a bruise, you’re legally responsible. This couch is a health hazard.”
“I warned you about moving,” you say flatly.
As you start lighting candles in the kitchen, he shuffles over and slumps dramatically onto the floor beside you, cross-legged, eyes fixed on the flickering flame like a caveman discovering fire.
“This is romantic,” he announces.
You shoot him a look.
He grins. “Like a period drama. Forbidden love. War-torn letters. Unspeakable yearning.”
“You’re literally just sitting on my kitchen tile.”
“Tragic,” he whispers, clutching the hoodie to his chest. “We’ll never survive the blackout.”
You light another candle and place it on the counter, ignoring him.
He watches you in silence for a second. Then, softer, “Hey. You’re not... freaked out by this stuff? Storms? Power going out?”
You glance at him. “No.”
He nods, like that makes sense. “Of course. You’re too cool to be scared.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m just not dramatic about it.”
He hums thoughtfully. “I kind of like that about you.”
You pause, briefly, at the cupboard. “That I’m not dramatic?”
“That you’re steady,” he says. “You’re always... there. Even when everything else is nuts.”
You don’t respond. Just hand him a mug of warm tea you made with your still-hot kettle before the power went. He takes it like it’s the holy grail.
“I love it here,” he sighs. “Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.”
You settle back on the couch, curling up with a blanket. “You’re not sleeping in my bed.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “Couch is fine. Floor is fine. Bathtub, if necessary. But—hey.” He points to his chest. “This hoodie? Prime bedtime real estate.”
You toss him a pillow without looking.
It hits him in the face.
“Worth it,” he mumbles happily, snuggling into it like a satisfied cat.
And as the storm howls outside and the room flickers with candlelight, you say nothing. Just sip your tea, steady and quiet as always.
But you don’t kick him out.
And when you hear his breathing slow from the floor, hoodie tucked under his chin, a smile twitching at his lips even in sleep—
You don’t smile back.
But you do pull the blanket higher.
Just a little.
The thunder wakes you with a crack so loud it sounds like the earth split in two right above your apartment.
You jolt upright on the couch, heart thudding in your chest. For a second, you forget where you are—then you feel a heavy weight slump against your side and remember, unfortunately, Bradley Bradshaw is still here.
He groans sleepily, curls smashed flat on one side, cheek red from the floor. “’S too early for the apocalypse,” he mumbles, blindly groping for the blanket you yanked off him in your panic.
You stand up and stretch, squinting into the darkness. The candles are long out, the power still hasn’t returned, and the storm outside sounds even worse than it did earlier. The wind whistles through the walls, and rain taps frantic fingers on the glass.
“It’s freezing,” you mutter, rubbing your arms.
Bradley, still horizontal, lifts his head like a meerkat. “We should cuddle.”
You stare at him.
He grins sleepily. “For body heat. Survival. Science.”
“You’re on the floor.”
“And I’m suffering,” he says dramatically. “Come on, Sunbeam. We’ll both freeze out here. Just one night. One innocent cuddle. I’m very warm. Extremely warm. Practically a human space heater.”
You sigh like you’ve just been asked to sacrifice something deeply personal.
He sits up, eyebrows raised, clearly expecting you to say no.
Instead, you turn and walk toward your bedroom.
Bradley scrambles after you like a golden retriever invited on the bed for the first time in its life.
The room is pitch black. You can barely make out the shapes of your furniture in the darkness. The sheets are cool when you slip under them, and you’re already regretting not having more blankets.
Bradley climbs in beside you with entirely too much enthusiasm, pulling the comforter up to his chin and letting out a dramatic sigh of bliss.
“Ohhh my God,” he whispers. “This is so much better. This is paradise.”
You turn away from him, facing the wall. “You say one word and I’m kicking you out.”
“I say lots of words,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Silence falls between you again. Except now, it’s close. His warmth seeps into your side, slow and steady. His breath is quiet. Measured. You can feel him smiling even though you can’t see it.
And then, after a long minute, your voice breaks the silence.
“You know,” you say quietly, “you snore when you’re on your back.”
He gasps. “How dare you.”
“You also kick.”
“I do not—”
“You kicked me twice.”
“That was the floor attacking you.”
You shift slightly. He does too, until his arm brushes yours.
“You always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you ask.
He goes quiet for a second. Then, softly: “Only when I’m really happy.”
You hate the way your chest tightens at that.
He shifts again, clearly getting comfortable. You feel his hand resting lightly between you—near but not touching. A silent offer. No pressure.
You sigh once. Then slowly—very slowly—you reach over and pull his arm across your waist.
A beat.
And then you feel it.
Bradley melts.
Not figuratively. Not just emotionally. Like, full-body sigh, soft little hum, cheek pressed to your shoulder like he’s home for the first time in years.
You roll your eyes into the darkness. “You’re smiling like an idiot.”
“I am an idiot,” he whispers against your neck, grinning into the hoodie you’re still wearing. “You’re just now figuring that out?”
Another thunderclap rolls over the building, louder than before.
You don’t flinch.
But his arm tightens around your waist.
And you don’t pull away.
Not even a little.
It’s late.
You don’t know how much time has passed since you both drifted into that heavy silence. The storm still murmurs outside, but softer now—like it’s finally tired, like the sky itself is worn out.
The room is cold, but he’s warm against your back. One arm curled around your waist, chest rising slow and steady behind you, breath tickling the strands of your hair he can’t help nudging closer to.
You should be asleep.
You’re not.
Neither is he.
You know it by the way his fingers twitch slightly against your shirt, like he’s trying not to move, not to disturb you. Like he’s thinking too loud in the dark.
Then, just when you think maybe he’ll leave it alone—let the moment pass and fall into dreams like always—
His voice comes, low. Barely more than a whisper.
“Hey.”
You don’t turn. You don’t answer.
But he knows you’re awake.
“I don’t know when it started,” he says quietly. “Or maybe I do. I just didn’t want to admit it. Back in college, I think. You were so… you. You didn’t need anyone to like you. And I was always—loud. Trying too hard.”
He laughs, but it’s soft. Bitter in the way memories sometimes are.
“I thought maybe I’d grow out of it. The way I felt. Like it was just this thing I’d get over. You’d disappear from my life and I’d move on. But every time we end up in the same room, I’m back to that dumb kid who followed you around like a lost duck.”
You breathe in, slow. Quiet. Still facing the wall.
“I don’t want anything from you,” he says. “I swear, I’m not saying this to make things weird. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter.”
His voice shakes just slightly. He swallows.
“I love you,” he says.
Like it’s the truth he’s been carrying around forever. Small. Simple. No strings.
“I love you,” he repeats, softer. “Not in the way I thought I would, either. Not some fairytale. I love the way you roll your eyes when I talk too much. I love that you’re quiet. That you don’t fill the space just to fill it. That you wear that dumb hoodie like it doesn’t mean anything. I love that you let me in—just a little. I love you even when you don’t say a word.”
Silence again.
Heavy.
Holy.
He exhales, like the weight’s finally off his chest. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s all. You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”
He settles back like he means to sleep. Doesn’t try to touch you more than he already is. Doesn’t beg for a reaction.
And that’s what makes your heart ache.
Because it’s real.
Because it’s him.
Because you weren’t supposed to feel anything at all.
And now you do.
You don’t speak right away.
His words linger in the dark like smoke—soft, fragrant, impossible to ignore. You hear them on a loop, quiet echoes of things you never thought he’d say out loud.
You love the way you don’t fill the silence.
It stings. Not in a bad way. In the way truth sometimes does—warm and aching all at once.
You swallow. Roll over slowly.
He’s already watching you.
The shadows barely touch his face, but you can see the flicker in his eyes. The way he’s scared, even now. Like he’s still ready for you to say nothing. To shut him out like you always do.
You hate that look.
“I heard you,” you say quietly.
His breath catches, but he doesn’t speak.
You let the silence stretch a little longer. Just enough to make sure the words don’t come out careless. Just enough to mean it.
“You’re right,” you say finally. “You’ve always been loud. Always everywhere. Always following me around like a damn puppy.”
He chuckles under his breath, sheepish.
“But I never told you to stop.”
That silences him.
“I could’ve,” you add. “Could’ve shut you down years ago. Could’ve transferred out, requested new partners, pushed you away harder. But I didn’t.”
His eyes are wide now. His fingers twitch against your waist again—like he wants to reach, but won’t.
And you’re still not smiling. Not swooning. Just looking at him like you always do—steady. Clear. Unafraid.
“I’m not good at saying things,” you admit. “I don’t do big speeches or confessions. But… I missed you when you weren’t there.”
The storm rumbles again, far off in the distance.
“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” you say. “Not with the way I treated you. Not with the way I am.”
His hand lifts slowly, brushes your hair behind your ear. Gentle. Careful. Like you’re something rare.
“You don’t have to be any other way,” he whispers. “Not with me.”
You let out a slow breath. “I don’t love easily.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “So… if that counts for anything—”
“It counts for everything,” he says, too quickly, too earnestly.
And finally, finally, you let the corner of your mouth twitch.
He pulls you closer. Not all at once. Just enough.
You bury your face in his chest and breathe him in—detergent and rain and something that smells like home.
Neither of you says anything else.
But there’s no need.
Because for once, it’s not about the words.
It’s about staying.
And this time, you both do.
The room feels warmer now.
Not just from the body heat—though Rooster was right, he is annoyingly effective at radiating warmth—but from something else. Something quieter. Thicker. Like the air between you two has finally shifted from years of teasing and tension into something... safe.
His hand is tracing slow circles on your back now, lazy and gentle, like he’s not even thinking about it. Just a rhythm he slipped into, like breathing.
You don’t stop him.
“You ever think,” he murmurs into your hair, “how wild it is that we ended up here?”
You hum. “Define ‘here.’”
“In your bed,” he says, smile audible in his voice. “Wearing the chicken hoodie I gave you in college, post-near-death experience, while a literal storm rages outside.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes half-lidded and dry. “I think the wild part is that you’re still talking.”
He grins wide. “There she is.”
You settle back against him with a quiet sigh. The silence stretches again, not awkward—never awkward now—but soft. Settled.
He speaks again, this time quieter. “I used to rehearse it.”
You blink. “Rehearse what?”
“Telling you how I felt,” he admits. “Back when we were just... whatever we were. Friends. Teammates. You glaring at me in the break room. I’d run through it in my head like, a million times.”
You snort. “What were you gonna say?”
“Oh, you know. Something stupid. Classic Bradshaw lines. Like—‘Sunbeam, I’ve loved you since the moment you insulted my playlist choices in the cafeteria line.’”
You make a face into his chest. “They were bad.”
“They were themed!”
“You had a playlist called ‘Aviator Vibes Only.’”
“And it slapped!”
You laugh—actually laugh—and he freezes for a second, like he’s afraid he imagined it. Then you feel him smile against your temple, wide and full and a little bit victorious.
“I used to think you hated me,” he says after a beat, softer now.
“I did,” you say. Then, more honestly, “Sort of. Not really. I just… didn’t know what to do with you.”
“I’m a lot,” he admits, shrugging a little.
“You are,” you agree. “But you’re also... constant.”
He goes quiet.
“I didn’t realize how much I counted on that until you weren’t there,” you say. “Until the crash. Until the hoodie. Until now.”
You lift your eyes again, watching him in the dark.
“I don’t say things much,” you continue. “But I feel them. You make it hard not to.”
He brushes his nose against yours. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
You lean into him, letting his warmth wrap around you completely.
“You better not snore tonight,” you murmur sleepily.
“I make no promises.”
“If you kick me, I’m pushing you off the bed.”
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
“You’re a walking space heater. Of course I will.”
He laughs again, low and content.
And when your breathing slows and your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his hoodie, he whispers one last thing.
“I love you, you know.”
This time, you whisper back.
“I know.”
You don’t know how long you stay like that—tucked into him, fingers curled lightly in the sleeve of the hoodie he gave you back when neither of you knew what this was becoming.
The storm outside has softened into a lazy drizzle, but the quiet between you feels louder now. Every breath. Every shift of fabric. Every pulse.
Bradley hasn’t said anything since your last whisper. But you feel him. In the way his thumb brushes just under your shirt hem. In the way his cheek is resting against your temple. In the way his heartbeat stutters when your hand moves—just slightly—against his chest.
You tilt your head back slowly, barely enough to look at him.
He’s already watching you.
Eyes soft. Half-lidded. A little scared, but not in a way that wants to run—more like he’s afraid to break the moment.
You stare at each other for a long second. Breathing. Just breathing.
Then you say, almost too quiet, “You’re staring.”
His smile is slow. “So are you.”
You open your mouth to deflect, to tease, to bury the feeling under something safer—but then he leans in.
Slow. So slow it’s like he’s giving you every second to stop him.
You don’t.
You close the distance.
It’s nothing like you imagined. Not fire and fireworks. Not instant passion.
It’s warm.
Soft.
Steady.
Like a sigh between two people who’ve been holding something in for too long.
His lips mold to yours like they already knew how. He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—but also like he trusts you won’t.
Your hand slides up into the curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His breath hitches. You feel him smile against your mouth.
He pulls back just barely, forehead resting against yours. “That okay?”
You nod once. Voice gone. Chest full.
He kisses you again.
Slower this time. Like he’s memorizing the shape of it. Like he’s etching it into the part of his heart that’s always been reserved for you.
You pull him closer, hoodie and all.
And when you both finally part, barely breathing, he laughs.
Quiet. Wonderstruck.
“I’ve waited so long to do that,” he murmurs.
You don’t say anything.
But you kiss him again.
And that’s answer enough.
It starts with your breath on his lips.
Barely parted, both of you still half-tangled in sheets and stormlight, the world outside dim and forgotten. Your fingers are still in his curls from the last kiss, and he hasn’t moved more than an inch—hasn’t dared.
But now you do.
You move first.
Your mouth brushes his again, slower this time, less hesitant. And when he responds—when his lips part just slightly to deepen the kiss—it’s like something long-caged breaks loose between you.
Bradley sighs into your mouth, relief spilling out of him like warm wind. His hand slides over your hip, tentative and slow, asking instead of taking. You shift forward in response, and suddenly your legs are pressed against his, knees bumping under the blanket.
His touch never roams far. It’s not rushed. Not greedy. He kisses you like he wants to memorize you, like he’s finally allowed to love you the way he’s always wanted—without needing to hide behind jokes or looks cast across briefing rooms.
“You sure?” he whispers against your lips, already breathless.
You nod. “Stop asking.”
He exhales a soft laugh, but it stutters when your fingers slip beneath the hem of the hoodie he gave you. The cotton lifts easily, and he helps you pull it off without a word—eyes never leaving yours.
“You still wear it,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your face like it’s something holy.
You shrug, breath catching. “It’s warm.”
Bradley smiles. His hands cup your face gently, brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones. “You’re warm.”
The kiss that follows is deeper. Hungrier. His hands trail down your sides, fingertips brushing over skin like he’s never known softness until now. You sigh into him, sliding your palms over his bare chest, feeling muscle twitch under your touch.
The hoodie’s gone. So is hesitation.
He touches you like you’re breakable—but wanted. Like he knows you can handle anything, but still treats you like you deserve softness. You do.
You pull him closer—body to body, skin to skin—and everything shifts. There’s a hitch in both your breaths, a heat blooming low between you, quiet and pulsing. The room stays dim, shadows flickering from the storm outside, but the warmth here is overwhelming.
You tilt your head, whispering into his jaw, “Don’t overthink it.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just—” He swallows. “I want to remember this. All of it.”
And then he moves—hands guiding, mouth worshipping, breath steady as he kisses down your throat, your shoulder, everywhere your body lets him in. You arch into him, not dramatically—just a slow unraveling, like the steady peeling back of walls that have stood for too long.
Clothes fall away in pieces. Not fast. Not frantic. Like a ceremony. Each movement says I know you. I see you. I want all of you.
And when he finally enters you, it’s quiet. A slow joining. No sharp gasps or rushed words—just the sound of rain on glass and two people breathing in sync. His forehead rests against yours. His hand finds yours in the dark.
It’s full. Deep. Close.
He moves like he’s trying to tell you everything he’s never said. You let him.
And when you look up at him—sweat-kissed, jaw clenched from holding back, eyes wild and full of you—you see it all. The years. The longing. The love.
You whisper his name once.
That’s all it takes.
The rhythm falters, shudders. He lets go. You follow. And the world is nothing but the heat between you and the quiet in his chest when he holds you through the after.
Neither of you speaks for a long time.
And when you finally do, it’s barely a whisper.
“Still warm?”
He laughs—messy, breathless, in love.
“You have no idea.”
You don’t know how long you lie there in the quiet after. Long enough for your breathing to slow, for the sweat to cool on your skin. Long enough to feel the weight of what just happened settle into your chest like something permanent.
Bradley’s still beside you, one arm folded beneath his head, the other tracing lazy circles on your bare back. His eyes are half-lidded, but he hasn’t stopped looking at you since you let him touch you like that.
He looks undone. And worshipful.
You should be exhausted.
But something simmers under your skin now. A low, hot hum that hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown sharper. Louder. Like the part of you that spent years trying not to need him is suddenly starving.
Your fingers drift down his stomach, slow and featherlight, and you feel him twitch under your touch. His jaw clenches. His breath catches.
“Again?” he says softly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just... hopeful. Just wrecked.
You nod.
That’s all it takes.
Bradley moves like a storm this time—low and intense, all heat and reverence and hunger. His hands slide over your hips like they’re familiar territory now, like your body was a map he memorized long ago but only now gets to trace without fear.
He rolls you beneath him with careful strength, lips finding yours again—deeper now, wetter, full of need. The kiss drags something from your chest you didn’t know you were holding. You gasp against him, fingers clawing into his back, and he groans low in his throat.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters against your jaw, voice rough.
You pull him down, mouth finding the curve of his shoulder, and this time you bite. Not hard—just enough. Just enough to feel his whole body shudder.
It’s messier now.
Hotter.
The pace isn’t slow and exploratory anymore—it’s familiar and greedy and real. Your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth is everywhere—your neck, your collarbone, your chest—like he’s trying to kiss every part of you that’s ever known loneliness.
He presses into you again, deeper than before, and your breath breaks apart. There’s no space between you now—just skin on skin, sweat, tangled limbs and open mouths.
He groans your name like a prayer. You arch into him, chasing the friction, biting back a sound that threatens to escape.
He thrusts harder.
You meet him.
The rhythm builds, wild and aching and perfect. Each time his hips meet yours, it knocks something loose in you—something you hadn’t let anyone touch before. He feels it. You know he does.
His forehead presses to yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips.
“I love you,” he whispers again. “Every version of you. Even when you hated me. Especially when you didn’t.”
You grip his hair, pulling him down into another kiss, all teeth and heat.
And when you come apart beneath him this time—it’s not silent. You cry out his name, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re anchoring yourself.
He follows fast. His mouth opens against your neck. Shuddering so hard you feel it in your bones.
When it’s over, he collapses gently beside you, arms pulling you close, chest heaving against your back.
You’re quiet for a while. Only the sound of rain and breath and the soft shift of sheets between you.
Then, without looking at him, you murmur, “That hoodie better not go missing.”
He chuckles hoarsely, pulling it off the floor and draping it over you both.
“Baby,” he says, voice rough, kissed with sleep. “That hoodie belongs to you now. Just like I do.”
You don’t say anything right away. You just stare at him—at the way his lashes rest heavy on his cheeks, at the hoodie he gave you months ago now draped across your bare legs like it never left. Like he never left.
Maybe you didn’t really hate how he clung too close.
Maybe you didn’t hate the late-night calls, the way he’d wrap around you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
Maybe what you hated was how much it scared you to need him back.
Your fingers brush through his hair, slow, unsure. He hums, half-asleep, and that hoodie still smells like him. Like memories, and airports, and something softer than you ever let yourself believe you deserved.
You whisper, barely audible, like you’re admitting it to yourself more than to him: “Maybe I belonged to you first.”
And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.
#bradley rooster bradshaw#bradley bradshaw x reader#miles teller#top gun maverick#top gun fandom#pete maverick mitchell#bob floyd#jake seresin#avengxrz
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Top Gun Silliness
#top gun maverick#top gun silliness#tom cruise#jay ellis#danny ramirez#glen powell#monica barbaro#miles teller#top gun phoenix#top gun rooster#top gun payback#top gun hangman#top gun fanboy#top gun#pete mitchell#maverick mitchell#pete maverick mitchell#bradley rooster bradshaw#rooster bradshaw#hangman seresin#jake seresin#natasha trace#natasha phoenix trace#reuben fitch#reuben payback fitch#mickey garcia#mickey fanboy garcia#bradley bradshaw#jake hangman seresin#phoenix trace
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picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd
fandom: top gun
pairing: bob x reader
summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew
notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 21530
your callsign is lucky
You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy.
You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life.
You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that?
But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked.
Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all.
You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did.
Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command.
So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel?
Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more.
“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard.
You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead.
“Captain,” you reply, nodding.
He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?”
You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.”
Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly.
“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.”
His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?”
“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.”
“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.”
“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?”
He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed.
“She quick?” he asks.
“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.”
“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.”
You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.”
Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?”
You blink. “Sorry?”
“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?”
You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.
“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.”
Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.”
“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.”
You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.”
“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters.
“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.”
His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.”
You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.”
Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.”
Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news.
The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!”
You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob.
And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him.
-
“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips.
You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.”
Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?”
Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.”
Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?”
She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.”
Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.”
“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?”
You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.”
That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter.
“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?”
You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.”
“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?”
You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.”
“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.”
Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.”
Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?”
You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.”
Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?”
You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.”
Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.”
Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—”
“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?”
Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend.
“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.”
Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.”
Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans.
“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar.
You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.”
Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.”
You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused.
“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?”
Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?”
“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.”
“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.”
He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little.
“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful.
You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?”
“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.”
Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours.
“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.”
Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?”
“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough.
Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter.
“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?”
You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.”
He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile.
It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it.
God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years.
“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?”
You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?”
Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.”
You roll your eyes.
“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side.
“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.”
“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?”
You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.”
He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.”
“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles.
You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning.
You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.”
He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin.
“The usual?” she asks.
You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.”
She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead.
“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.”
You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity.
“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?”
His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.”
You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash.
“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred.
“Does it matter?”
He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.”
You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks.
“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar.
You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.”
He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.
“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.”
Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move.
“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?”
The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.”
As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much.
“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table.
“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks.
Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out.
“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown.
You glance at him. “Do what?”
“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.”
“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.”
You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.”
There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?”
You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.”
Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought.
You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?”
“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.”
You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—”
“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.”
A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?”
He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.”
You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?”
You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.”
Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.”
You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?”
He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game.
“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?”
He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.”
You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.”
You scoff. “Yeah, right.”
“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.”
You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.”
Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley.
“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.”
Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you.
He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.”
Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep.
“Mind if I play next?”
Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his.
“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.”
The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha.
Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat.
By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob.
You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy.
Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee.
“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row.
“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.”
“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him.
You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?”
He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.”
Your mouth drops open.
Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.”
Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks.
Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.”
“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown.
Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show.
“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley.
Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later.
You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants.
It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second.
“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.”
Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes.
“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.”
“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.”
Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal.
“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.”
Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no.
Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word.
You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.”
You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface.
“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.”
You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op.
“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.”
Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.”
“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance.
Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory.
You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?”
“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?”
Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.”
The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat.
“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.”
The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise.
All from a look.
God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better.
By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO.
After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them.
Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little.
“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers.
He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.”
You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.”
“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.”
Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.”
He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.”
“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder.
You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming.
“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.”
He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.”
Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours.
“Want to grab dinner?” he asks.
When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are.
“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?”
“Pizza?”
You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind.
Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...”
You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”
“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?”
You stop walking. “With who?”
He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.”
Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.”
“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—”
“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?”
He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—”
“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.”
He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?”
You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.
“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.”
There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.”
Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word.
Good.
It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you.
Good?
Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with.
Good.
Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that.
“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.”
A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob.
BOB FLOYD
📎 [Image attachment]
‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’
And there he fucking is.
Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband.
Holy fuck.
Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe.
His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo.
He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture.
It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve.
And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with?
You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and—
Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on.
You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo.
With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’
“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone.
A little notification pops up beneath your message.
Read. Immediately.
“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?”
You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute.
Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help.
But first…
You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids.
-
Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers.
The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all.
But you can’t stop thinking about it.
You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time.
And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again.
Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak.
Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week.
“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?”
You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus.
“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat.
You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch.
“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?”
“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.”
Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing.
“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.”
Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.”
“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.”
Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset.
“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.”
“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.”
“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.”
Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.”
Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim.
“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.”
“What was my time?” he asks eagerly.
“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply.
“Did I beat Hangman?”
You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.”
You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?”
He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.”
You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.
“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.”
Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.”
“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming.
“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.”
“So… a baby sim?”
“Basically. You’ll be fine.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant.
You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.”
“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.”
“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.”
He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp.
From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.”
“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.”
You snort. “You are a danger to national security.”
“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth.
“I’m coming in,” you mutter.
You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him.
“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.”
“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.”
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I know,” he says, grinning now.
You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out.
He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?”
“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.”
He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?”
“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.”
Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?”
You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.”
He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?”
“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.”
The sim bucks suddenly.
“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale.
You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.”
But it’s too late.
The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude!
“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…”
“You eject,” you say dryly.
“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?”
You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.”
With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates.
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.”
Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?”
You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.”
He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary.
“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.”
A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.
“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him.
His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.”
You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.”
He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls.
“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?”
“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies.
“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?”
He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him.
“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.”
He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip.
“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.”
He chuckles quietly, almost breathless.
“Now keep her steady.”
“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.”
You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.”
He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?”
“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.”
He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway.
You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.”
Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.”
“You know, not what Fanboy did.”
He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line.
“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.”
His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.”
You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.
You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides.
If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now.
“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.”
You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.”
“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later.
You grin. “Nice shot.”
He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?”
“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.”
He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back.
“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused.
It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing.
Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.
“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone.
“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.”
He does so without hesitation.
Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing.
“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.”
Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.”
Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster.
“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered.
You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.”
He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing.
“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.”
He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.”
“You sure?”
He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him.
The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.”
He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still.
The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE.
You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.”
Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?”
“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.”
He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and—
He falls forward.
You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down.
“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide.
He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours.
“Are you okay? Your head—”
Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist.
“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.”
He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek.
“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.”
Your laughter fades, breath catching.
There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance.
And then—
The sim door yanks open with a loud clang.
“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?”
Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you.
Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op.
“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!”
Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.”
You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob?
Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight.
After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report.
“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door.
You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.”
“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.”
You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.”
Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers.
Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot.
If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours.
You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out.
The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace.
But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name.
“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?”
“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—”
“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts.
You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it.
“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.”
“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.”
“Shame. Still hot though, right?”
“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable.
“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.”
There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat.
“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.”
“What, you’re not into her?”
“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything.
“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—”
Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat.
“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.”
That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs.
“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.”
Your stomach drops. Hard.
Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you.
“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—”
You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore.
Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home.
Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out.
His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage?
Fuck. That.
Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing.
Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something.
The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t.
You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it.
-
That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie.
You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship.
You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it.
Because it was Bob.
Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself.
Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.
Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart.
Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd.
Fuck that guy.
By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice.
The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat.
So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other.
From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend.
“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him.
You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room.
“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.”
There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares.
Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once.
And you don’t look at him at all.
After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room.
Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until—
“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat.
You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.”
“That thing work?” he asks.
“What thing?”
“Your phone.”
“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.”
Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard.
“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.”
“Really?” he presses, stepping closer.
You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.”
“What’d you watch?”
“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking.
And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies?
“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense.
Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral.
“Do you need something?”
He frowns. “What do you—”
“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?”
“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.”
You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?”
You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.”
“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.”
You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?”
There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft.
You nod once. “Yep.”
Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook.
Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy.
You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick:
‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’
Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller.
With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting.
“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move.
Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you.
You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face.
“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.”
“Copy,” Mickey replies.
“Copy,” Bob mutters.
You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth.
“Hangman, you ready?”
“When you are, boss.”
You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.”
Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful.
But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in.
“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease.
“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.”
“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.”
“Copy that. Repositioning.”
A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.”
“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.”
“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.”
You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.”
He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant.
After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction.
Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn.
“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.”
Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.”
Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable.
“Pilot ready?” you ask.
He glances at his monitor. “Ready.”
You nod. “Run it.”
The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence.
You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long.
He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost.
But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean.
Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter.
“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—”
“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.”
There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher.
“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen.
Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre.
But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow.
You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it.
But he knows something’s wrong.
- Bob -
After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off.
Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend.
“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group.
“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.”
Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?”
“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.”
“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.”
“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.
“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk.
“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path.
“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!”
The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number.
“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.”
One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts.
“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.”
Bob glances up. “Hm?”
“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, I just—”
“Is this about Lucky?”
His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill.
He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?”
Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?”
“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.”
“But she tells me everything,” he mutters.
“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.”
Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day.
“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.”
“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.”
Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide.
She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing.
“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.”
He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid.
He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible.
You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you.
He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone.
He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.
Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him.
“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn.
Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.”
She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.”
“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots.
She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices.
“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat.
Bob frowns. “Where?”
“Hangman’s birthday.”
Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene.
“I don’t know, it—”
“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.”
Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.”
“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.”
After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press.
Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips.
God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base.
Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what.
His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more.
“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?”
Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire.
Cute? You called him cute.
He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?!
He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you.
Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones.
Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach.
Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game.
He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses.
‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’
‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’
‘She only uses Morse code.’
‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’
When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband.
But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely.
And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it.
If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing.
The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap.
He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party.
When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat.
It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading.
And then... there’s you.
It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options.
So you did.
The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin.
Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long.
The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him.
He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment.
The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos?
The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk.
“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions.
This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve.
He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years.
With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him.
Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts.
He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction.
He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it.
His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe.
His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer.
He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight.
His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate.
God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop.
He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And—
His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache.
“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering.
He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more.
Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch.
The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline.
Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’
Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh.
Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants.
- You -
You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t.
Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes.
Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him
You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it.
But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours.
Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you.
And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure.
Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out.
Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage?
He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really.
You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter?
“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?”
The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying.
The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later.
“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.”
You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should.
“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her.
“All for you, baby.”
She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?”
“Show me the way.”
You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance.
“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”
There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head.
“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.”
Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?”
She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.”
“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.”
“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice.
You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked.
“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.”
The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point.
Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild.
“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.”
There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up.
A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball.
“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot.
Everyone follows. “To Bagman!”
You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces.
Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed.
You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him.
You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling.
Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress?
You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart.
After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop.
And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor.
You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands.
The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower?
The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over.
You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club.
You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen.
Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea.
You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and—
Bob.
He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring.
He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in.
And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench.
Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you.
His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide.
He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.
It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out.
Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him.
“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!”
Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin.
“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—”
“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.”
Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.”
You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way.
Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin.
Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea.
After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob.
He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake.
And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral.
His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob.
So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots.
You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music.
“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!”
Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night.
Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school.
Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive.
Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all.
“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand.
They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around.
He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why.
“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.”
“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?”
Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you.
“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.”
Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady.
“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.”
Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.”
Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham.
Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt.
After all, he’s the one who called you reckless.
“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.”
Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes.
Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm.
You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego.
You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob.
The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down.
The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all.
But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor.
You cling to that interruption like a lifeline.
Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly.
The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong.
You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips.
For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him.
Bob.
He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit.
Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes?
They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving.
There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room.
And you feel it.
The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in.
So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all.
But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you.
When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved.
The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away.
You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares.
Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you.
So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer.
You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting.
Then he’s there. Beside you.
He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go.
He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls.
Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you.
He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?”
“What’s your problem?” you bite back.
“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?”
“Doing what?” you demand.
“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—”
“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?”
He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut.
You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know.
He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care.
And that’s the most confusing part.
“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging.
“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.”
He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—”
“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.”
He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—”
“Then why would you say it?”
He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?”
You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?”
“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.”
You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?”
“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.”
Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.
“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.”
His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache.
He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech.
God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music.
Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot.
“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady.
He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling.
“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward.
The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in.
Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more.
You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you.
“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.”
His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?”
“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.”
He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“You love me?”
“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.”
You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate.
One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast.
You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in.
The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs.
He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time.
You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry.
“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want.
His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore.
“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck.
Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle.
“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk.
He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze.
“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw.
His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning.
“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.”
You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.”
That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second.
Then he’s on you. Everywhere.
His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself.
He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple.
Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue.
His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin
“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—”
He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine.
“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?”
You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them.
He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you.
“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.”
He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting.
Then he grinds against you.
His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct.
“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked.
“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.”
His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you.
His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural.
“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control.
Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers.
“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together.
You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.”
His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity.
His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one.
You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward.
“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm.
He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.”
You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.”
That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again.
“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.”
He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward.
Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him.
You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him.
“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.”
You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone.
His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast.
He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper.
“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.”
Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly.
“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky.
He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years.
His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go.
You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time.
He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering.
“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.”
His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob.
The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years.
“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.”
You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you.
Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes.
Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin.
His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls.
He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known.
“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you.
Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone.
It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache.
You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast.
You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else.
He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.”
You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.”
But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again.
His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then—
“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.
Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches.
You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask.
“Bob…”
“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.”
You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis.
“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.”
He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be.
So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too.
You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.”
He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?”
“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his.
He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need.
When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant.
“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking.
Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.”
You’re just about to kiss him again when—
Bang, bang, bang.
“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?”
Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.”
“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?”
Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock.
“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist.
You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?”
“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?”
You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.”
Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all.
Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.”
Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor.
Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing.
You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?”
Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.”
Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist.
“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.”
You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?”
Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass.
“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?”
“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?”
Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.”
You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red.
But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted.
You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away.
“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!”
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