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avengxrz · 29 days ago

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i hate him! marry rooster instead!

A Hangman-Made Disaster — Jake Seresin (Part 2)

WORD COUNT: 12, 368 words PAIRING: jake "hangman" seresin x navalaviator!reader SYNOPSIS: two weeks after telling bradley that you're pregnant with jake's baby, you're still doing everything to keep it quiet. but after one slip-up, one fainting spell, and one too many eyes on you, but then, jake hears something he was never supposed to find out. CONTENT WARNINGS: pregnancy, mentions of vomiting and fainting, mild medical scenes, emotional distress, protective bradley, jake being an ass (temporarily), language, squad teasing, chaotic energy, slightly inaccurate descriptions of early pregnancy, definitely inaccurate navy protocol AUTHOR'S NOTE: i can't fit everything i want to say here so please check the comment below for the full author's note. previous part︱next part︱kofi︱request︱masterlist

Two weeks ago, you had told Bradley about the Seresin baby currently hijacking your body, and ever since, something in him had flipped like a switch. He had shown up at your place less than an hour later, practically kicking down the door with both arms full of what he had confidently declared were pregnancy essentials.

A box of saltine crackers, ginger tea, some gummy vitamins that smelled like regret, and a pregnancy pillow so massive it looked like it could be registered as a second tenant.

And because it was Bradley, there was also a yellowing, crumpled piece of paper titled Carole’s First Trimester, his dad’s old checklist, handed down from his mom for the future, which apparently meant now.

He had brought some of his own things too, a backpack slung over his shoulder that made it clear this wasn’t a drop-in visit. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he just shrugged and said he was staying with you for a bit, just in case.

You didn’t argue. You could have pointed out that you were the one pregnant, not him. That there wasn’t even a bump yet, not even close. Just some queasy mornings, an unsettled feeling you couldn’t shake, and the low hum of panic that followed you from room to room.

You hadn’t gone to the doctor yet. Not once. You kept telling yourself it was because you were busy, or because the nausea made it hard to plan anything, but really, it was something else.

The idea of sitting in that room, hearing that heartbeat, seeing something on a screen that made it all real, alone, didn’t sit right. It wasn’t wrong, exactly. And going with Bradley didn’t feel right either.

He had offered, more than once, in that calm, steady way he always did when he was trying not to push too hard, but you brushed it off each time, changed the subject, pretended not to hear him. Sweet, overbearing, impossibly patient man that he was, he didn’t press. Not really. He just kept showing up anyway.

Meanwhile, you had been trying, really trying, to find the right moment to tell Jake the truth. The truth about the child growing inside you.

The truth about that one reckless night you had sex with him, when both of you were too drunk to think straight and even more foolish for believing it wouldn’t come back to haunt you. But somehow, every single time the opportunity showed up, Jake would open his mouth and ruin it.

He’d glance your way and say something like, “God, you look like you haven’t slept since Vietnam,” or he’d flash you that smug little grin, wink like it meant something, and toss out some unprompted comment about how lucky the guy must be who gets to see you naked.

And just like that, every time you built up the nerve to finally say it, he gave you a new reason to keep your mouth shut.

You had gone over it a thousand times in your head, trying to land on a version that didn’t sound like it would end in disaster. In the mirror, in the shower, during briefings, brushing your teeth, staring at the ceiling at two in the morning.

You’d run through lines like, Hey, remember when we had sex and it was awkward and I told you to shut up? Well, it turns out I’m pregnant. With your demon spawn.

But nothing ever felt right. Nothing came out sounding even remotely survivable. It all felt too messy, too loud, too final. And the longer you waited, the worse it got, like the silence was growing legs and walking beside you wherever you went.

Bradley, in the meantime, had made it his personal mission to keep you fed, hydrated, and emotionally intact. Which, in theory, would have been helpful if he wasn’t also one of the main reasons your stress levels were constantly on the verge of combustion.

He had been following you around like a golden retriever with a clipboard, always hovering just close enough to be helpful, and just constant enough to make you want to scream.

Every day, it was the same: Are you okay? Do you need anything? Want me to carry your gear? Did you eat? How’s your hydration?

You loved Bradley, you really did, but if he asked about your energy levels one more time, you were going to start throwing objects. Maybe even him.

You hadn’t realized just how obvious it had all become until the squad started commenting. At first, it was subtle.

Phoenix giving you a look when the two of you showed up together for the third morning in a row.

Bob blinking at a glacial pace every time Rooster handed you a coffee before you could even ask.

Fanboy loudly wondering how come you and Bradshaw always ended up paired together, like fate had a weird sense of humor.

It was manageable, mostly. You could brush it off, pretend not to notice.

But then, there was Jake.

Of course there was Jake. He took one glance at the two of you walking in one morning, Bradley’s hand resting casually on your shoulder, your face already over it before the day had even started, and said, loud enough for the room to hear, “Wow. You two are like, married-married now, huh?”

And naturally, Bradley said nothing. Didn’t flinch, didn’t rise to it, just kept walking, which somehow made it worse. You rolled your eyes so hard it felt like a full-body workout, and you were half convinced your unborn child saw temporary darkness.

So now, a week after your locker room meltdown and at least a hundred private, silent ones in the days since, you were sitting stiffly at the long table in the briefing room. You sipped water slowly, trying to convince your stomach to behave, trying not to think about the way your head was spinning.

Jake sat across from you, elbow on the table, chin in his hand, eyes locked on you like he knew something was up but hadn’t quite figured out what yet.

Not in a normal way, but in a Hangman way. Like he was watching a soap opera you hadn’t realized you were starring in, and he was absolutely living for it. Jake was still staring.

Not discreetly, not politely, but just full-on, lazy-eyed focus like he was waiting for you to break character.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. You ignored him, and the way his brows pulled together slightly like he was trying to make sense of a puzzle where none of the pieces matched.

You ignored the slow tilt of his head, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that said he knew something you didn’t and was just waiting for the right moment to weaponize it.

You had bigger problems than whatever rerun of stand-up comedy was currently playing inside his brain. Like the constant wave of nausea sitting at the base of your throat. Like the mountain of paperwork waiting on your desk. Like the very real possibility that you were going to cry in public over a breakfast sandwich if your hormones didn’t even out soon.

One by one, the rest of the Dagger Squad filtered into the room, dragging their boots, clutching cups of caffeine in varying states of desperation. Phoenix dropped into her usual seat beside Bob, already halfway through a massive iced coffee that looked more like jet fuel than anything drinkable.

Bob looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and was still somehow functioning, holding a thick folder that he studied with quiet intensity. Harvard came in last, late as always, and flopped into his chair like the walk from the hallway had drained every ounce of energy he had, despite him clearly doing absolutely nothing.

Maverick arrived not long after, holding a tablet and wearing the kind of expression that sat somewhere between tired and already done with all of you.

He swept the room with his eyes as he made his way to the front, gaze flicking over each face in turn before landing on you and Bradley. Still sitting together. Still angled toward each other like you were preparing for turbulence. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“Morning, aviators,” he said instead, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze hanging over the room. “Hope everyone’s still alive after the week we just had.”

There was a low rumble of responses around the room, mostly tired grunts and vague murmurs that didn’t qualify as real engagement. Bob gave a small nod without looking up from his folder. Phoenix mumbled something under her breath about needing a vacation, already leaning her cheek into one hand like she was seconds from dozing off.

You didn’t say anything and just stared blankly at your water bottle, willing your stomach to settle, and tried not to think about how you’d gagged over toothpaste that morning like it had personally wronged you.

“Alright,” Maverick said, tapping at his tablet with the energy of someone barely holding on to his patience. “Couple things. First off, we’ve got some reviews coming up with Command, so part of this week is going to be spent on base maintenance duties. That means inventory checks, paperwork, file audits, tech diagnostics. And if I hear one complaint about it, I’m assigning you to mop the flight deck by hand.”

The squad groaned in unison, the sound dragging across the room like a collective curse.

“No one wants to do it,” Maverick said, not bothering to hide how little he cared. “That’s the point. Consider it character building.”

Jake raised a hand, expression carefully blank except for the spark of mischief flickering behind his eyes. “Sir, can I volunteer to not be part of the character building?”

Phoenix let out a sharp snort without looking at him. Harvard leaned sideways and whispered something under his breath to Bob, who didn’t react beyond a long, slow blink like he was quietly regretting every life choice that had brought him to this moment.

Bradley, seated beside you, gave you a sidelong glance, quick but familiar. Checking, again. Seeing if you were okay, if the color in your face had changed, if you needed anything. You didn’t bother meeting his eyes this time. He’d handed you a protein bar earlier without asking. That had already cost all the energy you had left to acknowledge.

Maverick didn’t so much as glance at Jake’s raised hand and just kept going, steamrolling through the agenda like he hadn’t heard a word. “I’ll be assigning people later today. That’ll be staggered with regular sim rotations and ground prep. Flying schedules stay mostly the same. Rant, Rooster, you’re paired again. Phoenix, you’re flying with Hangman.”

You blinked, your brain catching on that last part like a nail snagging fabric.

“Of course I am,” Phoenix muttered, pressing her fingers into her temples. “God is testing me.”

“I’m delighted,” Jake replied, voice bright and entirely too pleased with himself.

You said nothing. Just kept sipping your water like it was the only thing holding you together. You weren’t looking at him, weren’t acknowledging anything, but still, your body betrayed you. Your stomach turned with a slow, rolling flip that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with memory. Tequila. Heat. Tangled limbs. His voice in the dark. That dumb laugh. And then, a few days later, that second pink line. You could still see it, clear as anything. The one that dragged your entire life sideways before you could even sit down.

You were not going to vomit in the briefing room. You were not going to vomit in the briefing room. You were not—

“Everything good?” Bradley whispered, voice low and steady, just for you.

You nodded, a quick motion that barely passed as convincing. Lie number fifty-four of the day. Thank God you weren’t Pinocchio, because your nose would’ve already knocked your water bottle clean off the table.

Across from you, Jake leaned back in his chair, eyes still pinned to you like you were some complicated equation he couldn’t solve. That same calculating look had been growing more frequent lately, and something in your gut told you he was about to get curious. Really curious.

The kind of curiosity that made you want to climb out of your own skin. You shot him a glare, subtle but sharp, and rolled your eyes for good measure.

Jake just kept watching you with that hawk-eyed focus and a face so smug it should’ve come with a warning label. It was starting to make your skin itch.

Maverick kept talking, moving on to something about the updated training schedule and a potential inspection next week, his tone clipped and practiced, like he’d delivered this same speech five hundred times.

You kept your eyes on your water bottle, nodding occasionally just to look engaged, but your brain was somewhere else entirely. Mostly focused on keeping yourself upright and breathing through the slow, creeping nausea that had been stalking you since you woke up. It was low and constant now, curling beneath your ribs like a warning siren.

The room felt more packed than usual, not that it helped. Coyote was slouched beside Jake, legs stretched out like he hadn’t seen a bed in forty-eight hours.

Honestly, that was probably true. Payback and Fanboy were in the back, whispering too intently for it to be anything related to mission protocol.

Omaha had his feet kicked up on the chair in front of him, right up until Halo smacked them down with her clipboard without even looking.

Fritz yawned wide enough to dislocate his jaw, probably still running on three hours of sleep and a Red Bull-fueled game night. And Yale, God bless him, was still flipping through a notepad like this was a lecture and not a glorified to-do list.

Phoenix glanced over at you, then at Bradley, then back at you again. Her brow twitched just slightly, a small tell, like she was mentally piecing something together, running quiet calculations behind her eyes. You didn’t meet her look.

You just kept your attention fixed on Maverick, on the tablet in his hand, on the lines of text you weren’t reading. Pretending not to notice had become your default setting lately. Full-time job. No days off.

From the other side of the table, Jake stretched in his seat, arms folding behind his head, voice loud and casual like he was genuinely just making conversation. “So… Rooster’s been looking extra nurturing lately. Does anyone else notice that, or is it just me?”

Bradley exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, like he was actively deciding not to respond. You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. You were too busy counting the holes in the ceiling tile above Maverick’s head and debating whether it would be less humiliating to vomit quietly into your lap or right onto Jake’s boots.

“I think it’s sweet,” Fanboy chimed in, his grin wide and unbothered. “Like a very emotionally repressed husband caring for his fragile wife.”

“Why is she the fragile wife?” Payback asked, elbowing him. “She’s clearly the one holding it all together. She’s the emotional backbone.”

“I’m going to murder all of you,” you said calmly, voice flat, eyes still forward.

“See?” Jake added with zero hesitation. “Exactly what a fragile wife would say. I rest my case.”

Coyote let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t notice it first,” Jake shot back, still lounging like he had nowhere better to be.

“I did notice, dude,” Coyote said, his tone dry. “I just have tact.”

Halo leaned in a little from her spot down the table, resting her chin on her hand. “So are you two, like… a thing now?” she asked, not accusatory, just casually curious. “Because it’s giving cohabitation. Not judging, though.”

Phoenix tilted her head, eyes flicking to Maverick. “Mav’s not gonna say anything about this vibe shift?”

Maverick didn’t even look up right away. When he did, it was with the flat expression of a man who had stopped fighting a battle he never signed up for. “I stopped asking questions two days ago.”

Your jaw locked tight. You didn’t respond. You didn’t breathe. Bradley didn’t offer anything either. Just looked at you, barely a glance, like a quiet check-in. You met it with a single blink, a one-second exchange that apparently translated to I am dangerously close to flipping this entire table but I’ve got it handled.

Maverick cleared his throat, mercifully pulling the room back on track. “Alright. If we’re done with the social hour, I’ll send the new duty rotations to your inboxes this afternoon. Until then, sim pairs start in twenty. Try not to kill each other in the hallway.”

Chairs scraped. People stood. The usual shuffle began as everyone filed out, grabbing gear, exchanging jokes, bumping into each other like half-functioning caffeine zombies. You stayed seated for a second longer, letting the room thin out.

Rooster was already up, standing quietly nearby, waiting for you with that calm, patient energy he never seemed to lose. And, of course, Jake wasn’t moving. Still slouched in his chair like he had all the time in the world, arms now crossed over his chest, eyes locked on you like he could peel back your skin and read what was written underneath.

“Must be nice,” he said, low and lazy but loud enough for you to hear. “Getting special treatment.”

You turned your head slowly, leveled him with a look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Jake smiled, that kind of smile that was all teeth and no warmth, the kind that always meant trouble. “You and Rooster. Always partnered. Always showing up together. He’s suddenly very invested in your hydration. Makes a guy curious.”

You stood, slow and deliberate, not bothering to hide the look you gave him. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you had emotional depth, someone would care about your hydration too.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and amused. “Touché, Rant.”

Coyote glanced between the two of you and sighed like he was already tired of the entire conversation, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “This again.”

You didn’t give either of them a second glance as you walked out, footsteps steady even though your stomach was louder now, twisting and churning like it was trying to climb its way up your throat. Rooster followed close behind, quiet, steady as ever.

But your mind was already spinning, even as you tried to keep your expression neutral, your steps controlled. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the nausea and the burn in your chest, a voice you didn’t want to hear started to push through. He knows, or he’s about to.

After the sim, you didn’t wait.

Your boots hit the tarmac, the canopy barely unlatched, and you were already moving. Rooster’s voice crackled faintly over the comms, asking if you were good, but you didn’t answer. You weren’t. Not even close.

The nausea had crept in sometime during the climb, but it was the familiar maneuvers, ones you could practically fly in your sleep, that finally sent your stomach into full-blown rebellion. Harvard had barely finished his post-landing checks when you were already sprinting off the flight line, helmet under your arm, vision tunneling.

You made it to the women’s bathroom just in time.

Thankfully, it was empty. No other pilots, no squadmates, no one to witness you absolutely fall apart in a stall while still half in your flight suit.

You dropped to your knees with all the grace of a dying animal and emptied everything that had made the grave mistake of existing inside you.

Water, the protein bar Bradley had forced into your hand that morning, even the mint gum you chewed to distract from your gag reflex, gone. Your body wasn’t interested in subtlety anymore.

You leaned over the toilet, breathing hard, knuckles white against the stall wall. This wasn’t new. This had been happening for a week straight. Some mornings were worse than others. Today, though, your stomach went feral the second the Gs hit your body like a memory.

Seriously, what was wrong with you?

You had Googled everything. You knew nausea was common. You knew vomiting was too. You knew “morning sickness” was a lie, because your sickness had no concept of time.

You had even flipped through Carole’s First Trimester book, Bradley’s ancient, yellowed guide with outdated fonts and weird bolded sections, but nothing explained why your nervous system felt like it was short-circuiting.

The internet didn’t say anything about flying jets while your unborn child kicked your ass from the inside. It also didn’t mention the part where you couldn’t tell if you were panicking from hormones or guilt, or if your baby was already a Seresin-level drama queen, pissed you hadn’t told their father yet.

You flushed the toilet, still shaking, and unzipped the top half of your flight suit, tying the sleeves around your waist before heading to the sink.

The mirror was unforgiving.

Your face was a little paler than usual. Your lips were dry. There were faint shadows under your eyes, not bad enough to concern anyone, but definitely there if you knew where to look. You turned sideways, adjusting your undershirt, and stared at your stomach.

It looked the same, maybe even smaller now after losing weight from everything you had thrown up in the last week.

But then your hand settled against your lower belly. It wasn’t deliberate at first, just an idle gesture, something absentminded, like pressing at a bruise to check if it still hurt. Your fingers paused, lingered, as if your body had registered something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

It was barely anything. Just a gentle curve beneath the skin, not quite foreign but not familiar either. You’d told yourself it was nothing. Bloating. Muscle. Something you imagined.

You’d lost weight recently anyway. That part wasn’t new. The stress had carved it out of you bit by bit: long days, longer nights, skipped meals, throwing up what you could manage to eat. Pretending to be fine was more exhausting than the actual sickness.

Your clothes hung differently now, your pants loose around the waist, but that wasn’t the part that caught you off guard. It was the way your palm settled over that slight rise, how something about it felt steady.

Grounded. Not like a symptom, not like a fluke. Then the silence in the room began to feel louder, like your body had just told you something it had been holding onto for weeks.

You swallowed, throat burning. Your hand lingered a second longer, thumb brushing gently over nothing in particular, like you could send a message through skin and bone.

Like maybe they would hear you. Maybe they were the reason you were feeling worse today. Maybe they were trying to tell you something. Like, hi, I’m in here. You don’t have to be alone. Also, maybe tell my dad before I develop a grudge and start biting people in kindergarten.

Your eyes stung before you could stop them.

You turned your face away, blinking hard, one hand braced against the sink. Your breath caught, and then again, and then the tears started. Not loud. Just quiet and steady, like your body had decided it was tired of pretending too. One hand still pressed to the faintest beginnings of a bump that only you could feel, and there it was. The breaking point.

You were so tired. So tired of hiding, and lying, and acting like this wasn’t real when it very much was. You had no idea how to do this. No idea how to be a mother. No idea how to tell Jake Seresin he got you pregnant after one aggressively stupid night of drunken sex that was supposed to mean nothing.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, grabbed a paper towel, and dabbed under your eyes. You still had a job to do. You still had to walk out there and act normal.

Outside, everyone thought you were still just you.

But in the mirror, you barely recognized the person staring back.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in there. Just crouched over the sink like it owed you answers, flight suit hanging around your hips, undershirt sticking to your back.

You weren’t crying anymore, not technically, but your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and your throat still felt raw like you’d swallowed a scream.

Breathe. That was all you could focus on. Just breathe. Pull it together. You had to. You always did.

This wasn’t you. You didn’t fall apart. Not where anyone could see.

Then the door creaked open behind you.

Shit.

You froze. For half a second, you thought maybe you could fake it. Splash your face, shake it off, walk out with some half-assed joke like, “Ugh, chow hit back,” and call it a day. But the second you looked up, and there she was. Phoenix. Reflected in the mirror, standing just behind you like she'd been there all along.

She didn’t speak and ask. She just looked at you and waited.

That almost broke you more than anything else.

You quickly turned your face away, wiping under your eyes again. “I’m fine,” you muttered, even though your voice cracked halfway through.

Phoenix didn’t step closer. She didn’t say anything. She just stayed where she was, quiet, letting the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t awkward, and it didn’t feel like she was waiting for you to explain yourself. It just felt steady, like she was giving you space to breathe, to come back to yourself, without asking for anything in return.

And you hated it.

Not her. Not the quiet. Just being like this; exposed, shaken, raw in a way you’d spent years learning how to hide. You hated how your body refused to listen to you, how your face was warm and your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. You weren’t supposed to be this version of yourself anymore.

You had spent so long building up the opposite. You’d made yourself into someone who didn’t cry, who didn’t ask for help, who rolled her eyes at softness and told people off before they could get too close. You became sharp on purpose. You learned how to stay in control, even when it hurts.

Because growing up, crying made you a target.

And you used to cry all the time. You were soft, and you felt everything, like when your goldfish died, when someone teased the way you dressed, when a teacher raised their voice. You cried in hallways, in classrooms, on the school bus home, and it didn’t take long for people to notice. You were the crybaby.

The dramatic one. Too much. Too sensitive. Too weak.

So, you changed. You got louder, you got meaner, and you made sure people thought twice before messing with you. You taught yourself not to cry, no matter what. Not at school, not at home, not in front of anyone.

And for the most part, it worked.

Until now.

You blinked hard, too fast, trying to force it all back down before it could spill over. Something had caught in your throat again, thick and sharp, and the rise and fall of your chest wasn’t syncing up with your breath the way it should. You stayed still, hoping the silence might settle you, but even that wasn’t working.

And before you could get your bearings, the door flew open with a sharp crack against the wall. It startled you enough to flinch, the sound echoing too loudly in the small space, and when you turned around, Bradley was already inside.

He didn’t slow down, and didn’t hesitate. His eyes found you instantly, scanning quickly, like he’d been expecting something worse. He was across the room in a blink, steps steady and sure, like whatever was happening in here didn’t surprise him, like he knew what he was walking into.

“Rooster—” Phoenix’s voice cut through behind him, somewhere between surprised and annoyed. “This is the women’s bathroom.”

He didn’t so much as look her way. His arms found you like they always knew where to go, pulling you close with a grip that didn’t leave room for second-guessing. And without thinking, you melted into it.

Your hands immediately grabbed onto his shirt like muscle memory, and your face tucked into his shoulder like that’s where it had always meant to land. You weren’t thinking, not really. It just happened. It was the first thing that made sense in hours.

Phoenix stayed where she was, her expression shifting as she took it in. Her posture stiffened like she meant to say something else, maybe scold him again, maybe pull you both apart. But something about the way you clung to him stopped her.

You weren’t just holding him. You were gripping him, like your fingers didn’t trust the world around you enough to let go. Your body leaned into his like your own weight had started to betray you, and all you could do was fold into the steadiness of his. That was enough to keep her quiet. For now.

After a while, she sighed, gave Bradley a pat on the shoulder, and stroked your hair gently. It was soft and brief. Then, she decided to walk out of the comfort, no pun intended, room, leaving you and Bradley alone as she shut the door behind her.

Bradley didn’t move, didn’t shift away, even when the worst of it passed. His arms stayed around you, steady as ever, holding you like nothing else mattered, like there was nowhere else he needed to be. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t forced. Just quiet and solid, the way people rarely are when everything feels like it’s slipping.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone let you come undone without trying to fix it, without trying to shrink it down into something more manageable. There was no attempt to steer you toward optimism, no rushed assurances or well-meaning advice. Just the kind of silence that lets you exist without apology.

Eventually, your breathing started to even out, slow and shaky but no longer on the edge of breaking. And when he felt your weight begin to soften in his arms, he shifted carefully, guiding both of you to the floor. His back found the wall, and he eased you down with him, pulling you into his side like you belonged there.

You let it happen without a second thought. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, and the cold of the tile barely registered. Your face stayed buried in his chest, your cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt, and even though your eyes still burned, your chest didn’t feel as tight anymore. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you could actually breathe.

His voice broke through after a while, low and quiet, careful in the way he always was when he didn’t want to push. “You okay?”

You let out a laugh that cracked at the edges, muffled into his shirt. “What do you think?”

He smiled against your hair, barely a curve of his mouth, and rubbed slow circles along your back with the heel of his palm. “Fair.”

It stayed still for a little while longer, just the two of you pressed side by side against the wall. You didn’t rush to speak again, and he didn’t seem to need you to.

But eventually, you pulled back enough to sit up properly. Your shoulders slumped, and your head thudded against the wall as you exhaled. The movement was small, but it felt like letting go of something you’d been gripping too tightly.

You dragged both hands down your face and sat there for a second, raw and hollow. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Roo.”

He watched you closely, eyes narrowing with something that looked like worry, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“About the baby?” he asked, finally.

You nodded, still catching your breath, still reeling in pieces you hadn’t realized had scattered. “About everything,” you said, voice low and hoarse. “I feel like I’m losing it. I’m throwing up every other hour, I can’t think straight, and I swear this baby is already trying to tank every sim I touch. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days, and this morning I cried over my toothbrush because it fell on the floor.”

Your voice wavered, and you paused, looking down at your lap. It took you a second to say the last part. “And I still haven’t told him.”

─────── After what felt like hours but was probably twenty or thirty minutes, you finally managed to calm down. Your breathing had returned to something almost normal, and your hands had stopped shaking. You splashed cold water on your face one more time, patted it dry with some rough paper towels, and tried not to wince at the sight of your reflection.

Your eyes were still a little red, your cheeks blotchy, but at least you didn’t look like someone who had just sobbed into Bradley Bradshaw’s shirt in the middle of the women's bathroom. Well, not completely.

Bradley had done his best too, dampening the wet spot on his shirt with more paper towels and drying it under the hand dryer like someone fighting for his life. You watched him with something close to amusement, even though your chest still ached.

He caught your expression and just shrugged. “It’s not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me in a bathroom.”

You snorted and grabbed the door handle. “That’s deeply concerning.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

As you stepped out into the hallway, you stretched your arms overhead and let out a long yawn, the kind that took over your entire body. A second later, Bradley yawned too, completely unprompted. You shot him a glare. “Are you serious right now?”

“Contagious,” he said, eyes squinting through his own yawn. “Not my fault.”

You were both still blinking off the daze when a voice interrupted.

“Well, well, well,” said Halo, standing just a few meters away.

You froze mid-step.

She raised her brows slowly, glancing between you, Bradley, and the very obvious “WOMEN” sign over the bathroom door behind you. Her eyes widened just a little, and then she smiled like she’d just stumbled into the punchline of a joke.

“You know,” she said, stepping past you with a wink, “I better not find any mess in there.”

She disappeared into the bathroom before you could even open your mouth to explain.

You stood there, stunned for half a second, then turned to Bradley. “I should go in there and clarify that we were not doing the nasty.”

Bradley held up a hand. “She’s not gonna believe you anyway. No one will.”

And honestly? That was fair.

Because, unfortunately, it wasn’t a secret that you and Bradley had slept together. Not once. Not twice. And not just that third time after New Year’s when everyone got blackout drunk, cried over champagne, and hugged like it was the end of the world.

No, it was an actual, recurring thing. You’d had sex with Bradley Bradshaw in at least three states, four hotels, one supply closet, and during a power outage in Fallon that left absolutely nothing to do except fuck on top of a blanket of flight jackets.

At this point, everyone in the squad had either walked in on a post-mission cuddle, overheard something through the paper-thin walls, or been forced to rearrange hotel rooms because you and Bradley had “accidentally” booked the same suite with one bed. No one believed it was an accident. Honestly, not even you.

So Halo thinking you two had just defiled a government-funded women's restroom? Not exactly shocking.

Still, it wasn’t fucking fair.

Because somehow, despite all that, the universe had spared you. You and Bradley could get tangled in bedsheets and feelings and unresolved tension, and the only consequences you’d ever suffered were fogged-up car windows and some deeply humiliating flashbacks. Nothing stuck. Nothing serious.

But one night. One goddamn night with Jake Seresin. One stupid, drunken, gloriously hot, way-too-loud, swear-to-God-the-headboard-cracked night with your lifelong nemesis, and now there was a baby. A baby. A whole miniature Seresin kicking around in your uterus like they had a mortgage and a grudge.

You could still hear the way he’d said your name that night, slurred and cocky and out of breath, hands gripping your thighs like he was trying to make a point.

You hadn’t even liked him. You had hated him. You still hated him.

But your body apparently had different plans, and now, ten weeks later, you were throwing up in bathrooms and looking at your barely-there bump like it personally betrayed you.

You glared at the ceiling as you walked, muttering, “I should’ve just stayed celibate.”

Bradley glanced sideways. “What?”

You sighed. “Nothing. Let’s just get to the ready room before Halo starts spreading rumors about sink sex.”

“Too late,” he said under his breath.

Because knowing Halo, she was already halfway through the retelling with hand gestures and dramatic reenactments.

After the bathroom breakdown and the whole Halo-just-witnessed-us-exit-the-same-stall disaster, lunch felt like a reward. A medal of honor. A small, edible miracle.

You and Bradley made your way toward the galley, both of you dragging a little. The sims had been brutal, your stomach was still mildly pissed, and you were riding that post-cry fatigue like a wave.

The galley wasn’t packed, thankfully. A few tables were scattered with sleepy pilots, most hunched over food and coffee like they hadn’t slept since 2003. The far corner had an empty table that looked like it hadn’t seen drama in the last thirty minutes. That would do.

Bradley led the way toward the food line like a man on a mission, grabbing a tray for you before you could even reach for one.

“What about this?” he asked, picking up some grilled chicken and placing it halfway on your tray. You scrunched your nose.

“No,” you muttered, backing away from the steam rising off the metal tray like it personally offended you.

“Okay,” he said, unfazed, sliding it back. “What about… this?” He pointed to green beans.

Your entire soul recoiled. “Get those away from me.”

Bradley blinked. “You liked these last week.”

“Well, that was before the demon possessing me decided it wasn’t having any of it.”

“I thought it was a baby.”

You glared.

Bradley kept walking, passing dish after dish as you winced at almost all of them, until he stopped suddenly. “Okay. What if we… got you this,” he said, pointing to the grilled cheese, “and… dipped it in mashed potatoes?”

You blinked at him.

“Too weird?” he asked, hesitating.

“No,” you said quickly. “That sounds amazing.”

He blinked back at you. “Seriously?”

“I want it. Right now. Like. Immediately.”

So he assembled your Frankenstein meal with the focus of a surgeon. Grilled cheese. Mashed potatoes. Pickles. And one side of plain pasta. Not pasta with sauce. Just… pasta. He also grabbed you a water and himself a sports drink, along with his usual lunch that consisted of food that actually made sense.

The two of you sat down at the table in the corner, and for the first few moments, you just stared at your food in awe. It was like your brain finally clicked into place. This was exactly what you wanted. Your stomach made a little happy flip that for once didn’t feel like vomit was on the way.

Meanwhile, Bradley started digging into his food like he hadn’t eaten since dawn. You turned to look at him with an expression that could only be described as disturbed.

He noticed. “What?” he asked, mouth half-full.

You wrinkled your nose. “That’s disgusting.”

He gave you an offended look. “I’m eating chicken and rice.”

“And yet you’re chewing it like a gremlin.”

He huffed, stabbing at his food, then gestured with his fork at your plate. “You’re literally about to dip a grilled cheese into mashed potatoes. Who gave you the right to judge?”

You narrowed your eyes at him like he’d just insulted your unborn child. Which he kind of had. “Watch it, Bradshaw.”

Then, very deliberately, you dipped your grilled cheese into the potatoes and took a huge bite.

Bradley stared, probably expecting you to gag.

Instead, you lit up like Christmas. “Oh my God,” you mumbled through the mouthful. “This is so good.”

“You’re beaming,” he said flatly.

“I’m glowing,” you corrected, waving your sandwich like a holy artifact. “This is my Roman Empire.”

Bradley rolled his eyes and went back to eating. “You’re such a freak.”

You took another bite and smiled wider. “And yet, you love me.”

The moment did not even last five seconds.

“Aw, look at you two. Lovebirds in the galley,” Jake’s voice cut through the air like a fart during the wedding vows. “What’s next? Feeding each other Jell-O? Writing your vows over mashed potatoes?”

You did not even look up, but your eye twitched. Because of course he was here. Of course he was talking. You could have been in the middle of a eulogy, reciting the last words of a fallen comrade with a single tear rolling down your cheek, and Jake Seresin would still find a way to interrupt it all with a smug comment and a wink.

It was practically a biological function for him at this point. He thrived on being the loudest voice in the room and the first to ruin a perfectly tolerable silence.

You swallowed your bite, slow and steady, mostly to keep yourself from lunging at him with your fork. There was no way you were going to let the father of your unborn child ruin this strangely beautiful moment of peace. Yes, your child. Yes, his child.

The unfortunate result of one night that started with whiskey, ended in regret, and apparently led to the microscopic formation of a very opinionated fetus now renting space in your uterus.

And today was the first day in weeks that your stomach had not declared war on your insides. For once, you had managed to eat without gagging. No tears over toast. No crying at scrambled eggs. No throwing up at the scent of a fresh lemon.

You had found something that worked, a weird grilled cheese dipped in mashed potatoes, and it had brought you actual, legitimate joy. You had nearly cried again, but this time for good reasons. You were not about to let Jake take that from you.

You looked up slowly, set your fork down with the quiet threat of someone barely holding it together, and smiled. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, I don’t know, a mirror to make out with?”

Jake lit up like a Christmas tree. “Missed me, huh?”

“Like I miss kidney stones.”

That one hit just right. Even Bradley choked a little, probably trying not to laugh.

Jake laughed anyway. “You’re cute when you’re in denial.”

You stared at him, thinking about how much prison time you might serve if you launched your tray at his face.

Unfortunately, you were pregnant now, and everyone seemed to have strong opinions about what you were allowed to do. Things like not getting arrested. Not headbutting Navy pilots. Not going viral on base security footage.

Before you could risk saying something you would regret, Bradley calmly wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Shut it, Bagman.”

His tone was not angry. Just tired. Like a teacher who had spent too many hours with a classroom full of hyper kids and had given up on pretending to care.

Jake opened his mouth, probably with another sarcastic jab ready, but he never got to use it. A loud smack landed against the back of his head.

You blinked.

Jake blinked.

The entire table blinked.

Because Bob Floyd, sweet cardigan-wearing Bob, had just slapped Jake Seresin like it was a regular part of his schedule.

Bob dropped into the seat beside you without hesitation. “Don’t be a high school bully in the cafeteria,” he said, calm as anything. “This isn’t Mean Girls.”

You turned to look at him. “Did you just quote Mean Girls?”

Bob gave you a tiny, innocent smile and picked up his sandwich. “Tuesdays, we wear flight suits.”

You stared at him in admiration. Bob might have just become your new favorite person. Hormones or not, that was well earned.

Phoenix appeared beside you next, dropping her tray like she had been summoned. She gave you a knowing look. “You good?”

You nodded. “Good.” You were surprisingly okay. You were surviving. Sure, you were carrying your mortal enemy’s child, but for now, everything was quiet. That counted for something.

Then the rest of the squad began to arrive like they had been waiting in the wings for their cue. Payback and Fanboy were already arguing over some bet you had missed, and Coyote gave you a grin as he passed, stealing a fry off Jake’s tray without missing a beat.

No one said anything about the situation. No one acted like any of it was strange. This was just what lunch looked like now.

Omaha, Fritz, Harvard, Yale were nowhere to be seen. More importantly, neither was Halo. You had no idea where they were, and frankly, you did not care. You had gotten through the first half of the day without puking or crying in public, and that was more than you could ask for.

You and Bradley exchanged a flat look across the table.

This was your life now.

Jake, completely unbothered, dropped into the seat next to Bradley and settled in like he was royalty returning to his throne. His tray hit the table with a soft clatter, and just as he leaned back, he turned his head toward you and winked.

You wanted to commit a crime.

But then, you saw his tray.

There was a burger. Not just a burger. A golden, greasy, perfect burger with melted cheese and a toasted bun. Next to it, a pile of fries so crisp they looked like they would crunch in the best possible way. There was mac and cheese that still steamed slightly. And worst of all, the chocolate chip cookie, thick and soft in the center, still warm enough to be gooey.

Your stomach growled so loudly that even Coyote looked up from his stolen fry.

You froze.

No. Absolutely not. You were not going to crave something Jake Seresin had touched. You were not going to be swayed by fries and cheese and cookies. You had already made the mistake of letting him into your body once. That was plenty. You were not about to let his lunch seduce you too.

But still.

That burger.

That mac and cheese.

That cookie.

You stared at his tray like it was mocking you. It looked like something out of a food commercial. You could feel it happening. Your unborn child was choosing sides. And somehow, they had chosen Jake.

You could feel it in your stomach. In your bones. In your very soul. The baby wanted that burger. And that was just perfect. Your child had inherited Jake’s flair for dramatics.

Still, you said nothing. You stared at your tray like it had betrayed you. You took another bite of your mashed potato grilled cheese and chewed like everything was fine.

Because of course the baby wanted what their father had.

Of course they did. Traitor.

You kept eating, quietly and steadily, like if you just focused hard enough on your food, the entire world would fade into the background. The mashed potato grilled cheese combo still hit just right, and despite how awful you felt earlier, this little moment of peace was starting to mend your sanity in slow, cautious pieces.

Bradley was unbothered beside you, sipping on his drink, content that you were finally getting something into your system.

Then Jake opened his mouth again.

He took another exaggerated bite of his burger, wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin like he was on a cooking show, and said, “Still can’t believe you’re actually eating that. Looks like something a six-year-old makes when they’re home alone and unsupervised.”

The words hit a little too sharp. You swallowed your bite and felt the mood shift slightly around the table. It wasn’t just the words, it was the tone, the casual judgment he always had loaded into his voice when it came to you. Like your existence was one big inside joke he never let you in on.

You didn’t even look up, just kept chewing, but you felt it.

Eyes.

Coyote raised a brow as he looked between you and the food. “She’s been acting weird lately, man. Like, extra weird.”

“Maybe she’s on some new cleanse,” Payback added, squinting at your plate like it personally offended him.

Fanboy chuckled and shrugged. “Or maybe she’s just pregnant or something, ha!”

The silence that followed that was loud.

Phoenix’s head snapped toward the three of them so fast it was practically a threat. She didn’t even speak. She just looked at them, one by one, like she could end bloodlines with her stare alone. That was enough. The three men immediately fell silent, all pretending to be deeply invested in their trays. Fanboy even took a loud sip of his drink to hide behind it.

Jake, of course, hadn’t gotten the memo. “I mean, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing she’s done. Maybe she finally got knocked—”

“Actually,” Bob cut in, quiet but firm, as he set his fork down with the kind of precision that made everyone look up, “there’s a book I read once. Meathooked, by Marta Zaraska. It talks about how people’s food preferences are shaped by more than just taste. Psychology, biology, culture. Even hormones and environmental triggers.”

He looked straight at Jake, not blinking. “It said women tend to crave things that match what their body thinks it needs. Sometimes it’s protein. Sometimes carbs. Sometimes it’s grilled cheese and mashed potatoes. You wouldn’t get it. It’s science.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he added, “So maybe don’t mock someone’s lunch just because you don’t understand it.”

He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either. He just... looked awfully calm, like he was saying it for you, not for effect, like maybe he understood more than he let on. Not everything, but maybe that's enough.

You froze.

Bob turned back to his food, picked up his fork again, and resumed eating like he hadn’t just delivered the most casually devastating mic drop of the day. Meanwhile, your stomach twisted and you looked away, pretending none of it meant anything.

The twist in your gut had nothing to do with food.

You dropped your gaze and focused on your plate again. You didn’t want to think about what that look had meant. You didn’t want to deal with the way your heart had kicked up, or how it suddenly felt like someone had yanked the rug out from under your moment of peace without even trying. You just wanted to eat. You just wanted five more minutes of comfort, untouched and quiet.

Bradley must have noticed the shift immediately. He glanced over, gave you a subtle, tight-lipped smile, then turned smoothly toward Jake. His voice was light, but there was intention behind it. “Hey, Bagman, did you see Yale nearly crash the sim earlier? Thing looked like a carnival ride.”

Jake, as expected, latched onto the distraction. “Yeah, man, I thought he was doing a barrel roll for fun.”

As they started laughing about it, Bradley steered the conversation further away, guiding Jake with the practiced ease of someone who had done this more than once. You didn’t say anything, but you took another small bite of your sandwich and silently thanked him. The buzz under your skin from Bob’s words was still there, stubborn and warm, and you didn’t know what to do with it.

You were not going to cry again. Not here, not in the galley, and certainly not while your food was still warm.

───────

Lunch ended peacefully enough. Or at least as peaceful as it could get with Jake tossing passive-aggressive comments between bites and Bob somehow knowing everything except how to stay in his own lane.

You ate slower than usual, letting your stomach settle for once in its miserable existence. Bradley stayed nearby the entire time, only stepping away once to refill your drink, and you tried not to think about how quietly nice that was.

The calm shattered the moment you stepped out of the galley.

Jake’s voice rang down the hallway like he was announcing a national emergency. “Alright, children,” he called out, already positioned in front of the squad with the smugness of someone who had just been named prom king.

“Seeing as Mav got called into some high-level meeting, or possibly a cosmic summit with other flight gods, he’s left yours truly in charge.”

The squad reacted instantly.

“What?!” Coyote nearly choked on his gum.

“You’re joking,” Phoenix said without emotion.

Payback threw both hands into the air. “We’re all gonna die.”

Jake ignored them entirely and lifted a clipboard that clearly did not belong to him. “Nope. Captain Mitchell gave me the list of sim reports and full authority to assign remedial action for today’s... underperformers.”

That last word made your stomach clench.

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “Maverick actually said that?”

Jake smiled. “Well, not in those exact words, but I got the message. Anyway. Let’s begin with some of our favorites, shall we?”

He started reading off names like he was announcing superlatives in a yearbook. Fanboy and Payback were called out for nearly colliding midair.

Fritz got flagged for a slow pitch adjustment. Omaha forgot comms protocol and made the entire squad sound like they were in a group chat with poor reception. And many others as well.

Then, far too casually, Jake said your name.

Your eyebrows shot up. Around you, everyone turned to look. You didn’t even try to hide how confused you were.

Bradley leaned forward immediately. “She didn’t fail. She and Harvard were one of the first to finish the run.”

Jake raised one hand and theatrically flipped to another page. “According to Mav’s notes, she broke formation protocol after landing. Left the tarmac. Skipped debrief. That’s a breach, folks.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” Jake replied, looking way too pleased with himself. “You ran off the second your boots hit concrete. There’s a procedure for reentry and debrief, and you skipped all of it.”

“She was sick,” Bradley said sharply. “You know that.”

Jake shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Rules are rules.”

There was a pause around the group. Nobody liked how smug he sounded, but technically, he wasn’t wrong. There was a rule about post-flight protocol, buried deep in the handbook, and you just never thought anyone would actually bother to enforce it.

Bradley took a step forward. “Then I’ll take her punishment.”

Jake’s grin faltered. “You’re serious?”

“She wasn’t feeling well. She shouldn’t even have been flying. I’ll take her slot.”

Jake rubbed his face like this was giving him a headache. “Bradshaw, you’ve really got to stop with this overprotective thing. At this point I’m starting to think you two are codependent.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped forward before Bradley could respond again. “Enough. I’ll do it.”

Jake looked like someone had just handed him an early Christmas bonus.

Bradley gave you a look, somewhere between disbelief and worry, but you held up a hand. You were not in the mood to drag this out any longer.

“I broke protocol. Fine. Whatever,” you said, your voice flat. “Let’s get it over with.”

Jake clapped his hands together, the grin back in full force. “Perfect. I’ve got something real special lined up. And don’t worry, it’s not just paperwork. That would be too easy.”

He leaned in, a smile full of teeth and trouble. “We’re talking old-school, Navy-approved physical conditioning. Think laps. Think drills. Think sweat.”

You blinked, already regretting every choice you had ever made that led to this moment. A small part of you wished you had faked passing out when you had the chance.

"Hangman, just stop this, dude, please..."

"What? No way!"

Bradley could barely believe what he was seeing. He stood at the edge of the tarmac, arms crossed, jaw tight as he watched you jog another miserable lap under the brutal midday sun.

You were running alongside Omaha, Fritz, Payback, Fanboy, Harvard, and Yale, all of you in full flight suits, soaked with sweat and barely holding yourselves together. Jake, naturally, was standing in the shade like a smug golden retriever who had just discovered he could wield power over the entire squad.

And he was thriving.

Jake had taken his role far too seriously. The punishments weren’t just a quick jog or some push-ups.

No, he had orchestrated a full-fledged boot camp. Sprints, crawling drills, burpees, yes, burpees, cross the tarmac, high knees around cones he’d made someone fetch from the equipment room, and a very specific punishment for anyone who tried to complain: planking while holding a full flight helmet over their head. It was chaos.

Every few minutes, he blew a whistle he found from God knows where and shouted, “Faster! I want to feel the regret in your footsteps!”

Bradley was seconds from losing his mind. “Jake,” he tried again, exasperated. “You’ve made your point. They get it.”

Jake tossed him a grin like he was doing the squad a favor. “This is discipline, Bradshaw. You should be thanking me.”

Bradley opened his mouth to say something, but then you stumbled during a turn, catching yourself on your knees before springing back up with a tired groan. His entire body tensed.

You were trying to play it off, like you weren’t about to throw up or pass out or both, but he saw it. You weren’t okay. Not even close.

“Are we really pretending this is about discipline?” Bradley muttered under his breath.

Jake crossed his arms, still unbothered. “You had your chance to switch with her, man. She insisted. That’s on her.”

“She’s ten seconds away from face-planting.”

“She’s ten seconds away from character growth.”

Meanwhile, across the tarmac, you were starting to see colors that probably weren’t part of the visible spectrum. Your hair clung to your forehead, your suit was sticking to places it had no business sticking, and every single one of your teammates looked like they were regretting every life decision that had led them here.

Payback was wheezing beside you. Fritz looked like he was about to cry. Yale, your sweet Yale, had already cursed Jake’s entire bloodline in two different languages.

At your other side, Harvard was surprisingly steady, but the way he kept glancing at you made it clear he was worried.

“I’m fine,” you muttered to him, absolutely not fine.

“Sure,” he replied, not buying it. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

You would’ve laughed, but your lungs had moved past humor. All you could focus on was the boiling heat radiating off the pavement, the sour taste in your mouth, and the absolutely demonic voice of Jake yelling, “Only three more laps! Push through the pain!”

Three.

You were going to kill him. After you threw up and cried and maybe slept for fourteen hours, you were going to kill Jake Seresin.

Another lap passed, and then you stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch your breath, to keep yourself upright, to stop your body from completely falling apart in the middle of the track. Your lungs burned, your legs trembled, and your vision swam, but you didn’t sit down.

You didn’t puke, either, which felt like a miracle in itself. That single pause was all it took for the others to get ahead. The gap between you and the rest of the squad grew with every second, and still, you stayed rooted in place, trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t punching its way out of your chest.

Jake, of course, noticed immediately.

“Rant,” he barked from the shade, like he hadn’t personally sentenced everyone to slow-cooked suffering under the sun. “Clock’s still running. You think war stops because your legs hurt?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even glance in his direction.

“Get moving!”

Coyote, jogging across the track, slowed a little and lifted a hand. “Hey, maybe chill out?”

“She’s pale,” Phoenix added, keeping her eyes on you. She had dropped back beside Bob, who didn’t say anything right away, just frowned harder.

Then Bob muttered, “Maybe stop yelling for five seconds.”

Jake ignored all of them, sticking two fingers in his mouth and whistling like he was trying to call a dog. “We’re not done. That’s the point of punishment. It’s supposed to suck.”

Your head pounded harder with every word. The heat pressed down on you like a weighted blanket, thick and suffocating. Your uniform clung to your skin, sweat soaked through every seam, and you couldn’t tell if you were dizzy from the running, the sun, or the full-body nausea that had started creeping up from your stomach.

But you pushed off your knees, straightened up, and ran. Not because you wanted to, and not because you had anything left, but because stopping completely felt worse. So you kept going.

Somehow, you dragged your body through the final stretch. When you and the others crossed the line, everyone practically dropped right there on the pavement. Shirts were soaked. Hands grabbed knees.

Someone mumbled that death sounded like a better option than another sprint, and no one disagreed. The air felt like it had weight to it, pressing down on every inch of exposed skin.

Jake stood at the edge of it all, hands on his hips, surveying the group like he was evaluating a job interview. Then his eyes landed on you.

You were bent forward, hands on your thighs, trying not to black out.

He tilted his head and called, “You’ve got one more.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jake pointed toward the far corner of the track. “Your second lap was short. You cut the corner by the cones. Mav wouldn’t approve.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“I didn’t cut anything,” you said, slowly straightening, though your body immediately regretted it.

Jake shrugged like it didn’t matter either way. “That’s not what I saw. Go again, sweetheart.”

Your fists curled at your sides. You could already picture it, your fist connecting with his stupid face, the sharp sting across your knuckles, the moment of complete silence right after. You were ready. You wanted to do it. It would have felt incredible.

But then Bradley stepped forward, planting himself between you and Jake like a brick wall.

“Jake, that’s enough,” he said, calm but firm. “She’s done.”

Jake didn’t blink. “She still has one more.”

“She’s not doing another lap.”

Jake stepped in closer, not quite touching him, but clearly pushing. “You going to fight me every time she’s held accountable?”

Bradley didn’t flinch. “You want to lead? Fine, but being in charge doesn’t mean being cruel.”

The tension hit a new level. Their shoulders squared. Their jaws were tight. The squad had stopped pretending to catch their breath and now just watched, silent, waiting.

You didn’t wait.

You turned away. Your legs were shaking, your arms felt weightless, your head throbbed, but you started moving anyway. Because if you stayed, you were going to swing.

And if you swung, things would get ugly fast.

So you ran.

Not because Jake was right, not because you owed him anything, but because you needed to choose something that didn’t end with your fist in his face.

So you ran, and for now, that was enough.

It wasn’t until Bob looked around that he realized something was wrong. His brows pulled together behind his sunglasses as he counted again. One, two, three... five... ten…eleven…twelve?. He frowned and glanced across the tarmac, his voice uncertain but firm.

“Wait,” he said, scanning the space. “Where’s Rant?”

The squad paused, still catching their breath, sweat dripping from brows and necks. Coyote turned instinctively. “She was just here.”

“No, she’s not,” Phoenix said sharply, already moving her gaze across the open stretch of concrete, her tone clipped with worry.

Bradley’s head snapped toward her. “Wait, what do you mean she’s not?”

“I saw her run off,” Harvard said, lifting a hand to point somewhere beyond the parked jets. “I figured she was cooling down or something.”

The moment he said it, everyone shifted. Your name started echoing across the base, rising fast and scattered in panic.

“Rant!”

“Rant, you good?”

“Where the hell did she go?”

Then someone saw it. Past the aircraft, beyond the hangar wall, closer to the fence line. A figure on the pavement, collapsed and still.

Too still.

“Shit,” Bradley breathed, already moving. His legs launched him forward before anyone else could react. Fear shot through him like a live wire, fast and hot. His chest burned, not from the run, but from the terror twisting deep in his gut. “No!”

Jake didn’t hesitate. He took off after him, his longer strides catching up almost instantly. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his boots slamming against the concrete and the image ahead of you crumpled on the ground.

When they reached you, Jake was the first to drop. He hit his knees beside you without slowing, his hands already reaching out.

“Rant,” he said quickly, breath tight. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

“Sweetheart?” He tapped your cheek with trembling fingers, just once, then steadied his hand against your jaw.

You didn’t respond. Your skin was too hot. Your breathing came shallow and uneven. Your lips looked dry, your color washed out, and your body had gone slack in a way that made his stomach turn.

There was no blood, thank God, but that hardly brought comfort. Not when you looked like your body had simply given up.

Jake didn’t think. He didn’t ask for help. He slid one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you carefully against his chest. Your head fell against his shoulder, and for a second, he froze, jaw tightening as the full weight of your limp body registered against him.

Then, he ran. He fucking ran.

Jake Seresin, all swagger and charm, didn’t wait for anyone. He didn’t check who was behind him. He didn’t bother explaining. He just sprinted toward the clinic with his grip locked tight and his eyes set ahead.

His flight suit burned against his knees, his boots pounded against the pavement, but nothing slowed him down. He ran like his life depended on it.

Behind him, the rest of the squad scrambled.

Bradley chased after him, heart racing, his mind spinning in every direction. He could barely see straight through the panic. Phoenix and Coyote shouted behind him, their voices distant and desperate.

Bob kept pace, silent but stricken, while Harvard and the others moved instinctively, everyone following Jake’s path like it was the only thing that made sense.

But Jake didn’t stop. Not once. Not until he got you where you needed to be.

The second Jake pushed through the glass doors of the clinic, the nurses snapped into motion. He didn’t have to say a single word.

Someone stepped forward with sharp authority and said, “Get her on the gurney,” and just like that, your weight was being lifted from his arms.

The hands that took you were quick and careful, practiced in emergencies, and Jake let them take over. He didn’t argue. He just stepped back automatically, his chest rising and falling too fast, and his arms still curled as if they didn’t realize you were gone.

His hands hovered for a moment, empty now, damp with sweat that clung to his palms and dripped from his brow. Some of it came from the run, but most of it didn’t. Most of it came from the panic still stuck in his bloodstream.

He watched in a daze as they rolled you down the hallway, moving fast, already rattling off numbers and instructions. Someone shouted for vitals.

Another called out for blood pressure and oxygen. Their words echoed sharply off the walls, bouncing between the glass and tile until the sound of it all felt like static.

You disappeared through a doorway, and the door slammed shut behind you. The hall quieted in an instant, leaving him staring at the red sign on the door that read No Unauthorized Personnel Beyond This Point.

The words seemed louder than anything else. For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving, breathing like he had just finished a ten-mile sprint.

Technically, he had. His legs still felt like they were made of concrete. His chest ached. His throat burned. But none of it compared to the feeling twisting in his stomach. Because you had passed out.

And not because of the heat or bad luck or pushing yourself too hard all on your own. You had passed out because he pushed you.

He dragged both hands down his face, fingers catching on the rough stubble along his jaw, and let out a slow breath. His shoulders dropped slightly, but the weight didn’t leave.

It only shifted lower, settling into something heavier and harder to ignore. He felt it everywhere now. In the way his body still buzzed from adrenaline, in the heat stuck under his collar, in the sharp memory of your face going slack in his arms.

Then he looked around and noticed where he had brought you. This was not the main clinic. Not the building where the rest of the squad would have gone. This one was smaller, older, quieter.

The paint on the walls was a little faded, and the plastic chairs along the hallway hadn’t been touched in weeks. Most people barely remembered this place existed, but Jake had known it was here, and apparently, in the middle of the chaos, some part of him had decided this was the better option.

It was closer. Easier to reach. Fewer people. Less attention. He hadn’t wanted the crowd. Not with you like that. Not with the squad yelling or panicking or trying to crowd in close. He had just wanted to get you somewhere safe.

Now he was here, alone, standing in the silence that followed a crisis. His heart still beat too hard. His fists stayed curled at his sides, not from anger anymore, but from helplessness. The weight of what just happened pressed against his spine like it had settled there for good.

And all he could do was wait.

“Goddamn it,” Jake muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the buzzing in his ears. His hands dropped to his hips, head tilted back against the wall as if that alone could push the sick twist out of his chest.

He didn’t even hear the doctor approach until the man was standing right in front of him. Jake straightened instinctively, posture snapping into place the way it always did under authority.

The doctor’s arms were crossed, his expression unreadable but tight, the kind of look that didn’t need to say much to get the message across.

“You’re the one who brought her in?” he asked.

Jake nodded, jaw tightening. “Yeah. I carried her here.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes slightly, as if weighing every word. “Are you part of her squad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Her superior?”

Jake hesitated, just long enough for the air between them to change. “Temporarily,” he answered.

That was clearly the wrong answer. The doctor looked like he was one bad excuse away from smacking him with the nearest clipboard.

“She’s stable,” he said sharply. “We got fluids in her, checked vitals, ran a full assessment. She’s going to wake up soon.”

Jake released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, but it didn’t bring much relief.

“She’s lucky,” the doctor continued, his voice clipped and brisk. “Because that kind of overexertion, with her levels that low? Dehydration that severe? It’s not just dangerous. It’s reckless. Seriously, what were you guys thinking?”

Jake’s throat tightened. “I didn’t know she was that bad.”

“Well, you should have,” the doctor shot back, his tone rising without yelling. “She should’ve never been out there running laps in this heat.”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but the man cut him off before he got a word in.

“You pushed her too far. And I don’t know what kind of setup you’re running out there, but this level of strain?” He paused, eyes sharp. “It’s not just about her anymore.”

Jake blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

The doctor’s expression shifted, just slightly. His mouth pressed into a hard line, and his silence lasted just a little too long.

“You want to be responsible for a complication?” he asked, quiet but pointed.

Jake froze.

The word hit wrong. It didn’t make sense at first. Complication? What complication? His thoughts scrambled to catch up, but nothing fit.

“What complication?” he asked slowly, the words thick in his mouth.

The doctor just looked at him. No more pretense now, just irritation and something else underneath. When he spoke again, it was quieter, heavier.

“You didn’t know.”

Jake stared at him.

“You didn’t know,” the doctor repeated, mostly to himself now. “Jesus Christ.”

The floor dropped out from under him. Jake felt it in the base of his spine, in the space behind his ribs, in the tight grip of dread that curled around his lungs.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a breath through his teeth before continuing.

“You’re lucky she’s okay,” he said, voice firm. “But that kind of heat exhaustion? That much stress? It’s not good for the baby.”

Jake didn’t move. His voice came out low, rough, barely more than a whisper. “What?”

A baby?

#jake seresin x reader #fic rec #bradley bradshaw x reader

372 notes · View notes

avengxrz · 1 month ago

Text

OMG the scream I just let out in pure frustration 😭 Please just TALK TO HER, Rooster, I am begging 🫠

crawling back to you︱bradley bradshaw

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

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

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

But no one would have pictured this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now the words were useless.

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

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

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

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

Now, it was quiet. Very quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ. This was really happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was nothing left to do.

Eight Months Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, he saw you.

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

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

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

Bradley shook his head once. “I figured.”

“You alright?”

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

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

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

Then, he stepped out into the light.

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

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

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

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

Then, you walked forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a look in your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that, everything else blurred together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was when the bridesmaids were called up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look nice tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley blinked. “Okay, what is this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey winced. “Like... her, her.”

Bradley gave him a blank look. “Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it’s not.

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

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

“What the hell are you—”

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

Bradley blinked. “What—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They did not.

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

But he wondered. God, he wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

That tiny movement. That choice.

Bradley’s hand fell back to his side.

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

With him.

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

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

“Sharp observation,” Bradley muttered.

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

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

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

Bradley didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

It felt like shit.

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

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

And maybe that was what did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped a few steps behind you.

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

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

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

His throat was dry. He said your name.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when he noticed it.

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

His stomach plunged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” you said.

Bradley nodded. “Hey.”

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

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

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

He hesitated. “Trying.”

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

“Did you twist your ankle?”

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

He knew that wasn’t true.

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

“Bradley—”

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

You didn’t argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gave a quiet chuckle beside them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#bradley bradshaw x reader #fic rec #bradley bradshaw

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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fic recs while i rest my brain!

hello friends! just wanted to drop by and give a little update. i’m currently taking a break from writing because work has been keeping me really busy, and life has been a lot lately. i just haven’t had the time or headspace to sit down and focus the way i want to, so i’m letting myself breathe for a bit.

however, i’ve been reading some incredible fics recently that made me laugh, cry, and fully spiral in the best way possible. these writers have seriously gotten me through the week, and i swear their work is just that good.

so while i rest and recharge, here are some fic recommendations from people whose writing made me feel everything all at once:

JAKE SERESIN FICS

three steps behind by @hangmanwrites summary: you wore the dress. he wore a t-shirt. you waited ninety-seven minutes. he smiled like nothing was wrong. and when you said you were tired, he still thought love was enough. side note: the writing in this fic is so good. it feels like the author actually lived through it. everything is written in a way that makes it feel real and honest. the emotions are quiet but heavy, and it really sticks with you.

a hangman-made disaster by @hangmanwrites summary: you swore you hated jake seresin, but one drunk night proved you were also stupid. now you're staring at a very positive pregnancy test in your bathroom, wearing an oversized shirt you stole from him, and wishing this was just a nightmare, but it's not. it's real. and unfortunately, so is the seresin baby currently plotting world domination in your uterus. side note: this was so good i am actually unwell. i need a part two so bad it hurts. the chaos, the tension, the way she’s standing there in his shirt like her whole life didn’t just flip upside down? perfection. and the line about the seresin baby plotting world domination? i laughed way too hard and then immediately felt bad for her. please i just know part two would go feral. give us more i am begging.

through the dark, back to you by @all-my-love-for-harry summary: a former profiler. a fighter pilot. a past that refuses to stay buried. when old ghosts resurface in san diego, the truth becomes the most dangerous thing of all. side note: this one had me hooked right away. the mix of mystery and emotion is so good, and the writing makes it feel like a movie in your head.

my boy only breaks his favorite toys by @tw1sters summary: jake seresin has pushed through the worst of war, but nothing can compare to the fear of you saying i love you. so he runs. side note: this one hurt in a quiet kind of way. jake surviving war but being scared of love feels so real. the fear, the running, the way he pulls back when it matters most. i just know this fic is going to break me in the best way.

BRADLEY BRADSHAW FICS

but it's warmer in your hands by @bodhiscurls summary: a night of domesticity is incomplete without you kissing your clingy husband goodnight. side note: i love me some domestic bradley bradshaw, it’s always so good. i swear it makes my heart melt every time. give me all the clingy husband vibes please.

picture perfect by @sometimesanalice side note: oh goodness this one hurts in the best way. please just make bradley her daddy already, he deserves that so much. the way he loves? the way he holds on? i am on the floor actually. crying. screaming. kicking my feet.

BOB FLOYD FICS

what happens in vegas, stays in vegas by @bodhiscurls summary: robert 'bob' floyd and you have always harboured feelings for each other, hidden in hotel rooms, stolen glances and secret kisses shared across the base. except one night in vegas celebrating the end of a gruelling mission finds you and bob waking up the next day unsure of how you made it to his room, the remenants of tequila pounding in your head and a rock the size of san diego on your ring finger. and what scares him the most is just how is he going to explain this to your brother. side note: oh this one had me grinning like a fool. the slow burn tension? the secret kisses? the vegas chaos?? i ate it all up. and waking up married to bob floyd? please. that is fanfic heaven. but the real kicker? the panic over telling your brother (ha it's rooster). i just know that part is going to be hilarious and stressful and so painfully good. i need to see how bob handles that because he is absolutely sweating bullets and still in love.

these are what i just read recently and i loved every single one of them. i’ll probably add more as i keep reading because i can never get enough of good writing. again, thank you to all the amazing writers for sharing your stories, you have no idea how much joy and comfort your words bring. see you around, happy reading!

#avengxrz #fic rec #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bob floyd x reader #top gun x reader

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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fic rec! i cried for like an hour :<

three steps behind︱jake seresin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked confused. “Forgot what?”

You just looked at him.

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

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

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

“I don’t want to do this here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You kept your back to him. “You didn’t remember either.”

There was a pause. He let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You closed the fridge, leaned your hands against the counter, kept your head low. You weren’t ready to yell. You didn’t even want to. You just wanted something to make sense. Something to feel like it mattered to him the way it still, somehow, mattered to you.

He stepped further into the room, pacing a little now. “I’ve had a hell of a week. You know that.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning toward him. “I know you’re tired. I just thought maybe today… maybe this one day wouldn’t get pushed to the side.”

He scoffed under his breath and shook his head, pacing once across the living room before turning back toward you. “So that’s it? One bad night and you’re acting like I don’t give a damn about you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You watched him speak, watched the way he filled the room with sound but never really with presence. That has started to happen more often lately. He was there, but not really. Like a shadow of himself that still moved, still talked, still showed up, but only halfway.

He threw his hands a little. “You knew I had a packed week. Command’s been on our asses since Monday, and today just got away from me. You think I wanted to show up late? You think I meant for it to go like this?”

You swallowed, barely audible over his voice. “You didn’t even text.”

That stopped him for a second. His mouth opened like he had a comeback, but nothing came out right away. So instead, he shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “I figured I’d just get there and explain. I didn’t think you’d sit there and count every damn minute.”

“I wasn’t counting,” you said quietly. “I was hoping.”

Your voice cracked a little on the last word, and for a second, it went quiet again. He looked away, jaw tense, hands on his hips like he was trying to breathe through it, like this was harder for him than it was for you. That stung in a way you didn’t have words for.

“You always do this,” he muttered, not quite looking at you. “Turn every little thing into something it’s not.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking like you couldn’t believe what you just heard.

“Every little thing?” you repeated, voice flat. “Is that what this is?”

He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You took a slow breath, stepped away from the counter. “You showed up almost two hours late. On our anniversary. No message. No call. Nothing. And then you sat there, talking about yourself like I hadn’t been sitting alone the entire time.” Your voice stayed even, but it was starting to push. “You think that’s a little thing?”

Jake looked at you, finally really looked, and for a second he didn’t have anything to say.

“I put on a dress,” you said, quieter now, like you were almost saying it to yourself. “I sat at that table thinking maybe this time would be different. That maybe you’d remember before the last minute, maybe you’d actually want to show up and not just be there.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped in first.

“And I’m not talking about the Hard Deck. I’m not even mad about that,” you said. “It could’ve been burgers in the truck. It could’ve been a walk. I just wanted to feel like you cared enough to try.”

The silence between you stretched out again, but this time it felt different. He looked stuck between anger and guilt, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You really think I don’t care?” he asked, like the words offended him.

And for the first time tonight, you didn’t look away. “I think you only care when it’s easy.”

Jake let out a short, bitter laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s bullshit.”

Your arms folded before you even realized. “Is it?”

He stepped forward, shoulders squared now. “You’re acting like I don’t show up for you at all, like I haven’t been breaking my back trying to keep everything together lately.”

“I never asked you to keep everything together,” you snapped, voice rising before you could stop it. “I asked you to be there. For this. For me.”

“I am here.”

“No, Jake,” you said, louder now. “You’re standing in the room, but you’re not here. Not where it counts.”

His hands went to his hips again, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you, eyes sharp now. “So what, I miss dinner and suddenly I’m the villain? You act like I don’t care, like I didn’t want this marriage too.”

“You didn’t miss dinner, Jake. You missed all of it. You missed me sitting there thinking maybe tonight would be the night you show up on time, say something that sounds like you still see me.”

He raised his voice then, something in him finally snapping. “What do you want from me?!”

And that hit harder than you expected. You stared at him, chest tight, hands cold at your sides.

“I want you to stop acting like loving me is something you have to schedule around.”

He opened his mouth again, but you weren’t done this time. The words came fast, your voice not yelling now, but loud enough to shake the quiet between you.

“I want to stop feeling like I have to earn my place in my own marriage.”

That landed. He looked at you, stunned for a second, like he didn’t know who you were. Like maybe he’d finally heard you, but still, he didn’t step closer.

“I’m tired, Jake,” you said, and your voice broke right through the middle.

His mouth opened, but the words didn’t come fast enough. You didn’t wait.

“I’m tired of waiting for you to notice I’m not okay. I’m tired of pretending this feels normal when it doesn’t. I’m tired of being the only one who remembers things like tonight. And I’m so tired of feeling like I have to apologize for wanting more from the person I married.”

Jake looked at you, his face hard but his eyes uncertain now. “I’m doing the best I can—”

“Are you?” you cut in, quieter, breath shaking as you blinked back the tears. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m begging you for scraps of attention while you show up late and still act like I should be grateful.”

He looked away for a second, jaw tight, and dragged a hand over his face. “You always do this. Twist things around like I don’t care. Like I don’t try.”

“I don’t want to twist things,” you said, the words tumbling out, softer now but raw. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you still care the way you used to. But you don’t even look at me the same. And maybe that’s normal after time, maybe it is, but I can’t be the only one trying to keep us from fading.”

Your voice cracked again and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, quiet and unchecked. Jake saw them, but he didn’t move toward you. He just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with them, like they were a problem he didn’t sign up to solve.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

Jake’s hands went to his hips again, pacing like he couldn't sit still in it, like he needed to keep moving so it wouldn’t catch up to him. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like coming home to this? To you looking at me like I’m never enough?”

You flinched, then straightened. “I never said you weren’t enough.”

“Then what is this?” he shouted. “You corner me the second we walk through the door, throw every single thing I’ve done wrong in my face, and now what? I’m the bad guy because I’m not good at anniversaries?”

You laughed once, sharp and tired. “You’re not bad at anniversaries, Jake. You just don’t care.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling fast now. “That’s not true.”

“Then what is?” Your voice rose with his, loud now, hoarse. “Because I am standing here telling you I’m hurting and all you do is try to win the argument.”

He stepped toward you, hands up like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I’m not perfect? That I’m not romantic enough, not soft enough, not whatever-the-hell you built up in your head?”

You stared at him, breathing hard, heart in your throat. You’d been holding the words back for weeks, maybe longer. “I want a divorce.”

The words hit the room like a door slamming shut. No build-up, no lead-in, just the truth, finally out in the open. Jake stopped moving. He looked at you like you’d slapped him.

Jake shook his head like he could physically knock the words out of the air. Like hearing them once had been too much. “No,” he said again, sharper this time. “No, you don’t mean that.”

His voice was thin around the edges, like it couldn’t decide if it was anger or panic.

You stood still, your arms at your sides, your hands curled into fists without thinking. The air in the room felt tight. Too full. You felt like you couldn’t take a deep breath.

Jake took a step forward. “You’re upset. You’re mad. We’ve fought before. This isn’t—this isn’t how this ends.”

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him. He looked like a man trying to stop a fire with his bare hands.

“We can fix this,” he said again, louder now, like volume could glue something broken back together. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. I’ll do better. I’ll fucking try harder.”

Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “Why now?” You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “Why is it always after I say I’m done that you finally try?”

Jake flinched. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, eyes darting like he needed something to land on. “Don’t do this. You said forever. We said forever.”

You were already crying, but it wasn’t gentle. It was hot and hard and sudden. “I know what I said.”

“I stood in front of you,” he said, stepping closer like that might change something. “You were in that dress. Your hair was pinned back and your hands were shaking. I remember. I remember saying I’d stay. Through everything.”

His voice cracked on the word everything, but he pushed through it, chest rising and falling fast. “I said I’d love every version of you, even when you changed, even when I did. That I’d never walk away, that I’d never stop showing up.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But all of that should’ve been said hours ago. Weeks ago. Before you had to ask for it.

“Stop,” you said, voice low, strained.

He kept going, stepping closer like he was reaching back through time. “You looked up at me with those eyes and I knew it then. I meant it. I still mean it. I love you—”

“Stop!” you screamed, cutting through his words like glass shattering on tile.

Your voice echoed in the kitchen. It was too loud. Too full of everything you’d been swallowing for months. Jake froze like you’d hit him. His mouth was still half-open, but nothing else came out. His hands were shaking now. Yours were, too.

You wiped at your face roughly, but the tears kept coming anyway. Not from anger. Not even from heartbreak. You were just... done. And he was still three steps behind.

Jake stayed where he was, frozen in the middle of the kitchen like he couldn’t figure out whether to come closer or disappear. His hands slowly dropped to his sides, his eyes still locked on yours, searching your face like he could find a version of you that hadn’t said it. That hadn’t meant it.

Your shoulders rose and fell, shaky from the way your breath came in uneven pulls. You swiped at your cheeks again, slower this time, like maybe it would make it all stop spinning.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you said finally, voice raw. “But I can’t keep pretending this is working.”

Jake moved like his body didn’t want to, taking one small step forward. His voice was quieter now. “So you’re really just giving up.”

You looked at him. Not through him, not around him, but at him.

“I already gave everything I had, Jake,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. It just sounded tired. “You just didn’t notice I was running out.”

He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenched like he was biting something back. Then he opened them and looked around, like maybe the kitchen, the walls, the clock ticking on the stove might offer some answer he hadn’t thought of, but there was nothing. Just the stale echo of your shouting and the dull hum of the fridge in the background.

“You’re really serious,” he said after a moment, quieter now.

You nodded, your lips parting to speak but nothing coming out right away. When it did, it was softer than either of you expected. “I don’t want to keep resenting you just to stay married to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

The silence felt like it had teeth now, heavy and stretching between you both. You didn’t fill it. You just stood there, in the same house where you’d laughed on the floor unpacking dishes, where you’d fallen asleep on the couch more times than you could count, where you thought you'd spend a lifetime.

However, lifetimes don’t always last forever, and not even love was enough if it kept leaving one of you behind.

#jake seresin x reader #top gun x reader

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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hey guys! good day wherever you are right now 💗 just wanted to share a little update. i’m currently editing my blog like changing the icons, colors, and overall vibe. it’s still the same username, just getting a little glow-up.

i’ve been wanting to make it more top gun themed because honestly, i have not known peace since the moment i watched it 😭✈️

also, i made a backup account just in case: @theavengxrz

feel free to follow me there too if you want to stay connected.

i might finally post a short one-shot fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. i keep rereading it and thinking, "okay, maybe now." so watch out for that if you’re in the mood for something soft and a little unhinged.

and by the wa, i saw that over 600 of you are following me now and that’s actually wild. i really want to get to know you guys more. i wanna talk, scream about fics, maybe even be friends because i am such a yapper once you get me going. please don’t be shy to message or interact, i’d love to have more mutuals and writing buddies 🫶

thank you for being here and for making this space feel like a little corner of home. i appreciate you all more than you know 🫶

#avengxrz

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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Hi Queen! I just want to say that your work has really inspired me. Because of you, I finally got the courage to start writing too. It’s been something I’ve always wanted to do, and seeing your stories helped push me to go for it.

But lately I’ve been feeling really discouraged. Some people have been accusing me of using AI to write my fics, and I swear I haven’t. I write everything myself. It’s all from my heart and my imagination.

Those comments really hurt, and they made me feel like my work doesn’t matter, like people will never believe in me no matter how hard I try. I started doubting myself a lot, even thinking about deleting my stories. 🥺🥺

I don’t really know how to handle things like this. Have you ever gone through something similar? How do you deal with people who make those kinds of comments?

I really hope you see this and maybe share your thoughts. Thank you so much for all the stories and inspiration. You’ve made a huge impact on me. Thank you, Queen! 💗

hi love, thank you so much for your message. first of all, i just want to say how proud i am of you for writing and putting your work out there. that takes real bravery. it’s one thing to write quietly for yourself, but to share it with the world? that’s a whole different kind of strength. you’re already doing something so many people are afraid to even try.

and yes, i’ve absolutely been through what you’re experiencing. i’ve been accused of using ai online, and even in real life. there was one time where i literally wrote an entire essay with a pen, in front of my professor, and he still accused me of using ai. i was like ??? what do you mean?? i was there. i wrote it in front of you. word by word.

i had to fight my way through that moment just to defend something that came straight from my own mind and heart. eventually, he apologized, but it left a mark. it’s so exhausting having to constantly prove yourself just because people can’t imagine that someone like you could create something powerful.

the truth is, when you write with depth, with emotion, with style, people sometimes get suspicious. not because it’s not good, but because it’s too good for them to understand how it could come from someone they don’t already worship or recognize.

and that sucks. it’s unfair. but if you know you wrote your work with your own effort and your own soul, then do not let those voices crawl into your head. if you truly know it’s yours, then you’ve already won.

seriously though, ai is so messed up. it’s not just threatening art and creativity, it’s damaging trust between writers and readers. it’s making people paranoid, making them question authenticity just because something sounds polished or thoughtful.

it’s stealing language from real people, mimicking emotion it doesn’t understand, and taking up space that should belong to living, breathing creatives. and the worst part is when people throw the word "ai" around as a lazy insult whenever they see something they think is too well written. it’s disrespectful. it’s lazy. and it’s harmful.

please don’t let it stop you. don’t shrink yourself to make other people comfortable. you don’t owe anyone proof of your creativity. your voice matters. your work matters. and it will find the people who understand it, who feel it, who are changed by it. keep writing. keep growing. and keep protecting your craft like it’s sacred, because it is.

you’re not alone in this. and you’re not imagining it. it’s real, and it’s hard, but you’re stronger than the noise. i’m in your corner always. 💗🫶

#avengxrz #fuck ai #ai bullshit

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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hi queenie, i absolutely adore your writing and have literally binged every top gun fic you’ve written. you inspire me sm! 🫶🏻💗

hi angel, oh my heart 🥺 thank you so much. that means the world to me. i’m seriously grinning like an idiot right now. the fact that you binged all my top gun fics? i might cry a little. i’m so glad they resonated with you, and hearing that i inspire you? that’s the highest compliment ever. sending you the biggest hug and all the love. keep creating, dreaming, and being amazing 🫶🏻💗

#avengxrz

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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OMG YOU WROTE FOR BOB 🤭🤭🤭 my sweet baby im literally gonna scream thank you queen

read here: some people are soft only for you

yes!! bob floyd has been living rent-free in my head lately, i swear. there was this one tiktok edit that completely sent me spiraling and i started daydreaming the whole plot of some people are soft only for you right then and there.

a few days ago, i passed by the beach and it suddenly started raining, and that moment kind of shaped the whole tone of the fic. it just felt right. he’s the kind of character you carry quietly but constantly.

i was actually writing a navy pilot!reader fic before this, but i took a break from that storyline and chose to go with a bartender!reader instead. it felt more grounded, more intimate, and it gave me space to focus on the quiet kind of love bob deserves. thank you so much for the love. i’m so glad you’re excited, too 🥹💗

#avengxrz

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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OKAY HI… first time requesting for bucky, kinda nervous 🥹 but actually, i have different tropes for you to choose from (if you wanna write any of them, completely up to you ofcc!!) 🩷

- congressman bucky x underground artist!reader

basically (long one) reader/she was in new orleans during summer break. shes like freshly 21 in tfatws, making friends with bucky bc of how much she opened and played at the bar (the bar in tfatws yk?? am i making sense 💔) and how much he was there, even with yori. anyway, so shes actually a college student. med, etc, you choose, and she actually lives in nyc. SO, when hes a congressman, they somehow bump into each other. i JUST got this idea and you do what you want with it 😔 but then word gets out after she leaves his place disheveled… 😶‍🌫️… and tabloids are all over it. at least she can pay her college tuition for her last few years? can be angst, fluff, smut, idc, you eat every trope up. im lowkey proud of this one

- congressman bucky x pr manager!reader

in my opinion, not done nearly enough bc theyre always sass and stand on business. she can humble him with a glare and a teasing finger to his chest. “this worrying issue is very… worrying” yeah he definitely needs a pr manager cuz wtf. sometimes hes stubborn and doesnt take her opinion, until the void happens and shes the first person he goes to. or we scratch the entirety of thunderbolts and rewind to where it was just him campaigning and they get into some argument or whatever about literally anything.

- tfawts bucky x baker!reader

buckys still adjusting. and obviously having limitations set by the literal government of what he can and cant do under a shitty therapist’s supervision, he finds something close to quiet when he finds a small bakery. hidden almost, brand new from the smell of fresh paint on the wall, cozy but not overwhelming. shes his usual. and it gets messy when he leaves, starts the whole congressman thing (i feel like we see a pattern, im sorry 😞) until it gets too intimate. whether that’s physically or emotionally or BOTH (oh, death of me) and theyre still on a situationship. end the oneshot how you will bc ive run out of ideas.

- post catws!bucky x ex-hydra agent!reader

okay, so she was basically also experimented on. she finds him like if he wanted to go and take down bases bc she wasnt in cryo since shes not a super soldier (so she knows most things), just messed up into some sick doll for them. he doesnt talk much, and she understands. and they genuinely bond. she helps him… breathe. until something goes wrong. he gets arrested (civil war) the day after they made it up—no official names since neither of them are ready enough for that, but close to it. just enough to grasp at and be assured. and then he goes into wakanda. BLIPS. CONGRESSMAN. AVENGER?? oh good LORD 😶‍🌫️ idk this is me spiraling thinking about everything after post-catws. you can honestly just do a fluff blurb where theyre somewhat content in romania and thats ITTT.

- avenger/thunderbolt!bucky x assistant/avenger!reader

reminds me of the yn wp fics BUT i havent seen any when shes an assistant instead of an avenger, but eh, do as you will. shes just pure nice. pure help. then she gets hurt. maybe if shes an assistant, some mission went sideways and somehow got to her, or an avenger, she was ON the mission. anyway, ticks him tf off and gets overly protective like she cant take care of himself. even yelena, whos usually upfront, just backs off with a middle finger raised sometimes, her brows up as if to tell reader ‘told you’, and ava smirking and walking away. even if theyre ALL concerned. but john is just like wtf and bob is like genuinely worried, and alexei is pure brainrot. (kinda feels like what we destroy to be free mixed with call it what it was).

girl i ran out of ideas 💔 and ofc you dont have to do any of these, i was just scrolling on tiktok and started thinking. HAVE A LOVELY DAY !!

- feralgremlingf 😞 (ive been in your inbox a lot ill stop now i swear. im sorry lilian 😓😓😓)

hi!! first of all, please never apologize for being in my inbox. i LOVED reading all of this 😭 you're genuinely feeding me with these tropes and ideas and i’m so grateful. you’re not annoying at all, you’re actually making my day brighter. second, i am one hundred percent saving this message to reread whenever i need serotonin. congressman bucky? artist reader? ex-hydra? situationship mess? emotional damage? you're giving me everything i love.

i’m actually planning to write a congressman!bucky fic at some point because politics is my field. i’m a political science major and i’ve been dying to write something that mixes real-world tension with that kind of emotional push-and-pull.

i don’t live in the US though, so i’ll definitely need to study how the government works over there. like how congressmen campaign, what their day-to-day looks like, the difference between federal and state systems, and how media and scandals are handled. i really want it to feel grounded but still fun and dramatic.

also, side note, i would love to get to know you more! you’re clearly so creative and your energy is the kind that makes people excited to create. please never hold back when you have ideas, you’re inspiring fr. thank you again for trusting me with this message and i hope your day has been lovely too 💗

— lilian (still not over the idea of congressman bucky with his tie askew and reader in his apartment while the tabloids go crazy)

#avengxrz

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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Hi,I just wanted to ask if you’ll be updating the line between rival and regret. I got hooked on it. Much love ❤️

hi!! yes there will be an update soon, thank you so much for asking 🥹 i’m still polishing the next chapter at the moment. there’s a scene that involves some navy stuff, so i’ve been expanding my research to make sure everything feels accurate and not just thrown in for the drama. that’s why it’s taking a bit longer than expected. i really appreciate your patience and i’m so glad you’re enjoying the fic. thank you again for the love! 💌💙

#avengxrz #top gun fandom #top gun maverick

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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some people are soft only for you ⁃ robert "bob" floyd

pairings: robert "bob" floyd x bartender!reader word count: 12.7k words synopsis: he’s always been the quiet one. the one who stayed in the background, who never asked for more. but what happens when you realize the one person who’s always been there... is the one you’ve been waiting for? warnings: angst, slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, hurt/comfort, rainy confessions, a slap (but it’s earned), crying, kissing in the rain, bob floyd being soft, robert floyd rights. flight log: since the bob floyd fic won in the poll (because you all have incredible taste), this is for the quiet love enjoyers, the slow burn believers, and everyone who’s ever yelled at a fictional man for not speaking up sooner. this fic is full of rain, longing, and everything i think bob floyd deserves. thank you for waiting. i hope it hugs your heart a little. disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist

Bob remembered the first time he saw you like it was branded somewhere behind his ribs.

It had been a regular Friday at the Hard Deck, the kind where the sun dipped just right over the water, warm enough to blur the windows and paint the inside gold. He was sitting at his usual table in the corner, a few chairs down from Hangman who was busy retelling a story no one had asked to hear again.

Phoenix had already rolled her eyes twice while Bob had his drink in hand, half-listening, half-wishing he had stayed home when the door opened and Penny stepped through with someone trailing behind her.

You.

She had one hand on your shoulder, ushering you in like someone showing off a prized secret, and that was when everything stopped for him. Bob didn’t know if it was the way you tilted your head when Penny said something under her breath, or the fact that you smiled like you weren’t quite used to smiling in public.

You were trying, and he could see that. How? Well, you looked like someone trying not to look nervous, someone trying to belong. He swore, just for a second, his heart forgot what it was supposed to do.

Meanwhile, everyone else had started noticing, too. Bradley leaned forward against the bar, Jake straightened up in that too-obvious way he did when he wanted to be looked at, and Coyote muttered something under his breath that made Payback laugh.

The squad was buzzing in a way they hadn’t in weeks, and Bob just sat there with his drink, watching you smile at Penny like she was your only anchor in the room.

Penny introduced you like it was nothing, just her niece, newly in town, helping out behind the bar for a while. You were taking a break from your old job as Penny said. Needed a change of scenery.

She said it like it was temporary, like you were just passing through, but Bob felt something else settle in his chest, like he already knew you were going to be here a while. Long enough to change things.

He remembered how you looked at each of them, Bradley first. You laughed at something he said and tilted your head a little, fingers brushing your necklace as if you were already a little charmed. It wasn't your fault.

Rooster could make most people smile, but Bob saw the way your eyes lingered a bit longer than they did with the others. The way your shoulders loosened near him, and the way you leaned in.

Too bad for Bob, he thought. Even then.

But he stayed quiet, like he always did. Just watched, then helped you carry a crate of soda to the backroom when Penny got busy. You smiled at him and said thanks like it actually meant something. And that, God, that was enough to get him through the rest of the week.

Over the next few months, he watched the way you folded into the rhythm of the place. You learned everyone’s drinks, picked up on who tipped and who didn’t, and started finishing Penny’s sentences before she could.

You were quick, you were sharp, but you were never cruel. Bob saw the way you looked when you thought no one was paying attention, those small, tired moments when the bar was loud but you looked somewhere far away. He wanted to ask. He never did.

Then, came the Rooster thing. It wasn’t a thing, not really, at least (and hopefully) not yet, but Bob knew what it looked like to hope. He recognized it in himself first, every time you looked up when Rooster walked in, every time your laugh came a little easier with him.

Rooster was kind to you. He flirted without meaning to. Sometimes he meant to. You flirted back. You wore that same necklace every time he was scheduled to drop in after a flight.

Bob just watched, quiet as ever.

As time went on, he kept finding reasons to linger near the bar after the rest of the squad left. Just to make sure you locked the doors safely, just to offer to walk you to your car. Sometimes, you talked. Not about much, like the weather, and how loud the jukebox was that night.

Once, you asked him if he ever got tired of being the responsible one. He didn’t know how to answer.

He had started to think he would be okay with this, just being around. Being the guy who stayed, who didn’t push, who was always polite and careful and useful. It was enough. Until it started to hurt. Until he realized that every time he saw you with Rooster, something in him flickered in a way he didn’t know how to control.

And still, he said nothing, because it wasn’t his place, and because he wasn’t the kind of man who made grand gestures. He was the kind of man who waited, who hoped quietly, and who stayed.

But lately, he had started wondering; how long could someone wait before they started to break a little?

It was a Friday night when it happened, one of those rare evenings where the entire Dagger Squad managed to show up at the same time, no drills the next morning and nothing but hours ahead to kill.

The Hard Deck was busier than usual, the kind of full that meant Penny had music playing just a little too loud and the laughter at the pool table spilled all the way to the back booths.

Bob had arrived early, the way he usually did, already nursing something mild as the others filtered in. He didn’t expect you to join them.

You normally stayed behind the bar, that was your world. You floated through it like someone who belonged to it, moving with purpose and comfort, like the chaos never touched you. So, when you slid into the booth beside him, smiling as you bumped your knee gently against his, Bob almost dropped his glass.

“Hope this seat’s not taken,” you said, already settling in.

Bob blinked, then smiled, the quiet kind that reached his eyes before it reached his mouth. “Nope, it’s yours.”

Meanwhile, Rooster dropped into the space on Bob’s other side, his laugh already halfway through some joke Phoenix had muttered earlier.

Fanboy was busy chatting up someone near the bar, Payback and Coyote deep in some debate about the rules of darts, and for a moment, Bob sat there with you to his left and Rooster to his right, wondering how he had become the center of gravity in a scene that made his chest tighten just a little.

You turned toward Rooster almost immediately, picking up where you’d left off earlier at the bar when you had been talking about music. “So, you’re telling me you still don’t know who Joni Mitchell is?” you asked, eyebrows lifted.

Rooster raised his hands in mock surrender as he leaned forward slightly, glancing past Bob to meet your eyes. “Look, I’ve heard the name. That counts for something, right?”

You scoffed as you grabbed a fry from the basket in front of you. “Barely, ‘cause that’s like saying you’ve heard of air.”

Bob watched you as you laughed, watched Rooster roll his eyes and reach for his drink, and as the two of you kept trading playful jabs, he stayed quiet, sipping slowly.

He wasn’t left out, not really, but he nodded when you said something funny, smiled when Rooster responded, but no one was talking to him directly. He didn’t mind, not really.

Then you turned toward him, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow. “Bob, please tell me you have decent taste in music. Help me out here.”

He set down his glass as he met your gaze. “I, uh, I like Joni Mitchell,” he said, voice steady but soft.

You grinned, leaning a little closer. “See? I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Bob blinked again, heart thudding once in his chest like it had just remembered it had a job to do. He smiled as he looked down, trying not to read too far into it, trying not to catalog the way you had said it.

You turned back to Rooster almost immediately, still half-laughing as you grabbed another fry and tossed it onto his plate like a challenge.

As the conversation moved on, the rest of the squad trickled closer, Jake finally giving up on his conquest at the bar and dropping into the seat beside Phoenix.

The table filled with the usual rhythm, jokes and teasing and interrupted stories, but Bob couldn’t shake the way you kept leaning slightly toward Rooster as you talked.

He couldn’t help noticing how Rooster’s shoulder brushed his own whenever he turned to respond to you, how Bob was caught in the middle of something he wasn’t part of.

He laughed when they laughed, nodded when someone addressed him, answered questions when they came his way, but he felt it. That quiet weight of watching something unfold next to him, knowing he was only a bystander. He didn’t resent it, and he didn’t resent you.

He just wished, for one brief, selfish moment, that you would lean his way again.

Across the table, Phoenix caught Bob’s eye as Rooster launched into some story about flying low over the mountains in Nevada. She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head slightly toward you, her meaning loud and clear.

Beside her, Hangman smirked as he sipped from his beer, then shot Bob a look so exaggerated it almost tipped into performance, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, a slow shake of his head that said, Seriously, Floyd?

Bob didn’t react. He kept his gaze fixed on the half-empty fry basket and picked at the edge of his napkin like there was something fascinating about the texture.

He could feel their eyes though, the silent conversation that he knew was happening in looks and subtle nudges. He knew what they were thinking, and he refused, absolutely refused, to let it show on his face.

Because you were still sitting beside him, warm and easy and relaxed, legs crossed in his direction, and he wasn’t about to mess that up by getting caught staring or doing something stupid like hoping.

So, he kept his voice casual when he joined the conversation, offering a quiet “Sounds intense,” after Rooster finished his story, even though he’d barely heard a word of it.

Phoenix didn’t drop it. She leaned forward on her elbows as she looked at him again, this time mouthing a word Bob didn’t want to see but definitely understood.

Talk.

He took a long sip of his drink instead.

Meanwhile, you laughed at something Rooster said, and Bob felt your hand brush his arm briefly as you leaned into the table to grab a napkin. It wasn’t anything. Not really, but his breath still caught for a second before he swallowed it down.

Then Hangman leaned in, voice low but pointed. “So, Floyd,” he said with an easy smile that always meant trouble, “any updates in your love life? Anyone we should know about?”

Phoenix didn’t even try to be subtle. She turned her head and looked directly at you, then back to Bob.

Bob didn’t flinch. He took another bite of his burger as if Hangman had just asked him about the weather. “Nothing new,” he said simply.

“Tragedy,” Hangman muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

Beside him, Phoenix rolled her eyes and sat back as she sipped from her straw, but not before muttering under her breath, just loud enough for Bob to hear, “Coward.”

Bob didn’t respond. Instead, he kept his expression even as he folded his napkin in half again, smoothing the crease with his thumb. If he answered now, it would only draw more attention.

If he said anything, you might notice, and the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were a spectacle in someone else’s drama.

You deserved better than that, and he didn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable, even accidentally.

So he sat there, listening to the noise of the table rise around him, with your shoulder brushing his again as you turned back to ask Rooster a question about call signs.

He told himself it was enough, that this was fine, because you were beside him. You had chosen that seat. Maybe not for the reason he wanted, but you were there.

And that was more than he’d ever expected. Right?

Bob had just managed to pull himself back into the rhythm of the table, laughing politely, nodding at the right moments, forcing his attention onto Coyote’s rant about someone double-parking their Bronco again, when Jake looked at him.

Not a glance, not a passing look. A full, deliberate pause. Mischief flickered behind Hangman’s eyes like a match just waiting to be lit. His expression was easy, casual even, but Bob knew him too well by now. That look always meant something was about to go sideways.

Bob met his gaze briefly, brows furrowing. Jake tilted his head slightly and raised his glass in a mock toast. Then he shifted in his seat, leaned forward on his elbows, and with surgical precision, turned toward you.

“Hey,” Jake started, voice pitched just right to cut through the noise, “how are you settling in? Penny’s got you working double shifts lately, huh?”

You smiled as you wiped a bit of salt off your fingers. “Yeah, she’s been trusting me with more lately. Not sure if that’s a compliment or if she’s just trying to avoid the late-night crowd.”

Jake chuckled. “Well, if it’s a compliment, you’ve earned it. You handle this place better than half the guys I’ve flown with.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That is not a high bar, Bagman.”

“True,” Jake grinned, tapping his glass lightly against the table. “But still, you’ve got something the rest of us don’t.”

Bob tried not to react. He stared down at the condensation ring forming around his glass and took a breath.

Jake continued, voice smooth, casual, laced with something just clever enough to be dangerous. “You’ve got the whole ‘people actually like talking to you’ thing, and I mean that. I’ve seen the way folks stay longer when you’re behind the bar.”

You shrugged modestly, eyes warm. “Well, I listen, so I think that helps.”

Jake smiled, then glanced, briefly but intentionally, at Bob. “Yeah, listening’s a skill, but not everyone’s good at it.”

Bob didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but his fingers curled just slightly around his glass.

Then Jake leaned back and turned toward you again. “You ever get bored of it, though? Listening to people talk about themselves all night?”

You laughed under your breath as you picked up your drink. “Sometimes. Depends on the person, but I don’t mind hearing people’s stories.”

Jake nodded slowly. “What about yours? Who listens to you?”

Bob’s eyes lifted before he could stop them.

You blinked, like you hadn’t been expecting the question to come from him, and there was a beat of silence. Then, you smiled, softer this time. “I don’t know. I guess… not many people ask.”

“Maybe they should,” Jake said, tone light, almost teasing. “Bet it’d surprise a few of us.”

You laughed again, brushing it off as you reached for another fry. “You trying to psychoanalyze me now?”

Jake shrugged. “Nah, just think good people deserve someone who listens back.”

Bob looked down again, heat crawling behind his ears.

Then, Jake turned toward him, casual as ever, and nudged his shoulder once with the back of his knuckles. “Right, Floyd?”

Bob blinked, glancing up, catching the quick glint in Jake’s eye and the faint curve of a grin playing on his lips.

“Y-yeah,” Bob said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I think so.”

He didn’t dare look at you then. He just reached for his glass again, swallowing the thought before it could become a word.

Jake sat back, satisfied, sipping his drink like nothing had happened, but Bob could feel it. The shift, the air had changed, and even if you didn’t notice yet, even if you still leaned toward Rooster when you laughed, there was something unspoken now settling between you and Bob.

Something Jake had poked loose just enough to rattle, and Bob wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank him or strangle him for it.

A few hours later, the bar was mostly empty, and the energy had dimmed into something quieter, more settled. The jukebox had long since shut off, the chairs were stacked, and Phoenix had waved a lazy goodnight as she ducked out with Coyote and Payback trailing behind her.

Bradley had left earlier, slipping out with a promise to come by for coffee sometime this week. Jake lingered just long enough to shoot Bob another smug glance before tipping his hat and disappearing into the parking lot.

Bob stayed.

He sat at the corner of the bar, sipping the last of something watered down, watching you move through the final closing routine with practiced ease.

You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on wiping down the counter and counting the register, but when you turned to grab your keys, you paused, just slightly, like you had sensed something.

"Bob!" Your brows lifted. “You’re still here?”

Bob straightened a little as he stood, quickly clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. I—I mean, I figured you might need, well, I remembered earlier you said your car’s still not fixed, and I didn’t want you walking home or calling a ride this late.”

You blinked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Bob.”

His name sounded different coming from you, like you actually meant it.

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking somewhere near your shoulder. “I just thought… maybe I could drive you? If that’s okay. I mean, if you’re not already set.”

There was a small pause before you nodded once, keys still in hand.

“That’s really sweet, but—” you glanced out the front window toward the beach, where the tide was low and the moon was soft, casting everything in blue and silver. “Can I walk the beach first? Just for a few minutes. I usually do that after closing, and it helps me clear my head.”

Bob blinked, surprised by the question, then nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

You smiled again, smaller this time, and pushed through the door with a soft jingle of keys. He followed at a quiet distance, careful not to hover too close.

The night air was cooler than earlier, carrying the sharp, familiar scent of salt and old wood. The sand crunched lightly beneath your shoes as you stepped off the boardwalk and started down the beach, slow and quiet.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The ocean moved in the background, steady and gentle, waves lapping at the shore like they had all the time in the world. You walked with your arms loosely folded, head tilted toward the water, and Bob kept a respectful step behind, not quite beside you but not far either.

Eventually, you looked over your shoulder and nodded toward the waterline. “You can walk next to me, you know. I don’t bite.”

Bob smiled softly, catching up. “I know.”

You didn’t speak again for a bit, just let the sand and the sound of the tide fill the silence. He could see the tension easing from your shoulders as you walked, your steps slowing like you didn’t want to go home just yet, and honestly, he didn’t want to drive you there just yet either. He was content just being here.

Then, you glanced at him again, eyes curious. “You always stay this late?”

Bob shook his head. “Only tonight.”

“Because of my car?”

He hesitated for a beat, then answered truthfully. “Because of you.”

You didn’t say anything at first, and he didn’t expect you to, but he felt the shift again, small and quiet, like maybe you were seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time in a while. And for once, he didn’t look away.

After a few more minutes of walking, you drifted closer to where the water met the shore, the waves just brushing past your shoes. Bob followed carefully, keeping the rhythm, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The silence wasn’t awkward. It felt like it belonged there, like it was allowed to stretch without needing to be filled.

Then, you glanced over at him, your voice cutting through the quiet in a thoughtful tone. “You’re really quiet around me, you know.”

Bob looked over, a little startled. “What?”

“You barely talk,” you said, not unkindly, just honest. “I mean, I’ve known you for a few months now and I think I know more about Payback’s dog than I do about you.”

He let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“So?” you prompted, a little amused. “What’s your deal, Floyd? You always this mysterious or is it just around me?”

Bob looked down for a second, as if considering how much to give. Then, he smiled, faint but genuine. “It’s not just you. I’ve always been like this.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s not a bad thing. Just means I’ve got to ask more questions.”

Bob chuckled under his breath, then glanced sideways. “You really want to know?”

“Sure,” you said, looking out toward the dark water. “If you don’t mind.”

He was quiet again for a beat, then offered, “I grew up in Kentucky. Small town. Lots of farms, lots of quiet. My parents still live there.”

You glanced back at him. “That tracks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’ve got that whole, dependable small-town guy energy,” you said, smiling a little. “Like you know how to fix fences and drive stick.”

Bob gave a modest shrug. “I do.”

You laughed lightly, then looked ahead again. “I didn’t grow up anywhere near that quiet. My parents moved around a lot, military family and stuff. I barely unpacked before we’d be gone again. Think we lived in seven states before I turned ten.”

Bob glanced at you, his expression softening. “That sounds tough.”

“It was,” you admitted, not quite looking at him. “You get good at starting over, but not at staying. Penny was always the one stable person in my life. She’d send postcards wherever we were. Always signed them with something dumb like ‘Don’t forget who makes the best cheese cake.’”

Bob smiled at that. “She still say that?”

“She texted me that two weeks ago when I didn’t answer her call. I was sleeping!”

He chuckled again, a quiet sound in the open air. “She really loves you.”

“I know,” you said softly, then paused. “I think that’s why I came out here. Just needed something steady for once.”

Bob was quiet for a moment, walking beside you with the surf lapping softly just ahead. Then he asked, “Do you feel like you found that?”

You looked at him for a long second, then smiled—not wide, not dramatic, just enough to reach your eyes.

“I think I might,” you said.

Bob nodded once, eyes on the sand as he kept walking beside you.

By the time the two of you looped back near the edge of the boardwalk, the night had settled into something heavier, quieter. The kind of stillness that came when the world was finally tired enough to rest.

The ocean whispered nearby, all foam and pull, and the wind tugged gently at the hem of your jacket. You were walking closer now, shoulder just brushing his every few steps, not quite touching but near enough to notice when he shifted, near enough to feel the warmth coming off his sleeve.

You stopped walking first, and Bob paused beside you without question, turning toward the water as you looked out at it like it had something to say.

“I was kind of a mess when I got here,” you said, voice soft but deliberate. The words came out like something you’d carried for too long.

Bob turned slightly, watching your profile in the dim light, the way your gaze drifted to the horizon like it hurt to look back at the shore.

“I didn’t really say that to anyone, not even Penny. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, let alone out loud, but I was.” You exhaled, quiet and tired. “I was… really low. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t feel muchand I kept thinking maybe that was just how life was supposed to be.”

Bob didn’t interrupt. He stood there with you, steady, like an anchor just close enough to hold.

“Then Penny offered me the guest room,” you said. “Told me to stop pretending I was okay. Told me to come out here, take a break, just… breathe.”

You looked over at him slowly, your eyes searching his face like you were trying to see if he could hold what you were about to say next. “I didn’t think I’d stay. I figured I’d be gone in a few days.”

Bob swallowed, watching you now, completely still.

“But something about this place felt different,” you continued, eyes soft but steady. “The people. The ocean. The quiet. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like I had to earn my spot just to exist. And I think—” your voice dipped slightly, careful now “—I think I found someone worth staying for.”

Bob’s breath caught, subtle but real. His fingers curled slightly in the pockets of his jacket. His heart made that same familiar leap, too hopeful, too fast. Then, he forced himself to slow it down, to be rational, to not assume.

He looked down briefly, then back up, eyes skimming your face. “Bradley’s… a good guy.”

You blinked. “What?”

Bob gave a small nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “He’s got a good heart. People like him. He’s easy to talk to, and I know he likes you.”

There was a pause, and then you turned to face him fully, the line of your shoulders shifting toward him like something inside you had snapped tight.

“It’s not Rooster.”

Bob blinked, startled. “It’s not?”

You took a slow step closer, not too close, but enough that the space between you suddenly felt deliberate. “It’s not. I meant someone else.”

His eyes searched yours, uncertain. You weren’t smiling anymore, not the playful, teasing grin you wore behind the bar. This was something rawer, something truer, and it pulled the breath from his lungs in a quiet wave. Your expression was open in a way he hadn’t seen before, like you were letting him see behind a curtain you normally kept closed.

There was something in your eyes now, too, like something deeper than curiosity, warmer than casual affection. A look that didn’t hide how long you’d been watching him the way he’d been watching you.

“I’m talking about someone who stays behind without being asked. Someone who waits for me after closing, who always listens even when I have nothing worth saying,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “Someone who never tries to take up all the space in the room, but somehow makes it feel safer just by being there.”

Bob looked away for a second, then back at you. He was trying not to fall headfirst into the thing you were offering. He was trying to protect himself, because he couldn’t quite believe it, not yet. “He sounds… lucky,” he said, careful not to let his voice shake.

You watched him, your brow furrowing just slightly. “Yeah,” you said. “I think he is, or he would be. If he felt the same.”

Your eyes didn’t leave his. They stayed right there, open, waiting, soft in the edges but bright with something that looked like hope, or maybe just the kind of yearning that lived in quiet places. The kind that never demanded anything, just wanted to be seen.

Bob stood there with his breath held like he might drop something if he exhaled. And still, he said nothing.

Because the part of him that loved you the most was the same part that was terrified to believe this was real.

- You -

After you bared your soul to Bob Floyd, nothing dramatic happened. The sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t tilt. You didn’t wake up the next day wrapped in some cinematic resolution.

What came instead was quieter. He hadn’t said anything that night, and in the days that followed, his silence stretched long enough to feel like an answer you didn’t want to hear.

At first, you tried to give him space. Maybe he needed time. You told yourself that, over and over, like a mantra you didn’t quite believe. He was thoughtful, cautious by nature.

Maybe he just didn’t know what to do with a moment like that, with someone standing in front of him asking him to be sure about something he had never dared to want out loud.

You excused his distance the first few days, chalked it up to nerves or work or some internal battle he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

Then a week passed. Then two.

Meanwhile, life kept moving around you. Penny teased you about always being lost in your head. The Dagger Squad still came in for drinks and darts and nights that ended in someone losing a bet. Rooster flirted with a girl from town. Phoenix rolled her eyes at every single one of Jake’s one-liners.

And Bob? Bob was there, technically. He came in with the group, always on time, always polite. He nodded when you greeted him, smiled when the moment called for it, but the quiet between you was different now. Measured. Careful.

He didn’t stay behind after closing anymore. He didn’t sit at the bar with his hands folded while you cleaned up. He didn’t offer to walk you out to your car or wait by the door pretending he just happened to be there.

You noticed every time he left before the music ended. You noticed when he talked more to Phoenix, when he stared harder at his drink. You noticed when he didn’t look at you unless you spoke directly to him.

Then, came the creeping thoughts, the ones that curled around your ribs at night when you tried to sleep. Had you misread it all? The glances, the soft silences, the way he always stayed just a little longer than he needed to.

You wondered if he regretted letting you say it. If he wished you hadn’t. If your honesty had ruined something that wasn’t even fully alive to begin with.

You started second-guessing your words. You replayed that night in your head so many times it felt like a memory pressed under glass.

And still, Bob said nothing.

You didn’t want to chase him. You didn’t want to make him feel cornered or forced, but the hurt settled in slowly, like the way ocean salt clings to your skin long after you’ve dried off.

You missed him.

Missed him in the kind of way that snuck up on you during the little moments, the quiet in between shifts, the way you’d glance up out of habit and expect to see him leaning against the wall, waiting.

But he was gone, not completely, but just enough to make you feel the difference. And you were starting to wonder if he had ever really been yours to begin with.

You remember having a joke before about having a thing for Rooster. He was easy to like. Loud in a charming way, confident without being cruel, handsome in that classic, all-American way that turned heads when he walked into the bar. He made people laugh. He made you laugh.

For a while, it was enough to have him flirt with you across the counter, toss you a wink after landing a bullseye at the dartboard, tease you about your drink preferences like it was some shared secret. It was simple, and safe in its own shallow way.

But somewhere along the line, somewhere between closing shifts and long glances and the sound of Bob’s voice saying your name just once in a quiet room, you realized it had never really been about Rooster.

Because while everyone else was turning up the volume, Bob was steady. He didn’t try to impress anyone, didn’t spin stories or flash that practiced grin. He was just there. Patient, observant, always listening, and always waiting.

And now, without meaning to, your thoughts kept looping back to him. You saw him in the quiet moments, where nothing loud or clever could fill the space. The ones where presence mattered more than words.

And maybe that was why it hurt more than you expected, because you hadn’t just liked Bob. You’d started seeing him.

He wasn’t loud or traditionally flashy, but he had that kind of presence you didn’t fully appreciate until it was missing. He was tall, sure, but never made himself bigger than the room. His movements were careful, efficient, like someone who knew how to blend in but never truly disappear.

There was a softness to the way he carried himself, thoughtful and precise, like everything he did had purpose. His sandy hair always looked like it needed a few more minutes in the mirror, but it somehow worked on him, just slightly ruffled, like he’d been running his hand through it all day.

And his eyes, behind those glasses, were the kind you didn’t notice until you really looked. Clear blue, a little shy, always gentle, but there were moments when they caught the light just right and made your breath catch.

You remembered that night on the beach. The way he’d looked at you when you said it, really said it, and how something in his face had almost cracked. You thought he might say something then. Anything, but he hadn’t. He’d just looked at you with those quiet, stunned eyes and let the moment pass.

Now, two weeks later, it was all still sitting with you.

And no amount of Rooster’s charm or Jake’s jokes or Phoenix’s sideways glances could fill the space Bob had left behind.

Because it wasn’t just a crush anymore. It wasn’t something light or flirty or fun. It was something that had snuck up on you when you weren’t watching. And it was wearing glasses and a quiet smile and a name that was starting to taste like longing every time you said it.

The worst part was that he hadn’t said anything.

Not that he’d rejected you outright, and certianly not that he’d laughed or pulled away or looked horrified. He just... hadn’t said anything. And that silence? It was louder than any no you’d ever heard.

As the days stretched on, you started wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe you’d read too far into a kind gesture, misinterpreted a kind man. Maybe he had never looked at you that way.

Maybe he had been kind because that’s just who he was, and you’d gone and ruined everything by making it more than that. It would’ve been easier if he’d told you you were wrong. If he’d said he didn’t see you like that.

At least then you could’ve buried it properly, but this? This careful avoidance, this half-hearted politeness when you passed behind the bar, this space he put between you every time you were in the same room, it just felt worse.

Meanwhile, your thoughts kept looping in circles, dragging you into places you didn’t want to go. Was he ashamed of you? Had your honesty made him uncomfortable? Had he gone home that night and replayed it all with a wince, wondering why someone like you would even think he could feel the same?

You didn’t want to believe that. Not from Bob, but your brain didn’t care. It was like it made its own monsters in the dark.

Maybe he’d been disgusted, maybe he thought you were too much, too forward, and too broken. You’d been vulnerable in a way you hadn’t been in a long time. You’d said things you didn’t even mean to say until they were already out of your mouth.

What if he had seen you differently after that? What if he pitied you?

Then, there was the deeper, more painful thought; the one that caught in your throat every time it surfaced. What if he had wanted to say something, but decided not to because he didn’t want you like that? What if the reason he didn’t speak was because it was easier to walk away than to face the disappointment in your eyes?

You started pulling back, even when you didn’t mean to. You smiled less, you lingered at the bar a little longer to avoid walking past him, you laughed at Hangman’s stupid jokes just to fill the silence.

You pretended Rooster still made your heart skip, even though he never had, but not in the way Bob did, at least. You tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that you hadn’t stood in front of him, heart open and hands shaking, asking for something small and simple.

You weren’t asking him to love you. You’d only wanted to know if he could. And now? Now you didn’t even know if he’d ever really seen you at all.

Eventually, you started blaming yourself.

Not just for saying too much, but for believing in the first place that you ever had a chance. The more time passed, the more it sunk in; how foolish you must have looked, how naive you must have sounded, standing there that night like some starry-eyed fool thinking that your feelings meant something.

You played it back in your head, the way his eyes had gone wide, the way his mouth opened and closed, the way the silence stretched just long enough to hurt. And still, you told yourself he needed time. That he was shy, or overwhelmed, or maybe just stunned by the idea that anyone could want him like that.

But now, after two weeks of polite distance and half-smiles that felt like placeholders, you saw the truth for what it was. You’d read too far into everything. You’d taken his kindness and mistook it for something more. You’d turned his gentle nature into something romantic because it was easier to believe he could love you than it was to admit how lonely you were.

Meanwhile, every moment you’d clung to before started crumbling under closer inspection.

That time he stayed late to walk you to your car? He probably just didn’t want you walking alone. The way he listened when you talked about your childhood? Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he wasn’t holding on to your words the way you were holding on to his silence. Maybe he never looked at you the way you looked at him. Maybe he never even saw you that way.

Then, came the part that stung worst of all. You had told him. You had shown him. And still, he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t come back with an apology or a gentle letdown. He hadn’t asked if you were okay or said he needed time or even offered you a friend’s honesty. He had just... faded.

And that left you with only one conclusion. You must have imagined it all.

You must have taken every quiet moment and twisted it into a fairytale. You must have seen something in him that was never really there. And how embarrassing was that?

How delusional had you been to think someone like Bob Floyd, kind and steady and good in a way you hadn’t known people could be, could ever look at someone like you and feel the same?

The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. You weren’t subtle. You had laid everything out for him, eyes wide, voice shaking, heart damn near bleeding at his feet. And he hadn’t even had to say no.

His silence had done the job for him. It was almost worse this way, the slow drip of rejection hidden under the surface of normalcy. At least if he’d said he didn’t feel the same, you could’ve begun to heal. Now all you had were the pieces of something you had built alone. And the painful knowledge that none of it, not a single part, had ever belonged to you.

“Hey,” Bradley said gently, his voice low and a little rough around the edges. “Hey, look at me.”

The sound of your name broke through the haze, pulling you back to yourself just enough to flinch. You hadn’t realized anyone had come outside.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been sitting there, knees tucked up slightly, arms loose at your sides, eyes fixed on some blurred spot in the distance where the sky met the sea. You jumped when you felt the hand on your shoulder, then turned quickly, heart skipping.

Bradley stood just behind you, looking more serious than you were used to seeing him. He held a bottle in one hand and worry in his eyes, the kind that didn’t need explaining.

Without saying much else, he moved around and sat beside you on the porch swing, the old chains creaking softly under the added weight. He handed you the beer without ceremony and leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the swing, close but not quite touching.

Penny had all but pushed you out here fifteen minutes ago, and she told you she didn’t care how many glasses needed washing or how many people still needed tabs, then she said you were zoning out again, and it was starting to scare her.

You hadn’t argued, so you’d come out and settled on the swing you’d talked her into buying last spring, swearing it would bring in more customers, give the place a softer edge. Now, it just felt like a place to fall apart quietly.

“I’d be stupid to ask if you’re okay,” Bradley said after a moment, cracking the cap off his own bottle and taking a small sip.

You forced a small, shaky laugh. “I’m fine.”

But he turned his head toward you, sharp and certain, before you could even blink. “Do not lie to me, sweetheart.”

The words landed heavy, not cruel, but weighted in the way that told you he wasn’t going to let it slide this time. He knew, maybe not everything, and maybe not the full mess of what you were holding, but enough, enough to call it what it was.

You didn’t speak at first. The beer sat cold in your hand, untouched, forgotten. The swing moved just slightly beneath you both, the creak of the chain giving your silence rhythm.

You felt the wind slip through your hair, and you stared straight ahead, trying to find something steady in the blur of night lights reflecting off parked cars and distant waves.

It felt like something in you had cracked open, not loudly, but slowly, and all the thoughts you’d tried to keep buried had begun to spill into everything, every glance, every breath, every reminder of what you’d said and what he hadn’t.

And now Bradley was here, waiting quietly beside you, like he’d seen the whole thing unravel without ever needing you to say a word.

You didn’t answer him right away, and Bradley didn’t push. He just let the silence settle between you again, steady as the tide. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the glass of his beer bottle before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

The porch light buzzed faintly above, casting a soft glow over the railing, and the hum of conversation from inside the Hard Deck faded into the background.

“I won’t ask,” he said eventually, eyes fixed ahead. “But I’ll tell you something, and you don’t have to say a word back. Just... let me talk, alright?”

You nodded once, barely more than a tilt of your head. It was all the permission he needed.

“When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me this story about how she met my dad,” he began, voice easy and even, like he wasn’t trying to make it serious, just keep it honest.

“She said he used to come into this greasy little diner she worked at every Sunday, like clockwork. Sat at the same booth, ordered the same thing, barely said more than a few words to her the first month. She thought he was sweet, kind of quiet, kind of awkward.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, somewhere far away from the parking lot and the bar and whatever weight you were both carrying.

“She swore she caught him staring sometimes, but he always looked away too fast. She used to joke that he looked like he was trying to memorize her but didn’t want her to notice. Said he always left good tips, always thanked her, but never flirted. Not once, but for weeks.”

There was a softness to Bradley’s voice now, one that only came when he talked about his mother. You’d heard it before, usually in quieter moments, and it always held a kind of reverence that made you ache.

“Then one night,” he continued, “she was working a late shift, and rain was coming down hard, place was almost empty. She was wiping down the counter when he came in soaking wet, no umbrella, no coat, just dripping all over the floor. She asked what the hell he was doing out in that weather, and he said he forgot his wallet the last time he came in. Handed it over like he’d come all that way for something that dumb.”

He paused for a beat, then smiled faintly. “But she swore he didn’t forget anything. He just needed an excuse to come back. That was the night he asked if he could walk her home.”

The wind rustled gently through the nearby trees, and for a moment it felt like you could almost see it, that little diner, the rain on the windows, the quiet rhythm of something small beginning.

“She said she knew then,” Bradley said, finally glancing over at you. “Said she knew that someone who came back just to give her a reason to see him again was someone who’d stay.”

You looked away quickly, eyes burning with something you didn’t want to explain. He didn’t mention Bob. He didn’t have to, and you could hear it in the way he told the story. Y

ou could feel the shape of it beneath every word. And still, he didn’t push. He just leaned back again, letting the swing move with the wind, like time could slow down if he just let it.

For a while, you didn’t say anything. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the space between your shoes and the wooden porch floor, your fingers tracing the rim of the bottle without really noticing, but something about Bradley’s voice, about the softness in that story, had carved out enough silence inside you that the words finally had somewhere to land.

“I really thought he felt the same,” you said quietly, barely more than a breath.

Bradley didn’t react right away. He stayed still, just listening, not pushing you to keep going, not rushing to fill the quiet. So, you kept talking, because now that it had started spilling, you didn’t know how to stop.

“I told myself not to hope. I mean... I’ve done this before. I’ve fallen for people who were never mine to begin with, but this time it felt different, slower, softer. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, it just… built. And I thought maybe he was just waiting, maybe he was scared, but it’s been two weeks and he’s barely even looked at me.”

Bradley let out a quiet breath through his nose, nodding once like he understood more than you realized. You glanced at him, and he didn’t look smug or surprised, just calm, like someone you could lean on without asking.

“I keep thinking,” you said, your voice cracking just a little, “how stupid I must’ve been to think he actually wanted me. Like I made it all up in my head, every little look, every quiet moment. Maybe I’m just… too much.”

Bradley turned to you then, his eyes steady as they met yours. He didn’t speak right away. He just reached out and gently placed his hand over yours, grounding you.

“You’re not too much,” he said, firm but quiet. “Don’t ever think that, and you weren’t stupid. Anyone who made you feel like you were? That’s on them, not you.”

Your chest tightened. The tears you’d been holding back all day finally started pushing at the edges. You didn’t even try to stop them this time. You looked away, blinking hard, and then Bradley shifted beside you, opening his arms just a little like he wasn’t sure you’d take the offer.

You didn’t even hesitate.

You leaned into him, your forehead pressing to his shoulder as his arms came around you in a firm, steady hug. Not romantic. Not complicated. Just warm and solid and safe. You let yourself breathe for the first time in days.

And then, the door creaked open behind you. You froze.

Bradley tensed slightly beneath you, then turned his head toward the door. You didn’t move right away, but your heart sank before you even heard the voice.

“Oh,” Bob said, voice clipped and uncertain. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You pulled back slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you turned your head just enough to see him standing there in the open doorway, his hand still on the handle like he hadn’t fully stepped out. His eyes flicked from you to Bradley and back, unreadable in the low porch light.

Before you could say a word, he nodded once, quick, awkward, and stepped back inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft, final click. The silence that followed was heavier than before.

And this time, it wasn’t just yours. Was it really?

Bradley exhaled slowly, leaning back on the swing as you pulled away. His arm dropped to his side, but his eyes stayed on you, studying the way your posture had changed. You were still sitting, but something in you had shifted, gone taut like a wire pulled too tight. He saw it before you even stood.

“He saw something that wasn’t what it looked like,” he said quietly. “If it matters that much to you, go tell him.”

You looked at him then, heart already rising into your throat. “What if it’s too late?”

Bradley gave a small smile, nothing showy, just enough to feel real. “Then at least you’ll know you tried.”

You were already on your feet before he finished speaking.

Your boots hit the wooden porch hard as you turned toward the Hard Deck and pushed the door open, the warm noise of the bar spilling out into the night.

Inside, everything looked the same as it always did, Jake and Natasha nursing drinks at the high-top, Javy half-asleep on the couch by the jukebox, Mickey talking to a girl at the bar, but Bob wasn’t there.

Panic flared up as your eyes scanned the room again, faster this time. You moved toward the others, voice already raised a little louder than you meant it to be.

“Where’s Bob?”

Jake looked up from his drink, raising one brow with a smirk already forming. “Left a minute ago,” he said, drawing the words out with that usual drawl. “Looked like he had something on his mind.”

Phoenix gave him a side-glare, but Jake only grinned, tilting his beer bottle toward you. “Might wanna hurry, darlin’. Pretty sure he’s heading for the parking lot.”

Then, he winked.

You didn’t wait for the rest. You were already turning, already pushing through the door again before Phoenix could finish rolling her eyes. The night air hit you fast as you broke into a run, boots hitting pavement, heart racing, breath uneven as your eyes searched the parking lot for any sign of him.

But he was nowhere to be found. Not near the cars, not by the road, not leaning against the building like he sometimes did when he needed air.

You turned in a slow circle, breath catching, chest tightening, and for a moment you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d already lost him.

The first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky like a warning, low and distant, but enough to make you glance upward. The clouds had thickened without you noticing, dark smudges swallowing the stars you’d barely registered when you ran out here.

You kept walking anyway, your breath catching somewhere between hope and regret, your boots pounding across the vast stretch of asphalt that seemed to go on forever.

The Hard Deck’s parking lot felt impossibly big now, like it had swallowed him whole. You turned one way, then another, looking past the cars and over the fence toward the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of his figure in the dark. Nothing. No movement, no headlights, just the hum of silence.

And then, the sky split open.

The thunder cracked louder this time, and a second later the rain came down hard and fast, no preamble, no gentle drizzle. Just a sudden downpour, sharp and cold and unrelenting.

It soaked you instantly, plastering your shirt to your skin and pushing your hair down over your forehead. You stopped in the middle of the lot, blinking against the water, teeth clenched as you spun in one last desperate circle.

“Shit,” you breathed out, voice swallowed by the storm. “Shit!”

You kicked at a puddle with the side of your foot, frustration rising until it choked you. Then, slowly, without really thinking about it, you turned away from the cars and walked across the lot toward the dunes.

The sand felt cold under your boots as you stepped over the edge of the boardwalk, then softer as it gave under your feet. The tide was coming in slow and steady, the ocean dark and wild beneath the storm, but you didn’t stop. You moved closer until the wind off the water hit your skin like a slap.

The rain kept falling, heavier now, washing over your arms and shoulders and cheeks, mixing with the tears you didn’t even realize had started until your vision blurred.

You stopped walking, right where the wet sand met the dry, and you let your knees give a little, sinking down just enough to wrap your arms around yourself. The tears came harder now, not the quiet kind, but the full-body kind. The kind you only let loose when there’s no one around to see it.

Because what was wrong with you?

Why did you always love the wrong people, or love the right ones at the wrong time?

Why did your heart have to choose the person who couldn’t say anything back?

Why did you open yourself up at all, when it only ever ended like this, alone, soaked to the bone, watching the world pretend not to notice?

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it didn’t matter. The wind carried it away.

And then, so softly you almost didn’t feel it, something touched your shoulder.

You looked up, eyes stinging.

An umbrella had been tilted over you, its wide canopy blocking the worst of the rain. The water still dripped off the edges, pooling around you in the sand, but suddenly the sound wasn’t so loud. The sky felt a little less heavy.

Someone had come back.

- Bob -

It was the way your head rested against Bradley’s shoulder that did it. Not the hug itself. Not even the rainclouds already threatening the sky. It was the intimacy of it. The ease.

The way you leaned into him like you belonged there. Bob had seen plenty of hugs before. He’d even been on the receiving end of one or two from you. But this was different.

This looked like something he wasn’t supposed to see.

“Oh,” Bob said quietly, voice tight in his throat. “Sorry, uh...I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You turned toward him, startled, but he didn’t wait for you to explain. He just nodded once and backed into the doorway before the swing could creak again, before you or Bradley could say anything that might make it worse. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him felt final, like the end of a page he hadn’t meant to write.

He moved quickly across the bar, making his way to where the squad was still lounging. He didn’t say much. Just a quiet “Night,” as he passed Phoenix, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask, and then Coyote, who was halfway through a drink.

He didn’t even glance at Jake, who was mid-laugh over something Mickey said. Bob didn’t want to hear the jokes. He didn’t want a conversation. He just wanted to leave before whatever was knotted in his chest made its way to his face.

Outside again, the air felt heavier. Humid and tense. He inhaled slowly as he walked across the lot, weaving between cars toward the overflow patch of gravel on the far end of the property where he had parked earlier.

The bar had been packed when he arrived. He hadn’t minded the extra walk then. Now, he was grateful for it. Maybe the distance would help clear his head.

He reached for his door handle, only to pause. His keys were not in his pocket.

He checked again. Patting down the front, the side. Even crouched to peek under the car in case he’d dropped them on the walk out. Nothing.

Bob closed his eyes, jaw tightening as the first flicker of lightning cracked across the clouds. A second later, thunder rolled in low and slow behind it. Of course. Of course. He exhaled sharply, eyes stinging more than he wanted to admit, and turned on his heel.

The back door was closer than the front, so he made his way around the building and slipped in through the rear entrance near the storage room. Inside, the music was muffled and the lights were dimmer, but the voices of his squad were unmistakable.

Jake looked up first, brows lifted in surprise. “What the hell, man? I thought you just left.”

Bob didn’t slow his pace. “I forgot my keys,” he muttered, stepping toward their table with zero interest in lingering.

Jake blinked at him, then grinned slowly. “And you came all the way back for that? You sure it’s not because your one true love is still in the vicinity?”

Bob rolled his eyes, hand outstretched. “Give me the keys, Seresin.”

Bradley, who had just come back inside from the porch, walked past Jake and dropped into the seat beside Mickey with a dramatic sigh. Then he looked up at Bob, eyes calm, and said, “Go get your girl.”

Bob froze, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

Bradley just gave him a pat on the shoulder and leaned back, tossing an arm over the back of the booth like he hadn’t just dropped something massive into the middle of the room. “You’ll figure it out.”

Jake chuckled, pulling Bob’s keys from his jacket pocket and tossing them with a lazy underhand. “Godspeed, lover boy,” he said with a wink.

Bob caught them with a half-hearted glare, then turned to leave again, shoulders tight. The rain had started properly by the time he stepped back outside.

Not just a drizzle, but a full downpour, wind kicking up droplets sideways as he squinted against the water. He didn’t have a jacket, of course not, but he did spot a forgotten umbrella resting in the metal stand by the exit door, probably something Penny kept for guests who never remembered the forecast.

He grabbed it without hesitation.

As he started toward his car again, umbrella tilted forward to block the worst of the storm, he squinted toward the shoreline. The wind had shifted, making it harder to see, but something near the dunes caught his eye.

A figure, small and still with knees drawn in, head down, hunched against the rain.

His chest tightened instantly, because he knew exactly who it was.

You.

Bob’s breath caught as soon as he saw you.

You were there, just beyond the edge of the dunes, curled in on yourself, knees drawn up, the sand clinging to your boots and the hem of your jeans. Rain poured down over you like the sky itself was mourning something, but you weren’t moving. You just sat there like you had nowhere else to go.

For a second, he didn’t know what to do.

He stood frozen, umbrella in one hand, heart in his throat, soaked already from the walk and not caring in the slightest. The wind tugged at his sleeves, the cold crawling under the collar of his shirt, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

Not when the waves crashed, and certainly not when thunder growled low in the clouds.

Then, before he could lose his nerve again, he moved.

Each step down the beach felt like something deliberate, something that might rewrite everything or wreck it entirely. By the time he reached you, your shoulders were shaking. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or the crying, and the thought of either made something tighten behind his ribs.

He tilted the umbrella gently over your head, angling it to cover as much of you as he could. The rain pinged off the canopy, water spilling down the sides and pooling into the sand. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to.

You turned slowly, blinking up at him with eyes red from tears, your face half-shielded by your hand.

When you spoke, it was soft, hoarse. “Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “What are you doing out here?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at him like you couldn’t believe he was real. Then, pushing up off the sand, you stood slowly. You were already soaked through, hair clinging to your cheeks, your clothes heavy with rain.

The umbrella barely covered you both, so Bob tilted it even further toward your side, letting the drops hit the back of his neck, soak his shoulders. It didn’t matter.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” you said, wiping your face roughly with the back of your hand. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I—” Bob scoffed, quiet but incredulous. “What are you doing here? It’s pouring. You’re out in the middle of the beach, alone. You—you’re crying.��

“And?”

The word hit him like a slap, not because of what you said, but how. Defensive. Deflecting. Just like you always were when something hurt and you didn’t want to admit it.

He stepped back just slightly, shifting his weight. “You shouldn’t be out here. You could get sick.”

“I can handle a little rain, Bob.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

The frustration in your voice made something snap in him. Not anger. Just the helpless ache of wanting to understand and getting nothing but walls.

“You’re out here like the world’s ending,” he said, not harsh, but loud enough to cut through the sound of the ocean. “And I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I walked in on earlier, but whatever it is, it clearly messed you up. So why won’t you just say it?”

Your jaw tightened. Bob’s eyes searched yours, and he hated how wet your lashes were, how you kept blinking like it might stop the tears from falling again.

“You left,” you said, barely louder than the waves. “You saw me and Bradley and you just left. You didn’t ask. You didn’t say anything. You just walked away.”

“Because I thought—” Bob started, then stopped, mouth opening again before the words would come. “Because I thought maybe I’d finally misread everything. That maybe I really was just the guy who stood beside you while you reached for someone else.”

You went still.

Bob felt the rain trickling down his collar, the weight of it sinking into his clothes, but none of it mattered. Not when he could see the tremble in your chin.

Not when his hands were gripping the handle of the umbrella too tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking open completely.

“I came out here to go home,” he said, voice raw now. “I wasn’t trying to chase you. I wasn’t trying to win anything. I just… saw you and knew I couldn’t leave like that. Not when you looked like—”

“Like what?” you snapped. “Like someone who’s miserable because the person she cares about doesn’t even see her?”

Bob stared.

The umbrella slipped in his hand slightly as his grip faltered. Your chest was rising and falling fast now, tears sliding down your cheeks again even as the rain tried to wash them away.

“You don’t get to be the only one hurt here,” you whispered, and Bob’s breath hitched at the sound.

Bob’s hands were trembling now, just barely, but he didn’t care if you noticed. The umbrella had shifted again, tilted awkwardly between you as the wind pushed it sideways, the handle slipping under his palm.

You stood there in front of him, soaked, furious, breaking right in front of him, and still so beautiful it physically hurt.

He reached out with his free hand, curling his fingers around your wrist gently, almost pleading. “Can we just—can we please go somewhere dry? Please? You’re shaking. I’m shaking. This is…”

“No.”

You didn’t yell it. You didn’t need to. You said it with steel in your voice, steady and clear, enough to stop him cold. His hand dropped back to his side, and the umbrella dipped lower, forgotten.

“You don’t get to do that,” you continued, eyes shining with something deeper than just tears. “You don’t get to show up and look at me like that and then leave. For two weeks, Bob. I bared my soul to you and then you disappeared. You looked at me like I meant something, like maybe I wasn’t alone in feeling this—and then you vanished.”

The words were falling faster now, unfiltered, raw. Your chest heaved as you stood your ground, unmoving, hair plastered to your face, water running down your neck.

“I spent the last two weeks thinking I imagined everything. That I was delusional. That maybe I was just another sad story in your life you didn’t want to deal with. I thought, hell, I thought maybe you were ashamed of me. That I’d embarrassed you somehow. Because how else do you explain silence like that, Bob? After everything—”

“I never—”

“No. Let me finish,” you snapped, voice cracking slightly. “You don’t get to shut me out and then show up and pretend like I’m the one who needs fixing. I was hurting, and you walked away. And I tried to pretend it didn’t break me but it did, Bob. It really did. And you know what’s worse? I would’ve forgiven you. I still—”

He dropped the umbrella.

It fell between you with a quiet thud, folding uselessly into the sand as the wind dragged it sideways. Then, in a single, swift step, he closed the distance between you, and his hands came up to your face, framing it with a tenderness that contradicted the desperate pull in his breath.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was soaked and shaking and aching from two weeks of silence, from a year of almosts, from the weight of everything left unsaid.

His lips pressed to yours like he needed to be sure this was real, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he waited one second longer. You felt the way his chest rose against yours, the way his hands curled into your damp hair like he was anchoring himself.

He kissed you like someone drowning, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole damn life.

The moment their lips parted, Bob felt it like an ache. Not just in his chest, but in every part of him that had been holding back for too long. His breath came ragged, wet hair dripping into his eyes, and he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh as he looked at you.

There was a smile on his face now, gentle and quiet, like the storm had finally stilled, like maybe, just maybe, everything had been worth it.

Then, your hand hit his cheek with a sharp crack.

Bob reeled, not backward, just enough to blink the rain from his lashes and stare at you, stunned. His hand went instinctively to his cheek, now stinging from the slap, and he stood there completely still as you looked back at him with tears pouring down your face.

“What the hell was that?” you cried out, voice wobbling with more than just anger. “Why did you kiss me?! I—I had a whole speech, Bob! I practiced! I spent days trying to figure out how to say this to you and you—you just—”

“I—”

“I wasn’t done!” you snapped, both hands now clenched at your sides, your chest rising fast. “I had this whole damn thing ready and I was gonna look you in the eye and tell you that you make me feel like I’m not broken, that I feel safe with you and myself with you and God, Bob, you kissed me in the middle of it! What kind of timing, I mean, who does that?!”

He should’ve said something, but the lump in his throat was too thick, his heart too full. So instead, he stepped closer. One hand came up, trembling slightly as he touched your chin with the softest tip of his finger, lifting your face until your eyes met his again.

You looked furious, you looked wrecked, and you looked like you had waited for someone to choose you for far too long. And he did.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat.

His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, fingers brushing your cheekbone gently, the same one you had just slapped. His other hand found your lower back, firm and steady as he pulled you closer, pressing you carefully against him, like he was holding something fragile.

The rain was still pouring around you, but Bob didn’t feel it anymore. Not when you were this close.

His voice cracked on the first words.

“I didn’t mean to run,” he said, voice hoarse, barely audible over the storm. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I thought you were with Rooster. I saw you with him and it—it hurt so much I thought maybe I’d made the whole thing up in my head. That I was just… the background guy. Again. And I couldn’t stand it.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head quickly, eyes glassy. “Please, just… let me say this?”

You nodded.

“I love you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Bob had to blink fast as tears mixed with the rain on his face.

“I don’t know when it started,” he continued, stumbling slightly as the words finally spilled out, “but I think it was that first night at the bar when Penny introduced you to us. You were laughing at something Jake said, and I thought, God, I’m in trouble, because you looked at everyone like they were familiar, but when you looked at me, it felt like, like I mattered. And I never feel like that, not really.”

You were staring at him now, lips parted, rain dripping off your chin.

“And every time you talked to me, I couldn’t think straight. I’d remember later what I should have said, but in the moment, all I could do was hope you’d say something else just so I could keep hearing your voice. And then I saw you crushing on Rooster and I thought, Of course. Why wouldn’t you fall for the guy who’s everything I’m not?”

His thumb traced a gentle line under your eye, where a tear had carved a path.

“But then you looked at me that night on the beach. And I thought, maybe, Maybe I wasn’t just imagining it. Maybe I wasn’t being delusional.”

He took a breath, shaking.

“I love the way you talk when you’re too tired to filter yourself. I love how you take care of everyone, even when you’re falling apart. I love how stubborn you are. I love your damn porch swing, and the way you light up when you talk about stupid things like sandwich order preferences. I love every single part of you.”

His voice cracked again, eyes locked to yours.

“And I swear I would’ve said it sooner, if I wasn’t so afraid of losing the only thing in my life that felt good and real.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t have to. Bob could see it, your eyes glassy, your lips parted, your chest trembling from holding back too much for too long. You were crying, full and silent, the kind that made his chest twist because it meant you were really feeling it now.

And maybe he was too, because he didn’t even bother wiping at the tears running down his own cheeks.

What was the point? The rain was doing a damn good job of hiding them, but the heat in his throat said they were there anyway.

You reached up slowly, fingers brushing along the side of his neck, uncertain at first. Bob leaned into the touch like it was gravity, like the choice had already been made for him.

Your hand slid higher, into the mess of his damp hair, curling gently like it was something sacred.

He closed his eyes at that, just for a second. He didn’t need to look to feel it. He already knew that you were choosing him.

So, he kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or chaotic or driven by panic. It was slow. It was soft.

It was the kind of kiss that unfolded instead of exploded, that whispered you’re safe here instead of screaming don’t leave me.

His hands stayed steady, one resting gently at the small of your back, the other brushing your jaw with the kind of care he always used when he handled delicate things.

Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, without hesitation. The rain kept falling, soaking through every layer of clothing, dripping down your joined hands, your cheeks, your chins. You were soaked, cold, and probably going to get sick after this.

And neither of you cared, because something in the world had finally shifted into place.

When you finally pulled apart, it was only by a breath. Just far enough for your foreheads to touch, noses brushing, tears still clinging to both of your faces.

“I love you too, Robert Floyd,” you whispered, voice cracking on his name like it was the only truth that ever mattered.

Bob laughed, quiet and hoarse, and leaned into you again, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face as he looked at you, really looked.

“Say it again,” he said, not because he didn’t believe it, but because he needed to hear it. Like a balm. Like a song.

You smiled, still crying. “I love you, Bob.”

And so, he kissed you again.

This time slower.

This time longer.

And this time like he’d never let you forget it.

#bob floyd x reader #bob x reader #bob floyd #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake seresin #natasha trace #top gun fandom #avengxrz

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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thanks a LOT rachel (get the meme??? 😔) youve made me fall for bradley bradshaw 🏃‍♀️

no because as soon as i read that my brain immediately played that meme in hd 😔 but also… welcome to the bradley bradshaw spiral 🫡 once you fall, there’s no climbing out.

#avengxrz

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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poll time for top gun: maverick fics!

helloooo! i need help deciding what to finish writing first. i’m working on three different top gun: maverick fics right now, and my brain can’t pick one. so i’m doing the dramatic thing and making a poll. please vote. i’m begging nicely.

first one is a jake seresin x reader fic called “you only want me when you’re hurting.” you’ve been his secret safe place for years, late nights, whispered lies, bruised kisses, but you’re tired of being the backup plan. you tell him so. and this time, jake shows up at your door, sober, steady, and finally yours. that's if you’ll let him be.

second is a bradley bradshaw x reader fic called “the house always wins, but you were never a bet.” you grew up together. almost something more, but never quite. he left for the skies. you stayed. now he’s back, years later, and you’ve moved on, or at least you’re trying. he’s too late, or maybe not.

third is a bob floyd x reader fic called “some people are soft only for you.” bob has always been the quiet one, the safe one, the one who saw you fall for the wrong people again and again. he never said anything, he just stayed. until the moment you finally needed someone to catch you, and it was him.

so, yeahhhh. i am down bad. please help me choose which fic gets my attention and emotional damage first. poll below. thank you in advance and may the soft boys and sad men win your heart.

don’t worry, all of these are already drafted and long as fuck. the longest one currently has over 13k words because i clearly had too much time (my employer didn’t give me that much work lol), plus i just finished rewatching the movie so... yeah. it spiraled. like everything else in my life. thank you! <3

#avengxrz #top gun fandom #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick

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avengxrz · 1 month ago

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how i have missed writing daryl dixon x rain grimes :<

WARM BODIES

Chapter 03: The Archer

chapter synopsis: While out on your mushroom-picking quest with Glenn, unbeknownst to you, danger lurked just around the corner. Fortunately, a mysterious man with a crossbow intervened, saving you from becoming a geek's dinner. However, he wasn't alone; he had his unsettling brother, who left Glenn visibly shaken, demanding to know where you and Glenn came from. Luckily, you observed that the man with the crossbow was a hunter – precisely what the camp, or more specifically, what you needed.

chapter warnings: This chapter contains strong language, perverted content, tense moments with firearms, mild violence, psychological distress, and a suspenseful atmosphere. Daryl Dixon being hot as hell, but sassy.

word count: 3.2k words

author's note: Hello! I sincerely apologize for the delayed update. I was deeply engrossed in some work, but here we are! Our crossbow-wielding redneck has finally made an entrance! To be honest, I invested significant effort into detailing Daryl's characteristics. I aimed to avoid the cliché of love at first sight, wanting him to align closely with Norman Reedus's portrayal in the first season – somewhat sassy, if you catch my drift. By the way, thank you immensely for the support you're providing; it truly motivates me to write! Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy reading!

MASTERLIST

NEXT CHAPTER >>

You stepped out of your tent, your attire a deviation from your usual style - a thin blue and white striped flannel, complemented by a white tank top. Back in the day, your wardrobe consisted primarily of sweaters, sweatpants, and the occasional leather jacket and pants. But Atlanta's blazing sun left you with little choice.

"Damn, it's hotter than me," you muttered to yourself, reminiscing about the more temperate climate back home, far away from the unrelenting southern heat.

Emerging from your tent, you clutched a red bucket and secured a small hunting knife to your belt, your trusty brown sling bag slung over one shoulder. Shane, ever the vigilant protector, had his shotgun slung casually over the other shoulder as he called out to you.

"Hey, you pickin' mushrooms?" Shane drawled in his annoying voice.

You turned around, squinting at Shane from the intense sunlight. Your eyes, an inherited trait from your father, were sensitive to the bright glare, while your brother boasted your mother's striking blue eyes, which never failed to spark a twinge of envy on you.

"Yeah?" You responded, raising an arm to shield your eyes from the sun.

"Wait for me. I'll come with you."

"No."

Shane, his voice oozing with frustration, barked, "Y/N, for the love of... it ain't safe out there alone!"

Your irritation flared, and you snapped back, "I can handle myself, Shane. I've survived this long without you babysitting me. I don't need your damn help."

Narrowing you eyes at Shane, you made it clear you didn't need his assistance, nor did you particularly relish his company on the excursion.

Shane, not one to back down, flashed a glare. "Y'know this world ain't what it used to be. Better safe than sorry. Besides, can't let ya out there with that little peashooter of a knife."

You sighed, your reluctance clear. "I can handle myself, Shane. I told you."

Before Shane could respond, Glenn, appeared on the scene. "Hey, guys, no need to argue, alright? I'll go with Y/N. Better two pairs of eyes than one, right?"

Glenn, carrying a bucket with just a few mushrooms, happily trotted behind you. He'd successfully convinced you to bring your recurve bow along, and his grin was the picture of contentment. However, you couldn't quite wrap your head around the idea. Why on earth would you need a bow for a mushroom-picking trip? You didn't have the faintest clue about hunting or shooting arrows at moving targets like walkers or animals. Still, you carried it with you, albeit with a puzzled look.

The sound of Glenn humming "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" by the Beatles filled the air as you continued your journey. You suddenly stopped in your tracks and turned to face Glenn, a deadpan expression on your face. You dropped your sling bag to the ground, making a thud that seemed to mirror your exasperation. Glenn's humming came to a halt, and he wore a concerned expression. "What's wrong?" he asked.

You let out a long, dramatic sigh and voiced your confusion about why you were lugging your bow around for mushroom picking. "Tell me again why I had to bring my bow? Honestly, just admit it that bringing the bow was completely useless."

Glenn, ever the optimist, replied, "It's not useless, Y/N." Your raised eyebrow silently demanded an explanation, so he continued, grinning all the while. "I've noticed that when you're carrying that bow, you become way more focused and aware of your surroundings. It's like the bow is giving you some kind of 'hunter's power' you haven't fully unlocked yet."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at Glenn's explanation. "You're probably making that up, Glenn," you scoffed, though a part of her wondered if there might be a grain of truth in his words.

Glenn, undeterred by your skepticism, persisted with a good-natured grin. "I'm serious. I've seen it. You might not be a hunter yet, but it's like your instincts kick in when you have that bow. Trust me, it's not just for show."

You shot him a half-smile, still not entirely convinced. "Well, it'd be nice to unlock some super-secret bow skills," you quipped. "But for now, it's just extra weight I'm carrying around."

Glenn chuckled, picking up his bucket of mushrooms and you continued on your quest. "Hey, you never know. Maybe one day that bow will save our lives."

You smirked playfully, nudging Glenn's shoulder with your elbow. "Alright, I'll keep it handy. Just in case we come across any killer mushrooms out here."

You both continued the walk through the woods until your sharp eyes spotted a cluster of mushrooms nestled beside a decaying wooden log. Eager to add to your collection, you both knelt down to start plucking the mushrooms. Glenn questioned, "Hey, are these mushrooms safe to eat?"

You fingers gently inspecting the mushrooms as you gathered them, offered a reassuring smile. "Yeah, these are the same kind my father and I used for stew that one time when we went camping. It's a good thing my brother didn't come along with us; he managed to sprain his ankle, being a bit of a dumbass."

As Glenn continued to gather mushrooms, he looked over at you, curiosity in his eyes. "Hey," he began, "tell me about your life before all this craziness."

You scoffed playfully and replied, "My life doesn't have much to tell, Glenn."

Glenn persisted, "Well, I told you about my background, so why not share yours with me?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "First of all, you told me your background because you were bored and couldn't keep your mouth shut, and you're a bad liar," you teased. "And second, my life was pretty ordinary. Just Y/N Grimes, nothing special."

Glenn pouted and playfully begged, "Come on, there's gotta be something interesting about it."

You deeply sighed, and then shared your family history, revealing that your older brother played a significant role in your upbringing. Raised by your nurse mother and town sheriff father, you and your brother spent much of your childhood playing outdoors. Despite your parents' busy schedules, they ensured you both were well-cared for. Your brother, your constant companion, played a pivotal role until he went to college when you were seven. Your mom occasionally took you to the hospital where you befriended the staff, while your dad, a sheriff, introduced you to art at the police station. You developed a love for bows at nine, excelling in archery and winning awards in competitions, choosing it over baseball.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Glenn asked you, "Hey, why haven't you mentioned your brother's name to anyone? Same goes for Lori, she's never mentioned her husband's name, and Carl hasn't talked about his dad's name either."

You bit your bottom lip, a hint of sadness in your eyes, and shrugged. "I guess I just don't feel right saying his name, especially now that he's... well, probably not around anymore. Lori and Carl might feel the same way." You let out a soft sigh.

With the bucket nearly full of mushrooms, Glenn flashed you a soft smile. "You know, if it weren't for you, I'd probably be a geek's dinner that time, dehydrated and all."

You returned his smile, your expression equally warm. "Don't mention it, Glenn. I just did what was right."

You and Glenn strolled through the forest, your footsteps barely making a sound on the soft, damp ground. Glenn held the bucket of freshly picked mushrooms, while you carried your recurve bow.

The forest enveloped you both in its tranquil beauty, the trees rising tall and proud, their branches creating a canopy that filtered the fading daylight. The deep blue sky was speckled with hints of orange as the sun began its descent. You admired the interplay of shadows and light as you followed Glenn's lead.

Glenn's hiss drew your gaze, your voice tinged with concern. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Glenn replied hastily, a touch of urgency in his voice. "I need to pee. Just need a minute."

With that, he disappeared behind the tree, leaving you to quip under your breath, "Well, I guess even the apocalypse doesn't stop Mother Nature's demands."

You rolled you eyes in response and settled down on a sturdy log. With the forest's canopy above you, you gazed up at the sky, marveling at the delicate dance of leaves and branches against the deepening blue backdrop. Evening was approaching more swiftly than you had anticipated.

Setting your recurve bow against the log, you picked up the bucket and inspected your mushroom haul. A tinge of disappointment washed over you as you realized you both had collected only a handful of the edible fungi. It wouldn't be sufficient to feed the entire camp.

"Shit," you muttered to yourself, a longing for something more substantial like venison crossing your mind. If only you possessed the skill to hunt with your recurve bow, you fantasized, you could be inside your tent savoring a venison barbecue.

Then, something in your guts told you that something was wrong.

As you cautiously held your recurve bow, an arrow ready to be nocked, she heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked, followed by a muffled whimper. Your senses went on high alert, and you pinpointed the source of the noise, noticing the whimper was stifled, likely by the hand of someone nearby.

You moved carefully, your gaze scanning your surroundings but finding nothing out of the ordinary. An eerie silence hung in the air. "Glenn," you called, concern lacing your voice, but received no response. You inched closer to the large tree behind which Glenn had disappeared, still hearing no movement.

Growing more uneasy, you called out Glenn's name again, you tone pleading as you asked him to stop playing this prank. "Glenn, this isn't funny! Come on, where are you?"

But then, it hit you: Glenn didn't carry a gun. The dread intensified, and you readied your recurve bow, albeit knowing you couldn't fire an arrow with precision if the target was moving.

Your heart raced with worry as the thought of something terrible happening to Glenn crossed your mind. Your concern grew so intense that you failed to notice the approach of a geek that crept up behind you. Only the sound of a low growl snapped your attention back to the present. You spun around, panic in your eyes, and found yourself face to face with a ravenous-looking geek.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as your mind raced, and then, as if fate intervened, an arrow sliced through the air, embedding itself deep in the geek's skull. Before you could process the rescue, another rustling of leaves drew your focus. You immediately nocked an arrow and aimed at the source.

Your heart pounded as you locked eyes with a man, an unmistakably living one. He held a crossbow, which was aimed directly at you. In response, you pointed your recurve bow at him, the tension was palpable. He was dressed in tattered, sleeveless attire and jeans, his skin marked by dirt and blood. But what caught your attention the most were his piercing blue eyes, narrowed and locked onto you with a mix of curiosity and caution.

A taller, older man in equally as dirty clothes wielding a handgun emerged behind the tree, covering poor and shaking Glenn's mouth.

You swiftly shifted your recurve bow, your eyes blazing with anger, from pointing at the archer with the crossbow to the man who had kidnapped Glenn. You glared at him, you frustration and anger palpable in the intensity of your gaze.

The man had a smile that made you uneasy. He looked at you up and down lasciviously whilst licking his thin, dried lips. The man spoke with a sly grin. "Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes. A pretty little thing out here in the woods."

You maintained a guarded silence, apprehensive that opening your mouth might escalate into something more ominous. The tension hung in the air, as you weighed the consequences of uttering a word.

"Well, sweetheart, the name's Merle. Me and my baby brother are just fellas tryin' to survive in this world gone to hell. What 'bout you? Out here all alone?" Merle asked.

Fear coursed through you as Merle introduced himself and pressed the handgun against Glenn's temple. Glenn whimpered and cried, and you, your hands trembling, kept your recurve bow at the ready.

Merle, his eyes never leaving you, spoke in a low, threatening tone. "Put the damn bow down, girl, or I won't think twice about puttin' a bullet in his brainpan. You ought to be polite to man holding a gun."

You reluctantly lowered you recurve bow to the ground. Glenn, still shaking, looked at you with pleading eyes. "I'm so, sorry..."

Your heart ached for your friend, but your focus remained on Merle, who had a dangerous glint in his eye. You couldn't help but wonder about the other archer lurking behind you.

Merle suddenly released Glenn, and the younger man rushed to your side, positioning himself behind you as a shield. Merle's laughter filled the air as he walked over to where Daryl stood, still pointing his crossbow at you.

You anger seething beneath your usual shyness as you shot a defiant glare at the two men. In ths tense moment, you may not have felt adorable, but your determination was unmistakable.

Merle's rough voice cut through the tension, "Where y'all come from? What you doin' in these woods?"

You shot back with a determined but cautious glare, refusing to answer. Your silence spoke louder than any words.

Merle's eyes locked onto the bucket of mushrooms you were carrying, and he leaned in, inquiring, "Are you just out here gatherin' stuff?"

Daryl, however, didn't lower his crossbow. Merle wondered if that was the reason you weren't answering his question. He couldn't contain his frustration and yelled at Daryl, "Lower your damn crossbow, little brother!"

Daryl, a bit wary, lowered his crossbow, his gaze lingering at you with an unreadable expression. Merle, however, let out another wild laugh and inquired, "Y'all got a camp or somethin'?"

Glenn was about to respond, but you cut him off with a curt, "Fuck off."

Merle's temper flared, and he pointed his gun directly at you, the barrel aimed at your forehead. You didn't even flinch, your gaze steady and defiant.

Your fiery glare remained locked on Merle, who continued to cackle manically. It was evident he might have been high. Even with the tension, you couldn't help but sense Daryl's gaze on you, so you turned to him, your expression less fierce. Your careful appraisal seemed to make him uneasy as he shifted his focus and tightened his grip on his crossbow.

Your eyes then took notice of the lifeless squirrels hanging from his body. He held his crossbow with a hunter's grace, a professional stance that didn't escape your observation. It all clicked for you now – these two strangers in the woods, Daryl and Merle, were hunters, or at least one of them was. It was evident that Daryl was the skilled one.

A myriad of questions flooded your mind. Would they prove valuable additions to the group at the quarry, or would they bring nothing but trouble? They were, after all, just strangers, weren't they? However, you decided that you needed to find out for herself. The prospect of gaining skilled hunters and learning new survival skills was too tempting to ignore, even if it meant taking a risk.

However, before you could say something, Glenn, positioned behind you, leaned in and whispered his concern. "I know what you're thinking, don't do it. This feels like a bad idea. I've got a bad feeling about it."

You turned to Glenn, reassuring him, "Trust me. We need their skills and help."

You then turned to the two strangers, Merle and Daryl, and sighed heavily. "Listen, if we take you back to our camp, will you agree to one thing? To help us get food? No one in the camp knows how to hunt."

Daryl scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Can't ya teach yourselves? I ain't a damn teacher," he said. "Ya got a bow, why don't ya teach yourself, huh?" He then spat at you.

Although somewhat hurt by his words, you glared at him. "Listen, Robinhood," you began, "Last time I had a bullseye was with target practice, not a growling, flesh-hungry, walking dead."

Daryl retorted with a scowl, "Maybe if ya spent less time jawin' and more time learnin', you wouldn't be dependin' on others to keep ya fed, woman."

You scowled at him, saying, "Relax, dude. It's only been a week since the world ended. It's not as if the world gave me a heads up or warned me about the geeks and how to deal with them."

Daryl shot back with frustration, "Well, ain't that just peachy? Should've figured, talkin' to someone who thinks the end of the world is an excuse for ignorance."

Before you could reply or even deliver a hard slap, Merle intervened, placing his hands between you and Daryl, attempting to calm you both down. However, you knew it wouldn't be of much help.

"Calm down now, baby brother. It ain't the right way to talk to a pretty lady," Merle drawled with a sly smirk, then drawled his gaze over you, "Especially a lady like this, bambi," he drawled, licking his lips.

It was awful; it made you feel small and somewhat frightened under his perverted gaze. Unbeknownst to you, however, Daryl noticed the slight shaking of your hands.

"Shut up, Merle," Daryl spat at his brother, then turned to you, drawling, "Just bring us to your camp, and then we'll talk about a deal."

However, as expected, Merle couldn't resist injecting his usual dose of crudeness. Leering at you, he remarked, "Well, hope you don't mind a bit of dirt, sweetheart."

Displaying a sense of decency, Daryl quickly intervened with a stern expression and a firm command, "I said, shut up, Merle!"

"Shut up yourself ---"

Then, Glenn interfered, cutting Merle off. He positioned himself in front of you, puffing his chest out, though his hands were both shaking. "If you say another perverted thing to her, trust me, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

#daryl dixon fanfiction

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