reysdriver

[reysdriver]

The First Time, The Last Time

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning: Pregnancy loss, medical procedures, infertility, emotional grief

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i. the first time

It’s not supposed to be this easy—not the dreaming part, anyway.

You’re lying flat on your back in the sterile, humming quiet of the clinic, Bucky’s warm hand wrapped tightly around yours as the doctor leans over you and says something you barely hear. It’s happening. Your first IVF transfer.

Your eyes dart to the screen as the embryo flickers into place.

Bucky squeezes your hand three times. I love you.

He’s beaming. You’re trembling.

And for a moment, you both let yourselves imagine: nursery colors, baby names, how soft their hair will be, if they’ll inherit Bucky’s ocean eyes or your crinkly smile.

You wait the two-week window with aching, nervous hope. You decorate a tiny onesie and hide it in the closet. You even start walking past the baby aisle in Target on purpose.

But the test is negative. Your body never even tried to hold on.

You don’t cry until three days later, when Bucky comes home with groceries and finds you sitting in the middle of the hallway with the onesie in your lap.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sinks down beside you and lets you sob into his chest until your throat burns and the fabric of his shirt is soaked through.

“Try again?” you whisper into the space between his heartbeat.

He nods without hesitation. “As many times as it takes.”

ii. the second time

This time, you're cautious.

No nursery window shopping. No Pinterest boards. You barely let yourself speak above a whisper in the clinic, and you don’t meet Bucky’s eyes when he brushes your cheek with a kiss before the transfer.

You’ve read all the research. The success rate is still low. The hormones are hell. You’ve learned to dull your expectations into something small and manageable.

But Bucky—he still hopes like it's his job.

He starts reading aloud to your belly at night, lying beside you in bed, whispering tiny stories to cells that may not even be there. You pretend not to listen. Pretend you’re asleep.

Then comes the morning.

You take the test. You don’t breathe. You press your hand to your chest and count seconds.

Two lines.

You stare for so long you forget how to count.

“Bucky,” you call, voice cracking in disbelief. “Buck…”

He’s already sprinting from the kitchen. Sees the test. Drops to his knees like his whole world just crashed back into orbit.

And for one week, you’re parents.

Until you’re not.

The bleeding starts on a Thursday.

You lose them on a Friday.

You lose something else, too.

Hope, maybe.

Or whatever was left of your trust in your own body.

iii. the third time

You scream into a pillow after the third round.

Not because of the negative result. But because you never even made it to transfer this time. Your body didn’t respond. Your hormone levels were all wrong. The eggs didn’t fertilize.

Bucky tries to stay strong for you. He offers soft encouragement, gentle words, firm touches that feel like they’re meant to anchor you to the earth.

But then you hear him cry in the shower.

Not loud. Not long.

Just one stifled sob.

And it crushes you.

Because this was supposed to be his redemption arc, too. A life after war, after loss, after blood and pain and metal and ghosts. He wanted this as much as you did. Not just to be a father—but to build something good.

You knock on the bathroom door before letting yourself in.

He startles.

You wrap your arms around his wet body, clothes soaking instantly, and rest your forehead against the seam of his shoulder.

“I can’t keep doing this if it’s breaking you.”

“Then let it break me,” he whispers hoarsely. “Just don’t do it alone.”

iv. the fourth time

This one’s a chemical pregnancy.

Which sounds sterile. Clinical. Distant.

But it still feels like death.

The embryo implants, hormone levels rise, the doctor congratulates you.

You and Bucky sit in the car afterward, holding hands and smiling quietly. You eat pickles and ice cream at midnight even though it’s ridiculous, even though you know it’s superstition and not science.

Then your hormone levels plummet.

Too fast. Too soon.

You bleed it out in a haze of cramps and tears and guilt.

“It was real,” you whisper into the pillow one night. “Even if it was only for a second.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “It was ours.”

You can’t explain how much it helps to hear that. To know someone else saw them. Even for a second.

v. the fifth time

The fifth round leaves you wrecked.

You’ve memorized the routine by now: shots, meds, early mornings, hope, fear, silence.

You’ve started to resent your own body—your tired veins, your battered womb, your broken systems. You start thinking of yourself as a failure. A factory with the lights flickering and machinery rusted.

Bucky sees it before you do.

He watches you in the mirror as you jab a needle into your thigh with mechanical disinterest. He sees the way you recoil from touch now. The way your hand hovers over your stomach like you're afraid to try again.

So he makes you laugh.

Every day.

Even when the test is negative again. Even when your chart reads like a line of disappointments.

He tapes up drawings on the fridge—tiny stick-figure babies in sunglasses, Bucky drawn with a massive arm holding a diaper bag.

He books you a weekend away. Just the two of you.

There’s no talk of clinics. No mention of shots. Just the ocean and your bodies and the fragile joy of breathing beside someone who still loves you like you’re whole.

That’s when you ask him.

“Do you want to stop?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just cups your face in both hands.

“I want you. Always. Baby or not.”

But he doesn’t say no.

And neither do you.

+ i. the sixth time

You almost don’t tell him.

You take the test in silence, heart in your throat, because you’ve convinced yourself this time won’t work either and you're tired of letting him watch you shatter.

You squint at the test.

You blink.

You sit down on the bathroom floor, suddenly unsure if you're awake or dreaming.

Then you hear footsteps.

You look up, and Bucky is already there, still wiping his hands on a dishtowel, head tilted in concern.

“What is it?”

You hold up the test with shaking fingers.

Tears brim before either of you speaks.

“Bucky—”

He crosses the room and drops to his knees in front of you, just like he did the first time. But this time he’s quiet. Eyes glassy. Almost scared.

“How sure are you?” he asks.

You nod. “I took three.”

The doctor confirms it the next day.

Viable. Strong heartbeat. Levels climbing steadily.

The clinic staff who’ve known you for years cry with you in the exam room.

You hold Bucky’s hand like it’s your lifeline. His thumb brushes yours in a rhythm. Three times.

I love you.

You spend the next nine months terrified.

Every symptom is a warning. Every silence is a siren.

You whisper affirmations to your belly like prayers. You keep your hospital bag packed from week twenty.

You and Bucky argue once—over how tightly he watches you, how often you disappear into fear.

But he softens when he finds you crying over baby socks at two in the morning, holding your belly and begging the universe not to take this one, too.

He holds you in the middle of the nursery, surrounded by soft things and hopes you can’t bring yourself to name.

“You’re not broken,” he says into your hair. “You never were.”

Labor is chaos.

Early. Painful. Scary.

But you’re not alone.

Bucky grips your hand, forehead to yours, whispering your name like it’s a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart. You���ve always had this.”

And then—

There’s a cry.

A real one.

Wet and loud and angry.

You see your baby—your actual baby—for the first time and the world shifts on its axis.

Tiny fingers. A scrunched face. A sound that splits your ribs open in the best way.

You’re sobbing. Bucky’s sobbing.

They lay your baby on your chest and everything hurts and heals at once.

You look at Bucky.

You’ve never seen that look on his face before.

Awe. Wonder. Absolute, bone-deep love.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

You name her Hope.

Because it almost left you.

But she brought it back.

[reysdriver]

Big Eyes, Little Lies

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOHNNY STORM X READER

summary: Johnny picks up his nephew Franklin from school just once. That’s all it takes. Now he’s suddenly volunteering to pick him up every day. Sue knows something’s up — but Johnny’s not talking. Not until he's got a plan. Warnings: None, just sweet chaos and mutual pining.

a/n: requested by @totaldystopiannerd !! thank you for your request!

this is the prequel to Big Eyes, Little Rings

It started with one favor.

Sue had a meeting downtown. Reed was in his lab, locked in some dimensional whatever. Ben was on asteroid duty. That left Johnny.

“Pick up Franklin at 3. Don’t be late.”“Yeah, yeah, sis, I got it.”

He hadn’t expected anything life-changing. He parked the car (slightly crooked), adjusted his sunglasses, and strode across the parking lot like someone being filmed in slow motion — until he tripped on a sprinkler head.

Kids were spilling out of the classroom, tiny backpacks bouncing, and that’s when he saw her.

You.

Standing by the door in a sunflower-yellow cardigan, kneeling to tie some little girl’s shoe, speaking softly. There was something familiar about the softness of you — like the end of summer, or the first hot cocoa of the year.

Your eyes — God, your eyes — went wide and warm when you looked up and said, “You must be Franklin’s uncle.”

Johnny blinked. Twice. Maybe three times.

“I — Yeah. Yep. That’s me. Flame... Johnny. Just Johnny. I’m Johnny.”

Smooth.

You giggled. Actually giggled. Like a Disney character or someone who made their own granola.

Franklin ran into his legs, breaking the moment. “Uncle Johnny! Can we get donuts?”

“Kid, you can have whatever you want.”

You smiled and handed Johnny a paper folder. “He’s been very curious this week — lots of questions about space. I think someone’s been bragging about his uncle.”

Johnny glanced at you, then the folder, then back at you.

You had those ridiculous, round eyes and this calm, sparkly way of speaking. Like nothing bad ever happened in your world. He didn’t even try to be charming. He just stared at you like a man who had seen the sun for the first time.

When Sue called him that night, she sounded suspicious.

“You picked him up today?”“Sure did.”“...You offered to do it again tomorrow?”“I’m a giver, Sue. A saint.”

By the third pickup, you were expecting him. You greeted Franklin first, always, with the kind of gentle authority that made Johnny consider asking you to organize his schedule.

Then you looked at him, smiled like he was already part of your day, and said something like, “Hi, Johnny,” like it meant something.

Which was insane. Because you didn’t even know him.

Except… maybe you did. You didn’t fawn over him like fans did. You weren’t impressed by his hero status. You just talked to him. About Franklin. About your class. One time you said he had “mischief in his smile,” and he barely survived the moment.

Johnny Storm — chaos incarnate — was melting over a kindergarten teacher.

By week two, he started dressing nicer.

By week three, he learned what time the class went to recess, just so he could “accidentally” show up early.

He brought snacks.

He helped stack tiny chairs.

He took a “volunteer” flyer from the bulletin board and asked you how many hours counted as “a few.”

He told Sue nothing. She was watching him like a hawk.

It wasn’t just the big, soft eyes. (Though God, those eyes…) It was the way you leaned in when kids whispered, like their thoughts were treasures. It was how you made every day sound magical. Like watching the world through glitter and hope.

It made Johnny — a man who flew into battle and called it Tuesday — want to slow down.

Want to stay.

One Thursday, Franklin forgot his lunch, and Johnny offered to drop it off.

“Class is in story time,” you whispered, when you met him outside the door.

Inside, a sea of little heads sat crisscross on the rug while you held an open book.

“Would you like to read the next page?” you asked, voice mischievous.

Johnny froze. “Me? Oh — uh. I don’t really—”

But then you smiled and held out the book. The kids squealed. One asked if Johnny could make fire from his hands.

He read the page. You sat beside him, calm and radiant, like this was exactly what should happen. He smelled your vanilla perfume and forgot the plot halfway through.

After, as you walked him to the door, you said softly, “You’re good with them.”

Johnny snorted. “I barely survived that page.”

You shrugged. “Still. You’re gentler than you let on.”

He stared at you again, all stupid, until a kid asked if he was your boyfriend. Johnny nearly combusted.

You just smiled. “Not yet.”

That night, Sue cornered him. “You’re in love with her.” “I am not.” “You picked up Franklin in a collared shirt, Johnny.” “I can wear collars!” “You ironed it.” “I did not— okay, I might have steamed it—” “You brought cupcakes to the staff lounge!” “Okay, now you’re just making things up.” “Franklin said she has ‘princess eyes.’” Johnny blinked. “That’s… actually very accurate.”

Sue smirked. “Ask her out.”

Johnny hesitated. “What if she says no?” “Then she’s got terrible taste and you move on. But… I don’t think she will.”

He showed up on Friday with a coffee just the way you liked it (you once mentioned it, in passing — he remembered).

You took it with a surprised smile, eyes going even wider than usual. “This is… exactly right.”

“Yeah, I pay attention.”

You looked up at him, gentle and glowing. “I know you do.”

That did it.

“I was wondering,” he began, tugging at the hem of his jacket, “if maybe, sometime when you’re not, you know, herding thirty tiny humans, you might want to… get dinner?”

You tilted your head. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. A real one. No crayons involved.”

Your smile lit up your whole face. “I’d love to.”

Later that night, Franklin announced to the room:

“Uncle Johnny kissed Miss Y/N’s hand and then walked into the door.”

Sue just laughed and shook her head. “I told you,” she muttered. “Big eyes. Big trouble.”

[reysdriver]

Johnny Storm x Teacher!Reader

Summary: Johnny Storm was usually a natural flirt, but something about Franklin's teacher had him losing his mind.

WC: 1.5k

Warnings: female!Reader (she/her pronouns)

Divider credit to @saradika-graphics

Note: Do we want a part two, or should this stand alone?

“Um, hello?” The door to the living area swung open, revealing one furious Johnny Storm and a much more jovial Franklin Richards. 

“First,” Sue arched one eyebrow, taking in the sight of her five-year-old son. “I want to know what is all over Franklin’s face.”

Franklin clapped his sticky hands together. “Uncle Johnny bought me ice cream! In a cone!”

Sue huffed out an annoyed sigh, directing her glare at Johnny. “And why is he eating ice cream now? Now he won’t be hungry for dinner.” 

Reed bit back a smirk as he stretched his arm across the room and plucked a tissue from its box. He wiped the chocolatey residue from Franklin’s mouth before sending him to wash up. 

Johnny rolled his eyes, irritated that his sister thought he needed a reason to spoil his nephew. “The real question is, why did no one tell me that Franklin’s teacher is a total babe?”

The other three members of the team offered up their paltry reasons. 

“Why is that important?” Sue stood up from where she sat next to her husband. She put her hands on her hips, ready to launch into a full lecture about not spoiling Franklin’s appetite, but Johnny already turned his attention to Reed. 

“I’m a married man.” Reed gestured to the band on his fourth finger. “I don’t go around discussing how attractive other women are.”

Ben shrugged, flipping to the next page of the New York Times. “I just wanted to see you get all twitchy.”

Johnny flipped him off, his anger boiling beneath his skin. “Well, a heads-up would’ve been nice,” he grumbled, stalking into the kitchen and grabbing the first box of cereal he could find. 

Bran Flakes. Pass. 

“We’re out of Frosted Flakes,” Sue told him. 

“Ugh.” He shoved the Bran Flakes back into the pantry and flopped down on the closest chair. “Today is not my day.”

Something softened in Sue. Maybe it was seeing her baby brother so upset, or maybe she was feeling less resentful about Franklin’s impromptu snack now that Johnny was missing out on one. 

She gently mussed his blond hair. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Johnny scowled. Not even a second later, he sprung forward, elbows digging into the table top. “I went to the school, expecting to see some decrepit old lady like his preschool teacher—”

“Wasn’t Mrs. Luft, like, fifty?” Ben quipped. 

As usual, Johnny ignored him. “But then I saw her. She was in this plaid skirt with this shirt that, y’know…she wasn’t showing anything off, but it gave me…ideas.”

“Seriously?” Sue massaged the bridge of her nose. “We don’t wanna hear about your ‘ideas.’ Just please tell me you didn’t get Franklin kicked out of school.”

“Have a little faith in me.” Johnny scoffed. “I just smiled at her. I think. Actually, I might have just…stared?” 

No one missed his visible cringe. 

The room remained uncomfortably silent until Ben spoke up. “You just stared at her? Like…” He mimicked a dead fish, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Did you at least introduce yourself so she didn’t think some random man was abducting Franklin?” Reed asked, tone heavy with annoyance. He turned on the television set, staring at as the anchor delivered the news in black-and-white. “The last thing we need is people thinking we’re under attack.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Johnny rolled his bright blue eyes. “Everyone knows Johnny Storm.”

Even in his panic-stricken state, Reed couldn’t argue with that logic. It wasn’t as though there was another person in New York City who could soar through the air, body ablaze.

Sue let out a long breath. “Well,” she finally said, “looks like Ben will be in charge of pick-up from now–”

“No!” Johnny burst out. “Give me a chance to redeem myself tomorrow. I won’t be weird.”

“Gonna be hard to beat today’s romantic staring contest,” Ben muttered under his breath, not bothering to hide his grin.

Johnny stalked over to where Ben sat reading. Without uttering a single word, he sparked flames at his fingertips and incinerated Ben’s newspaper into an unidentifiable pile of ash.

“Oops.”

The next day at three in the afternoon, Johnny was waiting outside of the school. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans for the fifth time in as many minutes.

He hadn’t looked forward to the sound of the schoolbell ringing since he was a student. And he certainly never felt anxious about it.

Pull it together, Johnny. You’re the Human Torch, for crying out loud. 

But unless his powers suddenly afforded him the ability to flirt with you, his superhero status was a moot point.

Sure enough, Franklin bounded down the steps alongside his classmates. He waved to Johnny with a mile-wide smile.

This is it. Go over there, introduce yourself, and ask her if she’d like to go out for a drink. No, dinner and a movie. Don’t want her thinking I’m trying to get her drunk.

Through his rattling nerves, Johnny managed a smile when he approached you, silently vowing not to screw this up again. He extended his hand, eyeing it to keep it from shaking.

“I’m, uh, I’m Johnny–” he started, but he was quickly interrupted by an overly-enthusiastic Franklin.

“Uncle Johnny! I remembered to tell her about how you got me ice cream, just like you told me to!”

Never in Johnny’s life had he envied his sister’s invisibility powers. Until now.

He didn’t need a mirror to know that the tips of his ears were bright red. He wanted to melt into a puddle and slither down the sidewalk and into the nearest drain.

Yes, he’d bought Franklin ice cream yesterday. Yes, he might have told him to tell his teacher about it. He didn’t expect his nephew to blatantly rat him out.

Note to self, he thought bitterly, teach Franklin the meaning of the word ‘secret.’

“And I told her what you said to Mommy, Daddy, and Uncle Ben, too!”

Johnny choked on his own saliva. There was no way Franklin heard what he’d said last night from his room…right?

He spoke through gritted teeth. “Bud, I didn’t say anything about–”

“Yes, you did!” Franklin insisted. He crossed his arms over his chest in indignation, looking scarily like his mother when she was angry. “You said that she was a total babe!”

Johnny clapped a hand over his nephew’s mouth a fraction of a second too late. The damage was already done.

He forced himself to look at you. You didn’t seem disgusted or even embarrassed; in fact, Johnny could’ve sworn you were fighting back laughter.

“Bud, go play with your friends for a few minutes, okay?”

“But–”

“Go play with your friends,” he hissed, “and I will buy you more ice cream.”

Franklin ran off to the playground and joined his classmates without another argument, no doubt already figuring out how to finagle his uncle for a double scoop.

Johnny shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I am so sorry about him,” he said. “We’re still trying to find his ‘off’ switch, but, uh, no luck so far.”

This time, you didn’t hold back your laughter. “Don’t worry about it. Kids say the craziest things. I never know what’s true and what isn’t.”

There it was–an out. You’d offered it to him on a silver platter; all he had to do was pretend that Franklin made the whole thing up and he’d be home free.

Instead, he swallowed his pride and summoned all of his courage. “I didn’t mean for him to overhear that. I would’ve preferred that the first compliment from me was something a little less…”

“Blunt?” 

“I was gonna say douchey, but that works.” 

You giggled, and Johnny thought he might fall over on the spot. “What kind of compliment were you thinking?”

“Oh, I dunno.” He flashed you one of his signature flirtatious grins. “Maybe that you’re beautiful, or smart, or have the patience of a saint to deal with all of these little gremlins.” He took another step forward. “If you’re free tomorrow, I could tell you more of them over dinner?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Depends.” He coyly pursed his lips. “Are you accepting?”

There was another peal of your delicious laughter as you reached for the pen tucked behind your ear. “Here’s my number.” You took Johnny’s hand, palm up, and scrawled down the most incredible ten digits he had ever seen.

“I’ll call you,” he promised. 

A date. You’d agreed to a date.

Johnny had to pick out an outfit and figure out something with his hair and buy you flowers–but first, he had something more pressing to address.

“FRANKLIN RICHARDS, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT BEING A TATTLETALE?!!”   

--

[reysdriver]

yasss that's me and twin @dvmb-blond3

snoopy of the day

[reysdriver]

SHES HEREEEE

[reysdriver]

Call Sign: Daddy

pairing; jake seresin x wife!reader

summary; Everyone thought Hangman’s biggest secret was his ego—turns out, it’s a wife, two kids, and a killer marshmallow recipe.

word count; 6.6k

warnings; nothing. fluff, fun, the daggers being chaotic and dramatic

a/n; you ask i deliver! here's girl dad!jake! this was SO much fun to write, i love these kinds of pieces. i am SO down to keep writing for this little family or just dad!jake in general (i am incapable of writing anything short i'm sorry)

masterlist

The new house still smelled like paint and sunlight.

Boxes towered in the living room like a cityscape, half-labeled and already a little rumpled from the drive. The front door stood open to let in the sea breeze, and the soft whir of ceiling fans stirred the scent of fresh wood floors and cardboard.

“Daddy! This one!” Cami’s voice rang through the hallway like a firecracker. Her curls bounced as she darted from room to room, barefoot and beaming. “This is definitely the best one.”

Jake, still in a gray t-shirt and jeans dusty from the move, peeked around the corner with a smirk. “Didn’t you say that about the last two?”

She planted her little fists on her hips. “Yeah, but this one’s got the biggest window. And look—” she ran over to it and flung her arms wide, “I can see everything!”

From the kitchen, you laughed softly, adjusting the baby sling on your chest. Lex was snuggled close, soft and warm against your body, her tiny fist curled against your collarbone. She made a sleepy noise but didn’t wake, lulled by the rhythm of your movements and the muffled excitement around her.

“She’s going to change her mind five more times,” you called over your shoulder. “Minimum.”

Jake walked in and leaned against the doorframe, watching you unpack a box labeled Kitchen - Fragile in your handwriting. “That’s generous. I was guessing eight.”

He crossed the room to you, brushing a hand along your spine in that absent, instinctive way he always had—gentle, grounding. “You good?”

“I’m good,” you said, smiling up at him. “Lex is asleep, I haven’t dropped a mug yet, and Cami hasn’t tried to climb on the counters. I’m calling it a win.”

Jake glanced down at Lex, and his whole face softened. He reached out to cradle her head briefly with one palm, then kissed your cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“Flattery doesn’t get you out of assembling the crib again.”

“Worth a shot.”

From down the hall came the unmistakable crash of a box being tipped over, followed by Cami’s delighted giggle. “I’m helping!”

Jake’s eyes closed with a sigh, but he was smiling. “That’s my cue.”

He turned and jogged off in the direction of the chaos, and you watched him go, heart aching a little in that sweet, full way. Seeing him like this—barefoot, hair a little messy, completely wrapped around his daughters—it was everything you’d always wanted for him. For all of you.

“Looks like you’re stuck with us, San Diego,” you whispered to Lex, who sighed in reply.

You went back to unpacking, and in the next room, Jake’s voice rose in a playful protest: “No, honey, that’s not a hammer. That’s a whisk. Where did you even get that?”

Cami shrieked with laughter, and you swore your heart couldn't grow bigger.

The sun had started to dip low in the sky, casting soft gold across the living room floor where half-built furniture lay in various states of disarray. Instruction manuals fluttered open beside tiny screws, wooden pegs, and the mysterious metal contraptions that always seemed necessary but never quite explained themselves.

Jake sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, brow furrowed and tongue caught in the corner of his mouth as he studied the baby dresser. He had gotten the frame halfway done. Maybe. Depending on how generous you were feeling.

Cami, perched on her knees next to him, had a tiny screwdriver clutched in her small hand like it was a magic wand. She wore a tutu over her leggings and one of your old t-shirts, which hung off her shoulders like a dress. Her curls were a riot around her face, and her fingers were smudged with something suspiciously marker-colored.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, Lex still tucked snug to your chest. She was asleep again, her little cheek pressed to your sternum, one leg dangling out of the wrap like she owned the place.

“Okay, Daddy,” Cami said with authority, poking the air like a tiny forewoman. “This piece goes on top of the other piece. Like a sandwich.”

Jake blinked at the board she was pointing to. “That’s the bottom panel, baby.”

“But it looks like the top.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s upside down.”

Cami frowned, then flipped the piece over with both hands. It clunked to the floor, just missing his foot.

“See?” Jake said, trying not to laugh. “Now it’s a bottom that looks like a bottom.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile.

From his spot on the floor, Jake glanced up and caught you watching. He grinned, wide and slow and just a little sheepish. “Hey, darlin’. How’s the supervisor?”

You adjusted Lex’s head gently and whispered, “She’s napping on the job.”

“Slacker,” he murmured with a wink, before turning back to the pieces in front of him.

Cami leaned in close beside him, pressing her head to his arm as she whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was made Jake laugh under his breath, then glance back at you with mock-seriousness.

“She says we should throw away the instructions and just use our feelings.”

“Oh God,” you said, laughing. “That explains so much about you.”

Jake chuckled and ruffled Cami’s curls. “You hear that? Mama’s roasting me again. Typical.”

Cami grinned like she’d won something, then leaned against her father’s shoulder, tucking her tiny feet under her.

For a moment, everything was still.

Golden light spread across the wood floors. The air smelled faintly of new furniture, baby lotion, and the faint salt of the ocean drifting in through the open window. The soft rustle of palm trees outside, the distant echo of a car door down the street, and the occasional creak of the settling house were the only sounds besides Jake humming tunelessly as he tightened a bolt.

Jake leaned back, resting his weight on one palm and looking up at you.

“I know we’re not done unpacking,” he said, voice low and a little rough with feeling, “but it already feels like home.”

You smiled, walking toward him slowly. “That’s because you brought your girls home.”

He reached up and touched your wrist, brushing a finger over the baby’s foot.

“We’re lucky you came with us,” you said.

Jake looked up at you, eyes soft. “No,” he murmured. “I’m lucky you waited for me.”

Cami blinked between the two of you, then laid her cheek against his shoulder again with a sigh. “Okay, but are we building this dresser or what?”

Jake snorted, grabbing a screwdriver. “Yes, boss.”

And with his firstborn on one side, and the rest of his world standing just steps away, Jake Seresin went back to building his life—one drawer at a time.

The California sun beat down on the tarmac, sharp and dry, but not even the heat could keep the familiar buzz of energy from crackling through the air.

Top Gun had changed. Sleeker buildings. A brand-new hangar. The same stretch of runway, but with fresh paint and a higher security presence. What hadn’t changed, though, was the group clustered just outside the ready room, voices overlapping as they swapped stories, insults, and half-serious bets on who’d forget their callsign first.

“—told you, man,” Fanboy was saying as Jake approached, sunglasses perched on his head and a wide grin on his face. “He puked in the rental van. Twice. And then tried to blame it on the dog.”

Coyote laughed, arms crossed. “Please tell me that was your neighbor and not your cousin again.”

“Nope. Cousin.” Mickey smacked a hand to his chest like he was proud. “And I had to deep-clean the whole backseat before I drove out here with Bowie.”

“Wait,” Phoenix cut in, squinting at him. “You brought your dog across the country?”

“Hell yeah, I did.” He pulled out his phone and showed a picture of a scruffy, golden mutt hanging its head out the passenger window, tongue flapping. “Look at that face. He’s the real MVP.”

Rooster whistled low. “You’re braver than me. I left my plants behind.”

“They were fake,” Bob said dryly, getting a chorus of laughs.

Jake slid into the circle with a nod, arms folded, boots scuffing a mark into the concrete. “What, no one’s moved with a houseplant, a dog, and a messy break-up? Come on, you’re telling me I’m the only one who had a peaceful move?”

That earned a few snorts.

Rooster elbowed him lightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t bring anything?”

Jake gave an easy shrug. “Couple duffel bags. My truck. That’s about it.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “No roommates? No girlfriend clinging to your bumper? No tragic love story in your rearview mirror?”

Jake let out a short laugh. “Nope.”

He didn’t look at Javy. Not directly.

The lie wasn’t heavy—not yet—but it was sharp. Quick. A reflex. The same one he’d used a hundred times over the years. It felt different now, though. Dirtier. Because this time, he wasn’t hiding a fling or dodging a label. He was leaving his family out of the picture.

Not forever. Just… not yet.

Coyote gave a low whistle beside him, too casual to be anything but a cover. “Guess some people travel light,” he said, and if the words held a second meaning, no one noticed but Jake.

“Hangman, a minimalist,” Phoenix said with a scoff. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Jake gave her a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “New year, new me.”

Rooster snorted. “You said that last year.”

“And look how great I turned out.”

They all groaned, but the mood held, rolling easy like a wave that hadn’t quite crested yet.

“Alright,” Maverick’s voice cut across the courtyard from the ready room doors. “Let’s see if you all remember how to fly.”

The squad moved in a pack, still joking as they filtered inside.

Jake walked a beat behind the rest, sunglasses shielding his eyes, the weight of the secret pressing a little more firmly against his ribs. It was only a matter of time before they found out.

But for now?

For now, it was just him, his girls, and the silence between.

[..]

It had been a week since Rooster arrived in San Diego and he was already sick of takeout. His fridge held nothing but mustard, half a lime, and a six-pack of beer. It was time to act like an adult — or at least pretend to.

He pushed his cart through the grocery store with a lazy rhythm, sunglasses tucked into his collar, and a list on his phone that he was half-ignoring. Eggs, coffee, something green… cereal.

He turned into the cereal aisle, already reaching for the same red box he always bought, when a familiar figure ahead caught his eye.

Blond. Tall. Broad shoulders. Back turned.

Rooster paused mid-step.

Seresin?

It looked like Jake — same relaxed posture, same stupidly perfect haircut. But the guy was wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, not his usual base uniform or something annoyingly designer. Casual. Normal.

Rooster took a step forward, ready to call out a sarcastic, "Didn’t peg you for a Cheerios guy," when the man turned slightly to the side.

And that’s when he saw her.

A baby.

Strapped to his chest in one of those soft, wraparound slings. A tiny baby — maybe six or seven months old, by the size of her — nestled against his chest, dozing peacefully with a pacifier bobbing in her mouth. One of her socks was missing, her little toes peeking out like she’d kicked it off mid-nap.

Rooster froze.

And then—

“Daddy, look! They have the cinnamon ones!”

A second voice. High-pitched, sweet, and excited.

A little girl — maybe five — stood up in the shopping cart seat and waved dramatically at the shelf of cereal boxes like she’d discovered treasure. Her curls bounced as she wiggled, and she wore a pink t-shirt with sparkles on it and denim overalls with a sticker stuck to one leg.

Jake turned to look at her fully, the side of his face now visible, and Rooster’s heart tripped over itself.

No way.

“Alright, alright, Cin-a-mon Swirls it is,” Jake said, stretching to grab the box while carefully balancing the sleeping baby on his chest. “But only if you promise not to sneak handfuls before breakfast again.”

The little girl giggled. “I don’t sneak. I sample.”

Jake laughed under his breath — that soft, genuine laugh Rooster had never heard from him on base — and dropped the box in the cart.

Rooster ducked quickly behind the display of oatmeal, heart hammering.

What the hell did I just walk into?

Those weren’t nieces. That baby was practically grafted to Jake’s chest, and the little girl had his eyes. The same green-gold color. The same crooked grin. The same exact nose.

Rooster peeked around the endcap.

Jake had one hand resting protectively on the baby’s back and the other guiding the cart while she chattered away, telling some elaborate story about a dragon and a breakfast castle. And Jake? He was listening. Actually listening, nodding at the right moments, smiling to himself like this was the best part of his day.

What the—

Rooster stepped back, the shock settling into something sharper. Confusion. Disbelief.

Hangman has kids?

Real kids. Not nieces. Not a girlfriend’s kids. His. There was no mistaking it. That little girl might as well have been a clone.

And he’d said nothing.

Rooster stood frozen, cart forgotten, eyes still locked on the aisle corner where Jake had just turned out of sight, baby and child in tow.

He didn’t approach. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there in the cereal aisle, trying to process the impossible.

Jake Seresin — Hangman — had a secret family.

And now, Rooster wasn’t sure who the hell he’d been working with all this time.

Rooster didn’t remember checking out.

He was pretty sure he paid — probably — because the cashier smiled and told him to have a good day. But everything from the cereal aisle to the parking lot felt like a blur. His brain was short-circuiting, looping through the same impossible images like a broken projector.

Jake. Baby. Little girl. Daddy.

He sat in his Bronco, staring blankly at the wheel. The cinnamon cereal he'd ended up grabbing by accident sat in the passenger seat like evidence.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “This is literally insane.”

He could not be the only one to know this. He didn’t want to be the only one. Someone had to validate this reality — and someone had to help him process what the hell was going on.

Which is how he ended up at the base gym, tossing his keys into a locker with a little too much force, pacing past the row of squat racks, and scanning the room like a man on a mission.

Phoenix.

There she was, finishing up reps on the bench press like a total machine, earbuds in, hair tied back, towel around her neck.

“Hey,” he called, voice slightly too loud.

She didn’t hear.

“Hey!”

Phoenix startled, pulling one earbud out with a scowl. “Jesus, Bradshaw. I almost dropped that on my face.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” he said, stepping closer. “I need to talk to you. Right now. Privately.”

She raised one eyebrow and sat up slowly. “What, did someone die?”

“No, but—close. I mean—no. It’s not a death death, it’s just—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Just—can we?”

Phoenix stood, towel in one hand, already skeptical. “Okay, drama queen. Come on.”

They ducked into the hallway outside the locker rooms, still sweaty and smelling faintly like antiseptic and rubber flooring. Phoenix crossed her arms.

“Alright. Spill.”

Rooster opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Shook his head.

“Rooster.”

“I saw Hangman with a baby,” he blurted, eyes wild. “And a kid. Like a five-year-old. And he was grocery shopping with them like it was normal. The baby was strapped to his chest like one of those little marsupial carriers and the kid called him Daddy.”

Phoenix stared.

He waited.

She didn’t blink.

Finally, she said, “What?”

“In the cereal aisle! I thought it was him, and I was about to say hi, but then I saw the baby, and the little girl looked just like him and then she said ‘Daddy’ and I—I panicked, okay? I hid behind the oatmeal.”

“You hid behind the oatmeal?”

“I was caught off guard!”

Phoenix let out a snort-laugh. “Oh my God.”

“I’m serious, Nat. They looked exactly like him. The girl had his eyes. His smile. And he was being all—dad-like. It was weirdly gentle. I didn’t know he had a tone like that.”

Phoenix was quiet for a long second, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No mention of kids. No ring. No pictures. No weird schedule conflicts. If he has a family, he’s gone to serious lengths to hide it.”

Rooster nodded like a bobblehead. “That’s what I’m saying!”

“Are you sure they weren’t his sister’s kids or something?”

“The baby was drooling all over his shirt and the other one was bossing him around like she owned him. And he was listening. Patiently. Hangman doesn't listen patiently to anyone.”

Phoenix stared into the middle distance.

“...Holy shit,” she said under her breath.

Rooster folded his arms. “So what do we do?”

Phoenix blinked at him. “We?”

“You’re involved now!”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“But you know.”

Phoenix gave him a look. “So what—you want to confront him?”

“No,” Rooster said quickly. “God, no. What if it’s, like, a secret family on purpose? What if it’s some Witness Protection-level thing? Or he’s on the run from the PTA?”

Phoenix barked a laugh. “Okay, calm down, you're not in a TV show.”

“I just—I feel like I stepped into the Twilight Zone,” Rooster muttered.

“And I can’t un-see it. Like, every time he opens his mouth now, I’m going to hear that little girl’s voice saying ‘Daddy.’”

Phoenix scrubbed a hand down her face. “Alright. We sit on it. For now. He’ll crack eventually.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She gave him a slow, sly smile. “Then we accidentally run into him again. Maybe outside work. Maybe at the grocery store.”

Rooster looked appalled. “You want to stake him out?”

Phoenix shrugged. “What? You already started the recon mission. Might as well finish it.”

Rooster groaned. “This is going to drive me crazy.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Bradshaw,” she said, patting his shoulder. “It already has.”

Jake had been minding his own business. Genuinely. For once.

He’d gotten through the morning flight briefing, his simulation review, and even a cup of coffee without roasting anyone. It was a personal record. But then—suddenly, for no reason at all—Bradley and Natasha started acting weird.

“Hey, Hangman,” Rooster said casually, sliding into the locker bench beside him, half-dressed in his flight gear. “What’d you do this weekend?”

Jake squinted at him, one boot half-laced. “What?”

“Just curious,” Rooster said, far too quickly. “Normal question. People ask each other that.”

Jake stared. “I did laundry. Took the truck in for an oil change. Nothing exciting.”

“Cool, cool,” Phoenix chimed in from across the aisle, leaning against the lockers like a detective interrogating a suspect. “Did you, I don’t know, go to the store?”

“The store?” Jake echoed slowly.

“You know,” Rooster added. “For… groceries.”

Jake blinked. “Yeah. Got some eggs. Why?”

“No reason,” they said in unison.

Jake looked between them, brow furrowing. “Did I miss a memo about getting really into meal prep?”

Phoenix gave a tight smile. “We’re just... interested in nutrition lately.”

Rooster nodded solemnly. “Very into breakfast.”

Jake opened his mouth, paused, then slowly tied his boot. “You guys are so weird today.”

Phoenix pushed off the locker. “So you live around here, then?”

Jake’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Obviously.”

Rooster jumped in. “Yeah, yeah, but like... where?”

Jake pulled his boot tighter. “You wanna come over for dinner, Bradshaw? Is that what this is? You finally caving to my charm?”

“No! I mean—unless you’re offering.” Rooster looked at Phoenix. “He could be offering.”

Jake stood, rolling his eyes. “What is wrong with you two?”

Phoenix played it cool. “Nothing. We’re just making conversation.”

“You’re never just making conversation.”

Rooster crossed his arms. “Maybe we’re trying to be your friends.”

Jake paused mid-zip on his jacket, one eyebrow climbing like it was headed for the stratosphere.

“My friends?” he repeated. “You think this is the first week of kindergarten and we’re picking lunch buddies?”

Phoenix shrugged, entirely unfazed. “Stranger things have happened.”

Jake gave her a long look. “Are you both dying?”

“No.”

“On drugs?”

Rooster smirked. “Only caffeine and a burning need for the truth.”

Jake stared for a beat longer, then shook his head and walked out of the locker room with a muttered, “Y’all are exhausting.”

Phoenix turned to Rooster once he was gone. “Okay, new plan. We’re terrible at this.”

Rooster groaned. “I thought the grocery question was subtle.”

“It wasn’t.”

“He’s too smug. He has secrets and he knows we want to know them.”

Phoenix sighed. “And he’s enjoying the hell out of this.”

Rooster tilted his head thoughtfully. “He might be just confused. That would track.”

They both stood in silence for a moment before Phoenix said, “We need to try again. Cooler. Smarter.”

Rooster gave her a long look. “You gonna say ‘do you have kids’ in Morse code or something?”

Phoenix’s eyes lit up. “...Maybe.”

Jake pushed open the front door with his shoulder, juggling his keys, a bottle of wine, and the pink glittery water bottle Cami had insisted on bringing to preschool. The house smelled faintly of laundry and lemon cleaner, and somewhere in the background, Taylor Swift’s voice floated out from the kitchen speaker.

You were at the counter, barefoot in leggings and one of his old Academy hoodies, hair piled on top of your head like a soft crown of chaos. Lex was in her bouncer on the floor nearby, babbling softly to her toes like they were telling her secrets.

Cami was on the couch with a coloring book and a stack of markers that had no hope of staying uncapped for long.

Jake dropped his keys in the bowl and stepped into the kitchen, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “I survived another day of being interrogated by two weirdos.”

You smiled without looking up from the dishwasher you were loading.

“Phoenix and Rooster.” He opened the fridge and tucked the wine onto the bottom shelf. “They’re acting weird. Like, weirder than usual.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘weird.’”

Jake pulled out a leftover container and leaned against the counter. “Asking where I live, what I did this weekend, if I’ve been to the grocery store. They were so subtle it was almost adorable.”

You bit back a smile. “Huh.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Maybe they already know.”

Jake froze, Tupperware in hand. “Know what?”

You turned and gently nudged the fridge closed with your hip. “About us. About me. About the girls.”

Jake blinked. “How?”

“I don’t know,” you said, scooping up a bib from the table. “Maybe they saw us out. Maybe someone mentioned something. Cami does talk to strangers like they’re long-lost cousins.”

Jake groaned. “Oh God. Did she tell the cashier I’m a Top Gun pilot again?”

“She told the woman at the post office that your call sign is Hangman because you ‘always hang upside down on the monkey bars.’”

He dropped his head to the counter with a muffled laugh. “She’s gonna get me court-martialed.”

You smiled as you stepped closer and gently carded your fingers through his hair. “You said you liked them. The squad.”

“I do,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled. “Most days.”

“Maybe it’s time they knew the truth.”

Jake lifted his head, watching you carefully. “You think so?”

You tilted your head, soft and teasing. “What’s the worst that could happen? They start calling you Daddy-man?”

Jake winced. “I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

You laughed, warm and easy, and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Seriously. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. You have a great life. You have a family who loves you. And a baby with thighs so chunky they deserve their own zip code.”

Jake looked down at Lex, who had stopped babbling long enough to blow a spit bubble.

He sighed. “You’re right.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “I know.”

Cami’s voice floated in from the living room. “Mom! Daddy! Where’s the sparkly purple marker? It’s an emergency!”

Jake shouted back, “Check under the couch! Or in your hair!”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. “Well… when you’re ready, we’re ready too.”

He kissed the top of your head, arms sliding around you with a quiet, grateful squeeze.

The squad had claimed their usual table on the outdoor patio of the base commissary — sun shining, aviators on, trays full of fries and whatever passed for lunch that day. It was the kind of afternoon that made everything feel like summer break, even if they were technically on duty.

“Well, I hope you’re all happy,” Bob was saying dryly as he unwrapped a sandwich. “I checked my mailbox today and it was filled with glitter.”

Fanboy leaned back in his chair, beaming. “You’re welcome. That’s the kind of magic only Bowie and I can bring to a neighborhood.”

“You named the dog after David Bowie?” Phoenix asked, chewing on a carrot stick.

Mickey grinned. “Ziggy Stardog.”

Groans went around the table.

“Unreal,” Coyote muttered. “That’s terrible and I’m impressed.”

“I live to serve.”

Jake was halfway through a burger, content to let the chaos unfold, when Maverick appeared like a ghost with sunglasses, stepping out of nowhere and holding a coffee in one hand like it was sacred.

“Don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, voice easy, “but Penny wanted me to let you all know we’re doing a bonfire tonight. Out by the beach. Her place. Says it’s a welcome-back thing, so don’t bring beer, don’t bring drama, and for the love of God, don’t bring your motorcycles onto the sand again.”

Everyone snickered. Rooster threw his hands up defensively. “That was one time.”

“And it’ll stay that way,” Mav said with a pointed look.

Jake straightened slightly, setting down the last bite of his burger. He glanced around the table, pulse oddly steady. The decision had settled itself sometime that morning between spooning oatmeal into Lex’s mouth and Cami asking—again—when she could meet Daddy’s new friends.

“Mav,” he said, casual but clear. “Is it cool if I bring some people with me?”

The table went quiet.

Maverick blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”

Jake gave a little smile and nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Everyone stared.

Fanboy was the first to break the silence. “Uh… what people?” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even like people.”

Payback looked mildly alarmed. “Are we being replaced?”

Jake just shrugged, reaching for his drink like this was the most normal conversation in the world.

But Phoenix was watching him like a hawk.

And Rooster was actively vibrating with contained energy, a fry halfway to his mouth, completely forgotten.

“You’re being weird again,” Jake said, pointing his straw at Rooster.

“You’re bringing people,” Rooster shot back, eyebrows in the stratosphere.

Phoenix leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, a slow smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “We talking plural as in roommates? Or plural as in… little people who call you Daddy?”

Jake’s eyes flicked to hers, the tiniest tilt of amusement in them. “I’m just saying,” he said evenly, “if I show up with the most beautiful girl at the party, don’t be surprised.”

Rooster choked on his fry.

Phoenix kicked him under the table.

Fanboy looked around, utterly lost. “What is happening?”

Bob squinted suspiciously. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Jake only smirked and stood, brushing the crumbs off his shirt.

“See y’all tonight,” he said, casual as anything. “Save me a seat by the fire.”

And with that, he walked off — calm, unbothered, and just smug enough to make Rooster groan into his hands.

Phoenix leaned back, arms crossed, a gleam in her eyes. “It’s happening.”

Rooster looked haunted. “I knew that baby wasn’t a hallucination.”

Payback stared between them. “What baby?!”

The house smelled like sunscreen, baby lotion, and a little bit of anxiety.

Cami was bouncing from room to room like a ping-pong ball, wearing a sparkly denim jacket over a pink sundress and clutching her favorite plush unicorn in a tiny fist. She kept popping into the bathroom to check her hair in the mirror, then running back to Jake.

“Do I look okay, Daddy?”

Jake crouched to her level, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “You look perfect, honey.”

She beamed for a second, then hesitated. “What if your friends don’t like me?”

Jake blinked. “What?”

Cami twisted the unicorn’s mane around her finger. “What if they think I talk too much? Or that I’m weird?”

Jake’s heart ached in that split-second way it always did when she got serious. He smoothed her curls gently and gave her that look — the one he reserved for bedtime promises and skinned knees.

“They’re gonna love you, bug,” he said softly. “Because you’re smart, and funny, and you make the best marshmallows on the planet.”

Her brow furrowed. “But we haven’t even made them yet—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake whispered, grinning. “You still win.”

That got a giggle out of her, and she hugged his neck, throwing her little arms around him with enough force to knock him off balance onto the hallway rug.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said into his shoulder.

Jake’s voice caught. “I love you more.”

You stepped out of the nursery then, Lex already strapped to your chest in a soft carrier, cheeks pink and drool bib firmly in place. She was wide awake and blinking like the golden light in the living room was the most interesting thing in the world.

Cami ran to grab her tiny heart-shaped sunglasses from the coffee table. Jake stood and watched you for a second longer than necessary, just taking it all in.

“How’s Lex?” he asked, crossing the room to meet you.

“She’s been cooing at the ceiling fan for fifteen minutes straight,” you said. “I think it’s her soulmate.”

He smiled and reached out to gently fix the strap across your shoulder, his thumb brushing your collarbone.

“You okay?” you asked quietly, looking up at him.

Jake hesitated. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

You gave him that look — soft and knowing and full of the kind of patience he still didn’t fully understand how he’d earned.

“It’s not a bad kind of nervous,” he said after a second. “Just… new. I’ve never brought my family to anything like this. Not with coworkers. Javy doesn’t count.”

“He absolutely doesn’t count,” you agreed.

Jake chuckled under his breath, then exhaled, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “I just… this is the part where it’s not just mine anymore, you know? Where they get to know you. The girls. The best parts of me.”

You stepped in closer, pressing your hand to his chest. “We’ve always been yours, Jake.”

He looked down at you, green eyes a little glassy now. “Yeah,” he said. “But tonight... I guess it starts being real to everyone else, too.”

You smiled. “And that’s a good thing. Because it means more people get to see what I see. That you’re a good man. A good husband. A good dad. And the people who matter? They’ll never forget that.”

Jake swallowed hard and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then one to Lex’s. Then one to your mouth — soft, slow, like a thank-you.

“Alright,” he said, voice lighter. “Let’s go make an entrance.”

“Let’s go blow their minds,” you replied, already grabbing the baby bag.

Cami burst back into the room, sunglasses on upside down. “Do I look like a cool kid?”

Jake scooped her up with a dramatic gasp. “Coolest kid in the whole world.”

Cami giggled into his shoulder.

And just like that, the Seresins stepped out into the soft evening light, hand in hand, baby bouncing, hearts a little nervous, but completely full.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon when the Seresin family arrived.

The beach behind the Hard Deck glowed in warm amber and rose, the bonfire crackling at the center of it all, with the Daggers scattered around in folding chairs, drinks in hand, laughter rolling easy on the breeze. A cooler full of seltzers sat half-buried in the sand, and someone had already started a playlist that leaned heavy on Fleetwood Mac and bad decisions.

Jake stepped onto the sand first, Lex balanced easily on his hip in a floral romper and a soft pink headband that did absolutely nothing to keep her hair down. She let out a content little sigh and sucked on two fingers like she’d been born for the beach life.

You followed beside him, Cami’s small hand clasped tightly in yours. Her sparkly jacket caught the firelight as she walked, pink sunglasses pushed up into her curls, gripping her unicorn under one arm like backup.

To anyone watching, it was immediate.

They looked like Jake.

Same eyes. Same golden skin. Same confidence — even Cami, who clung to your side but stood tall, taking it all in.

The Daggers didn’t notice them at first.

Not until they got close enough that Bob glanced up and nearly choked on his drink.

Then Rooster turned — already half-expecting it — and froze with his cup halfway to his mouth.

Phoenix elbowed him like don’t say anything stupid but her own jaw had gone slack.

Fanboy actually gasped.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Coyote just sat there grinning like he’d known all along — because, of course, he had.

Jake stopped just in front of the fire, let the conversations fizzle into stunned silence, and gave them that damn cocky smile — the one they all knew so well — only this time, it was softer. Warmer. The kind of smile that said this is everything to me.

“Evening,” he drawled. “Hope we’re not late.”

Nobody said a word.

Cami peeked around you, her voice small but clear. “Are these the pilot friends?”

Jake looked down at her and nodded. “Sure are, baby.”

You smiled gently at the group, then bent to whisper something in Cami’s ear. She stepped forward a little, still clutching the unicorn, but brave in that way only five-year-olds could be.

“I’m Camila Seresin,” she said proudly. “But you can call me Cami.”

Jake gave a slight nod, then shifted Lex on his hip. “And this little one is Alexandra. Lex, if she likes you.”

Lex burbled in response, blinking sleepily at the circle of stunned adults. Jake’s arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close.

“And this is my wife,” he said, voice soft but certain. “The love of my life. The reason I’m not a complete disaster.”

You gave a small, amused wave. “Hi.”

Phoenix finally blinked. “You’re married?”

“To her?” Payback added, looking between you and Jake like he was trying to process a physics equation with no numbers.

Fanboy leaned forward. “You’re married married. Like… full on?”

“With kids?” Bob choked.

Jake smirked. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yes!” they all said in unison.

Coyote just raised his beer and clinked it against Jake’s bottle. “About time, hermano.”

Phoenix gave you a look of genuine bafflement. “I mean, no offense, but you’re… like… stunning. And you married Hangman?”

“I know,” you said with a dramatic sigh. “We all make mistakes.”

Jake pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded.”

Payback was still staring at Cami, then Lex, then Jake. “They look exactly like you.”

“They should,” Jake said. “Made ‘em myself.”

Phoenix groaned. “Okay, we’re leaving.”

Jake just laughed and tucked Lex’s head against his shoulder. “Cami, wanna roast some marshmallows?”

“Yes please!” she squeaked, already dragging you toward the snack table.

Jake looked around at the still-shocked faces of his squad — his friends now, he supposed — and gave them a rare, genuine smile.

“Welcome to my real life,” he said.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and the flames of the bonfire cast soft flickers across everyone’s faces. Music drifted low from someone’s speaker, mingling with the sound of the waves and the occasional snap of firewood.

It should’ve been a normal night.

But nothing felt normal now that Jake “Hangman” Seresin was casually sitting cross-legged on the sand, marshmallow stick in his hands, helping his five-year-old daughter make the perfect s’more.

“I said not too toasted,” Cami whispered urgently. “Just golden. Like the picture.”

Jake nodded seriously. “Golden. Got it. This is high-stakes work, sweetheart.”

Phoenix nudged Rooster with her foot. “Who is this man?”

Rooster, still visibly reeling, shook his head like it might clear the image in front of him. “I thought he ate protein powder straight out of the tub and slept on a bed of ego.”

“He’s using baby talk, Bradshaw.”

Rooster narrowed his eyes. “And I think the baby just giggled at him.”

“Not the baby,” Fanboy said from behind them. “Me. I’m giggling. This is surreal.”

Across the fire, Jake caught the tail end of the conversation and gave them a smug little look, tossing a marshmallow at Mickey that he expertly dodged.

You were nestled beside Jake on a blanket, Lex sleeping soundly against your chest now that she’d exhausted herself chewing on everyone’s fingers (with permission, of course). You leaned into Jake’s shoulder with a soft smile, watching Cami flit between the snack table and her latest obsession: Bradley Bradshaw.

“Hey, Mr. Rooster?” she called, holding her unicorn in one hand and a half-eaten graham cracker in the other.

Bradley blinked. “Uh, yeah?”

“Can I touch your mustache?”

Jake nearly dropped his beer.

Phoenix howled.

Rooster sat very still. “Um. Sure?”

Cami wandered over and patted it with her little marshmallow-sticky fingers, studying it like a curious scientist.

“It’s soft,” she declared. “Like a cat. You should name it.”

Jake groaned. “Cami.”

“What?” she asked innocently. “It’s just a suggestion.”

Jake shot Rooster a look over her head. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Rooster raised both hands. “Hey. I’m just standing here. With a face.”

You leaned over to whisper, “You’re really going to lose sleep over your daughter flirting with a mustache, aren’t you?”

“She has bad taste,” Jake said grimly.

Before anyone could tease him further, Coyote appeared at Cami’s side with a juice pouch and a twinkle in his eye. “Hey, kiddo. Want to help me find more sticks for the marshmallows?”

“Uncle Javy!” Cami cheered, grabbing the juice and launching herself at him like a tiny cannonball.

Phoenix blinked. “Uncle?”

Jake shrugged. “He’s the only one who knew. Got promoted early.”

“You told Javy?” Rooster cried, scandalized. “You told Javy and not me?”

Coyote slung Cami onto his shoulders with practiced ease. “I’m the trustworthy one.”

Jake smirked. “He didn’t try to follow me home or interrogate me about my grocery list.”

Rooster folded his arms. “That was one time.”

Phoenix grinned. “Still your worst stakeout.”

As the night deepened and the stars came out, the squad began to shift from disbelief into something sweeter: genuine admiration. Watching Jake tuck a blanket around Cami’s legs, kiss the top of her head. Seeing the way Lex instinctively settled in his arms, one tiny hand curled into his shirt. Hearing the way he said darlin’ to you like it meant something old and permanent.

This wasn’t a side of Jake Seresin anyone had expected to see.

But it fit him.

Perfectly.

[reysdriver]

Golden Hour | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky asks you to move in after coming home from a mission, wanting the life you’ve already built together to finally be permanent.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: post-sex intimacy, references to sexual activity, established relationship, dirty talk/innuendos, references to trauma and nightmares, discussion of fear/vulnerability, bucky barnes being so in love it’s borderline embarrassing

Word Count: 3k

Author’s Note: i almost thought this was gonna be my second week in a row missing fic friday but my manager randomly gave us a half day today so i had extra time to edit this bad boy!!! this fic honestly absolutely ruined my already nonexistent standards for real life men with bucky barnes and honestly? i’m not even sorry. enjoy!

The room still smelled faintly like sweat and skin, heat lingering heavy in the air despite the window cracked just enough to let in the muted hum of the city outside. The sheets had twisted down somewhere at the foot of the bed, kicked away in the uncoordinated mess of hands and mouths and everything else that had happened between the front door and here. 

Your body still hummed with it, bone-deep and quiet now, a warmth that settled in your chest and pulsed slow in your blood. Bucky lay half on his stomach, one arm draped across your hips, palm splayed wide against your bare thigh.

He hadn’t dozed off entirely yet. You could tell by the way his breathing hadn’t quite evened out, chest still rising and falling in that deliberate rhythm he had when he was winding himself down.

His nose brushed the slope of your shoulder every so often, stubble catching against your skin. A low sound left him, not quite a sigh and not quite a hum, like he was content in a way that felt unpracticed. The kind of contentment that still surprised him.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, voice low, the words spilling out into the dimness like they belonged there.

The corner of his mouth ticked up against your skin. “Yeah? That a bad thing?” His voice was rough, quiet, the kind of rasp that came after hours of use.

“No. Just means you’re thinking too much.”

His hand traced idle circles against your thigh, metal knuckles cool where his flesh hand wasn’t. He didn’t say anything right away, just let the silence stretch, only the city noise and the creak of the bed when either of you shifted breaking it.

“Mm,” he rumbled, lips ghosting over your shoulder. “’M not.” But the faint crease in his brow gave him away.

“You always say that right before you start brooding,” you teased softly, lifting your head enough to catch the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow so he could look at you properly. Strands of messy hair fell forward, catching the dim glow of the streetlight that spilled faintly through the blinds. His eyes swept over you like he couldn’t help himself, face soft in a way it never was with anyone else. “I don’t brood.”

“You absolutely brood.”

A low laugh slipped out of him, quiet but warm, and he leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth, just a brush of lips before pulling back. “I was thinkin’,” he said after a moment, voice rough and careful, “about how much I hate this place when you’re not here.”

The words sat between you, heavier than they should’ve been.

“Bucky,” you said slowly, studying him.

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, callused fingertip brushing just below your chin. “Feels wrong. Comin’ home and not havin’ you already here.”

There was something in his voice—steady, but weighted. The same tone he’d used when he’d told you, months ago, that he’d rather spend his birthday with you in your apartment than let Sam drag him to some crowded bar full of strangers. The same tone he’d used the first time he’d shown up bloody and battered at your place and told you, without looking at you, that you were the only person he trusted to patch him up.

“You’re not just saying that because you’re tired and we just—”

“I’m not,” he cut in gently, and there wasn’t a trace of doubt in it.

You searched his face in the dim light. His hair was sticking up where your hands had been tangled in it, his mouth still a little red from your kisses, faint bruises blooming along his throat where you hadn’t been patient. He looked wrecked in the best way, but he also looked like a man holding something solid behind his teeth.

“Move in with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was quiet, sure of itself, like he’d been holding onto the thought for longer than he’d admit. His hand slid to the back of your neck, thumb brushing the fine hairs there like he needed the contact to ground him.

Your breath stalled. Two years together, and still, hearing him say it like that made your chest tighten.

You knew what he meant. It wasn’t about convenience or logistics. It wasn’t about shared rent or splitting chores. It was about mornings where he could come home from a mission and find you curled up on the couch in his hoodie, about nights where he could reach for you and know you’d be there without a doubt.

He was the same man who could kill without hesitation if he needed to, who had lived through horrors you could barely imagine—and yet here he was, asking you for something so achingly ordinary.

“Move in with you,” you echoed softly, just to hear it out loud.

His lips twitched at the corners, half a smile, but his eyes stayed serious. “Yeah. Come home to you already here. Have your stuff everywhere. Don’t wanna wait for you to come over anymore.”

You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead with fingers that still felt warm and shaky.

“You want me leaving my mess all over your place?” you asked softly, trying for teasing but unable to keep the edge of emotion out of your voice.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and certain, “I want you here. I want your crap in my drawers, your books on my bookshelf, your coffee mug sittin’ on the counter in the morning. Don’t wanna keep pretending like I’m fine goin’ home to an empty place half the time.”

It was so raw, so brutally honest, that it almost knocked the air out of you.

“You know,” you said after a long moment, thumb brushing over his cheek like you couldn’t help but touch him, “I think I might like that too. Waking up next to you every day. Letting you drive me crazy when you leave your boots in the middle of the hallway.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, something flickering through his eyes that looked a lot like awe. Like he still couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” He ran his hand slowly down the curve of your back. “More time with you... means more time to make up for all the nights I didn’t get to keep you here. All the mornings I woke up alone when I could’ve had you in my bed. On my kitchen counter. Anywhere you’ll let me.”

His smirk deepened when you rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the little laugh that slipped out. “You’re insufferable.”

“You weren’t complainin’ a few minutes ago,” he teased, dragging his hand slowly down your spine, fingertips just skimming your skin in that way that always made you shiver. “Matter of fact, pretty sure you were beggin’.”

You swatted at his chest lightly, though your grin gave you away. “Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

“Too late for that.” He leaned down and caught your mouth in a slow, unhurried kiss that left you breathless when he finally pulled back. “Gonna tell me you don’t wanna wake up here? Walk around in my shirts, leave your shoes by the door, mess up my bathroom with all your… lotions and whatever the hell else you got in there?”

“You already have half my stuff here,” you pointed out, tracing a scar on his shoulder with your fingertip. “What’s one more drawer?”

“Don’t wanna stop at one drawer.” His metal hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Want you in all of it. My bed, my kitchen, my couch. You sittin’ there when I come back from a mission, givin’ me that look like you’ve been worryin’ about me even though you try to hide it.”

Your chest tightened at that—because it was true, you did worry. You always worried.

“Thought you liked the part where you come over to my place and you get to pick me up at the door like some kinda—what’s the word—gentleman?” you said softly, nudging his chin with your nose.

“I’ll still pick you up, sweetheart.” He kissed you again, slower this time, before resting his forehead against yours. “Just wanna be pickin’ you up from work. Or from the grocery store. Or when you get in one of those moods where you decide you’re gonna rearrange everythin’ in the apartment while I’m gone and need someone to pick you up from IKEA.”

You snorted. “You make it sound like I’m high maintenance.”

“You are.” His grin was easy, teasing, but his eyes were so damn soft you felt your throat go tight. “And I love it. I love every bit of it. The way you hog the blankets. The way you talk in your sleep sometimes and then deny it. The way you steal my hoodies and think I don’t notice.”

“You never say anything about the hoodies,” you murmured, brushing your lips along the edge of his jaw.

“That’s ‘cause I like seein’ you in ‘em.” His voice dropped even lower, rasping in a way that made your stomach flip. “And takin’ ‘em off you.”

Heat rushed through you, but you pressed your hand to his chest like you were steadying yourself. “You’re really sure about this? About us living together?”

“Been sure for months,” he said simply. “Every time I come home and you’re not here, it feels wrong. Every time I leave your place in the mornin’, I hate it. You’re already my home. Just want it to be permanent.”

There was no hesitation in his voice, none of that guardedness he used to have whenever the two of you talked about the future. You remembered the nights early on when he’d wake up sweating, hand fisted in the sheets, eyes wild like he didn’t know where he was. The way he’d apologized for it after, like it was a burden he’d put on you. Those nights had grown fewer, but you knew they still happened—missions still pulled him back into memories he’d rather forget.

“Y’know Sam’s gonna be insufferable about this,” you said, trying to lighten the weight of the moment.

“Sam’s already insufferable,” Bucky muttered, kissing the top of your head. “He’s been bettin’ on when I’d finally ask. Little shit’s probably got a pool goin’.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest. “Yelena would definitely win that bet.”

“Oh, she’s got better intel than the CIA.” He rolled onto his back, pulling you with him until you were sprawled across his chest. His hands slid down to rest on your hips, holding you there like he had no plans to let you move. “Don’t care what they say. Let ‘em talk. Just want you here.”

“Yeah?” you asked softly, chin propped on his sternum as you looked down at him, hair falling like a curtain between you. “What about when I’m leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor? Or taking up all the space on the couch because I’ve spread out with like five different blankets?”

“Still want you here,” he said without missing a beat, fingers curling lightly into the small of your back. “I’ll even pick up the towels. Can’t say I’ll complain about sharing a couch if you’re on top of me.”

You traced a line down the plane of his chest, slow and teasing, nails grazing faintly over his ribs just to hear his breath catch. “So you’re just using this as an excuse to have me at your mercy all the time?”

His grin was shameless. “Damn right I am.” He caught your hand before it wandered lower, brushing his lips across your knuckles before setting it flat against his chest again. “Wanna wake up to you every morning. Wanna see you in my kitchen wearin’ my shirt, makin’ coffee and rollin’ your eyes at whatever dumb text Sam sent me. Wanna come home and hear you bitch about the neighbors or how the laundry machine ate your sock.”

“You really have thought about this a lot,” you murmured, amused and a little overwhelmed by just how much he’d clearly pictured it.

“Every damn day,” he said, not even embarrassed. “And you know what else I’ve thought about?”

You arched a brow. “Dare I ask?”

“Comin’ back from a mission, walkin’ through that door, and knowin’ you’re already here. Knowin’ I don’t have to wait two days for you to finally come over ‘cause you’re busy with work or sick or tired. Knowin’ that bed’s gonna smell like you no matter how long I’ve been gone.” His voice had dropped again, slow and deliberate, that particular rasp that always sent heat skittering low in your stomach. “Knowin’ I can have you whenever I damn well please without wonderin’ if your neighbors are gonna hear you.”

Your face went hot, but you couldn’t help the way you bit your lip, trying to fight the grin that tugged at your mouth. “That’s what this is about, huh? Not romance—just more convenient sex.”

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, sliding his hands lower to grip your hips, “I never said it was just that. But I ain’t gonna pretend I’m not lookin’ forward to it.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but leaned down to kiss him anyway. He met you halfway, deepening the kiss until you were melting against him, your fingers curling into his hair.

Your laughter faded slowly against his mouth, tapering into something quieter, something more fragile. You let your forehead rest against his, breaths mingling in the small space between you. His fingers stayed on your hips, no longer teasing—just holding, grounding. And when you looked down at him, really looked, the grin he’d worn moments ago had softened, peeled back into something raw and open and completely unguarded.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low but steady. “All of it.”

You blinked, a little startled by the shift in tone, but you didn’t pull away. You didn’t look away either.

“I know you do.”

His hand moved up, slow and careful, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. He cupped your jaw like he was afraid you’d disappear if he held too tight. “It’s not just about the sex, or the hoodies, or the late-night phone calls. It’s not about routines, or who makes the bed, or whether you remember to buy milk.”

You waited. You could feel something building under his skin, simmering just beneath the surface.

“It’s about you,” he said finally, voice rough like gravel, like it scraped on the way out. “It’s always been about you. I love you.”

He said it plainly, like it wasn’t even a question anymore, like it never had been. Like it was a fact as simple as the sun coming up. And still, it hit like a punch to the chest.

He wasn’t the kind of man who said things like that without meaning them in full. This wasn’t a romantic gesture. It wasn’t a moment of vulnerability conjured up by a warm bed and the afterglow. This was Bucky Barnes—stoic, stubborn, steady—laying himself bare.

“I love you,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m not easy to love back.”

Your chest tightened, a sting blooming behind your eyes. “You’re not hard to love.”

He gave you a look—tired, a little knowing. “You say that now. But you’ve seen it. You’ve seen me after those missions. You’ve sat with me when I couldn’t sleep. When I couldn’t look in the mirror. I know what I put you through.”

You shook your head, your thumb brushing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “That’s not putting me through anything. That’s… that’s being a person. That’s being someone who’s been hurt.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be someone you have to tiptoe around. Someone who drags all this shit in behind him. I don’t want to be another weight you carry.”

“You’re not,” you said, firmer now. “You’re not a weight. You’re the reason I want to come home. You’re the reason I want to stay.”

Bucky exhaled, long and shaky, eyes falling closed for a moment like he was trying to believe it. Like he was trying to hold it in his hands without it crumbling.

“You say you want me here,” you said, voice softer again, “but you do know what that means, right? I’m not perfect. I have bad days. I get impatient. I cry during movies for no reason. I forget to text you back sometimes because I’m overwhelmed. I leave half-full glasses of water all over the apartment and talk to myself when I think no one’s listening.”

His eyes opened again. “You talk to yourself when I am listening.”

You laughed, wet and startled. “And I’ll probably get scared, Bucky. Not because I don’t want this, but because it’s real. Because it matters.”

“I know,” he said. “I get scared too.”

It felt like something shifted in the room then. Not louder, not bigger, just realer. You let your body relax fully against his, head tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder. His arms came around you without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for you to settle.

“I don’t care if you cry at movies,” he said quietly. “I’ll hold you through every one of them. I’ll stock all the kinds of tea to make when you’re overwhelmed. I’ll pick up every glass of water and listen to every conversation you have with yourself. I’ll take all of it, if it means I get to keep you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“‘Cause I don’t want a version of this where it’s easy and clean and perfect,” he went on. “I want the version where you’re here. Where we figure it out. Where we fight about laundry and laugh about stupid shit and get through the hard days one at a time. I want it messy, if it means it’s with you.”

You turned your face, pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“I love you too,” you whispered into his skin.

And there it was again—that quiet kind of peace that Bucky only ever showed when he let his guard all the way down. When he let the walls fall and trusted that you’d stay. He let out a breath you didn’t know he’d been holding, and you stayed curled together like that, heart to heart, until the weight of the words you’d said stopped feeling like weight at all.

Just truth.

Just home.

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

[reysdriver]

I AM SICK AND FUCKING TIRED OF X READER FICS WHERE THEY KILL THE READER OR THE MAIN CHARACTER OFF WITH NO DAMN WARNING!!!!!

[reysdriver]

oh this ATEEEEE, just like the series before this

Right Girl, Wrong Time masterlist (Bradley Bradshaw x Reader)

Sequel to Old Habits Die Hard! Beer Boy and Sugar may have spent years apart, but their ten year college reunion proves they have always been part of the same equation.

Thanks for the banner @mak-32 roosterforme masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

[reysdriver]

Old Habits Die Hard masterlist (Bradley Bradshaw x Reader)

Fuckboy!College!Bradley falls for the most unexpected girl. But she's the one who can see past his scars and the doors he keeps closed.

Thanks for the banner @mak-32 roosterforme masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

[reysdriver]

Half New, Half You

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; Motherhood changed you in ways you didn’t expect. But Jake never stopped seeing you, even when you felt like a shadow of yourself. A careless comment stings more than it should, but love, as always, holds you steady.

word count; 5.6k

warnings; slight angst, alluding to post-partum depression, i've never been pregnant so i apologize for any inaccuracies, i tried to be as respectful as possible, protective!jake, the daggers are lowkey idiots but it gets resolved, happy ending

a/n; have i say i suck at picking titles? because i do !

masterlist

You and Jake had always been a good team.

Even before the wedding bands, before the house near base, before the nursery walls were painted that warm honey color you picked while Jake stood behind you with his arms around your waist — you just fit. You were the type of couple people admired without meaning to, the kind that felt solid without ever seeming boring. Everything about being with him felt easy. Natural. Like coming home.

You were vibrant, back then. Bright. Always the first to say yes to a last-minute plan. The first one dancing at someone’s birthday, drink in hand, laughing so loudly it made other people join in. You could hold a whole room without even trying. It wasn’t about being the center of attention; it was just your charm, the way you made everyone feel seen. The Daggers adored you for it. Jake fell hard for it.

But he also fell for the quiet parts of you. The thoughtful ones. The stubborn ones. The messy mornings and the soft, vulnerable nights. He loved the whole of you — fiercely, proudly — and you loved him just as hard right back.

When you found out you were pregnant, Jake cried. Sat right down on the kitchen floor, pulled you into his lap, and buried his face against your belly like he was already trying to protect something fragile and precious. You weren’t scared. Not with him beside you. You were ready. You both were.

Your daughter arrived less than a year ago, perfect in a way that stunned you.

And you loved her.

God, did you love her.

But something in you changed, too.

Not all at once. Not in a way that anyone else might have noticed right away. But you did. You weren’t laughing as much. Weren’t answering texts right away. You started saying maybe next time when the Daggers invited you out, even when you didn’t really know why. You didn’t feel like yourself — not entirely. And sometimes, it scared you how much you missed the girl you used to be.

Still, you tried to keep it all together.

You wanted to be the best mom. The perfect mom. You researched everything — the sleep schedules, the feeding plans, the organic baby food recipes. You committed to a full year of breastfeeding, no matter how exhausting it got. No formula. No shortcuts. You blended vegetables in perfect little glass jars and labeled them by date. You read articles, saved posts, made notes on nap windows and milestones like you were studying for the most important exam of your life.

Because it was the most important thing you’d ever done.

And even when you felt overwhelmed, even when it felt like you were constantly one mistake away from ruining something vital — you kept going.

Jake never asked you to stop. Never told you to ease up. He could see how much pressure you were putting on yourself, and instead of pulling you away from it, he met you right where you were. He got up for the night feeds when he could. Learned how to hold her just the way she liked. Memorized the way you liked your coffee on the days you barely had time to drink it. He rubbed your shoulders when you spent too long hunched over your phone, searching for answers you didn’t even know how to phrase.

He never made you feel like you were being dramatic.

He never made you feel like too much.

Jake Seresin had always been a protector — it was in his nature — but fatherhood turned that instinct into something deeper. He didn’t just protect your daughter. He protected you, too. In the quiet, invisible ways that really mattered.

Because he knew you.

He knew what your laugh used to sound like. He knew how hard you were trying to hold everything together. And more than anything, he knew this — no one could love that little girl the way you did. And no one could love you the way he did.

Jake brings it up casually one morning, while Willow is tucked against your hip and your coffee’s gone cold in the mug beside you.

“She’s got a new trick,” he says, watching as Willow grabs your necklace and babbles like she’s solving world hunger. “I swear, she’s gonna be talking before she walks.”

You smile —tired but real— and press a kiss to her temple. Her light brown curls are sticking up in every direction, wild and soft, and her green eyes, Jake’s eyes, shine with pure mischief.

“She’ll be walking in a month,” you murmur. “God help us.”

Jake grins and leans in to kiss your cheek. “You know what might help us survive it?” he says gently. “A night out. Just a few hours.”

You stiffen, and he feels it instantly.

“I don’t know…” you start, shifting Willow in your arms.

Jake softens his voice. “Your mom’s here. She can stay with her. Just the Hard Deck, nothing crazy. Everyone’s been asking about you.”

You glance toward the hallway where your mom’s unpacking toys and humming some lullaby you don’t quite recognize. Willow lets out a squeal and starts chewing on the collar of your shirt. It’s a normal morning. A good one. But even on the good days, you still feel stretched thin — like the lightest breeze could unravel you.

Jake notices your hesitation, but he doesn’t push.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “Just think about it. It’s been a while.”

It had been a while.

You hadn’t seen the Daggers in months, not outside of the quick visits when they dropped off little gifts for Willow or came by to say hi. You used to be part of every plan. Now, you were the one sending polite, apologetic texts: So sorry, maybe next time. And no one ever made you feel guilty, but still… the distance was starting to grow. You could feel it.

Later that afternoon, you’re in the kitchen pureeing steamed carrots when your mom pads in barefoot, towel-drying her hands.

“You know,” she says casually, “your husband’s trying very hard to convince me you need a night off.”

You glance at her, brows raised. “Is he?”

“Mmhmm.” She walks over to Willow in her high chair and wipes her face, then turns back to you. “I happen to agree with him.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

“I know it’s not easy to leave her,” she says gently, pulling out a chair. “But Jake’s right. It’s just a night. She’ll be asleep most of it. You deserve to have fun again.”

You sigh, dropping the spoon into the bowl. “It’s not just that. I haven’t had a drink in almost two years, I don’t know if my jeans even fit, and—”

“And?” she prompts.

You shrug helplessly. “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

She stands and comes to you, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“You’re still you,” she says. “You’re just a little deeper now. That little girl brought out new parts of you — not lesser ones.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them away.

“I don’t know if I’ll be any fun.”

“Sweetheart,” she smiles, brushing your cheek, “you’re always fun. And even if you’re not… you’re allowed to just be. Let the people who love you show up for you tonight.”

You don’t say yes right away, but a little after dinner, you find Jake in the bedroom changing Willow into her pajamas. She’s fighting sleep, yawning dramatically between shrieks of laughter as he blows raspberries on her belly.

He looks up at you, a question in his eyes.

You lean against the doorframe and nod softly. “Okay,” you say. “Let’s go out tonight.”

You spend most of the evening second-guessing your outfit.

Nothing feels quite right — too tight, too loose, too not you. Your body has changed. Not in a way anyone else would probably notice, but you feel it in your own skin, in the way your favorite jeans pinch at your waist or how the neckline of your blouse sits a little differently now.

You stand in front of the mirror in your bra and half-zipped jeans, staring at your reflection like maybe it’ll tell you what to wear. Your hair’s done — simple, soft — and you’ve brushed on a little makeup, but nothing dramatic. You haven’t worn real mascara in months. Lipstick feels like a relic from another life.

You sigh, ready to call it off, when Jake’s arms wrap gently around your waist from behind.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “You okay?”

“I don’t know what to wear,” you mumble.

He leans his chin on your shoulder, catching your eyes in the mirror. “You could wear sweatpants and that oversized hoodie you hate, and you’d still walk into that bar and knock the air outta me.”

You give him a look. “You’re biased.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, a little grin tugging at his mouth. “Biased as hell. You’re the mother of my child. The love of my life. You’re beautiful always.”

You roll your eyes a little, but his words make your throat feel tight.

Jake brushes your hair off your shoulder and kisses the side of your neck, slow and steady. His voice softens. “But if it’s bothering you… what about that black dress you wore on our anniversary? The one you wore with your leather jacket?”

Your brow lifts. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You wore your hair up. Smelled like honey and vanilla. Got a chocolate stain on the strap from dessert.”

You blink. “I can’t believe you remember the chocolate stain.”

He smiles. “I was gonna tell you, but you were so happy, and I didn’t wanna ruin the moment.”

That makes you laugh — really laugh — and Jake’s grin only grows.

You slip into the black dress. It fits a little differently now, a little softer around the middle, but you remind yourself that your body did something miraculous. You carried Willow. You fed her. You survived months of sleepless nights and sore shoulders and tears cried in the dark. You earned the way you’ve changed.

Jake zips the back up for you, slow and careful like he’s handling something sacred.

When you turn around, he whistles — quiet and low. “There she is.”

You smile despite yourself.

Before you leave, you peek into the nursery. Willow’s fast asleep, cheeks pink from her bath, hands curled into tiny fists beside her head. Your mom is in the guest room reading, and she gives you a thumbs-up when you pass by. Jake grabs your jacket, helps you slip it on, and takes your hand like he did on your very first date — fingers laced tight, steady and warm.

“You ready?” he asks softly.

You nod, heart pounding. “I think so.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go remind them all how much they missed you.”

The Hard Deck is buzzing when you arrive, just loud enough to make conversation feel easy without being overwhelming. Music hums from the jukebox, low and familiar, and the soft crack of pool balls mixes with the sound of laughter and clinking bottles. It smells like salt, spilled beer, and sunscreen — and it’s more comforting than you expected.

Jake opens the door for you like he always does, and you step inside, still holding his hand. You barely have time to scan the room before the noise shifts — a whoop from across the bar.

“Look who decided to grace us with her presence!”

You turn just as Javy breaks into a grin and rushes over, arms already open.

“Hey, mama!” he laughs, pulling you into a hug so warm it knocks the wind out of you. “Damn, we missed you.”

The greeting sets off a chain reaction.

Phoenix is next — she wraps you up tight, her familiar perfume making your eyes sting unexpectedly. “You look amazing,” she says, giving you a once-over before squeezing your shoulders. “Seriously. It’s so good to see you.”

“I thought maybe you’d been kidnapped,” Rooster jokes, pulling you into a side-hug and ruffling your hair like an annoying big brother.

“More like held hostage by a tiny dictator,” you reply, your voice lighter than it’s been in months.

Bob hands you a soda with lime without even asking and offers you a quiet smile. “Welcome back,” he says simply, like he knows how hard this was for you — like he sees you.

You laugh. A little awkward, a little shaky, but genuine.

And suddenly there are more hugs, more cheers, more teasing comments like “Does Willow even know we exist anymore?” and “Jake’s not nearly as fun without you, you know that, right?”

Jake stands a little behind you, his hand still resting low on your back, eyes bright. He doesn’t say much — just watches you soak it all in. His presence is grounding, anchoring you without being overbearing.

You haven’t been surrounded by this many people in months. And for a second, it feels like nothing’s changed.

But then you hear it — the familiar cry of a baby in your mind, that instinctive flicker of what if that’s never quite left you. Your hand slips into your pocket, checking your phone.

Nothing.

You glance at the time.

Jake notices immediately. He leans in and murmurs against your ear, “She’s fine, sweetheart. Your mom’s probably watching a Hallmark movie and Willow is asleep right where we left her.”

You smile, but your fingers still curl tightly around your phone.

You want to be here. You do. And the squad makes it easy to slide back into old rhythms. You sit at your usual spot near the dartboard, sip your drink, laugh at Coyote and Rooster bickering over pool rules. Natasha pulls you into a conversation about baby clothes and tells you, “You’ve officially made me obsessed with tiny overalls.”

But still — there’s a low hum beneath it all. That flicker of anxiety that hasn’t let go of your chest since the day you brought Willow home. You can laugh and nod and smile, but part of you is still in the nursery. Still listening for cries that aren’t there. Still wondering if she’s okay without you.

Jake squeezes your hand under the table.

You squeeze back.

You watch Jake make his way toward the bar, his shoulders easy, his walk still cocky even now. He glances back once — just a quick check — and you give him a little smile so he knows you’re okay.

You turn back to the table, and Phoenix is already sliding a bowl of peanuts in front of you.

“Bet Jake made you practice your outfit in the mirror before you left the house,” she teases. “I’ve never seen that man so whipped.”

Rooster snorts. “Whipped? Man’s a full-time bodyguard, housekeeper, and baby whisperer. I’m pretty sure Jake Seresin has a whole second life now.”

Javy leans in with a grin. “I’m just saying — back in the day, you two used to close the bar with us. Now he’s like ‘we gotta head home by ten, Willow likes to wake up for her midnight serenade.’”

They all laugh, and it’s not cruel — it really isn’t. It’s affectionate, familiar ribbing, the way old friends do. But it still catches in your chest.

You laugh, too, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But it feels thin.

Fanboy smirks. “God, remember that trip to Catalina? You did tequila shots off a surfboard. Now you look like someone’s nervous assistant.”

That gets a real burst of laughter. Rooster raises his drink. “To the surfboard tequila queen! May she rest in peace.”

Javy adds with a laugh, “Replaced by Mom Mode 2.0.”

You press your lips together and smile, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens.

They don’t mean anything by it — of course they don’t. And maybe it’s even true. You have changed. You are different now. The old you — wild, spontaneous, loud — feels like a distant echo compared to the woman who now packs a diaper bag like it’s a military op and checks the baby monitor like it’s a heartbeat.

You used to be fun.

Now you’re… tired.

You glance toward the bar again.

Jake’s leaning with one elbow on the counter, waiting on your drinks, his head tilted as he chats with the bartender. Even from here, you can see how he carries you — how he’s still the same and somehow completely different, too. He hasn’t lost that sparkle. He’s just shifted it, wrapped it around you and Willow.

“You okay?” Bob asks softly, his voice barely above the laughter.

You blink, force another smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And you are.

But it’s not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

It’s the kind that sits in your bones. That makes you feel like you’re in a room full of people who love you and still somehow… not quite there.

Jake turns with your drinks in hand, catching your eye. He gives you that slow smile — the one that says you’re okay, baby, I’ve got you.

And you breathe a little easier.

Just a little.

Jake makes his way back to the table, two drinks in hand — yours already adjusted to how you like it now. Less sweet. Fewer bubbles. It’s one of those quiet little changes he picked up along the way, like so many others.

He sets it in front of you with a warm smile, one hand brushing over your shoulder before sliding down your arm in a barely-there touch. “Here you go, darlin’.”

You look up at him and try to smile, but he sees through it in an instant.

Something shifts in his expression — barely noticeable to anyone else, but you know him too well. He crouches beside your chair like he’s tying his shoe, but really, he just wants to be at your eye level.

“Wanna step out for a sec?” he murmurs, voice low and soft just for you.

You nod quickly, grateful.

The Daggers don’t even notice as the two of you slip away from the crowd and out the back door. The cool night air hits your skin, and you draw a breath that feels a little easier than the ones before. Jake follows you into the quiet, standing close but not crowding you, just… there.

Your eyes stay fixed on the dark parking lot, the neon glow of the Hard Deck’s sign painting the ground in faint color.

Jake finally breaks the silence. “Was it too much in there?” he asks gently. “Too loud? Too crowded?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s not that.”

He waits.

And you know he’s waiting for the truth, the real thing — because Jake doesn’t push. He never does. He only opens the door and lets you decide if you want to walk through.

But this time… you don’t. Not all the way.

You lean your head against his shoulder and quietly say, “Can we leave soon?”

That’s all.

And that’s enough.

Jake wraps his arm around you, tucks you into his side like you’re something fragile and precious — because you are. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there like he’s trying to ease the heaviness inside you with nothing but touch.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. “We can leave whenever you want.”

You stay out there a little longer, his arms the only place in the world that feels steady. You don’t talk about what happened, and he doesn’t ask again.

He just holds you like he always has — like you’re the only thing that’s ever really mattered.

When you and Jake step back inside the Hard Deck, the music feels louder than before, the lights a little harsher. You keep your eyes on the floor, on the path back to the table where the Daggers are still laughing, halfway through another round.

Phoenix is the first to spot you. “There you are! We thought maybe you two snuck off to make out behind the bar.”

Bob snorts into his drink. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You offer a weak smile, reaching for your purse. “We’re actually gonna head out.”

“Already?” Rooster whines dramatically. “You two are so boring now.”

“God,” Coyote adds with a teasing grin. “Is this who you’ve become? Early bedtimes and matching pajamas?”

Jake slings an arm around your shoulders and kisses your temple with exaggerated sweetness, but when he looks at the group, his expression shifts — not angry, not quite — but enough to silence the table.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says with a lopsided smile, voice easy but edged. “We’re still fun. We just also have a baby who wakes up at sunrise.”

The Daggers laugh again, but it’s a little more subdued. They get up to hug you goodbye, and you do your best to be gracious, smiling through the ache in your chest.

Phoenix hugs you tightly. “It was really good to see you, babe.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You too.”

Jake keeps his hand at the small of your back as you walk out, steady and warm, like he knows exactly how to carry the weight you won’t say out loud.

The drive home is quiet. Jake hums along to the radio, his fingers brushing over yours on the console between you. You hold on, needing that small connection more than you want to admit.

When you pull into the driveway, the house is lit with that soft, golden glow that always makes it feel safe. Inside, your mom greets you with a smile, Willow’s baby monitor cradled in her hand.

“She was perfect,” your mom says softly. “Didn’t fuss at all. She’s been out like a light since you left.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you say, already toeing off your shoes.

“You two looked good tonight,” she adds, watching the way Jake’s hand rests protectively on the small of your back. “It’s good to see you out.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m just gonna go peek in on her.”

Jake watches you disappear down the hallway before turning to your mom. “Thanks again for watching her. She do okay with the bottle?”

“Like a champ,” your mom grins. “She’s a Seresin, after all.”

Jake chuckles. “Damn right she is.”

The nursery is dim, bathed in the soft blue glow of the nightlight. Willow stirs a little when you open the door, but when you pick her up, she nestles into your chest like she never wants to let go. Her little curls are damp against your neck, her breath warm and steady.

You sit down in the rocking chair and just hold her. Maybe longer than you need to.

You’re still there when Jake steps into the doorway, his silhouette filling the frame. “She okay?”

“She’s perfect,” you whisper. “Like always.”

He crosses the room quietly and crouches beside you, looking up at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

You hesitate.

Then: “Am I… not fun to be around anymore?”

Jake’s head jerks back slightly, like you hit him with something sharp. “Where’s this coming from?”

You look down at Willow, brushing a curl from her forehead. “It’s nothing. Just… something the guys said. Stupid jokes. I’m probably being sensitive.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and when you glance up, you see his jaw clenched, eyes stormy.

“What exactly did they say?”

You shrug, trying to make it small. “Just that we’re boring now. Not the life of the party. That I’m different. Which… I mean, I guess I am. I’m not the same as I was before Willow. I know that.”

Jake stands slowly, running a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you add quickly. “They didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No,” he says, voice tight but calm. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

You blink fast. “I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling a little… off. Like I’m not as bright as I used to be.”

Jake sinks onto the edge of the bed, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize you. “Sweetheart, listen to me.”

You do.

“You are still the brightest person in the room. Every room. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re sad. Even when you feel like half of yourself — you’re still everything.”

Your throat tightens.

“And yeah, things changed. But you had a baby. You grew a whole damn human. You didn’t stop being you — you just became more of you. And anyone who can’t see that can go to hell.”

You laugh, watery and soft. “Even the Daggers?”

“Especially the Daggers.”

You smile and lower your head until your forehead rests against Willow’s soft curls. “I don’t feel like myself all the time.”

Jake crouches again, his hand finding yours. “Then let me remind you who you are, as many times as it takes.”

Later that night, when the house is quiet and Willow is fast asleep in her crib, you find yourself curled against Jake in bed. The lamp is still on, casting a soft glow across the room, and Jake’s hand is drawing lazy circles on your back as your head rests on his chest. His other arm is wrapped securely around your waist, grounding you—like he always does.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod a little, but then shake your head, and your voice comes out soft and tired. “I just… I want to feel like myself again. I miss her. And then I feel guilty for even thinking that, like wanting to feel like me means I’m not being a good mom.”

Jake’s arms tighten around you, pulling you a little closer. “Hey, no,” he says firmly, but still tender. “You are the best mom, sweetheart. I mean that. Willow is lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you.”

You don’t respond right away, just press your face into his chest to hide the sting in your eyes.

Jake sighs quietly and brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ve been reading about postpartum stuff,” he admits gently. “Just trying to understand. I think maybe talking to someone could help. A therapist, I mean.”

You lift your head a little to look at him, and his gaze is steady, warm. “You don’t think I’m failing?”

“No,” he says without missing a beat. “God, no. Baby, you’re doing everything you can. You’ve been pouring yourself into motherhood so completely, and that’s incredible—but it’s also okay to take care of yourself too. You don’t have to be perfect.”

You let out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “I just want to get it right.”

Jake cups your face and leans in, his voice low and full of certainty. “You do. Every single day, you get it right. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You’re Willow’s whole world. And mine.”

Tears blur your eyes again, but this time, they feel a little lighter.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Jake smiles, thumb brushing your cheek. “I love you more. And we’ll get through this, okay? Together. Just like always.”

You curl into him again, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself breathe a little deeper. Maybe you didn’t feel entirely like yourself yet—but wrapped in Jake’s arms, in the safety of his unwavering love, you felt a little closer.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for tonight.

-

Jake walked into the Hard Deck with one goal.

The sun was bright, the breeze easy, the music low and familiar. The Daggers were at their usual table, beers in hand, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair. They were laughing about something, easy and loud.

He moved toward them without hesitation. Not a smile in sight.

“Jake,” Coyote greeted, grinning. “Damn, didn’t think we wore you two out that bad last night.”

Jake didn’t smile. He just stopped at the edge of the table, eyes sharp, jaw locked.

“We need to talk.”

The mood shifted instantly. Phoenix lowered her beer. Bob’s smile faded. Rooster raised an eyebrow, confused but still relaxed.

“Everything okay?” Fanboy asked, cautious now.

Jake looked at each of them, his voice even and low. “What you said to my wife last night. The jokes. About her being boring now? About her killing the vibe? That was out of line.”

No one spoke.

Jake stepped in closer, arms crossed over his chest. Not defensive — controlled. Contained. Dangerous in how calm he was.

“She hasn’t gone out in months. She was nervous as hell about last night, but she still got dressed, showed up, smiled. Did everything she could to feel normal again for one night. And you laughed at her.”

“Jake—” Rooster started, his voice hesitant.

Jake cut him off. “I’m not looking for excuses.”

Rooster fell silent.

“You think she didn’t hear it? You think just because she laughed it off and said nothing, it didn’t sting? She asked me if she’s not fun to be around anymore. Like she actually believed that.”

Phoenix’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her face had gone pale. Bob looked down, his ears turning red.

Jake’s voice was quiet, but firm. Final. “You made her feel like she didn’t belong. Like the person she is now isn’t enough.”

“We didn’t mean it like that,” Fanboy said, guilt sinking in.

Jake stared at him. “Then maybe think twice before saying that shit.”

Silence fell like a dropped weight.

“She’s not boring. She’s exhausted. She’s trying. And none of you even noticed. Not one of you asked her how she’s really doing.” His jaw worked for a second before he added, “You don’t get to make her feel small because she’s changed. We all changed.”

They knew better than to interrupt now.

“I’m telling you this because I love you guys,” Jake said, quieter now, but the steel in his voice remained. “But you owe her an apology. And if I ever hear something like that come out of one of your mouths again, I won’t be this polite about it.”

Phoenix was the first to speak, her voice soft. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

Coyote rubbed a hand down his face. “Damn, Jake. We fucked up.”

Jake didn’t answer. Just stared at them a moment longer, then nodded once and walked away.

He didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say goodbye.

Just left them sitting in their guilt, beers untouched, laughter long gone.

-

You were curled up on the couch in soft pajamas, Willow napping in the bassinet beside you, the faint hum of her white noise machine drifting through the open living room.

There was a knock at the front door.

Jake glanced at you from where he stood in the kitchen, his brows lifting slightly. He hadn’t said anything about leaving earlier, but now you understood where he must have gone.

“I’ll get it,” you said, gently rising and crossing the room.

When you opened the door, you blinked in surprise.

Rooster. Phoenix. Coyote. Fanboy. Bob. Payback. All of them stood there, looking sheepish — like teenagers summoned to the principal’s office.

“Hey,” Phoenix said, her voice soft. “Can we… talk to you for a second?”

You stepped aside, heart thudding a little, nerves twisting in your stomach. “Sure.”

They filed in slowly, unsure, clearly uncomfortable. Jake stayed quiet, leaning against the counter, arms crossed but expression neutral. Watching.

Rooster spoke first. “We came to say we’re sorry.”

You blinked. “For…?”

“For being assholes,” Phoenix said plainly, and that startled a small laugh out of you.

Payback nodded quickly, his voice quiet. “We didn’t mean it. The stuff we said last night — it was just joking around, but that doesn’t make it okay. We should’ve known better.”

You swallowed, arms wrapping around yourself. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“But we did,” Coyote said. “We know we did. Jake told us. And he was right.”

Fanboy added, “You’ve been through a lot. And we should’ve been more thoughtful. We love you — you’re part of us. You always will be.”

Rooster looked you dead in the eye, no sunglasses, no swagger. Just sincerity. “You’re still the same person who made us laugh till we cried. You’re still fun. Still sharp. Still the glue in this weird little group. We’re sorry if we made you doubt that.”

Your throat tightened.

Jake moved from the kitchen, silently brushing his hand over your back as he passed — just to let you know he was there, steady and sure.

You looked at the Daggers, your found family. “Thank you. That means a lot. Really.”

Phoenix gave you a tiny smile. “We’re gonna make it up to you. Just wait.”

“Yeah,” Fanboy chimed in. “We’re throwing you a party or babysitting for a month — whatever penance you demand.”

You laughed, genuinely this time. “Okay, maybe not a month of babysitting.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jake muttered.

Laughter rippled through the group, easy and warm now.

Bob peeked over your shoulder toward the bassinet. “Is Willow awake?”

You glanced back, then smiled. “She might be soon. Want to hold her?”

Coyote lit up. “Hell yeah.”

As they tiptoed toward the bassinet like overgrown kids, Jake caught your eyes from across the room. His look said told you so without a single word.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

[reysdriver]

HELP WHY DID I JUST FIND OUT YOU CAN SEND POSTS ON TUMBLR???

I've had this app since fkn high school and I'm just finding out about this?? am I the only one??

[reysdriver]

my beautiful princess with a disorder

[reysdriver]

me last night actually

how i feel when i make up an angst scenario in my head and actually make myself upset:

[reysdriver]

“Sometimes I’d fist and sometimes I’d hand.”

✊🏼✋🏻…I’m normal I swear

[reysdriver]

The Baxter Building

260 Baxter Building Plaza New York, NY 10017

[reysdriver]

good lord this was incredibleeee

Love to Lie - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader (Part 1) / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 (Final Part)

Summary: Your worst fear is recognized when Bradley’s jet goes down with him in it. You’re not sure why you’re still his emergency contact, you’d broken up two weeks ago, but when you rush into the hospital room, you discover that you have a chance to fix the mistake you’d been cursing yourself for. The only problem is, you have to lie to Bradley, and you discover that you love doing it if it means you get to be with him again.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, Mitchell!reader, angst, angst with a fluffy/happy ending, amnesia trope, hospitals and their subsequent medical details, memory loss, goose and carole are still alive because i say so

WC: 11.3K / navigation / inbox

A/N: thank you to everyone who has encouraged me in my development of this series! it's three parts long, and each part will be posted one week after the one before it. that means you get chapter 2 next week, and chapter 3 two weeks from now. and after chapter 3 is released, i will post the full fic in one single post, so that it's easier to read. this series means a lot to me, it's the longest fic I've ever finished for this account, and I would really love to hear what you think of it. Thank you to the love of my life miss jade (@luveline), for being the first person to read this (!!), and for all of your wonderful feedback that cheered me on as I crossed the finish line for this series. I don't think I would have finished it if it wouldn't have been for your support, so thank you sweetpea <3

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

It’s 11:14 AM when you get the call. Your phone buzzes ballistically beneath your pillow, where you’d stuffed it haphazardly last night somewhere close to 4 AM. For the record, you’d only slept because your eyes hurt from being open for so long. You’re certain that, after what you’d done, you deserved to ache for eternity, but you’d succumbed to sleep when it pulled hard enough at you.

Raising the phone to your ear is a chore, especially because the number on the screen is unrecognizable, but you stretch your tired, bed-ridden limbs and hold the cool glass screen to your face. It’s jarring, and you long for the stuffy warmth of the pillow again.

“Hello?”

“Miss Y/N Mitchell?” It’s a man’s voice, deep and strong through the receiver. It’s no-nonsense, and you almost worry that you’ve misfiled your taxes, that someone from the IRS is tracking you down.

“That’s me,” You rub sleep out of your left eye, harder than necessary so that your vision is blurry when you open your eye again. You’re not very gentle with yourself these days.

“You’re listed as an emergency contact for Mr. Bradley Bradshaw. He’s currently a patient at the Naval Medical Center in San Diego. He was brought in at 9:37 AM this morning when his jet malfunctioned mid-exercise, and he crashed into a canyon below.”

Your heart stops. 

Your cheeks get hot, your hands start to tingle, and your stomach feels like it’s going to start turning cartwheels, sloshing your insides around until you vomit what little you’ve eaten.

Bradley’s dead, you think, Bradley’s dead, Bradley’s dead, Bradley’s dead.

“We were able to airlift him out, and he’s stabilized now-” Bradley’s not dead,  “-but he’s still unconscious. His parents are here, as well as your father, if you’d like to join them.”

It takes a long time for you to speak. It’s almost a full minute, and the man on the other end has to call your name to get you to respond.

“Miss Mitchell?”

“I’ll be there,” You blurt, heaving a shaky breath as you seal a hand over your mouth. You part your fingers only to make sure he hears you clearly as you confirm, “He’s alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive and stable.” The man informs you, “He’ll recover, Miss Mitchell.”

Bradley’s not dead. Bradley’s not dead. Bradley’s not dead.

“I’ll be there,” You repeat, and for the first time in almost 36 hours, you kick the crappy motel blankets off of your legs and stand, “Thank you, sir.”

--

Wearing a bra again after two weeks of lazing around in bed is awful. But you’ll do it for Bradley, if only to make up for the last thing you’d said to him.

“I can’t love you anymore!” Rings in your ears, and a vision of Bradley’s hands reaching desperately for you flashes through your mind, covering up the green light ahead of you.

Someone honks behind you, a BMW. You jolt to attention, stepping on the gas and jerking into the intersection.

Easy, you chide yourself, You’re going to the hospital to visit a patient, not to be one.

You’re able to pull into the hospital’s parking lot without nearly causing any more car crashes, and you briefly wonder if you should take the coward’s way out again as you trek over the asphalt towards the hospital. You’d run two weeks ago, why not now? Why not now, when what you’d been worried about that night has actually happened?

Urged by the regret flooding your veins since fleeing, you walk on, stepping through the automatic doors of the hospital and sidling up to the reception desk.

“I’m here to see Bradley Bradshaw,” You inform the nurse there, “Uh- Lieutenant. If that… helps.”

She sends you a kind smile, filled with sympathy that you’re thankful for as you stammer and stumble your way through speaking. You’re sure you’re not the most distraught person here, and you’re guiltily thankful for that. 

“Room 624,” The nurse tells you, and oh, what a sick coincidence, “Down the hall and to the left, take the elevator up and follow the arrows on the floor.”

6/24 is not only Bradley’s birthday, but your anniversary; the day you’d kissed him on the swings in his backyard with hot fudge sticking to your lips. He’d been glum about his dad missing his birthday on deployment, and, of course, your dad couldn’t be there either. Carole had done her best to brighten up her boy, but some things couldn’t be mended with gift wrap, and you all knew that.

You’d snuck out to join him that night with a sundae, offering him the serving spoon thickly coated in the chocolate. He’d accepted it with a huffy eye roll, upset that you’d managed to cheer him up even a little bit with just one spoon of ice cream.

--

“It sucks,” Bradley mutters around the chocolate in his mouth, the syrup sticking his words together, “I know he can’t do anything about it. But I still want him here.”

“I know,” You hum, taking a bite of ice cream for yourself, “I’m sorry, Brad. If it makes you feel any better, he’ll probably get you something, like, really good when he gets back. He’ll feel all guilty, that’s what my dad did and I got a puppy out of it.”

“We’ve already got a puppy,” Bradley gestures to the Bradshaw’s family dog, well on in years by the gray around his muzzle and his tendency to nap instead of move.

“Maybe you’ll get one that you can actually play with,” You offer Bradley another bite of the ice cream, and you only feel a little bad for making fun of Lewis. But the dog doesn’t understand your teasing, softly snoring on the porch.

“Maybe he’ll get me a car,” Bradley gushes, “A bitchin’ one, like a Bronco or something. Then we can put our surfboards in the back and go to the beach.”

“You don’t even have a license!” You elbow Bradley, laughing at his lofty dreams, “But a Bronco would be cool. You should send your dad a magazine clipping of one with your next letter and talk about how cool it is.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Bradley muses, a smear of chocolate over his lower lip that he doesn’t lick away.

You scoff, stomping on his foot where it’s planted in the grass beside your own. He jolts away with a yelp, and in doing so, jerks the swing he’s sitting on, He catches his balance and you notice the syrup on his lip, reaching out to clean it with your thumb.

“You’ve got hot fudge on your face, doofus,” You sneer, happy to return his teasing, “You eat like a toddler.”

“I’m not the one who put three cups of it on the sundae!” Bradley insists, and his lower lip catches your thumb as he speaks. Teenagers in love, you’re hyperaware of touches like that, and your breath hitches in your throat at the contact. He notices it too, staring down wide-eyed at where your thumb hovers over his lips.

“Sorry,” He blurts, and in doing so, his warm breath fans over your hand. You jerk it away, eyes on the ground as you mumble away his concerns.

“It’s fine,” You mutter in a terrible attempt to remain nonchalant, “We’re not four, it’s not like I think you’ve got cooties or something.’

Bradley takes to the teasing, glad it’s not tense anymore, “That’s not what you say when I leave my underwear on the floor.”

“‘Cause that’s gross!” You launch into a rant, “That’s, like, personal! And they’re used too,” You shudder, handing him the sundae intent on scrubbing a hand over your face, “Nasty, bro.”

Despite your casual nickname for the boy beside you, you feel like anything but bros when his hand brushes yours. He takes the ice cream from you, and his hand half-closes around your own, sending a spark shooting up your spine.

Your breath catches in your throat again and this time Bradley hears it, looking at you through his lashes with those wide brown eyes.

Neither of you move away this time, frozen just like the treat in your joint grip.

You feel extra affection for the boy next to you today, the shared grief of losing your fathers every few months bringing you closer together. It’s what compels you to lean in, tilting your swing sideways to brush your lips over his own in a painfully awkward teenage-style kiss. Before you have the time to panic about whether you did the right thing, Bradley reciprocates, pursing his lips slightly to fit them around your top one. You follow his lead and it goes much better, a chaste kiss that’s sweeter than the chocolate staining your lips.

--

You’re glad you’d kissed him that day, you’re glad you had the balls to take the leap that resulted in a nearly twenty year long relationship. It would have been twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-five, fifty if you hadn’t chickened out two weeks ago, but you try not to think about that in the elevator lest you make yourself sick.

You find room 624 easily, the painted arrows on the floor leading you down the hallway that the room stands in. You wonder if you should knock first, you’re not too knowledgeable on hospital etiquette, but you decide that manners can be damned, your boyfriend- ex-boyfriend is in there.

You turn the handle and step inside, and Carole looks up from Bradley’s bedside immediately. You think she’s expecting a doctor, and her desperation for finding one breaks your heart. Her teary face splits into a sad smile, and she rushes to your side to envelop you in a hug. You let her have it because she’s grieving over her son, but you’re surprised she’s not immediately angry with you for breaking up with Bradley.

“Honey,” She gushes into your shoulder, “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re here! Brad’s gonna be okay, they said he’s just gonna need some help breathing until he gets stable. Then they can get him healthy and ready to go again!”

“That’s great,” You hold her close, relishing the last Bradshaw hug you’ll probably ever get, “Where’s Nick and dad?”

“Oh, they went to get food,” Carole releases you, swatting her hand in the air in an affectionately teasing manner, “You know those boys, always hungry for something.”

You laugh awkwardly, watching as she settles down by Bradley’s bedside again. She looks back up at you where you’re swaying on your feet, gesturing to the chair beside her, “Well come on, girl! Get in here!” She seems much more lively now that she has company, and you hate to think of her grieving her injured son alone.

“Oh- I, uh,” You stammer, darting for the seat beside her, “I wasn’t sure if-”

“Don’t worry,” She seems to misplace your concern, “He’s okay, sweetie-pie, you won’t hurt him just by breathin’ on him.”

“Right,” You smile, though its disingenuous with tension, “Um, so it was a mid-exercise crash?”

“Mhm,” Her face dims slightly, “Apparently there was some freak accident with one of the engines, 'set off the whole thing. And that’s two crashes in one week! First it was that Javy boy, I tell you, I think they should vet those engineers better. I mean, aren’t they supposed to catch that stuff beforehand?”

“Yeah,” You feel partially numb, but you’re not sure whether it’s emotional or physical. You’ve been trying to avoid looking at Bradley so far, using his bubbly, bouncing mom as a distraction, but now that the blonde has settled beside you your eyes drift. 

He could be perceived as sleeping, if the color wasn’t drained from his face. His skin is still tan but it’s duller now, golden brown fading to a sickly, colder shade of it, like there’s no life beneath it. His eyes are shut and there’s a breathing tube up his nose; you wonder how pissed he’ll be when he wakes up to find out they’ve had to trim his mustache around the thing.

“Must be a Bradshaw family tradition,” Carole breaks your concentration, laughing weakly, her voice lined with a hint of tears, “Crashing, scarin’ their girls half to death.”

You remember the day of Goose’s crash like it was yesterday. You’d only been three at the time, freshly so. But grief like that, the panic you’d observed, doesn’t go away. It can’t be forgotten, it can’t drift out of your brain like so many memories do with age. You and Bradley had sat together in the hospital with Carole and your dad, and Nick still had the crummy plane drawings you’d done for him while waiting for him to wake up.

Carole’s usage of the phrase ‘their girls’ unnerves you. She’s been exceptionally nice to you so far, especially considering that she’s fiercely protective of Bradley, and should have kicked you halfway to Mars for ditching him like you’d done. But she’s leaning towards you in her chair, and you come to the dreadful realization that she doesn’t know you’ve broken up with Bradley.

“Now, I know you wanted to keep things hush-hush,” She gushes, happy to look at your animated face instead of Bradley’s still one for a moment. She reaches over to brace her hands on your knees, leaning eagerly into your space, “But I have to know, babycakes, how did it go?”

“Hm?” You look dazedly at her, still partially staring at Bradley.

“The proposal!” She squeezes your hands, sniffling weakly with the remnants of tears past, “I know that boy was finally manning up enough to ask you, 'should'a put a ring on you years ago."

Any other time, you'd groan at Carole's opinion on your relationship. She's been urging the two of you to tie the knot for decades, but you'd felt no burning desire to go to the courthouse. You were comfortable in your life, why spend an obscene amount of money to get a piece of paper that tells you you're in love? You knew that for free, in the way that Bradley looked at you, in the way that he memorized all of your fast food orders, in the way that his hand so often found yours beneath the sheets in his sleep. Now her teasing is a sore spot, one that gapes the wound already bleeding in your chest.

"-But when I asked him how it went he said he’d ‘share the details later’. I’m sure you wanted to make some big announcement or something, but I need this right now, honey, tell me what happened.”

She’s staring at you like she always has, like you’re the sweet little girl she helped raise when your mama had chickened out. Cowardice must run in the family.

There’s such pretty hope shining in her eyes that you can’t bear to crush it, ready to spew lies about how glorious Bradley’s proposal had gone, how you’d fallen to your knees to kiss him, how you’d shouted ‘yes!’ from the rooftops. Fortunately, you don’t have to lie to her, because the door opens and your dad and Nick step through.

“Hey,” Your dad cheers, tossing you a plastic-wrapped sandwich, “There you are, honey. I was worried you weren’t gonna show up, ‘thought you’d be mad at him or something.”

“You know she was mad at me when we went down?” Goose gestures to Carole incredulously, and you can’t see behind his sunglasses but you know he’s addressing you, “I wasn’t even flying the damn thing and I got lectured!”

He lets up, goes easy on Carole, you’re sure because he’d had to comfort her earlier. You see a slightly dark, damp patch on the left side of his Hawaiian shirt as he leans in to hug you, probably her tears.

“Good to see ‘ya, kid,” Nick rubs your back, “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” You nod, voice slightly shaky as you smooth your previously-folded hands down your thighs. The movement catches Carole’s attention, and you look away before you can see her reaction to your bare ring finger.

“He’ll be fine,” Goose leans over to slap Bradley’s calf, and Carole looks like she wants to scold him for it, as if he'll die right then and there, “He’s tough just like’is daddy.”

“His daddy should go get me some tea,” Carole huffs, placing her hand over Bradley’s as if it would make up for Nick’s slap, “And take Maverick with you, I don’t want you getting lost.”

“Oh, again-?” Goose grumbles, setting his lunch on one of the plastic chairs around Bradley’s bed, “You could’a told me that before we left, honey.”

“Didn’t want it until now,” Carole insists, “Now shoo, get some for Y/N, too.”

The second the door shuts behind the two men, a stiff silence falls over the room.

Carole’s sweet voice breaks it, but it’s the last thing you want to hear, “Where’s the ring?”

You stare at the sandwich in your lap, like it’ll open face and read like a book, giving you instructions on how to lie your way through this.

“I know he asked you,” She presses on, voice pitched up with tension, “I- I gave him the ring Nick used to propose to me. That was almost a month ago. We swapped it out for a wedding band, and- and I thought Bradley could use the engagement ring for you, too. I know he asked you.”

“Carole,” You can’t bear to look her in the eyes, not the woman who’d fed you macaroni and cheese when your dad was halfway around the world in a fighter jet and tucked you in extra tight during a rainstorm so that the lightning couldn't sneak through the gaps in the blankets to get you.

“No, tell me, where is the ring?” She raises her voice, the way she used to when Bradley would leave his scooter out in the rain to rust, “Just tell me-” Her voice peters out into a weak whimper, “-tell me you didn’t say no.”

“I’m a coward,” You finally mutter as her answer, hateful and wicked, “I got scared. I wish I’d said yes, really, I- I wish I could take it back, but-”

“What did you do?” Her face crumples at your admission and she nearly shrieks, squeezing her hand tighter over Bradley’s, “Y/N, what did you do?”

“I said no!” You sob, chest heaving as you wipe away a tear from your eye heavy-handed, “I was scared, Carole. After Coyote went down,” You blearily recall the last plane crash you’d heard about, a member of Bradley’s own squadron caught in a bird strike. He’d been fine, but waiting for the news took you right back to your youth, and you’d been hit with the striking realization that it could happen to Bradley, too. It could be you in that chair, it could be your love on the line. You’d been so sick with dread that you’d backed away altogether, running away to preserve your emotions.

“I just- I didn’t want it to happen to Bradley,” You confess, “I didn’t want it to happen to me. So when he asked, I was-” You sniffle, hard, “I was so scared. I didn’t want to marry him and then lose him. For some reason this-” You suppress a sob, throat aching and chest heaving, “-dating a pilot is different than marrying one. Dating is- it’s temporary, even if you plan on it lasting forever. It’s less serious, it’s not set in stone. But marriage-” You hiccup, “-marriage is the real deal. It's like- It's like I was dating Bradley, y'know, the teenage boy who took me to homecoming because I was sad no one asked me. But- but then all of a sudden I was marrying an aviator. And that’s- that was scary! That was real. I- we’d been together for twenty years!” You gush, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, “I should have known marriage wouldn’t be any different. It’s not like we ever thought we’d break up,” You sniffle weakly, “Marriage was always sort of silly to me, 'cause we just thought we'd be together forever regardless. But I never realized how real it would feel. So I- I freaked out. When he asked me, I made up some stupid excuse, and I chickened out! But-” Your chest heaves with a sob as you finally lift your eyes to Bradley, “He crashed anyway. He went down even though I said no, and it still hurts.” You cry, face scrunched in despair, “It hurts so bad, Carole, I didn’t think it would still hurt.”

“You fool,” She huffs exasperatedly, but she reaches out to clutch your hand like a lifeline. She’s holding Bradley’s with her other, and you wish for a moment that you could cut out the middleman and hold his hand on your own. You don't feel worthy to touch him anymore. “You don’t stop loving someone by leaving them, you stop loving them by moving on. Of course it still hurts, you didn't move on; you still love him. And- and leaving him didn’t stop him from getting hurt, it just meant he probably went down wishing he got to tell you he loved you this morning, so you'd know.”

The thought breaks you, Bradley ejecting with you on his mind. Evidently he hadn’t fully accepted your breakup, not if he hadn’t even told his mom about it. You wonder if he was planning on trying to get you back, if after work today he would have come over with flowers and a thousand pleas on his lips that you didn’t deserve.

“He loves you,” She continues, tears wetting her own cheeks, “And even if you did say somethin’ stupid, I don’t think there’s anything you could tell that boy that’d make him stop loving you. Apologize when he wakes up, baby, he’ll understand. He'll be hurt, no doubt. But he’s been scared before, too, believe me.”

“I will,” You gush, nodding as she squeezes your hand and Bradley’s in sync, “I will, I promise! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Just make it right,” She pleads, “Can’t have you two splittin’ up now, not after all this time.”

“I wish I hadn’t done it,” You weep, holding your hands to your eyes as if you can plug up the tears, “I- I just panicked! And I’ve been a wreck ever since, I- I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t-”

“Tea’s here!” The door opens, and Nick is suddenly a lot quieter as he sees you bent in half and crying, “Oh, honey.”

“C’mere,” Your dad edges around Goose, squatting by the side of your chair while Carole rubs your back. He’s always been fantastic at comforting you, which you marvel at because he was so active in his career. He wasn’t always around when you were little, but that didn’t stop him from knowing how you liked your back rubbed, your hair done, and your cookies warmed.

“He’s gonna wake up,” Your dad soothes you, wiping a tear away from your face, with the hand that isn’t rubbing your back, “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” Carole promises, and you know she’s talking about something else entirely, “It’s alright honey, it’ll all work out.”

Nick feels a bit useless now, standing there with two cups of tea in his hands while everyone else comforts you, but he’s quick to notice a frown work its way onto Bradley’s sleeping face.

“Brad- hey! Look,” He gestures with one cup of tea, only spilling a tiny drop, “I think he’s wakin’ up.”

All of a sudden you want to go home. You’re not sure you can do this, you don’t belong here with his grieving family. You belong in your bed, kicking yourself for your cowardice and wishing you’d done better by him.

But there’s no time to flee now, not again. This time you have to brave it, you have to watch as his big brown eyes slowly blink open, a haze of sleep and medication clouding them over.

“Agh,” He groans, hand twitching by his side, “What-?”

“Hey, Bradley.” Nick leans over the bed, tea now set aside on a tiny table, “How y’feelin’ bud? You had quite the plane crash.”

Bradley takes a moment to observe his surroundings, blinking blearily at your dad, then you, then his mom. His eyes drift back over to you and they feel like they’re lasers, boring searing holes through your chest where your heart used to be two weeks ago.

The slow and steady beeping that had been long since tuned out slowly started to increase while Bradley regained consciousness. Your dad looked warily at the machine, watching Bradley’s heart rate rise.

“I’ll get a doctor.” He ducks out, and Carole stands.

“We should go,” She grabs Nick’s hand, looking pointedly at you, “We’ll give you a minute alone with him, honey.”

Nick starts to protest about being led away, something about how ‘-he came outta my balls! I can’t see him when he wakes up in the hospital?’ but Carole’s already corralling him to the nurse’s station in search of your father. If you weren’t so fond of the woman you’d be cursing her for sticking you alone with Bradley, but you know you can’t let yourself succumb to fear again; this time you have to be a big girl.

“Baby,” Bradley rasps, turning your attention back on him. You watch him weakly, eyes apprehensive as he reaches for your hand, “C’mere.” 

You hesitate, and he lets out a weak chuckle, “Come on, now. You’re not gonna kill me by holding my hand.”

“Bradley,” You sniffle, reaching out for his limp fingers on the bed, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” He smiles lazily, eyes drooping, “I’m okay. Comes in the job description, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” You repeat, grief-stricken as you clutch at his hand desperately, “I shouldn’t have left, I- I wish I had stayed.”

“Baby,” His brows furrow and he laughs sympathetically, “They wouldn’t have let you stay, you know that. I work on a naval base, not at a chipotle. You can’t sit with me all day. Plus, there was no way you would’ve known I was gonna go down. I’m glad you weren’t there, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have wanted you to see that.”

All at once, your chest burns hot, blazing with panic. Is he not going to talk to you about it? Is he going to pretend nothing happened? Is he going to refuse to acknowledge what you’d said? You stammer, “What-?”

“Mr. Bradshaw!” The doctor comes in, cheery now that his patient is awake. You turn your head, still dazed and fear-stricken at Bradley’s demeanor. “Let’s see how you’re doing here. Any chest pain?”

“A little,” Bradley shifts in his bed, wincing infinitesimally.

“Probably just some discomfort due to the broken ribs. Headache?”

“Yeah,” Bradley admits with a groan, “That I’ve got.”

The doctor scribbles something down on his chart, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Bradley strains to think, “I… don’t know. I don’t even-" He grimaces, "I don't even remember the crash, ‘just know it happened ‘cause he told me.”

Bradley raises a shaky finger to point at Nick, who’s happy to see his son gain some mobility back, even if he is worried for the boy. The three adults had filed back into the room after the doctor, and you pointedly avoid Carole’s imploring stare.

“Think hard,” The doctor commands, and you squeeze his hand like it’s a play-dough machine, like memories will ooze themselves into his brain in star shapes and heart cut-outs.

“I remember…” Bradley rasps, turning his hand beneath yours to grasp it, “Jake’s birthday party. That was-” He glances over at you, “-last night?”

“That was three weeks ago,” This time your heart rate is the one to rise, echoing dully in your ears like the soundtrack of a horror film, “Is that-” You sniffle, “Is that the last thing you can remember, B?”

His eyebrows raise and he tries taking in the information, “Yeah- uh, shit. Three weeks ago. What does that mean, doctor?”

“It sounds like you’ve developed post-traumatic amnesia.” The doctor scribbles once more on his paperwork, “The good news is, we think you have only a mild concussion. And amnesia induced by mild concussions typically lasts only up to a week or two at most. But there’s a very real chance you could remember everything in just a few minutes.”

Amnesia.

He doesn’t remember.

“What I want you to do now is to rest, and we’ll have a nurse send up something to eat. Please,” The doctor eyes Nick knowingly, “Do not feed him the funyuns you’re holding behind your back.”

“Foiled again,” Goose laughs, tossing the packet of chips onto a chair beside his own lunch, “You got it, doc.”

“Alright, glad you’re awake,” The doctor bids you goodbye, “And- a nurse will be in to run a few simple tests later. For now, just sleep and eat.”

“Will do,” Bradley tries tightening his hand around yours but you worm away from him, and it’s heartbreakingly easy to do with his limited mobility. You stand abruptly, legs shaky and heart pounding in your chest as you stumble away from his bed.

Amnesia. Amnesia. Amnesia.

He doesn't remember.

“Honey?” Bradley calls warily, face scrunching into a tired frown.

His eyes follow you as you back right into your chair, the plastic scraping against the floor with an ungodly screech. Now the attention is all on you, and you give into that dreaded fight or flight response you seem to always fall victim to.

“I need to use the bathroom,” You ramble, rushing for the door, “I’ll be back!”

“Y/N-” Bradley tries calling, but his voice is weak enough where you can pretend you haven’t heard it as you try to refrain from running down the hall. You don’t make it ten steps before Bradley’s door closes with a sharp click, and the voice of one Carole Bradshaw cuts through the silence of the hallway.

“Y/N Mitchell!”

She’s using the same tone she used to use when you’d get in trouble for pulling a girl’s hair at school, or throwing mud at a boy who was mean to Bradley. You react just like you had then, spine stiffening and limbs locking. 

“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” She warns, stomping towards you in her half-raised heels, “Turn around, young lady.”

You follow her orders even if the nickname is outdated. She’s got her pretty eyes narrowed, and as much as it pains you to be on the receiving end of one of her seldom-used withering stares, it’s better than being in there and watching Bradley’s eyes shift when he suddenly remembers you’d been the biggest douche on planet Earth.

“Did you apologize?” She inquires, and you nod obediently.

“But- but Carole, he doesn’t remember-!” 

“He will,” She promises, “And when he does, you’d better apologize again. He needs you right now, y’know? He thinks it’s three weeks ago, before you ran off and left'im. As far as he knows, you’re still his adoring girlfriend who he’s probably yearning to see right about now. So go in there,” She reaches for your hand, “Kiss that boy on the mouth,” She demands, “And stop running away!”

“What? I can’t-” You gush, trying to pull away. But she’s stronger than Bradley is at the moment, and her hand tightens around yours, “I can’t lie to him! Not about this, I- how long am I supposed to pretend?”

“As long as you can,” She insists, already pulling you back towards his room, a woman on a mission, “You march right on in there, and tell him how worried you were, and let his memories come back to him on his own time. He’s traumatized right now, he just doesn’t know it yet, and he needs you there. If you break the news to him now, it’ll only stress him out more. Go play nice, and when he comes around in a few minutes, you can have a real talk.”

“I don’t want to lie to him,” You lament, and she stops pulling you down the hall to narrow her eyes at you.

“Babydoll?” She asks sweetly, and fooled by her kindness, you hum in question, “I don’t give a shit.”

She’s never foul-mouthed, so it catches your attention. She holds your incredulous gaze, “You want him back?”

“Yes.”

“You wish you’d never left?”

“Yes.”

“Well as far as he knows, you haven’t.” She huffs, the fabric of her skirt flowing near her calves, “So get in there and be there for your boyfriend of twenty years, and when he suddenly remembers you aren’t his girlfriend anymore, Grovel. Sound like a plan?” She raises an eyebrow, and you tamp down the nerves rising in your chest. You nod cautiously, resolutely, and she loosens her grip on your hand. She still holds it to lead you back to the room, but she stops outside the door to speak one last time.

“I know you love him,” Her voice is softer now, genuinely sweet and caring, “And I also know you like to run when things get scary. And that’s understandable, but it’s not okay, not right now. You can’t stop loving someone just ‘cause you don’t wanna lose ‘em. It’ll hurt worse if you walk away.”

“I know,” You breathe shakily, squeezing her hand, “Thanks, Carole.”

“Anytime, sweetpea,” She smiles, tears still gathered in her eyes, “Now get in there and kiss my son.”

“There they are,” Your dad stands as you reenter the room, “You ladies have a nice bathroom break?”

“‘Had the time of our lives,” Carole nods, letting you take the seat closest to Bradley’s head. Your feet feel burdened with lead weights as you step towards his bedside, and he watches you with worried eyes. You’re sure he knows you weren’t really going to the bathroom, not with the way you’d fled, but you’re glad he’s choosing to pretend for your sake. He seems worried, though, and you curse yourself for making this about you.

“Y/N,” He reaches out for you as soon as you’re in reach, his voice still hoarse. His hand squeezes yours instantly, and you feel for the panic he's probably experiencing. He deserves a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, and it should be someone better than you.

“Bradley,” You murmur back, trying to stop your lips from trembling, “I- can I kiss you?”

Carole’s voice rings in your ears, and you don’t have to turn around to know she’s smiling at the two of you. Bradley pauses, then his worried eyes soften and he nods weakly against the pillow.

“Oh,” Nick teases as you brace your hand on Bradley’s bed, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to his lips, “Lovebirds!”

The kiss is nothing but awkward. It’s hesitant on your end, because you can’t believe you get to do it again. You’d really believed the goodbye kiss you’d shared with Bradley before he picked up dinner for the two of you would be your last one, so fitting your lips over his in the hospital seems like something otherworldly. You’re careful, too, because you don’t want to hurt him, not that you think you could ever smooch him to death. He doesn’t reciprocate much, he can’t, but the familiar prickle of his mustache against your lip is a welcome feeling that makes your heart feel light again, if only for a few seconds.

When you pull away, it’s gone. Because you have to look him in the eyes, the same ones you’d forced tears out of two weeks ago, and pretend like none of it happened at all.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” You gush, voice cracking, and it feels right starting off with the truth. You can get to the lies later, the ugly little abominations you’re cooking up so that he preserves as much mental energy as possible while on bedrest. You know Carole’s right, you know he needs to heal as much as he can before you make it worse with the news, but lying feels so wrong. He’ll find out sooner or later, and what if he really was done with you? What if he hadn’t told his mom so that no family drama erupted, what if it wasn’t because he was going to try to get you back? What if he hated you, and what if he hates you even more when he knows you’re lying through your teeth to him?

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He promises, his fingers curling slowly and carefully around your own, "Are you? You ran off, I was worried."

"I'm fine," You insist, waving away his concern with a shake of your head.

He doesn't seem satisfied with your answer; he can read you like a book. But he accepts your answer, and you admire him for not wanting to pry in front of everyone. He changes the subject, glancing briefly around the hospital room, “Baby my- my phone, can I have my phone?”

“It’s here,” Your dad hands it to him, and Carole watches your eyes widen infinitesimally. What if Bradley sees his text conversations? What if he sees that you haven’t talked in half a month? What if he finds messages from someone on a dating app he’d used, a rebound-in-the-making?

What if he’s changed his background? What if he wants an answer as to why it’s probably some picturesque sunset, a jet plane cutting through the clouds above. Or maybe it’s of Lewis, he’d recently had photos restored of the dog.

What if he notices your contact name is changed to something like ‘Do not answer’? What if he realizes he’s blocked you? What if all of your pictures together are deleted off of his phone, and he wonders why?

There’s a thousand things that could go wrong.

“Coyote called,” Bradley rasps, upon first sight of his screen. Then, “Hangman. Twice. Phoenix, Bob, Fanboy, Payback, I- I should send out a message.”

“I will!” You lunge for your own phone, digging in your back pocket with suspicious urgency, “Uh, I’ll let everyone know, you just- just rest.”

“Okay,” Bradley hesitates for only a second, letting his grip go loose around his phone so that it falls back to the bed.

He seems content to let you do it, if only a little deterred by your insistence. But you’ll play the part of the fussy girlfriend, not wanting her injured love to work harder than he has to.

Nick and Pete take the time that you’re creating a group thread to question Bradley more on his memories, and every answer he gives sets your heart on edge. Your fingers feel numb as you type out ‘Rooster’s stable now, he has a mild concussion and a few broken ribs, but the doctors say he’ll recover fully. His memories are a little hazy from the past few weeks but apparently those will be back soon. I’ll send you any updates we get.’

Before anyone even has a chance to reply, you set the thread on silent. You can’t bear even getting a notification that the message can’t be sent, because you’re sure Bradley’s team aren’t too fond of you right now, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they’d blocked you in solidarity for their friend. But Bradley hadn’t even told his mom, would he have told his team? Would he even need to? Or would they notice the circles beneath his eyes worsening, the stubble adorning his cheeks from a lack of motivation to do anything productive? Or, maybe even worse, would they have seen him with another girl hanging off of his arm at a bar? Would they have caught him out to lunch with a woman and figured it out themselves?

“Hey,” Bradley rasps, effectively breaking your zoned-out worry spiral. Your eyes don’t lose their intensity but they focus on his pale face, and he offers you a weak smile, “Anyone respond?”

“Always the attention seeker,” Nick laughs, creating a distraction so perfect that you don’t bother checking the text to answer Bradley. “Should we tell ‘em to bring flowers too, Brad?”

“Shut up,” Bradley’s voice is far too quiet to be menacing, but it’s the type of teasing he always engages in with his old man, “When you were in the hospital you said I had to draw you one picture a day or you’d think I didn’t love you.”

“And I only got fifteen out of eighteen,” If Goose is capable of a withering stare, it’s what’s directed at Bradley now, “I can’t believe I bought a Bronco for a kid who doesn’t love me.”

“Alright, you two,” Carole swats at her husband’s arm, “Cut it out, don’t overwhelm him.”

“His heart’s beatin’ real fast,” Nick snickers, “But that’s probably ‘cause Miss Mitchell is doting all over him.”

The attention’s back on you, and it means Bradley’s waiting to hear your response. You dry swallow after sending Nick a good-natured eye-roll, trying to act like your heart isn’t beating ten times faster than Bradley’s.

Miraculously, nothing awful awaits you in the group chat. There’s no error messages, no scolding, no pledges of hatred for you, and it makes you think that you really might be able to get away with this for a while. Carole won’t tell, and that doctor said Bradley might not retain his memories for weeks. It’s like everyone has hit undo on what might be your biggest mistake in life, and you don’t know how to take the opportunity.

“Bob says he hopes you recover soon,” You push the panicked fog out of your head, reading in a low voice, “Hangman says he’s gonna give you flying lessons when you get back so that you,” You snort softly, “Get the hang of it, and to that, he is receiving a barrage of middle finger emojis.”

Rooster lets out a laugh, one that’s genuine and thick from his chest. It’s unlike his voice has been so far, it’s not fractured or achy, and the sound warms your heart. Some of the sickly despair that’s been coating your heart like globs of poison dries up, and you almost feel normal again when you slide your hand into his. He holds your back, and it’s like nothing’s ever happened.

You have your Bradley back; the only question is for how long.

Lunch is a sorry state of affairs for Bradley. His tray consists of chicken and gravy that runs into his mashed potatoes, and the jello they give him has a layer of cherry red liquid pooling overtop. You and Carole take turns spoon-feeding the man, giving each other a chance to mow through your sandwiches between bites.

Your dad watches out for the doctors while you sneak Bradley some of your sandwich. It’s cafeteria turkey, and honestly you’d rather go for the chicken on his plate, but he hums gratefully at the spread of mayonnaise and mustard on the bread.

“Thanks, babydoll.” He croons, a smear of mashed potatoes in his mustache that you wipe away with watery eyes at the nickname. He puckers his lips to kiss at your thumb and it’s like you’re at home on his birthday, feeding him in bed and stealing kisses between bites.

Bradley’s eyes start to droop halfway through his watery jello, and your dad stands, brushing sandwich crumbs off of his jeans.

“Alright, buddy,” He squeezes Bradley’s foot reassuringly, “I’ll head out. Probably best to let you sleep. Get some rest, and make her give us updates,” He narrows his eyes at you, accusatory, “I know you’ll be too wrapped up in him to remember we exist, but take some time away from his lips to tell me if he’s still breathing out of ‘em, m’kay?”

“Don’t be makin’ out too much, “Nick goads, standing when Carole grabs his hand and does herself, “His heart rate’ll skyrocket and the nurse is gonna think he’s havin’ a heart attack!”

‘Yes, yes, they love each other very much,” Carole hums, leaning down to kiss Bradley’s forehead. He leans into it but his hand stays in yours, and you gladly accept the same gesture from the woman on your cheek, “Let’s leave him be, okay? Brad, I’m coming back tomorrow morning,” She promises, “Your dad and Pete have some work to do in the backyard, but they’ll join us after lunch.”

The men don’t seem to have known about this yard work until now, and they share equally exasperated groans. 

“And I’ll be here,” You throw in, meeting Carole’s appreciative gaze, “I’ll stay until they throw me out.”

“You could always handcuff yourself to the bed,” Your dad hums, and you pointedly ignore Goose’s comment about the pair of handcuffs you ‘probably keep in your nightstand.’ It gets him a sharp smack upside the head from your dad, and you’re sure Nick will choose a better audience next time.

“We love you,” Carole promises, squeezing Bradley’s arm as he bids her goodbye, “We’ll see you tomorrow, baby!”

“Love you,” Bradley hums, voice less gruff than before now that he’s used it again, “See you tomorrow.”

The entire time he’s been awake, he hasn’t let go of your hand. He turns to you with those sleepy eyes of his, big and brown and begging for a kiss. You lean in before you can stop yourself, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

His heart rate picks up.

You laugh against his mouth at the increased beeping, and he’s barely sheepish as he nudges his nose against your own. You feel like you’re loving on borrowed time, like any second now he’ll be slammed with the memory of you breaking his heart, stomping all over it like it hadn’t been yours for the past 20 years - maybe all of your life.

“I love you,” He murmurs, squeezing your hand, “Y/N, I- I love you so much. I don’t remember anything,” He’s slurring his words slightly with fatigue, and you kiss the corner of his mouth as he speaks, “But I know you could have lost me forever, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy to handle.”

He has no idea how true his words are. Of course, you’d nearly lost his life to the crash. But two weeks earlier, you’d lost his touch, his voice, his gaze, his love, and you’re grateful the tears that line your eyes look natural.

“Mhm,” You nod, sniffling, “It was- it was hard, Brad.” You admit, thinking back to the night you’d left. You’d checked into a shitty motel for the night, and you’d cried yourself sick in the shower. Even after your stomach was emptied you couldn’t bring yourself to eat for two days afterwards, and you’d only given into the mini fridge after nearly passing out. Your days were long and spent regretting your decision, wondering if you’d ever be happy without him by your side, and worrying that he might be able to.

“I just keep wanting to do it over,” You gush, feeling his hand tighten around your own as you sob, “I- I wanted to take it back, to-” You swallow a sob, remembering your lines, “-to stop you from going to work. If I’d just made you stay…” Your face crumples with a gush of tears you aren’t able to hold back, and you give up on speaking for now.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Bradley hums, kissing the space between your nose and your cheek. It’s all he can reach from the way you’re sobbing into his pillow, and you’re thankful for the comfort you might not be able to get soon.

“You couldn’t have changed anything,” He promises, and you nestle your head into his own to absorb his soothing voice, “My plane was still the one with the defect, baby. I would have gone down tomorrow if not today. ‘S only a matter of time.”

A wave of sickness washes over you at his choice of words, and you nod, trying to regain a grip. You lift yourself up from the pillow, neck aching as you crane it to kiss his chin. He smiles at you, his eyes so genuine and sweet that it makes you want to lose your lunch; it’s an expression you don’t deserve anymore, even if you long for it. It’s only a matter of time before he remembers everything, and you don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t want you anymore.

“You’re tired,” You hum, and he nods against the pillow, “Sleep, baby. You need rest.” You sniffle, wiping away a tear from your eye more forcefully than you need to. You try to lean back in your chair but Bradley stiffens, and feel him tighten his grip on your hand.

“Please don’t leave me,” He begs, and more of that nausea comes rolling in. They’re the exact words he’d whimpered just next to your ear two weeks ago, keeping the door closed with one hand while the other wound around your waist. Then, you’d wormed your way out of his grip, ripping the door open despite his efforts to stop you and running off to your car. Now though, you meet his eyes, scared and desperate and lost, and you nod, scooting forwards to lay your head on his chest.

“I’ll stay,” You promise, and he raises a hand to brace it against your cheek. You turn your head to kiss his palm, and he strokes a thumb over your face, “I’ll stay, Bradley, I promise.”

The nap that you take on Bradley’s chest is the best sleep you’ve had since you left. Being in his embrace once more practically erases your undereye circles, and it takes you a few seconds after you wake up to remember that anything is out of the ordinary in the first place. Then it all comes flooding back, and you cycle through each stage of grief respectively while still slumped onto the bed. Then you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, and you realize that Bradley’s nurse has shaken you awake.

“Hi,” The man smiles down at you, “Sorry to interrupt. I’m sure you didn’t want to wake up.”

“Oh,” You laugh hesitantly, slipping out from beneath Bradley’s hand and wiping away a slight glob of drool that had accumulated around the corner of your mouth, “No, no, it’s okay. What time is it?”

“Dinnertime,” Another nurse chimes from by the door, carrying another tray of meat and potatoes for Bradley, “Around six-thirty, Miss Mitchell.”

“You’re welcome to eat here with him,” The first nurse informs you, “But you’ll have to get something from the cafeteria, or order in. And visiting hours end at eight,” He levels you with a sympathetic smile, “But if you’ve got one bite left I won’t kick you out.”

“Thank you,” You chuckle wearily, your voice barely thickened with tears, “I appreciate that. Bradley,” You hum, squeezing his hand and stroking your free one through his hair, “Wake up, baby. They brought you some dinner.”

He comes to groggy, and you don’t blame him. He blinks a few times, then recognition washes over his face as he remembers why he’s there, and hopefully nothing else.

The nurses get busy with moving his bed, pressing buttons on the little remote strapped to the side until he’s inclined enough to eat his meal. The tray hooks into the sides of the bed so that he doesn’t have to hold anything, but you take his fork for him anyways, leaving his hands completely free.

“Thank you,” You nod gratefully at the nurses when they retreat for the door, a smear of mashed potatoes already gathered on the utensil in your hand. Bradley’s happy to let you feed him, humming at the taste of the beef they’ve given him. 

“Better than the chicken,” He hums, his voice gaining back a bit of its grating quality from earlier. He’s usually rough-voiced after a nap, so you don’t worry too much about it. Typically you indulge in his raspy morning voice, but now it seems insensitive. 

“Good,” You croon, scooping mashed potatoes and gravy onto a bite of the beef, “And it doesn’t bother your stomach?”

“What’s there to upset it, salt?” He grumbles around a mouthful, “Barely tastes like anything.”

“Sorry, Brad,” You hum, stroking a stray strand of caramel colored hair back into place, “I’m not supposed to feed you anything else, though.”

“I know,” He relents, lips puckering to kiss your wrist instead of wrapping around the spoon in your hand, “Not your fault, baby. But,” He rears back to takes the bite, chewing thoughtfully while you wait for his next sentence, “Can you bring me cookies tomorrow?”

You laugh, trying to keep it quiet in the slowly darkening hospital room. There’s no one around, and the door is closed, but his voice isn’t loud and you don’t want to overpower him. 

“I just said I wasn’t allowed to feed you anything else,” You roll your eyes affectionately, a teasing gesture you thought you’d never be able to do with the man anymore, “What makes you think I’d bring you cookies?”

“Um, ‘cause you love me?” Bradley drawls, voice finally rising to a healthy volume. Maybe it’s the food in his stomach, or maybe it’s a switch that was suddenly flipped in his chest, but he sounds like himself again.

His words sober your fantasy intoxication, and you smile sadly at him where he lays in his bed. You set the fork down to lay your hand over his cheek, your palm soaking in the warmth of his skin that’s newly returned.

“I do love you,” You promise, leaning in to kiss him. You have to lean over his plate to do so, and you’ll worry later about any potential gravy stains on your shirt. You go slow and gentle, worried that he’ll push you away for reasons he doesn’t remember yet. But he doesn’t. In fact, when you pull away to give him some air, he catches your wrist in a surprising display of agility for his weakened muscles, and you freeze in place.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, mustache shifting slightly with his apology, “I can’t stop thinking about you getting that call. I never-” His voice cracks, “I never wanted you to go through that.”

“Me neither,” You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, the same that are shining in Bradley’s, “But you don’t have to be sorry. None of this was your fault, and what matters is that you’re okay now. I have you back, Bradley, I- I didn’t lose you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” He vows, and your lips sting with the force of your bite to repress a sob. 

He lifts his head from his pillow, the first time he’s done it since waking up. He kisses your temple as you try not to cry, lips dotting staccato kisses against your skin as you tremble slightly.

“I promise, baby,” He hums softly into your skin as his hand comes up to hug you, “You won’t lose me.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” You cry, your fist gripping his hospital gown desperately. You want to believe him but it’s not even really Bradley talking, it’s three-weeks-ago Bradley that doesn’t remember you walking out of his life for self-preservation. It’s Bradley that doesn’t know the worst of you yet, but who could remember at any moment and cast you away.

“You won’t, I promise.” He coos, stroking up and down your back. You feel silly, accepting comfort from a hospital patient who went down in a fighter jet less than 24 hours ago, but you feel even sillier that it's the same man you’d torn to shreds days prior. But he’s comforting you, he’s rubbing your back, he’s kissing your face, and he’s promising you that you’ll never lose him, so you let him, because you love hearing him lie, even if he doesn't know he's doing it. 

“You promise?” You look up at him with watery eyes that blur out his face, but you see him nod. It’s unfair to ask, not when he doesn’t have the knowledge to truly promise. He cranes his neck forwards to bump noses with you, letting you cry against his skin.

“I do, honey.” He nods, holding you close like you’d never left at all,  “I promise.”

Going from crying into each other’s embraces back to eating bland mashed potatoes is hard, but you ease Bradley into it with a bite of granola bar you’d found in your purse. He’s grateful for something with flavor, and you’re glad to finally be rid of the half-eaten snack. 

“Oatmeal raisin cookies, please,” Bradley begs as he chews the snack, going as far as to bat his pretty lashes at you, brown eyes shiny with hope. 

You scoff, wiping a tear away from your face with a fond, albeit trembling smile, “Okay, Brad. Oatmeal raisin.”

“You’re the best,’ He hums, grinning with a mouthful of oats and chocolate. You check your phone to find that you’ve only got twenty minutes left until visiting hours are over, and your eyes dim as you glance back up at him.

“I have to go soon,” You lament, “Visiting hours are over in twenty.”

His face fades from its pretty smile, some of the newfound color draining from his skin once more. You’re sure he’ll have a nightmare tonight, something about jet crashes and dying alone, and you hate leaving him here so vulnerable.

“I’m sorry, baby,” You sniffle, squeezing his hand, “They open back up at 8 tomorrow, so as soon as I make those cookies I’ll be back, I promise.”

“I know,” He nods, raising your intertwined hands to kiss at your wrist, “It’s okay. Not your fault.”

“I’d stay overnight if I could.”

“I’d sneak you into my bed,” Bradley grins sadly, “S’alright, baby, just get a good night’s sleep. You deserve it after today.”

“You too,” You squeeze his hand, smiling sweetly at him, “And if you have a nightmare, text me, and I’ll crawl through the window, ‘promise.”

He laughs again, and now that he’s got most of his strength back it’s a normal sound. It’s not weak, it’s not subdued, it’s perfect. It’s Bradley.

“I’d like to see you try,” He teases, and you wipe a smear of chocolate off of his lower lip, remembering the first time you’d ever done that with a fond smile.

“I’m on the sixth floor.” He reminds you, and you shrug, sucking the chocolate off of your finger.

“Meh,” You crumble up the granola bar wrapper in your fist, “I could scale that easy.”

“Oh, really? Yeah, I bet you could,” Bradley chuckles, “You’re Spider-Man, suddenly? Sticking to walls? I must have forgotten your transformation.”

“Yeah, you did,” You grin with a laugh, “Actually, while I rushed over here to see you, a truck full of radioactive spiders crashed, and I got bitten by one. You’ve missed a lot, Brad.”

“Right,” Bradley’s brows raise, eyes alight with amusement, “Those radioactive spider trucks are a real nuisance, I hear.”

Giggling sweetly with him feels normal. The kind of normal you crave, the kind that isn’t settled for, but yearned for. And you’re clinging to it, pushing the truth out of your mind and playing the part perfectly.

A knock on the door interrupts your gigglefest and you turn in time to see the nurse from before entering, a bittersweet smile on his face. 

“I’m supposed to kick you out,” He jokes, holding Bradley’s chart, “And you’re free to sleep whenever, Mr. Bradshaw, we don’t need to conduct any more tests tonight. You’re just here to be monitored."

“Alright,” Bradley nods and you stand, still clasping his hand in yours. The doctor busies himself with straightening up the chairs around the bed, and you take the privacy he so kindly grants you.

“Sleep good,” You recite your pre-bedtime deployment sendoff to Bradley, the phrase having gathered dust in the back of your head since his last overseas assignment, “Sweet dreams, and call me when you can.”

“I will,” Bradley leans up to kiss you, going for your lips, then your cheek, then your chin, “You too, baby. Get some rest. I’m okay, I promise.”

“Yeah,” You beam down at him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, “You’re okay, Brad.”

"See you tomorrow!" He calls as you leave, and you turn to nod.

"See you tomorrow, baby." You promise once more, hand on the door handle, "Goodnight."

“Sleep well, Mr. Bradshaw,” The nurse bids Bradley goodbye with a smile and a nod as you trail out behind him, and at the click of the door behind the two of you, it’s like you’re the recovering amnesia patient. Now that Bradley’s not there anymore, not smiling at you, not telling you he loves you, it’s like you can’t be sure of anything, like you’re still that imposter you’d been when you’d first stepped in. You come to the sickening realization, only after the fact, that you'd loved lying to Bradley, and it makes you feel worse. Your reverie is shattered, and the nurse beside you notices your shaky breathing as you trail down the hallway.

“Miss, are you okay?” His brows furrow in concern, and you nod.

“Yeah, just-” You smooth your hands down your pants, your palms sweaty, “It’s a lot. Being in there, seeing him like- like that. I guess I wasn’t prepared.”

“No one is,” The nurse smiles sympathetically at you, leading you to an elevator, “But he’s right, Miss Mitchell. He’ll be alright. And hopefully, his memories will restore themselves overnight. There’s a good chance he’ll wake up remembering it all.”

You’re sure that was meant to soothe you, but it’s only sent more nausea rolling through your body. You nod, forcing a smile as the doors shut between you, “Thank you, Nurse.”

Once the doors shut, you want to burst into tears. You don’t want the reception desk to see that, though, so you rush through the motions of leaving, practically running to your car. Once you’re safely inside the floodgates open, and you’re surprised you don’t trigger the horn from how hard you’re sobbing against the steering wheel.

You try to channel Bradley’s voice, ‘I promise baby, you won't lose me.’ but it makes things worse, it piles guilt on top of your sickness and makes you want to run away again. Because he’d promised you that he’d never leave you, not that he’d ever let you come back if you’d left him. And that’s what you’re worried about now.

Running away hadn’t stopped anything bad from happening, it just made you feel worse when bad things did happen. Thankful for your second chance, you swear to yourself in the stuffy silence of your car that you’ll do anything to fix this, and that you’re not going to fuck this up again because you’re scared. Love is scary, giving yourself completely to another person is scary, but Bradley’s always been good at soothing your fears, and there’s no one you’d rather give yourself to.

You steel yourself as you prepare to drive back to your motel, but second-guess it when you remember that Bradley has his phone with him. You have each other shared on Find My Friends, and he doesn’t normally check it unless he’s worried about your safety, but you’re paranoid that he’ll find your pin at a crappy motel and know something is wrong. So you punch in Bradley’s address instead, the one you used to share with him, still labeled as ‘home’, and set off.

The drive looks familiar in no time, and it reminds you of how much you’d missed it. The big oak tree on your neighbor’s lawn, the flag perpetually at half-mast because the man across the street fell while adjusting it and never fixed it, the tricycle on the sidewalk beside your front door that the toddler next door always seemed to leave on your walkway. You check the mail and feel something stabbing at your chest when your name is on one of the letters, and your house key is cold with disuse as you slide it into the slot.

You hesitate when the doorknob turns beneath your fingers. Walking into Bradley’s space will tell you exactly how he feels about what happened between you. There’s either going to be empty bottles strewn everywhere with pictures laying around covered in tear stains, or there’s going to be a hot pink bra in his bed, and a new woman’s makeup kit in his bathroom. Hell, maybe she’ll even still be there, maybe you’re about to walk in on your replacement.

But the promise you’d made to yourself in the car wasn’t for show, and you turn the knob after taking a deep breath, stepping into the darkened home.

You call out an uncertain ‘hello?’ into the place, waiting with bated breath for a woman’s voice to respond. But it never does, and you flick the light on beside the door.

You’d been right with one of your guesses.

It’s messy. Not exactly the outwardly disastrous type of messy you’d imagined earlier, but knowing all of the little things about Bradley means that you know he’s let himself go over the past two weeks. His running shoes are gathering dust by the door, which seems to suggest that he’s been lazing in bed just like you have. The living room is pristine, the pillows all arranged the way you set it up that Bradley doesn’t care to replicate, and you wonder if he’s sat on the couch at all the entire time since you’ve been gone. There’s no grocery list on the fridge and upon further inspection, the appliance is close to empty, one lonely beer left alongside ketchup, mustard, and a rotting head of lettuce. Unless he was eating the worst burgers known to man, you don’t think he’s been eating anything from the kitchen. Your heart aches for Bradley; you hope he’s been ordering food in.

Walking through the space is like revisiting a crime scene as the killer. Everything here is because of you, the pictures stripped from the walls are gone because of you, the lonely toothbrush in the dual holder is because of you, the neatly made side of the bed with its messy counterpart is because of you. 

You realize that it’s your side that’s slept on, Bradley’s still tucked neatly in place, unused. You spot a red covering over your pillow, reaching for it and finding it to be an old t-shirt of yours that Bradley had raided your dresser drawers for. It’s one he’d bought you at a tourist trap on your vacation a few years ago, and it was your favorite to lounge in. You notice a dark spot on the fabric and only then realize that you’re crying, that it’s a tear that had fallen from your eye. Then it’s like everything hits you all at once, and you sink onto the mattress clutching the pillow. It smells like Bradley, and you know he’s been clinging to it every night, a thought that solidifies your sneaking suspicion that you might be the worst person on the planet.

You curl up and cry there, you don’t know for how long. All you can do is sob, soak your pillow with tears that you thought you were out of, clutch the bedsheets like they’ll reveal Bradley, hidden underneath and eager for a cuddle. This bed feels as empty as the motel’s had, maybe even emptier, because you’ve never slept in it away from Bradley. When he’s on deployment you always have a sweatshirt of his and a picture of him tucked under the pillow, but you know it won’t be there now. Now you’re alone, really alone. 

Your eyes droop and you know you need sleep, especially if you’re going to wake up early to make Bradley cookies in time for visiting hours to start. But you can’t bring yourself to sleep without the picture of him under his pillow, so you stumble out of bed to fetch it from your box of memories.

Your fingers close around the slightly wrinkled photo, a shot of you in a gown and Bradley in a suit. It’s one you’d taken yourself at your graduation, high school turned college sweethearts. He had wanted admission into the Naval Academy, but in order to spend more time with you, you’d enrolled together at a university. It’s your favorite photo to have with you, and you reach out to Bradley’s pillow to slide it underneath. Upon lifting the pillow, you find a stack of pictures already there. Each one of you, most with Bradley pictured in them too. They only make you cry harder, and you recognize some as the inserts of the picture frames that had been taken down from the hallway.

It looks like Bradley hoarded photos of you, and some are stiff and stained with tears. The sight is something out of a movie, a dramatic indication of the inner turmoil of its main character. You see a shot of your silhouettes together, faces darkened by the sun streaming in behind you. You’re kissing on the beach, and without paying much mind to the structural integrity of the photo, you clutch it to your chest.

You’re a wreck. You just want your Bradley back, but your Bradley isn’t yours anymore. You want three-weeks-ago Bradley back, the one who you didn’t run away from. But he’ll probably have his memories back by tomorrow, and there’s no telling if he’d even want you to visit again. Looking at the sorry state of his apartment, you know he misses you, but whether he wants you back is another question altogether. All you can do is wait and worry, and worry you do. As you sob and heave in the bed, your brain shuts down, and eventually you drift into a dreamless, unpleasant sleep, nose still buried in your shirt that smells like Bradley.

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