#but i can't keep spiralling in thoughts like this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 1 month ago

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punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find.

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.”

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off?

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter.

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter.

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash.

It was actually quite an impressive stunt.

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass.

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good.

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.”

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.”

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors.

You almost make it out without looking back—almost.

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots.

All but one.

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl.

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now.

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday.

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base.

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else.

But it wasn’t worth it.

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off.

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room.

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.”

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.”

Smug prick.

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin.

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.”

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room.

“You’re going to let me fly?”

He chuckles. “Of course.”

“But-”

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.”

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.”

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.”

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable.

You quirk a brow. “You?”

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?”

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?”

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.”

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.”

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought.

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive.

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not.

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.”

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off.

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost.

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign.

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs.

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit.

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.”

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs.

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along.

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room.

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.”

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.”

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms.

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest.

You nod. “Yep.”

“Where were you before this?”

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.”

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.”

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.”

“Thanks, Phoenix.”

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off.

You like her. No bullshit.

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried.

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble.

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely.

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room.

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction.

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?”

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.”

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer.

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.”

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach.

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.”

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe.

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?”

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.”

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.”

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall.

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team.

“Nothing fancy today, alright?”

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet.

You frown at it. “But my helmet-”

“Has your callsign on it.”

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad.

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean.

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime.

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good.

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms.

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?”

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly.

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?”

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy.

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.”

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds.

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky.

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead.

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.”

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now.

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face.

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of.

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet?

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall.

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when—

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.”

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room.

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again.

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to.

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks.

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.”

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.”

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.”

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them.

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts.

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.”

You snort quietly.

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in.

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes.

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.”

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance.

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight.

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley.

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start.

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip.

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence.

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment.

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep.

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him.

Ugh. Gross.

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork.

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there.

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack.

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet.

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.”

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass.

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.”

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.”

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?”

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.”

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-”

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief.

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.”

“Punishment?”

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself.

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-”

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!”

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.”

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.”

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.”

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.”

“It’ll be too late.”

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley.

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod.

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.”

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar.

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid.

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections.

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley.

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time.

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles.

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles.

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.”

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.”

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.”

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.”

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear.

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults.

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?”

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.”

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?”

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?”

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.”

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer.

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does.

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer.

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over.

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.”

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay.

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.”

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips.

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.”

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face.

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.”

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling.

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?”

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.”

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.”

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?”

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.”

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him.

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.”

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet.

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner?

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke.

But what the hell is that supposed to mean?

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to.

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull?

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.”

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf.

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced.

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.”

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.”

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words.

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to?

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings.

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them.

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech.

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward.

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door.

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water.

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?”

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.”

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe?

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer.

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm.

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink.

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest.

“This is just my luck,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.”

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue.

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?”

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly.

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.”

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.”

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.”

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter.

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.”

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely.

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?”

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found.

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.”

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.”

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at.

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly.

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.”

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?”

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.”

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.”

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.”

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you.

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?”

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.”

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move.

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…”

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth.

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.”

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows.

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still.

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur.

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?”

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.”

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away.

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.”

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?”

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck.

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him.

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral?

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?”

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.”

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?”

You nod. “Yep.”

“When’d you get it?”

“Flight school.”

“Is there a cool story behind it?”

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.”

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?”

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway.

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question.

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?”

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?”

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-”

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?”

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.”

This man is actually trying to kill you.

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.”

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.”

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.”

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.”

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect.

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?”

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.”

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.”

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.”

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?”

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?”

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.”

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar.

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade.

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.”

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?”

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot.

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly.

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight.

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable.

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap.

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm.

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin.

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving.

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap.

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself.

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief.

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.”

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours.

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not.

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle.

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you.

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct.

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable.

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover.

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like…

Holy shit.

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit.

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe.

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life.

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door.

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed.

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early.

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case.

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?”

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.”

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.”

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.”

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk.

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices.

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.”

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?”

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?”

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.”

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you.

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.”

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking.

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?”

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.”

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move.

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?”

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet.

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time.

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame.

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective.

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light.

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.”

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening.

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well.

Maverick.

Your stomach drops.

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery.

You're never living this down.

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.”

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.”

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.”

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.”

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again.

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?”

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.”

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?”

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.”

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.”

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-”

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused.

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk.

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.”

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together.

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills.

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit.

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone.

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning.

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him.

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left.

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought.

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last.

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world.

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut.

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with.

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone.

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in.

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit.

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you.

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?”

You don’t react.

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.”

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.”

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault.

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?”

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up.

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn.

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.”

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does.

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?”

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap.

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care.

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you.

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.”

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.”

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.”

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t.

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.”

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths.

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.”

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle.

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place.

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly.

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots.

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement.

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful.

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?”

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too.

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone.

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.”

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.”

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive.

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended.

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do.

At least you’ll die happy.

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask.

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction.

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.”

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.”

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible.

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back.

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest.

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next.

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast.

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.”

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base.

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six.

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.”

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat.

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.”

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight.

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.”

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.”

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp.

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask.

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.”

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust.

All you need is the green light. The words.

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever.

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze.

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn.

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline.

“Flip the switch, Jinx.”

You’re gone before they can take their next breath.

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble.

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind.

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.”

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up.

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.”

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.”

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat.

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares.

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate.

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.”

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.”

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.”

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze.

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.”

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.”

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp.

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?”

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly.

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?”

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!”

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy.

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly.

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly.

“Boo,” you whisper.

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!”

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there.

Tone lock. Missile fired.

“Damn it!” Reuben groans.

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun.

Then you wait.

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation.

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps.

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement.

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit.

Then you dive.

Fast. Precise. Dead-on.

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams.

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin.

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard.

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop.

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly.

Jake looks up.

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger.

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide.

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.”

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown.

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face.

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?”

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.”

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base.

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.”

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you.

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend.

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline.

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.”

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.”

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you.

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-”

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm.

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley.

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.”

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything.

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.”

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh.

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-”

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside.

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.”

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?”

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots.

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease.

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared.

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.”

You don’t think. You just move.

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word.

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this.

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match.

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash.

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching.

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear.

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.”

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.”

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw.

“We’re never living that down, are we?”

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.”

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest.

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room.

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him.

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close.

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.”

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs.

“Don’t fucking tempt me.”

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting.

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him.

END.

#bradley bradshaw #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster #rooster x reader #top gun: maverick #top gun #miles teller #miles teller x reader #one shot #oneshot #fanfiction #fan fiction #imagine #top gun x reader #jake seresin #maverick #hangman

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aleksatia · 3 months ago

Note

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

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