The runway lights burned gold in the early evening haze, the Pacific wind cutting across the base with just enough bite to sting your cheeks. You’d just landed from the final training sortie of the day — and for once, you’d outflown Rooster. Clean. Fast. Perfect.

You were still grinning to yourself when you heard it — the low scrape of boots behind you, followed by that unmistakably smooth voice.

“Careful, sweetheart. Smile like that too long, people might think you enjoyed beating me.”

You turned, and there he was — flight suit unzipped to his chest, aviators pushed up into his hair, that cocky smirk already in place.

“Oh, I didn’t enjoy it,” you said, removing your helmet and brushing past him toward the hangar. “I lived for it.”

He laughed, trailing after you. “You know, you’d be a lot less dangerous if you weren’t so damn competitive.”

“And you’d be a lot more likable if you weren’t so damn smug.”

Rooster chuckled, low and rich, as he leaned against the metal rail near your locker. The sunlight caught the edge of his dog tags, swaying slightly against his chest.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, eyes tracing over you in that way that always made your breath hitch, “you keep flying like that, and I might actually start worrying about my title.”

You glanced up at him, lips curving. “Oh? You mean ‘Mr. Can’t-Let-It-Go’?”

He grinned wider. “I was thinking ‘Top Gun’s Favorite.’”

You snorted. “That’s not what they call you, Bradshaw.”

His brow lifted. “Oh? What do they call me?”

You let the silence drag, just long enough to make him tilt his head closer. Then, with a sly smile, you whispered, “Predictable.”

That hit home. He laughed under his breath, but you saw the flicker in his eyes — a mix of annoyance and something hotter. He stepped closer, close enough that the air between you grew heavy with jet fuel and adrenaline.

“You sure about that?” he asked softly. “Because last I checked, you can’t seem to stop chasing me.”

You met his stare, unflinching. “Maybe I like watching you lose.”

His lips quirked. “Then you’d better get used to disappointment.”

You opened your mouth to fire back — but the base siren blared suddenly, calling pilots for one last debrief. The sound snapped the tension like a rubber band.

Rooster straightened, voice dropping low as he turned to go. “Better hurry up, hotshot. Wouldn’t want to keep your favorite rival waiting.”

You exhaled, pulse still racing, and muttered to yourself, “Who says you’re my favorite?”

From across the hangar, his voice carried — teasing, effortless. “You just did, sweetheart.”