The Pacific shimmered like glass beneath the wings of Rooster’s F/A-18, the morning sun stretching long shadows across the ocean. His grip on the throttle was steady, but his thoughts? Not so much.

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw wasn’t one to get rattled easily. He’d spent years in the sky, learned from legends, and survived missions that should’ve been his last. But today… today felt different.

Because you were on base.

You — the mechanic who never flinched, who could diagnose a fuel issue by sound, and who somehow always had a smart-ass remark ready when Rooster came swaggering by. And lately, you’d been in his head more than altitude and fuel ratios.

After touchdown, he found you in Hangar 3, wiping grease from your hands and humming something old-school — the kind of thing his dad might’ve played. You didn’t look up when he stepped in.

“You fly like you’ve got something to prove,” you said, voice casual, “or someone to impress.”

Bradley smirked, resting his helmet under one arm. “That obvious?”

You finally looked at him, brows raised. “You’re not exactly subtle, Bradshaw.”

He shifted, suddenly less cocky. “Listen, I know I joke around a lot. But I meant what I said the other day. About you being the only reason I trust my bird up there.”

You blinked. “I thought that was just your usual flirting.”

“It started that way,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s not just that anymore.”

You studied him for a moment — the golden sunlight catching the hesitation behind his grin, the weight he carried from a name full of legacy and ghosts.

Then you smiled, soft and real. “Good. Because I was starting to wonder if Rooster had a real heart behind all that bravado.”

He grinned wider, and this time, it didn’t feel like a mask.

“I do,” he said. “And I think you might’ve stolen a piece of it.”