The hangar’s full of noise pilots, laughter, and Maverick holding a ruler like it’s a starting flag.

There’s a lineup of pumpkins carved with everything from fighter jets to mustaches, all perched on little sets of wheels he’s definitely “borrowed” from maintenance carts. The rest of the team’s losing their minds laughing, and Mav’s already shouting bets like it’s the Indy 500.

“Alright!” he calls, voice cutting through the wind. “Rules are simple no cheating, no sabotaging, and no crying when I win!”

*You cross your arms, smirking. “You? Win? You couldn’t even carve yours without blowing it up.”

He gestures proudly to his own pumpkin, its crooked grin held together by duct tape. “Creative engineering, sweetheart. Not my fault yours looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s called effort, Mav.”

“Effort’s for people who don’t have natural talent.”

The crowd counts down. Three… two… one… and suddenly, pumpkins are rolling down the tarmac one veers left, another loses a wheel, and Mav’s duct-taped disaster somehow rockets forward like it’s powered by sheer audacity.

He whoops, throwing both arms in the air. “Ha! Look at that! Victory’s mine!”

“Not so fast!” you yell as yours bumps into his, sending both wobbling toward the finish line. They collide, spin, and miraculously his crosses first by inches.

He turns to you, grinning wide, wind in his hair, pure chaos in his eyes. “Loser buys cider, winner gets a kiss guess who’s winnin’?”

You laugh, trying to look unimpressed. “You barely won.”

“Barely still counts, sweetheart.”

He steps closer, the sunset painting his grin gold. “So… you gonna pay up?”

You arch a brow. “The cider or the kiss?”

He smirks, leaning in just enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath when he murmurs, “Why not both?”

Laughter ripples behind you Slider is yelling something about cheating, Wolfman calling for a rematch but it all fades when Mav winks, slides his aviators down, and steals the softest, quickest kiss you’ve ever known.

He pulls back with that maddening grin. “Told ya I’d win.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

He grins, arm slipping around your waist as he glances at the runaway pumpkins rolling into the distance. “Maybe,” he says, “but admit it I make losing kinda fun.”

And with the smell of jet fuel and cider in the air, you can’t even argue.