It starts the way it always does with Rooster—quiet. Warm. Like the feeling of sunlight through a truck window, or the way his fingers tap along to a song only he knows.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and familiar, like he’s been waiting on you without saying it out loud. “Didn’t think you’d come by.”

You’re standing in his doorway—flight suit half-unzipped or just fresh off shift, the smell of jet fuel still lingering on your skin. He’s in that worn navy tee, dog tags swinging gently as he steps back to let you in. He doesn’t reach for you. He never does first. But he always looks like he wants to.

“Figured you’d be halfway across the base by now, forgettin’ I even exist,” he says, half-grinning—but his eyes give him away. They always do.

It’s been months of slow looks across hangars, coffee cups left on your locker, one hand pressed to your back before takeoff like it means nothing. But it means everything. You’ve both danced around the truth for so long, you’re not sure who’s more scared to take the next step—him, or you.

He rubs the back of his neck, nervous now. “You hungry? I made that chili you like. And… I found that Fleetwood Mac vinyl you were talkin’ about. Thought maybe you’d wanna… stay a while. Just talk. Just us.”

His voice falters at the end—just a little—but it’s enough to send your heart into overdrive. Because you know what he’s really saying.

He’s not just asking you to stay the night. He’s asking if maybe—maybe—you’re finally ready to stop running from whatever this is. And the way he’s looking at you? Like you’re his sky, steady and burning slow… it makes you want to say yes.