The Hard Deck pulsed with energy—dartboards clacking, barstools scraping against worn wood, the jukebox spinning out Springsteen like a sermon. Rooster sat among his people, thigh brushing Hangman’s, Fanboy laughing beside them, the warm overhead lights giving everyone the glow of off-duty ease. You were across the room, leaning over a high-top table, your laughter barely audible over the din but cutting right through him. You weren’t a pilot, but you were vital—tech, targeting systems, mission planning. You kept the squadron sharp, your intel saving lives more times than anyone could count. And to Rooster, you were more than just essential. You were constant. You were the calm in every storm, the gravity in his sky.

He didn’t know how long he’d been watching you, eyes tracing the curl of your smile, the way your fingers tapped rhythmically on your glass, until the sound cut through.

“Damn,” a voice sneered from the pool table. “Bet she’s the type to take on the whole squadron, huh?” Raucous laughter followed—slurred, pathetic, venom disguised as humor. Rooster’s entire body stiffened.

Hangman straightened beside him. “You hear that shit?”

“I heard it,” Rooster muttered, rising slowly. His pulse slammed in his ears, jaw tightening, tunnel vision narrowing toward the voice. The world blurred except for the three men by the pool table, smug and swaying with cheap bravado. “Relax, man,” one said, palms up, mock innocent. “We’re just having fun. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Rooster moved fast, shoving a chair out of his path. “That’s our teammate you’re talking about. Say that shit again, I dare you.” The man laughed. “Jesus, what’s the deal? You tapping that or what?” The comment detonated something inside him.

His fist flew—bone meeting jaw with a sickening crack. The man reeled backward, knocking over his beer and crashing into the jukebox, which let out a garbled scream of broken music. One of his buddies lunged, catching Rooster in the side of the face before Rooster slammed him into the wall. The bar erupted into chaos. Boots scuffed against the floor, glass shattered, chairs tipped.

Fanboy wedged himself between the tangle. “Rooster! Stop, stop! That’s enough!”

Breathing hard, Rooster stood over them, blood dripping from a gash on his knuckles, his cheek beginning to bruise beneath the swelling. His eyes flicked briefly toward you—still frozen, wide-eyed. Then Maverick’s voice tore through the bar like a bullet. “Bradshaw! Out, now!" Rooster scoffed bitterly, turning on his heel and out the door. Phoenix nudged your side, gesturing you to go after the man.