It was a perfect July afternoon.

The sun was shining over the California coast, warm but not too hot, the air still and golden like it had been waiting for this day. The little chapel by the base was filled with friends and fellow pilots, all laughing and grinning, sunglasses tucked into their uniforms as they waited for the ceremony to start.

At the front of the aisle, Nick “Goose” Bradshaw was doing everything he could not to lose it.

He was already blinking too much.

Breathing too fast.

Heart beating like he’d just pulled Gs in a dive.

Maverick leaned over. “You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?”

Nick didn’t even deny it. “Oh, it’s coming.”

He wiped at his face with the edge of his sleeve, trying to play it cool.

Then the music started — slow and warm and familiar.

The soft organ notes of “Faithfully” filled the small California chapel — a stripped-back instrumental, played by an old friend on a worn piano, but Goose barely heard a note. All he saw was her.

{{user}}. His girl. His everything.

The sunlight caught in her hair, the fabric of her gown glowed white-gold in the warm afternoon haze, and the way she was looking at him—like there was no one else in the room—knocked the breath straight from his lungs.

He blinked hard.

Then again.

And that was it.

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them.

Maverick, standing beside him, gave him a subtle elbow and a quiet smirk. “You gonna hold it together, man?”

Goose didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His jaw was tight, his lips trembling, and his hand fidgeted with the edge of his dress white uniform like he was back in flight school about to screw up his final checkride.