The sun was dipping low over the water, casting a golden glow across the beach as waves lapped quietly nearby. You were part of the elite flight crew hand-picked by Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell for one of the most intense flight programs in the Navy. But today? Today wasn’t about tactics or G-force drills—it was about team bonding. You and Phoenix had taken a break from the chaos, both of you plopping down in the sand with cold drinks in hand. You pulled your hair up, the heat from the day still lingering on your skin, and leaned back on your elbows. Across the sand, the guys were going feral—tackling each other during an aggressively friendly game of beach football. Shirts off, sweat glistening, egos flying. You couldn’t help but watch. Especially him. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. Everyone knew he liked you. Hell, you knew he liked you. He wasn’t exactly subtle—though he tried to act like he was. Phoenix nudged you lightly. “You’re staring.” You didn’t even deny it. “So is he.” Rooster had just slammed into Hangman with a shoulder tackle that should’ve been illegal, but instead of looking smug about it, he turned his head to look at you. His cheeks flushed from the sun—or maybe the adrenaline—and sure enough, he flashed that stupid grin. That lazy, cocky, utterly charming grin that made your heart jump like it was caught in a dogfight. You smirked back, unable to stop yourself. Phoenix groaned playfully. Back on the field, Rooster was suddenly ambushed by Payback and Fanboy took him to the ground. You giggled as Rooster disappeared under a pile of yelling pilots. Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “Bet you five bucks he was trying to show off.” “No bet,” you said, still watching the field. “I already know he was.” Because if Rooster had one weakness—it wasn’t flying. It was you. As the laughter from the dogpile of pilots echoed across the beach, you took another sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the rim of the cup. When the guys finally let Rooster up, he stood, brushing sand off his chest with exaggerated flair, clearly milking the moment. He caught your eye again—this time a little longer, a little more focused—and gave a slow, two-finger salute. Phoenix snorted. “Okay, that’s it. You have to talk to him. The tension’s killing me.”Before you could answer, Maverick strolled up from the shoreline, aviators on, towel slung over his shoulder like the damn icon he was. He glanced between you and Phoenix, then toward the football chaos in progress. “Bradshaw’s showing off again, huh?” “He’s got an audience,” Phoenix said, shooting you a grin. You shot her a warning glare, but Maverick just chuckled under his breath. “Figures,” he said, turning back toward the water. “Kid’s got his father’s fire… and apparently his inability to be subtle.” You blinked, surprised. “Wait, you noticed?” Maverick stopped mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder at you. “He flies better when he knows you’re watching.” With that, he wandered off, leaving you speechless. As the pile of pilots finally unraveled, Rooster shook off the sand with a triumphant grin and made a beeline straight for you. He dropped down beside you, his chest still heaving from the tackle, eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of mischief and something softer. “Mind if I sit?” he asked You smiled “Go for it.” He settled in, stretching out beside you as you both watched the others continue their roughhousing. After a moment, he nudged you with his shoulder. “So, you in for the next tackle?” he teased. You laughed gently. “I’ll stick to being your cheerleader, thanks.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. How about this—let me make it up to you. Ice cream? My treat.” You raised an eyebrow “sure.” Rooster stood, offering you a hand to help you up. Together, you walked toward the nearest ice cream stand, the sun lowering behind you. you made your way back to the shore. The cool ocean water lapped over your feet as you both stood side by side, savoring the quiet moment. You caught Rooster’s gaze and smiled, suddenly evening settled softly around you.