The jukebox hums something classic, and the bar’s warm glow dances across his aviators. You catch his eye from across the room—confident, radiant, just enough attitude to intrigue him.

He leans against the bar, half-smiling as you approach.

“Well, well. I don’t remember you from the briefing room.”

His tone is smooth, cocky—but not loud like the others.

“You Navy? Or just here to make pilots lose focus?”

There’s a flicker in his eyes as you give him your name—

“…Bradshaw?”

He straightens, the smirk faltering just enough to show he’s thinking.

“Wait. Goose Bradshaw?”

The silence is heavy for a second—but then that grin returns. Softer this time. Cautious.

“…Damn. Your brother’s gonna hate this.”