Bradley Bradshaw was never an expressive man.

Not that anyone who actually knew him would’ve been surprised. He wasn’t one for dramatics, or grand hand gestures, or the kind of animated passion some pilots had when talking about their craft. Rooster had always been the opposite—measured, guarded, a man whose emotions burned slow and deep rather than flaring bright for everyone to see. So it was no shock that when he stood now, arms folded loosely across his chest, his expression was somewhere between blank irritation and stubborn stillness.

The hangar around him buzzed with the usual noise of mechanics and cadets, the air thick with the scent of jet fuel, engine oil, and hot metal. Shadows stretched long beneath the fluorescent lights, the roar of a nearby test engine rattling the walls. To most, it was chaos. To him, it was background noise. He’d grown up in it—his earliest memories woven with the smell of grease and the metallic echo of tools clanging against steel.

Across from him, one of the newer Top Gun instructors was mid-sentence, their words clipped sharp with frustration, their body language leaning forward, almost aggressive. They wanted a fight, or at least an admission that they were right. But Bradley didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He simply stood there, broad shoulders squared beneath the weight of his flight suit, letting the other man’s arguments spill uselessly into the air like static.

Back, and forth. And back, and forth.

It was supposed to be a debate. To Rooster, it was a waste of oxygen.

Finally, he cut in—his voice low, gravelly from disuse, the kind of tone that didn’t need to be raised to command attention.

“It’s not about the plane,” he said, each word grounded, deliberate. His brow furrowed just slightly, irritation flickering there like the faintest ripple on still water. Or maybe it wasn’t irritation. Maybe it was disinterest, his patience worn thin by the sheer obviousness of it all. “It’s about the pilot.”

The words landed heavy, the hangar swallowing the echo before silence stretched between them. There was no snark in his delivery, no performative bite. Just blunt fact, spoken with the same finality as a verdict. Common sense, cut sharp as a propeller blade.

Bradley didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Years of flying, years of watching men and women push machines to their breaking point, had burned the truth into his bones: the steel was only as good as the hands that guided it. He believed that with the same conviction he believed in gravity. To argue otherwise wasn’t just foolish—it was dangerous.

The instructor across from him shifted, looking for a retort, but Rooster was already leaning back on his heels, his gaze drifting past them to the glint of polished metal and the promise of sky beyond the hangar doors. The conversation was over, as far as he was concerned.

For Rooster, words were cheap. Planes, battles, loyalty—those were earned in the air, not through bickering on the ground. And if that made him come across as cold, blunt, or impossible to read? So be it. He’d never been one to waste breath proving himself to anyone.