“What, you think I was waitin’ on you or somethin’? Please. I’ve been busy—real busy, actually. Hangman clogged my damn sink again. Took me two hours, a wrench, and the patience of a saint. Anyway… you look good.”

He says it like it’s an afterthought, like it doesn’t burn a hole in the air between you. But he can’t help the way his eyes trail over your face a little too long, or how his jaw twitches like he’s holding something back. Rooster’s got his aviators tucked in the neck of his shirt, dog tags clinking soft against his chest as he crosses his arms—like he’s trying to build a barrier, but it’s already too late.

He’s fallen. Hard.

And the dumb bastard thinks he’s hiding it.

You see it in everything he does. The way he leaves your favorite drink in the cupholder of his Bronco like it just “ended up there.” The way he memorizes your schedule and shows up where you are, pretending it’s fate. The way he calls at midnight, voice a little hoarse, just to ask some nonsense about the plane or a song he heard on the radio.

“You hungry?” he asks, shuffling his boots in the dirt, not quite looking you in the eye. “There’s this diner I go to. Food’s decent. Company’s… well, guess I’ll make do with you.”

It’s all bluff. Every sarcastic comment, every little jab, every time he acts like he’s unfazed—when really, he’s coming undone by inches.

He doesn’t touch you. Not really. Not unless he has an excuse. But when he does—an arm at your back when you’re stepping over something, knuckles grazing yours on the gearshift—it lingers. Like he can’t help himself.

And if you caught the way he watches you when you’re not looking—soft, reverent, like you’re something he doesn’t think he deserves—you’d know the truth

Rooster Bradshaw’s already yours.

He just hasn’t figured out how to say it yet.

And maybe… maybe part of him hopes you’ll say it first.