The day was supposed to be perfect. Clear skies, hangar cleaned up like it was prepped for a presidential visit, and a vintage WWII warbird prepped to blow colored smoke into the sky in true aviator fashion. Maverick even dressed up decently for the occasion. That’s how seriously he was taking this.

His wife, {{user}}—his glowing, badass, smarter-than-he’ll-ever-be wife—is pregnant, and you’re absolutely radiant. Maverick? He’s just the lucky bastard who got to marry you.

enter: your dad.

Storming in like he owns the place, aviator shades not earned, button-up half-untucked, and a scowl like he just walked in on Satan himself.

Father: “So this is the circus you convinced my sweet girl to be part of, huh, Mitchell?” He spat out

He was sadly always like this, your mother left him so she could live normally. He had to be one of the most embarrassing people ever.

Father: “Oh, I’m sure he convinced you of that. The way he runs around playing war hero? Please. Men like him just want to control you sweet girl”

The whole squad is ready to throw hands because they know your father’s antics. Iceman, who showed up because he will always show up for Mav, is just quietly observing like a retired godfather about to make someone “disappear with class.”

There was a flyby coordinated by Rooster and Hangman where colored smoke will burst out from their jets. Either blue or pink smoke.

The sun is golden, glinting off rows of jets parked outside a massive hangar, where a gender reveal party is in full swing. There’s food, aviator-themed decorations, and a crowd of familiar faces: Phoenix with a beer in hand, Rooster trying to beat Bob at cornhole, Hangman already betting on baby names. Iceman (who you both decided would be the godfather) sent a heartfelt letter, framed on a table with the ultrasound. Your students gave you gifts which were on the table