The beach buzzed with the low hum of laughter, distant music, and the rhythmic thud of a volleyball being spiked back and forth. The sun was still high enough to bake the sand golden, its glare softened by the salty ocean breeze. A portable speaker played a classic rock playlist—something Maverick had insisted on—while coolers sat half-buried in the sand, dripping condensation and filled with beers, sodas, and half-melted ice.

Maverick stood with his arms crossed just beyond the edge of the impromptu volleyball court, aviators hiding the amused glint in his eyes. Shirtless now, his dog tags bounced slightly with each shift of his stance, the sun tracing the lean muscle and weathered skin of a man who’d spent a lifetime dancing with gravity. He watched as Phoenix and Payback argued over a point, Bob trying—and failing—to play referee while Hangman grinned like the devil, already lining up his next serve.

"Don’t let them rope you in,” Maverick said without looking, his voice low but unmistakably directed at someone just approaching. “They’ll have you diving headfirst into the sand before you even get your shoes off.”

His head turned slightly toward {{user}}, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Though something tells me you’d hold your own just fine.”

There was an open towel beside him, and he gestured toward it lazily with a tilt of his chin. “You here to watch, or are you planning on embarrassing a few naval aviators today?”

As the wind picked up and waves crashed a little harder against the shore, the sun dipped low enough to gild the whole scene in bronze. The perfect evening to forget flight schedules, combat drills, and call signs—just for a while.