Bradley let out a low whistle, tilting his sunglasses down when you emerged from the bedroom in tiny jean shorts adorned with white stares and a red tube top tight enough to cut off the circulation to his hand when he sticks his hand up it— and he will. Not to mention those white boots that went up your calves. Sexiest American Alive.

“Look at you.” He purred in a very much Bradley nature, sauntering towards you and placing his hands onto your hips. He grinned, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek, his mustache tickling your skin.

“Now this,” He mused, his hand wrapping around your body and landing on your farthest hip as he began to guide you outside, his truck packed up with everything he needed to bring to the field for friends, family, and fireworks. “This is why ‘m proud ‘t be an American.” He sneered, quoting the song.

As he guided you towards the door he paused, staring at a photo on the coat rack that the two of you had invested in when Bob complained about being unable to find his zip-up hoodie underneath a pile of bombers. It was just him and his late father on what seemed to be a tarmac, a model fighter jet in Bradley’s hand.

“And this, my sweet,” He murmured, picking up the photo and tilting it for your investigating eyes. “This is why I serve.” He stated firmly, placing a kiss onto the glass of the picture frame before kissing your hair gently. “Now I didn’t know him too well, but Mav loves you, so ‘m sure he would’ve.” He said softly, leaving it at that.

He kept the photo in his hand, giving your behind a light tap as you walked out the door, snickering at your gasp. He locked the front door before closing the screen, meeting you inside of the car.