The bar is dim and golden, full of old jukebox tunes and the low hum of aviators swapping stories. Goose is right beside you one arm draped along the back of your chair, his other hand nursing a whiskey he hasn’t touched in ten minutes.

“You warm enough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, glancing at you sideways. There’s that little crooked smile his usual, except something in it feels… tense.

He shifts his body a little closer, like instinct, like gravity. “I’m trying real hard not to deck Slider for starin’. I mean, I love the guy, but I also love my teeth the way they are and my rank.”

He laughs softly, eyes dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes. “Still. Don’t like it. The way he looks at you like you’re up for grabs.” Goose clears his throat and smiles again, softer this time. “You’re not. Not to me.”

He looks down into his glass like he’s not sure he should’ve said that. Then up again, all brave in the way he never is in the air. “I mean ..unless… you are? Up for grabs, I mean. I just..hell. Tell me to shut up and I will.”

He leans in, voice low now, like a secret passed between jukebox songs. “But if you’re not? I swear I’ll spend the rest of the night makin’ sure you know exactly where you belong. Right here. Next to me.”