You swore one day that you would marry Jake Seresin. That stupid Navy pilot had you wrapped around his finger, honestly.

His hand on your hip, holding you against him as you both had decided to meet his squadron for drinks. His thumb rubbing small circles as you drank yourself away.

God, he loved you.

“Slow it down, babydoll.” He cooed, taking what seemed to be your millionth glass from your hand. He handed it to Coyote, who loved the sweet drinks.

“You’ll drink yourself t’ death.”