Like Him (feat. Lola Young)—Tyler, The Creator

You don’t walk into the Hard Deck to make friends.

You walk in because it’s tradition.

Because after your first day flying out of Fightertown, they all said the same thing:

“We meet at the Hard Deck after hours. Don’t be late.”

Unspoken?

“Don’t sit too close. Don’t speak unless spoken to. You’re not one of us.”

It doesn’t matter that you earned your place in the air. That your scores were off the charts. That the sky doesn’t care whose blood runs in your veins.

Down here, on the ground, your name still drips like oil.

Your father made sure of that.

He used to be someone. A high-level intelligence officer.

Decorated. Trusted. Respected.

Until the day everything cracked open and he was court—martialed in disgrace, dishonorably discharged, and hauled off to federal prison like the Navy was taking out the trash.

And you?

You were sixteen when it happened. You learned to live with the silence. The glares. The rumors. You got good at wearing your last name like armor.

But still—you wanted the sky. And now you’re here.

The Hard Deck smells like beer and saltwater and testosterone. It’s loud enough to make you feel like you don’t belong, but quiet enough that you hear it when the whisper goes around:

“That’s her.”

“Why the hell would they let her in the program?”

You ignore them.

Like you always do.

You walk with purpose, boots hitting the wooden floor like you’re marching toward something. You order something cold just to have something in your hand.

You don’t look around.

You don’t sit.

You don’t speak.

You sip your drink and stare straight ahead, because if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that silence is often louder than shouting.

No one comes near you.

Until he does.

“You know, you’re kind of ruinin’ the whole mysterious loner vibe by drinking light beer.”

You glance sideways.

He’s leaning against the bar like he’s posing for a photograph, arms crossed, Hawaiian shirt just slightly wrinkled from wear. A quiet confidence radiates off of him—the kind you can’t teach. Aviators hang from the collar of his shirt. There’s a faint sunburn across his nose. A half-drunk glass in front of him.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.

Rooster.

You know the name. Everyone does. Legacy. Maverick’s protégé.

Steady hands. Safe landings. A piano player with a reputation cleaner than his flight record.

He shouldn’t be talking to you.

But he is.

And he’s not doing it with pity in his eyes or that smug grin some of the others wore in the ready room today. No, he’s calm. Measured.

Warm in a way you didn’t expect.

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking a sip of his drink without looking away.

“They’ll stop staring eventually. Once you outfly them.”

There’s no challenge in his tone. No smugness. He says it like it’s a fact.

Like he’s already sure you will.

You haven’t been touched by kindness in a long time.

Still, you keep your voice cool, your expression unreadable. He may be the only one who’s spoken to you all night, but that doesn’t mean you’re ready to trust him. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“You always hit on the ostracized pilots, or am I just lucky?”

It’s not exactly a smile that curves at his lips—but it’s close.

“Just the ones who look like they’ve been carryin’ the weight of the whole damn Navy on their shoulders since sunrise.”

You could walk away.

You could stay silent.

You could ask him what he thinks he knows about you.

Or you could answer.

Because right now, in a bar full of people who think they know who you are, he’s the only one who asked.

Your move, aviator.