From the second you met Bradley Bradshaw, you knew he was going to ruin your life.

He had that look about him — the smirk, the sunglasses, the casual arrogance of someone who’d never known what it meant to lose. You had walked into Top Gun with your chin held high, ready to prove yourself, and there he was, calling you sweetheart before you even said your name.

The rivalry started immediately. You snapped back. He teased. You rolled your eyes. He winked. It was maddening.

So when you walked into the Hard Deck and saw him again — aviators perched on his nose, beer in hand, leaning against the jukebox like he owned the place — your stomach dropped.

“Well well,” he said, pushing off the machine and walking toward you. “Didn’t think they’d call in the grumpy one.”

“Didn’t think they’d keep the one who flies like a reckless idiot,” you replied.

He laughed, low and warm. “Missed you too.”

You hated that he always got under your skin. That he made your blood boil. That you couldn’t stop watching him walk away.

Training began. Tensions rose. You fought. You shouted. At one point, you nearly came to blows after a particularly messy drill.

But then something shifted.

He started helping you.

Subtle at first. Fixing your oxygen mask before takeoff. Offering notes on the route into the canyon. Throwing you a water bottle during breaks. Nothing big. Nothing worth reading into. Except you did.

You started looking for him in the hangar. Noticing when he was late. Laughing at his stupid jokes.

He pulled you aside one day before a flight and said, “You’re flying smoother. More controlled. You always this good or just showing off for me?”

You scoffed, but your cheeks warmed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bradshaw.”

But you let him walk you to your jet anyway.

The night before the mission, nerves gripped your chest like a vice. You sat alone by the lockers, pretending to check your gear again.

Bradley found you.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You good?”

You nodded, not looking up.

“I know this is a lot,” he said, crouching beside you. “But you’ve got this. You’re one of the best.”

You met his eyes. For once, there was no teasing. Just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He reached for your hand. Gave it a squeeze. Just once.

“I’ll be right behind you up there.”

Then came the mission.

The flight was brutal. The G’s hit harder than expected. The enemy response was faster. Maverick’s jet went down. Your heart dropped. You kept flying. You kept breathing.

Then Bradley disappeared from the radar.

You couldn’t hear anything except static and the pounding in your ears. He was gone. Gone.

And then the signal pinged.

IFF response. Emergency code. Alive.

When Maverick and Bradley finally landed back on the aircraft carrier, the deck exploded into applause. Crew swarmed them, voices loud with relief.

You spotted him before he saw you.

His helmet came off. His curls were a mess. There was a scratch down his cheek and his knuckles were bloody.

But he was alive.

“Bradley,” you called, pushing past the crowd.

He turned toward you.

And that was it.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him like you would never let go.

“Congratulations, Bradshaw,” you whispered into his shoulder, voice shaking. “Don’t ever do that again.”

His arms wrapped around you. Tight. Steady.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He pulled back slightly, forehead touching yours. “You worried about me?”