30/12/22: HOLY SHIT BOXER BOB!!! This Is One Of The Best First Chapters I've Ever Read, Everything Was

30/12/22: HOLY SHIT BOXER BOB!!! this is one of the best first chapters i've ever read, everything was do engaging and you gave us enough to want more i need to know how their date went i need to know more about bob and mickey’s relationship and the boxing and maverick and how the stories are all going to connect. i need it ALL. just so good. i think you really nailed his personality, or at least the little bit you showed of him in this chapter. all of bob’s lines were so on character but with an EDGE!!! something a little different, but that FITS!!! anyways i’m so excited for the future parts, you’re incredibly talented!!!

“Bob Floyd liked to think he was a good person.” such an engaging opening line!!!

“But there’s an unrelenting pressure that comes with being a good person. A weight that couldn’t be lifted as he exhausted himself with the idea of what exactly it means to be inherently good.” this is getting so good already!!!

“He gives up his seat on public transportation and has reusable shopping bags so he doesn’t have to use the plastic ones at the grocery store.” of course he does ❤️

“Bob Floyd was a good person. Bob Floyd was a good person until, suddenly, he wasn’t. And it could all be traced back to the first time he ever stepped foot into Sugar Plum Bakery.” the name of the bakery in contrast with the whole atmosphere you’ve created for this is so interesting.

“Hi!” You pop up suddenly, smiling brightly. There’s a smudge of flour on your cheek, stipples of it all over your apron, and Bob's almost certain there’s some in your hair too. “What can I getcha?” and i adore her already.

“You bite your lip, eyes squinting as you appear to be sizing him up. It reminds Bob of his opponents in the ring — though their eyes aren’t nearly as pretty as yours — and it almost makes him laugh.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

“Bob’s eyebrows raise slightly in agreement. “Today’s special, huh? Then I should probably get one of those, shouldn’t I?”

“It’d be sacrilegious not to,” you tease back, a smile growing on your lips.” love this piece of dialogue!!!

AND THE 20% TIP FOR A 5 SECOND CONVERSATION AND AN APPLE TART HE IS THE SWEETEST

“You hand the box to him with that bright smile and — just like every romantic comedy Bob has ever watched with his mom — his heart stutters when your fingers brush.” AND HE WATHES ROMCOMS????? 😭😭😭😭😭❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“Oh?” You turn back to the croissants, pleased with their golden brown color as you move to transfer them to a different tray to bring up front. “And what would you call him?” i also adored this description and her attention to detail in the croissant!!!

“Don’t think it was a cupcake he was hopin’ for,” she looks at you knowingly and you feel slightly flustered at her implication.

He wanted to see you?” i am a puddle on the floor!!!!

“Ball cap guy sticks out like a sore thumb against the few customers in Sugar Plum, a head taller than everyone else even as his head is tilted down to look at his phone.” 😭

AND THEN HE GENUINELY PAYS ATTENTION TO HER RAMBLING ABOUT SWEET PEAS

“That’ll be—”

“What time do you get off?” He blurts suddenly.” I LOVE THIS TROPE!!! IS IT A TROPE??? SPEAKING OVER EACH OTHER IDK BUT I LOVE IT

“You ever think about fighting, Bob?” oh… maverick is RECRUITING???

“Maybe if Bob had done that to the landlord, he’d stop making his mom cry. Maybe if Bob had done that to those preppy college boys, Mickey wouldn’t have to shrug it off with a “People tip pretty good at Charlotte’s anyway”. Maybe if he’d never taken it, and taken it, and taken it, and actually stopped to wonder if maybe he didn’t have to, they wouldn’t have had to take it either.” LOVE THIS LINE

“How much would you pay me?” smart boy!!!

“Because if Adler could come out of it all a good man, Bob could cling to that hope for himself a little longer.” BOB 😭🥺

Do Unto Otters

summary - You should have known to question when Bob suddenly appeared in your bakery and made his place in your life — but, in your defense, his smile was so charming! Five dates in and he’s already swept you off your feet completely with his thoughtful nature and kind heart. But the question still remains: what do you actually know about him? And why does he always come back to you covered in bruises?

warnings - DARK THEMES, boxer au, violence, language, Bob is 6′5″ because I said so, I roasted Mav in this a bit my bad, mentions of violence, “Bob” is kind of a stupid boxer name so I changed it, no use of y/n

this series is 18+, minors please do not interact

word count - 3.5k

please take this as my thank you for 1.5k! I am so so honored that you guys think my stuff is worth reading, it means the world to me. anyway enjoy! - bugs

sweeter than sugar masterlist

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i adore this fic recs Bob 2022 Top gun top gun maverick bob floyd december my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing an incredible character introduction AND analysis for bob i will support every wrongdoing that this man performs from now on bob my beloved OF COURSE HE’S GONNA FALL FOR A BAKER THIS IS PERFECT boxer au might by my new favorite thing? i’ll clean up all their bandages!!! i’ll do it!!!

The Relationship Experience - prologue

read this first - the boyfriend experience

Tugging at the chain around your neck, rationality setting in, you texted Rooster furiously fast. “Bradley N. Bradshaw… your dog tags are right here where you left them,” you said as you typed, hopefully getting his attention before he got too far away, or at least seeing your text before he reported.

Fuck, he texted back simply. That wasn’t good, you realised.

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october fic recs 2022 Top gun top gun maverick rooster bradley bradshaw my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing fake dating is good but REAL DATING IS ABOUT TO BE SO MUCH BETTER!!!!!!!!!! obsessed already more romcom material incoming the dog tags make me go a little insane i’m not gonna lie

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fivsecondsflat

2 years ago

16/09/22: my brain is all tingly i can’t believe this fic actually exists??????? i adore everything about it?????? literally a dream scenario come true that i didn’t even know i wanted/needed?????? i read this a while ago and have been shamelessly rereading it and now i just wanted to highlight my favorite parts because everything is just so perfect, the characters, the atmosphere, THEIR CHEMISTRYYYYYYYYYYYY. MY NEW FAVORITE ROOSTER HE’S RIDICULOUS IN THIS AND I LOVE HIM!!!

“Or we could just watch paint dry.” He mumbles, a testament to how boring of a game he feels that trivial pursuit is.” he’s so stupid see how i’m falling in love with him already?

i love how you star describing their friendship as purely platonic in the beginning and then as the story unfolds you let slip that she’s thought about him before and so has he. so much yearning.

“You wish you invented it. Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had sex in a while, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re sitting on a faux fur rug, in front of a log fire, snow outside and a gorgeous man behind you — but the sound of that groan hits you right between your legs.” or maybe it’s because you like him!!!!!!!

“There had been a few intimate feelings towards Rooster when you had first met him. He’s an attractive guy. It had almost happened. But it hadn’t. There had been this tension in the beginning.” THIS TENSION I SEE IT I FEEL IT!!!

“You’re a very affectionate pair. You had to tone it down last time Rooster had gotten a girlfriend. You understood why she was mad, you would be too. It was a shame she didn’t stick around long — you liked her.” STOP THIS PARAGRAPH IS RIDICULOUS IT’S INSANE AND I LOVE IT.

“After he smacked your head, Rooster brushes his fingers over the top of your hair, brushing it back off of your shoulders. You feel no urge to shrug his off as he trails his fingers along your shoulders. He toys with your hair, curling a loose strand around his finger and unwinding it.” i’m a sucker for physical touch this is doing unspeakable things to me.

“Can I see your tits?” I CANTJAHDHHSHD

“He looks so cozy. Somehow perpetually tanned, cheeks flushed slightly from the warmth of the fire, his hood resting around his shoulders and his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He smiles softly at you.” 🤒🤒🤒🤒🤒🤒🤒

“Are you serious?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him in disbelief. He nods his head, tucking an arm behind it like he’s settling in to watch his favourite movie. He smiles at you, then nods again for you to go ahead.” THE WAY I CAN CLEARLY VISUALIZE HIM JUST LAYING BACK I HATE HIM

“You’re half tempted to tell him no. The other half of you wants to see if he finds you as attractive as you find him.

Just for the validation.” JUST FOR THE VALIDATION!!!!!! I FELT THIS!!!!!! OKAY!!!!!

“His lips part slightly as you lift the sweatshirt up and expose your chest to him. He stays there, propped up on his elbows, that stupid bag of probably thawed out peas still on his knee as he just stares at you. His lips quirk, ever so slightly, like he’s going to smile.” I DON’T KNOW WHY BUT THIS LAST LINE MADE MY BRAIN TWITCH A LITTLE IT’S KIND OF PERFECT IDK!!!

“I think I already crossed that line.” He nods downward. You follow his line of sight to his half-hard cock straining against his grey sweatpants. Damn grey sweatpants. The sluttiest of men’s clothes. You’ve heard that Rooster is well endowed, and you’ve always been curious. You aren’t disappointed by what’s in front of you now.” i am going insane i am throwing up. also: grey sweatpants are indeed the sluttiest of men’s clothes. hilarious and very correct.

“You want him to touch you. In fact, you can’t think of anything else right now worse than denying him. Than denying yourself this.” YES YES YES!!!

“His eyes flicker up to yours as he shifts slightly more upright. It’s then that you realise he’s going to kiss you. Alarm bells. Every brain cell you have is screaming that once those stupid, perfect, pouty lips touch yours — there is no more friendship.” THERE IS NO MORE FRIENDSHIPPPPPPPPPP!!!! AAAAAAAAAA!!!! FEELING ARE LEAKING!!!!!

“You can hear that he wants no part in continuing this game. But if you stop playing now then there’s nothing to do but sit here and think about how badly you want him to fuck you. So many almosts. You can’t take another one.” SO MANY ALMOSTS!!!!! YOU CAN’T TAKE ANOTHER ONE!!!!!!!!!!!! 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

you are absolutely crushing it at the rooster friends to lovers agenda. so so good.

“He rolls a five, then watches as you move his piece. You grab the question card. He trails the pad of his thumb from your jaw to the collar of your sweater. You’ve never played a game of Trivial Pursuit with this much sexual tension before.” FROM YOUR JAW TO THE COLLAR OF YOUR SWEATERRRJDDHCHSHXHSJCHSHCHSHD GOODBYE

“You want him so fucking bad that’s is almost pathetic right now.” *sighs* yeah.

“He reaches out and slides his fingers around the base of your neck. He squeezes softly and strokes his thumb affectionately against the skin of your neck. He guides you back until you’re turned to face him.” SHAKING CRYING THROWING UP I’M ABOUT TO PASS OUT!!!!!!!

“You let out a soft breath now that you’re staring at him. He can tell that you’re doubting this. That you’re starting to overthinking it. That the clock is ticking down quickly before this becomes just another almost.” !!!!!!!!!!!!!! DO SOMETHING YOU IDIOTS!!!!!!!!!

“The realisation strikes that he isn’t wearing underwear for the exact same reason you don’t have a bra on — you refuse to be subjected to such discomfort on a day of promised laziness. He’s made for you.” SOULMATES 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“Aren’t you…” You pull back, breathing hard. It’s like he can’t stand not having his mouth on you. His lips are on your throat the moment they leave your mouth. “Aren’t you kind of incapacitated from the waist down right now?” this is so hot and funny ajxhhshcehchgwgds

“You grind desperately onto him as he sucks a faint purple mark into your skin — just a light one that’ll fade within a couple of hours. Just enough that when he pulls back, he can admire the teeth marks on your skin.” i’m no longer just passing out i’m also passing away.

“Your mind goes blank. Through your clothes. He found it through your fucking clothes.” IT TOOK ME A COUPLE OF SECONDS TO GET IT AND THEN MY JAW DROPPED TO THE FLOOR AND I GASPED!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Fuck, I need to see what I’ve been fucking missing.” He breathes out, tugging at your hips.” STOPSJDHHSHCHSHGATXGSGDYDG

“You stand up to rid yourself of your leggings and socks, embarrassed suddenly that you’re in a skimpy thong in front of your best friend and he’s laying there with one arm tucked behind his head, just smiling.” CUTE!!!!!!!!

“I’m just really excited that I’m winning.” Bradley jokes breathily, nodding towards the game. You have to giggle. His fingers curl around your wrist as he tugs you back down to him again. You lay on top of him this time, your knee resting between his.” HE’S ABSOLUTELY INSUFFERABLE I’M IN LOVE WITH HIM!!!!!!

“Rooster, maybe we should wait until you can move again.”

“Already waited eight years.” He grabs you and kisses you again before you have time to process what he has said. The knowledge that he has wanted you just as badly as you have wanted him creeps into your heart and makes itself at home there.” I WAS WAITING FOR THIS CONFESSIONNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!! EIGHT YEARS!!!!!!!!!!!!

“I can take care of you,” He promises, nudging his nose against the crook of your neck. “Whether I can move or not. I’ve got you.” I CAN TAKE CARE OF YOU I’VE GOT YOU WJDGSGGGWGXHHWDHSGDHSHDSHHDS HE’S SO????????!!!!!$&/&,!/@27):/&

“You slide a hand up into his hair, humming softly as you tug at his curls. You’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“There’s an urgency to this now. You’re in the living room of the lodge, about fifteen feet from the front door. It’s been a couple of hours, everyone will be back soon.” urgency!!!! i love it!!!!!

“That feels good, huh?” Like he already knows that it does. Because it does. All you can do is breathe, soft whimpers spilling from your lips as he works his fingers into you. It feels better than good. You wish you had the words.” I’M GOING TO NEED YOU TO STOP WRITING THINGS LIKE THIS. FOR MY WEALTH.

“Rooster. I’m so close.”

Music to his ears. Truly. He grabs the back of your neck with his free hand and pulls you close, eyes locked on yours as he works his fingers into you with his other hand.” MUSIC TO HIS EARS YOU’RE INSANE FOR THIS!!!!!! INSANE!!!!!! JAIL!!!!

“Look at you,” Rooster coos, half-teasing. You don’t have the words to bite back, breathing hard as you try to steady yourself in your post-climax haze. “Christ, you’re so good. So good.” ENOUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“Bradley pushes himself up onto his elbows and lifts his chin, lustfully hooded eyes looking up at you as he grabs the back of your neck and guides your mouth to his. He kisses you softly, caressing his tongue against yours. His other hand strokes at your hip.” I CAN’T TAKE THIS LITTLE DETAIL THAT HE GRABS HER BY THE NECK ALL THE TIME I’M 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

“Rooster groans, lip between his teeth. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself anymore. Fucking up his leg is worth it. He’d sit through this pain six times a week if it meant he got to experience this as a result.” LOSER I LOVE HIM.

AND THEN A GOOD GIRL DROP????? I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE!!!!!!!!

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You aren’t sure, and you’re glad he can’t see your face because you know he’ll never stop teasing if he knows that your eyes just rolled back in your head. His name pools off your tongue like liquid gold.” AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“Earth shattering. It’s the only way to describe it.” EARTH SHATTERING!!!!!!!

“His hands are all over you, not able to focus on any one thing — not able to touch enough of you at once as he comes.” 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲

“Onomatopoeia.” You say against his throat. You press your lips tiredly to his salty skin.

“Huh?” He clears his throat then swallows, his voice hoarse from moaning your name.

“Onomatopoeia. Literary term for a word describing a sound.” You breathe. He chuckles, his laughter rumbling in his chest and vibrating through you.

“Fuck off.” He scoffs, pushing at your face until you’re barely resting against his shoulder anymore. You smile as you push yourself up, shooting him a playful wink.” STOP THIS IS MY FAVORITE PART!!!!!!! ONOMATOPOEIA!!!!!!!!!

their dynamic is everything!!!!!

“Phoenix would kill us if she knew we fucked on her mother-in-law’s couch.” You whisper, as if it’s suddenly important to keep quiet. Rooster nods his head in agreement as you push yourself up and step into your panties.” yes she would.

“You grab your shirt and hoodie in your hands and sprint for the bathroom, leaving poor, injured Rooster to fend for himself.” I’M CRYING LAUGHING SHE JUST LEFT HIM THERE

“Rooster stares at the ceiling. He can’t believe you ditched him in his hour of need, with his pants literally around his ankles.” loser ❤️‍🩹

“Where’s your nurse?” Coyote teases, following right behind Jake. Bradley is reminded of your betrayal.” COYOTE MY BFF WITH THE TEASING!!! THANK YOU!!!

“Your eyes meet his. Rooster smiles softly, it’s a sweet enough look. But something in those pretty, brown eyes says you’re going to get it once I can walk again.” AND THEN YOU END IT LIKE THISSSSSSSJSHCHSHCHSHHXHSDH

the brainrot is so real. i’ve been thinking about this story nonstop since i read it. i told you i would eventually reblog with my highlights, i’m sorry it took me so long :( if there’s ever going to be a part 2 so we see her GET IT ONCE HE CAN WALK AGAIN PLEASE LET ME KNOW I WOULD READ A WHOLE BOOK ABOUT THESE 2 YOUR WRITING IS FANTASTIC!!!

Pursuit | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader (18+)

Synopsis: Two days into a group ski trip and Rooster has torn his ACL and is stuck on the couch, feeling sorry for himself. Someone has to stay back and take care of him — lucky you. Rooster hates trivial pursuit, and takes this as his opportunity to turn your friendship into something more.

Warnings: pwp, pinv, unprotected sex (make good decisions)

…

“You must think I’m an idiot.” Bradley mumbles as you fiddle through the board games under the book shelf. You glance back at him over your shoulder, and laugh. For his sake, you shake your head.

There are times in your friendship, more often than not, where it’s appropriate to make fun of him. This isn’t one of these times. Rooster’s feeling pretty sorry for himself right now, and he doesn’t need any salt on his wounds.

He does look pretty ridiculous, though. He’s stretched out along the sofa, a bag of frozen peas on his knee and a compression bandage under that. Wearing sweatpants that are a size too big to allow for the swelling, and a sweater that’s a size too big because that’s how he likes his sweaters to fit.

It’s day two of your week long trip to the mountains with your closest friends. This was what you had been most excited about when Phoenix had told you she was marrying Dani. Dani’s family had an incredible lodge up in the Rockies.

For Phoenix’s birthday this year, she invited you and your closest friends up to the lodge. Everyone else is out on the mountain right now. You’re sitting in the living room with Rooster, trying to find something that’ll make the time pass.

Yesterday, on the first day of the trip, Rooster was being Rooster and Hangman was being Hangman. Rooster — who had never been snowboarding in his life before this week — wanted to keep up with Hangman, who has spent a month in Aspen each winter since he was six.

Now, he’s on strict bed-rest (well, couch rest) and will be for the next two days. Feeling sorry for himself with a pulled hamstring and a torn ACL. Considering that he can’t move from the couch without support, someone had to stay back and take care of him. Today, it’s you.

“Could’ve happened to anyone.” You soothe. Anyone that tried to go down a red slope on their first day on a board. Bradley tucks one arm behind his head as he watches you rummage through the variety of old board games.

It’s snowing pretty hard outside and has been since you arrived. Kind of foggy too. Not exactly ideal conditions for someone who has spent maybe thirty days of his entire life in the snow to learn how to board. Especially not when he’s surrounded by already fairly proficient boarders.

“Oh — Trivial Pursuit!” You gasp, tugging the box out from under the monopoly and dusting it off. Rooster groans and leans his head back against the arm rest.

“Or we could just watch paint dry.” He mumbles, a testament to how boring of a game he feels that trivial pursuit is.

“Shut up. I love this game,” You push yourself up and walk over to the couch, setting the box down on the coffee table. You sit down on the floor with your back to the edge of the couch. “And it’s your fault we’re stuck in here so it’s only fair that I pick the game.”

“Yay.” Bradley says dryly.

You lift the lid off of the box and set it to the side.

“Could we at least get drunk while we play?”

You muse with the idea for a moment and shrug. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. You take the box and press it into his hands, “Fine. You set up. I’ll make us some drinks.”

Rooster has to grit his teeth as he pushes himself somewhat upright and cranes his torso forward to set the game up on the coffee table.

You have to take a moment to watch in amusement as he struggles to set the game up. You love that idiot. He’s been one of your best friends for going on eight years now. You’ve been on a couple trips together, countless missions — you’ve become great friends. Which is why you don’t mind caring for him while he’s in pain.

He helped you out when you dislocated your shoulder at Hangman’s pool party that one time. It’s only fair.

You pad dutifully to the kitchen, ready to embrace the carer role to its fullest extent. Maybe a good nurse wouldn’t have topped the hot chocolates up with a little too much Baileys — but you know Rooster, he’d prefer it this way.

“This is incredible.” Rooster groans as he settles back comfortably against the coach and warms his hands around the mug. It’s already plenty warm in the living room with the fire that Bob got going before everyone headed out about an hour ago.

You settle down onto the floor, pleased to find that Rooster has actually set the game up correctly.

“The person who invented this combo deserves the best head.” He adds, letting out another groan of pleasure as he takes another sip.

You wish you invented it. Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had sex in a while, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re sitting on a faux fur rug, in front of a log fire, snow outside and a gorgeous man behind you — but the sound of that groan hits you right between your legs.

Your eyes widen slightly.

There had been a few intimate feelings towards Rooster when you had first met him. He’s an attractive guy. It had almost happened. But it hadn’t. There had been this tension in the beginning.

There were so many almosts. So many almosts that you had just given up. Clearly the universe was giving you a sign that it wasn’t supposed to happen. You had stopped trying to make it, and fallen platonically head over heels for Bradley Bradshaw.

You had been comfortable as just friends for a long time now. But shit, does that guy sound pretty when he moans. You scold yourself for things like this regularly. You shouldn’t think that your best friend sounds pretty moaning.

“Alright. I’m going first.” You decide, feeling the need to quickly change the subject.

“Aren’t we supposed to roll to decid-“

“It was my idea, I’m going first.” You insist.

“I’m injured — I should go first.”

You end up going first. You smirk as you shake the dice in your hand. He swats playfully at the back of your head.

This is how you have always showed affection. Gentle bullying. You’re a very affectionate pair. You had to tone it down last time Rooster had gotten a girlfriend. You understood why she was mad, you would be too. It was a shame she didn’t stick around long — you liked her.

Since then, you had been a bit less open with touching each other. Especially around others. People thought your playfulness was sometimes flirting. Of course, it wasn’t. You didn’t let yourself do that anymore.

After he smacked your head, Rooster brushes his fingers over the top of your hair, brushing it back off of your shoulders. You feel no urge to shrug his off as he trails his fingers along your shoulders. He toys with your hair, curling a loose strand around his finger and unwinding it.

“You have to ask me the purple question.” You pass him back a question card without looking at it. There’s a disappointment that fills you as his hand leaves your hair. He sighs softly and lifts the card.

He chuckles the moment he reads it. “How many movies did Sean Connery play James Bond in?” He asks. Bradley knows for a fact that you don’t know the answer to this question because you’ve consistently refused to watch any of the James Bond movies with him for as long as he’s known you.

“Mm… seven?”

“Lucky guess.” Bradley mumbles. He hits the back of your head again. ‘Accidentally’, as he’s passing the card back to you.

You turn and bite his leg. You’ve always had a very playful friendship. You bite his shoulders, his hands — whatever’s in your way or within your reach when the necessity strikes. Now, it’s his thigh.

He flinches, then stills. It’s only once you’re pressing your teeth into his thigh, looking up at him, that you realise how compromising of a position you’re in.

He’s wearing grey sweatpants. Your eyes flicker down and you know exactly where his dick is under the material. Luckily, it’s resting against the other thigh. His lip has quirked when you look back up at him.

You withdraw quickly. Turning and taking a large gulp of your hot chocolate before picking up the dice again. You got your question correct, you get to keep rolling. You make an eight question winning streak. Rooster finishes his hot chocolate before it’s even his first turn.

“Could I have another one?” He asks you, resting his empty mug on your shoulder like he’s going to leave it there to fall on you. You sigh, dramatically, as you push yourself to your feet. You finish off yours and nod, heading for the kitchen once more.

“Fine. But if you need to pee then I’m not holding it.” You answer back.

“My leg is fucked, my hands work just fine. You just like thinking about my dick in your hands.” He calls to you. You’re glad you’re in the kitchen where he can’t see the way that unnerves you. You bite your cheek and go about making each of you another drink.

Rooster has to lean forward to roll the dice on the table. He really can’t move much. Any movement on his knee still really hurts.

“Thanks, honey.” He smiles sweetly and purses his lips like he’s going to blow you a kiss as you hand him a drink that’s almost as much liqueur as it is hot chocolate. Just the way he likes it.

“No problem, princess.” You answer back, settling back in on the floor and grabbing a question card as you sip at your own.

One of Rooster’s primary issues with Trivial Pursuit, is the length of time it takes. He makes a ten question correct streak before it’s your turn again. Two hours and three more drinks later, Rooster is tired of questions.

He’s barely lifting his head as you tell him what to do. Roll. Ask me the blue question. Answer the red question. Roll again.

He’s staring at the wooden beams above his head. The architecture really is beautiful in this place. So is the mountain, and there’s a great view of it from the living room but he still would rather be out there, rather than stuck in here like an idiot.

He drums his fingers on his stomach and looks towards the book case. His eyes scan over the other board games over there. Looking for something else. Anything better than this. Nothing that he can stand to spend another three hours doing.

He’s bored.

“Okay, ask me purple.” You hand him another question card. He sighs softly as he takes it. Even reading the question takes too much effort at this point. He looks at you. You’re facing the board, your back to him as you wait to get another question correct.

Rooster looks towards the fireplace, watching the flames crackle and rise. Then he looks towards you again. A thought crosses his mind and he squashes it instantly, then hesitates. No harm in asking.

“Can I see your tits?”

You turn, dice still in hand, and blink at him. He’s looking back at you like he had just asked you how your day was going. Like that was the most normal thing in the world to ask his best friend of eight years.

“It would make me feel a lot better.” He adds. Your lip quirks slightly at the fact that he’s playing the sick card. You aren’t sure how boobs cure knee pain, but you know that at this point in your friendship, questioning Rooster’s strange brain is pointless.

He looks so cozy. Somehow perpetually tanned, cheeks flushed slightly from the warmth of the fire, his hood resting around his shoulders and his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He smiles softly at you.

“You’re such a teenager.” You scoff. Humour is the only way you know how to handle this. You still aren’t quite sure if he’s fucking with you.

“Please? — I’m bored, I need something to help me refocus.” Rooster smiles. Fuck, he’s so pretty. You shift slightly, half turning to face him and resting your elbow on the couch cushion. You scrunch your brows at him, trying to suss him out.

You’ve known him for long enough now to know that he’s serious.

You debate it. Debate just nut-tapping him and calling him a pervert. But it really is just your boobs. He’s seen you in a bikini a hundred times. Seen you in some pretty risky clothes when you’ve gone out drinking together. You know he knows what your boobs look like — what difference does it make for him to have also seen your nipple?

He’s watching you expectantly.

“Just for a second.” You agree.

“Seriously?” He wasn’t expecting you to say yes. Honestly you were expecting to try to hit him in the nuts. He pushes himself up onto his elbows. You’re half tempted to tell him no. The other half of you wants to see if he finds you as attractive as you find him.

Just for the validation.

You shrug your shoulders at him, twisting yourself up onto your knees. You grab the bottom of your sweatshirt, watching his eyebrows lift in anticipation.

There’s a split second where you hesitate. Sure, he’s your best friend. But after this, he’ll just be you best friend who has seen your tits. You think about it as he stares expectantly at you, still pushed up onto his elbows. Lots of your girl best friends have seen your tits — it makes sense that he would too. Fuck it.

You lift your sweatshirt and the loose fitting t-shirt that you’re still wearing under it. You’ve forgone a bra, considering that the plan was just to sit beside Rooster all day and make sure he didn’t die of boredom.

His lips part slightly as you lift the sweatshirt up and expose your chest to him. He stays there, propped up on his elbows, that stupid bag of probably thawed out peas still on his knee as he just stares at you. His lips quirk, ever so slightly, like he’s going to smile.

Every time you get drunk, you’re possessed by this overwhelming urge to tell Rooster what gorgeous eyes he has. It’s not your fault that he looks like the prettiest thing in the entire world when he’s blinking at your with those big brown eyes. You watch those pretty eyes now.

Men amaze you. He’s truly so mesmerised by what’s before him. You give him a while to just stare. Maybe twenty seconds. It certainly feels like longer. Then your cheeks are starting to redden. You scrunch your nose, feeling suddenly anxious by his lack of reaction.

“Say something, you freak.” You demand. Yet, you don’t drop your sweatshirt back down. Rooster’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He swallows and lifts his eyes to finally look at your face.

“Can I touch them?” His voice is low, serious. His gaze flickers back down for a moment before he reminds himself to be respectful and looks back to your face.

You purse your lips.

“Mm… don’t you think that would be crossing a line?” You ask gently. This is not only your best friend, but also your wingman. You have to go to work with him after all of this.

You want him to touch you. In fact, you can’t think of anything else right now worse than denying him. Than denying yourself this.

“Just for a second.” You agree once more. You can’t pretend you don’t want him to touch you. He scoots over to make room for you to sit on the edge of the couch cushion. Your ass is half hanging off of it when you sit.

“You could just… it would be easier.” Rooster gestures for you to straddle him. You take one more look at the bulge in his sweatpants.

“I think that would be too far.” Truthfully, you don’t think you have the necessary self-restraint to be sitting on his dick and not take this far enough to ruin your friendship.

Rooster nods. You lift your sweatshirt once more. He lets out a soft breath. This time you notice his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat.

He reaches out tenderly, hand cupping your left breast. He squeezes softly, swipes his thumb delicately over your nipple, then brings his other hand up to cup your other breast.

He groans softly, just like he did when he first tasted his hot chocolate, kneading your breasts in his hands. Bradley’s lips quirk up into a soft smile, content for the first time all day.

His eyes flicker up to yours as he shifts slightly more upright. It’s then that you realise he’s going to kiss you. Alarm bells. Every brain cell you have is screaming that once those stupid, perfect, pouty lips touch yours — there is no more friendship.

In the interest of preserving the relationship with the best friend that you’ve ever had, you drop your sweatshirt and move away from him to sit on the floor again. Bradley adjusts himself against his sweatpants. You don’t see him frown.

“It’s your turn to ask me a question.” You announce, handing him a card without looking at him. He takes the card and settles back against the couch with a soft sigh, then clears his throat.

You can hear that he wants no part in continuing this game. But if you stop playing now then there’s nothing to do but sit here and think about how badly you want him to fuck you. So many almosts. You can’t take another one.

“Red. Okay. Uh… how many years did it take Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel?” In Rooster’s defence, you can hear him trying to hide his bored he is for your sake. Still, you don’t turn to face him.

“Six.”

“Four.” He corrects you. He tosses the card back onto the coffee table and gently strokes your hair back off of your shoulder. You hand him the dice without meeting his gaze.

He sighs softly, toying with the dice for a moment. He shifts a little. Adjusts his half-hard cock. Looks down at the board. Thinks about how much longer this is going to take.

He rolls a five, then watches as you move his piece. You grab the question card. He trails the pad of his thumb from your jaw to the collar of your sweater. You’ve never played a game of Trivial Pursuit with this much sexual tension before.

“W-What is the literary term for a word describing a sound?”

“I truly couldn’t care less if I tried.” Rooster admits. After all, honesty is the best policy. You can’t turn to look at him. You don’t have the restraint. You want him so fucking bad that’s is almost pathetic right now.

So, you sit and wait patiently for him to just spit out the fucking word onomatopoeia. Just answer the question, Rooster.

He reaches out and slides his fingers around the base of your neck. He squeezes softly and strokes his thumb affectionately against the skin of your neck. He guides you back until you’re turned to face him.

He looks at you, his eyes hungry with lust, the intensity in those pretty, brown eyes sending shivers up your spine.

You let out a soft breath now that you’re staring at him. He can tell that you’re doubting this. That you’re starting to overthinking it. That the clock is ticking down quickly before this becomes just another almost.

He leans quickly forwards and captures your mouth in a kiss. Before you have a chance to freak out. You melt against him. Again, he groans, this time into your mouth. The sound vibrates through you and propels you into his arms.

You push up and swing one leg over his hips, straddling him without breaking the kiss. You take extra care to settle in delicately against him, not wanting to worsen his injury. He slips his tongue into your mouth, holding you against him with his hand on the back of your neck.

From here, you can feel just how hard he is. Rock hard and pressing into you. You grind down ever so slightly, feeling the tip of his cock graze you. The realisation strikes that he isn’t wearing underwear for the exact same reason you don’t have a bra on — you refuse to be subjected to such discomfort on a day of promised laziness. He’s made for you.

“Don’t worry about it.” His hands are already slipping under your sweater, pushing it up your torso. You lift your arms up obediently and let him strip you of your hoodie and t-shirt. “Fuck me, you’re perfect.”

You can’t pretend that that compliment didn’t go straight to your head. Your ego is inflated and you’re suddenly feeling much more confident about this encounter.

He lifts his head and kisses your shoulder, both hands sliding up your torso and grabbing at your tits. Rooster groans, peppering soft kisses along your skin. You’ve always wondered what that stupid moustache would feel like against your skin. The answer is that it’s actually surprisingly pleasant. It tickles just enough to make you shiver but not enough to be irritating.

Rooster wraps his lip around your nipple, pinching the other between his fingers, making you gasp softly. His tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, pulling away, grazing his teeth just lightly over the tender flesh. He watches your head roll back. He groans more urgently this time, squeezing your tits in his hands as he turns his attention to the other nipple.

The line has been well and truly crossed already. There’s no way you can look him in his stupid, beautiful eyes again and pretend that he didn’t have you soaking through your panties with just his mouth on your tits.

You grind down against his cock, moaning softly at the friction. Your thin pair of leggings and his sweatpants don’t separate much. You can feel exactly how rock hard he is. You grind desperately onto him as he sucks a faint purple mark into your skin — just a light one that’ll fade within a couple of hours. Just enough that when he pulls back, he can admire the teeth marks on your skin.

His hands find your hips as he guides you, he presses his good leg down and uses the leverage to drive his cock up against your core. He pauses, holding you still, rocking the tip of his cock against your clit through your clothes. Your mind goes blank. Through your clothes. He found it through your fucking clothes.

You’re rocking your hips, grinding desperately against him through your clothes. He groans, taking just a moment to rake his eyes over your shirtless body, skimming his fingertips along your side.

“Fuck, I need to see what I’ve been fucking missing.” He breathes out, tugging at your hips. He slaps your ass, lifting his head and kissing you hard. You moan into his mouth. Your fingers slide down his chest, pushing under the hoodie, sliding it up his chest. He has to sit slightly, grabbing a fistful of fabric from behind his head and tugging it off.

It’s more than warm enough. The fire and your body heat is more than making up for the snow outside.

You stand up to rid yourself of your leggings and socks, embarrassed suddenly that you’re in a skimpy thong in front of your best friend and he’s laying there with one arm tucked behind his head, just smiling.

He shifts his hips slightly to get comfy. Your eyes fall down to the straining bulge in his sweats. Your lips part slightly. He brushes his palm over his cock, adjusting it slightly to ease his discomfort.

His hand grabs at the back of your neck as he guides your mouth against his, his tongue curling into yours. He pushes his hips against yours.

You’re both shifting, the couch is a little too small for both of you to fit comfortably. Your foot knocks his leg just slightly. He gasps, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He takes a moment, then let’s out a strained breath.

“Oh shit — I’m sorry.” You gasp, sitting up quickly to make sure he’s okay. He grabs the bag of peas digging into his side and tosses it across the room. You look down at his bandaged knee, brows scrunching. “Rooster, maybe we should wait until you can move again.”

Your ego really can’t take much more of this, you’re going to be insufferable if he continues with all of this flattery. But equally, you don’t want him to stop.

“I can take care of you,” He promises, nudging his nose against the crook of your neck. “Whether I can move or not. I’ve got you.”

You can’t resist. Your hand wraps around his cock over the soft jersey material, palming over his length as his tongue caresses yours. His hand slides between your bodies and nudges your panties to the side.

“You’re fucking soaked.” He murmurs. You roll your hips against his fingers.

“You’re fucking huge.” You reply. He smiles against your lips. He pushes harder against your hand, trailing his fingertips between your folds. You slide a hand up into his hair, humming softly as you tug at his curls. You’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.

He grabs your leg and adjusts your position to give him easier access to your pussy, slipping a finger into you. You hmm softly, tugging at his curls again. He groans into your mouth. His ring finger slides into you alongside his middle. He curls them both into you.

You feel his cock twitch in your palm as your walls clench around his fingers. There’s an urgency to this now. You’re in the living room of the lodge, about fifteen feet from the front door. It’s been a couple of hours, everyone will be back soon.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, rocking yourself down onto his fingers. Excitement pools in your stomach as you fall forward slightly, bracing yourself onto his shoulder.

All Rooster can think about is that one time he was so drunk that you tried to do the nice thing and let him sleep in your bed. The plan was for you to take the couch. But then he had been so heavy, and so uncooperative — literally dead weight — that you had just left him curled up on the floor in your room.

He’d woken up the next morning while you were in the shower. The soft moans spilling from behind the bathroom door. The two of you had been completely alone in your place. He’d thought of those sweet sounds of you touching yourself constantly since then.

You sound even better now that he’s touching you. He groans softly against your lips, he’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

“Ah… fuck.” You sigh contentedly, swallowing hard. “Rooster. I’m so close.”

Music to his ears. Truly. He grabs the back of your neck with his free hand and pulls you close, eyes locked on yours as he works his fingers into you with his other hand.

If this is him injured, you’re mad at yourself for denying yourself all of him for all this time. You don’t have much time to be mad at yourself.

Your head lulls back, muscles tensing, fingers curling around his shoulder tightly. You’re whimpering, moaning, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“Look at you,” Rooster coos, half-teasing. You don’t have the words to bite back, breathing hard as you try to steady yourself in your post-climax haze. “Christ, you’re so good. So good.”

You can’t wait any longer. The moment your world stops spinning, you push at the waistband of his sweats. He obliges, pulling his fingers from you and pushing the sweats down to his shins. You can see the discomfort on his face. The pain he’s trying not to let you see.

“Rooster…” You frown.

He shakes his head, “I’m fine. Seriously. Doesn’t even hurt.” Actually, his leg is throbbing because it hurts so bad. But, his cock is throbbing too and he knows which one he’s more likely to listen to. You wish you had the strength to argue with him.

You shimmy out of your panties and lean down to kiss him. Your hands held his shoulders as his own squeezed softly at your ass, then grabbed his cock in one hand. He lined himself up with you as you dripped in wetness. His eyes meet yours as you rocked yourself against his tip.

Rooster shivers, even with the heat from the fire. He grabs your thighs with both hands, raking his nails against your skin. A muscle in his jaw ticks.

“So, you don’t want me to make you feel all better?” You tease. Voice soft and feigning concern. You even bat your lashes and squeeze your tits together for him. Then, you sink your hips down slightly, letting his tip nose at your entrance before you lift away again.

Rooster swallows. He manages to nod his head as his hands find your hips. Those pretty brown eyes look up at you, expectant and eager. His hands squeeze around your hips. Your grind yourself along his length, just letting him feel how worked up he’s got you.

“Fuck, of course I do.” Rooster rushes out, his hands finding your hips, giving the skin a firm squeeze. He ruts his cock against you, grinding it against your clit.

You slowly sink down on him, taking in his tip. A soft squeak slips your lips. He squeezes softly at your thighs again. His eyes shut, preventing himself from grabbing your hips and forcing you down to take him in all at once.

Bradley pushes himself up onto his elbows and lifts his chin, lustfully hooded eyes looking up at you as he grabs the back of your neck and guides your mouth to his. He kisses you softly, caressing his tongue against yours. His other hand strokes at your hip.

“You alright?” He whispers against your lips. You have to grab his shoulder tighter, worried for a moment that the sound of his voice alone might send you over the edge. You’re still, just hovering there, with him just barely inside of you.

“Mhm.” You breathe back, resting your chest against his as you sink the rest of the way onto his length. Rooster grabs your hips with both hands and pulls you tight against him, driving himself as deep as he possibly can.

You hit his shoulder, then grab his chin. His brows furrow slightly, confused as you lean in and look him in the eye.

“Hey. Let me.” You demand. He loosens his grip on your hips, smirking softly as he nods for you to do exactly that.

You lift yourself just slightly, rocking back down once again, finding a soft rhythm. Sinking up and down on his length. More full than you’ve ever felt. Head lulled back.

The pain of him stretching you out soon fades. Rooster feels it when it happens. Feels you relax, your walls fluttering around his cock. Each bounce filling you with strong surges of pleasure. You pick up speed, your bodies sloppily colliding.

Sounds of your breathless pleasure filling the empty lodge. Maybe even the forest outside. You couldn’t care less at this moment in time.

You arch your back, grabbing onto his thigh for support as you fuck yourself on him. He squeezes softly at your hips, sliding his hands down to your ass instead. Trying to take a backseat and give you full control.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He groans, throwing his head back against the cushioned arm of the couch. Rooster’s brows knot together, his eyes fluttering shut. Your palms rest against his chest, unashamedly checking him out while he isn’t looking.

You set the pace, taking care of him exactly like you promised to. Fucking your self on his cock, moaning his name like a pornstar. Rooster groans, lip between his teeth. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself anymore. Fucking up his leg is worth it. He’d sit through this pain six times a week if it meant he got to experience this as a result.

His cock twitches, you feel him squeeze your hips tight and slow your pace. He whimpers softly, lifting his head and taking your nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue expertly against the sensitive bud.

His hands grip hard at your ass, pulling you towards him as he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers. He growls lowly, shifting his hips, changing the angle. Letting his cock hit your g-spot each time you come down on him.

Your desperate moans fill the air, mixed with each of his soft grunts. The sounds of your pleasure make him twitch inside you. There’s nothing he loves more than knowing how good he makes you feel.

“‘M not gonna last. You feel so fucking good.” He pants, fingers pressing so hard into your hips that forensics might be able to take a fingerprint sample from your skin later.

“I’m almost there,” You pant, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He smacks your ass, half-playfully, guiding your hips as you ride him. He presses his heel into the couch and drives his hips up into you as you’re coming back down on him. Just once.

You cry out, then gasp in. He took his lip between his teeth, grabbing both of your hips, guiding you as you bounced on his cock, his eyes on your face as your brow furrowed in pleasure. His eyes glance down to your tits, watching contentedly as they bounce.

“You’re so beautiful,” He groans out, breathing hard. “Look so fucking pretty when you’re all full like this.”

“Yeah?” You breathe out, lifting your hips until his tip is the only thing filling you, then sinking down until he’s nestled fully inside of you, grinding your hips down against him.

“Fuck. Yeah.” Rooster grabs your hips. “Wanna fuck you. Gonna take it like a good girl for me?” You crash your lips hard against his, nodding feverishly.

His hands slide down to your ass, his palm connecting hard with your right cheek, then squeezing at the soft skin with both hands. He presses his heel into the couch for leverage, mouth falling down to kiss at your chest as he fucks into you from below.

You grab onto his shoulders. You take him perfectly, your walls squeezing around his cock as he pounds into you. You fall against his chest, moaning desperately into the crook of his neck as his cock drives into you.

His hands squeeze at your ass, smacking at your cheek, groaning breathlessly.

“I’m gonna — I’m-“ You can’t manage real words right now. He grabs a handful of your hair and tugs as his other arm tucks around your waist and keeps you steady as he pounds into you.

Earth shattering. It’s the only way to describe it. His soft groans in your ear as he fucks you through potentially the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. Toes curling, eyes shutting, voice faltering. You’re glad you fell against his chest before, because you know you would have outright collapsed if you hadn’t already.

You’re clenching around him, kissing lazily at his neck and whimpering as your sensitive pussy contracts around him.

In a loud groan, you felt him begin to spill into you. You mewled over him, your legs shaking as he kept his speed, his cock sending spurts of hot liquid into you. You whimper as his cock pulses inside of you.

His hands are all over you, not able to focus on any one thing — not able to touch enough of you at once as he comes. Your name spills desperately from his lips as he gives one last, deep spill into you. His thrusts falter, slowing until they stop all together.

He holds you there, against his chest, his cock still in you, until you’ve both caught your breaths. He kisses your temple softly.

“Onomatopoeia.” You say against his throat. You press your lips tiredly to his salty skin.

“Huh?” He clears his throat then swallows, his voice hoarse from moaning your name.

“Onomatopoeia. Literary term for a word describing a sound.” You breathe. He chuckles, his laughter rumbling in his chest and vibrating through you.

“Fuck off.” He scoffs, pushing at your face until you’re barely resting against his shoulder anymore. You smile as you push yourself up, shooting him a playful wink.

You both groan softly as you lift your hips and let him slip out of you. Both of you look down at the cum that drips onto his pelvis as you lift off of him.

“Could you grab me some tissue?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right-“ Your leggings are halfway up your legs, your top half still completely bare when you’re silenced by the sound of a car door slamming. Your eyes go wide.

You grab your shirt and hoodie in your hands and sprint for the bathroom, leaving poor, injured Rooster to fend for himself.

“Wait — where the fuck are you- dammit.” He struggles back into his sweats and rushes his hoodie back over his head. The door to the downstairs bathroom locks behind you. You can’t face your closest friends right now.

Luckily, there’s plenty of gear to get out of the car. They take a good couple of minutes. Rooster stares at the ceiling. He can’t believe you ditched him in his hour of need, with his pants literally around his ankles.

That reminds him, he fixes the compression bandage on top of his sweats that had gotten all messed up during the rush.

“Bradshaw, how’s the knee?” Hangman calls as he swings through the front door, carrying two boards over his shoulder. Rooster pushes himself up on his elbows and peers towards the door over the back of the couch.

“I’m — Yeah. It’s the same.” He calls back.

“Where’s your nurse?” Coyote teases, following right behind Jake. Bradley is reminded of your betrayal.

“Peeing, I think.” Rooster answers. Phoenix and Dani head in. Then Bob and Payback. Then Fanboy, who’s not carrying anything. Mickey walks around and shrugs his coat off, tossing it onto the arm chair.

He looks at Rooster and scrunches his brows, then looks towards the fireplace. “You want me to put that fire out? — You look kinda warm.” Fanboy offers. The sweat beading on Rooster’s forehead gives him away, but Mickey doesn’t suspect anything.

Rooster presses the back of his palm to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered. He nods his head gratefully. The door to the bathroom unlocks and you step back out, dressed, composed.

Your eyes meet his. Rooster smiles softly, it’s a sweet enough look. But something in those pretty, brown eyes says you’re going to get it once I can walk again.

…

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Tags

fic recs 2022 Top gun top gun maverick rooster september bradley bradshaw physical touch my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing literally the worst brainrot ever i think about this fic 3x a day rooster my friends to lovers beloved he’s a loser and i’m in love with him need a part 2 it’s a matter of life and death lighting in a bottle insane writing so much chemistry so much tension

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fivsecondsflat

2 years ago

27/08/2022: MY HEART WILL NEVER FULLY RECOVER FOR THIS!!! i don’t have the words to truly describe what reading this felt like. all i know is that i felt EVERYTHING. so well written, so heart clenching, so sweet and bittersweet at the same time. sol, you have bewitched me body and soul!!! here are my favorite parts of this beautiful story and my stupid commentary because i just can’t help myself:

“This is not a date.” WINNER FOR BEST OPENING LINE.

“You pull out the giant legal notepad you stole from your dad’s study and your favorite ten color shuttle pen, then push down the lever for dark blue ink - for your more serious projects.” i fell in love with her right here!!!

“It’s weird - you’re not used to people being interested in what you have to say.

It’s nice.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“- You want to be friends so I’ll cheer on you at games and tutor you for free?” you interrupt, narrowing your gaze.

But despite your tone being riddled with annoyance, despite the glare you’re now sending his way, Jake sends you an easy smile, serving himself another slice. “Nah, you just seem pretty cool.” THIS WAS SO SWEET????? one would expect high school jake to be just as much an asshole as he is but then you go and make him a sweetheart?????? <3

“Suddenly, Jake’s laughter flows into your ear. “‘Never back down’?” he quotes through a wheeze, and you hold back a smile, this time letting yourself feel the butterflies that come alive in your stomach at the sound of his voice.” the way i’m in love with them already. of course he was gonna teaser her.

“Jake visibly relaxes, almost looking grateful. The foot tapping stops, and he pulls his hand away from his mouth to sling an arm around the booth and send you a signature Jake Seresin smirk.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“- I swear, I’ll break your nose again with one later - ”

“With your aim? Please,” he scoffs, a goofy smile breaking the moment he makes eye contact with you.” I LOVE THE WAY THEY INTERACT!!!!!! BELOVEDS!!!!!!!

“You’ve really gotta stop biting your nails, Jake,” you tease, hoping it’ll relieve some of the tensions that somehow returned, and he rolls his eyes. “If you want to keep your mouth occupied -”

“- You offering? I tell you, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it -”

“Shut up,” you snipe, feeling the heat rush into your cheeks at the suggestion. You shake off your embarrassment.” YOU OFFERTING???? AND THEN HE DARES SAY HE’S THOUGHT ABOUT IT. STOP.

“How about toothpicks?” SHUT UPPPPPPPPPPPPPP FAVORITE DETAIL BECAUSE I ALREADY KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING!!!!!!!!

“Thanks for putting up with me for two years,” he tells you seriously. And you shake your head with a smile, can sense the emotions well up in your eyes, feel your heart beating faster.” they’re the sweetest ever!!!!!

“- You should’ve seen him during basic - had all these things pinned up on his wall, always reading your letters at breakfast with a puppy dog face. Honestly thought you were his sweetheart or something- Ow!” BOY OBSESSED!!!!!! AND HE DOESN’T EVEN REALIZE IT!!!!!!!

“Yeah, Hangman. Which is stupid, because he honestly sucks at the game -”

“- I don’t,” Jake hotly defends, sits up in his seat and crooks an accusatory finger in your direction. “You’re the one that does weird ass long words. No one’s gonna guess - what was it? Gerrymandering?” yes. she does long ass words and jake does short ones.

“Hey sweetheart,” you hear Jake say and your heart skips a beat, a smile forming at the familiar name as you press send on your message. Your surging warmth is immediately extinguished as you look up from your phone and see that Jake’s not speaking to you at all, not even looking your way. Instead, he’s shifted his entire body to face a gorgeous woman who’s stopped by your booth and is currently looking at him with a sweet smile.” IF YOU COULD SEE THE SMILE FADING FROM MY FACE!!!!!! IF YOU ONLY COULD SEE ME DEFLATING!!!!! this was cruellllllllllll.

“There’s just the tiniest whisper of anxiety that wonders if there’s something wrong with you for rarely engaging in hookup culture, for not feeling comfortable enough to have meaningless flings. The one time you took a step out of your comfort zone and hooked up with a stranger, your walk of shame felt like a daze - inside, you were empty, despondent. A part of you envies Imani and the mysterious Priya for being able to cast aside their emotions so easily, fall into bed with a stranger, step out the next morning without feeling like they’re missing a part of themself.” ouch. felt this one really deep in my soul. the way you put this feeling into words… yeah.

“And now, your feelings just sit with you, tethering you to the impossible dream of knowing Jake as so much more.” SOBBING.

“All this to say, you can’t be angry with Jake or any of these women. It’s not a crime for him to want to sleep around. You just wish you had the courage to tell him it’s not entirely victimless.” IT’S NOT ENTIRELY VICTIMLESS!!!!!!!!!! BREAK MY HEART!!!!!!

“There’s quite a few girls back home who’d be shattered to hear this,” you tease instead, ignoring the way your stomach is dropping low, the way your appetizer is slowly creeping up your esophagus.” i love how you wrote this it’s breaking my heart but i love it.

“You’ll always be my number one girl, though.” and then he says this??????????? BUT SHE REALLY LIKES HIM AND HE DOESN’T KNOW AND IT HURTS-

THEIR 10TH ANNIVERSARY I’M CRYING YOU GUYS ARE PRATICALLY MARRIED AT THIS POINT FOR CELEBRATING STUPID “FRIENDSHIP” ANNIVERSARIES THIS IS RIDICULOUS SOMEONE PLEASE TELL THEM THEY ARE IN LOVE.

“The moment you stepped outside of your building to meet him, he’d rushed to lift you in a giant bear hug, like no time apart had even passed. And the whole night, the two of you chat about anything and everything- he fills you in on his assignment and about something he’s gunning for called Top Gun, and you tell him about an upcoming project covering creative renewal in Beirut - you both nod along as best as you can while the other speaks.” i love the little detail about both of them nodding along as best as they can!!!! for encouragement!!!! they love each other and they wanna listen to what the other has to say!!!!!

“The wine you had with dinner has loosened up your movements - typically, you have to move through the city streets with big strides and purpose - like you’ve got somewhere to be and you’re already ten minutes late. But with Jake, there’s no timetable, no place you have to hurry to reach. Right now, the only thing on your agenda is to stand next to Jake in the middle of the sidewalk outside of this fancy restaurant and appreciate the moments you have with him.” this reminded me of one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books: “For a few moments, we just smile at each other. It’s the least awkward extended eye contact of my life. It feels like we’ve both signed on for the same activity, and this is it: existing, at each other.” it’s from book lovers by emily henry. i just love the idea of EXISTING with someone and that being enough. this whole paragraph has my heart!!!!!

“We can just take the F train back to my place. If you’re okay walking?” you reply fuzzily, looking up at him with a messy grin. Jake’s sweet expression catches you off guard - hazel green eyes locked on you, his sweet smile etching a dimple deeper into his cheek, like Michaelangelo himself carved it. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you become all too aware of the feeling of his hand squeezing your hip, the warmth of his forearm around your lower back, the way his chest is just barely brushing your shoulder and yet still manages to heat you up from head to toe.” LIKE MICHAELANGELO HIMSELF CARVED IT SHUT UP!!!!!! i can visualize this entire scene playing out in my head. it’s beautiful.

”But he doesn’t know that it’s not the three glasses of wine you had at dinner that’s intoxicated you this much, that’s made your mind feel lighter than air and your heart ten times fuller. It’s all Jake - Jake - who’s looking at you like you’re the only thing on his mind, the only person in the world, the only one who matters.” IT’S ALL JAKE!!!!!!!

“This time, you’re completely mesmerized by the way the streetlights hit the flecks of green in his eyes, the way his pupils look slightly dilated, the way his gaze darts down for a split second to your lips and right back up to meet your heated look. If you weren’t drunk you’d fall right into the moment, lean right in and press your mouth to his like you’ve always wanted to, let his perfectly brilliant teeth clash with yours. Maybe see for yourself if you can taste cinnamon on his tongue.

But you are incredibly drunk right now, and that’s no way to kiss him for the first time. So you pull your head back ever so slightly. “I think I just need to walk off the alcohol for a bit,” you shoot him a sloppy grin, still managing to lose yourself in those fucking beautiful eyes.” THE TENSIONNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!

“Can you carry me on your back? Please?” STOOOOOOOOOOOP 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“I think you might be the love of my life,” you murmur sleepily.

Silence. Jake doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t even say it back. So maybe you were too quiet, or perhaps you completely imagined saying it at all.

Because it’s unlike Jake to let you have the last word.” HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME??????? SHE CONFESSES!!!!!! AND HE DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING BACK!!!! BECAUSE IT’S UNLIKE DAKE TO LET YOU HAVE THE LAST WORD????? I GASPED!!!!

“At this point, it feels like this anniversary is all that’s tethering him to you.” i’m suffering.

“Maybe if we’re both still single by the time we’re forty, we get hitched,” you muse, only half joking.” AND THEN HE DOESN’T PLAY ALONG?!!!!!! I AM IN SO MUCH PAIN RIGHT NOW.

“The extra bubbly you’ve consumed pushes you to question him, to finally figure out why he’s so resistant to letting himself be loved.” 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

“He grits out your name warningly, arching a brow and gripping his glass tight. You run the risk of it shattering if you keep pushing. But that’s the least of your worries; right now, you’re blind with hurt. How can he just dismiss you like it’s nothing? How can he close himself off so easily?” a perfect paragraph.

“We do our separate things, sweetheart. We call a couple times a year and meet up on the same weekend to do the same dinner and yeah, that’s nice. It’s great. But that doesn’t mean you know me as well as you think you do. Quit grilling me - I’m not just a sad story for you to write about.” pain.

“Another part of you wants to storm off and leave him behind, but you’re not sure if you want to face the reality that he might not follow, might not chase after you with apologies and promises to soothe the burn from his words.” THE FACT THAT HE MIGHT NOT FOLLOW??????? THAT HE WOULDN’T CHASE HER?????? I’M VOMITING!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“It feels an awful lot like using thimbles to catch roof leaks.” i love this comparison.

“You can’t say things like that, Jake,” you tell him, your voice surprisingly steady, rock solid. “You’re my best friend, and you can’t speak to me that way.” SHE IS RIGHT!!!!

“- That’s fine!” you gesticulate dramatically, too overwhelmed with frustration to let your hands remain still. “But you don’t have to be an ass about it! You don’t have to minimize our friendship like this! God, Jake, what has it been? Twelve years? Twelve years of loving you, supporting you, celebrating anniversaries -” You cut yourself off, realizing what just bubbled forth from of your mouth.” TWELVE YEARS OF LOVING YOU!!!!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!

“I love you, Jake,” you say. Like you’re stating a fact, common knowledge for everyone and their mother. The sky is blue, the world isn’t flat, and you’re in love with Jake Seresin.” one of my favorite lines!!!!!!!! the sky is blue!!!!!! the world isn’t flat!!!!!!! and you’re in love with jake seresin!!!!!!!!

“Jake looks up, his face contorted into a look of pain, eyes void of its usual light. Inhales sharply. “I know.” THIS CAUGHT ME SO OFF GUARD I KNOW HE HEARD HER THAT NIGHT IN NEW YORK BUT I THOUGHT MAYBE HE WOULD’VE BRUSHED IT OFF BECAUSE SHE WAS DRUNK. THIS IS HURTING ME.

“Oh.” You shrink back, and the realization he’s held onto this for two years hits you like a truck. Jake is silent, hands now shoved into his pockets as he awaits your next few words. “And... you have nothing else to say to that?” stopstopstop i’m gonna cry.

“We wouldn’t work.” YOU DON’T KNOW THAT. STOP SELF-SABOTAGING!!!!!!

“His words make you freeze and your anxiety screams out ‘I told you so!’ in a manner that echoes thunderously throughout your brain. This unrequited love is something you’ve always expected, always prepared yourself for, yet you never gave it much further thought to safeguard your heart.” oh her insecurities coming back to bite her!!!!!!!! 😔

“but is it fair for you to be mad at him? For not loving you the way you desperately want him to?” I HATE THAT WE CAN’T BE FULLY MAD AT HIM BECAUSE THIS IS TRUE AND I LOVE THAT YOU PUT THE QUESTION IN HERE BUT I AM SO SAD!!!!!!!!

“I believe you stipulated that I had to dance to at least one song,” Jake holds out a hand, looking at you almost hopefully. As if the last few minutes hadn’t completely shattered your heart and sent the pieces flying away with the wind.” and then she refuses the dance!!!! oh my heart!!!!! i feel like the normal direction of a scene like this would be for her to dance with him “one last time” but you take us by surprise and it becames even more heartbreaking!!!!!!!!!!!

“Internally, your heart is deflating, sending slight tremors throughout your body. But you can’t have Jake know that, can’t have him feel even worse about this, won’t have him feeling an ounce of guilt for something so out of his control.” another one of my favorite lines!!!!!!!!!

“and you feel like you might have kicked a pebble that’s about to precipitate an avalanche.” oh.

“They’re not Jake.” 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫

“It’s not the fact that they gave you spearmint kisses when you’ve always craved cinnamon.” NOT THIS LITTLE DETAIL I AM CRYING PLEASE STOP.

“Actually, no. I don’t think I can move forward as just friends,” you rush out, and admittedly, it feels like you’re ripping off a bandaid but the sting feels more like an ache.” i feel like i’ve been run over by a truck.

“You’re also drunk, and dialing a number you know by heart.” HERE WE GOOOOOOOO.

“Even though a part of me wanted you to change your mind and chose me over not having me. Does that make any sense?” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“Even if we’re different people - I would’ve loved getting to know every version of you.” PROBABLY ONE OF THE MOST ROMANTIC LINES I’VE EVER READ!??!!!!!

“So rest assured, I’ll be okay without you, Seresin. In case you were worried. But no matter what, this day will always remain special to me. You’ll always be special to me.” AND NOW I’M CRYING BECAUSE IF YOU DIDN’T WRITE IT IT MEANS HE DIDN’T CALL HER THAT DAY.

“That’s all. You settle for keeping him in your footnotes, for cherishing the memory of who he used to be.” so much pain. depression.

“Hey, darlin’,” you hear Jake’s easy tone flow through the speakers, and despite all the growth you’ve endured, despite all the lessons you’ve etched into your heart, your brain turns to mush.” yeah, there’s no resisting when it’s the love of your life. 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“How’s San Diego?” - “Can you buzz me up?” you both speak at the same time, and his answer makes you freeze, makes time suspend for a few seconds as if you’re floating outside of your own body.” THE WAY MY STOMACH DROPPED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I GASPED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAVING VISCERAL REACTIONS OVER HERE!!!!!!!!! ROMCOM EXCELLENCE!!!!!!!!!!!!! FAVORITE SCENE!!!!!!!!!

“He snorts on the other end. “S’not like the Queen of England is coming. It’s just me.”

“Somehow, I think that’s worse,” you muse, leaning against your hallway wall and hovering your finger over the button to let him in. If hearing his voice has put you this much on edge, you can’t imagine what it’ll do to you if you see him in person.” i love them. i love them. i love them.

“You pause for a moment, absorb his words and feel a twinge of hurt upon the realization that you weren’t kept in the loop, that you never even knew you stood a chance at losing him. Before the emotions can rattle you too much and send you spiraling with anxious thoughts and what ifs, he explains further..” the way he just decides to drop this bomb on their laps… jaaaaaaake…

“It’s a mix of sadness and anger and disappointment and you try your best to hold off on the tornado, but it rips your soul to shreds the more you realize the gravity of the situation. “You’re fucking kidding me,” you grit out, pressing your lips together to barricade the sobs. Your hands are tightly wrapped around a throw pillow, squeezing and kneading out your frustration on it. You can barely stand to look at him. “Took you a near death experience to call me? You think I haven’t already put myself through the fucking wringer after feeling so guilty for cutting you off just because you were too scared to love me? And you almost died?” I’M ONCE AGAIN SAYING: I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS PARAGRAPH!!!!!!!!! I FEEL THE FRUSTRATION WITH HER!!!!!!!!! SO MUCH ANGST!!!!!!

“Few months back. And I’m sorry for not calling you. I wanted to as soon as I got back, but I wanted to say all this face to face. And it took some time for me to figure out my shit, but I’m here now, if you’ll hear me out?” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“After all these years, I think you know me better than I know myself.” YEP!!! ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

“You halt, feel a wave of déjà vu. The words on the tip of your tongue sound eerily familiar to something that’s replayed in your mind for the past two years, and a couple puzzle pieces start to fit together. “Is this why you were spouting all of this bullshit at the wedding? About us changing?” OH JAKE HAS ALWAYS BEEN JUST AS INSECURE AS SHE WAS MY HEART IS BREAKING!!!!!!! IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF HIS TRAUMA!!!!!!! BABY!!!!!!!

“Briefly, you wonder when his nervous tics changed in the past few years, when did he switch from bouncing his legs under tables to wearing a path into carpets?

People change indeed. In more ways than one.” i love that she noticed!!! i love that you tell is that she noticed it!!!

“- I’ve kept up,” Jake interrupts. You stop in your tracks, tilt your head to the side as you process this. “I wanted to read them.” STOPSTOPSTOPSJFJSJDSHFDHHDDHDH OF COURSE HE’S KEPT UP!!!!!! BELOVED!!!!!!!! HE LOVES HER SO MUCH!!!!!!

“And I think I’m starting to understand what you meant in your voicemail about the... conglomeration stuff. Loving every version of me. Because I really feel the same way about you.” JAKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

“It’s ambiguous, a little mysterious, his words a little stilted and broken, and you replay his words over and over to try and dig up the meaning behind them. But he’s taking another step towards you - if you reach out, you can certainly reach up and run your finger across the small bump in his nose from that football all those years ago. Hold his cheek in your hand like you've always wanted to.” BEAUTIFUL.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he’s saying, and it makes your heart thud a million miles a minute, makes you want to pinch yourself. “I can’t remember it for the life of me. But I think about the moment I realized it - when you said it to me four years ago. And I regret not saying anything back every fucking day.” SCREAMING AND CRYING AND THROWING UP AND PASSING OUT AND THERE ARE FIREWORKS GOING OFF

“Your heart stumbles, crushes up against the front of your ribcage as it tries to peek out at the man you’ve loved since you were seventeen.” OKAY!!!!!!! *THIS* IS MY FAVORITE LINE!!!!!!!!!!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!!

“Jake tastes like cinnamon, just as you’ve always suspected. Aside from that, nothing about the way you love Jake is predictable. Nothing is ever steady, nothing is ever expected. Every moment with him brings forth a new set of revelations that drives you crazy, tears you to pieces. And somehow, it’s all incredibly worth it, worth the brief heartbreak, worth the years of hoping and waiting for him to join you. Because in the end, he made it. In this moment, it feels like everything is just right.” treacherous vibes <333333333 their happy ending!!!!!!!!!!!! my heart is pure jelly!!!!!!

i went through so many emotions while reading this!!!! right where you left me is one of the most heartbreaking songs in the world to me and then you write something so beautiful inspired by it, and you go and break my heart and patch it all together!!!! i’ll be thinking about story for a long time. JAKE AND PULITZER I LOVE YOU!!!!

you left me no choice but to stay here forever (right where you left me)

masterlist

pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader (hotshot journalist!reader)

synopsis: you and jake have been best friends for years and eventually he becomes the love of your life - which makes it that much harder to cope when he starts pulling away with no explanation

wc: 14k (yoo I think I actually may'd)

warnings: angst with a happy ending, explicit language, pining, supposedly unrequited love, kinda sad feels, reader wearing heels.

A shoutout to gretagerwigsmuse and @seasonsbloom - I wouldn't have gotten through this fic period, let alone begun writing in the first place without them. Please check out their writing, send them a sweet message or two <3

AGE SIXTEEN (pages turn and stick to each other)

This is not a date.

On a crisp Wednesday in October - well, as crisp as it can get in Texas - you find yourself sitting across from your high school’s running back in a greasy booth at your town’s renowned pizza parlor. And even though he’s objectively the hottest guy in your grade - not to mention the fact that he’s kind, well-liked amongst your peers, almost too charming for his own good - there’s no way you would ever go on a date with Jake Seresin.

For that matter, you’re not even friends. The only reason he’s even here is because you managed to pique his interest with the promise of a free meal in exchange for an interview for the school newspaper. So even though he held the door open for you and let you choose the side of the booth to sit in and even insisted on getting your favorite pizza toppings, you’re not going to let it distract you from doing your job.

You had been invited to join the school newspaper team in August, but you had yet to write a story featured in the paper. By some stroke of luck, Newsteam President Joe thought you were ready to handle your own solo project: a profile on one of your school’s football players. And while you aren’t exactly thrilled to interview Westwood High School’s star running back you’re determined to deliver a moving, heart wrenching piece about #25 and the trials and tribulations of high school football that’ll have Joe reaching for tissues.

No one needs to know that you’ve never even been to a football game in your life.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you tell Jake briskly after your waitress walks away after passing you your drinks. You pull out the giant legal notepad you stole from your dad’s study and your favorite ten color shuttle pen, then push down the lever for dark blue ink - for your more serious projects.

The boy in front of you nods once, stretching both arms out on either side of him to rest on the back of the booth, eyes darting around. “Sure.”

“So...” you start, then trail off, eyes scanning the list of questions you’d meticulously drafted the night before. You decide to start from the very beginning: “What can you remember about the first time you played with a football?” you ask, and Jake shrugs his shoulders.

“Blood,” he says simply, and you wrinkle your nose.

“What? Blood?”

“Yeah. I was six. My dad was trying to teach me how to catch the ball, and ma kept telling him to use the foam ones but he said they didn’t spiral as well. Ended up pelting a pigskin at me and clocked me right on the nose. I can still feel a bump here,” you briefly look up from rapidly transcribing to watch him idly rub the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

You nod, scrawling down the details, mentally planning out how you could possibly fit this into an article and thinking of potential titles. Child gets pelted with a football and vows revenge. Becomes Westlake’s Star RB. Pathetic.

“So you’ve been playing since you were six?” you try to establish a timeline. “Ten years?”

“No. I joined a youth league when I was nine,” Jake corrects. He doesn’t elaborate.

You sigh, tapping your pen on your legal pad idly, then another question catches your eye. “What do you enjoy most about football?” you flip over to a clean page and smooth it out, not missing the flash of incredulity on Jake’s face.

“You kidding? No offense, but these questions suck,” he snickers, and your shoulders sag as you flip back to scan your messy notes. “Do you even want to be doing this little interview?”

“Do you?” you throw back, angrily, nervously clicking your pen as you try and figure out how you’re going to salvage this meeting, reaching into the crevices of your mind to craft a less sucky, more thought-provoking question.

The one thing you know about conducting an interview is asking the right question, one that will unleash your subject to go off on their own path and tell their story the way they want to. This way, you find that you get the most details, the most honest perspective. And so far, all you had from Jake was a stupid story about a childhood injury doesn’t lend itself to writing a tear-jerking profile.

Jake’s smirk doesn’t waver and after a few moments of silence, he relents. “I was promised free pizza. What’s in it for you?”

You sigh and rest your head back against the worn pleather of the booth seat, squeeze your eyes shut, tighten your grip on your pen as you deliberate his question. “Will you answer my questions if I tell you?”

“If they’re better questions, yeah.”

You shoot him a quick glare, then let out a resigned sigh and click your pen, setting it down on top of your scribbled notes. “First off, I hate football. Never even seen a game.”

“Seriously?” Jake says and folds his arms together to lean in closer over the sticky tabletop. “We live in Texas. You’ve never even watched a game on TV?”

You shrug ambivalently. “No, it never really caught my interest. I mean, what’s there to watch? Someone screams out a bunch of numbers and then you all just charge at each other to wrestle for five seconds while a stupidly shaped ball gets tossed around? And don’t even get me started on your weird scoring system-”

“- It makes sense if you actually commit to watching it!” Jake defends hotly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking like he’s trying his hardest to fight a pout. “Why’d they even put you on this article? Doesn’t seem like you give a damn about writing football.”

“I don’t,” you agree, sitting up straight and daring to look him straight in the eye. At this point, you don’t care how little you know about the stupid sport - you just want Jake to answer your questions so that you can go home and cobble together something, anything to show Joe that you can handle writing your own opinion pieces. “But Joe said if I write a great profile, he’ll print my story about the cafeteria workers.”

Jake pauses, mentally chews your words. “Seems like he set you up, then, darling,” - your surprise at the sweet name is overtaken by the harsh reality check - “Seeing as he asked you to interview me when you’ve never even been to a game.”

A wave of clarity washes over you. You didn’t think about it that way - that Joe might have intentionally put you on this project just to watch you struggle, so he could easily shut down your other ideas. You deflate, shrinking into yourself, and your solemn expression suddenly has Jake shaking his head and trying to backpedal.

“Look - hey. I’m sorry. I’m sure... Maybe he’s just testing you to see if you can write things out of your element. Isn’t that the mark of a good newspaper... writer?”

It kind of makes sense, but the first reason hurts more, resonates with you, and opens the door for self-doubt to stride right in. With how hard you had to fight tooth and nail to even be offered a spot on the school news team, it’s easy to imagine they didn’t want to make things easy for you. Suddenly, you find yourself questioning your writing ability, wondering if you’re really cut out for this. You shrug. “Yeah, maybe.”

Jake purses his lips, drumming his fingers again on the tabletop. “What’s the story with the cafeteria workers?”

At this, you perk up slightly, straightening your back and halting your anxious pen tapping. “There’s just been lots of wages being cut, some layoffs early this year and now they’re being asked to work overtime and the supervisors keep changing the schedule around and giving them such a hard time for wanting to take time off. I think they let someone go because they wouldn’t come in when they had the flu. Can you believe that? Someone was literally sick and didn’t go to work in a kitchen where they could easily infect the whole school. And Sandra - you know Sandra the cashier? She told me they’re all planning to walk out in two weeks, which I think is really admirable - but honestly, I think they need someone to talk about their complaints y’know? Let their voices be heard?”

You stop, finally realizing that you’d been rambling for the better half of a minute about a topic the star running back probably couldn’t care less about. But to your surprise, he’s listening intently, nodding encouragingly, looking contemplative. It’s weird - you’re not used to people being interested in what you have to say.

It’s nice.

“Sounds like you’re a lot more keyed up about this story than stupid football,” he finally says with a half smile, and you push down the warm feeling it ignites.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and shift uncomfortably, bashfully. “It’s just... It’s what I want to do. Write about real people and real events. Give the silenced a voice. Which I know, it sounds kind of cheesy and idealistic and quixotic - but I don’t care. I just want to make a difference. Maybe win a Pulitzer Prize, I don’t know.”

His eyebrows furrow - maybe he doesn’t know what a Pulitzer is - but he nods thoughtfully. “I mean... Don’t really know what quixotic means, but I don’t think you’re being cheesy. Speaking of cheese, though...” his eyes flit over your shoulder.

Your waitress interrupts, setting down a large pizza with the toppings of Jake’s choice. He eagerly loads two slices onto his plate and continues his train of thought: “Tell you what: how about I give you a hand with the article? I’ll tell you what you need to know about football, at least.”

“You’d do that for me?” you ask, and you’re honestly shocked he didn’t just brush off your whole rant about your hopes and dreams, amazed that he’s even offered to help.

He shrugs and swallows the huge bite he’d taken. “‘Course - but in exchange, you’ll have to go to our games. You know, all my friends come to support me.”

You first open your mouth to object to having to watch football - then close it, sending him an incredulous look. “We’re friends?” you ask dumbly.

He shifts, looks the tiniest bit bashful, busies himself with the straw in his drink. “I mean... I’d like to be. Who knows, maybe you’ll be famous one day or you could help me with my English essays - ”

“- You want to be friends so I’ll cheer on you at games and tutor you for free?” you interrupt, narrowing your gaze.

But despite your tone being riddled with annoyance, despite the glare you’re now sending his way, Jake sends you an easy smile, serving himself another slice. “Nah, you just seem pretty cool.”

By another stroke of luck, you manage to pump out a puff piece about Jake Seresin - something along the lines of how the first time #25 threw a football was the moment he resolved to never back down after the first hit, to wipe the sweat and blood from his face and keep pushing forward. Joe is more than impressed with the quality of your work - almost surprised, you annoyedly observe - and agrees to run the profile for the following week’s issue, just in time for Westlake’s playoff game.

On Monday evening, you’re reviewing your interview notes with Sandra the Cashier at your kitchen table when suddenly, the landline rings. “Hello?” you answer, anticipating it to be one of your parents’ friends calling to gossip. The line is silent for a few moments, and you clear your throat to try again. “Anyone there?”

Suddenly, Jake’s laughter flows into your ear. “‘Never back down’?” he quotes through a wheeze, and you hold back a smile, this time letting yourself feel the butterflies that come alive in your stomach at the sound of his voice.

“You didn’t give me much to work with for your story!” you tell him with a small giggle. “So I managed to pull this together, and I’d say it’s a heart clencher - a tear jerker, even. Joe’s happy, at least.”

“He gonna let you write that other thing?”

“About the cafeteria workers? Working on it right now, actually,” you tell him, twirling the phone coil around your finger idly.

“Well darling,” Jake says and you feel your heart skip a beat at the sweet name, at the sound of mirth filling his voice, at the memory of his smiling eye crinkles that involuntarily flashes in your mind. “I’ll hold onto this profile, hang it in my gym locker. But let me know when they print that union thing. I’d like to hold onto a future Pyoo-litzer Prize winner’s first ever real story.”

“Pulitzer,” you correct him, and despite your writing hand hurting terribly from all the notes you’ve been scribbling and the slight twinge of a headache from your eyes straining, your heart feels full as ever as you chat with Jake - your new friend - into the late hours of the night.

AGE EIGHTEEN (wages earned and lessons learned)

Almost two years later, you find yourself seated across from Jake at your town’s fanciest Italian restaurant. It’s been a while since your waiter has checked in to take your meal orders, but his absence easily slips your mind as the two of you gossip while munching on garlicky breadsticks that are way chewier than you’d like.

After a lull in the conversation, you take a deep breath. “How’s your mom doing?” you carefully ask, taking a sip of your coke to avoid tacking on more words, to fight the urge to add more useless attempts at hopeful sentiments.

Jake shrugs, unbothered, nonchalant. “She’s holding up.”

You wait for him to elaborate, but he just drums his fingers on top of the white tablecloth impatiently, turning his head to glance behind him at the swinging door to the kitchen. “Have you... spoken to your dad?” you probe, and while Jake doesn’t react harshly like you expect, his hand momentarily freezes.

“No,” he finally says. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him.”

“Right,” you pause. “Do you think you ever will?”

Jake heaves out a sigh and turns back to face you, idly chewing at a hangnail. Your fingers twitch and you hold yourself back from reaching out to pull his hand away from his mouth. “There’s not much to say, really. They were married, and now they’re not.”

You nod slowly, taking another sip of your drink, briefly lamenting the fact that it’s now just melted ice with a dash of soda. “How are your sisters?”

Again, he shrugs. “Fine. I’m driving them around a whole lot. Kinsey won’t come out of her room, but that’s no different than usual. They won’t talk to him either.”

He’s silent, doesn’t seem to want to say much else, instead tries to play off his nervousness by taking another large gulp of his drink and shifting his eyes to watch the Cowboys game playing on the tiny TV behind the bar. But you can tell he’s gotten himself worked up by the way you can feel his foot tapping impatiently under the table, the way he presses his finger harder into his teeth, by virtue of knowing Jake so well.

So you change the subject. “Are we doing this every year now, then? A friendship anniversary?” you ask.

Jake visibly relaxes, almost looking grateful. The foot tapping stops, and he pulls his hand away from his mouth to sling an arm around the booth and send you a signature Jake Seresin smirk. “Of course - gotta celebrate the day you learned about football - ”

“- I swear, I’ll break your nose again with one later - ”

“With your aim? Please,” he scoffs, a goofy smile breaking the moment he makes eye contact with you.

You roll your eyes. “Plan B is always my fists. Anyway, how do you think we’ll even keep up every year while I’m at school and you’re at the Academy?”

“I’ll visit you at Columbia - and before you say it, shut up. You’re getting in, Miss Pulitzer. As for the Academy... Depends on whether I even apply.”

“Why wouldn’t you apply?” you ask, even though you’re sure you know the answer, ready to pour out words of affirmation, tell him that there’s no way they’d turn him down.

“Not sure if I’d get in,” - bingo, but he follows up with something that stuns you - “And I think I might want to stick around here for a bit. Take care of the family for a bit.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, exactly. Because you were prepared to jump into a supportive best friend mode: reassure him that he’s a shoo-in, remind him of his accomplishments, deliver your long-winded ramble of uplifting words that’ll make your mouth feel like you’re chewing cotton by the end of it. But that’s not what Jake needs right now.

“I don’t think your Ma would want you to do that, Jake,” you say quietly. “She wouldn’t want you to abandon your dreams just to take care of her.”

He stretches his arms back, rolls his neck out hard enough so that his joins sound like crackling rice krispies in the silence. “She’d never ask me to. But I don’t want her to have a hard time, make her shoulder the burden.”

“Knowing her, she wouldn’t want to unload anything onto you, Jake,” you tell him firmly, sitting up straight in an attempt to look more certain, strong. “You’ve wanted this for such a long time. Don’t let your dad ruin this for you - I know a part of you wants to stick it to him or something. But fuck that, Jake. If you put your dreams on hold, you’ll regret it. You have to do this for yourself.”

“Yeah... I guess,” he trails off, still sounding uncertain, but a little less subdued. His hand lifts up and he’s again gnawing at the raw skin on his fingers.

“- You offering? I tell you, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it -”

“Shut up,” you snipe, feeling the heat rush into your cheeks at the suggestion. You shake off your embarrassment. “How ‘bout chewing gum?”

“Hate gum,” Jake pouts. “Makes my jaw hurt.”

“You’re such a baby. Lollipops?”

“Charles would hate me,” he replies, and you internally roll your eyes at him calling his dentist by his first name. His sincere dedication to exceptional dental health and maintaining his teeth was sure to win him the best smile Senior superlative. “If your next suggestion is smoking -”

“- It’s not!” you glare. “How about toothpicks?”

“You want me to roll a sharp piece of wood in my mouth? Sounds delightful,” he drawls sarcastically, and you scoff, turning your eyes to look up at the ceiling.

“Better than sticking your fingers in your mouth all the damn time. What are you, two?”

“I’m a ten, thank you very much.”

“You’re insufferable,” you groan out, fighting back the urge to smile. “You won’t stay a ten if you rip your fingers apart though, Jake. You should give it a try. They have flavored toothpicks, too.”

He ponders this with narrowed eyes, pulls his hand away from his mouth to lay it flat on top of the table to examine his cuticles carefully. “Think they have cinnamon?”

“Probably. Would keep your mouth fresh too.”

“Oh, the ladies are gonna love that,” he laughs, smiling so big now that his eyes crinkle and it feels like someone’s opened a window in this dim restaurant, pushed the sun higher in the sky and bathed your whole body in sunlight. You laugh along with him, rest your elbows on the table to prop your head up and just look at him, appreciate him as a boy who offered to help you within the first hour of knowing you, a man who’s willing to give up his aspirations to care for the people he loves. Your best friend who stopped giving you butterflies a long time ago and now brings you a feeling of comfort, of warmth. Of home.

Suddenly, Jake reaches across the table, palm facing up. You eye it carefully, slowly sliding your hand into his. “You good?”

“Thanks for putting up with me for two years,” he tells you seriously. And you shake your head with a smile, can sense the emotions well up in your eyes, feel your heart beating faster.

“Of course,” you breathe out. “Thanks for always supporting me.”

“Always,” he parrots back. “Anything for a future Pew-litzer Winner.”

You huff out a wet laugh, and the two of you just sit there across from each other, smiling like idiots until finally, with your vision slightly blurred and your hand still squeezing his across the table, you glance around for your waitress who has yet to make an appearance. “You wanna just... go get some pizza?”

“God, yes,” Jake agrees, immediately moving to stand up. “Think we can find some toothpicks on the way?”

AGE TWENTY-THREE (she’s still 23, inside her fantasy, how it was supposed to be)

The October after you graduate from Columbia and Jake’s graduated from the Academy, you visit him in Pensacola in a bar that’s packed to the brim with patrons in Navy-issued khakis. You find yourself in a booth across from Jake, snacking on greasy bar eats and nursing some shitty beers.

“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your date, Hangman?” a dark-skinned, intimidatingly handsome man in uniform leans against your table and looks down at you with a grin that could rival a hyena’s. You glance over at Jake, who rolls his eyes.

“Coyote,” Jake says admonishingly, flips a toothpick between his teeth, but goes on to introduce you. “This is my best friend from back home.”

You wave awkwardly, pondering where his callsign may have come from - unless that was his birth name, in which you’d love to have a quick interview with his parents. Coyote raises his eyebrows and slides into the booth next to Jake, subsequently pushing him closer to the wall and rests both elbows on the table. “So you’re Jake’s friend? With all the articles?”

You whip your head to look at Jake, who’s bearing a sheepish grin with his cheeks getting slightly pinker. His hand raises up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s nothing -”

Coyote’s rubbing his side where Jake elbowed him harshly, cheeks still red and teeth furiously gnashing down on the toothpick. Underneath the table, you can feel Jake’s leg start bouncing, and you shift your foot forward to lightly brush his, tap the side of his tenderly. He halts his movements.

“He’s just a great friend,” you clarify, beaming at Jake, who seems slightly less tense with his jaw unclenched. “Anyways, is Coyote your callsign?” your curiosity gets the better of you, and you figure it might be a good chance to get the spotlight off Jake.

“Sure is. Name’s Javy,” he smirks at you, then jerks a hand over at Jake. “Has he told you his sign?”

“Yeah, Hangman. Which is stupid, because he honestly sucks at the game -”

Coyote attempts to stifle a laugh, but you let a giggle bubble right out of you. “I like to use it as a learning opportunity.”

“Here’s a word for you: buzzkill.” Jake retorts, and you scoff, holding back a smile, about to snark back when you feel your phone vibrate from your purse.

“One second,” you pull out your Blackberry, glancing over the email from your coworker at The Washington Times and tapping out a brief response.

“Still on for Friday night?” she asks, and you envy how cool she sounds saying it, like there’s no doubt in her mind that Jake will say yes, against your better wishes.

“Of course, wouldn’t miss it,” he replies easily, the dimple on his cheek popping out, deflating you further.

She flashes a quick smile at you as well - no malice or threat in it whatsoever - and you wonder if it’s that obvious that you and Jake are friends, that you’re not on a date even though you’d both been seated in this booth for the better half of an hour.

Maybe she thinks you’re just here with Javy, who’s been watching the whole interaction with a smirk, eyes laser focused on you trying your hardest to keep your expression neutral. “You’re going out with Imani? What happened to Priya?” Coyote asks after the girl walks away, his pointed look at you unwavering.

Jake shrugs. “She knew I didn't want anything serious. So does Imani. It’s just drinks and dinner and you know... whatever comes next.”

They both share a chuckle and your heart clenches painfully. You’re no prude - you’re all in support of people having casual sex, and you’re glad Jake is forthcoming with these girls. He’s not breaking their hearts, and they seem content to just have one night with him and be done with it.

There’s just the tiniest whisper of anxiety that wonders if there’s something wrong with you for rarely engaging in hookup culture, for not feeling comfortable enough to have meaningless flings. The one time you took a step out of your comfort zone and hooked up with a stranger, your walk of shame felt like a daze - inside, you were empty, despondent. A part of you envies Imani and the mysterious Priya for being able to cast aside their emotions so easily, fall into bed with a stranger, step out the next morning without feeling like they’re missing a part of themself.

The little green monster in you also flares up at the realization that they’ll know Jake in a more intimate way than you ever will - in a way that you’ve only dreamt about a handful of times. Give or take. You’re not sure when you started seeing him in a different light, as more than a friend, more like the person you’d want to get old with and celebrate milestones besides the anniversary of you becoming friends - but it happened slowly, suddenly, then all at once. And now, your feelings just sit with you, tethering you to the impossible dream of knowing Jake as so much more.

All this to say, you can’t be angry with Jake or any of these women. It’s not a crime for him to want to sleep around. You just wish you had the courage to tell him it’s not entirely victimless.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Always been a heartbreaker, darlin’, it’s an occupational hazard.” he tells you and you agree mentally, idly picking at the basket of cold fries on the table. “You’ll always be my number one girl, though.”

Ah, and the dream lives on.

AGE TWENTY-SIX (time went on for everybody else, she won't know it)

“Happy tenth anniversary to a spectacular, intelligent, absolutely phenomenal woman,” Jake toasts, grinning across from you at Malatesta Trattoria in West Village. Jake had insisted on treating you in celebration of your new job at The New York Times - did the research and made reservations all on his own, took time off and everything.

“Happy friendship anniversary to a guy who still forgets to pack his toothbrush,” you snicker, and laugh even harder when his look of pride quickly turns into a mock glare.

It’s been a full year since you physically saw him at your last anniversary dinner - Jake had been away on a longer assignment in Lemoore, and you’d been busy churning out inflammatory political op-eds for The Washington Times and applying to jobs in the Big Apple. The two of you called pretty regularly, but this was officially the longest the two of you had gone without seeing each other.

You thought it’d feel awkward, like you’d have to fumble to find your footing with him the same way you have to figure out how to balance when you put on roller skates, but it’s easy. The moment you stepped outside of your building to meet him, he’d rushed to lift you in a giant bear hug, like no time apart had even passed. And the whole night, the two of you chat about anything and everything- he fills you in on his assignment and about something he’s gunning for called Top Gun, and you tell him about an upcoming project covering creative renewal in Beirut - you both nod along as best as you can while the other speaks.

After your plates are empty and cleared out and you both have determined that you’re too full for dessert (although, the ice cream calling your name at your apartment might have you singing a different tune later), you both stand up to exit the restaurant.

The wine you had with dinner has loosened up your movements - typically, you have to move through the city streets with big strides and purpose - like you’ve got somewhere to be and you’re already ten minutes late. But with Jake, there’s no timetable, no place you have to hurry to reach. Right now, the only thing on your agenda is to stand next to Jake in the middle of the sidewalk outside of this fancy restaurant and appreciate the moments you have with him.

And figure out how the hell you’re getting home.

“You wanna call a cab?” Jake asks you with an arm wrapped around your waist to steady your swaying form, and you balk at the thought of having to pay a hefty fee just to sit still in a car and try to keep your spinning head from making you throw up. God, your tolerance has become abysmal.

And you know he’s only trying to keep you upright, probably just trying to gauge your level of drunkenness and assess whether you’re good to make the thirty minute walk plus subway ride to your home. But he doesn’t know that it’s not the three glasses of wine you had at dinner that’s intoxicated you this much, that’s made your mind feel lighter than air and your heart ten times fuller. It’s all Jake - Jake - who’s looking at you like you’re the only thing on his mind, the only person in the world, the only one who matters.

“Are you fine with that?” he asks, and the softness written in his features reminds you of all the times you’ve looked at Jake and found a new favorite thing to fall in love with.

The very first time you looked at him - really looked at him - you fixated on the way his dimple poked out while you regaled him with a story about how you exacted revenge on your friend’s two-timing ex by pouring your entire yogurt cup on top of his head. The way he threw his head back with his eyes squinted shut and hands clapping together made you feel more enamored with him than ever, had you scraping the back of your mind for more stupid jokes to make him laugh that hard.

Another time, you remember looking right at his nose and thinking about how much you wanted to plant a sweet kiss on the tip, found yourself wondering how it would feel pressed against your neck as you both drifted off for the night, and how the sound of his soft breathing beside you would be the most comforting, reassuring sound to fall asleep to.

This time, you’re completely mesmerized by the way the streetlights hit the flecks of green in his eyes, the way his pupils look slightly dilated, the way his gaze darts down for a split second to your lips and right back up to meet your heated look. If you weren’t drunk you’d fall right into the moment, lean right in and press your mouth to his like you’ve always wanted to, let his perfectly brilliant teeth clash with yours. Maybe see for yourself if you can taste cinnamon on his tongue.

Jake’s talking, murmuring something low in your ear. “You sure? Those shoes look like they hurt.”

You look down at your heels - and yeah, they’re fucking painful. These past few minutes of Jake’s inebriating presence has given you the briefest reprieve from the sharp pains shooting up your calves. You’re desperate to take them off - but you can’t recall when your last tetanus shot was. And even if you were up-to-date, no one could convince you that it’s safe to walk barefoot in the streets of New York. “No, I’ll make it. Need to walk off the wine.”

“You wanna wear my shoes?” Jake offers and you scoff.

“You wanna walk barefoot? What, do you think they sanitize and mop the sidewalks every night?”

“I’m wearing socks!” he defends and you roll your eyes.

“Still gross. Besides, you know what they say about guys with big feet?”

Jake’s eyebrows furrow, looks momentarily stunned as his eyes dart to his shoes, then return to your face. “Big dick?”

“Big shoes,” you deadpan. “And if I take one step in your big clown shoes, I’m faceplanting right on the sidewalk. You want that to happen? ”

“Clown shoes?” he repeats to himself quietly with an amused smile, then shakes his head, finally relenting. “Fine. But if you get tired, I’m not carrying you.”

“I’ll make it,” you insist.

“Jake?” you say thirty minutes later after traversing up the subway stairs, stopping for a moment to bend down and massage your ankles. Jake stops, shifts the paper bag with leftovers from one hand to the other and places his free hand on your back. He looks down at you with concern.

“Yeah?”

You pause for a moment, wondering if he’d turn you down, deliberating if you even feel comfortable asking him for a piggyback ride for the five minute walk back to your apartment. But the aching toe cramp that you’re trying and failing to stretch out drowns out your insecurities, silences your fear that he wouldn’t be able to manage. You remind yourself that he’s been bragging about his new squat record for weeks now, anyway. “Can you carry me on your back? Please?”

A sigh. Then, “Sure darlin’. Hop on.”

You wordlessly reach to take the leftovers from him and he turns away from you, couches down low enough to let you clamber onto him. With an arm secured under each leg, he extends to his full height and lifts you up onto his back.

“Alright?” he rumbles, and you nod wordlessly, wrap your arms around his neck and hook your chin over his shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in his familiar cologne, some Tom Ford scent you’d gifted him a few Christmases ago. It grounds you, keeps your head from spinning even more as you relish the feeling of your ankles not supporting your whole body weight.

You feel the alcohol hit for a second wave, completely demolishing your self-control, unleashing your thoughts to race limitlessly, to see no bounds. At this point, your head is close to mush, your limbs feel like they weigh twice as much, and you think you’ll never let yourself drink rosé again. But you’re certain of one thing. “I think you might be the love of my life,” you murmur sleepily.

Silence. Jake doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t even say it back. So maybe you were too quiet, or perhaps you completely imagined saying it at all.

Because it’s unlike Jake to let you have the last word.

AGE TWENTY-EIGHT (I'm sure that you’ve got a wife out there, kids and Christmas, but I'm unaware)

“Have you ever thought about this?” Jake asks you, leaning back against his chair as he watches the happy couple swaying in the middle of the dance floor to an Ed Sheeran song - not your personal choice, but the rest of the onlookers seem to be incredibly moved by it. This year, your friendship anniversary coincides with your old roommate’s wedding, and after much pleading (and the promise of an open bar), Jake agreed to fly out to be your plus-one.

It surprised you how much you had to beg for him to come. At first, he had been hesitant, imploring you to attend the wedding instead of meeting him for your usual dinner. You didn’t hesitate to dismiss that idea - it’s been twelve years of celebrating, and there’s no way you’re stopping now. Not when it already feels like Jake’s been pulling back for the past year or so: calling less often, answering texts hours after you sent them, sometimes not even replying to your articles with anything aside from a little thumbs-up emoji.

At this point, it feels like this anniversary is all that’s tethering him to you.

“Have I ever thought about my wedding?” you ponder. “Yeah, sometimes. Don’t think I’d ever spring for something as big as this, but -”

“- No, no,” he interrupts, “you wouldn’t want to make a big fuss of it all, not a crazy big party and definitely not a five hundred person guest list. ‘Course I know that about you.” Jake smiles and shifts forward, leaning in close; you can just barely smell the sandalwood and vanilla musk of his cologne. He seems relaxed, finally looks content to be here - though you’re sure that’s all thanks to the top-shelf whiskey he’s imbibing. “I meant marriage, commitment, settling down. You think you’d ever want to do that?”

You purse your lips, gaze still locked on the newly wedded couple, appreciating the matching expressions of adoration written on their faces as they twirl around their guests. “Of course. Just haven’t found the right person who’s ready to do that with me.”

He scoffs. “What, like you’re struggling to find someone? You know, from the minute I walked into this banquet hall with you, I’ve counted maybe five death glares from interested parties.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did,” you snort, tilting your glass up vertically to catch the last few drops of champagne.

“Sweetheart, I’d never lie to you. In fact, I think the redhead over by the bar is still sending daggers my way. And she’s hot, so I’m kind of turned on by it,” Jake adds seriously, and you roll your eyes. “Come on! I thought you were going to give Tinder a shot earlier this year?”

You snort again, this time feeling a little more jaded. “I did give it a shot. And all I found was guys holding up fish and finance bros asking for my snap. I don’t even have a Snapchat, Jake. What happened to just getting people’s numbers and having a normal conversation?”

“It’s a new era, all this online dating stuff,” he replies, crossing one ankle over his knee and interlacing his hands over his abdomen. “But I see your point, maybe Tinder isn’t the best place to find your forever partner.”

“Don’t know why I even bothered,” you remark and look over at him, momentarily allowing yourself to appreciate the way his tux fits over him. “Maybe if we’re both still single by the time we’re forty, we get hitched,” you muse, only half joking.

He chokes on his whiskey, coughing loudly with the liquor singing his throat. “Yeah, right!” Jake finally manages out with a laugh and teary eyes, and it feels like someone’s poured a bucket of ice water on you, wakes you up from the lighthearted banter you lost yourself in.

“Okay,” you narrow your eyes, heart dropping at the rejection. “Don’t sound too eager. I’m not down on one knee here or anything.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He swirls around the remaining amber sea in his drink, slightly mesmerized by the mini whirlpool. “You know me though. Never settling down.”

You know you should take the sign to drop the conversation, but his quick refusal and blasé tone rubs you the wrong way. “Why? Because of your parents?” you hedge, leaning in to get a better look at his face, which has slightly hardened in the dim glow of the bulb lights strung across the venue. The extra bubbly you’ve consumed pushes you to question him, to finally figure out why he’s so resistant to letting himself be loved. “I know you’re scared you’ll end up making the same mistakes as your dad, but you know you’re not like him. Not in any way.”

He grits out your name warningly, arching a brow and gripping his glass tight. You run the risk of it shattering if you keep pushing. But that’s the least of your worries; right now, you’re blind with hurt. How can he just dismiss you like it’s nothing? How can he close himself off so easily?

“Typical Jake Seresin, you know?” you cut him off hotly, trying with all your might to keep your voice even through the haze of champagne. “Always so ready to let your daddy issues ruin your chances at happiness.”

He glares at you, knocks back the rest of his drink without even grimacing, doesn’t meet your gaze. Crunches the ice bitterly. “Get off your high horse, sweetheart,” he finally says roughly. “Stop pretending like you know me.”

You scoff, still not backing down. “You think after over ten years of friendship, I don’t know you at all?”

Another shrug. His leg starts bouncing incessantly. “People change, darlin’. You certainly have.”

You draw back, feeling like he just slapped you in the face. “What d’you mean by that?” you ask a little quieter, with a slight waver, still audible over Ed Sheeran’s ballad. Where’s he going with this?

He groans again, turns to look at you, but you don’t quite recognize the expression on his face. It’s menacing, hardened, darker than the amber liquid in his cup. “We do our separate things, sweetheart. We call a couple times a year and meet up on the same weekend to do the same dinner and yeah, that’s nice. It’s great. But that doesn’t mean you know me as well as you think you do. Quit grilling me - I’m not just a sad story for you to write about.”

His words punch you in the gut, sock you in the ear, send blood coursing angrily through your veins. Part of you wants to tell him off, unleash your fury, make a scene in the middle of this reception hall. Another part of you wants to storm off and leave him behind, but you’re not sure if you want to face the reality that he might not follow, might not chase after you with apologies and promises to soothe the burn from his words.

Slightly misty-eyed, you fight to reel your emotions back in, not wanting to draw attention to the two of you or make Jake feel like you’re guilting him. It feels an awful lot like using thimbles to catch roof leaks. Your strength comes back to you in slow, even waves: your heart returns to its normal pattern, your chest no longer heaves for air.

“You can’t say things like that, Jake,” you tell him, your voice surprisingly steady, rock solid. “You’re my best friend, and you can’t speak to me that way.”

His jaw ticks, his expression remains unchanged. “Sure, right. Sorry.”

The easy dismissal brings your anger back in a rush, yet gives you time to think about your next words carefully. “You’re such an ass, Jake,” you bite out, and maintain decorum, calmly push your chair back to stand up, send him a glare with all the furiosity you can muster before making a bee-line for the exit without looking back to see if he’s following suit.

You dodge fellow wedding attendees, snatching champagne from a waiter with a platter before knocking it back and setting the empty flute back down and continuing to make your way to the exit. Over Ed Sheeran’s second ballad, you can hear Jake quietly calling out your name, his footsteps right behind you.

As you burst through the doors, into the crisp outside air, you teeter for a few steps in your heels before leaning against a pillar, trying to contain your emotions, lest you say something silly or embarrassing or humiliating.

“Would you just wait? Would you let me talk?” Jake’s hot on your heels as he steps over the threshold.

“You’ve said plenty,” you throw back.

“Come on, darlin’, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jake says behind you, closer now.

“I think you made it very clear,” you grind out, turning on your heel and looking him straight in the eye. “You can’t smooth-talk your way out of this, Seresin. That might work on everyone else, but it’s not doing jack shit on me!”

He throws his hands up in the air, shakes his head. You eye how his fingers are twitching, how he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. “What do you want me to say? I’m just saying we’re not the same people we used to be -”

Jake’s expression stays ablaze, but his spine stiffens, hands twitch twice before he clenches them, digging his nails into his palms harshly. You meet his heavy gaze, mouth slightly agape, mind running a million miles a second until it starts to decelerate, slows down gradually, then stops on one thought, one single thought alone.

“I love you, Jake,” you say. Like you’re stating a fact, common knowledge for everyone and their mother. The sky is blue, the world isn’t flat, and you’re in love with Jake Seresin.

He inhales, shaking his head, and looking down at the ground.

You falter, furrow your eyebrows, wonder if maybe he didn’t hear you. “I love you, Jake,” you repeat, this time a little louder, taking a step forward, closer to him. “I’m in love with you.”

Jake looks up, his face contorted into a look of pain, eyes void of its usual light. Inhales sharply. “I know.”

You falter. “You know?“ the words feel like marbles rolling out; you can almost hear the tiny plinks as they hit the ground.

“Yeah.”

”…How long?”

He swallows. “Since New York.”

You’re transported back in that moment, a montage of scenes from your tenth anniversary flashing through your mind like you’re in a cinema. You remember the night’s end in a haze: his warm body next to yours as you stumbled to the subway, you gripping onto his arm tightly with every lurch of the train, Jake carrying you on your back and you saying -

Jake lets out a pained groan. “Listen, darlin’, don’t get me wrong. I... care about you so damn much, but I can’t feel for you the way you want me to. We wouldn’t work.”

His words make you freeze and your anxiety screams out ‘I told you so!’ in a manner that echoes thunderously throughout your brain. This unrequited love is something you’ve always expected, always prepared yourself for, yet you never gave it much further thought to safeguard your heart.

You’re rapidly accelerating through the stages of grief - next, your anger comes back to you. First, in small rivulets that trickle down your spine - then as a rush of agony that feels an awful lot like the crash at the bottom of a waterfall. Your eyes burn with the tears you refuse to let fall, your palms already stinging from how hard you’ve dug your manicure into them - but is it fair for you to be mad at him? For not loving you the way you desperately want him to?

For the longest time, a small, tiny part of you hoped Jake would come around, decide to knock on your door, knock you back with a signature bear hug. That he’ll swear to be there always, love you the way you love him.

After tonight, you reflect, it seems like that might never happen. And quickly, you surmise that you’d rather have one part of him than nothing at all. So as you finally reach the stage of acceptance, you vow to treasure every moment of friendship with Jake Seresin.

“I understand,” you tell him, feeling like you’re miles away. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?” His eyes still rake over you with concern.

“Positive.” You do your best to plaster on the most reassuring smile you can.

“Sweetheart -”

“- Can we just talk about this later?” you interrupt, feeling defeated and embarrassed all rolled into one. There most certainly is more to the conversation - but all you want to do is prolong it for longer, preserve the fantasy in your mind that you can Jake are alright, that the past few minutes never happened.

He closes his mouth, nods, pushes his hands deeper into his pockets.

From inside, the music suddenly changes - still a slow ballad, but this time it’s Al Green, Let’s Stay Together. “I believe you stipulated that I had to dance to at least one song,” Jake holds out a hand, looking at you almost hopefully. As if the last few minutes hadn’t completely shattered your heart and sent the pieces flying away with the wind.

“Ah,” you say, feeling a wave of exhaustion overcome you. “You go on ahead. Think I just need some more air.”

Internally, your heart is deflating, sending slight tremors throughout your body. But you can’t have Jake know that, can’t have him feel even worse about this, won’t have him feeling an ounce of guilt for something so out of his control.

Despite your best efforts to hold it all in, a small tear escapes and slides down your cheek as soon as Jake’s back turns, and you feel like you might have kicked a pebble that’s about to precipitate an avalanche.

---

Jake calls you up a few days after, initially sounding like he just wants to check in until his tone takes on a more somber note, and your heart drops to your stomach. “Listen, I know we had a little bit of a heated... discussion at the wedding. And I just need you to know I really, really, appreciate you. And I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, but I just want to make sure we can still stay friends.”

“Yeah, of course -” you stop yourself from readily agreeing, pause to reevaluate how you really want to take this moving forward.

Jake is the love of your life. That much is certain. And you’re not sure how willing you are to push aside your feelings, pretend your confession never even happened, just to go on with the guise that you guys are simply friends. Just friends. Holding off on love in hopes that he’ll come around.

If you’re being completely truthful, a part of you does feel empty without a person by your side, without a companion to walk through life with, without a partner to share all the moments of joy and despair and everything in between with. You’ve tried dating throughout the years - agreed to so many blind dates, worked up the courage to ask guys at the bar out. And somehow, you always run into the same problem.

They’re not Jake.

And it’s not like they’re not as funny as him, or as charismatic or charming or sweet as him. It’s not the fact that they gave you spearmint kisses when you’ve always craved cinnamon. It’s the harsh truth that no matter what, they always feel threatened by your passion for your job and your drive to succeed. Always find problems with you jetting across the world for different projects, and patronize you for saying you wanted to make a difference with your stories.

One Tinder date even mocked you for aspiring to win a Pulitzer - you’d promptly excused yourself to the bathroom and never came back, instead ending your night with a long phone call from Jake, who was six hours ahead at the time but more than happy to console you.

Jake’s always encouraged you, from the very first day at the pizza parlor to now. And the more guys you took a chance on dating, the less hopeful you felt about finding a future with someone as kind, as wonderful, as unwaveringly supportive as Jake.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the pipe dream.

“Actually, no. I don’t think I can move forward as just friends,” you rush out, and admittedly, it feels like you’re ripping off a bandaid but the sting feels more like an ache. “And don’t get me wrong - your friendship means the world to me. Even if you think we’re different people now. But it feels like nothing’s changed for me, Jake. I think for years, I’ve been holding onto the hope that you’ll come around and feel the same way. But after this past weekend... I think I need some space. Just so I can get over you, if you’re not changing your mind anytime soon.”

Jake’s silent on the other end of the line - the only indication that he hasn’t dropped off is the sounds of cars rushing on the other side. A part of you hopes he’ll take the bait you cast with your final sentence, that at the very least, he’ll consider reconsidering. You don’t think you’ll get that lucky.

“If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not,” you quickly reassure him while blinking away tears, feeling numb. “And I don’t want to be cliche and tell you it’s what I need, Jake - because believe me, sometimes it feels like I need you like I need a Pilot G2 pen or the sun. But I can’t live like this. I can’t settle for just having part of you because that’ll be agonizing for me.”

Silence on the other end. “I hope you understand,” you quietly add.

“I do, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” his voice is void of emotion. You try not to think too hard about it, try to transport yourself back to a better moment when he was right there in front of you with every feeling written on his tanned, chiseled face.

Deep inhale. “Bye, Jake.”

AGE TWENTY-NINE (I cause no harm, mind my business, if our love died young, I can’t bear witness)

These gentrified tapas places are a menace to society. You shift uncomfortably on the cold, sad metal excuse for a barstool. This restaurant is noisy - glasses clinking together, patrongs cheers-ing to various occasions, champagne bottles popping open. Yet, the sound of the entrance dinging open is the only thing that makes you perk up, has you involuntarily glancing up hopefully in an attempt to manifest a familiar handsome pilot walking across the threshold to join you on your anniversary. But to your disappointment, it’s only a bunch of drunk bankers stumbling out.

In the past year, you’ve found a number of ways to distract yourself from the pain of not having your best friend. As per Dr. Richard’s advice from your first therapy session, you tried your hardest to find comfort in solitude: catching films in the theater alone, wandering through new art exhibitions by your lonesome; you even attended a wine tasting in Brooklyn and ended up passing the time with a group of ladies who encompassed very similar energy to the Sex and the City Quartet (and you ended up getting some solid reassuring advice after you lamented your complicated friendship - Samantha’s carbon copy was all too ready to shit on Jake by the end of your tale).

All in all, you’re content to be scoping out this restaurant solo, trying their featured cocktails and appetizers and people watching. You’re trying your best to convince yourself that you’re okay being where you are right now. The only thought that puts a damper on your night, sets your pride back a little is the realization that this might be the first October thirteenth you’ve spent alone in thirteen years. It shakes to your core, makes you flag down a bartender for a whiskey neat, but you calm down, take a deep breath, and let it out.

Jake’s a different man, not the boy who sat in front of you in your beloved pizza shop with a crinkly-eyed smile, telling you “you’re just a cool person.”

In the same way, you’re most certainly a different girl than the one who sat in front of him with a ten-color shuttle pen and bright eyes, one who was just grateful he’d seen a companion in you to begin with.

You’re a strong, self-assured, career-driven woman now. You’ve been featured on a variety of articles ranging from the devastating 2016 US Presidential Election, to a Buzzfeed Guest Feature on what your favorite ink color said about you, to discussing culture and conflict in the Middle East. While Jake’s support from the very beginning was part of what motivated you, what spurred you on, you are the one who did all the hard work. You are powerful, driven, intelligent, sophisticated.

You’re also drunk, and dialing a number you know by heart.

“The number you have dialed is not available. Please leave a message or...”

After the beep, you steel yourself. “Hey, Jake,” you clear your throat, gripping your phone tightly in your palm and taking a deep breath. “I, uh... Just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary. Think it’s the first one I’ve spent without you in a while.”

You pause, look around at the tapas bar as you try to gather your thoughts, wistfully eye the empty barstool next to you.

“I know I said I needed some time before. And I’m glad you honored that - truly, from the bottom of my heart. Even though a part of me wanted you to change your mind and chose me over not having me. Does that make any sense?”

Your eyes catch on the bartender who’s cleaning glasses with a towel a few feet away from you, catch him shaking his head slightly.

“Do you mind?”you snap, and he at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping. Quickly, he flashes you an apologetic smile before comically pretending to hear a patron calling out their order and dashing across the bar.

You snort, shaking your head. “Sorry. Some asshole was just... Never mind. You would’ve hated this place, Jake. I mean, aside from nosy people, it’s got overpriced drinks with Edison lights hanging from the ceiling. And there’s no jukebox - they’re just playing top 40s hits over and over again. Like, this is the third time I’m hearing Shape of You and I got here less than an hour ago.”

Again, you pause, feeling embarrassed at your incessant rambling. Debate whether to blab about what’s been plaguing your mind since you woke up this morning. “Sometimes I wish I never said anything and that we could’ve just stayed friends. I just don’t think that would’ve been fair to me - because I meant what I said, Jake. I’m in love with you. Even if we’re different people - I would’ve loved getting to know every version of you.”

It feels like a breakthrough, saying the words out loud, realizing that things truly are going to be more different than they used to be. And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re perpetually mourning a friendship, you don’t feel waves of anxiety that try to convince you that you conflated your friendship to mean more. You can breathe easily.

“I think I’ve realized that the person I am today is all a conglomeration, a constellation of every interaction I’ve had with other people. And for the most part, I am who I am because of our friendship, because of your presence in my life. So a part of me is finding it hard to let go of that and move on without you being so ingrained in me. But I’m trying. I’m going to therapy, at least,” you smile optimistically, wiping away the first tear you’ve let yourself shed today.

“So rest assured, I’ll be okay without you, Seresin. In case you were worried. But no matter what, this day will always remain special to me. You’ll always be special to me.”

AGE THIRTY (and it’s been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong, I’m right where you left me)

You don’t realize it’s the day of your anniversary until you catch a glimpse of the date on your phone, realize why you felt like you were missing something the entire day. At first, it sends a wave of anxiety over you, makes your stomach swoop like you missed the last step on the staircase.

But as best as you can, you remind yourself that taking on this special day alone is part of your healing process, that sometimes we create our own heartbreak through expectation, and that it’s just a matter of managing your hopes, assuaging your guilt, honoring your friendship by yourself for the second year in a row.

It’s taken time, but you’ve made your peace with the fact that Jake won’t be playing as active a role in your future as you’d hoped. Maybe you two can just be the type of friends who send each other Christmas cards and call on your birthdays. Years later, maybe you’ll finally settle down and find someone who will support you just as well as Jake did, who will treat you kindly and see you as more than a friend to hold hands with from time to time and look at your lips sometimes and give you piggyback rides when you’re too drunk. If you have kids, maybe you’ll have Jake over to meet your family, oblige him to regale them with tales of your friendship, send gift cards for their birthdays and talk about his time in the Navy - if they’re interested in hearing about Uncle Jake’s career path.

That’s all. You settle for keeping him in your footnotes, for cherishing the memory of who he used to be.

Even if you’ll always be in love with Jake, that doesn’t mean you have to wither away waiting for him.

In the middle of catching up on some editing and shooting out some emails from the comfort of your plush couch, your phone rings with a familiar name proudly displayed at the top. Immediately, you narrow your eyes, wondering if he’s remembered or if it’s some weird fluke that he’s calling you on today of all days.

“Hello?” you answer cautiously.

“Hi Jake,” you force out, feeling as nervous as you did that day you interviewed him at the pizza place. At times like this, you wish you had your old landline from back in the day so you could coil the cord around your fingers idly, distract your nerves momentarily from the fact that this is the first time you’ve heard his voice in two years. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m alright,” His voice is stilted, slightly muffled. Sounds just as easy as you remembered it, “Just... Remembered what today was.”

“It’s Saturday.” The quip rolls off your tongue before you can think any better of it - and you cringe inwardly at how rude you must have sounded. “I’m sorry, that was...”

But Jake’s chuckling on the other end, a delightfully warm sound, one that pulls a surge of pride from deep within your chest. “Yeah. You're not wrong.”

And just as quickly, it fades into the awkward silence - the kind you never used to have with Jake. Mentally, you flow through all the happenings in this past year, think about where his Ma told you he’d been last.

“I’m outside your building, I think. Unless your Ma sent me the wrong address, which admittedly, I’d deserve but - "

“- You’re in New York?” you ask, still in shock, finally feeling in control of your muscles and limbs and words. Hurriedly, you scramble off your couch and swipe up your empty tea mug, then rush to your kitchen to deposit it unceremoniously into your sink.

You hear the sound of a car horn beeping on the street echoing both in real time and on the line, further sending your heart into a frenzy. “Yeah - you do live off 65th, right? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to just pop in like this - ”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you breathe out, making your way to your front door with your phone still sandwiched between your ear and your hand. “I just... Wasn’t expecting company.”

He snorts on the other end. “S’not like the Queen of England is coming. It’s just me.”

“Maybe so,” Jake agrees, and you can practically hear the forlorn smile in his voice. “Mind letting me up, though? Just wanted to talk. In person.”

The reality of the situation crashes down on you - that Jake’s practically been AWOL for the past few years, that your friendship has felt one-sided and exhausting to try and keep up with, that you spent your last anniversary alone and sobbing into your cellphone So a part of you wants to turn him down, hustle him out of your safe space - but your heart pounds rapidly with its demands for answers, your brain implores you to hear him out.

Without a second thought, you push the button and hear the resounding buzz on Jake’s side, followed by a “See you soon, sweetheart.” The line clicks.

Mind going a million miles a second, you turn to glance at your reflection in the hall mirror that you’ve procrastinated hanging up for months now. You level a determined look at yourself, brush some crumbs off your sweatshirt and smooth some flyaways before pushing your shoulders back, standing up tall and proud in an attempt to exude confidence.

Three heavy knocks sounding out at the door immediately makes your look turn panicked, sending you stumbling over your feet as you reach to grab the doorknob and pull it open to reveal Jake Seresin standing in your narrow apartment hallway.

Not even five seconds have passed and you’re already annoyed with him. He’s still mind numbingly handsome: tall as ever, blonde hair still infuriatingly shiny and soft, green eyes catching the dim evening light, glimmering back at you like gemstones. It makes your stomach swoop, brings the butterflies fluttering back into your chest from where you’d banished them.

Asshole.

“Hey,” he greets, quirks up a corner of his mouth into a half smile that would normally have you swooning if you weren’t already frozen.

“Hi, Jake,” you manage out, eyes raking over his figure just to convince your mind that he’s really there, actually standing just a few feet in front of you. Shaking away the doubts, you step to the side, gesture for him to enter your apartment.

It’s not the sound of his footsteps that convince you, nor is it the brief brush of his arm as he sidles into your narrow apartment hallway or the unreal sight of how he fills up the space and how his shoulders stretch from wall to wall. It’s the familiar heavy scent that hits you - tobacco and vanilla - which makes your cheeks flush, your heart skips a beat.

He’s really here.

Gathering your wits, you follow him into your cramped living room, grateful that you’d done some vacuuming and tidying up that morning in an effort to banish all the anxieties and ruminations that come with this special day. “Feel free to sit anywhere,” you find your voice, snatch up an oversized throw to make some room on the couch.

He nods, turns around to assess your space thoughtfully before settling himself into the cushions.“I got your voicemail,” he tells you. “From last year.”

Oh. It suddenly feels bitter, leaves a sour taste in your mouth. “You didn’t call back?” you hedge, immediately going on the defense. Instead of sitting down next to him, you elect to slide into the armchair furthest away from him, an attempt to shield yourself from him. An attempt to avoid making the same mistake twice.

“I was going away on assignment the next morning,” Jake explains quietly, patiently. He meets your disbelieving look with somber eyes. It only slightly alleviates the pressure building in your chest. “And... honestly, I didn’t want to worry you. It was one of those missions. The kind I wasn’t sure I would come back from - like, where they’re telling us to call home and lay down all the cards.”

You pause for a moment, absorb his words and feel a twinge of hurt upon the realization that you weren’t kept in the loop, that you never even knew you stood a chance at losing him. Before the emotions can rattle you too much and send you spiraling with anxious thoughts and what ifs, he explains further..

“I thought I would spare you the details, spare you from having to prepare to lose me. I was okay with that decision up until the moment one of my engines failed and my jet was going down - and the one thing that flashed through my mind was that I wouldn’t get to talk to you again, or see you, or how when you win your Pulitzer you wouldn’t be able to call me to tell me the news or how I wouldn’t be able to hang up the print of your winning piece next to your union one,” his voice is shaking slightly, and you know if you even attempted to reply your words would quiver just as much. In this moment, you’re trembling with your hands folded over your eyes to hide the tears brimming.

It’s a mix of sadness and anger and disappointment and you try your best to hold off on the tornado, but it rips your soul to shreds the more you realize the gravity of the situation. “You’re fucking kidding me,” you grit out, pressing your lips together to barricade the sobs. Your hands are tightly wrapped around a throw pillow, squeezing and kneading out your frustration on it. You can barely stand to look at him. “Took you a near death experience to call me? You think I haven’t already put myself through the fucking wringer after feeling so guilty for cutting you off just because you were too scared to love me? And you almost died?”

“I’m sorry,” Jake repeats, at least sounding sincerely apologetic.

“I appreciate that, Jake,” you reply bitterly, then defeatedly toss the pillow to the side. “When did you even get back?”

His jaw tenses slightly and he sighs, and you immediately feel triumphant for successfully frustrating him, as petty as it sounds. “Few months back. And I’m sorry for not calling you. I wanted to as soon as I got back, but I wanted to say all this face to face. And it took some time for me to figure out my shit, but I’m here now, if you’ll hear me out?”

All you can do is nod, purse your lips and let him say his piece - there’s no pressure to forgive him or fall into his arms.

“I think you were right,” Jake continues seriously. You dig your nails into your palms anxiously. Under any other circumstance, you would have loved hearing those words from anyone else. Not now. Not Jake. “You were right to call me out when you said I was letting the fear of becoming my dad hold me back from chasing what I want.”

As your anger slightly dissipates, you think back to that moment - about how those were just a few of the words you wish you could snatch up out of your past and make them disappear. Your breath hitches. “I was a bit harsh - "

“- But you were right,” he interrupts. “And I think that’s another reason why I shut down, because you know me so well. After all these years, I think you know me better than I know myself.”

You nod, not sure what exactly to say to that. It’s not like you can explain to him that you were so incredibly taken by him, that you held onto his every word and agonized over interaction in hopes of really getting to know your best friend.

Jake goes on: “And you have to know that my dad broke Ma’s heart like it was nothing. Married for twenty years, dated for five years, friends for another ten years. Even after you add all that up, it’s still not enough to keep them together. He still went for the first temp who waltzed into his office, still fucked with both of them for months on end. If my parents couldn’t keep it together, how could anyone else?”

You’re stunned, frozen in shock before you manage to gather your strength, pick up your thoughts and hurl them right back at him. Screw this defeatist attitude he’s picked up. “You have to understand that’s the nature of some relationships, Jake. Sometimes they’re not meant to last forever, sometimes people change - "

You halt, feel a wave of déjà vu. The words on the tip of your tongue sound eerily familiar to something that’s replayed in your mind for the past two years, and a couple puzzle pieces start to fit together. “Is this why you were spouting all of this bullshit at the wedding? About us changing?”

Suddenly, he launches up from the couch, walks two steps across the room and pivots on his heel to walk the two steps back in an attempt to furiously pace. He groans out exasperatedly, rakes a hand through his stupid perfect blond hair. “I mean... Yeah. It made sense at the time,” he admits. Briefly, you wonder when his nervous tics changed in the past few years, when did he switch from bouncing his legs under tables to wearing a path into carpets?

People change indeed. In more ways than one.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you tell him matter-of-factly, and there’s no sugar-coating your words anymore. He makes a sound, as if he’s about to feign offense, but you power through. “People change all the fucking time, Jake. How the hell are we supposed to grow and become better versions of ourselves if we stay stagnant? Where’s the fucking story in that?”

You huff out a laugh, don’t even wait for him to reply before continuing on a rant. He’s stopped pacing now, is looking at you, but you’ve sprung up to your full height to look at him straight on, deliver your words as firmly as you can.

“People change, Jake, especially when they’re in relationships - it’s a matter of adapting, supporting them and loving your partner through it. And like, let’s be clear: I’ve changed a lot, too. Physically and emotionally - but I’m okay with it because I realize it’s made me become someone my sixteen year old self would be stoked to meet. And not just because I live in the city or because I have, like, 2 Montblanc pens - but because I’m working on these stories and they fly me out wherever to interview people, and I know I haven’t sent my stuff to you in a while, didn’t think you’d still want to read it - ”

“- I’ve kept up,” Jake interrupts. You stop in your tracks, tilt your head to the side as you process this. “I wanted to read them.”

“You have?” you ask dubiously, doubtfully. Hopefully.

“‘Course,” he affirms, sends you a reassuring smile and stands up straighter, takes a step forward. “I mean, not while I was overseas, I read up when I got back. I really liked that one about the Obamas’ portraits. Thought that was pretty cool. But the one about the grassroots movements for peace in Afghanistan got me thinking. Like, obviously I was assigned there for a while, but didn’t really consider other things happening there - Actually, I had some questions for you, but we can talk about it later...”

“Oh. Sure.” You’re slightly shocked at the confession, at the small vision that flashes through your mind of Jake typing your name into Google and catching up on your stories, determinedly following your career even during the most unstable moment in your friendship. It sparks hope in you, sends a wave of hope crashing down on you forcefully. “Wow. I didn’t think you… That means the world to me, Jake.”

He’s quiet for a moment, excitement reverting back to a somber contemplative expression. “I understand what you’re saying about change,” he says hesitantly, rocks back on his heels. “And I think I’m starting to understand what you meant in your voicemail about the... conglomeration stuff. Loving every version of me. Because I really feel the same way about you.”

It’s ambiguous, a little mysterious, his words a little stilted and broken, and you replay his words over and over to try and dig up the meaning behind them. But he’s taking another step towards you - if you reach out, you can certainly reach up and run your finger across the small bump in his nose from that football all those years ago. Hold his cheek in your hand like you've always wanted to.

Your heart stumbles, crushes up against the front of your ribcage as it tries to peek out at the man you’ve loved since you were seventeen. “Oh, Jake,” your response rolls out along with two tears down your cheeks.“ It’s okay - “

The scent of vanilla tobacco hits you first, then his chest as he pulls you into a giant bear hug that envelops you in a warmth that could put both the sun and Texas bonfires to shame. Your face is pressed into his jacket and he’s talking, saying something that you don’t really register until you tilt your head up and dig your chin into his firm chest.

“I’m in love with you, sweetheart,” the words burst forth. His hand’s resting gently on the small of your back - the warmth of his palm radiates comforting heat through your body that only multiplies as he pulls you into him. You stabilize your hands on his shoulders, crane your neck to look up at him and map out every part of his face - from the small lines in his forehead to the slope of his nose to the slight redness in his cheeks. “It’s okay if it’s too late, if you’ve moved on. I just don’t want to lose you again, don’t want to risk not talking to you, can’t - ”

“Of course I’m in love with you, stupid man,” the words come to you as easily as breathing does. The smile that spreads across his face brings back your favorite eye crinkles, carves a dimple into the corner of his mouth, makes it feel like you’re bathing in sunlight. And Jake wastes no time, doesn’t even hesitate before he’s breathing out a question and you're nodding tearfully and then he's cupping both of your cheeks gently and surging forward to press his lips to yours.

Jake tastes like cinnamon, just as you’ve always suspected. Aside from that, nothing about the way you love Jake is predictable. Nothing is ever steady, nothing is ever expected. Every moment with him brings forth a new set of revelations that drives you crazy, tears you to pieces. And somehow, it’s all incredibly worth it, worth the brief heartbreak, worth the years of hoping and waiting for him to join you. Because in the end, he made it. In this moment, it feels like everything is just right.

Tags

fic recs august 2022 Top gun top gun maverick jake seresin hangman my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing best friends to lovers with jake i’ll never recover SO MUCH FUCKING ANGST i went through a roller coaster of emotions i’m majoring in journalism so this was <3 never getting over “How’s San Diego?” - “Can you buzz me up?” pls tell me they get married

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fivsecondsflat

2 years ago

20/09/22: again: i read this the day it was posted but college has been kicking my ass so it took me a little longer to reblog with highlights!!! anyways!!! 9.8k words… jordan, you’re too good to us!!! i fall in love with bradley and smart aleck every time you post something new. i think they’re both very complex characters that sometimes have a hard time saying what they feel. so it was beautiful seeing both of them talk it through and be okay with each other again. HERE ARE MY FAVORITE PARTS!!!

“He liked that he could come home from a really long or hard day at work and you would both just talk about your days in the simplest terms and work through your shit together while eating dinner and then watching TV. Because work was work, no matter what field you worked in - coworkers were still assholes, your bosses still gave you shit, and deadlines still loomed.”

“Because Bradley knew that you adored him. He knew you loved him, obviously - he was pretty sure he had had a perpetual smile on his face for two days after you had told him, all nervous and sweet and endearing one morning. But more to the point, he knew that you adored him - figurative warts and all.” of course she adores him. of course. of course.

“You had taught him that he was more than his rank or his callsign or his military ID number or - hell - even his last name - he was just Bradley. And for so long he hadn’t been living as Bradley. He’d gone through the motions, sure. But he hadn’t really let himself just be until he had met you.” AND FOR SO LONG HE HADN’T BEEN LIVING AS BRADLEY??????? BUT HE HADN’T REALLY LET HIMSELF JUST BE UNTIL HE HAD MET YOU???????????? 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“And he knew he would have to confront it sometime (maybe, eventually, like when you got married or something - maybe), but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.” HE’S THINKING ABOUT MARRIAGEEEEEEEE!!!

“It wasn’t even ten yet, but Bradley didn’t push it. He knew he had fucked up and you deserved to have some space to think things over.” giving her space even tho it hurts!!! beloved!!!

“You paused to give him a kiss, which was far too brief for his liking, and dashed out of the kitchen. Once he was sure you were gone, he leaned his elbows on the kitchen island and then hung his head in his hands. God, he fucked up. He really fucked up.” the kiss being to brief for his liking!!! i love that you mention this!!!

“He had made you feel less than.” ANGST TERRITORY!!

“The two of you didn’t fight often - was this a fight? He had really just fucked up, you hadn’t done anything. And even when the two of you did fight, it was normally over trivial stuff like not cleaning the stove correctly (which Bradley did not do) or sometimes not telling the other what time either of you would be home or when Bradley had offered to watch Fanboy’s dog for the weekend even though you were terrified of any dog over thirty pounds.” bradley being The Cook but not knowing how to clean a stove correctly. why am i even more in love? also, smart aleck being terrified of FANBOY’S DOG? jadgjwhxsjcghw i love everything about this because i just KNOW bradley would like big dogs and if they ever started talking about adopting that would just be so entertaining. WHAT DOG WOULD THEY HAVE????

“Sure, it was nice to be getting an award for saving Maverick last November during the uranium enrichment plant mission - but that wasn’t why Bradley had done it. That was never why Bradley would do anything.

He did it because it was the right thing.” HE DID IT BECAUSE IT WAS THE RIGHT THING!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

“And right now, as much as it hurt him, it was the right thing to give you some space.” beloved.

“Fuck - did your voice sound thicker than normal? Were you crying? God, he really hoped you weren’t crying. Shit, now he was going to start crying.” not my stomach turning in knots 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

“He loved you. He loved you so much.

And you loved him. You loved him so much.” YEAH!!! THIS PARALLEL!!!

“Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed your pajama shorts and t-shirt neatly folded on top of the toilet tank. Before he even realized what he was doing, he hung them both up on the hooks next to your fluffy white towel, knowing you hated dripping water on the floor when you got out of the shower. He figured it was the least he could do; just something so you knew he was there.” PIJAMA PEACE OFFERING YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS TO ME!!! such a sweet gesture!!!

“Bradley noticed with a sinking heart, and even in the darkness, that your eyes were puffy, only confirming his suspicion that he had heard you crying in the shower. He felt like the world’s biggest asshole.” the puffy eyes :((((((((((

“They were serving grilled cheese on that thick bread Bradley liked so much and tomato soup and he had been looking forward to it after leaving his lunch in the refrigerator at home.” idk why but i love this little info.

“(However, you had texted him your Wordle score - 2/6. He still couldn’t figure out how you managed that with twang, but he figured that meant all hope wasn’t lost between the two of you.)” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 bradley and smart aleck being in their respective emotional trenches, yet they still play wordle together 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 stupid people in love 😭😭😭😭😭😭

“His stomach dropped. Small. You had felt small. Bradley had made you feel small.” MY STOMACH ALSO DROPPED THIS LINE REALLY HURT.

“She adores you and I know she respects you. He knew that stuff too - obviously - but sometimes it was nice to hear it from someone else. That someone else could tell how much you and Bradley meant to each other and loved each other even without seeing some of your most private and intimate moments - whether changing the sheets on Saturday mornings to preparing the next day’s lunch after dinner every night.” BUT SOMETIMES IT WAS NICE TO HEAR IT FROM SOMEONE ELSE!!! i love this paragraph so much.

“Little stuff like that. Stuff that made a relationship - that made a life together.” A LIFE TOGETHERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. jordan, i need to know how he proposed.

“But the groveling should be at a maximum - hey, have you thought about going down on her until your old man knees crack - oww!” PHOENIX MY BFF!!! ALWAYS SO RIGHT!!!

“He noticed you didn’t close the final distance to where he was still standing on the front porch. And he also noticed you didn’t have your overnight bag in your hands. His heart dropped - god, he fucked this up so badly.” HE NOTICED THE OVERNIGHT BAG MISSING ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞

“You gave him a hesitant smile, clasping your hands together at your stomach. You looked pretty in your work clothes. But you always looked pretty.” BUT YOU ALWAYS LOOKED PRETTY!!!!!!!!! FAVORITE LINE!!!!!!!!!

“God, you were so wrong? How could you be so wrong? Fuck. You thought he was embarrassed of you? Clearly, you’d given this some thought, he had to have done it before. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” yes i’m crying. the response she gave was heartbreaking, saying she was gonna wait home with champagne to celebrate LATER? NO 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 HE WANTS YOU THERE YOU’RE GONNA BE THERE!!!

“You’re my Bradley.” 😭

“He smiled and pulled you in for a hug. You wrapped your arms around his stomach in response, squeezing him tight. “And I love you and I want you to share all parts of yourself with me, alright? I’m a big girl, I can handle it - even though sometimes I still think you should just be an astronaut,” your voice came out slightly muffled against his chest.” YES THE TENDERNESS AND THE HUMOR THEY’RE BACK I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

“So,” he said your first and last name, “will you go to this slightly pretentious Navy gala with me and whisper snarky comments in my ear all night and dance with me until our feet hurt?” oh i BET there will be plenty of snarky comments being whispered.

“You tucked your hair behind your ears. “Oh, err - I actually just left it in the car…didn’t want to seem too eager if you didn’t actually want me to stay over…” THIS GOT ME BY SURPRISE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“Silly girl,” was all Bradley said before he unlocked your car and got your leather overnight bag and work tote out of the passenger seat.” SILLY GIRL!!!!!!!!!! ❤️‍🩹

AND HE GOT HER FLOWERS!!!

“Normally, Bradley got you flowers just because. Just because he got out of work early that day or just because you looked particularly pretty the day before or just because you had made him laugh. Which is all to say, he got you flowers quite frequently. And he always kept track of when to get the next ones by slipping one stem out of the bouquet and keeping it in his office on base; if the flower in his office died, then it was time to get you some new ones.” getting her flowers just because <3 yes that’s bradley bradshaw.

“But the flowers sitting on his kitchen island - a gorgeous arrangement of white tulips and pink peonies - were most definitely apology flowers. Because Bradley had been an asshole and had made you cry and doubt him and feel less than. And he had made a promise to you after your first date that he would try his damn hardest to never make you feel less than ever again.” BEAUTIFUL!!!!!!!!

“Bradley hadn’t gone back for Mav because he wanted the praise or an award or anything like that. He had done it because he loved him - plain and simple. He loved his godfather and couldn’t bear the thought that he had sacrificed his life for Bradley just as they were getting towards an understanding again. Because though he had originally said otherwise, there would be someone to mourn Maverick if he burned in - Bradley.” OF COURSE HE WOULD MOURN MAVERICK I THINK ABOUT THAT DAMN LIVE EVERY DAY IT’S SO SAD AND THE BIGGEST LIE AND HE SAID TO MAVERICK’S FACE AND I KNOW IT MUST HAVE HURT BOTH OF THEM SO MUCH ANYWAYS I’M GLAD THEY’RE OKAY AND I LOVE THAT YOU BROUGHT THIS UP.

“The fact that Bradley had been projecting when he had originally said that to Mav was something he had only brought up with his therapist - and it would remain that way.” ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

“That’s all I ask, bubs.”

He gave you a quick kiss on the lips. “Back to bubs, am I?” BANTERRRRRRR TEASINGGGGGGG

“It was so simple and stupid and probably didn’t even stand for anything, but he loved it. Loved hearing it fall from your lips, whether as you teased or taunted him or as you mumbled it against his skin in bed at night.” <3

“But sweetheart,” he leaned his elbows on the island and gave you a hammy smile, “you’re my sugar mo -” thank god she didn’t let him finish!!!

“Can I come in with you?” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“Your hair’s gotten lighter in the sun,” you said mildly, before lathering some shampoo through it. Your fingers kneaded at his scalp and he let out a sigh.” i really loved this part since the sneak peak you posted.

“He could feel you styling his hair into some sort of half-assed mohawk. “Do I want to know how ridiculous I look?” You giggled. “Think I’ll take that as a no. Just wait till I get my hands on you, missy.” MY ABSOLUTE BELOVEDS!!!

“You cupped his cheek, gliding your thumb over the scar he hated so much, and then leaned forward to kiss it briefly.” GLIDING THE THUMB OVER THE SCAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEN KISSING IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ROMANCE!!!!!!!!!!

“I did not force you, I only said I would not shower at your place if these were my only -”

“- But you knew the prospect of limited sex at my house would make me cave, hence you forced my hand to buy this thirty dollar shampoo and the conditioner.” he’s ridiculous he’s horny i love him.

“- Shhhh, s’alright.” He started you off slow, at a lighter speed, just enough to rile you up and keep you wanting more. Once he got comfortable with maneuvering the showerhead, coupled with holding you against him, he really started to have some fun.” SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Bradley loved hearing you babble. He loved when you talked smart to him and sassed him. But he really liked when you babbled incoherently. Because to have you - the smartest, wittiest, most capable girl he knew - be unable to form any words because you were so lost in him was the hottest thing in the world.” 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

“Shh, shhh, good girl, that’s my good girl,” Bradley muttered, this time pressing butterfly kisses to your neck and shoulder. “Such a good girl for me.” FEELING VERY ILL AT THE MOMENT. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?

“You good, sweetheart?”

You nodded, still a little dazed after your orgasm. Bradley always found it endearing that you always got a little sleepy after you had an orgasm or two. Well, maybe not endearing - he took it as an ego boost even though it was a bit primal of him - but it was always good to know how well he took care of you.” YES. YES TO THIS ENTIRE PART. SO WELL WRITTEN.

i love how they switch from horny to silly.

“You know it’s lieutenant commander…”

“Doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as nicely.”

Fucking brat.” AAAAAAAAAAA JUST KILL ME.

“It was nice to just have time together - especially after such an emotionally and physically exhausting week - and to go to bed early and wake up late, wrapped in each other’s arms, and plan out the day.” you guys deserve some peace 😭🥰

“Because there was something so inherently satisfying in the domesticity of running errands with someone and combining your routine with theirs.” yessssssssss this is so beautiful and domestic and it’s all people needs in this world.

“Bradley put down the paring knife and wiped his strawberry stained hands on his apron. He said your name and you glanced up at him a moment later.” SHUT UP ALREADY WITH THE APRON AMD STRAWBERRY CUTTING. FAVORITE STUPID SCENE AND STUPID DETAIL I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS.

“He started rocking you back and forth in his arms. God, how could you not see that you were all he wanted? That you were perfect for him?” THROWING UP BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE.

“Then we’ll just do that,” you said simply. “I’ve never danced with you before anyway.”

He exaggerated a gasp and you smiled. “Do our kitchen dance parties mean nothing to you?” he’s ridiculous ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

“Ella Fitzgerald, good choice.” He spun you out and got a giggle from you. “You’re too smooth, lieutenant.” god i really am not tour strongest soldier.

“Once the chorus hit, he dipped you for good measure and - god - the smile on your face made him feel about ten feet tall. The two of you eventually settled down from your more ambitious dance moves to just swaying in each other’s arms.” THE SMILE ON YOUR FACE MADE HIM FEEL ABOUT TEN FEET TALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. KILL ME.

“Bradley never got tired of hearing you say that. I love you. He’d heard it and said it before, but it never had carried as much weight as when he had heard it from you for the first time. I love you.

And Bradley knew that you were going to be the only person he ever said it to again.” HOW DO YOU COME UP WITH THESE?????? INSANE.

i can’t wait for part 2.2!!! i’m gonna be so sad when it’s over because i could read about them forever!!! jordan, once again, you’re one of the best there is. share your secrets!!!!!!!!!! ❤️

and even when we’re wrong in every way, we come out the other side okay (part 2.1)

Summary: in which lieutenant bradshaw is getting honored with an award and behaved like an absolute idiot when he didn’t initially ask his girlfriend to be his date even though she’s the best goddamn thing to ever happen to him

OR you take on the pacific fleet’s awards gala

Pairing: Rooster x Fem!Reader 9.8k

Warnings: 18+, explicit language, explicit sexual content (p in v, vaginal fingering and slight dom/sub and praise and rank kink elements), and shower sex and soapy titties

[Part 1] [Part 1.5] [Part 2.1] [Part 2.2]

A/N: this was really fucking long, so i split it up. the final final part will be posted soon! but i just want to thank everyone so so so much for all the absolutely amazing support i’ve gotten on this entire series including my little bradley and smart aleck drabbles and the respective lore about the two of them. i have so many people to thank for reaching out and leaving the absolute sweetest comments and replies and messages, but i’d be remiss if i didn’t call out sol, may, cass, ava, giza, and kylie for all their help and encouragement and listening to me complain via dms these past few weeks! so without further adieu…

and all these situations we go through, we come out the other side brand new

Bradley couldn’t believe it had almost been six months since the two of you had gotten together. Nearly six months of dinner dates, movie nights, cooking at each other’s places, beach trips, hikes (begrudgingly on your part), and even a couple jaunts down to Tijuana just for Caesar salads - all to say nothing about the sex.

Continuar lendo

Tags

they’re adorable fic recs 2022 Top gun top gun maverick rooster september bradley bradshaw my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing bradley and smart aleck just bradley being in a kitchen and doing kitchen stuff idk it works for me angst so many feelings pls write about them forever

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fivsecondsflat

2 years ago

14/08/2022: MISS LURKYMURKER!!!!!!!! there is no way this isn’t a dream!!!! euro tripe rafe is back on this stupid little app and I AM BEAMING!!!! you are one of my favorite authors of all time and i will follow you to the grave. i read euro trip and then college trip and then managed to just drown in all your work at the beginning of this year (i used to be too shy to get off anon but i’ve been here for a while) and the thing is: i don’t even like rafe 😭😭😭 i came across your blog because i saw another author i really liked saying incredible things about you and just had to give your rafe a chance. AND I AM SO GLAD I DID!!! the way you write him in your universes is just so lovely i couldn’t help but fall in love???? all thanks to your beautiful brain and writing (i’ll be a mess when s3 comes out and euro trip rafe just isn’t there on my screen. life is so unfair.) ANYWAYS!!! all of this to say, i breathe and live for euro trip, the story has a very special place in my heart and SEEING YOU WRITE FOR THEM AGAIN- AM I DREAMING? i’m just crazy happy. here’s me just, idk even know… crying over them??? a super classy review (me when i lie) of this beautiful little nugget you decided to bless us with!!!

“Because you’d meant it. You’d asked him how he was, and you’d wanted to know he’d be okay. Rafe didn’t know whether he deserved that. He didn’t know whether he ever would.

And so, he’d run away.” sometimes i forget how insecure he’s always been :((((

“Rafe swallows. His mind fails to stray from the first voice he heard; the heart-squeezing pressure it places on his chest.” THE HEART-SQUEEZING PRESSURE IT PLACES ON HIS CHEST. dude!!!!! your writing!!!!! i visualize and i feel everything!!!!! how do you do this idk but WOW.

“The way his name falls from your lips is a sharp knife to his chest. And then you ask, “How are you?” and it plunges, twists, cuts deeper.” she’s being so kind and it just makes him hurt a little more my heart can’t survive this.

“Some space from Rafe should come as a welcome relief.

Except that it doesn’t.

All it tells you is that he isn’t himself, at a moment; a large part of him is hurting, and a small part of you wants to fix that.” THE FACT THAT THIS PRE EURO TRIP!!!!! THEY WERE JUST BABIES, THEIR FEELINGS WERE STILL SO VERY MESSY AND CONFUSING I LOVE THEM!!! SHE WANTS TO FIX IT ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

and then he bumps her chin!!!!! because of course physical touch is rafe’s thing, i missed him so much!!!!

“you pause, you trail off, you soften your expression and watch Rafe’s falter,” i love the way they are not exactly mirroring each other but it’s more of a action-reaction kind of thing, you know? soulmates since forever!!!!!

“And perhaps that’s why this hurts so much; why the comfort of your presence is crushing pressure to his chest. Because letting himself yearn for you — want you, hope to have you, one day — means letting himself love, feel love, feel it all.

Including that which he lost.” i am in so much pain right now.

“Why?” He teases; he’ll break if he answers honestly, he isn’t sure he’ll survive it. Bad, he thinks, I’m doing fucking bad and you’re going to make it worse before you can make it better,” BAD, HE THINKS, I’M DOING FUCKING BAD AND YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE IT WORSE BEFORE YOU CAN MAKE IT BETTER!!!!!!!!!! favorite fucking line!!!!!! just crush my heart.

“He swallows. He tries to find something else to say; something stupid and meaningless that’ll push you away.

He can’t.” of course he can’t!!!!!!!! he’s always been so honest with her!!!! and especially now that he’s so vulnerable, his mom’s death is still so recent… he can’t!!!!!! ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

“He resists the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over your skin, ensure that you’re real, you’re here, you’re worried about him.” god he’s always been so in love i almost forgot he’s just so drawn to her, like a magnet. i can feel how strong the urge to reach out to her is for him!!!!!!!!! i love the way you write i really do i am in love!!!!!

“You’re here. You were here three months ago, when the wound was still fresh, and it may not be close to healed, yet, but you’ll still be here when it is.” ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

“A friend,” Rafe affirms with a nod. “A friend who I make out with sometimes?”

“And there he is,” Topper says then, throwing an arm over your shoulder as he brings up your rear. “Knew all it’d take was a conversation with you.” A FRIEND WHO I MAKE OUT WITH SOMETIMES QUESTION MARK… I HATE HIM, I HAVE SO MANY BUTTERFLIES ON MY STOMACH RIGHT NOW!!!!!! and really love that we get a little bit of playfulness here because he never lets himself crack open too much!!!! I’M IN LOVE WITH HIM and i love topper’s comment.

“Thank you. Seriously,” his breath is spicy mint, faint raspberry.

“I didn’t do anything,” you answer meekly, folding your arms across your chest. Your forearms brush his as you do so, warm sunshine with rippling muscles.

“You did,” he says, disarmingly sober. “You always do.” these tiny little interactions pre-euro trip make me swoon!!!!!! they kill me from the inside out!!!! it’s all so delicate and intimate and it’s just too much and not enough and it’s everything!!!!! SHE DOESN’T EVEN REALIZE HOW IMPORTANT SHE IS TO HIM!!!!! JUST HER PRESENCE WAS ENOUGH!!!!!!! my favorite interactive in this part.

“But I want to sit with you,” Rafe grins easily, nudging your shoulder with his.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 he’s adorable and i’m devastated he isn’t real.

so beautifully written as always!!!! you never miss!!!!

Euro trip blurb: august

Synopsis: Rafe remembers when wanting was enough. (For him, it was enough, to live for the hope of it all)

Warnings: mentions of a parent death, cursing, angst, fuckboy Rafe in full force

a/n: I think this is one of the earliest blurbs I’ve written! Set in the summer before junior year, right after Lillian passed. I remember mentioning that Rafe spent a lot of time avoiding Y/n during the aftermath, because a part of him knew that letting her in would mean letting everything else in too. Here’s some perspective!

“I can’t decide,” the girl whines, the space between her collarbones forming an osculate as she sighs. She angles her body toward Rafe’s expectantly, fresh sunlight bathing her skin burnt amber, faint tones of sepia. “You pick,” she decides, handing him the two spoons in her hand. “Raspberry sorbet or matcha?”

Rafe Cameron doesn’t bother. He places them into the container in front of him untouched, neat movements juxtaposing the sloven way he pulls her close. His lips are firm, impatient enough to leave her breathless; the careless kind of ardency she may define as yearning.

She’d be wrong.

Rafe hasn’t let himself feel anything since his mother’s death. When he bruises her with kisses, tastes the sea-salt, honeysuckle on her skin, it’s because he’s running away.

“Raspberry,” he says when he pulls away, giving her waist an absent squeeze. There’s a barely there imprint of cherry chapstick on his lips, brilliant red that swirls hints of sweet sorbet.

She nods her approval, turning toward the counter to place her order. And when Rafe does the same, when he reaches around her and pays (with clean wad of cash, leaving a tip that’s almost outrageous — even for him), he feels overwhelmingly as though he’s just going through the motions.

Summer’s been hard.

His mother passed away three months ago, today, and all he’s done since then is avoid, avoid, avoid. His father, his younger sisters, his responsibilities, the majority of his friends; all the things he loves, all the things he deserves — you.

Most especially, Rafe’s avoiding you.

Because when he’d walked into class two days after her funeral, red-rimmed pupils with pockets of insomnia beneath the lids, you’d looked up at him and asked, “Hey, how are you doing?”

And you’d done it in that soft, aching voice you never used; it was gentle, genuine, and it’d broken Rafe’s heart cleanly in two.

Because you’d meant it. You’d asked him how he was, and you’d wanted to know he’d be okay. Rafe didn’t know whether he deserved that. He didn’t know whether he ever would.

And so, he’d run away.

Weeks and weeks of missed periods, of stumbling into Noah White’s house dangerously half-cut, and then, at the helm of another cruel summer, opportunistic hook-ups with every girl in his class.

Except you.

“…and then, Lacy said her older brother can totally hook us up!”

Rafe blinks.

“So?” The girl adds, bringing a spoonful of ice-cream to her mouth. “You in?”

“Huh?” Rafe asks then, rubbing the back of his neck distractedly. Endless hours in the sun have lightened the tips of his hair; he’s let them grow out, tease through the frayed edges of his baseball cap.

“Lacy’s?” The girl repeats, brow furrowing a little. “The party? Are you even listening?”

“Oh,” Rafe falters, he shakes his head, he expertly avoids eye contact, “yeah, sure Liz.”

“Yay!” The girl named Liz exclaims, nudging his shoulder approvingly. The movement times perfectly with three sets of footsteps; the bell above Daily Scoop jingles, and in walks warmth, perplexing familiarity.

“Bring Noah,” Liz adds, though Rafe isn’t really listening. His heartbeat quickens. He feels the surface of his palms grow clammy.

“…it’ll be fun, I promise,” continues a voice, glowing and gentle and overwhelmingly soft. “Besides, they’re playing 10 things I hate about you, and you guys know how much I love Heath Ledger —”

“Dude,” groans a deeper voice in response; Topper, maybe Kelce, Rafe doesn’t really care, “you’ve made us watch that film like, a million fucking times already.”

“So? You don’t hear me complaining every time you guys rope me into spending my Sunday playing nine-holes —”

“Except that golf is actually fu— oh, shit, Cameron, is that you?”

Rafe swallows. His mind fails to stray from the first voice he heard; the heart-squeezing pressure it places on his chest.

“Oh, uh, hey,” he answers, turning toward the source of the commotion slowly. He hopes that his expression reads blithe disinterest, that being here with Liz gives you the wrong impression.

It doesn’t.

“Rafael,” you say slowly, taking him in. You haven’t seen much of him over the past three months; his hair is longer, his skin warmer, sunburnt. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His pert nose holds a smattering of brown freckles.

The way his name falls from your lips is a sharp knife to his chest. And then you ask, “How are you?” and it plunges, twists, cuts deeper.

Rafe needs it to stop.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says with a grin, swivelling his cap so it sits backwards on his head. He abandons his table with Liz to head over, all charm and smooth confidence, expertly hidden grief.

“Hey,” you repeat, raising your eyebrows in surprise.

Perhaps you didn’t expect him to approach you so easily. He’s been avoiding you like the plague since his mother’s funeral, and you know it shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. You’re the one who’s always complaining about his annoying grin, his annoying comments, his annoyingly relentless presence and the way he refuses to let up — aren’t you? Some space from Rafe should come as a welcome relief.

Except that it doesn’t.

All it tells you is that he isn’t himself, at a moment; a large part of him is hurting, and a small part of you wants to fix that.

“I’m good,” he answers with a grin, bumping your chin playfully. It’s a tendril of soft touch, but it’s heat enough to set nerve-endings aflame. “Better now that you’re here.”

You frown then, surveying him through narrowed eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant,” you mutter, a crease forming between your eyebrows. “I mean with…” you pause, you trail off, you soften your expression and watch Rafe’s falter, “…everything. Your mom. How are you doing?”

Rafe flinches, almost. The last few words are a barely there whisper, impossibly gentle, as though you care about his answer.

About him.

And perhaps that’s why this hurts so much; why the comfort of your presence is crushing pressure to his chest. Because letting himself yearn for you — want you, hope to have you, one day — means letting himself love, feel love, feel it all.

Including that which he lost.

Because, really, who on Earth’s capable of loving him as unconditionally as his mother did?

“Why?” He teases; he’ll break if he answers honestly, he isn’t sure he’ll survive it. Bad, he thinks, I’m doing fucking bad and you’re going to make it worse before you can make it better, and so, he adds, “You gonna cheer me up with a kiss?”

“Rafael,” you sigh, taking a tentative step forward. There’s half an inch between you, now, faint bergamot mingling with spicy cologne, musk. “Why are you being like this?”

It isn’t the response he expected, and the revelation burns his throat dry, coats his waterline with unshed tears. He swallows. He tries to find something else to say; something stupid and meaningless that’ll push you away.

He can’t.

“I don’t know,” his voice breaks, and he tries not to wince as he clears his throat. Topper and Kelce have long abandoned their posts on either side of you, burying themselves with a menu they’ve already perused a million times . “I’m… it doesn’t matter. Surviving. I’m surviving.”

“Well,” you start, chewing on your bottom lip gingerly. Rafe’s eyes fall to their raw surface, the contour of your jaw, your soft neck. He resists the urge to reach out and brush his fingers over your skin, ensure that you’re real, you’re here, you’re worried about him. “You’ve just… I don’t know. I never got to give you my condolences. I’m sorry, Rafael, I can’t even imagine how…”

You trail off, exhaling slowly. “…I’m here. If you want to talk —”

“— or not talk?” Rafe questions, but he’s grin now, crescent moon curve to his lips that meets the corners of his eyes. It’s the first time in a long while he’s let himself really smile.

You’re here. You were here three months ago, when the wound was still fresh, and it may not be close to healed, yet, but you’ll still be here when it is.

Rafe doesn’t know when the months slipped by; somewhere between his mother’s death, and now, he lost himself within loss, within mourning, endless grief. He doesn’t know when he stopped hoping for, wanting love; when he stopped living for the hope of it all.

He realises now that it doesn’t matter. Lillian Cameron wouldn’t have wanted her son to just give up.

“Will you just —” you pause, pinching the bridge of your nose frustratedly, “— I’m here, okay? As a friend.”

“A friend,” Rafe affirms with a nod. “A friend who I make out with sometimes?”

“And there he is,” Topper says then, throwing an arm over your shoulder as he brings up your rear. “Knew all it’d take was a conversation with you.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, fixing him a stern glare.

“He’s right, though,” he agrees with a wink, and then he pauses, dipping his head until he’s at eye level. This close, you can see specks of green within his blue irises. The tip of his pert nose is sunburnt. And when he adds, “Thank you. Seriously,” his breath is spicy mint, faint raspberry.

“I didn’t do anything,” you answer meekly, folding your arms across your chest. Your forearms brush his as you do so, warm sunshine with rippling muscles.

“You did,” he says, disarmingly sober. “You always do.”

His gaze lingers as he turns back around, and you try not to focus on the way your stomach flips, the way your breath catches at his words.

He’s returning to a table with Liz, you remind yourself, no doubt the millionth girl he’s taken out, kissed on the beach, this summer. You’re not special. He may look at you like you’re the only girl in the world, but you can’t be — not to a douchebag like him.

So, you don’t let his words get to you.

And when you decide to try out two new flavours (mint chocolate chip and raspberry sorbet — a combination that causes Topper to gag, violently), you try not to think about the fact that they taste like Rafe’s breath on your skin.

—

“I can’t believe you actually roped us into this crap,” Topper grumbles, nudging his way through the crowd with you and Kelce close behind. He halts nears an unoccupied patch of grass, crisp blades dried out by the unforgiving, Carolina heat.

“You guys are going to love it,” you insist, unrolling your plaid picnic blanket. The projector is a perfect distance away, cotton candy clouds overlaying large screen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kelce scowls, setting down several snacks before getting comfortable. “You fucking owe us.”

You send him a saccharine sweet smile, stretching yourself out on the picnic blanket before reaching for a bag of Skittles. The air is thick with the scent of foxglove and forget-me-nots; it’s sticky humidity and cicadas, salty heat that reminds you of the beach.

“Come on,” you press, propping yourself up onto your elbows. You pop several Skittles into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully before continuing, “You haven’t even given it a chance. Just — just wait until the movie starts, alright? And then —”

“Wait a minute,” Topper interrupts; clearly, he wasn’t listening in the first place, “is that fucking —”

“Space for two more?”

You freezd. You recognise that voice; so well, in fact, that you know that the question is directed only at you.

“Uh,” you turn and lift your head, met with Rafe’s figure crouching down beside you. The burnt orange sunset lightens his irises; they look softer, somehow, more genuine than they did. “Why?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “For me and Noah?”

“Can’t you guys, like,” you gesticulate awkwardly, floundering, “I don’t know, sit somewhere else?”

“But I want to sit with you,” Rafe grins easily, nudging your shoulder with his.

You frown. “This isn’t what I meant,” you say, eyes darting toward Noah furtively. “When I said I’m here, I didn’t mean you could crash every hang out I plan with Top and Kelce —”

“Sweetheart,” Rafe says then, and he’s almost laughing — how dare he? What about this is funny? “I wasn’t trying to crash your…”

He trails off slowly, trying to find the right words to say. He isn’t sure how he’s able to convey how much your Daily Scoop-side rendezvous meant to him; how very much you’ve helped him feel like himself again.

He feels like an idiot for ever avoiding you. He wants you — needs you to know that.

“…thank you,” he finishes, exhaling slowly. “For… for before, just — thank you, okay?”

For being you. It prompted him to cancel his plans with Liz, just in case, prompted him to drag Noah to the drive-in, just because. Reminded him how it felt to live for the hope of it all.

You may not have been his to lose, but Rafe Cameron held onto the promise of a future where you were.

—

tags: (just some besties) @notdisneychannel @r0und3bitch @destourtereaux @itsalexwin @flossiewrites :)

Tags

fic recs august 2022 outer banks my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing euro trip rafe euro trip i refuse to tag just rafe cameron because this is not him this is my beloved euro trip rafe lurkymurker aka the goat pre-euro trip idiots and oblivious in love your writing makes me have butterfly infestations in my stomach it’s kind of insane invented the boy obsessed trope will not be streaming s3 so euro trip rafe is forever canon in my head

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fivsecondsflat

2 years ago

08/10/22: FEMINISM AND DIGNITY LEAVING MY BODY AS SOON AS I STARTED READING THIS BECAUSE THIS BRADLEY IS AN ASSHOLE AND I’VE ALREADY FALLEN IN LOVE WITH HIM. this was an amazing first chapter, i loved their relationship, LOOOOOVE the complicated twisted history and the atmosphere you’re creating with the team. i predict a lot of angst a lot of pain and so many more emotions. i bet it isn’t titled CHAOS for no reason… i had to highlight my favorite parts and scream about them because i can never help myself, they’re under the cut!!!

“Your own heart slipping a beat or what felt like several when you saw Bradley Bradshaw at the piano. Of. Fucking. Course. Turning your head slightly to the left, you saw the blue Bronco that held too many memories to count.” oh the FLASHBACKS that must be going through her head I NEED THEM.

“Bradley Bradshaw, the love of your life, your best friend, ex best friend you should say. Your ex boyfriend, too many times to count on both hands so it seemed. The on again off again bullshit you fell for each and every time still haunted you. Left you with way too many issues ranging from your ability to trust others, let people in and not the mention as a consequence of your toxic habits with Rooster—you didn’t really have the ability to play well with others.” the toxicity levels are HIGH but i love the drama i’m eating this up. their past relationship being one of the reasons she doesn’t trust people to say or play along. AND KNOWING HER FATHER HAS CANCER… THE ABANDONMENT ISSUES… you’re gonna make us suffer, arent’t you?

“The necklace he’d gifted you in your teenage years still hung around your rear view mirror though.” OH!!!!!!! 🥺

“Two halves of the small heart. Broken by distance. By time. By stupid arguments and inflated egos.” BROKEN BY DISTANCE BY TIME BY STUPID ARGUMENTS AND INFLATED EGOS!!!!!! BEAUTIFUL!!!!!! one of my favorites lines!!!!! it reminded me of sad beautiful tragic by taylor swift 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲

“Ah, spoken like a true Kazansky—“ Pete chuckled.” SO SHE’S A KAZANSKYYYYYYYY loved this little plot twist!!!

and i love her callsign!!! can’t wait to learn more about why she got it!!!

“No clue.” Penny played coy. Of course she knew. Penny knew everything that was ever going on in Miramar. In Fightertown. Everyone knew that. “However, I have heard from a pretty strong source that Y/n Kazansky is floating about somewhere.” Coughing, you choked on your own gasp of air.” of course penny knows everything!!!

“Who wants to know beautiful?” Hangman replied with a cocky smirk. “Im Jake, Jake Seresin.” Giving Jake your hand to shake, he pulled it up to his lips as he dipped his head, his lips softly connecting with the back of your hand. From across the bar Phoenix had seen the encounter occurring—snickering to Bob as he racked up the next round of pool.

“Poor girl.” Phoenix scoffed as she nudged Bob’s shoulder. Bobs eyes grew a little wider, which some would say wasn’t possible. But he recognised his old front seater by the curve of your smile.” actually: poor jake ajxhsjhxshdhshd

“He’d spotted you with a questioning brow. He could and always would be able to pick you out in a crowd.” 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 so many feelingssssss!!!

“Deciding the coast was clear, you exited slowly, sighing in relief as you walked back towards the direction of the bar. You felt your cap being yanked from your head gently as you slowly turned around. Shock plastered on your face—Rooster stood staring you down, placing your cap on his head childishly with a mischievous smirk.” THIS WAS ADORABLE!!!

“You chose to lie, omit the truth. You knew the second Bradley Bradshaw knew Pete Mitchell was going to be his teacher? He’d be out. Throw in the towel and not live up to his full potential. A little white lie never hurt no one.” they care about each other so much 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲 the fact that she knows he’d leave if he already knee about maverick… so she keeps it quiet… so he doesn’t throw this opportunity away… yeah…

“Rooster smirked as he ducked. Forcing you forward over his shoulder as he stood. Carrying you through the bar. “Guess we’ll go with old reliable huh? A pain in my ass.” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I HATE HIM

“Oh you sly little minx—“ Hangman stood across from you on the other side of the pool table. Staring you down as he felt like a grade A fool.

“No hard feelings there, Hangman?” You replied.” cute. love this little banter.

“We grew up together—“ You spoke at the same time Rooster did, only he didn’t say the same thing.

“We dated for a while—“ Rooster let the cat out of the bag. You let a small but audible fuck escape as you shook your head. What the hell man? Not cool at all.” I LOVE WHEN THIS HAPPENSJDHJSHDHDHDHDHDHDHDH FAVORITE PART!!!!!!

“Oh shit, the Commissioner's daughter Rooster.” Hangman smirked as he took his shot, sinking the red ball he was going for. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” RIGHT?🥵

“Jesus not you too?” Flyboys eyes bugged as Bob shook his head in absolute denial.

“What? No! No—we flew together for a while in Lemoore. I was her WOS.” Bob explained. “She’s the only pilot that’s ever made me question my career choices.” Rooster couldn’t have agreed more. You sent Bob a soft smile—surely you’d have time to catch up with him later. You made a mental note to grab some fresh ginger at the local store the next time you did your groceries. For Bob.” poor fanboy reading the room wrong for a second sjdhhshdhshshs + i absolutely already adore that she’s close to bob!!!

“You let everyone know as Rooster's hand fell to the small of your back gently as he whispered in your ear. The concept of personal space not registering with him.” ROOSTER’S LOVE LANGUAGE BEING PHYSICAL TOUCH IN EVERY SINGLE FANFICTION IS THE BEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN ACTUALLY. EVERYONE JUST ACCIDENTALLY COLLECTIVELY ACCEPTED THIS AND IT IS NOW CANON <3

“I’ll walk you out.” Roosters breath fanned over your neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It felt somewhat surreal to have him so close, to have him so willingly in your presence without recoiling into himself. Something was off, you were waiting for the other foot to drop. The “lets get back together boot” that always fucking dropped.” FEELING THINGS!!!

“I said I’ll walk you out.” Rooster repeated, only this time his voice was a little deeper. More serious. You looked at him as he kept his eyes on you, hungry, like he’d been starved for days.” LIKE HE’D BEEN STARVED FOR DAYS OH GOD HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE THEY LAST SAW EACH OTHER?????

“I missed you.” Rooster admitted. “I do miss you.” He corrected himself. “You don't call, you don't text–”

“Why would I do either of those things Bradshaw, the last time we saw each other you told me to go to hell.” You reminded Rooster. The memory made him cringe physically. “Yeah, exactly.” OH HE LIKES HER SO SO MUCH THIS IS RIDICULOUS PLEASE COMMUNICATE NORMALLY 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

“You chuckled as Rooster leaned in a little more, his lips ghosting yours as Hangman and Phoenix stood at the window watching the encounter go down. “dont –”

“Dont what?” Rooster smirked as he softly placed his lips on yours. One of his hands moving from its place on the driver's side door to your cheeks, gently caressing your flushed cheek. He could feel the heat in his fingertips. “Oh you mean don't do that?” ASSHOLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (I LOVE HIM) (I LOVE THIS SCENE) (HE’S SUCH A LITTLE SHIT)

“Say it again.” It came out more of a command than anything else as you rid yourself of your hoodie. Rooster doing the same thing as the Hawaiian shirt he loved so dearly fell discarded to the floor of your Bronco.

“Please—please baby I want you back.” God, it did things to you when Rooster begged. Littering your neck with dark marks as he did so. Bucking into you with need and lust. But just as you expected it. The other boot.” YEP. IT INDEED DID THINGS TO YOU WHEN ROOSTER BEGGED.

“It never works out because you never give me a chance–” Rooster hissed, pulling back as you sat up.

“It never works out because once you have me you forget I even exist!” You retaliated, grabbing your hoodie as you pulled it over your head. “God lets not forget that it has been you, every single time that has broken it off!” You spat, holding back tears. “And it's always you who comes crawling back with some poor excuse as to why you broke it off in the god damn first place.” my heart 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 the fact that he leaves EVERY TIME AND COMES BACK???? AND THEN HE SAYS THIS ABOUT NEVER GIVING HIM A CHANCE THERE’S SO MUCH THE NEED TO TALK ABOUT TO UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER!!!

“I know–” Pausing as you kept your eyes locked into the distance. Not looking at anything in particular, but just something, anything, anyone but Bradley. “And it's okay.” You’re entire world shattering around you.

“How is that okay?” Rooster questioned as his fingers laced with yours.” AND IT’S OKAY YOU’RE ENTIRE WORLD SHATTERING AROUND YOU?????????? this BROKEEEEEEEEEEE me. and then bradley questions it because of course it’s not okayyyyyyyy.

“I just don't think I can do the distance anymore.” It probably wasn't the best way he could have put it. What Rooster really meant to say was he missed you too much when you were gone, it hurt. He thought perhaps it would hurt a little less if he knew you weren't his.” SEE!!!!!!! THE MISCOMMUNICATION!!! HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO ARTICULATE HIS FEELINGS SO HE PUSHES HER AWAY BUT THEN THE SECOND THEY’RE APART OF COURSE HE’S GONNA REGRET IT AND COME CRAWLING BACK!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!

“Thank you for breaking me to the point where I learned to finally value myself, It took a lot.” OUCH!!!!!!! 💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

“I love you, I do, but–”

“Well figure out a way to stop because you will be the last person I allow back into my life!” You hissed, Rooster felt you venom sink into his heart.” I LOVE YOU???! WELL FIGURE OUT A WAY TO STOP?????? KILL ME NOW PLEASE?????? ONE OF MY FAVORITE LINES!!!!!!

“And for your information, Bradshaw, I have given you chance after chance after chance and all you do every time is prove to me you can't change even if your life depended on it.” Rooster took notice of the necklace that hung around your rear view mirror. He had the same one around his. His heart felt like it had exploded into a million pieces inside his chest. He never wanted to hurt you, never meant to.” HE NOTICED THE NECKLACE I’M GOING TO DIE. AND HIS HEART BREAKING!!!!

“You still have it.” Was he ignoring you or something? You felt the rage in the pit of your stomach bubbling over as you sighed in frustration.

“What? Still have what–?” You caught Rooster's gaze looking at your rear view mirror. Following it as you both stared at the old necklace for far too long in shared silence. “Yeah well, Teenage Bradley can't be blamed for the dick his adult self turned into now can he?” you smirked.” YOU STILL HAVE IT SJHCHSHHCHSHCHHSHXHSHDHDHCHDHDHSHCHDHDHDJDJFHCHDHHFHDHFHFHD MY STOMACH IS GOING ACROBATICS OVER HERE. also: her response <3 yeah, teenage bradley can’t be blamed <3

“Teenage Bradley would have had an aneurysm over the chance to get you in the backseat of his car, let alone ruin the moment because his ego can't let him have a decent win every now and again.” Roosted admitted as he leaned against your doorway, the door to the driver's side of your car still flung open.” THE PLAYFULLNESS IN THEIR DIALOGUE THE SCENE HERE THEIR BODY LANGUAGE EVERYTHING IS SO PERFECT!!!

i loved this so so much and i can’t wait to see where this story is gonna go!!!

Chaos // Bradshaw Bradshaw

Chapter One: Toxic Tango

Summary: You thought for sure the biggest problem you were going to have to face was returning to TopGun—but then there was Bradley fucking Bradshaw.

Warnings: ex best friend, ex boyfriend. Bradley Bradshaw x reader. (Use of Y/n) steamy moment (not smut)

Word Count: 5.3k

Author Note: Okay so we’re gonna steam ahead with this one and update it in chapter form as a mini series. Also we’re gonna use Y/n because I actually can’t stick to a name I like. If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know. xx Leah.

You didn’t know what made you cringe more, the sound Pete Mitchell made when he hit the sand of the Hard Decks entrance way, or the sound he made when he stood up. Both of the drawn out groans told a tale as old as time itself—he was getting old. Not as fly on his feet as he was back in the day, he would deny it till his deathbed. But the clock never stopped ticking. Watching from your dad’s old Bronco, you turned the ignition off and wound up the windows. Stalking over to where Pete stood looking into the Hard Deck.

Continuar lendo

Tags

october fic recs 2022 Top gun top gun maverick rooster bradley bradshaw my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing ROOSTER X PHYSICAL TOUCH YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS IT DOES THINGS TO ME love chaos already this is gonna be a roller coaster isn’t it? i love drama bradley bradshaw my toxic emotionally unavailable and unstable king idk why some people don’t like reading couples with miscommunication i love it i love the angst that comes with it

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fivsecondsflat

2 years ago

02/09/2022: technically, i read this on the 28th but have not been able to go back to normal until now. okay. MAY??????? not you breaking my heart again????????? i’m so excited to see where you’re gonna take this story. i already love them so much. the way you write bradley just does things to my heart that are unexplainable!!!!! plus your attention to details just makes everything so much better. anyways. THIS WAS BEAUTIFUL AS ALWAYS YOU NEVER DISAPPOINTS. YOU SHOULD BE OUT THERE SELLING NOVELS I AM SO VERY SERIOUS. HERE ARE MY FAVORITE PARTS (i literally just highlighted the entire thing):

“Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.” you really know how to set the atmosphere for us readers.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

“You don’t have allergies,” Bradley points out. You’d made it a point not to look at him, but now your gaze snaps in his direction. He stands with his eyes narrowed, with his hands on the polished wood of the bar top. Concern flutters across his face.” OH HE LIKES HER SO MUCH!!!!!!!!! I ALREADY KNOW IT!!!!!!!!!!!! THE FACT THAT HE REMEMBERED HER ALLERGIES 😭🥺🤲 you got me giggling and kicking my feet.

“There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether.” HE REALLY DOES!!! NO WONDER HE GENERATED 1.4 BILLION DOLLARS WORLDWIDE (AND COUNTING)!!!

“Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.” not me sobbing already… and the fact that you bring this back at the end… favorite detail!!!!!!

“He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.” starfish across the wood!!! aaaaaa may, the imagery <3

“You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.” so tender 🥺🥺🥺🥲🥲🥲

“Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.” :((((((((

“You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.” you didn’t mess it up you’re going to be okay. i need someone to reassure her.

“And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.” to live for the hope of it all???????? reader is august… AND YOU POSTED THIS ON AUGUST. MAY!

AND HELLO MOJITO MENTION!!!!

“That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.” SHUT UP SHUT UP AND THEN AT THE END BRADLEY DOES EXACTLY THIS!!!!!!!! HUGS HER AND COMFORTS HER!!!!!!!!! IS NICE TO HER!!!!!! MAYYYYYY THE PARALLELS!!!!!!

“It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.” getting major waitress vibes!!!!!!!! normally the protagonist would automatically view the pregnancy as something bad especially in her situation but she feels ILLUMINATED WITH LIGHT !!!! beautiful !!!!!!

“And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.” he’s such a piece of shit and i love how you phrased this.

“Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.” YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

“It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.” she needs to rest :(

“Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.” this whole virgin mary comparison was so funny ajdhhsfhhsyh

“What happened?” Bradley asks, something hard to his voice. But when he goes to touch the side of your face, carefully as if you’re injured, as if you’re made of porcelain that’ll break at the slightest jostle, his brown eyes show nothing but genuine concern.

It makes you cry harder.” SHE STARTS CRYING AGAIN BECAUSE BRADLEY IS JUST BEING SO KIND !!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAA !!!!!!!! I UNDERSTAND !!!!!!!! AND YOU CASUALLY MENTIONING THERE WAS SOMETHING HARD TO HIS VOICE I JUST KNOW HE WAS READY TO BEAT WHOEVER MADE HER CRY !!!!!!

“But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry.” my most beloved man <3

“Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.” giving her space and being patient so she feels comfortable if and when she opens up 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.” FAVORITE DESCRIPTION OF BRADLEY EVER??????????????

“You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.” just for a moment!!!!!!!!!!!! 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO IT ALONE HE’S GONNA HELP YOU AND YOU’RE GONNA FALL IN LOVE AND IT’S GOING TO BE BEAUTIFUL!!!!

“Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.” BUT NOW I SEE DAYLIGHTTTTTTTTTT

“One moment - and in it the rest of your life.” 😭

“After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.” STOP. THE FACT THAT HE PICKS UP ON *THIS* DETAIL?????? OH HE’S BEEN OBSESSED WITH HER FOREVER RIGHT?????? JEHCHEGCHSGXSHHXYSD I LOVE THISSSSSSS.

“Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?” beloved 😔😔😔😔😔😔😔❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 he’s doing his best!!!

“There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.” DISTANTLY… SURE MAY… I KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING WE ALL KNOW…

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.” FEMINIST KING 👑

“It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.” the way you write bradley is also so genuine!!!!! all the little details about him just MAKE SENSEN and makes him so real. of course he would be one of these men that really cares about women’s rights and know a couple of things but not brag about it. i love him.

“Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.” SEE!!!!!! THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!!!!! HOW ARE YOU SO GOOD AT MAKING HIM REAL????? THIS IS EXACTLY HIS LAUGH!!!!!!

“But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.” TAKE MY BREATH AWAY REFERENCE PERFECTLY PUT I LOVE THIS!!! MAY YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS!!!

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.” I AM INDEED CRYING AGAIN.

“And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.” ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

“You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.” LIKE ATLAS CRASHING DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HELL YEAH THE MYTHOLOGICAL REFERENCES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.” :(((((((((((((

“Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.” EVERYBODY CHEERED!!!!! i would also like to know how his brain goes DIRECTLY to this solution jahdhshdhshfjshdhd <3

“Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….” and he just keeps talking ahdhshfhshdhshdhshdhdhd because he’s so nervous he’s overstepped but he just wants to help and make this make sense <3

“But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?” AND HE COULD BABYSIT- HE’S GOOD WITH KIDS?????? OH BRADLEY. SWEET BRADLEY. BRADLEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

“For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.” THE WAY YOU FOLLOW UP “A LIFE WITHOUT THIS ACHING, SHIFTING LONELINESS” WITH “A LIFE WITH BRADLEY” IMPLYING THAT BECAUSE OF HIM SHE’S NEVER GONNA FEEL ALONE AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!

“When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.” i relate. this is very real. and i loved how you described it as a hurricane.

“And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.” JUST A VERY PERFECT PARAGRAPH.

“You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.” WITHOUT YOUR HEART FLOPPING AROUND LIKE A FISH FINDING ITS SAD END ON DRY LAND??????? HOW DO YOU COME UP WITH THESE??????????? PERFECT.

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.” CHIVALRY WILL NEVER BE DEAD AS LONG AS WE HAVE BRADLEY BRADSHAW!!!

“That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.” 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺😔😔😔😔😔

“It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.” time really does go fastest when you want it to go slow!!!!!

“It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.” STOP HURTING ME??????? WHAT IS THIS????? ENOUGH.

“So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.” and then you bring the “you’re five, fen, fifteen” motif again <33333333333333333 PERFECT.

“It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.” DANCING WITH OUR HANDS TIED STARTS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND!!!! I’M A MESS BUT I’M THE MESS THAT YOU WANTED!!!!!!!! SORRY FOR THE TAYLOR SWIFT CONNECTIONS I AM AWARE THAT I AM ILL.

“The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.” this description??????????? yes.

“You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.” sometimes idk what to comment next to the quotes so i just write nonsense but i just really feel the need to highlight them because i loved how you wrote it.

“When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster. ” LIKE AWE?????????? AND IF FEELS LIKE YOU JUST GOT OFF A ROLLERCOASTER????? I LOVE ROMANCEEEEEEEEE

“An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.” oh we’re gonna *suffer* with this one aren’t we????? i can already tell she’s gonna try denying her feelings really hard…

“Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.” WHATEVER SJDHSJCSJDHEJDHSJD OK SURE BRADLEY. SURE. stupid boy he’s not fooling anyone <3

“As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.” NORTH STAR ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS!!!!!!!!!

“Then he says, “Can I hug you?” I AM BAWLING MY EYES OUT. WHY IS HE SO KIND?

“When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.” beautiful. so so so so beautiful.

“You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.” I LOVE THIS PART I LOVE HOW YOU WROTE IT THANK YOU FOR WRITING IT? WOW. POETRY.

“Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.” stop 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

“Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.” HUG HIM AGAIN!!!!!!

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.” WHY IS HE THE SWEETEST MAN ON THE PLANET? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS???????

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….” i’m so in love it’s ridiculous at this point.

“Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw.

Your heart seizes.” SHUT UP SHUT UP MY JAW DROPPED TO THE FLOOR. THE DOG TAGS!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!!

“He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.” THIS WHOLE PARAGRAPH IS SO BEAUTIFUL I THINK IT SETS THEIR STORY UP PERFECTLY. what we might expect from now on. because nothing is going according to her plan but it’s all goinf to be okay and perfect regardless. also the “you want to be wanted” line feels like it was extracted from the depths of my heart.

“Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.” BECAUSE HE LIKESSSSSSSSS YOU!!!!!!!

“And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.” star wars name drop ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️. also: this paragraph, like the entirely of this chapter, was beautiful. VERY SAD AND ANGSTY BUT BEAUTIFUL.

“Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.” i am 100% not mentally stable enough to survive this story i know it in my bones.

MAY!!!!!!!!!!! i’m already looking forward to the emotional turmoil these babies are going to go through!!!!!! I’M SO EXCITED!!!!

baby, let's play house. rooster (part 1)

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; marriage of convenience. you got yourself in trouble. bradley has a bit of a savior complex. together, you come up with what could potentially be the worst idea in the longstanding and illustrious history of bad ideas.

wc ; 12.5k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; angst; explicit language; explicit sexual content in later parts; pregnancy; mentions of infidelity; mentions of vomit; mentions of Tom Cruise; unhealthy family dynamics; one mention of suic*de but it's not a plot point; age gap

note: uhm... i blacked out. idk either. part 2 should be out eventually, which of course means that i haven't even started writing it yet. there will probably be several mistakes in here regarding the navy, etc. so i'm sorry about that i'm just dumb :-(

sol. sunderlust. crab. bestie... i love you forever, what would i ever do without you?

When you’re fourteen, sitting on a floral couch in one of the nondescript, army-commissioned houses you’ve been moving to every few months since you were old enough to remember, your mother turns on Cocktail with Tom Cruise, and you decide that, once you’re grown up, you’re going to be a bartender. You’re going to do just what Tom does - get a job in some dive, work your way up, learn the bottle slinging and the shot pouring and the flirting, and then you’re going to franchise the whole thing and take it national. It’s going to be just like TGI Fridays, except your drinks will actually be good instead of whatever watered-down punch they serve.

Of course, you’re fourteen, and you don’t even know what alcohol tastes like yet. Years later, you’re going to take a shot of Tequila at a bar, you’re going to splutter and cough and think you might choke, and it’ll leave you wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. But for now, you’ve got a dream, and you’ve got a plan, and not a smidge of doubt that you’ll make it all come true.

You’re going to do just as Tom Cruise does - minus the best friend’s suicide from the movie and the real-life Scientology thing and all that. But you’re going to be successful. You know it.

So this, then. This is not part of your plan at all.

Behind you, there’s a bang, and then the back door is ripped open. The buttery light of the bar spills in a rectangle across the beaten path, but it doesn’t reach your little corner. You hear the muffled thud of footsteps, a curse, followed by a shout of your name.

“Yeah?” you call back, hope you don’t sound like you’re balancing on the edge of a mental breakdown. Hope you don’t sound like you feel.

“Your shift’s about to start. I really need you in there cutting up some limes, please,” Jerry, your co-worker, says. Thank God he doesn’t walk over to investigate just what you’re doing huddled in the sand behind the bar.

“Okay,” you answer, voice a little wobbly, “I’ll be in in a sec.”

You wait until you hear the door shut behind Jerry, then you unfold yourself, get your shaky legs underneath your weight. You feel like somebody hit you over the head with one of those huge hammers they use to knock down walls. The nausea is back, too, something queasy and watery that shifts through your stomach.

Inside the bar, everything is like it always is. The chatter of the customers, the drawl of the music, the smell of beer, and the Ocean Breeze scented cleaner you use to wipe the floors. Far below it, the scent of the real ocean breeze drifting in through the opened windows. It seems wrong for the Hard Deck to be unchanged, unaltered, untouched when your own life has gone so completely off the rails.

You sneak in a quick, discreet bathroom break to swipe at the mascara smudged beneath your eyes, to dab at it with some damp toilet paper, to hope nobody will notice the obvious signs of tears still clinging to you. To stare at your reflection in the mirror for a moment, try not to think about that stupid test you buried at the bottom of the trashcan. You can taste your heartbeat in your mouth.

You don’t look any different - same nose, same hair, same eyes - but something has irrevocably shifted inside of you.

Behind the counter, you cut up the limes you promised Jerry. The scent clings to your fingers, the juice settles in the calluses. The steady sound as the knife meets the cutting board and the familiar motion of your hands help to ground you a little.

“Could we get a refill?”

You lift your head and then immediately lower it again, shoulders going up, turning to the side in an attempt to hide your face. If there are two people you don’t want to see tonight, then…

“Oh my god.” Natasha’s face pushes into your line of vision, her eyebrows crinkled, her mouth pursed. “Have you been crying?”

Waving her words of concern away with one hand, you grab for their empty glasses with the other.

“Allergies,” you lie. “I’ve got two on tap here, which one did you guys have? The German or the…”

There’s something about Bradley Bradshaw. You like to think of it as a gravitational pull. Something with force, something that makes people look at him. Something that grounds them, too, though, gives them a tether.

Ever since he first walked into this bar a little over a year ago, it’s like he’s become a fixture in your life, even if you only see him once or twice a week, even if it’s just a quick exchange of words over a countertop. Bradley Bradshaw makes for a good North Star.

He shrugs, and there’s something almost sheepish to it. “It was part of your list of reasons why you’re better than Hangman last month.”

You pause, still holding the glasses, and stare at him. He looks right back.

“That’s beside the point,” Natasha pipes up. She’s balancing both her elbows on the bartop, pulling herself closer. “Why were you crying?”

That sort of shifts reality back into focus. What are you supposed to say? I let a guy who isn’t even really my boyfriend but also not really not my boyfriend knock me up, and now I have no idea what the fuck to do? To two people who are little more than glorified acquaintances?

You shrug and decide they look like they’d enjoy the new craft beer Penny got on tap. It has notes of vanilla and apple, and you’re not much of a beer person, but even you like it. Or at least you used to.

“It’s nothing,” you say, drawing the first glass. It ends up perfect - amber liquid topped with just the right amount of foam, the little bobbles popping as you push it across the counter toward Natasha. Your life might be a mess, but at least you still know how to draw a damn good glass of beer from the tap. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, but then she lets it go. “You know I’ll beat a guy up for you, right?”

You don’t doubt it. If there’s anybody in this bar you wouldn’t want to cross, it’s Natasha, and not just because of whatever training the Navy put her through. You’re convinced she came into the world knowing how to take a guy out.

“Yeah,” you agree and are surprised to find you mean it. Realistically, you’re not particularly close to any of the pilots. You chit-chat sometimes, have had a few drunken conversations after everybody else has filtered out of the Hard Deck while wiping down tables or collecting shot glasses, but that’s not really enough to support a true friendship. Still. If you asked, you have no doubt Natasha would go to bat for you. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’ll put this on your tab, yeah?”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but then decides to let it go. Sighs, “Okay.”

As Natasha pushes off the bar to rejoin her group of friends toward the back of the bar, Bradley takes a step closer instead. You make it a point not to look at him, but the yellow and white of his Hawaiian shirt flashes in your periphery despite your best efforts.

He places a large hand on the countertop, palm down, and you should be looking busy, but all you can do is stare as his fingers starfish across the wood.

“You can talk to me, yeah?” he asks, and his voice is soft enough that it almost disappears in the din of this Saturday night. “Whatever it is.”

You do look up then. Bradley has brown eyes, round and big and deep. There’s something about them that makes you want to trust him, trust his words, trust the sincerity. It almost makes you start crying again.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Then somebody’s shouting an order at you, and you’re pushing a coaster under a sweating Cuba Libre, you’re pouring a Tequila shot, you’re looking for the maraschino cherries, you’re passing out salt shakers, and you don’t notice as he disappears and you don’t think about anything for a short, blissful, beautiful time.

Two months ago, you met Luke halfway through the door of a bar you’d seen on Instagram, something with low lights and neon signs and booths cushioned in lush, ruby velvet. They had this signature cocktail there, something with rum and gold foil and a lot of smoke that drifted up in sweet-smelling plumes.

Luke was charming and laughed a lot, and when he put his hand on your waist, when he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat or two. And still, the first thing you told Penny about at work the next day was the cocktail and not the guy.

You’re almost entirely sure you’re not in love with him, but you’re excited about the idea that maybe someday you could be. Luke is a nice guy. He works in finance somewhere in San Diego, takes you to expensive seafront restaurants, and once or twice, he even bought you expensive lingerie. Luke likes the same movies as you do, likes putting on Jazz music when you go down on him in his car, and that always manages to make you feel strangely sophisticated even with a dick in your mouth. He’s older, and he has a real, grown-up job, completely unlike you with your singles soaked in beer.

He’s a stead-fast, reliable guy. If you have to be in this situation with anyone, you figure it’s better to be in it with him than some twenty-something surfer dude who couldn’t even find the word responsible in a dictionary.

The anxiety has been gnawing at you since last night, has been chipping away your composure and your calm. Has reduced you into a jittery, terrified, chafing shell of your former self. All day you were fumbling - burning your hand on the heated water kettle in the morning, almost running a red light, cutting your finger deep enough it didn’t stop bleeding for a whole five minutes.

Earlier today, you took a last, desperate stand. Propelled by the sort of hope that exists against all better judgment, you went on a CVS run and returned with three more pregnancy tests. You left them back at your tiny apartment, right on the counter where you put them out in the first place, those three tiny, horrible, life-altering plus signs laughing right in your face.

And that was it then. Your fate decided. Your luck run out.

Since you were fourteen, sitting on that floral couch, the course of your life had seemed so clear to you. You’d been so sure of where you wanted to go, so sure of how to get there. And yeah, okay, maybe you used to think you’d get there sooner, but that’s never deterred you before. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s what you used to think.

Now, ten years later, everything is muddled. You can’t see an inch ahead in the fog of all this.

To add insult to injury, those tests were fucking expensive. The next time you check your bank account, you might start crying.

So you spent a good fifteen minutes curled up on your bathroom tiles, staring at your shower curtain, blinking away tears you never shed. You spent a good fifteen minutes trying to figure it out, trying to untangle it, trying to make sense of how you could fuck up so completely.

And then you finally picked yourself up, massaged the grid pattern of the tiles off your cheek, and shot Luke a text asking if he was free tonight.

He drops by at the end of your shift.

“Hi, babe.” Luke grins as he slides into one of the bar stools. “You good?”

You nod, then pause. “Not really?”

You’re wiping down the bartop, dumping an ashtray you collected from the smoking zone outside into the trash. The Hard Deck is empty now, even the last stragglers filed out. Bob selected a song on the jukebox before he left, something slow and decidedly country. Your hands shake when you go to wet the rag again.

Luke frowns and leans across the bar to look at you closely. “What happened?”

“I have to tell you something,” you say and run the tap. The water hits the chrome of the sink with a splatter.

Luke raises an eyebrow, grins. “Illicit confession?”

Under any other circumstances, you would have laughed. But your stomach is coiled up in knots so tight you wonder if they’ll ever untangle again. Like the earphones you fish from the bottom of a purse.

You just so manage a half-hearted chuckle, a sad, pathetic little sound that has Luke’s eyebrow climbing even higher.

He pushes a brown paper bag across the counter. “I brought your favorite take-out… Would that cheer you up?”

Almost immediately, your stomach growls in answer. You’ve been so hungry the past few days that you can’t even manage to be embarrassed. “Mexican?” you ask, something like excitement in your voice for the first time in over 24 hours.

“Ah...” Luke bites his lower lip. “No, uhm… I got something from that one place we went to. The fusion kitchen?”

“Oh…” The excitement dampens immediately, and you force a smile. “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

“Sorry… you did say you liked it when we went.”

He’s right. You did say that.

Luke likes experimental food, things like that cocktail with the gold foil. Things that look much better than they end up tasting. He takes pictures of them and posts them on his Instagram, and he always makes sure not to get your hand in, your purse, your foot. He doesn’t even follow you back, and you want to not care about trivial things like social media so very badly that you never ask him about it.

He looks genuinely apologetic, though, so you resolve to forgive him. You smile and say, “I did! This is great. Thanks, Luke.”

His satisfied smile puts you at ease.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

It’s a bit like a bucket of ice water. The ease slips away as quickly as it came. You start wiping almost furiously at a stain on the bartop, then give up. Stare at your fingers gone wrinkly with the sudsy water.

You open your mouth, and then you say, “I’m pregnant.”

It’s not what you meant to say. You meant to ease into this, make it sound… less final, somehow. As if that’s at all possible. As if that isn’t exactly what it is. Final.

You’re never going back from this, you realize suddenly. No matter what happens from here on out, there’s never going to be another moment where this hasn’t happened. Where you weren’t pregnant, where you didn’t mess it all up. The plan, the dream, the life.

Tears aren’t enough anymore. You’re going to run headfirst into the ocean and scream until the saltwater fills your lungs.

Luke laughs. You stare at him.

It takes a moment, but slowly he realizes that you’re not joking. That this is serious. The smile slides sideways off his face.

“Oh,” he says, and you can’t look at him anymore. So you let your eyes wander, down towards the lapels of his white dress shirt. He’s still wearing his suit and tie, and the realization that he’s come straight from the office touches you more than it should. At the same time, guilt settles in your stomach. You’re doing this to him, you’re altering his life, you…

The rational part of yourself scoffs, takes over the reins. It takes two to tango, you remind yourself. This is as much his fault as it is yours.

But that doesn’t get rid of the bitter taste in your mouth.

“Why…” Luke pauses. “Why are you telling me this?”

When you look up at his face again, his expression is carefully blank.

“Uh…”

“Shouldn’t you be telling the father?”

You blink. The cogs of your mind turn slowly like somebody slapped gum between them. “I am,” you say, wondering what the hell he’s on about.

“I’m not the father,” Luke says, very matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to lie about it.”

“I’m not lying.” You’re too stunned to even be insulted by the insinuation.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs his shoulders, his expensive suit in the tacky, glossy fabric catching the light. “It’s not like we’re exclusive. I don’t mind if you slept with somebody else.”

“Not exclusive,” you repeat lamely. Maybe that part shouldn’t catch you as off guard as it does. You’ve never discussed it with him in as many words, never sat down to have the whole boyfriend/girlfriend talk, but you’ve been seeing each other semi-regularly for two months now, and you’d just sort of assumed…

“Sure.” Luke nods. “Don’t blame this one on me, then.”

Oh. Your heart clenches, and suddenly it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I didn’t sleep with anybody else,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.

Luke shrugs. “Well, it can’t be mine.”

You don’t even know what to say to this. You’re in desperate, burning need of a shot, and the realization that you can’t have one zaps through you like a pain.

“We always used a condom,” Luke is saying, and his words drift to you through a fog, through a mist, through a thicket of fear and anxiety and ice-cold panic. “I made damn sure of that.”

“It’s not….” You clear your throat. “They’re only like… 98 percent safe. Condoms, I mean.”

“What, so you’re saying we’re those two percent?”

He looks like he’s about to start laughing again, and suddenly you barely recognize him. You’ve always known that Luke wasn’t the love of your life, but that was fine. Love hadn’t been part of the plan anyway, that was for later, much later, after you’d gone international and gotten rich off Mojitos and Pina Coladas and the occasional Old Fashioned. But Luke had been… well, he’d been nice. Always. He’d been someone to laugh with, had been long walks on the beach, and quick tumbles in his backseat. He’d been fun and nice and…

And you’d been stupid enough to hope. Hope for more, hope for better, hope for something.

“I can’t have a baby with you,” he says. His voice rings with finality.

What are you supposed to say to that? With those three positive pregnancy tests back home on your bathroom counter. With the knowledge that you haven’t slept with anyone else.

“Well,” you whisper, and the words come out softer than you want them to, “you are.”

Luke is very quiet for a moment. He’s looking right at you, the blue eyes you used to think were open, inviting, now slitted and probing. Like a snake.

“Jesus,” he says finally, draws back to run his fingers through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. His voice has lost some of its calm. “What do you want from me?”

You wonder if you look as dazed as you feel. “I don’t… I don’t want anything from you.”

That’s not true. You’d like him to hug you. You’d like him to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that might be a lie. You’d like him to be nice to you.

Instead, Luke, who looks increasingly distressed, jerks his head and says, “If it’s a family you’re after… I can’t give you that.”

Everything has happened so quickly - the toppling of your plans, the chaos of your life. You haven’t really had time to think about how you want him to react. Not like this, though.

“Why not?” you ask and regret the question the moment it’s out of your mouth. You sound like a child - lost, confused.

Luke sighs. He rakes a palm over his face and shakes his head. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something almost guilty on his face. You can’t tear your eyes away, can’t help but feel your stomach plummeting down down down toward the ground. It’s like standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, feeling what the fall might be like even with both feet firmly planted.

“I can’t give you that,” he says, “because I already have a family.”

Beneath you, the ground seems to quiver.

“What?”

Luke pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then reaches into his pocket and produces a shiny, golden wedding band. When he slips it back onto its original place on his finger, you watch the patch of pale skin, several shades lighter than the rest, disappear.

Your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest.

“You’re… married?”

“Going on five years,” he says, and you think he sounds sad, but maybe that’s just your hope getting the better of you again.

You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you just stand there with the rag still in your hand, listening to the sad, sad voice of some wanna-be cowboy drawling from the speakers. Hear the phantom thud of the cues hitting pool balls. Turn your head to where the pilots were having fun earlier, back when things weren’t all jumbled up.

The whole world moves far, far away from you. Like something you watch on TV screens, something intangible, something fake. It’s not something that happens to people like you. It’s not something that happens to real people.

“It’s… you didn’t tell me that,” you say, and it’s like your voice echoes through a long, long tunnel, bounces off the walls like a tennis ball. “I didn’t know.”

And then you think back on it. Think of whispered phone calls in the dead of night, think of erratic work schedules, think of his insistence to come here instead of going to San Diego. Think of how little you know of his life, how firmly he kept you locked out of it.

Suddenly you’re not so sure if you didn’t know or if you just didn’t want to know. If you closed your eyes to what was right in front of you.

Guilt and anger and confusion flash through you in rapid succession. You feel sick to your stomach.

“I’ll give you money,” Luke says. It’s a peculiar thing - you see his mouth move before the words ever reach your ears, like a movie that’s gone out of sync with the audio.

“Money,” you repeat, very slowly. Or maybe not slowly at all. You just feel like you got stuck in molasses, like the whole world has been dipped in something sticky.

“Well. You’re getting rid of it.”

It’s not a question. He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something that’s already been decided. Like it’s something you don’t get a say in.

You stiffen, fingers sinking into the wet rag. Soapy water drips over the lacquered wood of the bartop.

“No,” you say. “No, I’m not.”

About five minutes ago, you hadn’t even made your mind up about it yet. Hadn’t decided whether to keep it or not. Had still been weighing the pros and cons in your mind, turning them over like a Rosetta Stone that might help you decipher the encrypted, tangled mess of your thoughts.

And now that he’s said it, now that the option is right there in the open, suddenly you know that’s not the way you want it to happen.

“What,” Luke says, “you wanna have it?”

“Yes,” you answer, and you know it’s the truth.

Maybe it’s stupid. You’re twenty-four. You’re broke. You pick up shifts at a bar to pour tequila shots for other people. You live off the guys you flirt with long enough they decide you’re worth a tip. All those plans of grandeur, of franchises and cocktails and Park Avenue apartments, are dead-ends. You’ve been walking a cul-de-sac your whole life.

And still… something about it feels right to you.

You’ve been thinking about the whole thing in theory - the theoretical truth of that test, the theoretical reaction of Luke, the theoretical existence of that baby, the theoretical impact on your life. But it’s not a theory. It’s real.

There’s a baby growing in you.

It’s the most terrifying thought of your life. You’ve never experienced something so wonderful. Even as the fear eats away at you, even as your stomach churns and your head spins, some part of you feels illuminated with light.

Luke laughs. “Babe… no offense, but that’s a horrible idea.”

You clench your teeth and grit out, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re gonna get it. You really think you could raise a kid?”

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully, and wonder where all this calm is coming from. “But I want to try.”

Luke stares at you as if you’re growing a spare set of ears right in front of him. Then he laughs again, shakes his head. You can’t see what’s so funny about any of this.

“Babe,” he says, “this isn’t some new Cocktail recipe. This is an actual child you’re talking about.”

If you weren’t so goddamn tired, it would make you angry. Set fire to you like a fuse. But you’re drained, empty, hollow. You want to go home, want to curl up in bed, want to cry. You want to go back two weeks in time, back when you were still just a failing waitress with a big dream. Back before the responsibility of it all hunched you over.

“I’m doing it,” you say, and hope he understands the decision is final. Hope your voice is firm.

Luke exhales. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth, as he turns half away from you.

Finally, after an eternity, he says, “I can’t be involved in this.”

For your part, you understand that decision is final too.

You nod, grab onto the bartop to keep yourself from toppling over. The ground beneath you is a gaping, beckoning abyss. It’s going to swallow you whole.

“Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll do it alone then.”

For a moment, Luke looks almost surprised. As if he was sure you’d fold eventually, see reason. Listen to him.

You wonder if that’s how it’s been before - him pushing and you giving in. Rearranging your life to fit his schedule, his plans, his wants. Shrinking yourself to make room for him. And you didn’t even notice.

You straighten your spine.

“For what it’s worth,” Luke says as he slides off his chair, “I’m sorry.”

And then he does what men do best: He leaves. Walks away from you and the baby growing inside of you. Walks away from the mess he made, the dream he shattered, without a care or a thought. Without looking back.

You watch his retreating form, watch the set of his shoulders, the spring in his step, watch as he bounds down the steps onto the gravel of the parking lot, watch as the shadows eventually blot out the sight of him.

Good riddance, you want to say, but you can’t even form words.

With your heart torn to shreds, with your fear clawing a bloody path up your throat, you sink down onto the floor, press a hand to your mouth, and you sob.

Twenty minutes later, Bradley Bradshaw finds you in the exact same position.

You know it’s been twenty minutes because you’re staring at the digital clock of the dishwasher, counting down the wash cycle. The neon red of the numbers blurs through the veil of your tears.

It’s like somebody’s cut your chest open. Scooped you clean like taking a spoon to a tub of ice cream. Behind your ribcage, you feel hollow in a way that aches down to your bones. That spiderwebs through your veins.

Bradley pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the outdoor lighting you still haven’t turned off. Like this, with your vision blurred, he looks like a drawing of the Virgin Mary on one of those cheap, tacky candles. Descending on a flurry of clouds and light and doves. Only this Virgin Mary wears Hawaiian shirts, apparently. It almost makes you laugh.

He casts his eyes over the room, a slight furrow dipping between his brows. It takes you a moment to understand he hasn’t seen you yet, not with how you’re crouching by the crates of Corona.

Part of you wants to hide, wants to crawl under the jutting canopy of the bar. Wants to pretend you’re not here, fold yourself into a tiny pocket square of a person until he leaves again.

“Hello?” Bradley asks, genuine confusion laced with the word, and you know you can’t do that.

“Hi,” you call back, and your voice sounds tiny. Miserable. You push up on your knees to preserve a bit of your dignity. The room goes spinning in a whirlwind, and you catch yourself with both hands on the wood, lifting up to peek at him over the edge of the bar. “I’m down here.”

For a moment, Bradley just stares at you. He takes in the scene, the smeared mascara, the swollen eyes, the fresh tears leaving tracks down your cheeks like you’re drawing rivers on a map.

Then he snaps into action. He’s crossing the room before you can even really come to terms with the fact that he’s here in the first place, pushing through the hip-high swinging door that separates the oval space hugged by the bar from the rest of the room and falling to his knees by your side.

It makes you cry harder.

“Nothing,” you say, which is a ridiculous lie, all things considered. You’re crouching on the floor of your workplace, over an hour after your shift has ended, crying your eyes out. Clearly, there’s something wrong. “I’m fine.”

Bradley sits cross-legged on the hardwood floors, his knee close enough to graze against yours. He looks decidedly out of his depth, almost uncomfortable. Helpless. His mustache quivers as he opens his mouth, then closes it again.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to get you to explain it, doesn’t ask again. He just sits there with you, elbows on his thighs, and lets you cry.

It’s nice not to be alone. To have somebody with you, even if he doesn’t know you. Even if he has no idea what it is that has you on the brink of a complete crisis.

You do your best not to think about it. Not about the baby, not about the guy who just dumped you. Not about gold foil and Instagram posts and wedding bands. Not about how he’s made you a homewrecker, and you didn’t even know.

Maybe this is karma. The universe punishing you for your sins. Something like that.

Maybe it’s just really, really bad luck.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when you’ve finally calmed yourself enough the sobbing has subsided to sniffles.

Bradley jerks his head noncommittally. “I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh.” You try to get up, but your legs won’t cooperate. “I’ll help you look.”

He shakes his head, pulls you back onto the floor by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll look for it later. What happened?”

There’s something about his tone that tells you this time he won’t let you get away with a half-assed lie. Which doesn’t stop you from trying.

“Just… rough day.”

Bradley looks at you, then pulls his knees up, lets his arms dangle between them. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and his voice is very gentle. “But if you want to… I can listen.”

This is the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. He has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him things. Makes you want to spill your secrets to him, pour them into his space. He’s steady, reliable, calm. It would be so easy to trust him.

That’s dangerous.

But you’re so tired, and you’re so broken, and you’re so terribly, horribly lonely. With Luke gone, with your parents out of the picture, with nobody to help and no one to hold you, the loneliness is like an ache, like a stain, like something that festers and spreads and unfurls inside of you.

You just want to pretend you don’t have to do it alone. Just for a moment.

So you say, “I think I did something stupid.”

Bradley’s eyes are very brown. A soft shade of brown, like milk chocolate. When you look at him, you feel warm all over.

“Alright,” he says, and there isn’t an ounce of judgment in it. It’s just a gentle, careful nudge for you to continue.

“I…” You exhale shakily, look down to the floor, twist the bracelet around your wrist. It’s so much harder to form the words the second time around. “I’m pregnant.”

Saying it to Bradley, who is practically a stranger, saying it to someone outside of whatever little bubble, whatever vacuum two people playing at love built around themselves, makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.

You’re pregnant. In a few months, your belly is going to grow to the size of a watermelon. You’re going to get ultrasounds and wear maternity clothes and buy a crib. You’re going to hold a baby in your arms, a baby that will become a toddler, will become a child, will become a teenager, will become an adult. They’re never going to leave again.

I’m pregnant.

One moment - and in it the rest of your life.

It’s a skyscraper, it’s a monument, it’s a mountain. It dwarves you. How can you ever be enough for the path that lies ahead?

The panic jumps you. It rattles you. Suddenly you’re panting, you’re shaking, you can’t think, your head spinning circles around the enormity of it all.

“Oh,” Bradley says. He sounds like he expected you to say just about anything except that. “Congratulations.”

You stare at him, and he backtracks.

“Unless you don’t want me to congratulate you? Sorry, I shouldn’t just….”

“No,” you stop him, your voice a tiny, trembling thing. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

You wonder what it might be like if you were older, if you were married, if you weren’t such a fuck-up. Would people beam at you, hug you, shake your hand? Would they share the joy they must assume you feel?

Neither one of you says anything for a while. Through the opened windows, the sound of the ocean drifts in, of the waves crashing against the shore. The chrome of the fridge you’re leaning against is cold even through the layers of your shirt. You count the wooden tiles on the floor.

After half an eternity, Bradley says, “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

It’s like a knife to the heart, it slices right through you, stabs you between the ribs. And you’re not even angry, don’t even feel betrayed… it just hurts. The kind of pain that stays with you. The kind of pain that leaves phantom traces even after the wounds have healed.

“I don’t,” you say finally.

Beside you, Bradley shifts his weight. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m really putting my foot in it today, aren’t I?”

It’s almost enough to make you laugh. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. This whole thing isn’t okay. “I’ll be fine.”

Without hesitating, Bradley says, “I know you will be.”

There’s such conviction in his voice that it baffles you. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“He’s… have you told him, though? Or are you guys not in contact?”

Still trying to recover, you shrug. “Yeah,” you whisper, drawing your shoulders almost all the way up to your ears, “I told him.”

You can tell he wants to ask more, but he gives you a second before his next question. “And you… you guys are gonna try co-parenting? Or is he… are you going to get married?”

That makes you frown. You say, “What is this, the 1950s?”

“I just think….” Bradley clears his throat. “I just think if you get a girl pregnant, you should step up. Take responsibility.”

Of course he’d think that. You’re not even surprised.

There’s always been something traditional about Bradley Bradshaw, like he’s one of those men written by women people rave about all over TikTok. If he takes a girl out on a date, he probably holds open car doors and pulls out chairs for her, hands her his jacket if she gets cold.

Distantly, you wonder what that would be like.

“I don’t want somebody to marry me out of responsibility,” you say. “I can take care of myself.”

Bradley scrambles. “I know that!” he says quickly, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift his weight forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “Of course, I know that. I just thought… I just thought you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

It’s such a simple thing to say, but it almost bowls you over. You turn your head to the side, press your face into your shirt sleeve and dig your fingernails deep into the skin of your shins.

Bradley watches you, eyes intent, and then he probes carefully, “Are you… are you going to keep it?”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, blink against the sudden dampness. Keep your face turned away from him. The shame of it all, of the situation you’re in, of him seeing you like this, overwhelms you. Your vision blurs.

“I think…” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I always used to think if I ever got in this situation, I’d just get an abortion but now… I don’t… I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me.”

Slowly, he nods. “You want to have the baby,” he says, and it’s not really a question, but you answer anyway.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know, it’s just… I want this. I don’t know why or how, but I… it feels like I have to do this.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, completely sincere. “Your body, your choice.”

Now you do snort. “What, are we at a rally?”

“I follow a few Instagram accounts,” he admits. His voice has gone almost sheepish. “Abortion rights should be everybody’s concern. Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”

It’s endearing in a strange way because there’s nothing performative about it. It’s just bumbling and awkward and peculiarly genuine.

“You sound like you spend too much time on Twitter,” you say softly, and it makes him laugh. Bradley’s got a nice laugh, one that starts in his belly and seems to end at the back of his throat, punches out into the air from back there.

After things have gone quiet again, the anxiety sets back in. Or maybe it’s been there all along, chomping at the bit, and you just didn’t notice.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you say finally, a self-deprecating chuckle loosening from your throat.

But when you glance up at him from beneath lowered lashes, stomach tight with anticipation, Bradley doesn’t look judgmental at all. Instead, his face is wide open, his eyes clear, the corners of his lips still curled upward with the remnants of his smile.

Luke laughed at you, but Bradley is looking at you with something like admiration, and it takes your breath away.

“No,” he says. “I think you’re really, really brave.”

And then you’re crying again.

You’re surprised there are any tears left in you after your earlier session, but they burst forth now, in a sudden eruption of all the fear and all the pain. And Bradley is so nice. So goddamn kind even though he doesn’t know you, not really, even though this isn’t even his problem. Sits there on the floor of the Hard Deck with you at half past one am on a Sunday night, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t sigh. He just listens.

You don’t feel brave. You feel terrified, you feel overwhelmed, you feel… you feel… you feel like the whole world has toppled over. You feel like Atlas crashing down, buried beneath the weight of his burden. You feel tiny. Inadequate. You feel scared, scared, scared.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confess, choke it out between sobs. Wonder why you’re telling him this. When you don’t know him.

Funny how it is so much easier at times to be honest with strangers than it is to be honest with the people we love the most.

“I’m so… I’m so scared, Bradley.”

He moves as if to touch you, then seems to think better of it and slumps back into himself. The expression on his face is unreadable, his eyebrows furrowed, his jaw clenched.

“He’s not gonna… the father isn’t going to help you out?”

It makes you realize you never really answered his earlier question. And you don’t know why, can’t explain it rationally, but for some reason, this, too, makes embarrassment well up at the back of your throat.

What is Bradley going to think? The poor, little, stupid girl who got herself knocked up by a guy who won’t even stay? Is that what everybody’s going to think now? Is that all you’ll be?

It’s a life sentence, this whole thing.

You shrug, pause. Shake your head. “No,” you say finally. “He’s not going to be involved.”

You know it’s true. Luke won’t come back, not now, not in ten years, not in twenty. There was something final about that exchange, something permanent. Something that can’t be undone.

Suddenly, you think of that tiny, unborn child inside of you. Abandoned before it ever came into the world.

It’s just you and me now, baby, you think to yourself, and it goes through you like a current, sweeps you under like a wave. We’re all alone. All we have is each other.

“What about your parents? Your dad’s in the Navy, too, right?”

If you could, you’d run away. Fold yourself to invisibility. Slip into the pockets between moments and become something other, something that exists out of sight.

You think of your parents. Floral couches and polished hardwood floors. Tom Cruise on the television as your mother scrubbed every part of the house like she was getting rid of an illness, wiping away a disease, perpetually finding another stain or another cobweb or another wrinkle to smooth over. Think of your father, rigid and strict and absent. Always on some mission, always thinking of a greater good that definitely didn’t involve you, always looking through you even as he looked at you. You don’t know if you have a single memory of him smiling.

You haven’t spoken to them once since you gave up a perfectly fine full-ride scholarship to college.

“My parents,” you say, and as the words spill from you, you realize they’re the truth, “would probably kill me if they found out I got pregnant out of wedlock. Maybe if I were married, they’d give me back my trust fund or something, but… No, I don’t think they’d help me out.”

A muscle in Bradley’s jaw jumps, then he’s looking away. Turning to the side so you’re knee to knee again. You stare at his profile, at the curl of his ears, the cut of his jaw. The jagged edges of his scars blur through the fog of your tears.

“So, how are you… do you have a plan?”

You had one. You had Mojitos and Daiquiris and Cosmopolitans. You had a slew of business classes at a community college. You had a dream and a set of tools to achieve it, and when you close your eyes, you can almost see it right there in front of you.

But now it’s been swept up in a hurricane. Swallowed by a tsunami.

“No,” you admit, and your voice trembles. “I have no idea what to do.”

Bradley’s jaw moves as he chews on his lower lip. He swallows, and his throat unudlates with it, and then he’s shifting, shuffling forward a bit.

“I…” He clears his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. “I may have an idea.”

“An idea?” you repeat slowly.

You think he’s going to tell you about some friend who’s looking to hire someone, looking to rent out a very cheap apartment, works at a doctor’s office and is going to treat you for free. Something like that, maybe.

Instead, Bradley takes a deep breath and says, “Marry me.”

It takes a while for the words to register. At first, you think you’ve misheard, then you wonder if maybe the romantic parts of your mind cooked that up. If he even said it at all.

But Bradley is looking at you expectantly, the only indicator of nerves the slightest glimmer in his brown eyes.

And you can’t help yourself. You laugh, even through your tears. It’s a sound that rips from you unconsciously, unstoppably, because surely he’s joking. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“Good one,” you say, and wonder just how big of a mess you look like. You wipe at your cheeks, your nose with your sleeves and sniffle once, twice.

Bradley’s lips twitch into the pathetic half of a smile, then he’s serious again, avoiding your eyes.

And that, finally, is when you realize that he isn’t joking at all.

“I…” You pause, mind whirring, head spinning. “What?”

“It’s just….” Bradley shrugs, then explains, “It’s only a suggestion. But you said your family might consider supporting you again if you were married. It might be an option.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re in a low-budget Hallmark movie.

Bradley pushes on, “It wouldn’t be permanent. We could get a divorce quickie in a year or two, just stay together long enough for you to get settled with the baby and everything. Plus, you’d get free healthcare.” He glances at you, and the blank expression on your face must light a panic in him. Now his words come faster. “I wouldn’t expect anything from you, of course I wouldn’t. It would just be… keeping up appearances. Just for a while….”

Finally, he trails off. The silence stretches between you like a palpable thing, thick and dense like summer heat.

When you were twelve, sitting in the back of the car as your parents argued up front, the woods of Washington flying past in rapid ribbons of black and blue and green, the moon a disk of silver in the sky, a deer ran out into the road. You remember the screeching of the tires as your dad did what you’re not supposed to and brought the car to a sudden, abrupt stillstand. You remember the wide eyes of the animal, the muscles locked in its state of catatonic horror. You remember the flanks rising and falling quickly beneath the matted fur.

For a second, you feel like that deer. Frozen. Caught completely off guard. Vulnerable.

Then you think you might be a little overdramatic.

You say, “What the fuck, Bradley?”

Part of you expects him to backtrack immediately, laugh, and tell you that he was joking after all. But Bradley stands his ground, even as he still won’t look right at you.

“I probably wouldn’t even be home much anyway. I leave for work all the time,” he says, brows drawn into a straight line above his eyes as he stares intently at his thumb rubbing circles into the skin of his arm. “But I could babysit, and then you could go back to work. I really wouldn’t mind. I’m good with kids, you know?”

You’re not entertaining the whole thing, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Your curiosity takes the upper hand.

“Why would you… why would you ever offer this? You barely know me.”

Bradley seems to think about it for a long moment, his face unreadbale. Then finally, he says, “There’d be something in it for me, too, you know? I’ve been meaning to get assigned to North Island permanently, do a relocation. But those spots tend to go to the guys with family, so…” He shrugs, but the gesture seems forced. “I could help you out, you could help me out. Win-win.”

“That’s all?” you ask, and you don’t know why there’s something like disappointment in your voice.

Bradley looks like he wants to say something else, and for a moment his face is vulnerable. But then it shutters again, and he nods. “That’s all.”

For a second, just a second, you let yourself imagine it: Imagine saying yes to this mad, insane, incredible proposal. Imagine marrying Bradley, someone soft and warm and responsible, someone completely opposite to Luke. Imagine him in a tux and you in a white dress, imagine his mustache tickling against your cheek as he leans in to kiss you. You imagine one of the quaint little houses you grew up in, but one that would belong to you, at least for a while. You imagine a toddler running through it, imagine Bradley bending down to scoop them into his arms. You imagine a life without this aching, shifting loneliness. You imagine a life with Bradley.

When you finally shake your head, when you let go of that ghost, it feels like it takes a piece of you with it.

“No,” you say softly, and it breaks you open in ways you can’t describe. “I can’t let you do that, Bradley.”

It’s just too insane. Too far out there. It wouldn’t be fair to him, when you’d be getting so much more out of that arrangement.

And besides. I don’t want someone to marry me out of responsibility. That’s what you told Bradley earlier, and you meant it.

When you do marry, when you walk down that aisle, you want it to be for love. And people can call you delusional, naive, whatever. You don’t care. You just know you want the big thing, the real thing, True Love, capital t, capital l. You want the hurricane of romance, the monsoon of love. You want to fly into it.

Bradley’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Okay. But if you… change your mind, yeah? I’ll be here.”

And he means it. Bradley carries his heart on his sleeve, you’ve learned this much. He tries to hide it, but he’s no good at it. Eventually, his emotions always get the better of him, burst forth like fountains. It’s part of his charm.

“What,” you say, “right here on the Hard Deck’s floors?”

It’s a sad attempt at a joke, but Bradley is nice enough to laugh anyway. “Sure thing. You guys have the cleanest floors in all of North Island, did you know that?”

You hum. “Sure. I’m the one who cleans them.”

Finally, you get up off the floor, unfold yourself from the bundle of misery you’ve crumbled into. Your legs ache, your back hurts, your chest still feels hollow. All the crying has left a dull pain pulsating behind your left brow.

The two of you look for Bradley’s wallet together, finally find it over by the pool table. You pretend like you’re not still reeling from his proposal, like it’s not suddenly become impossible to do so much as look at him without your heart flopping around like a fish finding its sad end on dry land.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Bradley asks as he watches you lock up. The Hard Deck has an old lock that gets jammed whenever the slightest bit of dampness creeps into the air. You have to hang onto the doorknob with all your weight while simultaneously turning the key to get it to lock.

“I drove here,” you say, casting your eyes about for the tiny tin can you call your car. You can’t even remember where you parked earlier.

“You okay to drive?” Bradley asks.

You glance at him. With the lights off, the parking lot is almost covered in a thick blanket of darkness. The headlights of a few passing cars winding their path along the coastal highway illuminate patches of gravel now and then. Moonlight spills silver and dim across his shoulders, like fingers caressing him. He looks concerned, examining the state of you.

The truth is that you’re tired. Bone tired. Dead tired. So tired you could probably go to sleep where you stand if you put your mind to it. But you don’t want to bother Bradley anymore, have already stolen enough of his time.

So you’re about to decline, but it seems you hesitated too long.

“I’ll take you home,” Bradley says decidedly, “and you can come get your car tomorrow, okay? I don’t think you should be driving like this.”

“You don’t have to do that, you….”

“I know,” he interrupts you, a smile spreading on his face. “But I’ll feel better knowing you got home safe.”

That makes your insides clench in a way they shouldn’t. Your chest feels tight, and you look away just in case you start crying again.

Is it too soon in your pregnancy to start blaming raging hormones?

Wordlessly, you let Bradley lead you across the parking lot toward his monstrosity of a car. His hand hovers at the small of your back, incredibly close yet never touching. He’s big behind you, bulking, and you try not to think about it. When he opens the door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to close it, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

The ride home is quiet, as is the town around you on this Sunday night. An old Killers song plays on the radio, and you think of deer stepping out into streets, then press your eyes closed and will the thought away.

In Bradley’s car, with the windows rolled down, with the Californian night breeze whipping your hair into your eyes and clearing the fog from your head, for a short, blissful while, nothing seems real. It’s one of those liminal moments, a not-time, when reality feels like a dream and even the sharpest knives don’t cut deep enough to hurt.

It ends quicker than expected because time always goes the fastest when you want it to go slow. Then you’re thanking him, saying goodbye, both of you pretending he didn’t just propose some strange, fake marriage to you behind a bar counter not even thirty minutes ago.

Bradley waits until you’re inside the building before he starts the engine again. You hear the roar of it as you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

In your bedroom, you don’t even bother getting undressed. You just slip under the covers, pull them up over your head, bury in the sticky, stale air beneath them, close your eyes, and fall asleep within seconds.

The first time you told your parents about your bartending dreams, your father yelled at you for forty-five minutes. He hurled words at you that hurt, that left scars, that made you wonder and kept you second-guessing yourself for years, that stayed with you. Your mother didn’t say anything.

Somehow, that was worse.

You call her on the landline at five pm on a Tuesday, just before your dad gets back home, and she answers after the third ring. You’re so sure she’s going to acknowledge the four-year gap in contact, the crumbling of the relationship, the fall-out of screaming and crying, and your dad kicking you out of the house.

What you get, instead, is a ten-minute spiel about who brought what to last week’s church potluck and which laundry detergent your father’s contact allergies don’t act up with.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, your digital alarm clock counting down the time in radioactive green. Outside, you hear the sounds of jets roaring through the sky. In your tiny kitchen unit, the faucet is leaking.

Finally, five minutes into a lecture on the advantages of pre-chopped garlic, you interrupt, “Mom?”

You wonder if she hears the shift in your voice, the slight tremble of it. Something makes her go very quiet on the other end of the line, no sound but her breath.

Drip-drip-drip goes your faucet.

When she doesn’t acknowledge you, you push on, your heart beating a staccato rhythm against your ribcage, “I might… I think I might need some help.”

She doesn’t answer for so long you think you might have lost connection. Then you hear shuffling, imagine her walking through her empty house the way she sometimes does - like a phantom, like a specter.

“With what?” she asks after an eternity.

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating. Years of pain and fear clog up your chest, settle like goosebumps on your skin. You close your eyes and let your head drop back against your pillow.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

And then you can feel it through the phone, like something physical. What you’ve always known deep down. The disapproval and the disappointment, and the complete lack of understanding.

You’ve never been who your parents wanted you to be, and they’ve always punished you for it like it was a crime.

When your mother says your name, it’s so plain. That she can’t understand what you’re doing, with your cocktails and your late nights. That she doesn’t see why you’d ever choose something like that over a real education and a real job. That she cannot fathom how it could come to this now - you, broke, young, alone, pregnant.

It’s like being five again, trying to get somebody to look at the picture you drew. It’s like being ten again and being overlooked. It’s like being fifteen again, still vying for the attention you’ll never really get.

Your mother is a stubborn woman, set in her ways. She knows what she wants from people, more specifically, what she wants for them. And you’re no exception. Nobody’s ever asked her a question whose answer she couldn’t find in the bible.

More than wanting you to go to college, wanting you to work in an office, your mother has always wanted you to get married. To fit yourself into the picture-perfect stencil of white picket fence and smiling husband she cut herself. For you to let some guy put a ring on you, put a kid in you, buy you a house and a porch swing and a family van.

It’s pathetic, but it doesn’t matter how much time passes. How much older you get. At the end of the day, you still want her approval, just once, even if you have to lie to get it.

So, like a child, like you’re five again, like you’re ten again, like you’re fifteen again, you say, “I’m getting married.”

“Oh?” your mother asks, and there’s so much hope in the one word it hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Yeah,” you confirm, and then the lies just burst out of you, and you hate yourself, hate yourself so much it’s like bile on your tongue, “yeah, we’ve been engaged for a while, and now with the baby and all… It’s been long overdue.”

Your mother almost sounds excited. Sure, she’d probably prefer for you to have been married before getting knocked up, but all of this must still seem better than the last plan you presented to her four years ago. “What’s his name? What’s he do?”

You squeeze your eyes closed. If your mother knew you at all, if you hadn’t spent the past few years not speaking, you’d like to think she would have heard the shame in your voice when you say, “Bradley. He’s a Naval aviator.”

It might be the worst thing you’ve done in your life: Dragging poor, kind Bradley Bradshaw into the mess you’ve made of your life. Nevermind that he offered. It doesn’t matter.

Your mother starts babbling, the way she only does when she’s actually pleased about something. She’s talking about how happy your dad will be that you’re getting married to a fellow army guy, but you barely hear it. Now that you’ve gotten the approval, it doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would.

It just hurts.

For a while, you just let her keep talking as you blink away the tears, as you stare at your bedroom wall, as your mind spins and spins and spins in circles. Then you promise to send her an invite, say your goodbyes, and hang up.

It’s like you’re numb all over. You stay on your bed for another five minutes, and then another, and you feel just as empty as you did after your last conversation with Luke.

What has your life become? How could it crumble as quickly as it did, going from okay to horrible in less than a week?

Even when you weren’t speaking to your parents, you never felt this distant from them, this far removed. A chasm you’ll never be able to breach. An ocean you’re never going to bridge. The only way you’ve ever gotten your mother to be happy with a decision you’ve made is when you lied to her.

The loneliness is everywhere, then. In your chest, in your bed, in your veins. Crawling like a shadow that swallows you whole.

And then the panic sets in, ice cold in your veins, and with it comes the guilt. Your stomach rolls with it.

What have I done? you wonder. What have I done to myself, to Bradley? How will I ever get out of this?

You scramble. Blindly reach for a dress to slip into, for a pair of flip-flops, for your car keys. It’s a miracle you don’t crash on your way to the Hard Deck. Your heart works itself up into a frenzy, and the guilt gnaws at you, slashes at you, paws at you. All these emotions are tearing you apart.

In the back, Bradley and Bob are playing Pacman on one of the retro machines. They’re pretty loud, too, and from what you gather in your mad dash through your workplace, Bradley seems to be disproportionally competitive about the whole thing.

Figures. Nobody gets into Top Gun without a cutthroat streak and a mean penchant for ambition.

“Bradley,” you say, and when he looks up, his eyes sparkling, the smile slides right off his face. “Can I talk to you?”

He seems stunned for a second, then nods and deposits his beer on a nearby table. “Sure thing.”

You lead him out the back. Out of the corner of your eyes, you spot the exact corner you huddled in a few days back, agonizing over the positive pregnancy test, the decline of your life, the decay of your dreams. Don’t look, you tell yourself, and then do it anyway.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but twilight is descending on the world rapidly. Everything is washed into soft pastels, the sand and the last surfers shaking salt water from their hair. Bradley’s shirt and the honey gold of his skin.

You can’t look at him. It’s a shame that grows in the pit of your stomach, that settles there, heavy like a stone. How can you do this to him?

You’ve never felt worse about yourself, and still… The fear is too big.

Since you decided to give up on the scholarship, since you walked out of your parents house four years ago, you’ve been on your own. You’ve been footing your own bills and renting your own apartment and paying for insurance on your car. You were alone the time you got a cold so bad you couldn’t get out of bed for two days. You were alone when your tire popped on the highway and you almost hit another car. You were alone when you got rejection after rejection from the big San Diego bars, the ones that end up featured on TV and in magazines.

And that was fine. You’re strong, you know you are. Any issue that came your way, you managed to figure out eventually. You’ve been doing fine without any help.

But this, here, now. This… You just can’t do it on your own. Not when it’s about a baby. Your baby.

So you take a deep breath and ask, “Is the offer still on the table?”

Bradley exhales. You watch as he takes a step closer to you, as his shoes move in the field of your vision, grains of sand crunching beneath the soles. When he speaks, a cadence of insecurity has snuck into his voice, “The marriage?”

You nod because you can’t say it. Your mouth just won’t form the words.

“If…” Bradley clears his throat. “If you want it… yeah.”

When you look up at him, there’s something strange on his face. Something that looks less like surprise and more like awe.

His eyes are so brown, and your heart beats so fast, and you’re dizzy like you just got off a rollercoaster.

“I…” You pause to collect your thoughts, and then you rush it all out at once, scared that if you don’t say it now, you never will. “If I were to say yes, like, hypothetically… I’d need to know that you’re not just doing it for me. That there’s something in it for you, too, so….”

He’s nodding before you’ve finished. “I told you. I wanna stay here. I’m sick of getting sent around the country all the time, so… It’s good. It’s an opportunity.”

An opportunity. That sounds like business, sounds like a transaction, sounds rational and level-headed and reasonable, and you latch onto the idea. Maybe if you try to take the emotion out of the equation, it’ll be easier.

Bradley seems relaxed about the whole thing, much more relaxed than he should be given the absurdity of the situation, but you feel like you need to make things clear anyway, if only to put yourself at ease. That’s what people do before singing contracts, right? Put all the cards out on the table?

So you go on, “And I wouldn’t, like… Like you’d still get to do anything you want. I wouldn’t expect you to help with the baby or anything. And you could keep dating, of course, you could, I won’t mind. I promise. It’d just be for show, right?”

Bradley hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something. But then he just shrugs, nods, says, “That’s fine. Yeah. Whatever you want.”

For a moment, you both just look at each other.

“This is insane,” you say because it is, and you don’t know what else to say.

And Bradley just chuckles and agrees smoothly, “Yeah, it’s nuts, isn’t it?”

As you look at him, here in this pastel lighting, here on the verge of something monumental, there’s something so reassuring about him. Something so steady and reliable and constant. Something that makes you think, with him, maybe it could be okay, no matter how insane the whole idea is. An opportunity. An investment that just might pay off.

North star, you remind yourself. Bradley Bradshaw is the North Star.

At the very least, you won’t be alone.

“So is that….” Bradley shifts, scratches the back of his neck. “You saying yes, then?”

There’s a lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed a pebble. It almost chokes you.

“Yeah,” you agree finally, and can’t believe you’re saying this, doing this, can’t believe you’re this mad and this selfish and this desperate. “I guess I am.”

It’s awkward after that. You both just stand there, you with your arms around your own ribcage, Bradley with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. Space and silence stretches far and gaping and glaring between you.

Then he says, “Can I hug you?”

That’s sort of the last thing you expected him to say.

You blink at him. “Uhm… sure?”

When Bradley pulls you into his arms, when he holds you against his chest loosely, carefully, giving you room to pull away at any moment, the whole thing almost bowls you over. It’s the first time anybody’s hugged you since you found out you’re pregnant, since your entire world came crashing down, and you can’t help yourself. It’s a visceral reaction. You cling to him, wrap your arms around his neck, press your face into his shoulder and your chest against his and squeeze your eyes shut, and stay there for longer than you planned to, longer than you should. Let him hold you tight enough that for a moment, for a while, it almost feels like you’re whole again. Like you’re not alone.

For the first time in a week, for the first time since that positive test, things feel real. You feel real. Only with his hands on you. The thoughts that have been echoing through your head constantly, loud enough to drown out everything else, quiet.

You could get addicted to it, could get greedy and selfish and never-satisfied. Could eat it raw.

Bradley smells like sunscreen and sandalwood. You try to commit that scent to memory, try to ingrain it into your brain and your body. Something to remember the next time the loneliness sets in.

Finally, he pulls away, and his smile is gentle. You feel every inch of separation like an ache in your bones, like an echo, like a reverberation.

You can’t cry again. You’ve been doing it so much recently that you just won’t allow it again. If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be a mother and a wife, in whatever capacity, you’ll have to be strong. No matter how hard that will be.

“I don’t even have a ring for you,” Bradley says, a frown etching itself into his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You’re shaking your head quickly, vehemently. “No, Bradley, that’s fine, you don’t need to….”

“I think you should have something, though. I want to give you something,” he interrupts you. “I just don’t know….”

And then he seems to think of something. The epiphany is practically written all over his face, and for a moment, he looks so much younger. Rosy cheeks and all.

Bradley reaches into his wifebeater and pulls his dog tags from beneath the fabric. Before you know what’s happening, he’s tugging the thin silver chain down over your head, moving your hair out of the way carefully. It settles against the skin of your neck, warmed by his body heat.

You stare down at the metal dangling over your dress, the letters of his name etched into it. Bradley Bradshaw.

Your heart seizes.

When you were younger, much younger, you used to dream of this. You used to imagine what being proposed to would feel like, what it would be like. A fancy restaurant, an expensive glass of champagne, and a diamond ring at the bottom of the flute. Something flashy, something extravagant, something beautiful. The man in your fantasy was faceless at first, and then he looked like Robert Pattinson, and then he looked like your first crush, and then he went back to being faceless again.

He never had a mustache. He was never a stranger. Your dreams were never this: Rushed and fake and no ring at all. You, pregnant with somebody else’s baby, and Bradley, marrying you to get assigned to a base of his choosing. None of it real. No True Love, no capital t, no capital l. Not even lowercase. Nothing but madness and guilt and business between you.

And still you want it, want it so bad it swells inside you, pushes against your ribcage with enough pressure to crack bones - you want to be wanted.

You wonder what Bradley dreamed of. Not you, probably. So much younger than him, so naive, so gullible, falling for married men and getting yourself into situations you can’t climb out of yourself. Making him do this when he deserves better, more, deserves something true and real.

It makes you sick to your stomach. It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to ask Bradley to hug you again, so you can forget, just for another second, just for another moment.

Instead, you say, voice barely a whisper, “Thank you.”

Bradley shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and he sounds so genuine you have to avert your eyes. “We’re friends, right?”

Friends. This man you barely know. This man who is doing something unfathomable for you.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Friends.”

And then later, in the bar, as Bradley’s friends discuss some new Star Wars show you haven’t seen, as they order round after round of beer you can’t drink, as the sky goes from pastels to blues to blacks, you’ll pretend you don’t see Natasha staring at the dog tags around your neck, pretend you don’t wish you could hold Bradley’s hand, pretend you don’t feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re capsizing where you sit, like you're kicking water miles and miles and miles below the surface.

Beneath the table, you put a hand on your stomach, fingers spreading out, close your eyes, and let the current drag you under.

part 2 coming - soon

Tags

fic recs i am very excited! 2022 Top gun top gun maverick rooster september bradley bradshaw my silly little goodreads masterclass in writing seasonsbloom you will always be famous FINALLY A ROOSTER SERIES I PRAYED FOR TIMES LIKE THIS the way you write him is so ❤️‍🩹 the angstiest of angst i am also very mentally ill but technically read it in august

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fivsecondsflat

1 year ago

GIVE ME ALL THE ANGST!!!

i cannot be your friend, so i pay the price of what i lost. and what it cost now that we don't talk.

because pushing her away was easier than having to stomach seeing her be with someone else.

author's note/s: 1k words. this is part one of a series. close friends to sad strangers to surprise college roommates is a trope, right?

Ignoring Hazel for the rest of the year wasn’t an easy decision or any easy thing to do. You two weren’t attached at the hip but you were such good friends that even the people who didn’t really talk to either of you eventually asked if you two had a falling out. We’re both just pretty busy at this time of senior year, you’d tell them; you had no idea what Hazel’s answer was to that, and you didn’t wanna know. It hurt you to ice her out but after what happened at the game, you just couldn’t be around her. Not when it was clear that PJ was in the picture like that.

Really, you should’ve been happy for her. You were one of the first people she came out to and even though she never explicitly said it, you knew she wanted to experience one relationship, or even a sort of fling, before high school ended. But your wishful thinking that it could’ve been the two of you in the end like some cliche really was just that — wishful thinking. That kiss and the way she and PJ acted around each other after said it all.

So you blocked it all out. Joined some clubs to fill up your schedule and actually make you as busy as you said you were, focused on academics like never before, got closer to other friends (for obvious reasons but also, why the hell not? It was senior year and you might not see some of them again). Overall, there were pros to what you decided to do about your crush on Hazel Callahan. You were making the most out of a sucky situation.

What you weren’t proud of was deciding to go out with the baseball team’s captain on a whim, and then agreeing to really date him after. He was nice and was a pretty good boyfriend, but you weren’t as into him as he was into you. But that was the least of your concerns throughout that relationship that inevitably came to an end as graduation neared.

You’ll never forget the complicated look on her face the day he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek at your locker. You’ll never forget the ‘Can we talk now? Please?’ text she sent that night, her last attempt at reaching out before she took to ignoring you too.

And that was it. Hazel wasn’t part of your senior year until its end and you assumed it would be the same for the rest of your life, or at least for a long, long time.

But the universe just loved playing cruel tricks sometimes.

I Cannot Be Your Friend, So I Pay The Price Of What I Lost. And What It Cost Now That We Don't Talk.

“Okay, you’re sure you’ve got everything? Those new notebooks, your writing materials, enough bras and pa—”

“Okay, mom!” You cut her off with a nervous laugh, silently thanking god that your roommate and whoever was helping her move in hadn’t arrived yet. “I’ve got it all, I promise. It’s okay for you to go now.”

Your mother sighs as she reaches out to give your arm a squeeze, and after a few more pointers for your first day and about five ‘you can always give us a call for anything’ reminders, you were alone. You smile to yourself as you look at your fixed up side of the dorm, jittery in a good sense. Everyone said college was different from high school in the best way and you were determined to make it so. Even though you knew how much busier and hectic life would get with university level academics.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t hear the door open. It’s only when that painfully familiar voice says your name that you snap out of it.

Hazel Callahan, practically the same as ever, standing in the doorway with her luggages and a duffel bag across her body. She manages a smile, small and hesitant. To your surprise, all you can say is, “You’re my roommate?”

Her face twitches in disappointment, smile faltering noticeably. You didn’t mean for that to come off the way it clearly did but the question escaped you before you could think. Of all the people in the world — or even just of all the people in high school, it just had to be her? You were over Hazel. You’d tried so hard and honestly haven’t thought about her much at all since graduation.

Only for all that effort to feel like it was undone within seconds. Fantastic.

“Trust me, I… I didn’t know this would be the arrangement. My mom’s got an old friend here who could probably do a room switch for one of us — I mean, for me I guess, you’ve already got your side of the room fixed up while I’m still all packed, so—”

You put a hand up to stop her. “Hazel, it’s fine. We can share this room. All that stuff from…” You let the sentence trail off and clear your throat. “I mean, it doesn’t matter anymore, it never really has.”

Though expecting her to brighten even slightly at your attempt at an olive branch, her expression stays the same. Complicated actually, like the one she had upon seeing you and your (short-lived) senior year boyfriend for the first time in school. You try not to think about it.

“Anyway, I’ve got some things to go check with the registrar’s office, so I’ll get out of your hair so you can unpack and all that.” There was nothing to check with at the registrar’s office, but you needed to find some place that wasn’t your dorm to pull yourself together. Or maybe scream.

There’s a look of understanding on her face but shakes her head at you. “You wouldn’t be in the way. We could use this time to catch up. It’s been a long while, you know?”

Well, you certainly weren’t ready for that, so you just say something about wanting to get to the office while it wasn’t too busy yet. You cast her a side glance with a smile that you really hoped didn’t look forced or fake as you watch her bring in her things, then make a beeline for the door.

But you stop when she asks, “Hey, um, maybe we can sit with each other at the orientation tomorrow?”

“Uh… yeah, sure.” And you knew that didn’t sound forced or fake with the way Hazel almost grins at you.

Yeah, you really needed to find a place to scream somewhere on campus.

Tags

fic recs 2023 december hazel callahan hazel callahan x reader bottoms 2023 my silly little goodreads i’m so excited for this one banger prompt masterclass in writing

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