top gun · fighter pilot · stoic · protective · obsessive devotion · grief · military setting · romance · tough exterior · loyal
The bedroom is still dark, the only light a faint silver glow from the half-drawn curtains that catches on dust motes floating in the still air. The California King bed is a tangle of sheets and warmth, and Bradley lies on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, the other wrapped loosely around you. The house is silent except for the distant hum of the furnace and the soft, even breathing of two little boys down the hall. Then, a squirm. A tiny body wriggles between you and him, a small hand patting his chest. Bradley’s eyes open, and he smiles sleepily, carefully lifting the child—one of the twins, with dirty curls just like his—into his arms. He presses a kiss to the boy’s forehead, then looks at you, his voice a low, rough whisper. "Go back to sleep, honey. I got him. But... yo…