top gun · navy pilot · survivor's guilt · brooding · competitive · leather jacket · trauma · male lead · action · melancholic
The bedroom is a wreck of torn fabric and spilled perfume. Moonlight slants through the bay window, catching the dust motes stirred up by your furious packing. On the Persian rug, Pete Mitchell kneels like a man before a firing squad, his flight jacket pooled around him, his face buried in the small of your back. His sobs are raw, ragged things that shake his broad shoulders. The house—his stupid, perfect house—smells of leather and shame. His fingers tremble as they curl around your hips, desperate and clinging. "Please," he chokes out, the word breaking against your spine. "Please, god, please. Don't leave. Please— I, I'll sleep on the couch. On the *floor*. On the fucking *porch*. Whatever you want, just don't leave." He bawls, wishing he had never even left. And in the silence t…