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The fight that nearly ended them wasn’t just about Jake’s promotion. It was what he said during it.
Jake, scared and overwhelmed, lashed out. In the heat of the moment, he said things he didn’t mean—things that cut too deep to forget. He implied he regretted their marriage. That maybe they’d made a mistake. He said it to protect himself, to push Bradley away before Bradley could hurt him first. But the words stuck. They lodged in Bradley’s chest like shrapnel.
The promotion was the spark, but the fire was fear. Fear of being seen, of losing control, of wanting too much and not knowing how to ask for it.
They spent a week barely speaking outside of duty. Bradley took the guest room. Their cats, Fleetwood and Pickles took Jake’s side. Every day hurt.
Counseling changed things. Slowly. Awkward sessions turned into breakthroughs. Jake apologized—not just once, not just in passing. He said it until Bradley believed him. They untangled their fears from each other. They started trusting again. Loving again. There’s still work to do, but they’re doing it. Together.
Now, with their relationship on steadier ground, Jake has decided to accept his promotion. Bradley called in his favor to Ice, who made sure they would stay stationed together in the same Dagger Squadron. Ice never asked questions—just nodded once, like he’d been waiting for this.
But they both know the truth: the promotion comes with more visibility. Higher rank. More eyes. The secret marriage might not stay secret.
So they made a decision: they’re done hiding.
They’re not going to make a big announcement. Not going to sit the squad down and spill everything. But they’re not going to lie anymore, either.
They’ve always worn their rings on their dog tags, tucked close to their hearts. And they’ll keep doing that—for now, at least. The difference now is—they won’t care if someone notices. No more stepping apart the second someone walks in. No more rehearsed distance. No more living like they’re ashamed.
They’ll just… be. As they are. As they’ve always wanted to be.
If the others catch on, they catch on.
And this time, neither of them will flinch.
And with how much Bradley and Jake love each other, chances are… their friends are gonna start to pick up on it pretty quick.
1. Lt. Reuben "Payback" Fitch
It’s one of those perfect SoCal evenings, all sun and ocean breeze and salt clinging to sweat-damp skin. The squad’s loose and laughing, still high on the adrenaline of a week’s worth of exercises and an aggressive game of beach volleyball that devolved into Jake Seresin diving dramatically into the sand like he was trying to get cast in Baywatch: Naval Aviator Edition.
Reuben's still brushing sand off his knees when they line up at the food truck, everyone barefoot, sun-kissed, and starving.
Jake’s been in rare form tonight—snarky, yeah, but not sharp like he was before the uranium mission. Not mean. Just loud. Competitive. Cocky in the way that makes it feel like he’s trying to be funny instead of superior. And it works. Javy’s been teasing him back all night, Bob even managed a jab that made Jake throw his hands over his heart like he’d been mortally wounded. They’re finally seeing the guy underneath the reputation, and honestly? Reuben kind of gets why Hangman has fans.
They start ordering one by one—Nat, Javy, Mickey, Bob. Everyone shuffles toward the window, tapping phones or pulling out crumpled bills.
Jake doesn’t.
He just steps up beside Bradley, still sandy and smug, and goes, “I’ll take the al pastor and two churros, obviously.”
Bradley doesn’t even blink. Just glances over at him with that dry, affectionate look he gives when Jake’s being particularly Jake .
And then he shakes his head. Smiling. Small, secretive. Like this is routine.
Jake grins, smug as anything, and goes to wait at the pickup window like a man who knows he’s going to get fed.
Reuben freezes mid-step, his hand still halfway in his pocket.
Tilts his head, slow.
It’s not the food thing. Hell, he’d buy Mickey dinner if he was short.
It’s the look .
The unspoken exchange. The practiced ease. Like this isn’t a favor—it’s a pattern.
Bradley’s already moved on, ordering for himself like nothing happened. Jake’s leaning against the side of the truck, basking in the sunset like it’s his reward for existing.
Bradley taps his card, paying for both of them without comment.
Reuben narrows his eyes. Files it away.
Something’s going on there.
He doesn’t know what yet.
But damn if he isn’t going to start paying closer attention.
2. Lt. Robert "Bob" Floyd
Bob’s not nosy. He’s just… attentive.
It’s a trait that serves him well in the cockpit. You don’t miss little details when you’re being flown at Mach-whatever with lives on the line. And he brings that same quiet sharpness everywhere else, whether people notice or not.
Right now, the whole squad’s grounded—weather delay or some calendar snafu, no one seems to know. They're holed up in the ready room, half suited, half lounging, the air buzzing with the kind of loose energy that comes from too much caffeine and nowhere to go.
Jake’s got his legs slung dramatically over the armrests of two chairs, eating popcorn like he’s in a movie theater, flicking kernels at Mickey, who is absolutely terrible at catching them. Nat’s on her laptop pretending to work but very obviously watching the show.
Bradley’s leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed, staring out at the tarmac like he’s willing the sky to clear faster. His phone rests idle on the table beside him, screen dark. Probably forgotten. He’s been quiet the last few minutes, lost in thought or maybe just enjoying the lull.
"Hey, Bradshaw," Jake calls, not even looking up from where he’s theatrically lounging across two chairs, "text Ice back for me? I think he’s waiting on that loadout report."
Bradley glances over. “Use your own phone.”
Jake stretches, exaggerated and unbothered. “Left it in my locker.”
“You’re the one who frisbee’d it across the hangar last week.”
Jake grins. “Mickey dared me to.”
Bradley shakes his head with a huff of breath that’s more fond than annoyed, picks up his phone off the table, and tosses it to Jake without unlocking it.
And then Jake just… types in the password.
Six digits. No pause. No glance at the screen for guidance. No asking hey what’s your code again?
He just types it in like it’s his own damn phone.
Bob’s eyes flick up from his crossword. He doesn’t say anything. But he watches.
Jake scrolls for a moment, finds the conversation, types something out quickly—thumbs moving with the kind of comfort that only comes with repetition—and then tosses the phone back to Bradley, who catches it one-handed, totally unfazed.
No thanks , no don’t snoop, no hey, don’t text my boss/dad weird emojis.
Just a normal, practiced motion between two people who do this kind of thing all the time.
Bob looks down at his crossword again. Pretends to be stuck on 21-Across. He’s not.
He’s thinking.
He’s seen Bradley laugh at Jake’s jokes. He’s seen Jake lean a little too close when he talks to Bradley. He’s seen the tension that used to exist between them—too sharp, too fragile—start to ease over the past few weeks. Ever since… well. Ever since they came back from that long weekend where nobody would say where they went.
Bob’s not the kind to jump to conclusions.
But passwords?
Passwords are intimate. People don’t share those unless there’s real trust there. Real closeness.
He doesn’t say anything. Not yet.
Just glances up once more as Jake tosses a kernel in the air and Bradley, without looking, catches it before it hits Jake square in the face.
Bob exhales softly.
Yeah. He’s definitely paying attention now.
3. Lt. Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia
Mickey’s not trying to eavesdrop.
It’s not his fault the vending machine outside the locker room is stuck in an existential crisis, taking ten full minutes to decide if it’ll give him his damn pretzels. He’s just standing there, killing time, when he hears Jake’s voice drifting from inside—loud, stressed, and deeply invested.
“I’m telling you, if we don’t get Pickles into the vet by Monday, he’s gonna give it to Fleetwood. I can already hear her breathing weird.”
Mickey pauses. Not because he understands—but because he doesn’t.
Bradley responds, a familiar mix of tired and fond. “Fleetwood breathes weird anytime you stress her out. That’s just how she is.”
“Because she’s delicate and perfect!” Jake shoots back. “Pickles is a feral little shit. He licked her mouth, Bradley.”
Mickey frowns.
Who the hell is Pickles? And why does this sound like a custody battle?
“I’m not saying it wasn’t gross,” Bradley sighs, “but you picked Pickles in the first place, remember? You looked him in the eye and said, ‘That’s the one.’ ”
“Yeah, and both of them love me more than you,” Jake says with full confidence. “Fleetwood basically never comes when you call her. Meanwhile, she sleeps on my pillow like she pays rent. And Pickles chirps when I walk into a room. Chirps , Bradshaw.”
Bradley groans. “You’re the one who fed him rotisserie chicken last night.”
Jake doesn’t hesitate. “Because he looked sad. I’m not a monster.”
“You’re an enabler.”
“And you’re soft! You let him out of the bathroom when we were supposed to be keeping them separate!”
“He was crying!”
“He manipulates you.”
There’s a long beat.
And then Bradley says, with the pure conviction of a man on the edge, “I built them a goddamn bird feeder , Jake. A whole thing, with hooks and seed and a suet block, because you wanted them to sit at the window and watch the sparrows. And they still like you more.”
“Because I’m the fun parent,” Jake says smugly.
Mickey stands there, frozen.
It’s not just the cats. It’s not just the vet or the bird feeder or the rotisserie chicken.
It’s the we.
The our vet. The shared cats. The casual this is your problem too domesticity.
He backs away from the vending machine like it’s radioactive. His pretzels fall with a thud, ignored.
He doesn’t know what’s going on.
But oh, he’s absolutely going to tell Nat.
4. Lt. Javy "Coyote" Machado
Javy’s not suspicious by default. He’s known Jake Seresin since before either of them could legally buy a beer. He’s been there for all the highs and plenty of the lows—like that time Jake tried to bleach his hair after graduation and ended up with yellow roots and a bruised ego. Like when Jake’s dad split after he found out Jake liked guys. Point is, he knows Jake.
Which is why he freezes mid-laugh when he hears what Bradley Bradshaw says like it’s no big deal.
“Caroline wants you to call her back,” Bradley says, glancing up from his phone as they walk across the tarmac. The sun’s low and bright, casting long shadows behind them. They’re heading toward the locker rooms, just the two of them and Javy a few paces behind, close enough to hear but not trying to eavesdrop.
Jake groans immediately. “It’s about that guy, isn’t it?”
“Almost definitely,” Bradley replies, casual as anything, scrolling on his phone. “You know, the one who owns a snake? She said you made a face and now she’s spiraling.”
“She always spirals,” Jake mutters. “I told her not to date anyone with a pet named Lucifer. That’s on her .”
“I can stall her, if you want,” Bradley says. “Tell her you’re in a briefing or fixing a jet or emotionally unavailable.”
Jake chuckles. “Nah. I’ll call her. Better she hears it from me than tries to move in with him again.”
And that’s when something inside Javy twitches.
He slows his pace, brow furrowing.
Bradley just casually… brings up Caroline?
Jake’s sister, Caroline?
He has her number?
He talks to her about her dating life?
And Jake lets him?
“How do you even know Caroline?” Javy asks, keeping it light but direct. His brain’s working overtime.
“She likes Rooster better than me now,” Jake says, like it’s just one of life’s inevitable tragedies.
“That’s not an answer,” Javy replies, narrowing his eyes.
“She asked for my number,” Bradley supplies smoothly, not even looking up from his phone.
Jake snorts. “ On my birthday. ”
That gets Javy to stop in his tracks.
He knows Caroline. Really knows her. She’s intense. Overly attached. Has a flair for drama and a tendency to get weirdly invested in people. And when it comes to her relationships, she flips like a switch—devoted one minute, full scorched earth the next. He’s seen her cry over a guy she dated for two weeks and then threaten to egg his truck.
But, she doesn’t hand out contact info like candy. She’s never shown the slightest interest in Jake’s work friends.
And Bradley ? The guy Jake couldn’t stand until—what, a couple months ago?
Something’s off.
Javy crosses his arms, eyes narrowing at the two of them walking ahead—Jake bumping his shoulder into Bradley’s lightly, Bradley shoving him back with a roll of his eyes.
They don’t look suspicious. They don’t act suspicious.
But Caroline Seresin doesn’t just send memes to some guy her brother used to hate.
Unless it’s not “some guy.”
Unless it’s someone else entirely.
Javy files it away. Quietly. Carefully.
Something’s going on here.
And now? He’s really paying attention.
5. Lt. Natasha "Phoenix" Trace
Nat’s always known something was up with those two.
Not in a spicy gossip kind of way—more like a there’s a thread here and I’m going to pull it kind of way. She’s good at reading people. Always has been. It’s part of what makes her a damn good pilot.
But even she hadn’t been ready for Mickey’s report the other day. Delivered in the most dramatic whisper imaginable over coffee and protein bars.
“They have cats, Nat. Together. Named Fleetwood and Pickles. They argue about vet appointments and chicken and bird feeders. And Jake sounded like an actual suburban housewife who was two days from snapping.”
Nat had laughed. Of course she had. But the thing is, she never forgot it. Because Mickey might be a chaos gremlin—but he doesn’t lie.
She’s seen things too. Jake and Bradley carpooling. Once? No big deal. Twice? Sure, maybe gas prices. When someone teased Jake about it during a squad night, he said they were just saving emissions— “we’re good stewards of the environment, obviously.” The joke landed. Nobody questioned it again.
Until today.
Nat’s pulling into the base lot, same time as usual, sipping a smoothie she doesn’t even like but refuses to admit to anyone. She glances to her left as she swings into her usual spot—and slams on the brake a half-second late.
The blue Bronco is already there.
Bradley’s Bronco.
Jake is in the driver’s seat.
Bradley is in the passenger seat.
Nat’s door is open but she doesn’t get out.
She stares.
Because what the fuck.
Bradley never lets anyone drive his Bronco. Never.
She’s known him for years—through squadrons, deployments, post-mission breakdowns and beers—and she’s pretty sure he’d rather walk barefoot across the base in a hailstorm than let someone else put their hands on that steering wheel. The only person who’s ever come close was Bob, and even that was just a theoretical "if I get shot mid-drive, take the wheel" kind of deal.
And yet here they are.
Jake puts the Bronco in park, leans across to grab something out of the glove compartment—like he’s done it a hundred times before. Bradley doesn’t flinch. Just sips from his coffee like nothing’s strange.
Jake tosses a smug little grin in his direction. Bradley rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, too.
Nat steps out of her car slowly. Keeps watching.
Everything clicks.
The cat thing. The carpooling. The subtle shifts in how they move around each other. The way Jake stopped being unbearable and Bradley stopped looking like he was carrying the weight of the world. The bird feeder. The Bronco.
She shuts her car door with a decisive thunk.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath, not even mad—just impressed.
She’s not going to say anything.
Yet.
But she is absolutely going to watch this play out.
+1. Capt. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Maverick’s known for a long time.
Not because Bradley told him. Because Ice did—years ago, in that calm, quietly reverent way that meant pay attention, Pete, this matters.
“They got married. Young. They’re keeping it quiet for now. Just let them have this.”
So Mav kept his mouth shut. Not because he didn’t care, but because he did. He knew what it was like to love someone inside the uniform and outside the rules. Knew what it meant to guard that love with your life, even from the people closest to you. And maybe—after pulling Bradley’s papers all those years ago—he felt he owed him the space. The trust.
So he watched.
He saw the way Bradley’s shoulders eased when Jake entered a room. How Jake—cocky, chaotic Jake—went stone-still when Bradley flew. Noticed the rings on their dog tags. The glances, the silences. The loyalty.
And then, a couple months ago, Bradley finally showed up to Sunday dinner with Jake in tow. No fanfare. Just a muttered, “This is my husband,” and a look like he was daring them to say something.
Mav hadn’t said anything. He’d just pulled Jake into a hug and told him Ice would set a place for him.
And it had been quiet. Familiar. Right.
But it wasn’t until a week ago that Bradley looked him in the eye, standing in his driveway, hands jammed in his pockets, and said, “We’re not hiding anymore.”
No announcement. No Instagram post or squad briefing. Just… living. As themselves. No more stepping apart when someone walked in. No more ducking questions. If people figured it out? So be it.
And Mav? He’d never been prouder.
Tonight, the squad’s at the Hard Deck. Sun setting, music low, glasses clinking. Mav shows up late, as usual, and spots them instantly—Jake and Bradley at the bar, shoulders nearly touching, trading low jokes while Bob and Javy side-eye them like they’re slowly assembling a conspiracy board. Nat looks like she’s already connected all the dots.
Bradley sees him first, stands, and hugs him tight.
“Hey, kid,” Mav says, patting his back.
Jake leans over with a smirk. “If you’re giving out hugs, I’ll take one too.”
Mav pulls him into a half-embrace and claps him on the back. “You get beer. On me.”
Jake’s eyes crinkle. “A man of taste.”
Mav flags down Penny and orders two. Then, as casually as anything, sets the glasses in front of them and says, “Seresin, you’re expected at family dinner next Sunday. Ice is making that curry you like.”
Mickey chokes on his drink.
“Wait—why would Hangman be at a family dinner with the Iceman and Rooster?”
Mav takes a sip of his beer, deadpan. “Why do you think?”
And then he lets it hang.
Lets the silence stretch just long enough for the others to really think about it.
Because now?
He doesn’t have to keep the secret anymore.
And damn if it doesn’t feel good to stop.
Jake doesn’t say anything. Just nudges his glass against Bradley’s in a quiet toast, like this is all perfectly ordinary.
And Bradley?
He leans in and presses a kiss to Jake’s temple.
Soft. Simple. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Javy suddenly shoots off his stool, nearly knocking it over in the process.
“I knew it!”
Nat doesn’t even blink. “No, you didn’t.”
“Yes I did! Caroline knows him. She texts him! I knew it!”
“Oh my God , Javy,” Nat sighs, “you asked yesterday how she had his number.”
Mickey, already halfway out of his seat, points aggressively. “ Thank you. I figured it out after the vet thing. Fleetwood and Pickles , Javy. Two cats. Joint vet appointments. Rotisserie chicken. Bird feeders!”
Bob chimes in, looking slightly overwhelmed. “Wait, are we not talking about the time Jake unlocked Bradley’s phone without asking?”
Rueben stares at them all like they’ve lost their minds. “Guys. Guys. Bradley paid for his dinner without blinking. Like it was routine. And Jake just stood there grinning like a smug little—”
“I saw Jake driving the Bronco,” Nat interrupts, voice sharp with finality. “This morning. Bradley was in the passenger seat.”
The table falls completely silent.
Then—
Mickey squints at them, tilting his head. “Wait. What is your phone password, Bradshaw?”
Without missing a beat, Jake replies, “Zero-two-twenty-one-eighty-eight.”
Javy repeats it under his breath—“...zero-two-twenty-one-eighty-eight…”—and then freezes.
His head snaps up. “ Wait. That’s your birthday! ”
Jake just smirks and nudges Bradley’s shoulder. “He’s a simp.”
Bradley sighs dramatically but doesn’t deny it.
Nat cackles.
Then, from the corner: “I’ve known for years,” Maverick says casually, lifting his drink like this is a toast and not a bomb.
Everyone turns in unison to the couple in question.
Bradley raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glass.
Jake, unfazed, leans back like he’s watching a sitcom.
Mickey slams his hand down. “ Explain. ”
Jake grins. “What, specifically, would you like us to explain?”
“ All of it! ” Mickey yells. “The cats! The vet! The Bronco! ”
Jake exchanges a look with Bradley, then reaches into the collar of his shirt and pulls out his dog tags. Hanging from the chain, right between the metal tags, is a brushed titanium wedding band.
Bradley follows suit. Same movement, same chain, same ring.
A beat of stunned silence.
Rueben gapes. “You’re married?! I thought you were— I don’t know— dating. Maybe living together. Roommates with really weird boundaries.”
Jake snorts. “Married since 2011.”
Jaws hit the floor.
Javy throws both hands in the air. “ Dude! I was supposed to be your best man!”
“You ghosted me for three days!” Jake shoots back. “We eloped.”
Rueben actually looks betrayed. “ I paid for your tacos last month! ”
“And I thank you for your service,” Jake replies with a perfectly straight face.
Mickey stares at Jake, brow furrowed. “Wait—wait, hold on. Jake’s always talking about sex. Like, always . With someone or another. Are you telling me he’s been cheating on you and you just… let him talk about it?”
“Or is this, like, a poly thing?” Rueben adds, half-sincere, half-panicking.
Bradley laughs—deep, warm, unapologetic. “Nope. Those stories? A lot of them are true. You just have to swap out the names.”
The whole table freezes.
Jake groans, burying his face in his hands.
Bradley, grinning like a menace, keeps going. “In fact, Jake’s usually the girl in the stories he tells.”
Jake turns bright red . “ Bradley! ”
“Just saying,” Bradley murmurs, leaning against him, smug. “You’re the one who likes being called pretty.”
Jake is, for once, completely out of words. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. Nothing comes out. Just a helpless, full-body blush.
Nat nearly falls out of her stool laughing.
There’s a beat of silence—then Bob, eyes wide, points between them.
“Wait—so was all that fighting just foreplay? ”
Jake recovers instantly. Smirks, tilts his head, and says, “I like what happens when I push his buttons.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Just mutters into his beer, “You’re lucky I love you.”
Mickey yells “ Ew! ” while Nat cackles and Javy groans, “I lived through that tension for years! ”
Jake just winks. “You’re welcome.”
And from the end of the table, Maverick raises a hand like he’s calling for peace.
“Okay,” he says firmly. “Enough. I don’t need to hear about my kids’ sex lives.”
Bradley takes a long sip of his beer and mutters, “We warned you.”
There’s a moment of quiet. Just for a breath.
Then Nat leans forward, eyes narrowed, voice low. “You two have been married for nine years and never said anything? ”
Javy shakes his head in disbelief. “Nine years , man. I’ve known you both since before that. You were already together before we finished at Pensacola.”
Bradley just shrugs. “We weren’t hiding it from you. We were hiding it from the Navy. And then it just became habit.”
Jake finally speaks up, voice quiet but sure. “We wanted to protect it. And for a long time, we had to.”
Javy sits back, exhaling like he’s still processing. “You were twenty-three.”
“And he was twenty-six,” Jake nods. “I know. It was fast and a little reckless.”
Bradley bumps his knee. “Still is.”
Jake smirks. “Still worth it.”
Nat crosses her arms, but there’s a softness in her expression now. “God. You’re idiots. I love you. But you’re idiots.”
Jake leans into Bradley’s shoulder, not saying anything.
And for a moment, the whole table settles.
The table falls into a rare, quiet moment. Everyone processing. Nine years of secrets. A marriage no one saw coming.
Then—
Mickey, eyes wide: “And you have children together!”
Jake blinks. “What?”
“The cats, ” Mickey clarifies, deadly serious. “Fleetwood and Pickles. Are they okay, by the way?”
Bradley groans, already scrubbing a hand down his face. “ Don’t— ”
But it’s too late.
Jake straightens in his seat like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Pickles licked Fleetwood’s mouth again . And Fleetwood is still immunocompromised. So we’ve been trying to keep them separated, but—”
“Oh my God, ” Bradley mutters to the table. “You gave him an opening.”
Jake keeps going, eyes bright now, fully in it. “Fleetwood needs space and calm, and Pickles? Pickles is a bulldozer in a tiny white body. He knocked over the humidifier yesterday, and I swear to God he did it on purpose— ”
“Okay,” Bradley cuts in, looking around the table with mounting indignation, “I would just like to point out—for the record—that he picked both of these cats. Not me. Him. ”
“Fleetwood chose me, ” Jake says, wounded.
“She was half-dead in a storm drain and you cried until I said yes.”
Jake shrugs. “Love at first sight.”
Bradley levels him with a look. “You promised I could pick the next one.”
“I did,” Jake says, completely unbothered. “And then I saw Pickles.”
“And immediately picked him,” Bradley finishes.
Jake grins. “He had raccoon energy. I stand by it.”
“And now you’re mad at him for actively exhibiting said raccoon energy ,” Bradley counters.
The entire table is losing it . Nat has tears in her eyes. Bob is actively recording under the table. Mickey is clutching his heart like this is the greatest drama of his life.
Jake leans back in his stool, still muttering about probiotics and cat-friendly air filters.
Bradley just sighs, takes a long drink, and bumps his shoulder against Jake’s.
“And yet, ” he says dryly, “I’m the one who ends up scooping the litter box.”
Jake smirks. “Because you love me.”
Bradley groans into his glass. “God help me, I do.”
Mickey just grins. “I regret nothing.”
And quietly, just to himself, Bradley adds, “Yeah. We have kids.”
Then, after a beat—deadpan—“Actually, I have three.”
Jake turns toward him, already suspicious. “Three?”
Bradley sips his beer with a shit-eating grin. “Fleetwood. Pickles. And you.”
Jake shoves him off his stool.
Bradley’s laughing before he hits the floor.
The table erupts again—Jake trying not to smile, Bradley wheezing with laughter, the squad howling at the image.
And Maverick just watches it all.
Over nine years. One secret kept under wraps. Two stubborn aviators who somehow managed to build a home in the shadows.
And they’re still here.
Still each other’s.
Maverick smiles into his beer.
About damn time.