Chapter Text
The California coastal highway was a ribbon of asphalt stitched between the defiant cliffs and the endless, breathing Pacific. Leighton Scott drove with her windows down, letting the roar of the wind fill her quiet car with a purposeful noise to drown out the quiet, persistent echo of the last five months. The air, thick with the scent of salt and blooming ice plant, was a tangible promise of a different reality. She was leaving behind the sterile, recycled air of her lab in San Diego and driving straight into the heart of a celebration.
Riley's getting married.
The thought still brought a genuine, unfiltered smile to her face. Riley, her college roommate, the chaotic artist to her methodical scientist, the one who'd seen her through disastrous dates, PhD stress, and the recent, quiet unravelling of a long-term relationship. Riley was finding forever with Natasha Trace, or Tasha, as she asked to be called by family. A naval aviator, a hero, a woman who flew fighter jets for a living. It was a pairing so perfectly them that it made Leighton's heart ache in the best way.
She'd needed this weekend more than she'd admitted to anyone, maybe even herself. The breakup with Marcus had been dramatic; screaming matches, one or two thrown objects, an abrupt suffocation of everything they'd once had. He'd wanted someone who'd be home at six every night, who'd attend faculty parties and smile appropriately, who'd eventually trade her pipettes for a picket fence. Leighton had tried to imagine that life, really tried, but all she could see was herself slowly disappearing into it. So when he'd started with that careful rehearsed speech about how they future would look like in the future, she'd blacked out and felt a knot of fear in her stomach. That was almost worse than the grief: how easy it had been to lose herself in his needs for years.
The GPS chimed, directing her off the highway and onto a smoother, private road lined with towering, wind-sculpted cypress trees. At the end of the avenue, the hotel emerged: a sprawling, low-slung hacienda style complex in creamy stucco and terracotta tile, lush gardens cascading down to a private crescent of golden sand. The Costa Serena. It was elegant without being stuffy, exclusive without being cold. Perfect for a wedding where one bride was a globe-trotting photographer and the other was a Lieutenant in the United States Navy.
She pulled her sedan into the valet circle, the sudden stillness after the wind's cacophony feeling heavy. A uniformed attendant opened her door with a smile. "Welcome to the Costa Serena. Here for the Trace-Harper wedding?"
"I am," Leighton said, stepping out and smoothing the wrinkles from her linen trousers. She'd packed light: a weekend bag, her camera (because Riley would kill her if she didn't document everything), and the emerald dress hanging carefully in the back.
"The wedding party is checked in on the Ocean Vista wing, second floor. Most guests are arriving today. You'll find your friends, I believe, at the Salty Pelican by the pool, or possibly already commandeering a section of the beach." He winked, loading her suitcase onto a cart.
Leighton shouldered her weekend bag, preferring to keep her essentials close. As she walked through the arched entrance into a sun drenched courtyard, the sounds of the wedding weekend began to seep in. The gentle shush-shush of a fountain, the clink of glasses from a nearby terrace, and beneath it all, a distant, rising tide of laughter; boisterous, male, and punctuated by the occasional triumphant whoop.
It came from the direction of the gardens. Peering through a gap in the bougainvillea, she saw a group of men gathered around what looked like a giant, lawn-sized version of Jenga. They were all in casual shorts and tees or polos, but they moved with a particular kind of coiled, athletic energy. One of them, a blonde with a posture that screamed 'look at me,' successfully pulled a block, tossed it in the air, and caught it behind his back, inciting a round of groans and thrown napkins from the others.
Aviators, Leighton thought with an inward smile. Phoenix's squad. The Daggers. They had to be. The vibe was unmistakable: a fraternity of adrenaline and competence, currently channelled into childish competition. She'd heard enough about them from Riley's excited ramblings over the past few months. Phoenix had talked about her squadmates like they were family, and Riley had absorbed every detail, passing them along like precious gossip. There was Hangman, the arrogant one who somehow always delivered when it counted. Coyote, steady and reliable. Fanboy, young and enthusiastic. Bob, the quiet weapon systems officer who was apparently terrifyingly efficient at everything. And Rooster, Nathasha’s best friend since they where deployed together many years ago.
She scanned the group casually. There was a shorter, leaner man with a focused expression under his glasses (Bob, she guessed), another with an easy smile and what looked like a Star Wars t-shirt (surely that must be Fanboy, true to his callsign), one who looked almost scholarly next to the others (Coyote, maybe?) and then her gaze snagged.
He was sitting on a low garden wall, not playing but watching, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. He was tall, broader in the shoulders, with sun-streaked brown hair just long enough to curl slightly at his neck. Even from this distance, she could see the prominent well-kept moustache. He was laughing at something the blonde said, throwing his head back, and the motion made the cotton of his hawaiian shirt strain against his chest. He radiated a warm, grounded stillness compared to the animated chaos around him. Comfortable in his own skin. Attractive, in a very specific, classic, almost retro way that felt suddenly and sharply palpable.
Then he turned, just slightly, and for a split second she could have sworn his gaze flicked toward where she stood hidden behind the bougainvillea. She stepped back instinctively, heart doing something stupid in her chest.
Get a grip, she told herself. You're an adult. You don't get flustered over pretty men with moustaches.
Leighton blinked, forcibly pulling her gaze away. Not why you're here. Fresh air, friends, celebrating love. Not… lawn games with fighter pilots. She tightened her grip on her bag and headed towards the front desk, the raucous sounds of the Dagger squad fading into a background hum.
The lobby was cool and serene, all terracotta floors and hand-painted tiles and massive arrangements of birds of paradise. After collecting her key card --Room 217, Ocean Vista-- she made her way down an open-air corridor lined with vibrant tile work. The scent of jasmine and ocean grew stronger. Finding her room, she unlocked the door to a spacious, airy space with a wrought iron balcony overlooking the very gardens she'd just passed. The laughter was clearer here. She could see them again, the blonde now attempting to balance a block on the top of the tower. The man with the mustache was on his feet now, clapping slowly in sarcastic applause.
She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips, and turned to unpack. She hung up her emerald green bridesmaid dress --a sleek, slip-style gown that Riley had chosen for its simple elegance-- and changed into a bikini top and a flowing, sheer cover-up. The mission was clear: find her tribe.
But as she checked her reflection in the mirror, she caught herself wondering if the gardens were visible from the Salty Pelican. Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.
⛱
Following the directions and the gravitational pull of familiar voices, she found them at the Salty Pelican, a breezy, open air patio bar that edged the pool and offered a stunning vista of the beach. And there they were, her constellation.
"Leighton! Oh my god, you're here!" Riley, a whirlwind in a floppy sun hat and a rainbow kaftan, launched herself from her chair and wrapped Leighton in a hug that smelled of sunscreen and coconut shampoo. "You made it! How was the drive? You look tan! How are you tan? Have you been in the lab or on a beach?"
"Breathe, bride-to-be," Leighton laughed, hugging her back fiercely. "Drive was easy. The tan is fake. The lab is still my temple. You look incandescent."
Riley beamed, her freckles standing out on her nose. "It's the pre-marital glow, baby. Or the three margaritas. Come on, everyone's here."
She was led to the large, shaded table where the rest of her friend group held court. Claire, Riley's oldest friend from high school, a sharp-eyed architect, raised her glass in salute. Maya and Simone, friends from grad school, both now in various fields of marine biology and environmental law, cheered. And finally, there was Sarah, Riley's slightly chaotic but endlessly loyal cousin, who immediately pulled Leighton into a hug and pressed a glass of rosé into her hand.
"You look good," Claire said quietly when the others had returned to their conversation. It wasn't a question, but it was.
Leighton shrugged, took a sip of her wine. "I'm getting there."
Claire's eyes softened with that particular look she'd been giving Leighton for the past five months; concern wrapped in patience, questions she knew better than to ask. "Good. That's good. And hey, if you need a distraction this weekend, I hear the hotel staff is incredibly attractive."
Leighton snorted. "I'm not here for the hotel staff."
"No, but you might be here for the naval aviators." Claire's eyebrows did a complicated dance. "I saw you looking toward the gardens earlier."
"I was looking at the flowers."
"Sure you were." Claire settled back in her chair, smug. "Sure you were."
The next hour was a blissful immersion into easy familiarity. Glasses of crisp rosé appeared. Plates of grilled fish tacos and spicy shrimp ceviche were shared. They caught up on work dramas; Maya's ongoing battle with a particularly uncooperative research vessel, Simone's recent victory in a environmental law case, Claire's latest architectural project that was either going to win her a promotion or drive her insane. They dissected the genius of Riley's wedding playlist ("80s power ballads for the ceremony, pure dance floor funk for the reception, it's a journey!") and sighed over the beauty of the setup they could see taking shape on the sand.
A pristine white arch adorned with billowing linen and coastal greenery stood where the ceremony would happen. Rows of chairs were being arranged in a semi-circle. Further down, a large wooden dance floor and round tables under string lights marked the reception area. Staff in crisp white uniforms were placing centrepieces --driftwood arrangements with succulents and trailing greenery-- while others tested the string lights, which flickered on briefly in the afternoon sun.
"It's perfect, Riles," Claire said, squeezing Riley's hand. "Phoenix hasn't seen it yet?"
"Nope! She's under strict orders from one of her best man --that's Bob, he's terrifyingly efficient-- to stay occupied with 'squad activities' until the rehearsal dinner tonight. Which, between you and me, probably means more of that," Riley said, jerking her thumb towards the gardens, where another victorious roar echoed.
"So that's them?" Leighton asked, aiming for nonchalance as she took a sip of her wine. "The infamous Daggers?"
"The very same," Riley grinned. "They flew in last night. I think they've already challenged the hotel's surf instructors to a volleyball match and tried to convince the chef to make 'Midway-style' chili dogs. Phoenix is equal parts proud and mortified." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, which one caught your eye from up here?"
Leighton nearly choked. "What? No one. I was just… assessing the biodiversity of the hotel fauna. The testosterone levels are notably high."
Simone snorted. "Right. The one with the mustache is a distinct genus. We already named him Hottus classicus."
"That's Bradley Bradshaw," Maya supplied helpfully, ever the researcher. "Callsign 'Rooster.' Phoenix's wingman. Apparently, he's a total sweetheart, loves classic rock, and drives a vintage Bronco. Also, fun fact, his dad was a naval aviator too. A family legacy, I guess? Phoenix mentioned it once."
"He also," Claire added, wiggling her eyebrows, "is famously single. Just saying. Post-breakup field research is valid science."
Leighton felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. "My field is genetics research, not… pilot-ology. And my breakup is a closed case, not a research subject." Her voice was firm, but the image of him laughing on the garden wall flashed in her mind. Bradley Bradshaw. Rooster. She wondered what the callsign meant. Probably something embarrassing. They always were.
"Fine, fine," Riley said, holding up her hands in surrender, but her eyes sparkled with knowing mischief. "Just remember, you're walking down the aisle with one of them tomorrow. It's Hangman, the blonde peacock. I've already warned him to be on his best behaviour."
"Oh god," Leighton groaned. "You didn't."
"I absolutely did. Told him if he made any of my friends cry, I'd let Phoenix fly him into a mountain. He seemed appropriately terrified."
The conversation moved on, flowing into reminiscing about college; the time Riley had accidentally set fire to their dorm kitchen trying to make flambé, the all-nighter Leighton had pulled before her genetics final, the disastrous double date Claire had arranged that somehow ended with all of them crying with laughter in a Denny's at 3 AM. But Leighton found her attention occasionally drifting back towards the gardens. The group had dispersed from the giant Jenga, but she could see clusters of them now by the pool or heading down towards the beach with surfboards under their arms.
One of them --the one she thought it might be Fanboy, based on Maya's description-- was attempting to teach someone else how to pop up on a board, gesturing wildly while the other pilot floundered in the shallows. The blonde one, Hangman, was already out past the break, sitting on his board with an easy confidence that bordered on annoying. And there, further down the beach, walking alone along the water's edge, was Rooster.
Even from this distance, she could recognize him. Something about the way he moved, maybe. Grounded. Deliberate. Like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
She realized she'd been staring when Sarah waved a hand in front of her face. "Earth to Leighton. You in there?"
"Sorry," Leighton blinked. "Just… the light. It's really beautiful here."
"Mmmhmm," Sarah said, drawing the sound out with obvious scepticism. "The light."
Later, as the afternoon sun began to soften into that golden hour that photographers kill for, the group decided to walk down to inspect the wedding setup up close. They kicked off their sandals and felt the warm sand between their toes as they ambled past the arch. It was even more beautiful up close, simple and breathtaking against the vast blue backdrop of sea and sky.
Leighton pulled out her camera --a vintage film camera she'd inherited from her grandfather, the one thing she still used that had nothing to do with science-- and started shooting. The arch, the flowers, the way the light hit the chairs. Riley posing dramatically, arms outstretched. Claire laughing at something Simone whispered. These were the moments she wanted to capture, the ones that would matter when the weekend was over and everyone went back to their real lives.
As they stood admiring it, another group approached from the direction of the hotel's water sports cabana. The Daggers, damp-haired and smelling of salt and sunshine, carrying surfboards and towels. They were a wave of sound and movement, talking over each other, rehashing rides and wipeouts with the kind of animated energy that came from people who did everything at full throttle.
Leighton's friends instinctively moved closer together, a unit observing a different tribe. The pilots noticed them and the chatter dialled down a few notches, replaced by polite smiles and nods. Up close, they were exactly as advertised: tanned, fit, radiating that particular confidence that came from doing a job that could kill you if you messed up.
"Hey there," the blonde one --Hangman-- said, his smile all easy charm. "You must be Riley's reinforcements. We're Phoenix's."
"We figured," Claire said dryly, but she smiled.
Phoenix herself emerged from the group, her dark hair wet and curly, her smile genuine and warm. She hugged Riley, a quick, hard squeeze that spoke of deep familiarity. "The beach looks amazing, baby. You're a wizard." She then turned to the rest of them. "Everyone, these are… well, a band of idiots. But they're my idiots. Jake, Bradley, Javy, Mickey, Reuben."
Names were attached to faces with quick, friendly efficiency. Leighton registered them politely: Hangman, Rooster, Coyote, Fanboy, Bob. Jake was the blonde, grinning like he knew exactly how charming he was. Javy was the shorter one with the focused expression, nodding hello with quiet courtesy. Mickey --the one she had guessed it was Fanboy-- was young and eager, practically bouncing at the fairytale landscape of decorations. Reuben --Bob-- was the scholarly-looking one with glasses, who gave a small, precise wave.
Her gaze, against her will, found Bradley. Up close the impact was more intense. The sun had pinked his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a warm, clear amber, crinkled at the corners from squinting at the sea or from laughter. He had a quiet, observant presence that stood out against the squad's noise; he nodded at the general introduction, his eyes sweeping the group, and for a fleeting electric moment they rested on her. It was just a fraction of a second longer than the others, a simple acknowledgment of a new person in the orbit, but it felt like a physical touch. Then he looked away, saying something low to Bob about securing the boards.
No words were exchanged between them. None were needed in that public, introductory space. But a line had been cast, a silent, mutual recognition of something intriguing across the crowded sand. Leighton felt it, a tiny, curious spark igniting in the calm she'd carefully cultivated.
"Nice camera," a voice said, and she startled to find Fanboy --Mickey-- standing beside her, eyeing the vintage Nikon with genuine interest. "That a FE?"
"Uh, yeah," she said, surprised. "You know cameras?"
"I'm kind of a photography nerd," he admitted, grinning. "Can't afford the good stuff yet, but I read about it. That's a beautiful piece of equipment."
"Thanks. It was my grandfather's." She found herself smiling back. He had an earnest, puppyish quality that was endearing. "He taught me everything I know."
"That's awesome." Mickey peered at it respectfully. "You shoot digital too, or just film?"
"Mostly film for personal stuff. Digital for work; documentation, that kind of thing."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a lab researcher."
His eyes went wide. "Whoa. Like, actually? That's so cool. I was always terrible at biology. Could never keep all the… you know, the things straight. The mitochondria and whatever."
"The powerhouse of the cell," Leighton supplied, amused.
"Yeah! That!" He laughed, self-deprecating. "See, I know nothing. But I bet you're really smart."
She couldn't help it, she laughed. "I do okay."
Across the small gathering, she was aware of Bradley watching them, his expression unreadable. When he caught her looking, he didn't look away immediately. Just held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turned back to whatever Bob was saying about surfboard wax.
Interesting.
As the two groups mingled briefly --Riley and Phoenix absorbed in each other, the others making small talk about the waves and the hotel and how long everyone was staying-- Leighton pretended to adjust her camera settings. She could feel the energy of the squad around her, a tangible force of camaraderie and playful arrogance. And she was acutely aware of where Bradley stood, just a few feet away, listening to Fanboy passionately explain something to a bemused Simone.
"You're Leighton, right?" A voice at her elbow. She turned to find Bob standing there with a polite smile. Up close, he was exactly as described: quiet, precise, with intelligent eyes behind his glasses.
"That's me. And you're Bob… the terrifyingly efficient best man?"
He blinked, then a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Riley told you about that?"
"She may have mentioned it. Something about keeping Phoenix occupied with squad activities?"
"Ah." Bob nodded, looking vaguely embarrassed. "It's not that complicated. Just making sure she doesn't wander down to the beach and see the setup before the rehearsal. She's not great with surprises. Gets antsy."
"That sounds like a full-time job."
"You have no idea." But he said it fondly. "The squad helps. We've got a system."
Leighton glanced at the group; Hangman now attempting to teach Claire some kind of flying manoeuvre, Coyote talking surf conditions with Maya, Fanboy still deep in conversation with Simone. "I can see that. You're all very… coordinated."
"We fly together. You kind of have to be." Bob shrugged. "It's different from regular friendships. When your life depends on the person next to you, it changes things."
There was something in the way he said it --simple, matter-of-fact, without any of the bravado the others projected-- that made Leighton pause. "That must be intense."
"It is. But it's also… I don't know. It makes things simpler, in a way. You know who you can count on. You know who's got your back." He glanced at her. "I imagine it's different in your world. Science, Riley said?"
"Genetics. And yeah, it's different. The stakes are lower. Usually."
"Usually?"
She smiled. "Well, I did once accidentally contaminate six months of research. That felt pretty high-stakes at the time."
Bob actually laughed with a small, surprised sound. "I can relate. One wrong button in the jet and suddenly everyone's yelling at you."
"At least when I mess up, nobody dies."
"Fair point." He nodded thoughtfully. "You're walking with Jake tomorrow, right?"
Leighton groaned internally. "That's what I hear. Any advice?"
Bob's expression didn't change, but there was a glint of humour in his eyes. "Don't let him talk your ear off. He'll try. Just nod and smile and remember you never have to see him again after Sunday."
"Noted."
"Bob!" Hangman's voice cut across the beach. "Quit flirting with the pretty bridesmaid and come settle something. Fanboy thinks he can take me in a push-up contest."
Bob sighed, the sound deeply put-upon. "Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Leighton."
"You too, Bob."
As he walked away, she caught Bradley's eye again. He was standing apart from the group now, towel slung over his shoulder, watching the chaos with an expression that was half-amused, half-exasperated. When he noticed her looking, he didn't smile or wave, he just gave a small shrug, as if to say what can you do?
She shrugged back, a tiny movement, and something flickered in his expression: surprise, maybe, or interest. Then Hangman was calling his name too, and he turned away, disappearing into the noise of the squad.
"We'll see you all at the rehearsal," Phoenix announced, lacing her fingers with Riley's. "Black tie-ish, by the way. Don't let these guys fool you into thinking flannel is appropriate." She shot a look at her squad.
"We clean up real nice, Trace," the one called Coyote promised with a grin.
As the aviators began to trek back towards the hotel, Leighton finally turned from the flowers. Bradley was walking at the back of the group, towel slung over his shoulder, but just as he reached the path leading up from the beach he glanced back over his shoulder. Not at the group, not at the setup, but directly, once more, at her. His expression was unreadable; curious, assessing, maybe just polite. He raised his hand in a faint, brief wave, a gesture so small it could have been missed.
Heart doing a stupid, small flip, Leighton gave a slight, cool nod in return. Then he was gone, his broad silhouette disappearing up the path with his friends, their voices fading into the rhythmic crash of the waves.
"Well," Claire murmured, sidling up to Leighton and following her gaze. "Hottus classicus just made direct eye contact. I'd call that a successful initial observation."
Leighton elbowed her gently, refusing to smile. "You're incorrigible. Come on, I need another drink before I have to put on heels."
But as they walked back, the taste of salt on her lips and the sound of the ocean in her ears, Leighton couldn't deny the low hum of anticipation that had joined the symphony of the coast. The weekend had officially begun. And somewhere in this hotel, a man with a ridiculous mustache and quiet, observant eyes was getting ready for the same rehearsal dinner she was. The plot, as they said, was thickening.
Back in her room, Leighton stood in front of the mirror for longer than strictly necessary, trying to decide what "black tie-ish" actually meant. She'd brought options: a navy silk jumpsuit that was comfortable but chic, a black cocktail dress that was safe but boring, and a deep burgundy wrap dress that Claire had shoved into her arms a summer ago with strict instructions to "wear something that makes you feel good, not just something that makes you look good."
She chose the burgundy.
As she applied mascara with slightly unsteady hands, she thought about Bob's words. You know who you can count on. You know who's got your back. There was something appealing about that kind of clarity. In her world, relationships were complicated, messy, full of grey areas. Marcus had been grey area for the last year of their relationship; not quite working, not quite failing, just drifting in that uncomfortable middle space until neither of them had the energy to fight for it anymore.
Maybe that's why she was here, she thought. Not just for Riley, but for herself. To remember what it felt like to be around people who knew what they wanted and went after it. To feel something other than the quiet numbness she'd been carrying for months.
She finished her makeup, slipped on heels that were just high enough to be dangerous, and took a deep breath.
Okay, she told her reflection. Let's see what happens.
The rehearsal dinner was in the hotel's oceanfront ballroom, a stunning space with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a terrace overlooking the water. String lights and candles everywhere. The kind of romantic that made you believe in things you'd stopped believing in.
Leighton arrived early --a habit from years of scientific precision-- and found herself alone on the terrace, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The air was cool and soft, carrying the scent of jasmine and salt.
She didn't hear him approach. Just suddenly became aware that she wasn't alone anymore.
"Pretty view."
She turned. Bradley Bradshaw stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, wearing a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was still slightly damp from a shower, curling at the ends. The mustache was even more pronounced up close, and somehow even more attractive than it had any right to be.
"It is," she agreed, and realized too late that she wasn't looking at the sunset.
He noticed. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm Bradley. Bradshaw. Or Rooster. Whichever.” He gestured vaguely towards his friends. “We’re the noisy neighbors from the garden.”
“I noticed the Jenga tournament,” Leighton said, crossing her arms loosely. “Impressive technique. Very… strategic.”
He laughed, a rich, easy sound. “That’s one word for it. Hangman calls it ‘dominance through kinetic intimidation.’ I call it nearly braining Bob with a block of pine.”
"Leighton. Scott." She held out her hand, because what else was she supposed to do?
He took it. His hand was warm, calloused, and he held on just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "I know. Bob mentioned you. The scientist."
"Bob's very efficient."
"He is." Bradley released her hand and leaned against the railing beside her, close enough that she could smell whatever soap he used; something clean and subtle, with a hint of sandalwood. "He also mentioned you're walking with Hangman tomorrow. Wanted to make sure you survived the experience."
"That's very considerate of him."
"He's a considerate guy." Bradley's eyes crinkled. "Unlike some of us."
"And which one are you?"
He considered the question seriously, which surprised her. "I'd like to think I'm one of the considerate ones. But Jake would tell you different."
"Jake's the blonde one, right? Hangman?"
"Yeah." Bradley's voice carried a complicated mix of affection and exasperation. "He's not as bad as he seems. Actually, no, he's exactly as bad as he seems, but he's also… I don't know. He shows up when it counts. That matters."
"It does," Leighton agreed softly.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the last of the sun disappear beneath the horizon. The sky deepened to violet, then indigo. Lights came on along the terrace, casting warm pools of gold.
"Why'd you come out here alone?" Bradley asked. "Early, I mean. Most people wait until they have to show up."
"I like the quiet," she admitted. "Before everything gets loud. It's nice to have a moment to just… breathe."
He nodded slowly, like he understood exactly what she meant. "Me too. The squad's great, but they're a lot. Sometimes you need a minute."
"Is that why you're out here?"
"Maybe." He glanced at her, and in the dim light his eyes looked almost golden. "Or maybe I saw you walk out and figured anyone who needed a minute was probably worth talking to."
Leighton's heart did something complicated. "That's very smooth, Bradshaw."
"Is it working?"
She laughed despite herself. "I'll let you know."
From inside the ballroom, music started: a live band warming up, someone testing a microphone. The quiet was about to end.
"We should probably go in," Bradley said, but he didn't move.
"In a minute."
He smiled, really smiled, and it transformed his whole face, made him look younger, softer, somehow more real. "Yeah. In a minute."
They stood there together, two strangers on the edge of something, watching the dark ocean and listening to the waves and the distant sound of a party waiting to begin. And when they finally walked inside, side by side, Leighton couldn't help thinking that maybe the weekend was going to be more interesting than she'd planned.
They parted ways, and she approached the drinking table where flutes of champagne had been arranged carefully.
The wedding coordinator, a serene woman named Maria with a clipboard that seemed an extension of her arm, had orchestrated the event with gentle efficiency.
Now, as dusk painted the sky in deeper watercolour strokes of lavender and blue with the first brief glimpse of starts in canvas, the rehearsal dinner was in full swing. Long wooden tables dressed in crisp ivory linen and dotted with lanterns and low arrangements of succulents and white roses ran parallel to the breathtaking, endless view of the darkening Pacific. Fairy lights twinkled in the olive roof overhead, and a small, expert jazz trio played smooth, unobtrusive standards from a corner.
Leighton felt a world away from her lab coat and microscope slides. Under the warm glow of the string lights, the colour of her burgundy dress deepened to something rich and almost wine-dark, and she'd caught more than one appreciative glance from passing guests. Her friends were a sparkling constellation around her; Claire already deep in conversation with Coyote about something that involved a lot of hand gestures, Maya and Simone trading stories with Fanboy and Bob, Sarah attempting to flirt with the bassist, but her attention, like a compass needle, kept drifting.
The Daggers had indeed cleaned up well. The casual athletic wear was gone, replaced by tailored trousers and crisp shirts, some in linen, some in fine cotton. They wore their formal wear with the same ease as their flight suits: a uniform for a different kind of mission. Bradley stood near the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand, deep in conversation with Bob and Phoenix. He'd put on a light khaki suit jacket over his previous light blue shirt, open at the collar. The combination of the sharp jacket and the soft, casual muss of his hair, the classic lines and the anachronistic mustache, should have been a contradiction. It wasn't. It worked. He threw his head back to laugh at something Phoenix said, and the sound, a warm, rich baritone, carried just enough over the music to make the fine hairs on Leighton's arms stand up.
She remembered that laugh from the garden that morning, his voice from when they'd stood together watching the sunset. The way he'd said in a minute like he meant it. The way his hand had felt in hers.
Stop it, she told herself firmly, reaching for her glass of champagne. You're here for Riley. Not for…
"Leighton!" Riley appeared at her elbow, cheeks flushed with happiness and probably the several glasses of wine she'd already consumed. "You look amazing. That colour is everything on you. Have you met everyone? Have you danced? You should dance."
"I'm fine, Riles. I'm enjoying the view." She gestured vaguely at the ocean, which was admittedly spectacular: a vast expanse of darkening blue melting into a horizon streaked with the last hints of orange and pink.
Riley followed her gesture, then looked back at Leighton with knowing eyes. "The ocean. Sure. Nothing else worth looking at out there?" She didn't wait for an answer, just squeezed Leighton's arm and grinned. "I saw you talking to Rooster earlier. On the terrace. Before everything started."
"It was nothing. We were both early. We talked for like, five minutes."
"Mmmhmm." Riley's grin widened. "And now you keep looking toward the railing where he's standing. Interesting."
"I'm observing group dynamics. It's a scientific habit."
"Sure it is." Riley kissed her cheek, still grinning. "Just remember, observation is the first step of the scientific method. Next comes hypothesis formation, and then experimentation." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and disappeared back toward Phoenix before Leighton could formulate a response.
Dinner was a delicious, noisy affair of passed family-style platters: grilled fish, heirloom tomato salads, piles of garlicky grilled prawns. Leighton found herself seated between Claire and Sarah, which was both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because they were excellent buffers, curse because they kept up a running commentary on every interaction between her and "Hottus classicus" as the group had dubbed him.
"He's looking over here again," Sarah murmured, not even trying to be subtle about her observation. "That's the fourth time since the grilled fish came out."
"Maybe he's really interested in swordfish," Leighton said flatly, spearing a piece of said fish with more force than necessary.
"Mmhm. And maybe I'm the Queen of England." Sarah raised her glass in a mock toast. "The man is staring, Lee. Like, full-on staring staring. It's almost cute. Almost."
"He's not staring. He's just… looking in this general direction. There are a lot of people at this table."
"Uh huh. And when I waved at him just now, he waved back but kept looking past my shoulder. At you."
Leighton's head whipped around. "You did not wave at him."
"I absolutely did." Sarah's expression was angelic. "He waved back. Very polite. Then he went back to looking at you."
Leighton refused to look. She absolutely refused. But at the edge of her vision, she could see movement at the Daggers' table, and she knew with a certainty she couldn't explain, exactly where he was sitting, exactly when he turned his head.
Claire leaned in. "For the record, I think you should go for it. When's the last time you actually liked someone? Like, genuinely liked liked?"
"Marcus. Four years ago. Look how that turned out."
"Marcus was a wet blanket who wanted you to be someone else. This guy…" Claire gestured vaguely toward the Daggers' table, "…flies jets for a living and has a mustache that belongs in a different decade. He's clearly not looking for someone to settle down and host dinner parties with."
"That's… actually a good point."
"Thank you. I have them occasionally."
Toasts were made: funny, heartfelt, and mercifully short. One of the best men, Bob, spoke with quiet, profound respect for Phoenix, his voice steady despite the obvious emotion behind his words. "She's the kind of pilot you'd follow anywhere," he said simply, and the sincerity in his voice made several people reach for napkins. Riley's brother painted a picture of a chaotic, creative soul who'd finally found her anchor, complete with stories from childhood that made Riley groan and cover her face. Through it all, the jazz trio provided a perfect, swinging soundtrack.
As dessert plates of tres leches cake and churros with chocolate were cleared, the music shifted. The pianist took the lead, dipping into a smoother, more contemplative groove: a classic, instrumental version of "The Nearness of You." The chatter at the tables remained a comfortable hum, but the space around the small dance floor slowly began to attract couples. Phoenix and Riley were the first, swaying together in the centre, foreheads touching, existing in their own private universe.
Leighton watched them, a soft ache of happiness in her chest. This was what she'd driven up for, she reminded herself. This was the point. Not stolen glances across dinner tables, not the memory of warm hands and sandalwood soap, not the ridiculous flutter in her chest every time she heard a certain laugh.
She felt a presence beside her at the table before she saw him. The sandalwood gave him away.
"They're good together."
The voice was just as she'd remembered it from the terrace: warm, slightly gravelly, like well-worn leather. She turned. Bradley Bradshaw stood there, holding two fresh glasses of champagne. He offered one to her.
"They really are," Leighton agreed, accepting the glass. Their fingers brushed. A simple, incidental point of contact that somehow felt intentional, just like on the terrace when he'd taken her hand and held it a fraction too long. "It's in the way they look at each other when the other one isn't. There's no performance to it."
He nodded, leaning a hip against the empty chair beside hers, his eyes following the brides. "Phoenix has always had a hell of a poker face. One of the best I've ever flown with. Unreadable under pressure." He took a sip of his drink. "Except with Riley. It all just… falls away."
Leighton studied his profile as he watched his friend. There was a deep, unshakable fondness there, the same warmth she'd seen when he'd talked about his squad on the beach. "It must be strange," she ventured, "seeing someone so fierce in one element be so soft in another."
"It's weird. Up there, everything is systems and checklists and split-second decisions. You don't have time to feel anything, not really. You're just… processing. Reacting. Being the machine as much as flying it." He paused, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Then you land, and you're on the ground, and suddenly all the feeling catches up with you at once. The adrenaline, the relief, the terror of how close you came, it all hits like a wave. She's the same. Cool as ice in the air. But on the ground, with Riley…" He smiled, small and genuine. "She actually laughs. Like, real laughs. Not the tactical laugh she does at the squad's jokes so we don't feel bad. The real thing."
"You pay that much attention to her laughs?"
"I pay attention to all of them." He shrugged, a little self-conscious. "When you fly with people, you learn their tells. It's survival. You know who's going to freeze and who's going to push too hard and who's going to have your back no matter what. Phoenix is the last one. Has been since the day I met her."
Leighton found herself studying him with new interest. There was a depth here she hadn't expected, an observational quality that mirrored her own scientific habits. "You're a watcher," she said.
"You notice things. Small things. The way people move, the way they breathe, the micro-expressions that cross their faces before they speak. It must be useful in your work; patterns, anomalies, deviations from expected results." She paused. "I do it sometimes too, but because… I don't know. Because people are interesting. Because everyone has a story, and most of the time, you can see the shape of it if you look close enough."
Bradley was quiet for a moment, his eyes on her in a way that made her feel seen rather than examined. "Yeah," he said finally. "That's exactly it. Everyone's got a story." He tilted his head. "What's yours?"
The question hung between them, simple and not simple at all.
"You first," she deflected, because she wasn't ready to answer that yet. "What's Bradley Bradshaw's story? How does a guy who quotes Etta James and flies fighter jets end up at a wedding in California, watching his best friend fall in love?"
He laughed softly, the sound mixing with the music. "That's a long story."
"We've got time. The night's young."
He considered this, took a sip of his drink, then nodded. "Alright. Short version: my dad was a pilot. Naval aviator. Died when I was young, training accident, before I really got to know him. I grew up around the Navy, around the guys he flew with. They looked out for me, kept me straight, made sure I didn't do anything too stupid." A shadow passed over his face, there and gone. "I always knew I wanted to fly. It was never a question. Just… what I was going to do."
"Was it hard? Following in his footsteps?"
"Sometimes." He said it simply, without self-pity. "There's a lot of expectation. A lot of ghosts. But also…" He paused, searching for words. "Also, it's the only thing that ever felt like mine, you know? Like, yeah, it was his path first, but when I'm up there, it's just me. The plane. The sky. Nothing else matters."
Leighton nodded slowly. She understood that, the feeling of disappearing into work, of becoming nothing but the task in front of you. She'd done it for months after Marcus.
"And you?" he asked. "What's your story?"
"Less dramatic. Parents are both academics, English professor and a librarian. I was raised on books and quiet and the expectation that I'd do something 'meaningful' with my life. Science felt meaningful. Genetics, specifically. Figuring out how life works at the smallest level." She shrugged. "I like puzzles. I like problems that have solutions, even if it takes years to find them."
"Do they? Have solutions?"
"Eventually. Sometimes the solution is just 'we don't know enough yet.' That counts."
He smiled at that, a real smile that crinkled his eyes. "I like that. Honest."
"I try."
He looked at her then, a slow, considering turn of his head. His amber eyes were thoughtful. He took a sip of his beer, his eyes not leaving her face. “You have known Riley a long time?”
“Since college. She was my randomly assigned roommate who covered our entire dorm wall in black-and-white photos of strangers and played Billie Holiday at 3 a.m. while painting. I was the one with a periodic table poster and a labelled specimen of Drosophila melanogaster on the desk. It was a match made in… well, not heaven. But it worked.”
The music shifted again, the trio easing into a slower, more intimate version of "Misty." Couples continued to drift onto the dance floor. Phoenix and Riley were still swaying, oblivious to everyone else. Jake had somehow maneuvered Sarah into a dance --Sarah, who'd been loudly proclaiming all night that she didn't dance at weddings-- and was spinning her with more skill than Leighton would have expected.
"Your friend seems to be holding her own," Bradley observed, nodding toward Sarah, who was laughing despite herself.
"Sarah's a lot tougher than she looks. Jake might have met his match."
"Jake needs that, honestly. Someone who doesn't fall for the charm offensive." Bradley's tone was fond, the same complicated affection she'd heard when he talked about Hangman on the beach. "He's a good guy underneath all the…" He gestured vaguely.
"Peacock?"
Bradley laughed, that full unrestrained sound. "Yeah. Peacock. That's a good word for it."
They watched the dance floor in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Bradley set down his glass.
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a question, exactly, but it wasn't quite a demand either. Something in between. An invitation wrapped in confidence.
Leighton raised an eyebrow. "Bold."
"Is that a no?"
She should say no. She absolutely should say no. She was here for Riley, not for distractions, not for handsome pilots with kind eyes and warm laughs and mustaches that had no business being that attractive. She'd spent five months rebuilding herself after Marcus, carefully constructing walls that made sense, that kept her safe. Dancing with a stranger --even a stranger she'd somehow had two conversations with in one day-- felt like knocking a brick loose.
But the music was soft and the night was warm and his hand was held out to her, waiting.
"It's not a no," she heard herself say, and then her hand was in his and he was leading her onto the dance floor.
He pulled her close but not too close, one hand on her waist, the other holding hers at shoulder height. Proper dance distance. Old-fashioned. It suited him.
"I should warn you," he said as they began to move, "I'm better in the air than on my feet."
"You're a pilot. Aren't you trained to control your body in three dimensions?" She teased.
"In the sky, yeah. On the floor, there's a lot less G-force and a lot more rhythm. It's different." But he moved with easy confidence, leading smoothly, his hand warm through the thin fabric of her dress. "You're good at this."
"Ballroom dancing lessons when I was twelve. My mom was very into the whole 'well-rounded education' thing."
"Smart mom."
"She'd like you." The words slipped out before Leighton could stop them, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I mean… she appreciates good manners. And you have… I mean…"
Bradley's smile widened, that crinkle at his eyes deepening. "I have good manners?"
"Shut up."
He laughed, but gently, and pulled her slightly closer, just enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the solidness of his chest. They moved together through the last notes of "Misty," and when the song ended, the trio immediately launched into another slow one: "At Last," this time, the pianist drawing out the familiar melody with loving care.
Bradley didn't let go. Neither did she.
"One more?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah. One more."
They danced through "At Last" and then "Unforgettable," and Leighton stopped counting how many times Bradley's thumb traced small circles on her back, stopped wondering if the warmth she felt was the California night or something else entirely. She let herself be present, let herself feel the music and the movement and the quiet comfort of being held by someone who seemed in no hurry to let go.
When the band finally took a break, they stood together at the edge of the dance floor, still close, still aware of each other's presence in a way that felt significant. The applause around them was distant, unimportant.
During a lull, as a rich chocolate torte was served, he turned to her again, his voice dropping slightly. “Riley tells me you’re recently single.”
The bluntness should have felt intrusive. From him, it felt like a carefully laid probe. “Does Riley now issue briefings on her friends’ relationship status?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
“She might have mentioned it to Phoenix, who might have mentioned it in the context of ‘don’t let your knucklehead squad mates bother her.’ Consider me a non-knucklehead, making polite conversation.”
“Five months ago,” Leighton admitted, finding she wanted to tell him. “Long time. It’s… fine. This is a good distraction.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze understanding. “I get that. Life gets loud in the cockpit. The quiet after can be… a lot. Good distractions are necessary.”
It was a small window into his world, an acknowledgement of shared, if different, complexities. Before she could respond, the quiet space was broken by a clap on Bradley’s shoulder.
“Rooster, you’re being anti-social. Fanboy is trying to convince the bassist that the bridge of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is acoustically similar to the rumble of an F-18 at low altitude. He needs backup, or possibly an intervention.” It was Jake, his grin sharp and knowing as his eyes flicked between the two of them.
Bradley didn’t look annoyed, just resigned. “Duty calls.” He pushed off from the chair and stood to his full height. “Enjoy the rest of the night, Leighton.” He said her name carefully, as if testing the weight of it.
“You too, Bradley.” She used his given name with equal deliberation.
He nodded, then allowed Jake to steer him away toward the musical debate. Leighton watched him go, then turned back to the ocean view, now a vast expanse of indigo beneath a star-pricked sky. She brought the champagne flute to her lips, the bubbles tasting sharper, more alive.
Across the terrace, as Bradley listened to Fanboy’s passionate theory with half an ear, his own attention was divided. The cool night air, the smell of night-blooming jasmine, the distant crash of waves, and the smooth, soulful notes of the jazz trio; it was all still there. But superimposed on it was a new, distinct pattern: the sound of his laugh, the intelligent light in his eyes.
"You are in so much trouble," Claire murmured, materialized at Leighton’s side, her eyes bright. "I saw that whole thing. The dancing. The staring. The hand-holding."
"It wasn't hand-holding. It was dancing. You have to hold hands to dance."
"Sure. And I'm the Queen of England." Claire grinned. "Sarah called it. She owes me twenty bucks."
"You bet on me?"
"Absolutely. Standard procedure." Claire looped her arm through Leighton's. "Come on. Maya's trying to get the bassist to teach her something, and it's either going to be amazing or a disaster. Either way, we should watch."
Leighton let herself be pulled away, but she glanced back once toward where Bradley stood now with Bob and Phoenix, deep in conversation. As if he felt her gaze, he looked up, meeting her eyes across the crowded terrace. He smiled --small, private, just for her-- and then turned back to his friends.
The music started again, the trio easing into something slow and sweet. The night was young, the wedding still two days away, and somewhere in the warm California darkness, the first note of something new hung in the air, waiting for what came next.