❝ 𝙞 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚
𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 ❞
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇
╰┈➤ two ex-friends reunite under top-secret orders, igniting the catalyst for combustion with only two possible outcomes: lethal detonation or exp...
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╰┈➤ I AIN'T WORRIED
🏴☠️
The beach.
An oil painting dancing with hues of blue, dressed in a casing of beige with the nostalgic salt air enchanting each visitor; a coastal dream, wrapping those keen to the sea in a blanket of comfort.
There is something magical about the waves rolling onto shore in a steady rhythm. Gracie always thought of waves as Mother Nature's pulse, like a beating heart...in and out, in and out.
She gazed at the stoic tide as she paused to catch her breath. Even amid the chaos consuming her, she felt the calming pull of the Ocean. She closed her eyes, inhaling the solacing sea breeze.
The rocky topography along the shoreline cast delicate shadows along the sand as the Pacific waters radiated an extraordinary turquoise glow. On the oceanfront, the heat from the sun was relentless, but the intermittent spray of salt water cooled her skin.
She was fortunate that Maverick planned for the group to participate in something other than flying this morning. Those who went out the night prior were dragging their feet, and, although playing football in the hot sun at the beach was a struggle in itself, flying an F/A 18 under their condition would be far more dangerous.
Since playing at the beach wasn't something these aviators ever thought they'd partake in on this top-secret rendezvous back to Top Gun, none of them packed bathing suits. They had to scramble, thrifting through their suitcases for anything remotely appropriate for a game of beach football.
Unfortunately for Rooster, this meant Maple was stuck wearing the outfit she wore on the plane: her sports bra and biker shorts...
Mav had the group play offense and defense at the same time, making an already competitive Maple even more intimidating.
After a moment or two of solace, she reopened her eyes to engage in the game. Her fixation quickly routed to the ball hugged in Hangman's grasp. He extended his arm back, tossing the perfected spiral; the ball arched over her head and she lept. With her attention focused on the football, her peripheral vision failed her.
She smacked into someone, her small frame thrown as effortlessly as the football. She slammed into the wet sand with an audible thud. As if this weren't sufficiently uncomfortable enough, the person she pummeled into crumbled on top of her. She scrunched her face and groaned in pain, his weight nearly knocking the wind out of her.
