The Top Ones

The North Island air was thick with the scent of jet fuel and salt, a combination that usually acted as a sedative for Caleb "WildDog" Reeds. Today, however, it felt like a pressurized chamber. Being the newest addition to the Daggers meant he was under a microscope, and while he could handle the scrutiny of Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, it was the two pilots currently flanking him at the Hard Deck that were making his skin itch.

Caleb sat at the weathered wooden bar, his long black hair tied back in a neat, low bun. He stared into his beer, his dark skin glowing under the neon lights of the bar. He was shorter than the two titans hovering behind him, but his muscular frame took up space with a quiet, grounded intensity.

"You’re awfully quiet, WildDog," Jake "Hangman" Seresin drawled, leaning an elbow on the bar next to Caleb. Jake’s blue eyes were bright with their usual predatory mischief. "I thought you Daggers were supposed to be the life of the party."

Caleb didn't look up. "Hard to be the life of the party when I’m being hunted by a vulture and a rooster."

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw chuckled from Caleb’s other side. He looked relaxed, his thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans, the light catching the gold of his aviators tucked into his shirt. "Vulture? That’s harsh. I thought we were just being welcoming."

"You’re being something," Caleb muttered, finally taking a sip of his drink. "I’m just not sure it’s welcoming."

He knew their game. Everyone at NAS North Island knew their game. The tension between Hangman and Rooster was legendary—a volatile mix of old resentment and undeniable attraction that manifested as constant bickering. Caleb had spent the last three weeks watching them orbit each other like binary stars, and he had no intention of getting sucked into their gravitational pull.

The problem was, his body didn't seem to get the memo.

Two nights ago, the pressure had become too much. The mental image of Rooster’s steady hands and Hangman’s sharp, arrogant smirk had followed him back to the BOQ. In the privacy of his dim room, Caleb had let his guard down. He had closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to be pinned between them—Rooster’s warmth at his back and Hangman’s biting wit silenced by a kiss. He’d reached his peak whispering their names into his pillow, a moment of weakness he thought was his secret alone.

He hadn't realized his door hadn't fully latched. He hadn't realized that Bradley and Jake, who had been in the middle of a heated argument in the hallway, had stopped dead at the sound of his voice.

Since then, the atmosphere had shifted. The teasing wasn't just competitive anymore; it was targeted.

"You look tense, Caleb," Bradley said, his voice dropping a register. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat radiating off him hitting Caleb’s shoulder. "Maybe you’re working too hard. You need to learn how to... release that energy."

Caleb’s grip tightened on his glass. "I manage just fine on my own, Bradshaw."

"Do you?" Jake countered, sliding onto the stool next to Caleb, effectively trapping him. "Because we heard a rumor that you might be looking for some wingmen. And we’re very good at following a lead."

Caleb turned his head, his brown eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. "If you two have something to say, say it. Otherwise, let me finish my beer in peace."

Jake leaned in, his face inches from Caleb’s. "We saw you, WildDog. The other night. You have a very vivid imagination."

The blood rushed to Caleb’s face, a deep heat spreading across his chest. He tried to maintain his sarcastic facade, but his breath hitched. "It’s a free country. I can think about whatever I want."

"Oh, we aren't complaining," Bradley said, his voice smooth as bourbon. He leaned over Caleb’s other shoulder, his mustache brushing against the shell of Caleb’s ear. "In fact, we were flattered. Weren't we, Jake?"

"Beyond flattered," Jake agreed, his gaze dropping to Caleb’s lips. "We were inspired. It’s a shame you had to finish all by yourself. Seems like a waste of talent."

Caleb stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. "I’m going home."

He didn't look back as he pushed past them, his heart hammering against his ribs like a bird in a cage. He could hear them laughing behind him—not mockingly, but with a dark, shared amusement that promised this wasn't over.

The following days were a slow-burn torture.

In the briefing room, Caleb would feel a boot nudge his under the table. When he looked up, Bradley would be focused intently on the mission slides, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. During flight debriefs, Jake would find any excuse to stand behind him, his hand lingering on the small of Caleb’s back as he leaned in to point out a maneuver on the screen.

"Watch your six, WildDog," Jake whispered during a break, his chest brushing against Caleb’s arm. "You never know who’s locking onto you."

Caleb glared at him. "I’m pretty sure I know exactly who’s tracking me, Hangman. Your radar signature is obnoxious."

"And yet, you seem to like the way it feels," Jake retorted with a wink.

Caleb retreated to the locker rooms after a particularly grueling afternoon of dogfighting. He needed the steam to clear his head. He stripped off his flight suit, his muscles aching from the G-forces, and stepped into the shower. The hot water hit his skin, and for a moment, he let his eyes close.

But the silence didn't last.

The sound of the locker room door swinging open followed by the heavy tread of boots made his eyes snap open. He didn't have to look to know who it was. The air in the room changed, becoming charged with that familiar, suffocating electricity.

"Long day?" Bradley’s voice drifted over the top of the shower stall.

"Go away, Bradley," Caleb called out, his voice echoing against the tiles.

"Now, that’s no way to treat your teammates," Jake’s voice joined in. "We just thought you might need a hand. Or four."

Caleb pulled the curtain back just an inch, his wet hair dripping down his face. Bradley and Jake were standing there, both still in their flight suits, looking down at him with expressions that were anything but professional.

"What do you want?" Caleb asked, his voice steady despite the way his pulse was racing.

Bradley stepped forward, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of Caleb’s damp hair behind his ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a sharp contrast to the predatory look in his eyes. "We want to know why you’re fighting it so hard, Caleb. You want us. We want you. Why are we still talking about it?"

Caleb let out a sharp, dry laugh. "Because you two spend half your time trying to kill each other and the other half trying to get into each other’s flight suits. I’m not a consolation prize or a referee."

Jake stepped up beside Bradley, his blue eyes burning. "You think you’re a middleman? Honey, you’re the centerpiece. We’ve been circling each other for years, sure. But you? You’re the one who finally made us agree on something."

"And what’s that?" Caleb asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"That we’re tired of watching you do it yourself," Bradley said. He reached down, his hand grasping the edge of the shower curtain and pulling it wide.

Caleb stood there, naked and vulnerable under the spray, but he didn't move to cover himself. He met their gazes, his jaw set. "You think you can handle me? I’m not as easy to manage as a F-18."

Jake let out a low, hungry growl. "God, I hope not. I like a challenge."

Bradley stepped into the small enclosure, the water immediately soaking through his olive-drab T-shirt, making it cling to his chest. He placed his hands on the tiles on either side of Caleb’s head, pinning him. "You’ve been playing it safe, WildDog. But in this squadron, we don't play it safe. We go all in."

Jake followed, closing the space behind Caleb, his hands sliding around Caleb’s waist to pull his back against Jake’s chest. The contrast of the cool water and the heat of their bodies was overwhelming.

"Is this what you were thinking about the other night?" Jake murmured into Caleb’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin just below his ear. "Both of us? Hands all over you?"

Caleb’s head fell back against Jake’s shoulder, a low moan escaping his throat before he could stop it. "Shut up," he breathed.

"Make us," Bradley challenged, his face inches from Caleb’s.

Caleb didn't hesitate. He reached out, grabbing the front of Bradley’s wet shirt and pulling him down into a hard, demanding kiss. It tasted like salt and adrenaline. At the same time, Jake’s hands wandered lower, his touch firm and possessive, proving that he wasn't content to just watch.

The tension that had been building for weeks snapped. It wasn't a gentle union; it was a collision of three powerful forces. Caleb felt the strength of Bradley’s arms holding him steady while Jake’s mouth explored the line of his shoulder, his fingers tracing the contours of Caleb’s muscles.

"You’re so loud in your head, Caleb," Bradley whispered against his lips, breaking the kiss for just a second. "It’s nice to finally hear you for real."

"I told you," Caleb gasped, his hands moving to Jake’s hair, pulling the blond strands as the friction between them intensified. "I’m easily provoked."

"Good," Jake said, his voice strained with his own rising need. "Because we have no intention of stopping until you’re completely spent."

The steam filled the room, blurring the edges of the world until there was nothing left but the three of them. Caleb realized then that he hadn't been caught in a trap; he had been invited into a storm. And as Bradley’s mouth found his again and Jake’s touch drove him toward the edge, Caleb decided he never wanted to find his way back to the shore.

Hours later, the locker room was silent again, the only sound the steady drip of a leaky faucet. The three of them sat on the bench, shoulders touching, breathing returning to normal.

Caleb leaned his head back against the lockers, his hair damp and messy. He looked at Bradley on his left and Jake on his right. The usual sharp edges of their personalities were softened, replaced by a quiet, satisfied glow.

"So," Jake said, breaking the silence as he reached over to squeeze Caleb’s knee. "Same time tomorrow?"

Caleb looked at him, a slow, sarcastic smirk spreading across his face. "Don't push your luck, Seresin. I have a flight at 0800."

Bradley chuckled, leaning over to kiss Caleb’s temple. "We’ll be there. Watching your six."

"I have no doubt," Caleb said, and for the first time since he’d arrived at Top Gun, he felt exactly where he was supposed to be. The gravity of the two men beside him was no longer a threat—it was an anchor.