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Peter “Pete” Mitchell leaned his hip against the counter, lazily wiping down the glass in his hands while looking out at the crowds filtering into the Miramar O Club. The night was still young, but it was the last day of June, and the months of experience Pete had working the O Club had taught him well that two different crowds tended to hit the bar that night: The graduating TOPGUN class and the incoming TOPGUN class.
Either way, Pete loved talking with them. The aviators all had stories to tell, and as long as Pete didn’t tell them his last name, they were happy to tell them to him: The roar of the F-14 as she came to life under their hands, the chirp of tower control in their ears; the press of their bodies into the harness and seat, the blue of the wide open sky all around them.
Pete wanted nothing more than to experience it in-person, but the Navy hadn’t seen it the same way. Even going the long way around and not attending the Academy hadn’t been enough for the recruiters when they saw his father’s name on his papers—even trying to get a non-flying job hadn’t been enough.
The Navy didn’t want a Mitchell, in a plane or outside of it, and that was that. Pete’s military career was over before it even began.
For several years, Pete had tried to put it out of his mind. He earned a Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering, then worked his way from east coast to west. He got a job for one company, then another, and another, each one less satisfying than the last, until finally he gave in and admitted what he’d known for a while: No job was going to satisfy him unless it ended with him in a cockpit.
That was when Pete started concocting his brilliant plan.
He could have just gotten a pilot’s license on his own, of course. But something about that didn’t call to Pete. Not like the way the Navy’s two-seat F-14 Tomcats did. Supersonic capabilities, a best friend in his backseat—nothing else called to Pete like that.
Nothing else was as forbidden, either.
But bartending at the O Club wasn’t forbidden.
So Pete cleaned glasses and mixed drinks, pressed TOPGUN aviators for all the details resting just on the right side of the classified line, and dreamed about one day having a story of his own to tell.
All he needed was the right pilot.
A hand slapped the bar top, and Pete looked up into blue eyes on a serious face. “A Heineken and a Guinness.” The hand withdrew, leaving cash and a frowning Pete behind, and the owner turned to address someone behind him.
“Have you seen Cougar and Goose yet?”
“Naw,” the faceless voice said. “But they’ll be here, don’t worry.”
The first man snorted. “I’m not worried.”
“Uh-huh.” The second voice’s owner nudged his way up to the bar, squeezing in-between the first man and someone else, eyebrow cocked and attention on the first man. “Ice, you haven’t stopped twiddling your fingers since you heard the news.”
The first man—Ice, Pete noted, which had to be his callsign, considering both men wore their summer whites—stopped moving his fingers, which had in fact been drumming the bar top.
Pete grinned at both men as he set their beers down. He’d been ready to verbally throw down with Ice after his initial rudeness, but knowing the man was just worried about his friends made him inclined to like him instead. A handsome face and spiked tips he’d love to mess up helped, too.
“A Heineken,” he said, nudging the lighter, more refreshing beer towards Ice, “and a Guinness.” He nudged the richer beer towards the second man, who burst out laughing.
“Damn, Ice, just got here and the bartender’s already got your number!”
Pete’s grin widened and, unable to help himself with such a great opening, he winked at Ice. “Well. Not yet.”
Two perfectly sculpted cheekbones turned pink, and those blue eyes glared at the other man, who was now bent over at the waist, only a hand on the counter keeping him from falling over while he laughed.
“Slider,” Ice growled. The other man—Slider—waved Ice off with his free hand, but managed to heave himself upright again.
“I uh—” Slider coughed “—I got eyes on Goose. Nice meeting you, bartender.” He raised his glass to Pete, who nodded, then took off across the bar towards a man with a mustache.
Ice stared after them, then grabbed his own drink. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, and walked away.
“You’re welcome,” Pete said. He watched Ice and Goose shake hands, the tension in Ice’s shoulders falling away at something Goose said, and then Ice turned to shake hands with another Naval officer.
He didn’t recognize any of the four from the groups that had been coming through all June, which could only mean they were part of the incoming TOPGUN class, and not the graduating one.
He would see Ice again.
Smiling, Pete turned to the next person trying to get his attention.
“How can I help you?” he asked, even as his mind was thousands of miles up in the sky. He would get there some day—and he might have just found the pilot to take him.
Pete didn’t expect that the next time he saw that pilot, it would be that very night from a position on the ground, slowly uncurling from the fetal position as Ice shouted after a bunch of running men that their behavior was “unbecoming for Naval officers.”
Well. Maybe if Pete was anyone else. As it was, that specific bunch had happened to see his punch-out card with the clear name MITCHELL, PETER across the top.
Pete had tried reporting Navy men for assault before. It never went anywhere.
Wheezing, Pete braced his arm and started to push himself up into a sitting position. He was halfway there when hands landed on his biceps, making him flinch, but those hands just eased him up the rest of the way before leaning him back against the alley wall. The brick stank of beer, cigarette smoke, and vomit, but Pete was upright, so he wasn’t going to complain.
Instead, he stared at Ice as the other man looked him over, hands still cupping Pete’s biceps and holding him in place.
Ice’s hands were strong, his fingers lean and calloused from hours piloting a plane.
Pete’s were dry and cracked from washing so many glasses each night.
Of all the things for Pete to envy, a pilot’s fingers weren’t ones he had ever considered before—but now, after being beat up just because he dared to exist in the vicinity of a Naval base, he found desire and envy rising up in his throat and threatening to choke him.
Huffing, Pete shook his arms, knocking Ice’s hands away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped. “You’re at TOPGUN; you can’t afford a citation for fighting.”
“A citation for—they were beating the shit out of you!” Ice exclaimed.
“Exactly,” Pete said.
He started to stand, and Ice’s hands found their way back to his arms. Pete shook them off again and glared. Ice glared back, but didn’t reach out again. Pete inched his back up the wall till he was standing on his own two feet, ribs aching and no doubt with all manner of disgusting things on his shirt now. He’d have to toss it in the wash right when he got home.
“Look, Ice, you don’t know me, but you don’t want to be around me when the brass is. Got it?”
Pete wanted Ice to take him up in a plane. That didn’t mean he was cruel enough to get Ice kicked from the Navy. He knew how it felt to be grounded, and he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.
Ice didn’t look like he got it though. He’d crossed his arms, and his face was still fixed in a glare. “Why does the brass hate you?”
“What?” Pete pushed off the wall and started walking down the alley towards his motorcycle. Ice followed him, so close they almost brushed shoulders. Pete couldn’t bring himself to move away. For someone with the callsign ‘Ice,’ the man emanated warmth like Pete hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Why does the brass hate you? Hell, why do they even know about you? How much trouble can a bartender cause in the Navy?”
Pete gave him a wry look. “You really don’t want to know.”
“I scared off officers beating you up, and you think I’ll get a citation for it. I think I want to know.”
Pete stopped at the mouth of the alley, wincing as his ribs and back groaned at him. His assailants had been determined to kick his ribs in, and had actually been pretty accurate with their aim. His arms and legs hurt too, courtesy of being used as a shield, but his head had escaped unscathed.
It gave Pete hope he was any kind of intimidating when he turned to face Ice. “My name is Mitchell, ok? Pete Mitchell. Duke Mitchell was my father, and you really don’t want to be friendly with me when the brass come around. That’s why you’re going to walk away from this, and maybe say hi to me at the club, but you’re not going to risk your wings by hanging around me where others can see.”
The last part wasn’t a command. It was just what Pete knew. It happened every time he made a Navy friend, every time he hoped a pilot might just take him up. They found out he was Duke Mitchell’s kid. And suddenly, nothing else mattered. He was just another face in the crowd. Another bartender to serve them drinks.
Ice had already started frowning.
“Do you have anyone to look after you tonight?”
“What?” That wasn’t what Pete had expected. Why wasn’t Ice walking away?
“Do you have someone to watch you tonight? Wrap your ribs, make sure you don’t have any internal bleeding?”
“Ice—”
“People judge me by my father all the time,” Ice interrupted, and Pete fell silent. “He’s Admiral Kazansky’s kid; he only got where he is because his father says the word and—” Ice snapped his fingers “—people jump to do his bidding.”
Ice eyed him, one eyebrow perfectly raised.
“I haven’t spoken to my father since the day I left for the Academy, and I won’t speak to him again ’til the day he’s on his death bed. I’m not my father. Why should you be yours?”
Ice reached out again, wrapped his arm around Pete’s upper shoulders, and started leading him down the street.
“I’m assuming that bike right there is yours. You shouldn’t ride it with your ribs hurting; you could make them worse. I’ll drive you home.”
Pete didn’t protest. He didn’t say a word, just let Ice lead him along, stunned silent.
Ice wasn’t going to judge him by his father. Pete had only ever wanted one thing more.
Pete hadn’t had a lot of friends in his lifetime. Foster care had seen to that when he was younger, he’d left behind his few college friends on the east coast, and his tendency to mouth off and get in trouble—paired with his father’s name—had effectively seen off everyone on the west coast.
Everyone, that was, until the day he met Ice.
Ice had been true to his word that night; he’d taken Pete home, wrapped his ribs, and even insisted on sleeping on his couch to make sure Pete got up ok in the morning. He’d left soon after doing so, talking about getting to class early on the first day—but he’d left a note on the counter with his phone number.
And that afternoon, when Pete answered a knock at the door, he found Ice standing on the porch, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his summer whites as he stared out at the setting California sun.
“Ice?” Pete asked, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”
Ice turned to him. “Are you working tonight?”
“Yeah. But—”
“I’m going to keep an eye on you. Just in case those guys try coming back.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Ice, I can take care of myself. Besides, what about class tomorrow?”
“I won’t be drinking, don’t worry.” Ice turned away and walked towards his car, but threw over his shoulder, “And you need a ride, don’t you?”
Well. Ice had Pete there.
And Ice had Pete the rest of the night, too. He hung out at the bar, reading glasses on and a giant stack of papers in front of him, occasionally glancing up at Pete or flagging him down to order something else—usually another Coke or bowl of complimentary peanuts. He wasn’t right by Pete, but he was close enough if any trouble started.
It was… nice, Pete had to admit. Having someone there. At his back. Caring.
Pete paused in wiping down the counter and stared down at the gleaming wood. At oh-one hundred, the bar was close to closing, and the earlier crowd had died down. Pete could take his time with things again, and it was letting his thoughts veer into dangerous territory.
“You ok, Pete?” The voice made him look up. Ice stood before him, papers tucked under one arm and his Coke glass in the other hand, blue, blue eyes peering at him from behind his glasses. Pete thought Ice’s eyes might be a direct reflection of what he might see from the cockpit. Blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
“I’m fine,” Pete rasped, then cleared his throat. “Night’s just slowing down, that’s all. Looks like you are too?” He nodded at the papers. Ice didn’t even look at them.
“It’s time I took a break,” Ice said. “You have to rest, not just work, you know. Keep your body and mind ready.”
“Headed home then?” Pete asked, and hoped the happiness he felt when Ice shook his head no didn’t show.
For the next hour, Pete and Ice talked. About flying, about themselves. About how Ice got his callsign—‘Iceman,’ not ‘Ice’—and about Pete’s lack of one.
They talked about anything but bullies and fathers, and anything but the future.
One day, Ice would finish TOPGUN and fly away from Miramar, and Pete would be left behind. Wingless.
But for that hour, it didn’t matter. And when Pete closed his eyes that night, he dreamed of something other than flying.
Ice couldn’t spend every night at the O Club with Pete; he needed sleep and a dinner that didn’t come from a bar. But at least once a weekend, and sometimes in-between, Ice would show up there. Sometimes he drank, sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes he brought friends. Slider, Pete learned, was Ice’s best friend and backseater, and thought himself as hilarious as he was tall; Goose was as hilarious as he was tall, and would scoot behind the bar whenever he could, just to throw his arm around Pete’s shoulders; Cougar was quieter and had had a scare recently, the cause of Ice’s worry before, and his paternal instincts showed often in the way he looked after them all.
Pete liked Ice’s friends; he’d been upfront with them about his father from the start, though Ice had rolled his eyes so hard when he’d told them Pete had thought they might escape onto the floor, and none of them had left. Cougar apologized for his colleagues’ behavior, Slider side-eyed Ice but waved Pete’s words away, and Goose—Goose clenched Pete’s shoulder tight and told him the next time someone gave him grief for his father, Goose would sock a few bastards for him.
Yeah, Pete liked Ice’s friends. But his favorite nights were when Ice came alone. When he could work, and then turn around, and Ice would be sitting right there behind him. When they’d make eye contact, and Ice would smile that crooked smile at him, eyes crinkling, and Pete would smile back. Pete would go back to work all warmed over from just that smile. And later, when work slowed, Pete and Ice would talk some more, elbows knocking into each other where they rested on the bar top, heads bent close together.
Just the two of them.
About halfway through the summer—halfway through Ice’s lessons at TOPGUN—Pete finally admitted to himself he’d gotten in trouble. It was a Friday night, rowdier than usual, when Pete felt eyes on his back.
That wasn’t unusual. Ice watched him from time to time, and Pete would toss flirty looks over his shoulder just to watch the man’s reaction. It was usually some mix of blushing at being caught, and a challenging look in his eyes to cover up that blush.
And before he’d even met Ice, Pete would feel the eyes of patrons on him. Sometimes they just watched, sometimes they flirted, sometimes they were bold enough to ask him out.
But this felt different. It wasn’t Ice’s familiar gaze; the man was at the bar, but Pete could see him out of the corner of his eye, and the pilot was engrossed in his studies.
But it also didn’t feel like a flirtatious stranger. This look felt different, had him turning around with the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, pretending to be busy at work even while surreptitiously scanning the crowd.
Pete swallowed when he recognized a group of men against the back wall. Three men, Navy, though they weren’t in uniform. Tall, dark, and handsome, he’d nicknamed them before: One well over six foot, one with black hair, and one Pete had thought handsome, until the man put his boot in Pete’s stomach.
They were the men Ice had scared off before. The men Ice had looked out for that first night back at the O Club, before the pilot started coming round just to see Pete.
A hand touched Pete’s arm, and he jumped, looking up to see—
“Oh,” he sighed, and settled. “It’s just you.”
Ice looked back at him critically. He’d pulled his hand away when Pete jumped, but now he reached out again, slowly, as if waiting for Pete to pull away.
Pete didn’t, and Ice laid his hand back on Pete’s arm and used it to pull him closer to the bar top.
“What’s wrong?” Ice asked, voice low.
Pete forced himself to snort. “Nothing’s wrong. Why?” He’d meant it when he said Ice could get a citation for fighting with the other officers if it was over Pete. He hadn’t wanted that for Ice then, and he certainly didn’t want that for Ice now.
But Ice ran that cool gaze over him, sharp and critical, then looked out at the crowd.
Pete knew when he spotted tall, dark, and handsome by the way Ice stiffened, jaw tightening and hand clenching around Pete’s arm.
“They haven’t done anything,” Pete said. “I’m fine.”
“They have done something,” Ice snapped. “And they’re here to try again.”
“They won’t while you’re around.”
Ice snapped his gaze back to him. “I’m not going to be here forever, Pete. But they might be. They’re not part of the TOPGUN class, which means they might be assigned to the base itself. And I’m not going to let you keep laying yourself out as a punching bag.”
“Laying myself—Ice,” Pete hissed, anger blazing in his chest. “I’ve reported men like them before, ok? It doesn’t do anything but draw more attention to myself, and make the men angry enough to come back for more. Don’t you dare say I’m laying myself out.” Pete pushed Ice away, hard, and Ice rocked back with it before steadying himself with a hand on the bar top.
He looked wounded, jaw slack and eyes wide, but not, Pete realized, for himself, as Ice raised a hand as if to caress Pete’s cheek, before he let it fall.
“I can’t stand knowing you’re going to keep getting hurt, Pete,” Ice murmured. “And you might have reported them before, but I haven’t. Let me try?”
Pete studied Ice. His eyes were still wide, but his jaw had set again, and his fingers clenched and unclenched around the bar top’s edge.
“Ok,” Pete said. “Ok.”
Ice smiled, and now he really did reach up, touching his fingers to Pete’s cheek in the barest of touches. Pete leaned into it, and Ice cupped his palm there instead, cradling Pete’s face.
No one had ever treated Pete as gently as Ice did. Not since his father died. It made Pete want to close his eyes to the world, just to rest in that moment, but he kept them open instead, drinking in the curves and edges of Ice’s face.
“Commander Metcalf is one of the TOPGUN instructors, and he’s right over there,” Ice murmured. “I’m going to go talk to him. Ok?”
Pete nodded, and Ice’s hand fell away.
The pilot started to walk away—and then he paused, looked back, and said, “If you had a callsign, it would be ‘Maverick.’ But you don’t have to do everything alone. Not anymore.”
And then Ice left, headed for two older gentlemen sitting in one of the booths.
Pete watched him go. And Pete knew he should have never let Ice drive him home from the alley that night, because he didn’t know how he would go back to his old, lonely life when Ice left for good.
Pete expected Ice to be gone from the bar top for a while, spending time first explaining the situation to his instructor, and then arguing with the man to get the officers punished. But one second Pete was talking to a customer, and the next he was turning around to find Ice back already, instructor beside him.
“Well I’ll be damned,” the instructor said, eyes on Pete. “You look just like your father.”
“Sir?” Pete asked.
The instructor held out his hand. “Commander Mike Metcalf,” he said. “Callsign Viper. Your father saved my life back in the day.”
Pete had never heard those words in the same conversation, let alone the same sentence. Eyes wide, he shook the outstretched hand and asked, “What can I do for you, Commander?”
“Lieutenant Kazansky tells me you’ve had some problems with the Navy. Do you have time to talk about it soon? Say, tomorrow morning?”
Pete’s breath hitched. The commander wanted to talk? As in actually help him? “Yes, sir, I only work nights.”
“Perfect. Lieutenant Kazansky will meet you at the gate at oh-seven-hundred and escort you to my office.”
It wasn’t a question, and Ice and Pete replied in unison, “Yes, sir”—one the voice of someone answering his commanding officer, and the other simply acknowledging the information.
“It was good to meet you, Pete. I look forward to sorting this mess out.”
Commander Metcalf walked back to his booth, and Pete looked to Ice. “What the hell did you say to him?”
Ice shook his head. “I said I knew someone who needed to file a report against some Navy officers, and then I mentioned your name. He came right over.”
“What the fuck,” Pete breathed. That was all it took? Someone who had actually known his father, who apparently held no grudge against him, and therefore not against Pete? Someone like that—and someone like Ice, who cared about Pete enough to try and take care of him.
“I could kiss you right now,” Pete declared.
For a moment, Ice just stared at him. Pete had given him no explanation for his thoughts, and it was clear that Ice didn’t see what changed Pete’s mind from what the fuck to I could kiss you.
And then Ice challenged, “Why don’t you?”
That was a good question, and Pete didn’t actually have an answer. So he leaned forward over the bar top, snagged his hand into Ice’s neat, summer white uniform top, pulled him forward, and kissed him.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. Ice’s lips were hard against Pete’s as they both pushed into each other, forceful as they let out all the feelings that had built up over the last several weeks: The happiness of being around each other, the desire for each other, the fear of knowing this wouldn’t last.
Pete was definitely in trouble, but he thought he finally knew the answer to the question that had been looming over them all summer.
Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead on Ice’s, green eyes on blue, panting breaths mixing between them, and said, “I’m not letting you go. Not when you graduate, and not later. Not ever.”
Ice hooked his own hand around the back of Pete’s neck, and Pete could feel how he tangled his fingers in the hairs there. “You going to follow me from duty station to duty station, Mitchell?” Ice asked.
“My mom was a Navy spouse,” Pete said, grinning. “Can’t be too bad a life.”
Ice’s hand fell from Pete’s neck. “Is that… Did you just…”
Pete blinked. Huh. Yeah, that was kind of a marriage proposal, wasn’t it? “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I did. Marry me, Iceman.”
The Miramar O Club was on the Naval Air Station’s grounds; it wasn’t an issue for Pete to get on base by himself. Getting to Commander Metcalf’s office, on the other hand—a place that Pete didn’t have clearance to go near, even if he had known where it was—necessitated Ice taking Pete there.
They met at the gate at oh-seven-hundred hours, just as Commander Metcalf ordered. Ice greeted Pete with another hard kiss, arm wrapping around his waist to pull him in, chest to chest, in what was definitely not part of those orders.
Pete responded anyway, hands on Ice’s cheeks, until the kiss slowed and gentled and Ice’s arm fell, hand taking Pete’s instead.
“Mr. Kazansky,” Ice said, and Pete grinned.
“Not yet, Lieutenant Kazansky.”
Ice didn’t reply, and Pete looked up at him. Ice’s brows had furrowed in the same way they did when he studied a particularly difficult scenario.
“We should hyphenate,” Ice said. “Kazansky-Mitchell. What do you think?”
“Ice… I know what you’re trying to do, but you don’t have to.” Pete squeezed Ice’s hand. “One of us already carries the Mitchell name. You don’t want it too; trust me.”
Ice’s free hand poked Pete in the forehead. “That’s exactly why I want to. People have looked down on you so long you’ve internalized it. But you can’t be ashamed of the name if it’s also mine.” A pause, and then—“Think about it?”
“Ok,” Pete sighed. “But I’m not promising anything.”
In the end, taking care of the men who had attacked Pete was easy. Commander Metcalf had Pete scroll through pictures of the men on base who fit his descriptions, and when Pete had found them, the commander sent security to pick them up. There would be more work down the line, with both Ice and Pete probably having to testify, but for the first time in his life, Pete knew that people who had beat him would face consequences for it.
He felt rather faint in disbelief about it, even as he reveled in the quiet thrill of it.
And then Commander Metcalf looked Pete over, cocked his head to the side, and asked, “You ever been up in a plane, Pete? Seen where your dad worked?”
Pete shook his head. “No, sir. The Navy…” he trailed off. He could badmouth the Navy all he wanted in his own head, or even to Ice when just stating facts unofficially. But this was a commander. An O5. Someone who had known his dad and respected him, and treated Pete kindly because of it.
Even Pete, with all he had wanted and chased after in life, didn’t want to badmouth Commander Metcalf’s career choice to his face.
But Commander Metcalf just nodded, then ordered, “Take him up, Ice. Straight up, then straight down. We’ll call it practice for flying with an unconscious RIO.” The man’s smile quirked, wry and humorless.
“Thank you, sir!” Pete said. Ice saluted next to him, and he was tempted to do the same. This was more than he had dared ask for—and to fly with Ice?
If this was a dream, Pete never wanted to wake up.
But it was nothing compared to how Pete felt when the F-14 Tomcat took off with him in the backseat.
Pete wasn’t dreaming. He could never have imagined the way the sky looked from thousands of feet in the air, gold and orange streaking through the white-blue California sky, only the clear cockpit between them. Steel gray wings jutted out on either side of him, cutting through the wind with ease, and he could just see the familiar silhouette of Ice in front of him.
Pete tilted his head back against the seat rest, stared out at the morning, and pretended not to feel the warm tears running down his cheeks.
By the time they landed, Pete had scrubbed his face clean, and he gladly folded himself into Ice’s waiting arms. Ice’s chin rested on his head, sharp but comforting in its weight. For a moment, they stood there together—and then Ice moved, hand finding Pete’s own to pull him away from the bustling crew and plane and back towards the closest building.
Ice didn’t say a word, and Pete didn’t either. They walked in silence, though Pete didn’t know what Ice was thinking.
He knew what he himself was thinking, though. Or rather, what he wasn’t. For the first time Pete could remember, the constant buzz of want in the back of his mind didn’t exist. Want of flight, want of friends, want of something more—gone.
Pete had everything he’d ever wanted, and it was all because the man holding his hand had decided to care for him and his ribs instead of leaving him to hurt alone.
Pete had promised he would follow Ice everywhere, now, and he intended to keep that promise. One day soon, he even hoped to make a more formal version of it. Do you, Peter Mitchell—
Ice tugged on Pete’s hand, and he looked up to find his pilot smiling at him. “Come on, Maverick,” Ice said. “You have time to help me tell Slider we’re engaged before classes start and you have to leave.”
“Oh, ‘help’ you?” Pete teased. “You need help with something like that?”
Ice laughed. “If you want me in one piece for the rest of the summer, yes, I do. The man might kill me for how fast we’re moving.”
“Too fast?”
“Never,” Ice said. “I’ll follow you anywhere, even down the aisle.”
Pete grinned and, stretching up on his toes, pressed a kiss to Ice’s cheek. “Come on then, Iceman. Better tell your keeper I’m stealing you away.”
I do, Pete thought. I do, I do. In good and bad, forever and always. To the sky and beyond.