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Maverick struggles to sleep some nights.
When Phoenix asks him about it, asks about whether or not it’s typical for him, he just shrugs and skates his fingers down the valley between her breasts. “Comes and goes,” he says quietly. “I’m just – adjusting.”
Adjusting to a lot of changes, she knows. Retirement, losing his wingman, having Rooster in his life again.
Falling in love with her.
“But you don’t need to worry,” he insists, eyes crinkling when he smiles. “I’m alright. M'happy, Tash. I promise. I’ve just spent most of my life sorting through shit in my own head on purpose.”
She hums, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Wonder if Bradley learned that from you.”
“Lots of his bad habits are probably my influence, yeah,” he admits, pressing a kiss against the pad of her thumb.
Phoenix rolls onto her side to face him, goosebumps pebbling on her skin when his fingertips dance over her ribs. She scratches gently at the stubble on his cheeks and huffs out an annoyed exhale.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re entirely too pretty for someone that barely slept last night.”
Maverick’s grin is blinding. “Sometimes being up all night is your fault, y'know.”
“Shaddup,” she mutters, pulling him close so his head is pillowed on her chest. “Take a nap. You need a nap.”
His hand darts over her belly and beneath the sheet over their hips. “This is a terrible place to put my head if you want me to sleep,” Maverick mumbles, hand squeezing at her thigh.
And then he yawns.
Phoenix hides her grin in his hair. “Take a nap and maybe I’ll reward you after.”
“Mm,” Maverick hums, hooking a leg over hers. “Fine. Wake me up in five minutes.”
(She lets him sleep much longer than that.)