Logan
Langley AFB
“Townsend, you missed the greatest love story ever told and over burgers, no less.” Ryan’s voice cuts through the mechanical drone of the simulator bay as smug as always.
The overhead fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare on the polished concrete floors, reflecting off the rows of high-tech simulators that look like futuristic pods.
The faint, rhythmic whir of cooling fans and distant clicks of switches fill the space, but Ryan’s mouth is louder. Always is.
I roll my eyes as I pull on my flight gloves, flexing my fingers out of habit more than necessity. “Glad you’re keeping the romance alive for me, Carter.”
Dalton snorts, slinging his helmet onto the bench with a casual thud. “I don’t know, man. You were practically writing sonnets with your eyes. Real Shakespearean of you.” He grins, golden-brown eyes flashing with amusement.
“Yeah, all you were missing was a lute,” Ryan adds, leaning back against the console with that infuriating, cocky tilt of his grin. “Maybe some soft candlelight. A little background music.” He pretends to strum an invisible guitar, humming off-key.
Townsend just shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “I miss one dinner and this is what I come back to? I thought this was a fighter squadron, not The Bachelor.”
Dalton loses it, his laugh echoing off the cold, metal walls.
I shake my head, biting back a smile because honestly, I walked right into this one. “You done?”
Ryan holds up a finger. “Almost. Just wondering if you and Lila have picked out matching call signs yet. Maybe something cute like Romeo and Juliet?”
“Romeo dies, you know,” I shoot back dryly, sliding into my seat in the simulator pod.
The cockpit feels familiar, even though it’s just a replica—screens glowing with startup diagnostics, switches lined up like soldiers.
My fingers move over them automatically, flipping systems on without thinking.
“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou,” Ryan proclaims loudly, one hand on his heart, one outstretched toward me, earning himself a middle finger over my shoulder.
Dalton climbs into the pod next to mine, his smirk lingering. “Nah, Logan’s more like Mr. Darcy. Brooding. Mysterious. Madly in love.”
“I hate all of you,” I mutter, strapping in and pulling the canopy down with a hiss of hydraulics, but the grin slips through anyway.
The world outside quickly fades as the cockpit lights brighten, and the screens flicker to life, casting a soft glow against the panels.
The HUD projects a perfect replication of the sky, vivid blue stretching out.
I adjust my throttle, feeling the tension ease into muscle memory.
The weight of the jokes fades because this is where everything goes quiet in my head.
“Alright, boys,” Townsend’s commanding voice crackles through the comms. “We’re running a combat intercept scenario. Two on two. Spartan, you’re with me. Ghost and Viking. Think fast, fly faster. Try not to embarrass yourselves.”
“Too late,” Ryan mutters, and I can practically hear Dalton rolling his eyes through the radio.
We take off virtually, the g-forces simulated just enough to make my body lean into the conditioned response of a real flight. The landscape blurs beneath me—a digital canvas of endless sky and distant terrain.
“Hey, Viking,” Ryan’s voice cuts in, casual like we’re chatting over coffee instead of flying simulated Mach speeds. “Is this what it’s like when Lila looks at you? You know, heart racing, palms sweaty?”
Dalton chimes in, laughing, “Knees weak, arms are heavy?”
“Eminem and I both hate you,” I mutter. I switch to my weapons systems, lining up a perfect missile lock on Ryan’s virtual jet. “Spartan, you’ve got a little something on your six.”
Fox three.
Ryan’s simulated jet explodes into a dramatic fireball on my screen.
“Damnit,” Ryan groans through the comms. “Was it something I said?”
“Yes,” I reply, deadpan.
Dalton’s laughter fills the channel, and even Townsend chuckles softly before his professional voice kicks back in. “Alright, lovebirds, focus up. You’re still in the fight.”
After we finish, I release the canopy. It lifts with a hiss, cool air rushing in. I climb out, unstrapping with ease, sweat sticking to the back of my neck.
“Good kill, Viking,” Townsend says with a nod, tossing his gloves onto the console. “But next time, try not to kill your wingman because he hurt your feelings.”
Try not to kill your wingman.
I struggle to conceal my grimace.
Ryan slaps me on the back, grinning. “No hard feelings, sweetheart. Just remember—revenge is a dish best served fast and from above. And I’ve got all the time in the world to even the score.”
I shake my head, laughing.
Townsend looks down at his phone, his eyebrows drawing together in obvious concern. “I have to go meet with the commander,” he says, referring to our squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Fletcher.
I look at Ryan. And then Dalton. A silent exchange passes between us, the kind that doesn’t need words. We’ve been around long enough to know that when Townsend gets that look—tight jaw, clipped words—it’s not about routine admin.
Ryan takes a step toward Townsend, his usual smirk fading into something more serious. “What’s going on, Major?”
Townsend hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen like he’s debating what to say. Finally, he sighs and slips the phone into his pocket. “I don’t know much yet. Just…don’t make any big plans.”
My stomach tightens. I nod slowly, reading between the lines. Don’t make any big plans is code. Not for maybe, not for someday. It’s the kind of warning that means soon—sooner than we’re ready for.
Dalton shifts in his seat, his easygoing grin nowhere in sight now. “How soon?”
Townsend’s eyes meet mine for just a second before jumping to Ryan’s and Dalton’s. “Soon,” he repeats, then turns and walks out, leaving the word hanging in the air like the echo of an afterburner—deafening and impossible to ignore.
I stare at the door long after it clicks shut, my mind already spinning. My thoughts should be on the mission, the flight, the job. But all I can think about is Lila.