Chapter 17 Kaz
KAZ
Iknow the moment I throw the throttle forward that this is a bad idea.
Not stupid-bad. Not reckless-for-the-sake-of-it-bad.
Career-ending bad.
But I do it anyway.
Because three days of silence is louder than any comm static I’ve ever flown through. Because every second she doesn’t answer feels like a slow bleed. And because I need her to see me—to really see me—before I disappear into the long line of pilots who flew too close and got burned.
The V-class’s engines roar to life under me. Smooth. Responsive. Familiar like muscle memory. I’m not supposed to be in it. I’m not on the flight schedule. I’m not even on standby.
But the override codes still work, and no one asks questions when you walk like you belong.
I lift off from the southern strip, under the cover of a ‘solo calibration’ excuse logged by one of the night techs who owes me a favor. I don’t go high. I don’t go far.
Just enough.
The tower’s only two clicks northeast.
Her tower.
Restricted observation deck, twenty-three floors up, perfect line of sight.
I angle toward it, breath tight, pulse hammering in my throat.
She’s probably there. Probably where she always goes when the base gets too loud and she needs air that doesn’t smell like recycled tension and synthetic coffee.
The ship hums under me—solid and steady. Unlike me.
I should turn back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I drop low.
Too low.
A teeth-rattling dip just over the upper radar line. Close enough to trigger every protocol we’re taught to avoid. The kind of pass that gets you grounded. Demoted. Tossed from the program with a polite letter and no appeal.
I see the flash of movement on the deck a second before I pull up.
She’s there.
Hair down. Arms crossed. Back straight.
I level out and climb, breath catching like the air’s turned solid in my chest.
The comms squawk a warning.
Trozius.
I kill the channel.
I land harder than I should.
The deck groans under me, the V-class’s legs flexing as I slam to a halt.
I yank the helmet off before the turbines have even finished spinning.
She’s already there.
Waiting at the edge of the tarmac like a storm wrapped in silence.
She doesn’t yell.
Doesn’t march.
Doesn’t call for security.
She just says—quiet, tight, deadly—“You’re better than this.”
And somehow that hurts more than if she’d screamed.
I hop down from the cockpit. The moment my boots hit the ground, it feels like I’ve stepped into gravity twice as thick.
“I had to see you.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “It’s not.”
She shakes her head, eyes shining in a way that has nothing to do with tears and everything to do with fury.
“You could’ve been grounded.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You could’ve been killed, Kaz!”
“Then maybe I’d finally stop feeling like this.”
She blinks.
Like I slapped her.
Like she wasn’t expecting honesty to cut sharper than sarcasm.
I press on, voice rough. “I can’t go back to being just another name on your list. Another cadet you nod at in drills and forget by lunch.”
Her arms cross tighter over her chest. “That’s not what this is.”
“No?” I ask, stepping even closer. “Because it feels like you walked away the second things got real.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is for me,” I say. “I didn’t just sleep with you, Nova. I gave you everything. All of it. You said nothing. Then you left me to guess.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think I don’t feel this too?”
“You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what? Me? Or yourself?”
She flinches.
Victory tastes like ash in my mouth.
“You want to talk about duty?” I ask. “Reputation? Honor? Fine. Maybe those things mean more to you than people do.”
That lands.
Hard.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
Just turns on her heel and walks.
I don’t follow.
Because I’ve already crossed too many lines today.
That night, I walk past her quarters.
I don’t knock.
I don’t even slow down.
But I look.
At the porch we painted. The one she rolled her eyes at and let me fix anyway. The lines are still visible—brush strokes, uneven in places, a shade too dark.
She never bothered to redo it.
The light inside is on.
I don’t need to see her to know she’s awake.
I stand there a long time, hands shoved into my jacket pockets, heart beating like I’m still in the cockpit pulling a six-G dive.
Then I turn and walk away.