Dalton
Colorado Springs, Colorado
The night air in Colorado Springs bites sharper than I expect when I step out of the Uber.
It smells like pine and cold pavement and something faintly metallic, altitude, maybe.
My ears pop as I slam the door, grab the small overnight bag from the back seat, and thank the driver. I’ve been up since four this morning and I still don’t feel tired. Just keyed up, restless, like the seconds before a takeoff roll when everything narrows to a single point of focus.
Her building is a narrow brick storefront at the street level with apartments stacked above. A warm light is glowing through the big display windows below. The bookstore closed an hour ago. The OPEN sign is dark, chairs stacked neatly inside. Her light is on upstairs.
I take the exterior metal staircase two steps at a time, boots ringing hollow against the grates.
My pulse picks up with each landing. I didn’t tell her I was coming.
Didn’t want to risk hearing hesitation in her voice.
Didn’t want her to tell me not to make the trip.
I wanted to show up and remind her that this still works.
That we still work.
Apartment 2B. I can picture exactly what she’s doing right now. Curled up on the couch with one of the massive paperbacks she loves, blonde hair twisted into a loose knot that will fall apart the second I touch it.
I knock twice. There’s movement inside immediately, footsteps crossing hardwood, the soft thud of something being set down. The door opens. Noa stands there in an oversized cream sweater, sleeves pulled past her hands, long hair falling from a bun around her pretty face.
For a second, nothing happens. Her eyes widen slightly, surprise landing, but not the kind I imagined. No quick smile. No startled laugh. Just stillness, like her brain is taking an extra beat to process why I’m standing in front of her unannounced.
“Dalton.” Flat. Quiet.
“Hey.” I shift the strap of the bag on my shoulder, offering an easy smile. “Surprise.”
Her fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the door. “What are you doing here?”
Not oh my goodness.
Not I missed you.
Just that.
“I had a few days,” I say. “Thought I’d come see you.”
Her legs lock like she’s trying to stand taller and also secure her spot in the doorframe so I can’t get past. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“Well…yeah.” I give a small half shrug. “That’s usually how surprises work.”
Her expression doesn’t change. The pause stretches long enough that something uneasy slides low in my chest. “Noa,” I say gently. “Can I come in?”
Another beat of hesitation. Then she steps back, opening the door wider. “Okay.”
Not of course.
Not come here.
Just okay.
I step past her, the familiar scent of lavender and old paper settling around me.
The apartment looks mostly the same: books stacked in precarious towers on every flat surface, a rust-colored throw blanket draped across the couch, the small lamp in the corner casting everything in warm amber light. But something feels…off.
She closes the door behind me and stays near it, arms folding loosely across her chest. I set the overnight bag beside the couch and turn toward her, already reaching, already expecting the familiar slide of her arms around my waist.
She shifts back. A small movement, one that’s easy to miss if you don’t know her.
I stop short. “Hi,” I say again, softer now.
“Hi.” Her tone is still cold. Her green eyes studying me like she isn’t quite sure what’s happening.
I close the distance anyway, lifting a hand to her cheek, leaning down to kiss her.
It’s instinct. It’s muscle memory. It’s autopilot.
But at the last second, she turns her face.
My lips brush her temple instead of her mouth.
I freeze there for half a second, hand still resting lightly against her skin.
She steps away.
“You could have told me you were coming,” she says quietly.
I swallow. “I wanted to see you.”
“I had plans tonight.”
“Oh.” I straighten slightly, trying to recalibrate. “Okay. I didn’t realize you were busy.”
“It’s book club.”
I huff a small breath of disbelief. “Since when does book club outrank me?”
Her expression tightens, defensive but controlled. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is traveling halfway across the country and getting treated like I just showed up to sell you something.”
“I didn’t ask you to come across the country, Dalton,” she snaps. Then rushes to cover her mouth with her small hand like she didn’t mean to say it that way.
I drag a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how out of place I feel standing here with a duffel bag and expectations that don’t seem to exist on her side anymore. “I thought you’d be happy I was here.”
“Of course I am.” Her tone is much gentler now. “I just wish you had scheduled it. The girls will be here in an hour and I haven’t finished the book.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of where her book is sitting on the couch.
Grabbing the back of my neck, I take a deep breath and choose to ignore all things book club for a minute. “I didn’t want scheduled,” I say. “I wanted spontaneous. I missed you and wanted to fix that problem.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” Her tone makes my stomach churn.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you get to come and go whenever you want, Dalton. You show up, everything changes for a few days, and then you leave again.”
“That’s not exactly how I’d describe it.”
“Well that’s how it feels.”
The distance between us feels bigger than the apartment.
A jet roars somewhere in the distance, not low enough to rattle windows, but loud enough that I see her shoulders tense automatically.
Always. Even here. She waits until the sound fades before speaking again.
“You didn’t even ask if this was a good weekend. ”
“I didn’t think I needed an appointment to see my own girlfriend.”
“You don’t,” she says quickly. “But I also don’t want my life to revolve around waiting for you to show up.”
I absorb that quietly. “That’s not what I want either.”
Her gaze drifts toward the window for a moment before coming back to me, guarded. “I just don’t understand why you’d choose this life.” Not angry. Just tired. “You could do something safer.”
There it is.
“It’s not just a job, Noa.”
“I know that’s what you say.”
“No,” I say more firmly. “It’s who I am.”
Her lips press together. “That’s what scares me.”
I study her face. The girl I’m supposed to love and who apparently loves me is looking at me like I’m a problem she doesn’t know how to solve.
“I’m still me,” I say quietly.
“You’re also someone who could just…not come back one day.”
“That’s the risk with a lot of things.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” she says.
And suddenly I understand something I haven’t wanted to: the life I’m building is not one she ever truly agreed to live.
“I missed you,” I say anyway.
“I know.” Her gaze drops to the floor between us, like the words are sitting there now, visible, impossible to step around.
For a moment, I think she’s going to let the silence stand. Let it become the answer.
Instead, her shoulders sag slightly, tension bleeding out of her posture like she’s tired of holding the line.
“I just…” She exhales, rubbing her thumb absently against the seam of her sleeve. “I wasn’t ready.”
“For me?” I ask quietly.
“For this,” she says, gesturing vaguely between us. “For the reminder.”
“Of what?”
“Of how much I miss you when you’re gone.” Her eyes lift back to mine, less guarded now. More open. Like she’s letting me see the part she tried to hide when she first opened the door.
“You showing up like this…” She shakes her head slightly. “It makes everything feel bigger.”
“I didn’t mean to ambush you.”
“I know you didn’t.”
She takes a small step closer, then another, closing the distance she created earlier with visible effort.
“I just spent the last several months convincing myself this is normal,” she says quietly. “That this is what dating you looks like.”
“And?”
“And then you show up on my doorstep and suddenly it doesn’t feel normal anymore.” A faint, conflicted smile touches her mouth. “It feels like missing you.”
The knot in my chest loosens.
“I was hoping for that reaction,” I admit.
“You always do this,” she murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Make it very hard to keep my emotional defenses intact.”
I smirk. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not,” she says, but her voice is softer now. Her hand lifts hesitantly, fingers brushing the sleeve of my jacket like she’s confirming I’m actually here and not just another FaceTime square on her phone.
“How long have you been planning this?” she asks wrapping both arms around me.
“Since I got off work early today. I packed a bag, drove to the airport, and bought an incredibly over priced ticket.”
“You’re ridiculous. That also does not sound anything like the Dalton Everett I have come to know and love.”
I smile and lean forward, kissing her cheek. “Maybe I’m evolving.”
A faint huff of reluctant amusement escapes her, and there it is. The version of her I know and the warmth she tried to tuck away when she first saw me standing outside her door.
“I just wish you’d told me,” she says again, but now it sounds more vulnerable than irritated.
“Would you have told me not to come?”
Her hesitation answers before her words do. “I might have asked you to wait.”
“Why?”
“Because when I know you’re coming, I start counting down.” Her fingers tighten slightly around my sleeve. “And when I start counting down, I start thinking about when you’ll leave again.”
I nod slowly. “That part’s not great.”
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not.”
Another distant rumble rolls faintly through the night air, barely audible but enough that I feel the subtle shift in her body again. She lives only a few miles from the academy.
“You hate that sound,” I say.
“I hate what it means,” she corrects quietly.
“And what does it mean?”
“That you belong to something that will always come first.”
I consider that. “Flying comes first when I’m in the cockpit,” I say carefully. “But that doesn’t mean everything else stops mattering.”
“It feels like it does sometimes.”
“I don’t want it to.”
Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to reconcile the difference between intention and reality.
“I don’t want to be the reason you ever hesitate up there,” she says finally.
“You wouldn’t be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” My voice is steady, certain. “Because flying is trusting the people you care about will still be there when you land.”
Something in her expression shifts again, softer now, sadness mixing with affection.“You make everything sound noble.”
“It’s not noble. It’s just true.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide whether she believes that.
Then her gaze flicks to the overnight bag by the couch.“How long do we have?”
“Two nights,” I internally brace myself for whatever response she’s about to give me.
She sighs but drags my body closer. I lock my arms around her lower back and relish in the soft warmth of her. “That’s barely enough time to get used to you being here.”
“Guess we shouldn’t waste it then.”
Her lips press together, but there’s the hint of a smile there now. “You always think like that.”
“Well, I will always travel across the country for book club.”
That earns a small laugh, quiet but real. “I’m obviously going to cancel book club,” she admits.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I think they’ll understand me living a romance instead of reading one.”
“So I beat a group of love-crazed women and wine?”
“Don’t get cocky.”She shifts closer again. “I wasn’t trying to be cold,” she says softly. “It’s just easier to act like I don’t need this as much as I do.”
“Need what?”
She gently takes my face in her hands. “You,” she says quietly.
The word lands between us, fragile but real.
I gently push her backward so her back is flush against the door.
Her hands move from my face to slide tentatively around my waist, like she’s relearning the shape of me after months apart.
I press my forehead to hers, feeling some of the tension leave her body as she leans into me, her green eyes locking with mine.
“There you are,” I murmur.
Her breath tickles my lips as she lets out a quiet laugh. “You still smell like a travel day.”
“That’s not a real smell.”
“It is when it’s mixed with jet fuel.”
“I do not smell like jet fuel.”
“You absolutely do.”
She tilts her head back just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine, hesitation flickering once more before she lets herself close the remaining space between us.
When I lean down this time, she doesn’t turn away.
The kiss is gentle at first. It’s cautious and almost careful like we’re both aware of the fragility underneath it. Then she relaxes into it, her grip tightening slightly like she’s reminding herself she’s allowed to want this even if it scares her.
When we separate, she stays close, cheek resting briefly against my chest.
“You can stay,” she murmurs.
“That’s usually the plan when I bring a bag.”
“I mean…” She hesitates, then tries again. “You don’t have to go back to the airport tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.”
Her hand slides down my arm, fingers threading briefly through mine before she lets go, retreating just enough to create space to breathe again.
“I was reading,” she says, nodding toward the couch. “But I can be convinced to postpone literature for a few hours.”
“I feel honored to outrank Tolstoy.”
She lets out a cute snort. “It’s not Tolstoy.”
“Still counts.”
She watches me for another quiet moment, something softer lingering in her expression now, affection layered over fear.
“I do miss you,” she says finally, barely above a whisper this time.
Relief moves through me, quiet but steady.“I miss you too.”
She nods once, like acknowledging something inevitable. “Just…try to stay in touch better. I know you’re gone a lot but you feel even further when I don’t hear from you.”
“Okay,” I say, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I can handle more communication.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Another distant jet hums faintly through the night.
Her fingers brush mine again, brief but intentional and she doesn’t pull away this time, instead locks our hands together and drags me toward her bedroom.