Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
The airshow crowd is already thick along the flightline, the low roar of voices carrying across the ramp in a constant hum that mixes with the occasional whine of an engine start somewhere in the distance.
The air smells like jet fuel and sunscreen and summer.
Warm, but not unbearable. Blue sky stretched clean and endless overhead…
the kind of day pilots get a little superstitious about, like the universe is setting the stage.
Perfect visibility. Light winds.
Very ideal for my first demo.
No pressure.
I lean back in the folding chair beneath the F-22 demo team tent, boot heel hooked on the rung, aviators pushed up into my hair.
Hadley is sitting cross-legged on the concrete fully committed to coloring a very patriotic-looking F-22 with aggressively red wings.
Ivy is standing with Lila and Alinna less than a foot away.
Every thirty seconds or so she glances down at Hadley then in my direction before going back to the conversation with her friends.
“You know Hadley, I’ve never seen a red Raptor,” Logan says from beside me, watching her with mild concern.
“Well now you have,” Hadley says firmly, without looking up.
Logan glances at me. “We should probably report that to maintenance.”
I snort.
Hadley sticks her tongue out at him, then returns to her picture. The entire exchange is adorable and kind of makes me excited for the day Logan is inevitably a girl dad and has to explain why fighter jets aren’t pink.
Ivy laughs softly beside her, the sound warm and easy and settles some of the restlessness in my chest. I glance over before I can stop myself—and then I absolutely don’t stop myself.
She’s wearing a white sundress that fits her perfectly and floats around her toned thighs.
Her long curled hair is pulled into a high ponytail with a red-white-and-blue scarf twisted into it.
Her nails are painted red, glossy and precise, fingers brushing a curl back from Hadley’s cheek as she leans down to admire the drawing like it’s hanging in the Louvre.
She looks like summer. Like freedom. Like every good thing I’ve ever been stupid enough to think I didn’t deserve. And she’s here. With us. With me.
I left before she did this morning and the sight of her walking into the tent a couple hours ago nearly took my breath away. My saving grace is that Wells is out with the flu and wasn’t there to witness me tripping over myself to get to her.
“You ready for your first demo?” Lila asks, nudging Logan with her elbow as she watches me watch Ivy. Her grin is subtle but absolutely lethal.
“I think so,” I say.
Logan smirks. “He’s been weird since breakfast.”
“I have not been weird.”
“You checked the weather at least six times.”
“It changed once.”
“It did not change.”
“The wind shifted two degrees.”
“Two degrees,” Logan mocks. “Alert the National Weather Service.”
Lila and Ivy laugh as I fight back the urge to roll my eyes.
He was probably just as on edge the day of his first demo.
And mine came unexpectedly. Wells went home sick Thursday afternoon only to report back that he’s on bed rest for at least a week.
He has some nasty combination of the flu and strep and maybe bronchitis. I can’t even remember.
Across from us, Townsend is leaning against the support pole of the tent, thumbs moving across his phone screen with focused efficiency. The guy could probably coordinate a covert extraction while ordering lunch and still never look stressed.
Logan nods toward him. “Townsend, who are you texting that requires that level of focus?”
Townsend doesn’t even look up. “None of your business.”
“That’s what you always say,” Logan replies. “Which only makes it seem suspicious.”
Townsend’s jaw tics once, but otherwise gives nothing away.
“I’ve known you for years,” Logan continues casually, “and I don’t know where you’re from, if you have siblings, what you do on leave, or if you even technically exist outside of this squadron.”
Townsend finally looks up and smirks. “I sleep in a coffin during the day.”
“That tracks,” I say.
He goes back to his phone.
Alinna laughs softly, then angles her own phone outward. “Wells says hello.”
His face fills the screen, pale and miserable beneath a blanket.
“You look terrible,” Logan tells him cheerfully.
“Yeah, this sucks ass,” Wells rasps. “Zero stars. Do not recommend.”
“Thanks for the notice, by the way,” I say.
He squints. “You’ll live. Probably.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
“A little.” A lot.
“Good,” Wells says. “It means you care.”
Hadley pops up into frame, waving wildly. “Hi Wells! Mommy said your sick so Dalton gets to fly for you instead. What if he’s better than you and Mr. Townsend gives your job to him?”
“Hey kiddo,” he says, smiling despite himself, “if Mr. Townsend gives Dalton my job then that must mean he deserves it, don’t you think?”
She considers this. “Maybe. Look, I made the jet red,” she informs him.
He nods solemnly. “Excellent aerodynamic decision.”
Logan presses a hand to his chest. “I feel betrayed.”
“You’ll do great,” Wells tells me, voice softer now. “Just fly the jet. Same thing you’ve done a thousand times. The only difference is more people watching.”
“Casual,” I mutter.
“You’re ready, Dalton,” he says. “Logan and Grumpy Nick over there wouldn’t have you on our team if you weren't."
Something steadies in my chest at that.
“Mama, who’s Grumpy Nick?” Hadley asks, interested again.
“Thanks, man.” Then I smile at Hadley. “Mr. Townsend’s first name is Grumpy Nick.”
“Oh, can I call him Mr. Grumpy Nick, Mama?” The way Hadley looks at Ivy is so genuine and innocent, I can’t help but chime in.
“Of course you can,” I say with a laugh.
Ivy winces, glancing at Townsend. “I don’t think so, baby. Mr. Townsend probably wouldn’t like that,” Ivy tells her.
“But it’s his name, Mama!” Hadley argues.
Wells chuckles faintly. “You’ve got this, Ghost.”
Alinna says her goodbyes, promising to send pictures and text him soon. Then she ends the call, still smiling at the screen for a second longer.
Townsend pushes off the pole and slips his phone into his pocket. “We should head over.”
Logan stands, walking the few feet over to Lila. He leans down and kisses her quick and sweet, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Everyone pretends not to watch.
“Good luck, Captain,” she murmurs barely loud enough for any of us to hear.
“I love you, I’ll see you after.” Then he kisses her once more.
I glance at Ivy.
She looks up at me at the exact same moment.
Her eyes are bright, gold catching the sunlight, lips curving just slightly like she already knows I’m about to do something impulsive.
Which, in fairness, I am…because why the fuck not.
I step closer, slide my hand lightly around the small of her back, and kiss her.
There’s a half second of surprise before she melts into it, fingers curling into the front of my black flight suit as she deepens the kiss slightly.
Behind us, someone whistles.
Hadley gasps loudly. “Ewww.” Then she giggles. “Mama, kiss him again.”
Everyone laughs.
She does. Twice.
I pull back just enough to look at Ivy. She’s smiling and a little breathless, and then she slowly releases me. Like letting go takes effort. Like this means something.
“Good luck,” she says quietly.
Her voice is steady, but the hand still resting lightly at my ribs betrays her. A small, grounding touch. Like she needs to confirm I’m still right here before I walk away.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I think I just got some.”
Townsend makes a noise of deep impatience. “If you two are done creating a public spectacle.”
Logan claps me on the shoulder. “Try not to show off too much.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We step out from under the shade of the tent and into the sun, the crowd noise swelling as we move along the rope line. Kids press forward for photos. Someone calls Logan’s name. A little boy salutes so seriously I have to bite back a smile as Logan returns it with equal gravity.
The Raptors wait on the ramp ahead of us.
Even after all these years, the sight of it still hits like the very first time I saw one.
Angular lines sharp against the blue sky. Matte gray skin drinking in the sunlight instead of reflecting it. Quiet, coiled power in every inch.
Heat shimmers faintly above the concrete.
Crew chiefs move with efficient purpose around the jets, hands running along panels, checking, verifying, trusting and double-checking that trust anyway.
My pulse ticks up a notch.
This isn’t a sortie. Not a training ride with room for imperfection and quiet corrections on the debrief whiteboard afterward.
This is precision. Timing. Trust in muscle memory built one repetition at a time until the jet feels less like a machine and more like an extension of intent.
Logan walks easy beside me like this is just another Saturday.
Townsend looks like he was born immune to anxiety.
I roll my shoulders once, slow breath in, slow breath out, letting the nerves sharpen instead of shake.
Good nerves. Useful nerves. The kind that remind you the stakes matter.
I glance back once.
Ivy stands just beyond the rope line with Hadley tucked against her side, one hand resting lightly at the back of Hadley’s head, fingers smoothing absently over her hair. Her expression is calm and her eyes track every step I take toward the jet.
She lifts her hand in a small wave.
I press two fingers to my lips in return.
A promise.
Then I turn toward the ladder.
Showtime.