Logan
Hampton, Virginia
“Ladies and gentlemen, she has a flaw!” I roll up off Lila’s oversized brown leather couch and bow toward my pretend audience.
“It’s…not…that…I—” she says between laughs. I lean back so she can finish what she’s saying. “It’s not that I won’t eat popcorn, it’s just not my favorite. I literally only have it in my house for when friends are over.”
“Friends, huh? Like me?” I smirk.
“Friend-friends, you ass. Girl friends.”
“Wait, so we’re not friends?” I feign hurt.
“Nope.” She smiles up at me under long, thick lashes. “I don’t do this with my friends.” Keeping her hands in her lap, she leans in, planting a kiss on my mouth, only touching me with her soft lips.
I’ve been wanting to do that since I got here.
“Good.” I say, tangling my fingers in her long brown hair and pulling her mouth against mine.
Lila melts into me before pulling away slowly.
She drops a kiss on the tip of my nose and then stands up, picking up the few kernels off the rug.
I watch her walk toward her kitchen to throw them away.
She’s wearing leggings and an oversized Georgetown T-shirt, her hair loosely braided down her back.
She rushes back.“Are we going to watch the movie or not?”
I want to tell her, not, but I can tell she’s nervous. “Yes—” I say, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close. She curls up against my chest.
“Why Georgetown?” I ask her.
“What?”
“Your shirt,” I say.
“Oh,” she looks down. “I got my MBA there.”
“Damn, that’s impressive, Lila.”
She laughs. “Thanks. I actually started the program a couple of weeks after I met you. My last job paid for it.” She glances down at my arm encircling her small waist. “What’s your tattoo?” She lightly traces the lines with her fingers.
“That one is the anatomy of an F-15.”
“Why not your jet?” She asks.
“This is what my dad flew his entire career.” Goosebumps rise along my skin in the places she caresses.
“Is he…” She trails off nervously.
“Oh no, he’s fine. He’s retired from the Air Force. He and my mom live in Huntsville; he’s an engineer for Lockheed Martin.”
“The same Lockheed Martin that built the F-22?” She smirks.
I grin.
“I pay attention,” she says, earning a kiss on her forehead and we turn our attention to the Avengers movie she chose.
“What time do you leave tomorrow?” she asks, some time later.
“Takeoff’s at zero seven hundred. You guys will meet us Thursday night, right?”
She nods. “Will you tell me about your job? What’s it like?” She scoots away just enough to be able to turn her body to face me.
I follow suit, folding one knee in front of me so I can comfortably face her.
Lila studies me with those warm green eyes that seem to see straight through me.
She asked about my life as an Air Force pilot, and it’s a loaded question.
Most people think it’s all adrenaline and glory, but there’s so much more to it than that.
“Being a demo pilot is…well, it’s incredible, but it’s not what most people think.
When we do these flight demonstrations, it’s like putting on a show for the crowd, showing them the capabilities of the F-22—the speed, the precision, the power.
And yeah, it’s fun to push the jet to its limits, but it’s also a lot of pressure.
Every move has to be exact. You’ve got thousands of people watching, sometimes millions if it’s televised, and one mistake could get someone killed. ”
Her brows furrow slightly, and I can tell she’s listening closely, so I keep going.
“But being a demo pilot is just one piece of the job. The other side of it—my active-duty role—is what I signed up for when I joined. The F-22 is an air superiority fighter, so we train to dominate the skies, plain and simple. Our goal is to make sure no one else even gets close. But that means a lot of long hours, constant drills, deployments that take me away from home for months at a time, and combat missions if they call us in. It’s not just flying; it’s leading, planning, being part of a team that has to work together under intense pressure. ”
I pause, searching for the right words. “It’s a lot—balancing both sides.
But when I’m up there in the Raptor, pulling nine gs and feeling the raw power of the jet, it’s worth it.
It’s the kind of thing that makes all the sacrifices feel small.
And when I get to meet kids at these airshows and see the way their eyes light up, or when someone thanks me for my service…
It’s hard not to feel like I’m making a difference. ”
I glance at her, nervous suddenly. I don’t talk about this stuff often. I study her face. Wondering what she’s thinking as I dump the inner workings of my mind in her lap.
“It’s not easy, though,” I admit. “I’ve missed holidays, weddings, even funerals because duty comes first. And I don’t get a say in where I’m stationed or how long I’ll be gone.
That’s the hardest part—knowing that the people back home have to sacrifice, too.
It’s not just me in this life. It’s everyone who’s tied to me. ”
Her expression softens, and for a moment, I can’t tell if she’s overwhelmed or if she understands. I finish with a small shrug. “I guess what I’m saying is, this life isn’t for everyone. But for me…flying the F-22, serving in the Air Force—it’s who I am. And I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
Lila doesn’t say anything right away and I wonder if I’ve said too much. I inwardly cringe. I’m used to people being impressed when I talk about my job, but I’ve learned that admiration only goes so far.
The reality of my life tends to scare people off.
Her eyes search mine like she’s piecing something together. Then she smiles—not wide, but soft and thoughtful, the kind of smile that makes you feel seen.
“You know,” she starts, her voice gentle, “I think it’s easy for people to romanticize what you do.
The jet, the uniform, the airshows…it all looks so glamorous from the outside.
But what you just told me? That’s the real part.
The sacrifices, the uncertainty, the responsibility.
It makes what you do even more impressive, Logan.
Because you’re not just flying a plane—you’re dedicating yourself to something bigger, knowing what it costs you. ”
Her words land like a steadying hand on my chest.
“It’s not just me,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Everyone in the squadron, the crews on the ground, the families back home—we’re all part of it. I just get to be the lucky one in the cockpit.”
Her eyes flicker with sadness but then it’s gone, replaced with curiosity. “Even with everything, you still consider yourself lucky?”
I grin. “If you flew an F-22, you wouldn’t even ask. It’s…indescribable. Like controlling pure power with the lightest touch of your fingers.”
Her smile widens at my enthusiasm, but then she tilts her head, studying me again. “What keeps you going when it’s hard? When you’re deployed, or you miss something important back home?”
It’s a question I don’t hear often, and I think it through before answering.
“The team, mostly. Knowing they’re counting on me.
And there’s this sense of purpose. Like, what I’m doing actually matters.
But sometimes it’s just the thought of coming home, getting back to something that feels normal, even for a little while. ”
She nods, and for a second, we just sit there, the weight of the conversation settling between us in a way that feels like maybe I’ve made it make sense.
“You make it sound worth it,” she says softly.
“It is,” I reply. And then, because I can’t stop myself, I add, “Especially if there’s someone waiting for you at the end of it.”
Her cheeks flush, just slightly, and she looks down, fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt.
I’ve surprised her.
“Logan,” she says after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah?”
She meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see a little uncertainty there, like she’s not sure if she should say what she’s thinking. But then she shakes her head and smiles, her confidence returning.
“Nothing,” she says.