Lila
Havelock, North Carolina—Boys and Girls Club
The gym at the local Boys and Girls Club buzzes with energy—sneakers squeaking, laughter echoing, the kind of chaos only a room full of excited elementary school kids can create.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, but nothing dims the electricity in the air.
They know the pilots are coming. And for these kids, most of whom have never seen a fighter jet up close, today is magic.
I stand near the double doors, my clipboard pressed to my chest, my stomach fluttering with a mix of nerves and pride.
This is my favorite part of the job. Outreach might not be what gets the headlines or goes viral on social media, but it’s the heartbeat of Raptor Nation.
This is our chance to showcase the men behind the flight suits. To bring them down to earth.
The doors swing open—the energy shifting like someone just flipped a switch—and in walks four of the finest pilots in the world.
Logan leads the group, tall and sure, the shoulders of his flight suit broad and squared, his name patch catching the overhead light. Ryan, Nick, and Dalton file in behind him, all of them seeming larger than life—at least until the first kid shrieks, “Are you the guys who fly the really loud jet?”
That’s when Logan smiles.
And just like that, they stop looking like untouchable heroes and start looking human.
I take a step forward, clearing my throat and raising my voice just enough to cut through the noise. “Okay, everybody!” I call, holding my clipboard like a shield. “Let’s give them a big welcome! These are your F-22 demo pilots, and they’ve flown in just for you before tomorrow’s air show.”
The room erupts into applause. A few kids bounce on their toes. One is straight-up vibrating with excitement.
“This is Major Nick Townsend—call sign Bishop. He’s our flight commander,” I say.
Nick gives a sharp, charming nod and offers a quick, “What’s up, future aviators?”
“Captain Ryan Carter, or Spartan,” I continue, and Ryan flashes a wide grin and gives a dramatic two-fingered salute that earns a round of giggles.
“Lieutenant Dalton Everett. We call him Ghost.”
Dalton offers a quiet wave, and I catch a little girl whisper, “He looks like a movie star,” which makes me giggle. She’s not wrong.
“And finally,” I say, and my heart trips just slightly, “Captain Logan James. Call sign Viking.” My voice softens just a little when I say his name, and my eyes meet his for a heartbeat too long. His lips curve into the tiniest smile. The kind meant just for me.
I take a step back, letting the pilots take over, and watch as they move into the crowd of little bodies and outstretched hands, fielding questions and signing posters.
A few brave kids ask about g-forces and how many buttons are in the cockpit.
The pilots answer with patience and enthusiasm, each of them turning this thirty-minute appearance into something these kids will remember forever.
This is why community outreach matters so much.
Most people don’t get to meet fighter pilots.
At most, they see the jets from far away, maybe catch an air show once a year.
But the pilots? The human part? That’s behind closed doors.
Classified missions. Deployment schedules.
Locked hangars. These men spend most of their time training for the worst-case scenarios.
This is one of the few times they get to show up simply to inspire.
To give kids someone to look up to who isn’t just brave, but kind.
And right here, right now, they’re real. Touchable.
Nick’s letting a group of kids climb all over him, pretending he’s the Raptor itself, complete with whooshing sound effects.
Ryan’s showing a pair of twins how to walk like they’re carrying invisible flight helmets.
Dalton’s crouched by a small girl who barely says a word, drawing the shape of the F-22 with his finger on the floor to explain its stealth design.
And then there’s Logan.
He’s kneeling next to a kid with thick glasses and a NASA T-shirt, answering a question about how you land a jet when the wind’s pushing sideways. The kid’s eyes are wide, hanging on every word.
“You have to feel it,” Logan says, tapping his chest. “You train for it, sure. But at some point, you have to trust your instincts and your aircraft. That’s what makes you a good pilot. Not just what’s in your head—but in here, too.” He taps the kid’s heart gently, and my own stutters.
“Do you get scared?” the boy asks, pushing his glasses up a little higher on his nose and looking up at Logan.
“Sometimes,” Logan admits, brushing a hand through his hair. “But I train hard, and I trust my jet. And I always remember why I’m up there—so you get to feel safe down here.”
The kid beams, and something inside me just…cracks open.
Logan looks up at me a second later, catching me staring.
Instead of teasing me like he usually would, he just holds my eyes, quiet and steady.
And I know without a doubt that this matters to him.
All of this. The flying, the team, the community.
The way he shows up for people. Logan isn’t just a pilot. He’s a protector.
That’s what gets me. Not the flight suit. Not the muscle. Not the smirk he pulls when he sees me flustered.
It’s this.
And for a moment, I don’t care that we’re in a noisy gym, surrounded by kids and chaos and volunteers. All I see is him, kneeling beside a child, smiling like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.