Lila
Stuart, Florida
The crowd is electric, a buzz of anticipation rippling through the air.
I weave through the VIP area, checking in with the event staff as I go.
Everything seems to be running smoothly—vendors are stocked, security is in place, and the viewing area is packed.
It’s a good turnout. A great one, even. But my focus keeps drifting back to the sky.
I stand near the edge of the cordoned-off section, clipboard in hand, my heart pounding in time with the distant whine of jet engines.
The air smells like sunscreen and hot asphalt, with a faint hint of salt from the ocean just beyond the horizon.
I cross my arms against the light breeze.
The Florida sun is warm, but there’s a coolness in the air that reminds me it’s fall.
Around me, kids run with miniature fighter jet toys, families are sprawled out on blankets, and vendors shout over the noise of the crowd.
My breath falters a little on Wells’s name.
I’m sure it’ll take some getting used to for all of us.
A ripple of cheers spreads through the crowd, and I crane my neck, trying to keep my eyes on the jets as they begin to taxi down the runway. My heart is in my throat, and I feel a surge of pride—pride that one of those incredible pilots is mine.
The Raptors take off with a reverberating scream, climbing straight up into the sky in perfect synchronization.
The wind from their ascent rustles my light green, short-sleeve button-up dress, the fabric dancing around my thighs and tangles the loose wisps of hair from my high bun with my sunglasses and protective earmuffs.
My mouth falls open as the jets perform a series of tight rolls and flips, their movements impossibly graceful for machines that large.
I really don’t think this will ever get old.
“They’re flying in formation now,” Nick narrates, his deep voice full of admiration. “Watch how they execute the vertical climb. Both pilots are pulling over nine gs of force right now.”
I clutch my chest as the Raptors soar skyward, twisting through the clouds like dancers, their maneuvers perfectly coordinated.
Nick continues. “That was the Cobra maneuver, one of the most difficult moves to execute in the Raptor. It demonstrates the F-22’s unmatched ability to slow down mid-flight, almost defying physics.”
The crowd erupts in applause as the jets dive, bank, and loop around each other with breathtaking precision. My heart races with every turn, the sound of the engines vibrating in my chest. I can’t help but smile.
The demonstration ends with a dramatic power loop, the two Raptors streaking toward the runway in unison before touching down with effortless grace. The crowd is on its feet, cheering wildly, and I’m right there with them. My hands are tingling from clapping so hard.
I remove my earmuffs and force myself to refocus, checking my earpiece as the event team relays updates.
The pilots are heading to the signing booth soon.
VIP guests are being escorted to their designated meet-and-greet area.
I should be there already, making sure things are running smoothly.
But my feet have a mind of their own, carrying me toward the edge of the tarmac where the flight crews are gathered.
And then I see him.
Logan steps down from the cockpit, pulling off his helmet, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened hair. When he looks up, his gray-blue eyes find mine instantly.
I swallow hard.
I should go back. I should let him debrief, let him have his moment with the team before he meets the fans.
But Logan doesn’t hesitate. He hands off his helmet to his crew chief, murmurs something to Wells, then strides toward me with purpose.
My breath catches as he stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, his body still thrumming with adrenaline. His gaze sweeps over me, taking me in like he’s grounding himself.
I manage a small smile. “Not bad for your first show back.”
His chuckle is quiet, his voice rough. “Not bad?” He shakes his head. “I’ll take it.”
But I see it in his expression—the weight of today. The first time flying without Ryan. The first time flying with Wells instead. The first time fully stepping back into this world, after everything.
He jerks his head toward a nearby building, a silent invitation. Without a word, we start walking, our steps naturally falling in sync.
The crowd fades behind us, voices dulling into background noise, and my pulse quickens with every inch we put between ourselves and the rest of the world. I’m hyper-aware of the powerful way he moves beside me
I’m grateful for the white Keds I slipped on this morning instead of the heels I’d normally wear.
I don’t think I could walk straight if I’d chosen otherwise.
Not with the way I’m burning for him, tuned only to his nearness.
Every part of me aches to reach for him.
To close the last inch of space. But I wait until we slip into the shadows where no one else can see.
Only then do I let my fingertips graze his, a quiet surrender to the gravity that always draws me back to him.
At the smallest touch, Logan exhales, rough and quiet.
I smile. “I’m proud of you.” My voice is soft.
His jaw flexes. I see the struggle flash in his eyes—the instinct to brush it off, to sidestep. But he doesn’t. He just nods, his fingers reaching for mine in return, firmer now. More certain.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I needed to hear that.”
And then he’s kissing me.
There’s no warning. No hesitation.
Just his mouth on mine. Soft, claiming, devastating.
It starts slow, like he’s tasting me for the first time.
But then he deepens it, and everything else falls away.
He kisses me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this earth.
Like if he lets go, he’ll fly apart completely.
And God help me, I kiss him back like I need him just as badly.
A sound escapes me—soft, needy—and he swallows it with another kiss, one hand sliding to my waist and locking me against him.
My fingers fist into his flight suit, gripping tight like I might lose myself otherwise.
I can feel every inch of his solid muscle, restrained power, barely leashed hunger. The way he’s holding back only makes it worse. When he finally pulls away, we’re both breathless.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek, smirking just enough to make me dizzy. “I think I needed that, too.”
I can’t speak yet, so I nod, heart hammering against my ribs, mouth still parted as I try to steady my breathing.
He smiles soft and real.
I lace our fingers together, leading us back into the sunlight, the warmth of his hand grounding me.
But as soon as we step into view of the crew, I let go, tucking my hands into the pockets at the cinched waist of my dress like that small act of distance will keep the lines from blurring even more.
We walk toward the signing booth, where a long line of people already snakes around the barricades—families with kids clutching miniature F-22 models, teenagers wearing squadron merch, and older veterans with weathered hands and eyes that shine with pride.
The crowd chirps with excitement, the energy palpable, and for a second, I forget the weight of everything else.
Because this is why they do it. Why Logan does it. For moments like this.
Wells is already there, leaning back in his chair with his boots crossed on the edge of the table like he owns the place. He tips his head toward us, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as Logan sinks into the chair beside him.
“Nice of you to show up,” Wells says, voice dripping with amusement.
Logan just laughs, shaking out his hand like he’s warming up for a marathon. “Gotta give the people what they want, right?”
Wells snorts, grabbing a Sharpie and twirling it between his fingers. “Yeah, pretty sure they’re all here for you. I’m just the guy sitting next to the star of the show.”
Logan leans back, slouching in his chair with that effortless confidence that makes it impossible not to look at him. “They don’t know what they’re missing, Wells.” He winks at a little girl bouncing on her toes at the front of the line, her eyes wide as she clutches a photo of his jet.
I step back, watching from a distance as the pilots sign posters and pose for pictures, their smiles never wavering.
And Logan, he comes alive in this space, the heaviness he carries around seemingly lighter.
He crouches down to talk to kids at eye level, trades patches with a young boy, and listens intently when an older man recounts stories from his own days in the cockpit.
I should leave, get back to the logistics tent, but I can’t seem to make myself move. Because it’s here, in the middle of all the noise and chaos, that I see the clearest picture of who Logan really is.
He’s not just the pilot with the call sign Viking.
Not just the guy who flirts like it’s his native language or the man whose touch lingers on my skin long after he’s gone.
He’s someone who gives pieces of himself away without ever realizing he’s doing it.
And maybe that’s why it hurt so much to lose him in the first place—because once you have Logan, you can’t help but want to hold on.