Lila
Hampton, Virginia
The briefing room smells faintly of burnt coffee and jet fuel. I have learned this is the unofficial scent of demo team life. The mood is light. The kind of calm that comes after the storm that is air show season. Bravo is in the middle of a season recap even though they only performed half of it.
Asher leans back at the head of the table, his boots crossed at the ankles, the sleeves of his flight suit pushed up.
“All right,” he says, drawing out the words as he twirls the pen like a baton.
“Let’s talk about Elmendorf. Someone”—he cuts a glance to Clark—“decided altitude was more of a loose suggestion during the heritage flight.”
Clark throws his hands up, grinning. “It was a creative interpretation of the flight path.”
“Creative?” Porter barks a laugh. “You do realize we don’t get bonus points for dramatic flair, right?”
“I was adjusting!” Clark protests, dark blue eyes glinting with mischief. “And I recovered, didn’t I?”
“After Camden nearly blew a gasket over comms,” Owen adds with a shake of his head looking from Clark to Asher. “Pretty sure I heard you threaten to rip the stick out of Addison’s hands mid-flight.”
Asher aims his pen at Clark like it’s a weapon, but his grin says he’s only half serious. “I just didn’t feel like explaining to command why one of my pilots became a human lawn dart.”
“Would’ve gone viral though,” Clark says, fighting a smile and failing.
Porter snorts. “So would your court-martial.”
Laughter ripples through the room and I know I should be smiling along with them. So I do, to play the part. But my heart isn’t in it. My fingers toy with the edge of my notebook, folding and refolding a corner until the paper’s about to tear. My gaze keeps slipping to my phone.
Still nothing from Logan.
It’s not unusual. He warned me before he left, no news is good news. But there’s a difference between no news and this silence. Something about it feels heavier, like the ominous, gray stillness before a hurricane when you can almost convince yourself it’s not coming.
“Lila, want to fill us in on outreach?” Asher asks, his boots hitting the floor with a thud.
I click my pen and turn the page in my notebook, glancing over at Clark spinning slowly in his chair like a bored teenager and stifle a laugh. “Sure, let’s go over the stats. And since you all apparently only come alive when you’re going Mach 1, I’ll keep it moving.”
Owen grins. “You’re the only one who could say shit like that to us without getting tackled.”
“Noted,” I say, resting my chin on the top of my hand and batting my lashes at the guys.
“I’ll abuse the power responsibly.” I flip to the next page in my notebook.
“So. We completed forty-two community outreach events across twenty-three show locations.” I pause, letting the number sink in.
“That includes visits to schools, youth centers, children’s hospitals, VA clinics, STEM expos, local air museums, and on-base family events.
We gave out over 3,000 patches, participated in eight STEM-focused panel discussions, and signed probably a million posters. ”
Porter whistles. “That’s insane. Didn’t realize it was that many.”
“Sounds about right, my hand was cramping up at the last show,” Clark mumbles, still spinning in slow circles.
“Stop before you puke,” I mutter, rolling my eyes playfully. “Cherry Point and Nellis had the biggest turnouts. Over 250 kids at Cherry Point’s youth center alone. Alpha was mobbed—Logan actually had a kid ask if he could fly the Raptor home.”
Asher chuckles. “What’d James say?”
“He asked the kid if he had a valid pilot’s license and then offered to trade his for fruit snacks.”
Owen snorts. “That’s on brand.”
“Completely. And Ryan gave his entire patch stash away to a group of fifth graders because they asked him what it meant to be brave. He told them bravery was doing the right thing even when it can cost you everything.”
The laughter dies down at the mention of his name. There’s a shadow in the room now. A shared one.
Clark turns his chair to face me. “Wait. You keep track of who gave away what?”
“I keep track of everything,” I say, flipping another page. “I know which one of you showed up fifteen minutes late to the STEM expo in Ocean City—”
“Okay, narc,” Clark interrupts, holding up a hand.
“—because you went to get an iced latte.”
“It was hot,” he mutters, sulking slightly.
“You didn’t even bring me one,” I add, smirking. “Unforgivable.”
“Noted for next season,” Clark quips. “Iced lattes equal less judgment.”
“Outreach matters,” I say after a beat, quieter. “The jets pull the crowds, but the pilots? You’re the legacy. The human connection to Raptor Nation—something otherwise unreachable. It’s what stays with people.”
Asher nods slowly. “It’s the part they don’t train us for but might be the most important thing we do.”
I tap the edge of my phone again. Still nothing. My voice tightens. “And the kids…they don’t forget. They remember who looked them in the eye. Who listened. Who made them feel seen.”
Owen shifts in his seat. “And for what it’s worth, Lila? You crushed it this season. Even my mom texted me after the VA visit in Colorado Springs. She said, ‘That nice brunette who runs the demo team has the patience of a saint.’”
Runs the demo team, huh?
I laugh softly. “She’s not wrong. Have y’all met you?”
“Yeah, and we’re delightful.” Porter leans back in his chair, stretching his muscular arms behind his head and grins.
“Debatable.” I glance down at my phone, screen still blank.
Ignoring the pit in my stomach, I press on.
“I’ll send you each a breakdown by event and prep notes for next year’s structure, but the feedback’s been overwhelmingly positive.
Especially from schools and youth centers.
We had several requests to bring pilots back in the off-season for mentorship programs.”
“That’s new,” Asher says, looking intrigued.
“It is. I’ll work on it and see what’s viable,” I say, making a note. “But it means we’re doing something right.”
Clark raises his hand like a student. “Question.”
“Yes?”
“Can I be a mentor?” He flashes me the most innocent smile.
“No.” I press my lips together to keep from smiling back.
“And why not?” he asks, rubbing a hand up his face and through his sandy blond hair.
“You told a kid to eat nails!”
“He asked me how I avoid blacking out at high gs,” he tries.
This time I do smile. “And you didn’t think to tell him you went to school? Trained for years? Worked really hard? Made good grades? None of that?”
He bites his lip. “I…”
“Exactly,” I mutter, rolling my eyes to keep from laughing like the rest of the team.
“What if I bring you coffee this time?”
I pause, considering. “Large iced caramel latte?”
“Done.”
I flash a half smile. “We’ll see.” Then discreetly tap my iPhone again, the screen lighting up with nothing but the time.