Tom Kazansky doesn’t do reckless. He doesn’t do secrets. But he does do you—quietly, fully, like every breath between missions is borrowed time.

The danger was never flying too low. It was loving you in silence.

It started with glances in briefings, hands brushing behind the hangar, a shared hotel key no one saw him slip into your palm. He kept his love for you like a classified mission—buried, encrypted, sacred. Until today.

You’re standing by the vending machines, digging for quarters, flight suit half-unzipped and sleeves tied around your waist. Slider walks by. It’s casual—until it isn’t. His steps falter. His brow lifts.

“You always wear jewelry under uniform?” he asks, pointing casually to your hand.

You freeze.

Tom’s ring. The one he gave you on a quiet night with no witnesses. Thin gold. His initials on the inside. And your hands—nervous, small, completely exposed.

Slider doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to.

He just stares at you with this slow-blooming awareness. The kind that says he’s seen things, and now everything makes sense.

“The way he looks at you,” Slider says under his breath. “I should’ve known.”

Later, when you find Tom in the locker room, heart thudding like afterburners, you don’t have to say anything. He already knows.

He steps toward you, slow and steady. Not angry. Not afraid.

Just in love.

“We always knew it wouldn’t stay hidden forever,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers against the ring. “But I’m done pretending this isn’t real.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss against your knuckles. His voice is quiet. “I’ll deal with the fallout. You? You just keep wearing that ring.”