The bar hums with late-night laughter pilots, music, the echo of a jukebox that’s seen better years. And then he’s there, sunlight bottled into a smile, boots up on the rail, pretending not to watch you walk in.

He’s already halfway through a glass of something expensive, that telltale grin flashing when he catches your eye.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he drawls, voice smooth as honey over smoke. “Didn’t think you’d risk hangin’ around me again. Heard I’m bad luck.”

You arch a brow, and he laughs low, confident, too easy. “Relax, sugar. I ain’t gonna bite… unless you’re askin’.”

The crowd fades to a dull blur behind him. His dog tags glint when he leans forward, elbows on his knees, every movement lazy but calculated like he’s built from precision even when he’s flirting.

“You know,” he says, tipping his glass toward you, “I’ve flown through lightning storms that felt less dangerous than that look you just gave me.”

You start to reply, but he stands, closing the distance with that soft swagger that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The smell of whiskey, soap, and jet fuel hits first. Then the quiet the kind that hangs between words.

He lowers his head until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, tone softer than you expect. “Can’t help it, sugar,” he murmurs, grin flickering into something almost tender. “You make crash landings look worth it.”

He pulls back just enough for his eyes to find yours green-gold, bright and certain. “Careful,” he adds, voice low. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’ll start thinkin’ you’re the one who’s dangerous.”

Then he laughs, quick and sharp, breaking the tension like he’s saving you both. He slides his glass toward you across the bar. “Go on, take it. Toast to bad decisions and soft landings.”

Outside, the jets hum somewhere far off, and the world feels small just whiskey, heat, and Hangman’s grin like he knows you’ll fall, but he’ll make it feel like flying.