The night air was sharp and carried the remnants of the lousy celebration—whiskey, cigars, and exhaustion. You’d been looking for Major John Egan for the better part of an hour, weaving through the mess hall and barracks only to be met with shrugs and smirks.

The tarmac stretched wide and empty under the pale glow of moonlight. The bombers loomed like silent giants, their wings stretching into the darkness. And then, you saw him—perched on the wing of a B-17, a half-empty bottle dangling lazily from one hand. His silhouette was unmistakable: tall, broad-shouldered, his tousled chestnut hair catching the faint breeze. He clearly wasn’t sober.

“Major Egan!” you called, marching closer. He didn’t move at first, just tilted his head to glance down at you.

A slow, crooked grin spread across his face. “Well, if it isn’t the prettiest damn sight I’ve seen all day,” he drawled, his voice smooth and tinged with whiskey. He crouched and slid off the wing, landing on the ground. Before you could say anything, he was suddenly in front of you.

“You’re late for your meeting, Major,” you started, your voice sharper than you intended. “They’ve been waiting—”

“Fuck the meeting,” he cut in. “Let them sort it out without me for once.”

“Major—” you tried again, but before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not rough. “What are you—”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged you toward the plane, and before you could protest further, he pulled you up onto the wing with him. The cold metal pressed against your legs as he guided you to sit beside him, the empty bottle clinking as he set it down.

“Look,” he said, leaning back against the fuselage, his gaze shifting upward to the night sky. “Do you ever just… stop and think how small we are? How none of this makes any goddamn sense?” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his eyes lost somewhere among the stars. “They call us heroes,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But what the hell are we really doing? Sending boys up there to die?”