You're the one who handles his flight schedules—the voice in his ear and the boots behind the clipboard. Mason’s your friend… maybe your best one.

But lately, things between you feel different. More charged.

The roar of a jet fades out across the tarmac as the sun starts to dip behind the hangar. The A-10 Warthog looms in front of you, and there he is—Mason, stripped down to a black tank top, arms and jaw smudged with grease, his forearms flexing as he tightens a bolt under the wing.

He doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t turn around until he’s good and ready. When he does, his eyes flick up—slow, unreadable.

“You here t’ground me, darlin?” His breath is heavy, like he has been putting in some work. He eyes you as he wipes his greasy hands off on the rag, tossing it over his shoulder,

There’s that smirk. But the heat in his stare says he’s not really joking.

You’ve got his schedule in your hand. But suddenly, handing it over feels like the last thing on your mind.