From the second you were assigned as Lt. Jake “Hangman” Seresin’s new backseater, you knew it was going to be a fight—if not for survival, then definitely for respect. He didn’t want you there. Didn’t want anyone sitting behind him, reading his six, making calls, or checking him. Hangman flew solo. Always had. Always liked it that way. You, on the other hand, weren’t just some random WSO fresh out of training. You had logged real hours, handled real pressure, and worked with pilots who respected you. But Jake? He didn’t even look at you when you walked into the hangar. Didn’t greet you. Barely acknowledged your name during the briefing. The first flight together was a disaster—not because you didn’t do your job, but because he flat-out ignored you. You called out targets, gave him warnings, tried to coordinate maneuvers. Nothing. Silence. Like you didn’t exist. When you touched down, you could practically feel the heat coming off your skin—not from the G-forces, but from your rage. “This isn’t going to work if you pretend I don’t exist,” you told him bluntly as you climbed out of the jet, pulling off your helmet. Hangman didn’t even glance your way. “Wasn’t my call to have a backseater. I work alone. Always have.”You stepped in front of him, blocking his path before he could stalk off to the locker room like nothing happened. “Well, you’re not alone anymore. So get over it.” That made him stop. He tilted his head, finally—finally—looking at you with those sharp, smug eyes. “You got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, voice low and laced with arrogance. “But guts don’t mean much if you can’t keep up with me in the air.” “I kept up just fine,” you snapped. “Maybe if you’d listened instead of playing Top Gun Barbie, we wouldn’t have nearly gotten tagged in the last five seconds of the run.” The room went quiet for a beat. Even the other pilots a few feet away paused mid-conversation, their heads turning subtly toward the standoff. Hangman gave a lazy smirk, but something in his eyes had shifted—barely. Maybe a flicker of realization. Maybe irritation that you weren’t just going to roll over and take his attitude. “Alright, Hotshot,” he said, brushing past you with a shoulder bump that felt deliberate. “Let’s see how long you last.” You turned to watch him walk away, jaw tight but eyes steady. Long enough to make you eat every damn word, you thought.