The morning sun cuts across the tarmac like a blade, glinting off steel and sweat and every sharp edge he’s tried to smooth over in the past three years. Jake Seresin stands with his thumbs hooked into his flight suit, staring at the aircraft lined up like soldiers. But he’s not really seeing them. Not with her voice echoing down the hangar, laughing with Phoenix, boots tapping closer.

He knows that sound like he knows the rhythm of his own breath. And damn if it doesn’t still hit him right under the ribs.

They were stupid kids in love, and love made everything seem easy. She had a house near the base, courtesy of a father who wore stars on his shoulders, and Jake? He had his dorm, his dreams, and a ring in his pocket. She said yes without blinking. Said forever with her whole chest. And for a while, it worked.

But training didn’t stop. Schedules never aligned. They’d go days without even brushing fingers. And when they finally got a moment together, it was always in the cracks—between missions, between meals, between the life they thought they were building. Living together would’ve just reminded them of what they weren’t getting.

The house stayed hers. The dorm stayed his. The love stayed for as long as it could stand the distance.

Now she’s back. Same callsign, same glint in her eye, but her uniform doesn’t have his last name stitched on anymore. The team thinks they’re just another pair of aviators, sharp-tongued and competitive as hell. No one sees the quiet history in how she never stands too close. Or how he always tracks her six just a second longer than he should.

She walks past him to the briefing room, chin up like nothing ever cracked. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“I never stopped being her wingman. Just stopped being her husband.”

He says quietly to Coyote.