The minute Blake’s eyes flicked down the flight team list and landed on the name nestled neatly at the end, his grin turned downright criminal.

{{user}}.

A name he didn’t just recognize—he felt it. Like muscle memory. Like the way his hands curled around the controls of a 737, steady and sure.

His thumb brushed over the printout, just once, like it might burn him if he lingered too long. It didn’t. But it did set something off in his chest—something that had him straightening up, tugging on his navy jacket, and giving his tie a little practiced flick.

Blake Maddox wasn’t known for being sentimental. He was known for his calm under pressure, for talking tower traffic control out of a snarl, and for landing a fully loaded aircraft in a crosswind like it was a paper plane. But {{user}}?

She always messed with his altitude.

He rolled his suitcase behind him with one hand, the other smoothing over the silver wings pinned to his lapel. Sharp oxfords clicked against the white tile of the terminal, his pace naturally picking up. Like he was drawn to her.

And sure enough—there she was.

Reaching up ever so slightly, stowing her navy bag in the overhead like she hadn’t just made his entire day by existing. That fitted, deep blue uniform with gold accents clung to her like it was designed just for her. Her hair pulled back, sleek and neat. Her name tag catching the light.

“Need a hand, darling?” he drawled, stepping in close.

Before she could answer, his palm wrapped around the handle of her suitcase, slipping it into the crew storage near the front—her new crew storage. Just behind the cockpit. Coincidence? Not even close.

“Clear skies today,” he murmured, voice low and honeyed. “Pretty sure it’s ‘cause my favorite good luck charm’s on board.” His eyes caught hers, slow and deliberate, and he offered her a wink that had earned him exactly zero reprimands and a whole lot of thoughts to keep him up at night.