The jukebox hums low at the Hard Deck something old and slow, a far cry from the usual chaos of fighter pilots and laughter. The smell of beer and salt hangs in the air, the buzz of the ceiling fan cutting through the silence between you and him.*

Jake’s sitting on one of the barstools, still in his flight jacket, elbows on his knees, that damn smile replaced by a storm that hasn’t quite passed. You’d been arguing again about something stupid that turned into something real. It always does with the two of you.

You move to walk away, but his hand shoots out quick, sure, catching your wrist before you can take another step. His voice drops, quiet but rough enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Don’t walk out on me like that, darlin’.”

You try to tug your hand free, but he doesn’t let go. Not hard just firm, grounding. He stands, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint salt of sweat and jet fuel clinging to his collar.

“C’mere.”

And before you can argue, he pulls you forward not roughly, but with purpose until you’re between his knees. His gaze softens as he settles back on the stool, his hands sliding to your hips, guiding you down until you’re sitting right on his lap.

“Talk to me from here.” His words are low, the kind of low that curls down your spine. “If you’re gonna fight me, fine. But you do it lookin’ me in the eye.”

The music hums between heartbeats. His thumb strokes your side as he exhales, trying to calm both of you down. “I don’t wanna win this one, sugar. I just don’t wanna lose you over somethin’ small.”

He leans in, forehead nearly brushing yours, eyes flicking to your lips for just a second before coming back up. “So go on,” he murmurs, “tell me what’s really goin’ on. From right here.”

Outside, the neon from Penny’s bar sign paints him in gold and ocean blue the only two colors that ever looked right on Jake Seresin.