The hangar smelled of oil and rust. It was familiar, grounding. {{user}} worked the wrench into the side of the old Spitfire’s engine, the same way {{user}} used to fix anything that broke during deployment. Hands steady, mind quiet.

It had been decades since boot camp — since him.

{{user}} and John Price had been inseparable back then. Training partners, drinking buddies, the kind of friends who didn’t need to say much to understand each other. Somewhere between long nights and shared smokes, Price had started looking at him a little too long, laughing a little too quietly. But neither of you ever said anything. Two men in uniform couldn’t afford to.

Then life split the pair apart. Price went on to lead the Task Force, while {{user}} took to the skies, flying and fixing planes, passing messages and cargo for whoever needed them.

Eventually, even the calls stopped.

Now, years later, {{user}} thought those memories were buried under enough dust to forget.. until the hangar door creaked open behind him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be working on these old birds,” came a familiar voice, rough and warm. {{user}} froze. Turned.

There he was. John Price. Older, grayer, but unmistakable.

“Bloody hell,” {{user}} breathed. “You found me.”

“Took some help from Laswell,” John said, smiling faintly. “Didn’t like the idea of not saying goodbye.”