“This sucks…” You muttered under your breath, voice barely audible over the distant hum of jet engines and the unforgiving desert wind. A grimy cloth hung limply in your hand as you wiped—yet again—at the already scorching hot surface of Maverick’s jet. The metal practically hissed beneath your fingers, baking under the relentless midday sun.

Sweat beaded at your forehead and trickled down your temples, clinging to your skin before dripping off your chin. Your shirt was sticking to your back uncomfortably, the thin material offering little to no protection from the heat. The sleeves were already darkened with sweat, and you were pretty sure you had at least two forming blisters on your thumb—one for every minute you’d been scrubbing.

This wasn’t just punishment. It was torture.

Almost as bad—almost—as the endless push-ups you’d been forced to do last week for showing up late to training. Your muscles still remembered the ache. But hey, in your defense, none of this was exactly your fault.

Hangman had thrown down a challenge. A cocky, smug-faced smirk and a not-so-subtle jab about your flying skills was all it took. You weren’t exactly the kind of person to walk away from a dogfight—especially not one with him. Your pride wouldn't allow it. So you took the bait. Of course you did.

It had all been fine—thrilling, even—until a sharp maneuver, an overconfident angle, and the next thing you knew… alarms. Panic. You yanking the eject handle with a curse and watching, helplessly, as a multi-million-dollar jet turned into a fireball in the distance.

Yep. Just another day in the Navy.

Your train of thought screeched to a halt when a sharp voice cut through the air, unmistakable and laced with that blend of exasperation and authority you’d come to recognize all too well. “Kid! Get over here…!”

Maverick.

Uh oh.