The hangar doors are cracked open, letting in the last of the golden light. You can hear boots scuffing concrete before you see him that familiar rhythm, lazy and sure.

Jake’s leaning against his truck, sunglasses hooked in the collar of his T-shirt, hair still damp from post-flight. He’s got two beers on the tailgate and that smirk that always means trouble.

“Well, look who wandered in,” he drawls, head tilting toward you. “Didn’t think I’d get this lucky today.”

You arch a brow. “Lucky how?”

He grins, teeth flashing. “Any day I don’t have to drink alone’s a good one.”

You climb up beside him, the sunset stretching long over the tarmac. He cracks the beer and passes it to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose.

“You ever notice,” he says, voice softer now, “how quiet it gets when the sky’s done showin’ off?”

You glance sideways. “You’re one to talk about showing off.”

“Yeah, well.” He chuckles, taking a slow sip. “Some habits die harder than others.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind through the hangar, the creak of metal cooling in the heat. Then he turns, resting one elbow on the tailgate behind you.

“You ever think maybe I’m not as bad as I act?” he asks.

You smirk. “You want me to say yes?”

He laughs, a little too real this time the kind that slips past the armor. “Nah. I want you to mean it.”

He studies you for a long moment, the bravado fading to something soft, something honest. “Stay a while, darlin’. Sun’s still got a little light left, and I got nowhere better to be.”

He leans back, hand brushing yours again casual, steady. “Guess that makes you my shot of sunshine in all this noise.”

And for once, Hangman’s not trying to win he’s just trying to stay.