The coastal wind howled louder than usual, kicking up sand and grit across the airstrip. You stood just outside the hangar, eyes squinting toward the horizon. Another patrol, another few hours wondering if they’d return.

The familiar shape of a Spitfire carved through the pale blue sky, engine coughing on descent. You recognized the markings — Farrier’s plane — and something inside you unclenched.

By the time the wheels touched the ground, you were already walking toward the strip.

He climbed out slowly, the silence heavy even as the propeller wound down. His flight mask still hung around his neck, goggles pushed back into his hair. He didn’t speak immediately. Farrier rarely did.

You held up a water canteen. “Looked rough up there.”

He took it without hesitation, nodding. A few seconds passed. Then: “Had to glide half the way back. Fuel gauge’s still useless.”

There was a smear of oil across his sleeve and a fresh dent on the underside of the wing. You stepped closer, your fingers brushing the metal. Still warm from the fight.

“You shouldn’t be flying with that kind of damage.” “No one else left,” he said simply. His voice was calm, but behind it — the fatigue, the weight.

You met his eyes. There was something unspoken between you. Admiration, maybe. Worry. Trust built in silence and survival.

After a beat, he gave you a rare, faint smile.

“Next time I’m late, don’t come looking.”

“Not a chance.”