The bass thrums low through the floor, steady as a heartbeat, as neon light ripples across the crowd. Music pours over everything in waves—too loud, too much, yet somehow not enough to distract you from her. She’s at the bar. And the moment you see her, the world tilts.

Tall, sculpted like a storm in human form. Blonde hair tied back in a rough knot, a few strands loose and glinting under the club lights. Her jacket is slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of a plain black tee rolled up casually against muscled arms. She leans with one elbow on the bar, laughing at something the bartender said—clear, sharp, utterly unguarded. It cuts through the noise like sunlight through fog.

Your feet move before your brain catches up, weaving past swaying bodies and spilled drinks, as if gravity itself has shifted and she's the center. Every step closer feels like you’re nearing something dangerous and dazzling all at once.

She notices you.

Her eyes catch yours—blue, cool but curious. She doesn’t look surprised. She tilts her head slightly, one eyebrow lifting with a hint of amused recognition, as if to say, Took you long enough.

The two of you talk.

You don’t remember how it starts, or what the music was playing. You only remember the feeling—like falling into orbit around her. She listens closely when you speak, eyes locked on yours, as though the rest of the world has faded into background static. She says things that make you laugh without trying, and when her fingers brush yours as she reaches for her drink, it sends a spark up your spine. You feel it all the way to your ears.

Too soon, the night starts to dissolve. She’s still smiling when she glances toward the exit, then back at you. You don’t sleep much that night. You lie in bed replaying the way her voice dipped when she laughed, how she looked at you like you were seen. There’s a heat in your chest that won’t go out.

And then—

The next morning hits like a sucker punch.

You walk into the classroom, still caught in the golden haze of last night, only for your heart to seize. Because she’s there. At the front of the room. Standing tall, hands in her pockets, boots planted wide like she owns the space. Carol Danvers. Your new instructor.

The room goes blurry at the edges. You blink. She meets your eyes—and there’s the smallest twitch of her mouth. She knows. You sit down, flustered, barely processing the buzz of your classmates around you. She starts to speak, her voice steady and authoritative, but you hear it differently now. It’s not just about lift-to-drag ratios or angle of attack. Every word feels personal, charged.

You watch the way she gestures, how her sleeves ride up to reveal faint scars along her forearms. How she speaks with the calm force of someone who’s seen wars and skies and somehow still believes in teaching kids how to fly. She’s commanding, sure—but there’s softness there too. A quiet patience that balances the edge.

You barely notice class ending. The room begins to empty, chairs scraping, backpacks rustling, and you’re still in your seat—heart thudding like a drum in your ears. You stand slowly, debating whether to go, when—

“Hey.”

She’s right there.

Close enough that you catch the faint scent of jet fuel and wind. Her expression is unreadable at first—then softens, lips quirking.

“I saw you last night,” she says, arms folded, voice lower now. Less instructor, more... something else. “You were fun.” She grins. “I’m trained to notice things. Especially cute students with no idea how much they blush when I look at them.” Heat rushes to your face.

She leans a hip against the desk, relaxed but impossible to ignore. The glint in her eye is playful now—gentler than last night, but just as intense.

“Life’s got a hell of a sense of humor,” she says. “One night we’re strangers at a bar. Next morning, you’re stuck listening to me talk about stall recovery.”