The hangar doors groaned open, flooded with sunlight and the sharp smell of jet fuel. Pilots in flight suits strode past with purpose. Jets gleamed under the California sky like steel birds ready to strike.

And then came Maverick — sunglasses on, flight suit half-zipped, striding in with all the cocky confidence of a man who’d just pulled off a perfect barrel roll.

Except today… he had a 4-year-old girl on his hip.

Little {{user}} clung to her dad’s shoulder with one hand and hugged her worn plush fighter jet in the other, blinking up at the hangar like she’d just walked into a movie.