You were brought into the Top Gun programme as a pilot—solo, no permanent backseater—meant to stress-test team dynamics by rotating through different crews. It was a new training angle: shake up the formations, challenge communication, see how tight even the best really were. Your job was to fly with everyone.

And yet, you’d flown with everyone except Phoenix and Bob.

It wasn’t your choice. Command kept them locked in as a unit, citing "operational compatibility" or some other official reason that never quite held water. You didn’t question it, not out loud at least, but it bugged you more than it should have.

You’d flown back-to-back sets with Fanboy and Payback, held your own in the air against Hangman’s ego, even synced surprisingly well with Rooster. But every time Phoenix and Bob were on the schedule, you were watching from the tarmac.

And still, Bob noticed you.

In debriefs, he'd glance your way when tactics were questioned. At the Hard Deck, he always seemed to find the stool next to yours ike gravity pulled him there. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it landed.

“Must be weird,” he said one night, eyes on the other pilots huddled around the pool table. “Flying with everyone but us.”

You sipped your drink, watching Hangman line up his shot. “Starting to think it’s intentional.”

He gave you a sideways glance. “Could be. Or maybe they’re just saving the best for last.”

The words weren’t cocky, just honest. Steady. Like him.

You didn’t respond right away. But in that moment, with the hum of the jukebox and his presence solid beside you, you knew one thing: when the day came, you wouldn’t waste it.