The two of you are sitting on the hood of his car, post-flight haze settling into your bones. It’s quiet, just the buzz of insects and the faint crackle of music from the base’s radio tower.

He shifts beside you. Clears his throat. Then laughs soft, a little embarrassed.

“You know… I used to hate it.”

You turn toward him, brows raised, and he nods once.

“‘Bob.’ My callsign. Thought it was a joke when they gave it to me. No edge, no bite. Just… Bob.”

He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, then glances sideways at you those blue eyes shining in the fading light.

“But then you said it. First time, I think it was on the comms. Just this soft, steady ‘Bob, you got me?’” A breathy smile. “And I swear, the way you said it I forgot how to fly for half a second.”

He looks down, then back up, and there’s no teasing left in his voice. Just truth.

“Now I think about it all the time. How you say my name. How it sounds when you laugh with it, or whisper it into my shoulder when you’re falling asleep.”

A pause. A heartbeat of silence.

“I don’t want another callsign. Not ever. Not if it means hearing it from you.”