The crisp morning air at Thorpe Abbotts was filled with the familiar hum of engines and the tang of fuel. The airfield stretched out under a bright blue sky, scattered with men preparing for the day’s sortie. Bucky Egan stood near the tarmac, laughing as he exchanged banter with his fellow pilots, his voice carrying easily over the din. Dressed in his leather flight jacket lined with thick, worn shearling, he cut a striking figure. Aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, but the broad, mischievous grin he wore was unmistakable—a rare moment of levity between missions.

He spotted you just as you turned the corner by the hangar, clipboard in hand, clearly there on official business. Without missing a beat, he waved with exaggerated enthusiasm, calling out, “Hey! It’s my favorite paperwork pusher!”

His grin widened as you raised an eyebrow, already bracing yourself for whatever playful greeting he had in store. As you approached he looked at you up and down with a dramatic flourish beneath his sunglasses.

“You know,” he said, a hint of that trademark swagger in his voice, “you’re the only one who brings a bit of class to this mud pit.” He winked, clearly enjoying the banter. Behind him, a couple of younger pilots stifled laughter, smirking at the major’s relentless charm. They looked at him like he was invincible, an untouchable legend who somehow made war seem like one big adventure.

“Flattery isn’t going to get you out of signing these reports, Major,” you shot back, unable to keep from smiling. You handed him the clipboard, and he took it with a theatrical sigh, holding it as if it were some immense burden.

Just then, the thunder of a B-17’s engines rumbled to life down the field, and for a second, Bucky’s expression shifted but he shook off the moment almost instantly, turning back to you with a smirk. “Better sign quickly, sweetheart, before you start missing me,” he teased, scribbling his signature with a flourish and handing the clipboard back.