You weren’t new to the mission. You weren’t new to the Navy. But you were new to Bob.

And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, you knocked him completely off course.

It started simple—briefings, sim runs, call signs exchanged across radios. You were sharp, focused, always a step ahead in the air. The kind of pilot who didn’t just fly by instinct—you owned the sky. Confident. Unshakable.

Bob respected that.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not in a creepy way—never that. But in the way his eyes lingered a little too long during debriefings. The way his voice got quieter when he spoke to you. The way he’d laugh nervously whenever you made a joke, even the dumb ones. He wasn’t subtle. Everyone noticed.

“Dude,” Phoenix whispered once during a preflight check. “If you stare at them any harder, the canopy’s gonna melt.”

He flushed, of course. Muttered something about keeping his head in the game.

But you noticed, too.

You noticed the way he always offered to help you with prep, or brought an extra energy drink “just in case.” You noticed how his shoulders stiffened every time another pilot tried flirting with you. And you definitely noticed the way he looked at you after you pulled a risky maneuver in the air—equal parts awe and heart failure.

One day, on the tarmac after a brutal training run, you pulled your helmet off, sweat slick on your brow, adrenaline still high.

Bob approached with your gear bag, his hair a mess and his hands fidgeting. “That was… that was really impressive,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “You’re, um… incredible.”

You smirked, taking your bag. “You always this smooth, Floyd?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out—just a red-faced stammer and an awkward laugh.

You leaned in just slightly, close enough that only he could hear. “Relax. I think you’re kinda cute too.”

His brain short-circuited on the spot.