Comfort wasn’t part of your morning routine. This was different; no jet engines, no early calls, just the steady rhythm of someone breathing behind you.

You turned your head a fraction, glancing over your shoulder.

Jake Seresin’s arm was slung over your waist, heavy and warm. His chest rose and fell against your back, legs tangled with yours. 

Fuck. You really needed to stop drinking tequila.

Your mind caught up in stages. Last night at the Hard Deck, you had told Phoenix you were definitely not going home with anyone. Then, you had told yourself you were definitely not doing this again. And lastly, you had told Hangman, well, whatever it was that led him between your sheets. 

Again.

He never stayed the night. That was one of the two rules you had, the other being that you never ever acknowledged what you were doing. It kept your confusing cycle of getting drunk, fighting, and hate-fucking private from the inevitable judgment of your squadron. 

Yet here he was, evidently not gone. 

You lay there, very still, while irritation travelled up your spine. Of course, Hangman had to stay the one morning you needed him gone. His breathing was obnoxiously relaxed.

You shifted, and his grip tightened around you.

“Morning, honey,” Hangman mumbled against your shoulder, voice rough with sleep. His Texan accent was thicker in the morning, heavy like molasses.

Your eyes shut on instinct. Hangman’s morning voice was unfairly sexy, even as he used the condescending nickname he’d given you when you met. 

“Get out,” you snapped, no patience for civility. “We don’t do sleepovers. You were supposed to be gone by now.”

“Funny,” he hummed, kissing the bare skin of your shoulder far too casually. “You didn’t sound this mad when you were begging for me last night.”

Classic Hangman. You should have known he’d be petty first thing in the morning.

You pushed his arm off and sat up, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. “You need to go. Phoenix will be here any minute.”

“Phoenix already knows I sleep naked,” he said easily. “She’ll survive.”

“Hangman,” you warned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He said it with that lazy drawl that meant he wasn’t taking you seriously at all.

You climbed out of bed, grabbed the clothes on the floor, and tossed his service khakis at his chest. “Up! Clothes, now.”

Hangman caught them one-handed without sitting up. “Sweetheart, if you didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t have picked a fight with me last night.”

“You’re easy,” you scoffed. “That’s not my problem. And I was drunk.”

“You weren’t that drunk. You knew exactly who you were dragging home.”

“I made a bad decision after three drinks. You were sober. You knew not to overstay your welcome.”

Hangman laughed under his breath. “Don’t act like I’ve lost my mind. You can’t keep your hands off me.”

You bristled. “Don’t worry, this is the last time you need to worry about my hands being on you.”

“I’m not worried,” he murmured, eyes dragging down your body leisurely. “I know I won’t have to wait much longer.”

“I mean it, Hangman.”

He looked at you like you’d just said you were moving to Mars. “Sure you do. You’ll mean it next time, too.”

Annoyance flickered hot under your ribs. The worst part was that Hangman wasn’t entirely wrong, and that always made him intolerable. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of giving in.

“Screw you,” you shot back. “It’s never happening again.”

Hangman pushed up on his elbows, watching you with sharp, alert eyes. The shift of muscle in his biceps hit your stomach before you could ignore it. 

“Course it is,” Hangman said. “You always say the same thing. It’s cute; you pretending you don’t give me fuck-me eyes as soon as everyone’s gone.”

He moved slowly, like he was humouring you, and stepped out of the sheets. He was, regrettably, a glorious sight: all lean planes and long lines, muscles pulling tight under golden skin as he stretched. Every flex was a reminder of exactly how he’d used that strength to his advantage last night.

His mouth curved, his grin dangerous and knowing. “You always get real serious when you’re lyin’ to yourself,” Hangman added, smug as all hell. 

“Oh, please,” you snapped. “If I’m lying, you’re delusional. You strut around base like you’re God’s gift to naval aviation when most of the time you run on sheer dumb luck.”

Hangman’s jaw tightened. “Right. And you’re, what? The poster girl for righteous indignation? You start a fight with me every time you see me.”

“You think everything’s about you,” you said. “Typical.”

He closed the space between you in three steps, one hand cupping the back of your head.

“You really think this is the last time, honey?” Hangman murmured.

You should’ve pushed him away. You meant to push him away. Instead, you pulled him closer the second he pressed his lips to yours.

Hangman kissed you as if he were making a counterargument.

It was deliciously familiar: his lips expertly weakening your knees, his thumb sliding over your jaw. You hated the way your body answered before your mind did. Your hands were already on his shoulders, your mouth already opening against his.

He angled his head, chased your mouth, swallowed the tiny sound you made.

You broke away, breath unsteady. “You need to go,” you said, glancing at your alarm clock. “Phoenix is almost here.”

That earned you a slow, smug curl of his mouth. “Sure, Bee,” Hangman drawled. It was almost impressive how he made every nickname of yours sound patronising—even your callsign. “Whatever you say.”

He started dressing piece by piece, pulling on a tank top and then his trousers. He wasn’t touching you, but your body reacted like he was kissing his way down your neck. 

It didn’t matter how good the sex was. Or how Hangman looked right now. He was a bad habit, and you sure as hell weren’t going to let this happen again. Eventually, one of you was going to crash and burn, and it wouldn’t be you.

“See you at briefing,” you managed once he was dressed.

Hangman smirked, taking one last chance to sweep his gaze across your kiss-bitten lips. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

When he was gone, you exhaled hard.

New rules: no more tequila, no more Hangman, no more mistakes.

You walked into morning briefing with Phoenix thirty minutes later, pretending you hadn’t just made out with your sworn rival.

Hangman was already in his seat, leaning back like he owned the place. He caught your eye and smirked knowingly. You rolled your eyes and sat beside Rooster, because getting caught punching Hangman by your superior officer was frowned upon.

“Alright, today we’re running three-versus-one drills,” Maverick declared once everyone arrived. “Let’s see how many of you can work together to take me down.”

Cue the disgruntled groans. Fanboy mimed slamming his head against the table.

“You’ll be running mixed teams,” Maverick continued, ignoring your dramatics. “Team leaders have been selected for the day. First up,” he checked the clipboard, “Is Bee.”

The room looked at you in unison, nodding in collective respect. You were the only person in the room who could cut through everyone’s nonsense and get them pointed in the same direction without sounding like a drill sergeant or a babysitter. 

With you in charge, they flew cleaner, faster, and better.

That moment of silent affirmation was immediately shattered by a much louder complaint from Hangman.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, chortling. “Honey Bee?”

You rolled your eyes. “You should really work on your jealousy. It’s not very professional.”

“I’m not jealous,” Hangman fired back immediately. “I just think the team leaders shouldn’t be slow, overcautious, and afraid of a little risk.”

Phoenix kicked the back of his chair without glancing up from her pre-flight notes. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not in charge, Bagman.”

Maverick ignored all of you. “Bee, your team is Hangman, Phoenix, and Bob.”

The groans that rose from your side of the room were perfectly synchronised.

You slumped a fraction in your seat. Across from you, the light visibly faded from Bob’s eyes. Phoenix didn’t bother masking her irritation; she just kicked Hangman’s chair again, harder this time.

Beside you, Rooster whispered, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Prayers aren’t enough,” Bob said, shaking his head in resignation. 

Hangman smirked and tapped his pen on his desk. “Can’t wait.”

You resisted the urge to throw your binder at his head.

In the air, Phoenix tightened the formation around you without question, sliding neatly into place. Her and Bob’s trust in you was bone-deep. 

Hangman, on the other hand, never enjoyed taking orders from you.

“Team Leader, requesting permission to actually use my aircraft instead of admiring the scenery,” he drawled.

You smiled. “Permission denied. Stay on my wing.”

“You really get off on saying that, don’t you?”

“Only because it annoys you.”

Hangman huffed. “One day you’re gonna admit you like flying with me.”

“One day you’ll stop talking,” you replied sweetly. “And then I will actually like flying with you.”

Maverick’s voice sounded through the comms. “Team One, I hope you’re paying attention,” he said. 

Your breath sank low in your chest. It was easy to slide into the clean, dependable part of your brain that always focused when you were in the air.

“All right,” you said calmly. “Phoenix, left side containment. Bob, keep your eyes on the radar. Tell me the second you see Maverick. Hangman—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupted. “I’m the watchdog?”

You scoffed. “If I wanted a watchdog, I’d get one that barked on command, not whenever he feels like it. You’re right-flank aggression. Don’t you dare take that as permission to—”

Hangman launched himself forward like a missile. “Right flank engaged,” he announced.

“Hangman!” Phoenix barked. “You asshole!”

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw clicked. “Hangman, return to formation. Now.”

He made a low, playful hum. “Oh, Honey Bee. Your whole thing is patience. Let me be the excitement.”

“Your thing is getting everyone else killed,” you shot back. “Return to formation. That’s an order, Hangman.”

Maverick dove at you out of the sun. You rolled left, Phoenix sliding under you, the two of you syncing with the kind of ease that only months of practice could build.

“Sloppy,” Maverick observed. “Bee, you’ve got Phoenix covered, but you’re flying without a wingman.”

“Only because someone’s allergic to teamwork,” Phoenix quipped.

You steadied your breathing. “Hangman, tighten up. You’re leaving too big of a gap.”

Bob chimed in, gentle as always, “He’s coming around again—two o’clock, descending.”

You saw it cleanly: Maverick’s angle, his speed, that little off-kilter move he did to tempt you into lunging. But you’d practised this scenario before, and you were ready to face him.

“Phoenix, pinch him left,” you ordered.

“On it.”

“Bob, let’s get a lock on him.”

“Copy.”

You dipped low—just enough to look exposed and make Maverick think you’d gotten overeager. It worked. You tracked the tiny twitch in his angle, the micro-shift he always made when he thought he saw an opening.

Hangman chimed, “Careful, Bee. You’re pushing too close.”

Of course, he’d say that. King Reckless himself warning you about boundaries? You didn’t dignify it with a reply.

You just pressed the advantage, rolling smoothly back toward Maverick’s tail. 

“Come on, Bob,” you said, eyes locked on Maverick’s plane. “Give me tone.”

Phoenix shifted into position, and you knew Bob would be able to get you a tone with that clear line to Maverick. You nudged the nose of your jet another degree. Almost there. Almost—

You exhaled, ready for that sweet hit, when everything went to hell.

Hangman shot through Bob’s line without any consideration for all the work you’d put in, engines screaming loud enough to rattle your teeth.

“I got him!” he shouted.

You watched in a moment of awful, slow-motion clarity as Hangman blocked Bob’s perfect shot. Without a wingman to help you and without Bob getting a lock on Maverick, you were doomed.

“Hangman, don’t—”

The high-pitched squeal of Maverick getting a lock on you rang throughout your plane—a final, devastating blow. Maverick had slipped beneath Hangman with a single elegant roll, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment of idiocy. 

You were a sitting duck after playing bait.

“That’s a fail,” Maverick said happily, like he hadn’t crushed your soul. “Team One, you’re dead. Sorry, Bee. It would’ve worked if your entire team had followed your lead. Team Two, suit up.”

You sat in stunned silence for a beat, breathing hard as fury made your pulse spike. 

You had him. You had sacrificed yourself to give Phoenix and Bob the perfect shot, and you lost just because of Hangman’s typical self-interest.

This was why you couldn’t stand Hangman.

The flight back to the hangar was suffocating in its silence. Your jaw locked so tightly your molars ached. You weren’t sure which made you angrier: what Hangman just did in the air, or the knowledge that you’d let him put his mouth on yours that morning.

By the time you landed, your heart was pounding, your breath clipped and shallow. You tore your helmet off so fast that the chin strap scraped your jaw. You didn’t even wait for the ladder to settle before swinging a leg out, boots hitting the metal rungs with sharp, angry clanks.

You saw Hangman descending his own ladder with that maddeningly casual confidence. He didn’t seem to think he’d just blown your chance to finally best Maverick, but that wasn’t anything new.

Bob offered you a sympathetic wince before putting distance between himself and whatever volcanic event you were about to become. You just moved, boots hitting the ground with determined strides as you marched toward Hangman.

The second he spotted you, that infuriating smirk began to form. You didn’t give him the chance to finish it.

“You asshole—” you screeched, shoving Hangman so hard he toppled backwards.

“Woah, woah, woah!”

“Bee, chill!”

Rooster and Payback each caught an arm as they passed, steering you away. They were already headed out for their turn in the exercise, and the last thing they wanted was you getting written up—even if Hangman had it coming.

Bob reluctantly helped Hangman up.

“I can’t believe you—” you began, chest still heaving from anger.

“I almost had him,” Hangman interrupted, maddeningly calm.

“You sabotaged us! You flew directly into Bob’s shot!” You jabbed a finger at him, heat prickling across your face. “You just had to make it about you.”

He smirked. “It’s always about me.”

“Not when I’m in charge,” you corrected. “And not during a team exercise.”

“I was helping.”

“Yeah, helping Maverick kill me!” you snapped, your voice cracking upward into a pitch that made Rooster flinch beside you. “You undermined the chain of command,” you said. “You ignored formation. You showboated. You risked everything—”

“Look, you had a nice little plan going,” Hangman allowed. His gaze flicked to Rooster’s hand still around your arm before he dragged his attention back to you. “But if you hadn’t been crawling like you were driving your grandma to Sunday brunch earlier—”

“Do you seriously think you can blame me for this?” You stepped forward, and Rooster’s fingers tightened instinctively to keep you from closing the distance. “I played the bait, I had Maverick hooked!”

“And I had a better shot.”

You barked out a laugh so sharp it made Hangman’s shoulders tense. “Apparently, you’re delusional as well as a selfish bastard.”

“You’re welcome for trying to get us a win.”

“Us? Us?!” You yanked your arm free from Rooster, giving Hangman’s shoulders another shove. 

It made your skin crawl that you’d had him this close only hours ago. 

You laughed incredulously. “You threw the entire drill because you can’t stand someone else getting a hit first! It doesn’t matter who gets a lock on Maverick, but it does matter that you fucked it up for everyone else!”

Phoenix saved you. “Okay, let’s go hit the showers,” she said, ushering you off the tarmac. 

You let her guide you a few steps, your pulse still hammering in your throat. You turned to see Hangman raise his chin, already bracing for another round.

“You know what your problem is?” you said. “You’re terrified that if you’re not the one who gets the win, no one will bother noticing you at all. All that bravado,” you flicked a hand dismissively at Hangman, “is just you trying to outrun the idea that you’re only as good as your last solo victory. And God forbid anyone else shine for half a second.”

Hangman’s posture twitched just enough for you to notice.

“So do us all a favour,” you finished. “If you don’t want to be part of this team, put in for a transfer. At least then we won’t have to worry about you getting us killed on a real mission.”

Phoenix’s hand landed between your shoulder blades. “Bee,” she warned quietly.

Hangman exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so sharp. “Funny,” he said, his voice matching your cutting tone. “For someone who’s so damn sure she knows how to lead, you crumble the second anyone challenges you. That’s the real reason you’ll never be team leader outside of a simulation.”

His words punched harder than you expected. Not because they were true, but because he’d designed them to hurt you.

Phoenix tugged you away firmly this time, steering you off the tarmac before you could keep the argument going.

“You’re a saint for not killing him,” she muttered under her breath.

You hummed noncommittally, trying to ignore the sick twist in your stomach. 

Last night you’d had your hands in his hair, tugging him closer. Today, you’d used them to push him hard enough to lose balance. You hated being stuck in this cycle.

By the time the squad hit the Hard Deck that night, the teasing had already started.

“Here we go,” Harvard said, elbowing Yale. “Bee and Hangman. Round… whatever this is. Are we counting by years or fights?”

Coyote grinned. “I’m losing track. We should make it a drinking game. Every time they say something hurtful, take a shot. No, wait—every time there’s a physical altercation, take two shots.”

You exhaled and leaned against the rail. Everyone assumed you and Hangman would fall into the usual routine: fight, make some sarcastic quip, get aggressive, and argue until everyone went home. 

Little did they know what you used to do after all that noise.

The squadron kept teasing you, even though you’d already decided you were done with anything that involved Jake Seresin.

“Sober Bee,” Bob said, passing you the Coke you’d ordered. “I approve.”

“Thanks,” you said, accepting the glass. “I’m done getting tipsy and letting Hangman bait me into an argument.”

Bob grinned and raised his own Coke. “I admire your commitment.”

Fanboy overheard and groaned loud enough for half the bar to look over. “Sober Bee? Guess we’re starved for entertainment tonight.”

“Truly the end times,” Fritz said dramatically. 

Phoenix didn’t look up as she lined up a shot on the pool table. “Calm down, boys. It’s not like she gets drunk every week,” she defended you. 

Rooster smirked. “She’s only sober because she almost bagged Maverick today and wants to remember the glory in crystal clarity,” he said, pulling you into a side-hug so tight you almost spilt your drink.

“Your team almost had a kill shot,” Halo said, pointing at you like you were a celebrity. “If Maverick had been one second slower—”

You held up a hand. “Alright, children, let’s not rewrite the story. We didn’t bag Maverick. He Houdini’d out of our trap like he always does.”

“Yeah, but you rattled him,” Payback said, grinning proudly. “He seemed proud.”

The table erupted in agreement.

Halo gave you a look. “Face it, Bee. You’ve been flying better than all of us ever since the squadron became permanent. You’re the only one who can stay calm up against Maverick.”

“Unsettlingly calm,” Bob confirmed, nodding sagely. 

You chuckled. “Calm is good, Bob. Calm means no one ends the night with a black eye.”

“Hangman ends every night with a black eye,” Phoenix said. “Emotionally speaking.”

That earned her a round of delighted laughter.

Rooster tilted his head, conspiratorial. “Speaking of Hangman, he’s watching you.”

Coyote grinned. “He’s malfunctioning. Doesn’t know what to do when Bee isn’t screaming at him.”

You rolled your eyes at their dramatics. “I’m choosing peace from now on,” you declared. “If that means I don’t have to talk to his arrogant ass tonight, then I call that a win.”

Your squadron’s laughter, their drunken banter, and Hangman’s sidelong glances were background noise for the rest of the night. 

That is, until Bob ducked away toward the bathroom. Because who else would slide into the vacant space but the devil himself?

Hangman leaned one elbow on the rail, posture loose in that unbothered manner he’d perfected. 

“You’re behaving tonight,” he said, voice low and amused. “Should I be worried? It’s getting late. If you’re planning to start something, now’s your window.”

You held up your glass. “Sorry to disappoint. No hostile takeover scheduled.”

Hangman blinked at your Coke. “You’re sober?”

“Tragically.”

“Really?” He looked you over, slow and assessing. It infuriated you that it still made your spine tingle. “I mean, it’s not like you’re drunk all the time. But I thought after today…” You raised an eyebrow. “I just mean you aren’t usually glued to Bob all night long.”

“It’s called having a conversation,” you said. “You should try it sometime.”

His mouth curved. “I don’t do ‘conversation.’ I’m more of a hands-on communicator.”

And there it was—subtext thick enough to choke on. Heat shot low in your abdomen, annoying and immediate. You straightened your spine like that would shove the feeling back down where it belonged. 

You were frustrated at the effect Hangman’s words had on your body, and infuriated that he had noticed it. 

“Well,” you said sharply, “good thing I’m off duty. No ‘hands-on’ anything. No more… whatever this was.”

Hangman’s brows lifted in amusement. “Sure,” he said lightly. “We’re doing the whole ‘pretend to fight because people are around’ routine.”

“Hangman, I’m not pretending.” You heard the sharpness in your own voice. “We argue because we never agree on how to do our jobs. Not because other people are around.”

Hangman’s smirk faltered. “Come on, honey,” he murmured. “You’re still mad about this morning? You wanted to win your way, and I wanted to win the right way.”

“‘The right way’?” You gave a short, bitter laugh. “You tanked a team drill because you needed to be the hero.” 

“That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

Hangman leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost your cheek. “You think you’re the only tactician in that cockpit?”

“No,” you said, “but I was the team leader, and ignoring me made you a liability. When you’re a bad teammate, you’re a bad pilot.”

You knew that would hit its mark. 

Hangman’s shoulders tensed; his jaw flexed hard. His eyes darted to your Coke again, like he wished you were tipsy so he could recognise this behaviour as foreplay. But you weren’t drinking, and you weren’t starting a fight just to tear his clothes off later.

“So that’s it?” he asked, brows pulled together in mild confusion. “You’re done?”

“I told you this morning it was the last time,” you reminded him. “I meant it.”

“Thought it was just post-sleepover dramatics,” Hangman admitted.

Something flickered behind his green eyes; the memory of your warm hands on his shoulders and in his hair last night. You refused to acknowledge any of it.

He huffed out a laugh, but it came out thin. “So this is it?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a cooling-off period?”

“Nope.”

Hangman stood there, letting the silence stretch. His eyes kept drifting to your mouth in quick, guilty flicks he clearly didn’t mean to give away. You accidentally mirrored the movement before catching yourself. 

Nope. Not happening.

Hangman’s voice dropped low enough that you felt it in your ribs. “So we burn the whole thing down and walk away?”

“What’s there to burn?” you asked. “We don’t even like each other.”

His laugh was sharp and humourless. “Never said we did.”

“Exactly. I’m tired of waking up feeling like an idiot.”

Hangman nodded once, too sharply. “Right.”

Then he pivoted on his heel, swagger switched back on, and headed toward the bar to flirt with the nearest warm body. 

Bob returned a moment later, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, I think I’m done for the night. Did you want a ride home?”

You nodded, chugging the rest of your Coke. “Yeah, I’m definitely done.”

The change didn’t happen overnight. It was more of a slow radio static you kept trying to tune out until it got too loud to ignore.

A couple of days later, during morning drills, Hangman missed an opening so obvious it was practically outlined in neon. 

He was flying at Rooster’s five, perfectly positioned to take the clean shot Maverick had left open as bait, but he surprised everyone. Instead of swan-diving into the shot with that infuriating confidence, Hangman waited.

He just stayed there, keeping an eye on Maverick long enough for Payback to slip in and tag the target.

“Uh—thanks?” Payback said, confused.

Hangman just nodded. No bragging, no gloating, not even a sarcastic salute in your direction acknowledging his teamwork. Nothing. 

You felt a prickle on the back of your neck, but it was too early to understand what was wrong.

It wasn’t just the lack of gloating. Hangman was almost silent over the comms. And, fine, maybe you looked at him a half-second longer than necessary, purely because you were waiting for the punchline. He didn’t deliver one, and that alone was unsettling.

By the time you landed, you thought you’d imagined it.

But the next few days didn’t snap him back to normal. If anything, the errors got stranger. Hangman was a beat too slow here, hesitated awkwardly there. Twice, he overshot an angle he could’ve flown in his sleep. Another time, he clipped a pass so wide that Phoenix muttered about checking him for head injuries.

You noticed the other things no one else would’ve clocked, like the way his fidgeting changed. Most of the time, Hangman was all effortless swagger, fingers tapping on the table. Now his tells were silent: tight little flexes of his gloved hand, averted eyes.

Day five made it impossible to brush off.

You were halfway through a dogfighting sequence when Hangman chose the defensive angle over a ballsy opportunity he’d never ignore. His flying style was starting to resemble yours, one he often made fun of you for adopting.

You felt the disruption before you really understood it. Your instincts were reacting as they always did when Hangman was about to barrel through a gap, and you’d already adjusted your angle to make room for him. 

But Hangman didn’t take the risk, so you lost the positional advantage you’d built. Maverick slipped out of your trap and tagged Phoenix before she could blink.

On the tarmac, Phoenix stared at the sky in shock. “What the hell was that?”

Hangman pulled off his own helmet. “Didn’t want to compromise the team’s spacing.”

You and Phoenix exchanged a look that said Who is this man, and what has he done with Hangman?

But Hangman wasn’t being entirely unlike himself. He still muttered at Phoenix under his breath. He still rolled his eyes when Rooster was being overdramatic. He even smirked at you once, but it came out wrong, like his mouth had forgotten the shape of it.

You knew what Hangman’s real smirk looked like. You’d seen it on nights you pushed him far enough to end up in your bed, and you’d felt the shape of it against your neck. 

This one wasn’t it.

The next time the squadron hit the Hard Deck, you didn’t talk to him. You hadn’t interacted much since you decided to stop hooking up. There wasn’t a need for it; you weren’t friends, and you’d never tried to get to know each other.

By week two, the whole squad was convinced he had a virus of some kind.

You were running a tight-knit combat simulation when Hangman raised his hand during planning. “Maybe we keep Rooster on high cover,” he suggested. “Safer for the team that way.”

The entire room turned to look at him.

Fanboy began muttering, “He’s sick. He has to be.”

Rooster just stared at Hangman like he was possessed.

You were waiting for Hangman to throw a jab at you, bait you into arguing, or make some snide crack about your flight speed. But he never looked at you long enough for you to register anything on his face, so you had no idea what he was thinking.

After the simulation, the team regrouped on the tarmac. 

“Does anyone else think Hangman’s been replaced by an alien?” Fritz asked quietly.

Harvard sighed. “I miss when he was insufferable.”

You just sipped water and watched Hangman, who stood out of earshot, double-checking a checklist you know he’d memorised back in flight school. 

The picture of responsibility; the antithesis of Hangman.

He wasn’t doing anything, but that was the problem. Hangman’s worst qualities made him a pain in your ass, but his best qualities kept the team sharp. He was the idiot who risked someone else getting hit so he could make a clean shot.

You’d never realised how much of your own flying relied on reacting to Hangman—dodging his chaos, anticipating his arrogance. 

Without Hangman flying the way he always did, the team was failing. The little mistakes and miscommunications were starting to add up.

In week three, after a messy practice that would’ve gotten you all grounded if Cyclone had been watching, Rooster finally snapped.

“Okay,” he exclaimed, sweeping an arm toward Hangman, “what is going on with you?”

Hangman barely shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Phoenix muttered.

Bob elbowed her, reminding her to keep things light. “We’re just a little confused,” he said. “You’re not flying like yourself.”

You stood there, helmet under your arm, watching Hangman stare at the ground. His shoulders were strong as ever, but the set of them was too careful.

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t your problem, and you didn’t owe Hangman anything, but it was throwing everyone off. Even as you tried to shut it out, you couldn’t avoid the fact that the once well-oiled machine of your squadron was misfiring.

When Hangman finally looked up, his eyes flicked to you once before skittering away.

Phoenix pulled you aside and said what everyone had been tiptoeing around. “You need to talk to him.”

You frowned. “Why me?”

“Because you’re good at this,” she insisted. “You’re the one who fixes people when they’re screwing up. You did it for me at Top Gun, and you did it for Rooster last year before the Uranium mission.”

“Hangman and I don’t—”

“It doesn’t matter if you two fight every time you breathe in the same direction,” Phoenix cut in. “Someone has to get him back on track, and you’re the only person on the team he actually respects as a pilot.”

You knew she was right. Hangman was a crucial member of the team, and the team was falling apart. Unfortunately, you happened to be their glue.

Perfect. A heart-to-heart with the man you’d been avoiding for the last three weeks. What could go wrong?

You barely lasted ten minutes before approaching him. As you walked beside him after debrief, matching his pace, Hangman kept his eyes on the ground. 

Every step toward him was a battle with your frustration. Despite everything, you couldn’t let Hangman spiral. You had to be the Bee the team relied on, not the one who remembered all your reckless spats.

“Hangman,” you finally said, because someone had to say something.

Nothing. Hangman just blinked and kept walking.

You knew that slow and deliberate expression, the one he used when he was thinking too fast and trying not to show it. Only you had the dictionary of Hangman’s moves, the little provocations and glances nobody else ever endured.

Fine. You could be rude, too.

“You’re flying weird,” you declared bluntly.

Hangman exhaled. Not annoyed, more like he’d been waiting for you to bring it up so he didn’t have to. “I’m flying safe,” he corrected you.

“That’s the problem.”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk that never fully formed. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t appreciate you switching up the entire rhythm of the team without warning,” you said. “Nobody knows how to fly around you right now. Do you think that’s helping?”

Hangman didn’t answer. He just kept walking, boots scuffing against concrete, hands tight at his sides instead of swinging with that usual swagger. 

After ten paces of silence, Hangman spoke. “I don’t like the idea that my role on the team is to get people killed.”

You stopped walking. 

Hangman got a few steps ahead before he realised you weren’t beside him anymore. When he turned, his face was pinched.

You hated how much it mattered to you; how unwilling you were to let him falter, even if he’d never done the same for you.

“That’s not your job,” you said quietly.

Hangman tilted his head. “You’d know, right? Since you’ve always had such strong opinions about how I fly.”

“You make it very easy to have opinions,” you snapped.

He stepped closer, a little too casually. “Are you watching me that closely?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Didn’t say you liked what you saw.”

You glared. “For once in your life, can you not make this about your ego?”

“Is that what you think this is?” Hangman asked. His voice was calm and practised.

Your chest tightened.

“Tell me,” you said carefully, “What’s going on?”

He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m the one who takes the shots no one else can; the one who pulls the moves that’d get most people into trouble; the one who—” Hangman cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I don’t like that the only reason I’m useful to the Navy is that I’m willing to risk your lives.”

Something twisted behind your ribs. You’d said versions of that to Hangman’s face several times since you first met. You’d judged him for it, rolled your eyes at it, built half your rivalry on the assumption that he was a self-centred showboat with no concern for others.

It hadn’t occurred to you that he’d actually thought about the cost.

Suddenly, it felt like you’d been picking a fight with someone who’d already been bleeding.

Hangman scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “So I’m trying something different.”

“And it’s making the team fly worse,” you added, softer than you intended.

“Can’t win, can I?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You closed the distance. Hangman’s shoulders were tense, his posture tight.

“Hangman,” you said, and you hated the way your voice gentled automatically. “Being reckless isn’t the same thing as being careless.”

He blinked at you. It was the same look he used to give you at the Hard Deck, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to argue with you or pin you against the wall. 

“You fly instinctively,” you continued. “Aggressively. Sharply. Sometimes stupidly, yes, but you take the crazy shot so the rest of us don’t have to. That doesn’t make you a liability. It makes you important.”

His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

The air between you tightened in that annoying, hot way that made you acutely aware of the two weeks of silence and the history that came before it.

“Look,” you said, shoving the feeling aside, “you don’t have to calculate risks and think of what’s best for the team. That’s my job.”

Hangman’s head tilted. “Then what’s mine?”

You hesitated. “You’re the wildcard. You take the stupid shot, so the rest of us get the safer one. You’re still a pain in my ass,” you added, because you were well past lying to him. “None of this should give you a big head.”

Hangman chuckled. “Too late.” 

It tugged at something annoyingly low in your stomach, the same part that was overly aware that Hangman knew exactly how far he could push without hurting you. 

You exhaled. “Whatever this is,” you gestured vaguely at Hangman, “you need to knock it off. The team needs you to be you. No matter how much that seems to clash with me being me.”

Hangman didn’t answer at first. He just watched you, expression unreadable. But for the first time in weeks, he didn’t look away.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said.

You turned before he could see the way your conversation had rearranged every label you had on him.

Great, now you respected Hangman. The thought made you shiver in discomfort.

You walked toward the locker rooms, muttering “Idiot,” under your breath.

Behind you, you heard him reply, “Control freak.”

At least some things never changed.

You were pleasantly surprised that your conversation with Hangman actually made a difference. A few days later, he was flying like himself again: sharp, ballsy, and irritatingly confident—but less prone to throwing others under the bus to get his perfect shot. 

The team’s rhythm snapped back into place with the same neat click as a helmet visor locking.

There was one difference, though: you and Hangman weren’t fighting.

Sure, you still made comments under your breath, berating and cursing him. He still smirked when you screwed up the simulation timing by half a second. You still gave each other looks that said I could push your buttons if I wanted to, and you know I could.

But you never did.

Every time one of those almost-fights hovered between you, there was a strange little beat you didn’t know how to fill. Usually, you would’ve thrown a jab, or Hangman would’ve rolled his eyes. Now you both just looked away.

You pretended you weren’t thinking about it.

Maverick wanted you early to help set up for a multi-ship coordination drill, which meant deciphering his handwriting and loading flight paths before the others arrived.

When you rounded the corner of the hangar, you paused. Hangman was in the hangar beside his jet, too busy working to even notice you.

The side panel of his jet was open, one of his hands braced against the metal frame as the other tightened something inside the wiring. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, a smear of grease on his forearm, mouth set in concentration. 

Watching him like that made you feel like you’d stumbled onto something private. 

“Wow,” you said. “You’re doing manual labour? What’s next, hell freezing over?”

Hangman just glanced back, gave you an unimpressed once-over, and returned to the wiring. “Morning to you, too, Honey Bee.” 

You stepped closer before you realised it, drawn in by his quiet focus. “What are you doing?” 

He ignored your question, “Hand me the wrench.”

You blinked. “You’re trusting me with tools?”

“Trusting you to pass them to me,” he corrected. “Not use them.”

You found the wrench on the cart and gave it to him. Your fingers brushed, but neither of you acknowledged it. Hangman tightened something with clean, practised movements.

“Just some quick adjustments and tightening,” he said. “Saves the mechanics a few minutes.”

You stared. “Do you do this often?”

“Whenever I can spare a minute.” Hangman shrugged. “If something feels off in the air, I want to know I didn’t ignore it on the ground.”

You hadn’t expected that from him.

“That…” You hesitated. “…sounds like something I’d say.”

Hangman paused for half a second. Then he cleared his throat and kept tightening the bolt. You didn’t see the faint grin he tried to smother as he angled his face toward the jet.

He snapped the panel shut, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned to you. “You’re here early. Maverick rope you into cone duty?”

“He needs someone who can read the runes he calls handwriting,” you said. “Apparently it’s me.”

Hangman snorted. “Good luck with that.”

You nodded, then added, “I’m convinced it’s going to get the Navy in legal trouble one day.”

He cracked a genuine smile at that. You felt something in your chest unclench in relief. Hangman wasn’t quite back to normal with you, but at least he looked more like himself.

“So, you’re an unofficial mechanic now?” you asked.

“Only for the boring stuff.” He shook out his hand, though it looked suspiciously like he was shaking off nerves. “And before you say it, I’m not doing it to impress anyone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I know. If you were trying to impress someone, you’d be doing it shirtless.”

Hangman made a face. “It’s six in the morning.”

“Never stopped you before.”

You both chuckled. Yours fading a little quicker, Hangman’s dragged half a beat longer. The lack of unity made that extra moment stretch awkwardly.

You were both acutely aware of how new laughing without menace was for you both. You couldn’t remember if you’d ever had a conversation with Hangman that didn’t end with someone storming off or tossing insults like grenades. 

“So,” he said, tilting his head, studying you with that too-familiar focus. “Why’d Maverick need you early?”

“He likes to make me suffer,” you said. “It’s character building.”

Hangman scoffed. “You don’t need more character. You’re already annoying enough.”

His words didn’t land with their usual edge. Instead, he looked strangely friendly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to tease you gently yet.

“Says the man who colour-codes his clothes,” you shot back.

“I do not—”

You raised one eyebrow.

“…fine,” he muttered. “Once.”

“You mean you only got caught once.”

“By you,” he said.

You laughed, surprised because it wasn’t the you’re-an-idiot you usually aimed at him. You couldn’t remember the last time someone made you laugh like that, and you definitely hadn’t expected it to be Hangman.

He looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that he was laughing too, like he couldn’t help himself.

You started heading towards Maverick’s office together. 

“Honestly, I’m happy to be early,” you admitted. “Gets me out of 5am pickleball practice.”

Hangman groaned. “Don’t say pickleball to me. Coyote’s trying to recruit me like it’s a cult.”

“It is a cult,” you agreed vehemently. “If one more person asks me to ‘just try a game,’ I’m joining the Air Force.”

He smirked. “So we’re hiding out in the hangar until the cult loses interest?”

“That’s the plan.”

Hangman watched you with mild amusement, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. “Weird,” he said.

“What is?”

“Talking to you without you threatening to throw me off the carrier.”

You fought a smile. “I still might.”

“Good,” he said. “I was worried you might’ve gone soft.”

“You just admitted that you worry about me,” you pointed out, smug. “At this rate, I should be exhausted from how often I’m running through your mind.” 

Hangman huffed a laugh at your comeback, shaking his head. 

“Seriously, Hangman,” you went on. “Rent-free. Have some shame.”

“That sounds exactly like something my little sister would’ve said to piss me off growing up.”

You blinked. “Weird. Didn’t think I’d have anything in common with anyone in the Seresin gene pool.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “My sisters don’t let me get away with anything, and they definitely don’t take my shit.”

“You have sisters?”

“Both younger and a lot smarter than me.”

“That tracks.”

Hangman nudged your shoulder with his. “What about you?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m close with my family. I just don’t see them much.”

“Mine complain about the beach constantly when they visit,” he said. “Guess that’s what happens when you grow up far from it.”

“Right,” you said, smirking. “Texas farm boy. I get it, though. I used to get seasick just looking at boats—being on them was hell.”

Hangman chuckled, agreeing. “First deployment, I used to skip meals so I wouldn’t throw up.”

“Seriously?” you asked, a laugh already bubbling.

“Seriously,” he said. “I learned the hard way when my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt an Admiral.”

You burst into unrestrained laughter, and Hangman joined in naturally. For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed. It wasn’t even awkward, just surprisingly pleasant. 

“I should go find Maverick,” you finally said, glancing at your watch.

“Right,” Hangman said. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

You walked side by side to the other end of the hangar. 

You’d known Hangman for years, just not this version. You knew the pilot, the competitor, the guy who made a hobby out of getting under your skin. You knew the version you saw in the air and the one you fell into at night when you both should’ve known better.

You’d spent so long assuming Hangman was all sharp corners and ego. But you enjoyed it when you weren’t fighting. For years, you’d both been too busy competing to ever actually talk. Now that you had, every assumption felt a little off.

You didn’t make it three steps into the Hard Deck before your squadron shouted your name. It was loud enough that Penny shot all of you a warning look over the bar, which Fanboy ignored by whistling loudly.

“Beeeeee!” Coyote sang. “Our favourite early bird.”

Hangman, sitting beside him, smirked. “Maverick had her running errands before sunrise. You know him, never met a chore he wouldn’t outsource.”

The table dissolved in giggles. You dropped into the empty chair across from Hangman, who looked pleased that he’d made you laugh. 

“You think Maverick forces me out of bed just to annoy me?” you said lightly. “That was only half the reason tonight.”

Phoenix leaned forward. “If he had you in early for anything other than his horrible handwriting, it must’ve been important.”

You shrugged. “Well… he wanted to tell me before he told anyone else.” You tried to make it sound casual, even though your stomach had been doing Olympic-level gymnastics ever since.

“Tell you what?” Rooster asked, brow raised.

“Cyclone made me team leader for the upcoming mission,” you said, and the second the words left your mouth, the table went still.

And then all of them absolutely erupted.

Phoenix slapped both palms on the table so hard the salt and pepper shakers toppled over. Coyote launched halfway out of his seat. Rooster choked on nothing. Even Bob pushed his chair back in pure shock.

“Bee, holy shit!”

“Finally!”

You laughed as Phoenix grabbed your shoulders and shook you like a maraca. Bob beamed at you with shiny eyes, and you caught Hangman’s expression softening into genuine satisfaction.

“Mav said Cyclone was watching our last drill and thought it was time someone other than Mav took the lead,” you said. “And, more importantly, he already told Penny that drinks are on him tonight.”

Phoenix raised her beer. “To Bee! Our fearless leader!”

You felt your face warm despite trying to play it cool. You all toasted, clinking bottles and glasses happily. Somewhere in the noise, Hangman’s “to Bee” came in just half a second late.

Your eyes flicked to him on instinct, catching the faint smile he smoothed away before anyone noticed it. Something low in your stomach tightened.

Everyone was in a fantastic mood for the rest of the night.

You meant to enjoy the party, but you kept noticing things you’d never really paused to see before; things that had been happening right under your nose while you were too busy hating Hangman.

Coyote dragged you into a darts game, and you immediately sent your first throw wide enough to make him wince. He laughed, nudging your shoulder, and you were lining up your second shot when Phoenix’s voice cut across the bar.

“No way, Hangman, that’s a scratch,” she said, sharp, competitive, and fond.

“That’s called natural talent,” Hangman argued, grinning widely.

“You clipped the eight-ball.”

“I nudged the eight-ball.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes and reset the shot while Hangman leaned against the table, amused and unbothered. 

Your eyes tracked the loose curve of his posture before you caught yourself and looked away.

Hangman ceded the table with a little salute after Phoenix sank her next two shots in a row. She smirked, victorious. He smirked back, gracious enough to let her have it.

A little later, Rooster roped you into picking a song for the jukebox. As you scrolled through the options, he hovered like he wasn’t trying to influence you. You elbowed him, he shoved your shoulder, and you landed on a song you both liked.

When you turned around, you saw Hangman and Bob at the end of the bar. They were joking back and forth, Hangman pretending to be offended while Bob said something bone-dry enough that Hangman let out a loud cackle.

Your eyes tracked the shape of his grin like you were memorising it.

It was easy and comfortable in a way you hadn’t realised they’d become over the last ten months since the squadron became permanent.

“I’ll get the next round,” Hangman said like it was non-negotiable, patting Bob’s shoulder and grabbing nearby empty bottles with one hand.

Hangman was still arrogant, still insufferable, still absolutely capable of grinding your nerves into dust. But the more you looked, the more you noticed all the things you’d never given him credit for. 

As you let your eyes linger on his hands picking up the next round, you missed the way Hangman’s gaze kept flicking back to you. It was as if he was checking if you were still there, because he didn’t want to miss anything you did.

You forced yourself to look away before you started thinking about those hands in ways you absolutely shouldn’t.

When Fanboy’s attempt at doing a cartwheel forced you to rescue an airborne beer bottle an hour later, you went to the bar to get another round.

Penny smiled. “Congratulations, Bee.”

“Thank you,” you said, grinning.

Before you could ask for the drinks, someone slid into the empty space beside you. A tall, objectively attractive man you didn’t recognise, with an easygoing smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to interrupt. But your group’s been celebrating you for the last twenty minutes, so I had to come over and say congrats.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Thank you.”

He laughed. “You Navy pilots? Or just very enthusiastic bar patrons?”

You talked for a few minutes, just light, friendly small talk. The guy flirted softly, and you didn’t shut him down. You recommended your favourite coffee shop, and you politely laughed when he asked if you’d be there this week.

Across the bar, Phoenix slapped Rooster’s arm.

Yale murmured, “Uh oh.”

They turned to Hangman, waiting for the inevitable snark. The classic, she’s not worth your time, man, or she’s a walking red flag. 

Hangman surprised them all by saying nothing. His jaw was locked to hide the fact that seeing you flirt with some guy was affecting him.

If you’d been looking his way, you would’ve seen how carefully he inhaled and exhaled, like he was reminding his body to behave.

The guy at the bar leaned in a little—not close enough to overstep, but close enough to show he was interested—and that was enough for Hangman.

He didn’t storm over or square his shoulders. Hangman walked like a man doing something he had decided on long before his brain caught up.

“Hey, honey,” he said smoothly, sliding into your space.

The nickname, one you’d only heard him use condescendingly, was sugared and affectionate. It was claiming you in a way that made your blood warm.

Your heartbeat tripped at the sudden proximity. Partly because you knew what Hangman was doing and weren’t sure how you felt about it, but also because this was familiar territory.

Only this time, he wasn’t getting close to you to pick a fight.

Hangman gave the stranger a polite nod. “Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to make sure you had help carrying all the drinks back.”

The guy blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Oh, we’re not—” you started.

“Yeah, we are,” Hangman insisted.

Your heartbeat jumped hard enough that you felt it in your throat. Hangman wasn’t wearing the smug, heat-soaked look he usually used when he wanted to get under your skin. His eyes held yours like he was quietly pleading with you to hear him out.

The man picked up his drink and backed off with an easy smile. “Nice meeting you.”

You didn’t answer. Your focus was on Hangman. 

“What was that?” you asked.

Hangman took a slow breath, gaze never leaving yours. “Let’s step outside.”

“I’m not—”

“Please, Bee.” His tone wasn’t commanding but startlingly sincere. 

You followed him out to the back deck, where the ocean air cut through the heat of the bar. You crossed your arms, more for balance than defence, and took half a step back.

“You don’t get to swoop in like that,” you said, pulse still unsettled. “I wasn’t interested, but you don’t—”

“I know.” Hangman rubbed a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight. “I know you weren’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because I didn’t like watching it.”

There it was. A truth Hangman would typically have buried under three layers of arrogance.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I know.” His voice dropped into something quiet and aching. “But I was.”

Hangman stepped closer, not boxing you in, but closing the distance slowly. Close enough that you felt the warmth of his body through the cold wind.

“You and I…” He shook his head. “We spent so long fighting that it felt like the only way we knew how to talk. And it worked for a while. Until it didn’t.”

You didn’t move—your body refused.

“And once we actually talked, it changed things for me.” His voice softened. “I know I can be arrogant, and stubborn, and a pain in your ass. I know you have every reason to think I’m not worth the trouble.”

Hangman’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“But I also know that the more I get to know you, the more I’m sure I want you. And not the way I used to have you, when we’d argued so much that sex was the only way to relieve the tension.” He steadied himself. “I want you for real.”

You inhaled so sharply it was almost a gasp.

“I know I’ve messed up, and I know you’re not looking for a guy to fix. I’m not asking you for anything right now. I just…” Hangman hesitated, then confessed, “I think I could deserve you, if you gave me the chance to prove it.”

The wind rustled the string lights overhead. Inside, the jukebox changed songs again, its sound muffled through the glass.

You stepped toward him.

Hangman’s breath caught when you did. He didn’t reach out to you, even though you were more than close enough now. He just stood, waiting, eyes tracking every inch you moved.

“Jake,” you said quietly. 

His name on your lips did something to him. His chest rose sharply, his lips parted just barely, and his whole posture went attentive in a way that was entirely open to you.

“I don’t know what this is,” you told him honestly. “I don’t know how to do this with you.”

“Me neither.”

“But I want to try,” you said.

The breath he let out was shaky and reverent, like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

You didn’t rush it. You stepped close enough that your chest brushed Jake’s, and he dipped his head just slightly, waiting for permission. Lifting your hands, you curled them into the front of his shirt, and that was all he needed.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding himself together for weeks.

At first, it was restrained, almost careful, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he went too fast. His mouth was warm, steady, patient in a way he’d never kissed you before. He wasn’t trying to win, or provoke, or dominate.

And then you kissed him back.

Jake’s restraint broke like a wave. His hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse, not pulling you closer but holding you like you were something precious.

This kiss wasn’t like the drunken, angry ones in the dark corners of parking lots or your hallway or his truck. Those had been frantic, messy, born of adrenaline and frustration and the fastest route to forgetting why you hated each other.

You kissed him back with equal parts want and disbelief.

You slid a hand up the solid line of his chest and into his hair, and Jake groaned quietly against your mouth, pulling you flush to him. He angled his head, deepening the kiss with a low sound in his throat that almost made your knees buckle. 

Heat shot down your spine so fast you felt dizzy, the world narrowing to nothing but the press of Jake’s mouth and the way his fingers flexed at your waist.

He knew you too well—how you liked pressure, where you liked tension, the exact moment to ease off just enough to make you chase him.

When his tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, your stomach tightened hard enough that you had to brace your hand on his shoulder to keep steady. Jake responded instantly, tilting you back a fraction, kissing you deeper, slower, hotter. 

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard but steady, you kept your forehead pressed to his because pulling back felt wrong.

Jake whispered, voice rough, “Honey?”

You whispered back, breath still uneven, “Yeah?”

“That was…” He exhaled, chest rising against yours. “Wow.”

You huffed a breath of a laugh against his lips. “Shut up.”

Your pulse still wouldn’t settle. You weren’t sure it ever would around him again.

Inside the Hard Deck, the squadron had gone dead silent at the sight of you two through the back window. 

Payback slowly lowered his beer, eyes huge. “What the hell—”

Phoenix slapped a hand flat on the table so hard the darts jumped. “Absolutely not! No, just no!”

Rooster pointed at the window like a man who had just witnessed a crime. “Am I have a stroke?! Someone check my pulse. I think I smell burnt toast—”

Fanboy gasped, clutching the bartop. “I feel light-headed…”

Bob, who had been quietly sipping his Coke through a paper straw, shrugged. “I mean… they’ve been hooking up for, like, six months, right?”

Every single head snapped toward him in eerie, synchronised horror.

“What?!” the table exploded.

Bob blinked at all of them, unbothered. “I thought it was obvious. Why do you think they always fight until we’ve all left the Hard Deck?”

Outside, Jake huffed a quiet laugh, his forehead still against yours. You slid your hands down, looping them loosely behind his shoulders.

“Jake?” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth despite your best efforts. “You gonna drag me home and finish what we started?”

You meant it half as a joke, half as a challenge. 

“No,” he said, voice steady in a way that made something low in your stomach tighten. “I’m gonna take you out.”

That pulled you up short. “Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he said, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a barely-there pass. “A real one. Dinner. Walking you to your door. The whole thing.” His smile deepened. “We already know we’re good together in bed. Now I get to show you I’m worth more than that.”

You blinked. “You… want to take me on a date.”

“I want to take you on a hundred,” Jake murmured. “But I figured I should start with one.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re being serious,” you said quietly.

“I’m being very serious,” Jake said, meeting your eyes without flinching. “You gave me a chance. I’m not gonna waste it.”

Something warm and helpless pulled in your chest. You pressed your forehead to Jake’s again, smiling widely.