#justwaveandsmile

Friday night. The Hard Deck was packed, and you were nursing a beer while Phoenix told a story about Rooster’s latest landing that had gone slightly sideways.

“I’m telling you, he almost clipped the carrier deck. Swears up and down it was textbook, but I was right there—”

“It sounds like Rooster,” you said, grinning. You’d met Natasha—Phoenix—during your first week since you moved bases. She’d shown up at the tower to dispute a training score and you’d liked her immediately: sharp, no-nonsense, with a wicked sense of humor. She’d taken you under her wing, introducing you to the good coffee spots on base and insisting you needed to “actually have a life outside of work.”

Hence the Hard Deck on a Friday night.

“Speak of the devil,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the door where Rooster had just walked in with a few other pilots. “Brace yourself. When the squad’s all here, it gets loud.”

You watched as they made their way to the pool table—Rooster with his ridiculous mustache, Fanboy excitedly explaining something while Bob listened with quiet interest, Payback and Coyote already bantering back and forth about who gets next game, and—

And a blond guy who moved through the bar like he owned it, that easy confidence in every step.

“That’s Hangman,” Phoenix said, following your gaze. Her voice had gone slightly flat. “Total player. Goes through women like he’s collecting trading cards. We fly together, but that doesn’t mean I like him.”

“You work with him?”

“Unfortunately. He’s a good pilot—one of the best, actually—but his ego could fill a hangar.” She took a sip of her beer. “Why? Please tell me you’re not interested.”

“No, I just—” You paused as Hangman laughed at something Rooster said, and that sound.

You knew that sound.

“Oh God,” you said.

“What?”

“That’s Dagger Two.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened. “Wait. That’s your chatty pilot? The one who keeps trying to flirt over comms?”

“I wouldn’t say flirt—”

“You literally told me yesterday, and I quote, ‘if Dagger Two makes one more comment about my voice, I’m going to revoke his radio privileges.’”

“That was— I was exaggerating.”

Phoenix was grinning now, clearly delighted. “Oh, this is perfect. Hangman has no idea he’s been annoying you for two weeks.”

“Nat, don’t—”

But Rooster had spotted Phoenix and was waving her over. Phoenix grabbed your arm, hauling you up. “Come on. This is going to be hilarious.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

The group made room as you approached, Rooster clapping Phoenix on the shoulder. “Took you long enough. We’re already getting destroyed at pool and need backup.”

“That’s because Hangman keeps calling impossible shots,” Bob said with a small smile on his face.

“They’re not impossible if I make them,” the blond guy—Hangman—said. Then his eyes landed on you, and that easy smile appeared. “Hey. I’m Jake. Don’t think we’ve met.”

Phoenix was practically vibrating with suppressed glee. “Jake, this is my friend. She just transferred here a couple weeks ago. Works in the tower.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, extending your hand.

The moment you spoke, Jake’s expression shifted. His eyes widened, his head tilted slightly, and you watched recognition dawn across his face like sunrise.

“Wait,” he said, his grin spreading slowly as he shook your hand, holding it maybe a second longer than necessary. “‘Your heart will survive.’ Tower. It’s you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you absolutely do.” He stepped closer, completely ignoring Phoenix’s delighted snort. “That voice. Two weeks I’ve been listening to that voice, and here you are.”

“I told you to focus on flying.”

His laugh was the same one you’d heard over the radio a dozen times, but richer in person, warmer. “This is— I can’t believe this. Here I was thinking Tower was some grizzled veteran who’d seen it all, and instead you’re—” He stopped himself, but his eyes said the rest.

Rooster leaned over to Phoenix. “Is he… blustering?”

“I think he might be,” Phoenix whispered back, looking fascinated.

Coyote sidled up next to Jake with a knowing smirk. “Hangman’s actually speechless. Someone write this down.”

“I’m not speechless,” Jake protested.

“You kind of are, man,” Fanboy added, grinning as he chalked his pool cue.

You studied Jake for a moment. He seemed genuinely surprised, genuinely pleased. But Phoenix had warned you.

Player. Heartbreaker. The kind of guy who knew exactly what to say.

“Well, now you know,” you said. “Mystery solved.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I have one.”

“Another one, then. After that one.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He didn’t push, just settled back against the pool table like he had all the time in the world, though his eyes kept finding their way back to you.

“Fair enough. You any good at pool? We could use someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

“She’s terrible at pool,” Phoenix interjected, grinning. “But I’ll play. You and me, Hangman. Let’s see if you can back up all that talk.”

As Phoenix and Jake started setting up, Rooster moved closer to you.

“Fair warning: those two are competitive. This might get ugly.”

“Nat can handle herself.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about Phoenix.”

You glanced at him, confused, but he was already watching Jake, who kept looking over at you between shots, like he was making sure you were still there.

You thought that would be the end of it. One conversation, curiosity satisfied, everyone moves on.

You were wrong.

Jake started showing up. Not in an obvious way—he was too smart for that. He’d just… appear. At the coffee cart you frequented before your shift. At the Hard Deck on Friday nights, always gravitating toward wherever you and Phoenix were sitting. At the O-Club when Nat dragged you to some mandatory fun event.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he’d say, like it was pure coincidence.

“It’s the base coffee cart, Hangman. Not exactly a secret location.”

“Jake. You can call me Jake, you know. When we’re not on comms.”

“I’m aware of your name.”

“Just making sure. You want anything? I’m buying.”

“I can buy my own coffee.”

“I know you can. I’m asking if you want me to.”

You’d usually say no. Sometimes you’d say yes, just to see what he’d do. He never made it weird, never acted like you owed him anything. Just handed you the coffee and asked about your day.

Phoenix noticed immediately.

“He’s like a puppy,” she said one afternoon, watching Jake walk away after delivering your usual order without you even asking. “A very tall, very blond puppy.”

“He’s just being friendly.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why he hasn’t looked at another woman in three weeks?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Hangman—king of the one-night stand, collector of phone numbers—hasn’t so much as glanced at anyone else since he met you.” Phoenix leaned back in her chair. “It’s actually kind of freaking the guys out.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not. Ask Bob. He’s been keeping track.”

You refused to think too hard about what that might mean.

Over the radio, though, nothing changed.

“Tower, Dagger Two. How’s your morning?”

“Dagger Two, maintain radio discipline. You’re clear for takeoff, runway two-niner.”

“Copy that, Tower. Runway two-niner. Just saying, hope you liked the coffee earlier.”

“Dagger Two.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

It was Rooster who brought it up first during their next squadron meeting.

They were at the Hard Deck, the usual Friday night crowd, and Jake had barely glanced at the brunette who’d been making eyes at him from the bar for the past twenty minutes.

“Hangman,” Rooster said, setting down his beer. “You feeling okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

“Because that girl over there is definitely interested and you haven’t even looked at her.”

Jake glanced over briefly. “Not my type.”

Phoenix nearly choked on her drink. “Since when do you have a type beyond ‘breathing’?”

“Funny.”

But then the door opened, and Jake’s attention snapped toward it immediately. His whole posture changed—straightened up, ran a hand through his hair.

You walked in, laughing at something on your phone, completely oblivious.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix said, even though she’d seen this exact reaction a dozen times now. “You’ve got it so bad.”

“What?”

“You’re making moon eyes at my friend.”

“I don’t make moon eyes.”

“You absolutely make moon eyes,” Rooster said, grinning now. “How long has this been going on?”

“There’s nothing going on. We’re friends.”

Bob, who’d been quietly watching the exchange, spoke up. “Friends.” There was a knowing quality to his tone, subtle but unmistakable.

Jake shot him a look. “Yes, Bob. Friends. Some of us have those.”

“Some of us don’t turn into golden retrievers every time those friends walk into a room,” Payback added.

Coyote leaned back in his chair, arms crossed with an amused grin. “I’ve known you for years, Hangman. Never seen you like this.”

“Like what?” Jake asked defensively.

“Like you actually care,” Fanboy chimed in, exchanging a look with Coyote. “It’s weird. But also kind of nice?”

“I hate all of you.”

Phoenix was watching him with a calculating expression. “You’re serious. You actually like her.”

“Of course I like her. She’s—” He stopped, seeming to realize he was about to prove their point. “She’s nice.”

“She is nice,” Phoenix agreed. “She’s also one of my best friends, which means if you hurt her, I’ll make sure your callsign gets changed to Grounded.”

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s… actually terrifying.”

“Good. It should be.” Phoenix leaned forward, her expression serious. “I’m not kidding, Hangman. She’s not one of your usual conquests. She’s—”

“I know,” Jake said, and his voice had gone quiet. Serious. “Trust me, I know. Why do you think I haven’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m trying to do this right.”

Phoenix blinked. In all the years she’d known Jacob Seresin, she’d never heard him sound like that. “Oh. You’re really serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” She studied him for a long moment. “Okay. But I’m still watching you.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

But he was already up, making his way across the bar to where you stood.

You saw him coming and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Which was becoming a problem, actually—how much you didn’t mind when he showed up.

“Hey,” Jake said, that easy smile in place but something softer in his eyes. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“It’s Friday. I’m here most Fridays with Nat.”

“Right. Yeah. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’m about to order one.”

“So that’s a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, but you were fighting a smile. “Sure, Hangman. You can buy me a drink.”

His whole face lit up like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery.

From across the bar, you caught Phoenix watching with a knowing smirk. You made a mental note to interrogate her later about whatever that look meant.

The thing was, Jake was… different than you’d expected.

Sure, he had the callsign and the reputation and the smile that could probably stop traffic. But when it was just the two of you—usually with Phoenix somewhere nearby, watching like a protective older sister—he wasn’t Hangman.

He was just Jake.

He asked questions—real ones, not the smooth-talking kind meant to impress. He wanted to know about your hometown, your family, why you’d joined the Navy, what you wanted to do after. He listened when you talked, actually listened, his green eyes focused on you like you were the only person in the world.

And he told you things too. About growing up in Texas, about learning to fly, about why he flew the way he did.

“I know what they say about me,” he said one night. You and Phoenix had stayed late at the Hard Deck, and she’d stepped away to take a call, leaving you and Jake alone on the deck overlooking the beach. “Hangman. Like I leave people hanging.”

“Do you?”

“In the air? Yeah. Sometimes. Because I know I’m good enough to get the job done alone.” He picked up a handful of sand that had blown onto the deck railing, let it run through his fingers. “But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because… if I’m the one taking the risk, then no one else has to.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the way his jaw tightened, the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“That’s lonely,” you said quietly.

He did look at you then. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Something shifted between you in that moment. Something that made your chest feel tight and your breath catch and oh no, you thought.

Oh no.

Phoenix returned a moment later, taking one look at both of you and raising an eyebrow. But she didn’t say anything, just settled back into her chair and changed the subject.

Later, when Jake had left and it was just the two of you walking to your cars, Phoenix bumped your shoulder.

“So.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Nat.”

“He’s different with you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s actually trying to be a real person instead of just Hangman.” She paused. “I know I gave you the warning about him. And I meant it—the old Hangman, the one who went through women like they didn’t matter? I’d tell you to run. But this…” She shook her head. “Maybe people can change.”

“You think I should give him a chance?”

“I think you already are. I’m just saying… I wouldn’t hate it. If you two figured things out.” She grinned. “But if he screws it up, I get to kick his ass in training. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“He’s got it bad,” Rooster said two months later, watching Jake watch you from across the rec room. You were completely focused on the tablet in your hands, reviewing flight logs while Phoenix looked over your shoulder and pointed something out. Oblivious.

“It’s kind of painful to witness,” Fanboy agreed, shaking his head. “How long has this been going on?”

After a short pause, Bob spoke. "Three months? Maybe four?"

“And he hasn’t even tried anything?”

Phoenix, who’d joined them, shook her head. “Nope. He just… follows her around like a puppy. Gets her coffee. Listens to her talk about radio frequencies like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Hangman?” Rooster asked.

“Right?” Phoenix settled into a chair, still watching. “I gave him the shovel talk, like, six times. Told him if he hurt her, I’d never forgive him. You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said he’d never forgive himself either.”

“Damn,” Payback said. “He’s really gone.”

Coyote whistled low. “Never thought I’d see the day. Hangman actually settling down for someone.”

“He’s going to crash and burn,” Rooster said. “She has no idea how he feels.”

“Oh, she knows,” Phoenix said. “She just doesn’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Hangman. And she’s…” Phoenix paused, trying to find the right words. “She’s careful. She doesn’t trust easy. And Jake’s reputation isn’t exactly helping.”

"I think it's nice. He's actually trying," Bob said, watching as Jake moved closer to you, saying something that made you laugh.

“He better be,” Phoenix said. “Because if he breaks her heart, reputation change or not, I’ll break him.”

You didn’t believe it.

Sure, Jake was… around. A lot. And yes, he’d stopped flirting with other women—Phoenix had confirmed that, even seemed pleased about it. And okay, maybe your heart did this stupid flutter thing every time you heard his voice over the radio or saw him waiting by the coffee cart in the morning.

But Jacob Seresin didn’t do relationships. Everyone knew that. This was just… friendly. He was being friendly.

The fact that his hand would linger when he handed you your coffee, or that he’d started texting you good morning every day, or that he’d shown up with soup when you’d mentioned feeling under the weather—that was just how he was.

Probably.

“You’re an idiot,” Phoenix said, not for the first time. You were in her apartment, having your weekly movie night, and she’d paused the film just to give you this look.

“I’m realistic.”

“He brought you soup!”

“He’s nice.”

“He’s not nice! He’s Hangman! He’s only nice to you!” Phoenix grabbed your shoulders. “Listen to me. I have known that man for years. Years. I have seen him go through women without learning their last names. I have watched him charm his way out of consequences and into beds without a second thought. And I have never—not once—seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

“Nat, really—”

“I’m serious. He’s different now. With you. And I know his reputation scares you, but people can change. He’s changing. For you.”

You wanted to believe her. God, you wanted to believe her.

But wanting something and trusting it were two very different things.

It was a Wednesday when everything changed.

You were in the tower, middle of a routine training exercise, when the alarm sounded.

“Dagger Two, Dagger Two, this is Tower. We have reports of a bird strike. What’s your status?”

Static.

Your heart stopped.

“Dagger Two, come in.”

More static, then: “Tower, Dagger Two. Confirm bird strike. Engine two is out. Engine one is… not looking great.”

His voice was steady, professional. But you could hear it underneath—the tension.

“Copy, Dagger Two. What’s your altitude?”

“Fifteen thousand and dropping. Trying to restart engine one.”

You pulled up his position, calculated distances, ran through every protocol you knew. Your supervisor was already moving, picking up the direct line to Base Operations.

“Ops, this is Tower. We have an in-flight emergency. Dagger Two, bird strike, dual engine failure. Pilot is attempting emergency landing at auxiliary field two-zero miles northeast. Launch crash crew and medical.”

Phoenix’s voice crackled through on the emergency channel. “Hangman, this is Phoenix. I’ve got Bob with me. We’re tracking you. Talk to us.”

“Phoenix, I’m losing altitude fast. Not gonna make it back to base.”

“Dagger Two, nearest divert is North Island. Can you make it?” you said, keeping your voice level through sheer force of will.

“Negative, Tower. I’m not going to make it to North Island.”

Your breath caught. “Dagger Two, there’s an auxiliary airfield twenty miles northeast of your position. Sending coordinates now.”

“Copy, I see it.”

Your supervisor was coordinating on the other line. “Crash crew is rolling. Ambulance and fire truck en route to auxiliary field. ETA twelve minutes.”

“Jake.” You never used his name over comms. Ever. “You can make it.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Yeah. Yeah, I can make it.”

The next ten minutes were the longest of your life. You talked him through every step, keeping your voice steady even though your hands were shaking. Phoenix stayed on comms, her voice calm and professional, while Bob fed Jake technical readouts in that steady, measured way of his.

When he finally confirmed wheels down, safe, you had to sit down before your legs gave out.

Your supervisor touched your shoulder. “Good work. Crash crew is on scene. Medical is evaluating him now. They’ll transport him back to North Island by ground.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Phoenix’s voice came through your headset. “Tower, Dagger Three. Bob and I are RTB. Ground crew has Hangman. They’re bringing him back by ambulance as a precaution.”

“Copy, Dagger Three,” you managed. “Safe flight.”

“Tower?” Phoenix’s voice was gentler now. “He’s okay. He’s safe. And knowing the squad, they’re probably already gathering at the medical building.”

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Copy that.”

“You should probably be there too.”

You shouldn’t have left your post early. You definitely shouldn’t have been standing outside the base medical building with the entire Dagger Squad all waiting restlessly.

But there you were.

The ambulance pulled up, lights flashing but no siren, and the moment the rear doors opened, Jake climbed out on his own power, waving off the corpsman who tried to help him. He looked exhausted and rattled but whole.

His eyes scanned the group and found yours immediately.

Phoenix nudged Bob, who gave a small nod and stepped back without a word. “Come on. Let’s give them a minute.”

“The rest of you too,” Rooster said, herding the remaining Daggers toward the building entrance. “Move it.”

“But I want to see—” Coyote started.

“Move,” Phoenix said, her tone brooking no argument.

Then they were gone, and it was just you and Jake in the parking lot.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself.”

“Thanks for—”

You closed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around him. He froze for half a second, then his arms came around you, tight and sure.

“You scared me,” you said into his shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If you ever do that again—”

“I won’t.” His hand came up to the back of your head, cradling it gently. “I promise.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were so green, so close, and he was looking at you like…

Oh.

Oh.

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again,” he said quietly. “And all I could think was that I never told you—”

“Jake.”

“I’m in love with you.” The words came spilling out in a rush. “I know you probably don’t believe me, and I know I have a reputation, but I swear, I have never felt like this about anyone. You make me want to be better. You make me want to be the guy you see when you look at me. And if you don’t feel the same way, that’s okay, I just needed you to know—”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was soft and deliberate, your hand coming up to cup his jaw as you rose onto your toes. He made a sound—somewhere between relief and wonder—and pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the small of your back while the other cradled your face like you were something precious. The world narrowed to just this: the warmth of his mouth on yours, the way he held you like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment, the taste of salt from tears you hadn’t realized you’d shed.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead dropped to rest against yours. His eyes were still closed, and when he opened them, they were bright with something that looked like reverence.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You terrify me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do casual. I can’t— I’m not built for that.”

“Good. Because there’s nothing casual about the way I feel about you.” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, gentle and reverent. “I’m all in. Have been for months. Everyone knows it. Phoenix has threatened me at least six times. I don’t care. I’d let her threaten me every day for the rest of my life if it meant I got to keep bringing you coffee and hearing you tell me to maintain radio discipline and just… being around you.”

You laughed, slightly watery. “You’re really in love with me?”

“So much it’s actually embarrassing. Have been since the first time I heard your voice over the radio. When I finally saw you at the Hard Deck and realized the voice I’d been falling for had a face to match…” He shook his head. “I was done for.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m scared,” you said again. “But I— I think I might be in love with you too. Which is terrifying because I didn’t think that was possible four months ago.”

His smile was incandescent, and then he was kissing you again—softer this time, sweeter, like a promise. Like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend every second of it right here with you.

From somewhere behind you, you heard Phoenix’s voice carry across the parking lot: “FINALLY!”

Then Rooster: “Did she just—”

“Yep,” Phoenix said, sounding immensely satisfied. “Called it. Pay up, Bradshaw.”

“I knew it!” Payback’s voice rang out. “Fanboy, you owe me twenty bucks!”

You broke apart, laughing, and Jake tucked you against his side, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple. “Did they all bet on us?”

“Probably,” Jake said, but he was smiling, looking down at you like you were everything he'd been missing. “Don’t care. Totally worth it.”

And looking up at him, at the way he was holding you like you were the only thing that mattered, you had to agree.

It really, really was.

Six Months Later

“Tower, Dagger Two. Radio check.”

You smiled, adjusting your headset. “Dagger Two, Tower. Read you loud and clear.”

“Copy that, Tower. Hey, what are you doing after your shift?”

“Dagger Two, maintain radio discipline.”

“Come on, just tell me.”

“Dagger Two.”

“Is it hanging out with your extremely handsome boyfriend? Because I heard he’s planning something special.”

You could hear Rooster groaning over the comms. “Hangman, some of us are trying to focus here.”

Phoenix cut in, sounding amused. “Hangman, I swear, if you don’t focus on flying, I’m telling her about that time in Lemoore—”

“Phoenix, no—”

“Then focus.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to enjoy the show,” came Coyote’s voice, a laugh in his tone. “This is better than anything on TV.”

“Coyote, you’re not helping,” Bob chimed in, though you could hear the amusement in his voice too.

“Tower, this is Fanboy. For the record, some of us are actually trying to maintain professionalism up here.”

“Thank you, Fanboy,” you said, fighting back a smile.

“He’s lying,” Payback interjected. “He’s got popcorn. Literally eating popcorn in the cockpit.”

“I do not!”

You bit back a laugh. “Dagger Two, you’re clear for takeoff. And yes. Seven is fine.”

“That’s my girl. Dagger Two is airborne.”

Your supervisor gave you a look. You shrugged innocently.

From the tarmac, you heard Phoenix’s voice: “Tower, Dagger Three. Just so you know, your boyfriend is doing barrel rolls. Showing off.”

“Dagger Three, tell him to stop.”

“I tried. He says, and I quote, ‘she likes it when I show off.’”

“Dagger Three, you have permission to knock some sense into him during training.”

“With pleasure, Tower. Phoenix out.”

Some things, you’d learned, were worth breaking protocol for.

"Mama," she sobs, "my princess dress ripped and the tea party is in two hours and I can't be a princess without my dress and... and..."

She dissolves into fresh tears against Jake's shoulder.

Your heart drops. The tea party. One of her friends from nursery school is having a princess themed birthday party, and she's been talking about it for weeks.

Jake meets your eyes over her head, and you can see the barely controlled panic there. For a man who stays calm at Mach 2, a crying daughter is clearly his kryptonite.

"Okay, baby, let me see," you say gently, taking the fabric from her hands. It's her favorite dress-up gown, the purple one with the sparkly tulle, and there's a significant tear along the side seam.

"Oh, sweetie."

"Can you fix it, Mama? Please?" She looks at you with those green eyes - Jake's eyes - full of hope and devastation in equal measure.

You examine the tear. It's not great, and your sewing skills are rudimentary at best.

"I can try, but honey, I don't know if - "

"What about the store?" Jake interjects, already shifting into problem-solving mode. "We could hit that costume place on Main Street. They've got princess stuff."

"They close at six," you remind him gently. "And it's 5:30 now."

His jaw tightens, and you can practically see him running through options like he's planning a mission.

"Okay. Okay, we can work with this. What do we need?"

"Jake -"

"No, seriously." He sets his daughter down carefully on the kitchen counter, smoothing her hair back from her face.

"Baby girl, look at me. We're Seresins, right? And Seresins don't give up. We find solutions."

She sniffles, nodding. "Like pilots?"

"Exactly like pilots." He glances at you. "What if we make her a better dress?"

You blink. "Make her a- Jake, I can't sew a whole dress in two hours."

"Not sew. Improvise."

A grin starts to emerge, the one that usually means he's about to do something crazy and somehow pull it off.

"Come on, where's that creative genius I married?"

Despite the situation, you feel a warmth in your chest. "You're insane."

"You say that like it's news." He's already moving, opening random drawers.

"We've got to have supplies. Fabric, sparkly things, whatever princesses are made of."

"Daddy," your daughter says, a tiny smile breaking through the tears, "princesses aren't made of anything. They're just girls in pretty dresses."

"See? We just need a pretty dress. How hard can it be?"

Famous last words.

Twenty minutes later, your kitchen looks like a craft store exploded. Jake has raided the linen closet, the gift wrap drawer, and somehow procured every sparkly, shiny, or remotely princess-like item in the house. There are ribbons, old scarves, a set of string lights, tissue paper, and - inexplicably - he's holding his flight suit, scissors in his other hand.

"Jake. No. Absolutely not," you say firmly.

"Hear me out. The Nomex is fire-resistant, incredibly durable, and I can cut patches from the arms for -"

"That is a regulation flight suit! You need that!"

"I have three of them," he argues. "And think about it! What's more badass than a princess cape made from actual pilot gear? She could tell everyone her cape is made from the same stuff her dad wears when he flies."

"Mama's right," your daughter agrees, now sitting cross-legged on the floor in her t-shirt and leggings, watching this chaos unfold with increasing delight. "You need that for flying, Daddy!"

"I have backups, baby girl," Jake says, but he's lowering the scissors.

"Though I guess your mama has a point. Might be hard to explain to the CO why I need a replacement because I turned one into a princess costume."

"Very hard to explain," you agree. "Put the flight suit down and no one gets court-martialed."

He grumbles but complies, setting it aside. "Fine. We'll find something else that screams 'aviation excellence.'"

You pick up a pale pink bed sheet from the pile. "What about this as a base?"

Jake examines it critically. "Structural integrity?"

"It's a sheet, Jake, not an aircraft."

"Everything needs structural integrity."

But he's grinning, and so is your daughter, and you realize this has somehow turned into an adventure rather than a crisis.

"Okay," you say, getting into it now. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right. Princess, what kind of dress do you want?"

She thinks carefully, her little face scrunched in concentration. "Something swirly. And sparkly. And maybe with a cape? Because capes are cool."

"Capes are very cool," Jake agrees seriously. "Smart thinking."

For the next hour, your kitchen becomes a combination war room and design studio. Jake, with his unexpected attention to detail, figures out how to wrap and pin the sheet to create a makeshift dress, using safety pins from your sewing kit. You work on embellishments, hot-gluing ribbons and some sparkly tulle from an old Halloween costume along the edges.

"How are we on time?" Jake asks, holding a pin between his teeth while he adjusts the shoulder"

"Hour and ten minutes," you report.

"We can make it. Hand me those silver ribbons."

Your daughter stands on a kitchen chair, serving as the world's most patient fitting model, chattering happily about which friends will be at the party and what games they might play.

"And Emma said there might be real horses for pictures!" she says excitedly.

"Horses?" Jake's head snaps up. "Like, actual horses?"

"Uh-huh! Little ones, for riding."

You watch something pass over your husband's face—a flicker of concern that he tries to hide.

Protective papa bear mode, activating.

"That'll be fun," he says carefully. "But remember, we listen to the grown-ups about what's safe, right?"

"I know, Daddy. You tell me every time we go anywhere."

"Because you're precious cargo," he says, booping her nose with a fabric-free finger. "The most precious."

Your heart does that annoying fluttery thing it's been doing since you first met him at The Hard Deck, back when he was all swagger and smirk. You would never imagined he'd be the kind of man who'd help make an emergency princess dress on a Tuesday evening.

"Cape time!" you announce, holding up a silky purple scarf you've embellished with stick-on gems.

Jake ties it carefully around her shoulders, making sure the knot isn't too tight.

"Every princess needs a proper cape fastening. That's, like, princess rules."

"Really?" she asks.

"Absolutely. I read it in a book."

"What book?"

"A very official princess book."

You snort. "You're such a liar."

"I'm creative with the truth," he corrects, whispering. "There's a difference."

Finally, finally, you step back to assess your work. The dress is... well, it's definitely handmade, and no one will mistake it for store-bought, but there's something magical about it anyway. The sheet drapes in soft folds, the ribbons catch the light, the cape flows dramatically, and your daughter is absolutely glowing.

"Can I see?" she asks eagerly.

Jake scoops her up and carries her to the hallway mirror. You follow, watching her face as she takes in her reflection.

Her eyes go wide. "I look like a real princess!"

"You are a real princess," Jake tells her, setting her down so she can twirl. The makeshift dress spins out around her, and her delighted laughter fills the house.

"Daddy, Mama, you made me the best dress ever!"

You feel Jake's arm slip around your waist, pulling you against his side. "Team effort," he murmurs into your hair. "Though I did provide the engineering expertise."

"I'm sorry, who did the actual decorating?"

"Like I said, team effort." He presses a kiss to your temple. "We make a good team."

"The best team!" your daughter agrees, crashing into both your legs for a hug.

You glance at the clock. "We need to leave in fifteen minutes if we're going to make it on time."

"Roger that." Jake shifts into efficient mode, already mentally running through the checklist. "Baby, go brush your teeth. We'll get your shoes."

She scampers off, cape flying behind her, and Jake immediately turns to you.

"How did we do? Really?" There's actual worry in his voice. "She's not going to get there and feel bad because all the other kids have fancy store-bought costumes, is she?"

You stroke his cheek, feeling slight stubble. "Jake. Look at her. She's never been happier. We could've put her in a paper bag and she'd be thrilled because we made it for her."

"A paper bag wouldn't have structural integrity," he mutters, but he's smiling.

"Plus," you add, "she's going to have the best story. 'My daddy the fighter pilot and my mama made me a custom princess dress in under two hours.' She's going to be the coolest kid there."

"She's always the coolest kid there. Gets it from her old man."

"And her humility too?"

He laughs, "Thank you. For this. For all of it. For being exactly who she needs."

"Jake."

"I mean it." His voice drops lower, more serious. "When I'm up there flying, you know what gets me through? Knowing I'm coming home to both of you. My girls."

You're saved from your own emotions threatening to overwhelm you by your daughter running back in.

"Ready! I'm ready! Let's go!"

The drive to the party is filled with excited chatter from the backseat. When you pull up to the house, which is indeed decorated like a castle, complete with balloon towers, your daughter presses her face to the window.

"Wow," she breathes.

"Pretty fancy," Jake agrees, but you can see his eyes sweeping the area, noting exits and checking for safety hazards.

Always the protector.

You help her out of the car, making sure her cape is straight and her dress is sitting right. Several other parents are walking in with their kids, and yes, many of them are in store-bought princess costumes.

"Mama," your daughter whispers, suddenly uncertain, "some of those dresses are really fancy."

You kneel down to her level. "You know what makes a princess a princess?"

She shakes her head.

"Not the dress. It's being brave, and kind, and true to yourself. And you, my love, are the best at all of those things."

Jake crouches down too, adjusting her cape one more time. "Plus, you've got the best origin story. Batman's got nothing on the epic tale of the Emergency Dress."

She giggles, confidence returning. "Will you walk me in?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Jake says, standing and offering her his hand. She takes it with one hand and grabs yours with the other, and the three of you walk toward the castle together.

At the door, the birthday girl's mom does a double-take at your daughter's dress.

"Oh my goodness, that's beautiful! Where did you get it?"

Your daughter stands up straighter, proud. "My mama and daddy made it for me! My other dress ripped but Daddy said Seresins don't give up, so they made this one and it's even better!"

The mom's expression softens as she looks between you and Jake. "That's... that's really special. You're lucky to have such creative parents."

"I know!" your daughter says brightly. Then, with a quick hug for each of you, she's off, running to join her friends, cape streaming behind her.

You and Jake stand in the doorway for a moment, watching her show off her dress to a group of delighted kids who all seem appropriately impressed.

"We should go," you murmur, but neither of you moves.

"One more minute," Jake says quietly. "Just want to make sure she's good."

You smile, leaning into him. Of course he does.

Finally, when she's fully engrossed in whatever game they're playing, you make your way back to the car. As soon as you're both inside, Jake lets out a long breath.

"Crisis averted."

"Crisis conquered," you correct. "By Team Seresin."

"Damn right." He reaches over to take your hand, threading his fingers through yours.

"You know what? I think that went even better than if the dress hadn't ripped."

"How do you figure?"

"Because now she knows that when things go wrong, we figure it out together. That's a better lesson than any perfect dress could teach her."

You squeeze his hand, "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just didn't notice because you were too distracted by my incredible good looks."

"There's the ego I know and love."

He grins, bringing your hand to his lips. "Love you too, Mrs. Seresin."

You spend the next hour at home cleaning up the craft explosion in the kitchen.

Jake insists on documenting the chaos "for the scrapbook," which really means taking photos he can show the Daggers at work tomorrow.

"Rooster's going to give me so much shit for this," he says cheerfully, snapping a picture of the fabric scraps.

"And you're going to love every second of it."

"Damn right I am."

When it's time to pick up your daughter, you both go together. She comes running out of the house, still in her dress, chattering a mile a minute about the party.

"- and we had cupcakes and there WERE horses, little ones, and I got to pet one and his name was Butterscotch and Emma said my dress was the prettiest one there and- and- "

She pauses for breath.

"Can we make more dresses? Just for fun?"

Jake laughs, buckling her into her car seat. "Tell you what, baby girl. Next weekend, we'll have our own dress-up day. We'll make whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Can Mama help?"

"Mama better help, or nothing's going to have structural integrity."

You roll your eyes fondly as you climb into the passenger seat. "One emergency dress and suddenly you're a fashion designer."

"I'm a man of many talents."

That night, after your daughter is bathed and tucked in (still talking dreamily about the party), you find Jake on the back deck, beer in hand, looking up at the sky.

You slide your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back. He's changed into soft worn sweatpants and a t-shirt, his dog tags cool against your arms.

"Today was a good day," he says quietly.

"Yeah. It was."

"Thank you."

You move to stand beside him, and he immediately pulls you close. "For what?"

"For being her mom. For being my wife. For helping make an emergency princess dress and not laughing when I suggested cutting up my flight suit."

"I definitely laughed."

"Internally doesn't count." He turns to face you fully, his expression soft in the porch light.

"I mean it though. I don't say it enough, but you're... you're everything. To both of us."

You reach up to cup his face, this man who flies fighter jets and makes princess dresses with equal dedication.

"You're not so bad yourself, Seresin."

He kisses you then, slow and sweet, tasting like beer and home.

"So," he murmurs against your lips, "next weekend. What should we make?"

"Please tell me you're not serious about more dresses."

"I'm absolutely serious. Maybe we should branch out. Tutus? She'll definitely have a whole new wardrobe."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

And the thing is, you really, really do.

"Okay," you said slowly, trying not to smile. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath like he was preparing for a mission briefing, swaying just slightly. "I'm in love with you."

You blinked. "Jake."

"No, no, you don' understand." He shook his head, the movement making him sway a bit more. "I'm in love with you. Like, the real deal. The kind of love they write songs about an' stuff."

"Baby—"

"I know what you're gonna say," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "You're gonna say it's crazy, or it's too fast, or maybe you don' feel the same way, but I had to tell you. I couldn' keep it in anymore." He pressed his free hand to his chest dramatically. "It was eatin' me up inside."

You couldn't help it. You laughed softly. "Jake, honey, look at my hand."

He squinted down at where he was holding your left hand, his brow furrowing in confusion. He brought your hand a little closer, tilting his head as he examined it. It took him a solid ten seconds to notice the engagement ring glinting in the firelight.

His face fell. Actually fell. Like someone had just told him The Hard Deck had burned down.

"Oh," he said quietly, his voice suddenly small. He looked from the ring to your face, and there was something devastated in his expression. "You're... you're engaged."

"Jake."

"To someone else," he continued, and you could see him trying to process this, his alcohol-fogged brain working overtime. "You're taken. I'm too late." He looked genuinely heartbroken, his shoulders slumping. "I should've told you sooner. I should've—"

"Jake, baby. Look at me."

He met your eyes, and the sadness there made your chest ache in a way you'd never quite experienced before.

"You gave me this ring," you said gently. "Three months ago. When you proposed."

He stared at the ring. Then at you. Then back at the ring. His face went through several expressions—confusion, dawning realization, and then pure, unbridled joy.

"Wait, wait, wait." He held up both hands, swaying slightly as he tried to process. "You're tellin' me... you already said yes?"

"Yes, Jake. We're engaged."

"To me?"

"To you."

"To marry me? Like, be my wife?"

"That's generally what engaged means."

He sat there, processing this information with the slow deliberation of someone working through advanced calculus. Then his face split into the biggest, goofiest grin you'd ever seen.

"Holy shit!" He said it loud enough that you glanced back toward the squad, but they were too far away to notice. "You said yes? To me?"

"I did," you confirmed, watching his face light up with genuine shock and happiness.

"But that means..." He looked at you with wide eyes. "That means you love me too?"

"Of course I love you, you idiot. Why do you think I agreed to marry you?"

He blinked slowly, like this was brand new information. "You love me," he repeated, testing the words. Then, louder, "You love me!"

"Jake, keep your voice down—"

But he was already moving, pulling you into his arms with more enthusiasm than coordination. You both tumbled sideways into the sand, laughing as you landed in a tangle of limbs. Jake immediately pulled you closer, like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you.

"You love me," he said again, softer this time, his face buried in your neck, breathing you in. "And we're gettin' married."

"Yes, baby. We are."

"Best day of my life." His words were muffled against your skin. "Wait, oh no. Did we already have the wedding? Did I miss it?"

You couldn't help but laugh, running your fingers through his sandy hair. "No, Jake. The wedding's next year. You didn't miss it."

"Oh good." He sighed in relief. "Because I wanna be there for that. Seems important."

"Very important."

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes soft and clouded with alcohol despite the love shining through. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle. "You're so beautiful," he said, like it was a secret. "Like, stupid beautiful. Sometimes I look at you and forget what I was sayin'."

"That explains a lot, actually."

"And you're funny," he continued, on a roll now, his thumb tracing absent circles on your hand. "And you laugh at my jokes. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones." He paused, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Wait, why are you marryin' me again?"

"Because I love you," you said simply. "Even when you're drunk and can't remember that we're already engaged."

"We're engaged," he said wonderingly, looking at your ring again, then back at your face like he couldn't decide which was more mesmerizing. "I can't believe I got you to say yes. I must be smoother than I thought."

"You cried when you proposed."

"Did I?" He looked delighted by this information. "That's embarrassin'. I bet I was still smooth though."

"You were perfect," you assured him, and meant it. The memory was one of your favorites—Jake getting down on one knee right there on the tarmac, still in his flight suit, his hands shaking as he'd pulled out the ring. It was how he greeted you after his most recent deployment.

He smiled that dopey smile again, then leaned in for a kiss. This time he found your lips, kissing you with enthusiasm and surprising tenderness. When he pulled back, he was grinning like he'd just won something.

"Love you," he mumbled, his eyes starting to droop. "Love you so much."

"I love you too, Jake."

"We should probably tell people," he said seriously. "About us bein' in love. And engaged. That seems like important information."

"Everyone already knows, baby. You told them when it happened."

"Oh." He thought about this. "Smart. Sober me was on top of things." His head was getting heavy on your shoulder. "Drunk me is tired though." He paused, then lifted his head slightly. "Hey, wait. Don't tell my sober self that I told you I love you, 'kay? Was supposed to be a secret."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Good," he mumbled, satisfied, settling back against your shoulder, nuzzling closer. "'Cause he'd be real embarrassed."

You sat there for a few more minutes, watching the waves roll in, feeling the warmth of Jake against your side. He seemed content just to hold your hand, occasionally lifting it to press soft kisses to your knuckles.

"Come on, hotshot," you said finally, pressing a kiss to his temple. "We should head home."

"Don't wanna move," he complained. "Comfortable here."

"I know, but the tide's coming in, and I don't think you want to sleep on the beach."

"Might be nice," he said, but he was already trying to sit up.

Getting Jake to his feet was an adventure. He kept getting distracted; you'd get him to his knees and he'd pause to look at a shell. Eventually, with some encouragement, you managed to get him upright, though he swayed and you had to keep a hand on his arm.

"Whoa," he said, blinking. "Everything's kinda spinny."

"That's the beer, baby."

"Oh." He nodded, then seemed to regret the movement. "That makes sense."

Walking back toward the bonfire to say goodbye was slow going. Jake's coordination was a bit off, his steps careful but slightly uneven.

The squad noticed you approaching, and several knowing grins appeared.

"Heading out?" Nat called.

"Yeah, I think someone's had enough for tonight," you said, keeping a steadying hand on Jake's arm.

"I'm fine," Jake protested, then swayed slightly. "Okay, maybe a little drunk."

"Just a little?" Bradley asked, amused.

Jake pointed at him, trying for stern. "You're a good friend, Rooster. You know that? Even though you have a terrible callsign. Who names themselves after a chicken?"

"We've been over this, Hangman—"

"We're engaged!" Jake announced suddenly, holding up your hand to show off your ring. "Did you guys know? Me and her. Gettin' married."

"Yes, Jake, we were all there when you proposed," Bob said kindly.

"Oh. Right." Jake nodded, looking pleased with himself. "That was a good day."

"Best day," you agreed.

"Second best," Jake corrected. "Best day's gonna be the wedding." He said it with such reverence that Phoenix pretended to wipe away a tear.

You tugged gently on Jake's arm. "Come on, hotshot. Car's this way."

"'Kay," he agreed easily, letting you lead him away. Over his shoulder, he called back, "Love you guys! You're all invited to the wedding!"

"We know!" multiple voices chorused back.

The walk to the parking lot took twice as long as it should have. Jake stopped to tell you he loved you approximately every thirty seconds.

Getting him into the passenger seat required some maneuvering. He moved a bit slower than usual, carefully folding himself into the car, though he did bump his head lightly on the doorframe once.

"This car's smaller than I remember," he complained.

"It's the same car we drove here in, Jake."

Once he was finally buckled in, you slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

Jake was quiet for about thirty seconds before he said, "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Did I tell you I love you?"

"Once or twice."

"Good. It's important." His head lolled against the window. "You're important. Most important thing in my whole life."

You reached over and squeezed his hand. "You're pretty important to me too, Jake."

"Good," he said again, satisfied. Then, "We should get married."

"We're going to."

"No, I mean like, soon. Tomorrow maybe."

"The wedding's already planned, baby."

"That's so far away," he whined. "I wanna be married to you now."

"Time will go by fast."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He was quiet for a minute, and you thought maybe he'd dozed off, but then he said, very seriously, "I'm gonna be the best husband. Like, the best one ever."

"I believe you."

"I'm gonna make you breakfast. And tell you you're pretty every day. And—and I'll kill all the spiders."

"My hero," you said, smiling.

"Damn right." His words were getting slower, sleep pulling at him. "You're gonna be so married to me. So, so married."

"Can't wait."

By the time you pulled into your apartment complex, Jake was fast asleep, his face pressed against the window, his mouth slightly open. You sat there for a moment, just looking at him—a smug, confident pilot who'd somehow turned into a sweet, love-drunk mess.

"Jake," you said softly, reaching over to shake his shoulder gently. "We're home, baby."

"Mmm?" He blinked awake slowly, disoriented. "Where are we?"

"Home. Come on, let's get you inside."

Getting him from the car to the apartment took some patience. He moved slowly, leaning on you a bit as you walked, but he kept stopping to look at you with this soft, adoring expression.

"You're so pretty," he said for the third time since leaving the car. "Did I mention that?"

"Once or twice," you said, smiling as you guided him into the elevator.

The moment the doors closed, he pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. "Love you," he mumbled into your hair. "Love you so much."

"I love you too, Jake."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and a little bleary. "Really?"

"Really."

"Good," he said, then leaned down to kiss you, getting your cheek the first time before finding your lips the second. It was slow and sweet, and when he pulled back, he was smiling that dopey smile that you loved so much.

When you finally got him to the bedroom, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at you like you'd hung the moon.

"C'mere," he said, reaching for your hands and pulling you to stand between his legs. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. "Just wanna hold you for a second."

You ran your fingers through his hair, and he made a content sound, his arms tightening around you.

"Best day ever," he mumbled against your shirt.

"You said that earlier," you said softly.

"Still true." He tilted his head back to look up at you. "Every day with you is the best day. But today I got to fall in love with you all over again. That's pretty special."

Even drunk, Jake could still make you feel like the most important person in the world.

"You're such a sap," you said, but your voice was thick with emotion.

"Only for you," he said seriously. Then he frowned slightly. "Hey, we're getting married, right? That wasn't a dream?"

"Not a dream, baby. We're really getting married."

His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "I'm gonna be your husband."

"And I'm gonna be your wife."

"Damn," he breathed. "I really am the luckiest man alive."

You leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Come on, let's get you ready for bed."

He let you help him out of his shoes, then stood up to work on his jeans, swaying slightly. You steadied him, and he grinned at you.

"My personal assistant," he teased.

"Your fiancée," you corrected.

"My fiancée," he repeated, like he was testing out how it sounded. "I love that. I love you." He cupped your face with both hands, suddenly serious. "I know I probably said some dumb stuff tonight, but I meant it. All of it. You're everything to me."

"I know," you whispered. "You're everything to me too."

He kissed you again, softer this time, more tender. When he pulled back, his eyes were starting to droop.

"Okay, I'm ready for bed now," he announced, then proved it by pulling off his shirt and immediately flopping backward onto the mattress with a happy sigh.

You couldn't help but laugh. "Hold on, let me get you some water and aspirin."

"You're too good to me," he called after you as you headed to the kitchen.

When you came back with water and painkillers for the inevitable hangover, Jake had managed to get under the covers. He was lying on his side, watching the doorway, and his whole face lit up when he saw you.

"There's my girl," he said softly.

You set the water and pills on the nightstand. "Here, take these now. You'll thank me in the morning."

He obediently sat up, taking the pills from your hand and popping them in his mouth. You handed him the water and he drank most of the glass, some of it dribbling down his chin. You wiped it away with your thumb, and he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"You're welcome."

You climbed into bed beside him, and immediately he reached for you, pulling you close until you were tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.

"This is my favorite part of the day," he mumbled into your hair. "Getting to hold you."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Can't believe I get to do this for the rest of my life. Hold you every night. Wake up next to you every morning. Be your husband."

"Jake," you whispered.

"I know I'm drunk," he continued, his words starting to slur with exhaustion. "But I need you to know... marrying you is gonna be the best thing I ever do. Better than flying. Better than anything. You're my whole world."

You tilted your head back to look at him. His eyes were barely open, but the love in them was unmistakable.

"You're my whole world too," you said, reaching up to trace his jawline with your fingers.

He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm, then to the ring on your finger. "Mine," he murmured. "My fiancée. My future wife. My everything."

"All yours," you confirmed, settling back against his chest.

His breathing was already starting to even out, but you felt him press one more kiss to your hair. "Love you," he whispered. "So much. Forever."

"Love you forever too," you whispered back.

Within minutes, he was asleep, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you close even in sleep. You lay there for a while, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and thought about how this—this quiet moment, this simple intimacy—was what you were most looking forward to about marriage. Not the wedding, not the ring, but this. Coming home together. Holding each other. Choosing each other every single day.

Yeah, you thought as you drifted off to sleep. You were definitely marrying the right man.

Even if he did need a full explanation in the morning about why he'd drunkenly confessed his love to his own fiancée.

Hope you enjoyed! I had lots of fun writing this. :)

“You asked me yesterday if I liked surprises. You asked what my favorite flower was. Then you got really quiet when I told you.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to be a better boyfriend.”

“You’re already a good boyfriend.” You finally looked at him, taking in the slightly too casual way he was leaning against the counter. “What are you planning, Seresin?”

“Nothing that concerns you right now.” He crossed to you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Trust me?”

You’d been together almost two years. Lived together for six months. In that time, you’d learned that Jake’s “plans” could be anything from surprise weekend trips to attempting elaborate home-cooked meals that sometimes ended in takeout.

“Always,” you said.

His smile softened. “Good. Now finish your schedule review. I’m making dinner tonight.”

“You made dinner last night.”

“And I’m making it again tonight. I’m on a streak.”

Friday morning, Jake woke you early with coffee and that nervous energy that had been following him around for weeks.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re going somewhere.”

“Where?” you mumbled, still half-asleep.

“You’ll see. Wear something comfortable. And bring a jacket.”

Forty-five minutes later, you were in his car heading south, coffee in hand, watching the morning light paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Eventually.” He glanced over, smiling, but his fingers were drumming against the steering wheel. Nervous. “Just… trust me. Please?”

“I do trust you. That’s why I’m in this car at seven in the morning with no explanation.”

He laughed, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Fair point.”

You drove through the city, and then you saw it—the distinctive profile of an aircraft carrier rising against the San Diego skyline.

“The USS Midway?” you asked as he pulled into the parking area.

“Yeah.” He parked, turning to look at you. “I know it’s a museum now, but… I wanted to show you something.”

A staff member was waiting at the entrance, greeting Jake with a warm smile and handing him a pass.

“We have about an hour before the museum opens to the public,” the woman said. “Take your time.”

You looked at Jake as you walked up the gangway. “How did you manage this? The museum doesn’t open for another hour.”

He grinned, that cocky Hangman smile making an appearance. “I know people.”

“You know people,” you repeated, shaking your head but smiling.

“What can I say? Being a Navy pilot has its perks. Made a few calls, pulled a few strings.” He squeezed your hand. “Wanted this to be special. Just us.”

You stepped onto the deck, and the carrier was massive, impressive even in retirement. Aircraft from different eras were positioned across the flight deck, their wings catching the early morning light.

“I’ve never been here before,” you said, looking around in awe.

“I know. You mentioned it once, months ago. Said you’d been meaning to visit but never got around to it.” He squeezed your hand. “Come on. I want to show you the flight deck properly.”

He led you across the deck, weaving between the aircraft, until you reached a spot near the bow. The view was breathtaking; the harbor spread out before you, the city skyline in the distance, the ocean stretching to the horizon.

“This carrier saw action in Vietnam,” Jake said quietly. “Launched thousands of missions. Brought thousands of pilots home.” He turned to look at you. “That’s what it was all about, you know? The missions mattered, but what really mattered was coming home. Having someone waiting, someone who kept you grounded even when you were in the air.”

Your heart started beating faster.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. About what home means.” He took both your hands now. “Two years ago, home was just a place. An apartment, a base, wherever I happened to be stationed. But now…”

“Jake—”

“Let me finish. Please.” He took a shaky breath. “Now home is you. It’s your voice in my ear when I’m flying. It’s coming back to our apartment at the end of the day. It’s coffee in the morning and falling asleep next to you at night. It’s everything we’ve built together.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

But he didn’t open it. He just held it, his eyes on yours.

“I’m not proposing,” he said. “Not yet.”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“I need to ask you something first.” He set the box on the deck between you, right there on the worn gray surface where thousands of pilots had walked before. “This has been in my pocket for two months. Two months of trying to find the perfect moment, the perfect words. But then I realized something.”

“What?”

“That I need to know you’re ready. That you want this—really want this—before I actually ask.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles. “You don’t trust easy. It’s one of the things I love about you. And I need to respect that.”

Your throat tightened. “So you’re asking permission to propose?”

“I’m asking if you want to initiate this next phase with me.” He picked up the box again, holding it but not opening it. “If you’re ready for me to ask. Because once I do—once I actually propose—I need to know the answer is yes. I need to know you’re sure.”

You looked at him—this man who’d been carrying a ring for two months, who’d managed to get you onto a retired aircraft carrier at sunrise, who loved you enough to make sure you were ready before he asked the question.

“You’re asking if I want to get engaged before you actually propose,” you said slowly.

“I’m asking if you’re ready to say yes when I do ask. If you want forever with me as much as I want it with you.” He searched your face. “No pressure. If you need time, I’ll wait. If you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just… I needed you to know where I am. Where my heart is.”

Tears filled your eyes. “You idiot.”

“I— what?”

“I’ve been ready since you showed up with soup when I was sick. Since you learned how I take my coffee without asking. Since you started saying ‘our apartment’ instead of ‘my place.’” You picked up the box from his hand. “I’ve been ready for months, Jake. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

His expression shifted from nervous to hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smiled through your tears. “So yes. Yes, I want this. Yes, I’m ready to say yes when you actually ask. Yes to all of it.”

“When I actually ask,” he repeated, then started laughing. “So I still need to officially propose?”

“You absolutely do. This is just… pre-engagement.”

“Pre-engagement.” He pulled you into his arms, kissing you deeply. “I can work with that.”

When you broke apart, you opened the box to see the ring properly. Simple, elegant, perfect.

“Can I put it on?” he asked. “Even though this isn’t the official proposal?”

You held out your hand, and he slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands. It fit perfectly.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

“Right,” you said, watching it catch the morning light. “It feels right.”

He kissed you again, soft and sweet, and you stood there on that flight deck as the sun climbed higher, your hand in his, the ring on your finger, the future bright and waiting.

“So when are you actually going to propose?” you asked eventually.

“That would ruin the surprise.”

“Jake.”

“What? You said yes to being asked. You didn’t say I had to tell you when.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” He grinned. “And you’re going to marry me. Eventually. When I get around to officially asking.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine.” He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Pre-engaged and everything.”

Two Weeks Later

Life continued as normal—or as normal as it could be with an engagement ring that wasn’t technically an engagement ring yet on your finger.

“This is the weirdest situation ever,” Phoenix said, examining your hand during lunch. “You’re wearing an engagement ring but you’re not engaged?”

“I’m pre-engaged.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“With Jake, everything becomes a real thing.” But you were smiling, looking at the ring that had become as natural as breathing. “He wants the actual proposal to be special.”

“It’s already special! He took you to the USS Midway at sunrise and gave you a ring!”

“I know. But you know Jake.” You shrugged. “He has to do things his way.”

Phoenix shook her head, but she was smiling. “He’s ridiculous. But he’s ridiculous about you, so I guess it’s okay.”

The actual proposal came on a random Tuesday evening.

You’d just finished your shift, were walking to your car, when you got a text from Jake: Come to the tower. Please. It’s important.

You immediately texted back. Is everything okay?

Everything’s fine. Just come. Trust me.

You headed back, taking the stairs two at a time. When you reached the tower, it was empty except for Jake, standing by the windows overlooking the runway. The sun was setting, painting everything in warm, fading light.

“Jake? What’s going on?”

He turned, and you realized he was in his dress uniform. The sight of him stopped you in your tracks.

“Nothing’s wrong.” He crossed to you, taking your hands. “I’ve been trying to figure out where to do this—the actual proposal—for two weeks. Thought about going back to the Midway, thought about a dozen different places.” He paused. “But then I realized—it had to be here.”

Your heart was pounding now.

“This is where we started. Where I first heard your voice. Where you first told me to maintain radio discipline and I first realized that voice was going to change everything.” He squeezed your hands. “This is where you talked me through that bird strike. Where you kept me calm and brought me home safe. This tower—it’s where I learned what it meant to have someone in my corner. Someone who had my back no matter what.”

Tears were already forming in your eyes.

“Every time I’m up there,” he gestured to the sky beyond the windows, “I hear you. Keeping me steady. Guiding me home. And I realized that’s what you’ve been doing since the day we met—not just guiding me to the runway, but guiding me home. To you. To us. To the person I’m supposed to be.”

He let go of your hands and dropped to one knee right there in the tower, in the place where hundreds of pilots had trusted your voice to bring them home safe.

“I know you’re already wearing this ring. I know we already had the conversation on the Midway.” His voice was steady, his eyes locked on yours. “But I needed to ask you here. Where it all began. Where you became everything to me.”

He took a breath. “Will you marry me?”

Simple. Direct. Perfectly Jake.

“Yes,” you said, your voice breaking. “Yes.”

He stood, pulling you into his arms. The kiss was deep and slow, and when you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“My fiancée,” he said quietly. “For real this time.”

“For real,” you agreed.

You stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other, the tower quiet around you. Through the windows, you could see the runway where he’d landed a hundred times, where you’d guided him home again and again.

“This is perfect,” you whispered. “Here. Where we started.”

“Yeah.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “I wanted the Midway to be about asking if you were ready. But this…” He gestured around the tower. “This is ours. This is where our story began. Had to make it official here.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, pouring everything you felt into it.

“Ready to tell everyone?” he asked eventually.

You smiled. “Phoenix is going to lose her mind.”

“She’s been texting me every day asking when I’m going to officially propose.”

“Then let’s go put her out of her misery.”

The Hard Deck was packed when you arrived, but the moment you walked in, Phoenix’s eyes zeroed in on you. Specifically, on your intertwined hands and the matching grins on your faces.

“Oh my god,” she said, standing up so fast her chair scraped. “Did you—”

“He did,” you confirmed.

“SHE SAID YES!” Phoenix shouted to the entire bar.

The Daggers erupted in cheers. Rooster appeared with a banner that said “FINALLY” Bob had champagne. Coyote and Payback were high-fiving. Fanboy was already on his phone, probably texting everyone who wasn’t there.

“About damn time, Hangman!” Coyote called out, pulling Jake into a hug.

“We’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” Rooster added. “The pre-engagement thing was killing us.”

“You all knew?” you asked.

“We’ve known he had the ring for two months,” Phoenix said, hugging you tight. “But when he told us about the whole ‘asking permission first’ thing, we knew he was serious.”

Bob appeared with champagne flutes. “Congratulations. You two are perfect together.”

“Thanks, Bob,” Jake said, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Speech!” Payback called out.

“No speeches,” Jake protested.

“Come on, Hangman. You proposed. The least you can do is tell us how.”

Jake looked at you, and you nodded. He pulled you closer.

“I proposed in the tower. Just the two of us. Where we started.”

“The tower?” Fanboy’s eyes widened. “That’s actually really romantic.”

“That’s where she first told me to maintain radio discipline,” Jake said, grinning. “Where she first made me want to be better. Seemed right.”

Phoenix raised her glass. “To Jake and the woman who finally got him to settle down.”

“To the happy couple!” Rooster added.

Everyone drank, and the celebration kicked into full gear. The jukebox got louder, the stories you two shared got more embarrassing, and Jake’s hand never left yours.

Later, when you were sitting at a booth watching the guys play pool, Phoenix sidled up next to you.

“You happy?” she asked.

“So happy,” you said, watching Jake laugh at something Rooster said. “I didn’t think this was possible two years ago.”

“But it is.” She bumped your shoulder. “You’re both better together.”

“Thanks, Nat. For everything.”

“That’s what best friends are for.” She grinned. “Plus, now I get to plan your bachelorette party.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“It should be.”

Jake caught your eye from across the room and winked. You smiled back, your heart full.

Late that night, after everything, you and Jake finally made it home. You collapsed on the couch together, exhausted but happy.

“So,” Jake said, taking your left hand. “Now we’re really engaged.”

“Now we’re really engaged,” you agreed.

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the ring on your finger. “I’m glad I did it in the tower. The Midway was important—understanding what those pilots felt, having someone to come home to. But the tower… that’s ours.”

“It is.” You turned to look at him. “That’s where you first made me laugh over the comms. Where this all started.”

“Where you brought me home,” he added softly. “Every single time.”

You settled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the solid warmth of him.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“For what?”

“For asking if I was ready first. For the Midway, for respecting that I needed to be sure. For proposing in the place that’s ours.”

“I’d wait as long as you needed,” he said simply. “But I’m glad I only had to wait two weeks.”

You laughed, tilting your head up to kiss him.

“Best two weeks of pre-engagement ever.”

He smiled against your lips. “And now for the rest of it.”

“The rest of it,” you agreed.

You found him in the kitchen. Leaning against the counter in his boxers and an old Navy tee, the stenciling on the chest so faded it was barely legible anymore, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just standing there, staring into the middle distance like it had personally offended him.

“Hey,” you said from the doorway, voice still rough with sleep.

He looked up.

His eyes were glassy. His skin — usually golden, sun-warm — was a shade too pale, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there when you’d fallen asleep tangled together at midnight.

“Hey, baby,” he said.

Except it came out low and wrecked, scraped raw, like someone had taken sandpaper to his vocal cords somewhere between midnight and now.

You stared at him.

He stared back, clearly hoping you wouldn’t comment on it.

“…What happened to your voice?”

“Nothin’.” He took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and you watched him try very hard not to visibly react to whatever that felt like going down. “I’m fine.”

“You sound like you swallowed gravel.”

“I sound great. I always sound great.”

“Jake.”

“I’m fine.”

You crossed the kitchen and pressed the back of your hand to his forehead before he could lean away. He went very still — the way he always did when he was pretending he didn’t want to be taken care of, holding himself rigid and dignified while doing absolutely nothing to actually stop you.

His skin was burning.

“You’re hot,” you said.

He blinked. Even glassy-eyed and barely upright, something flickered across his face. “Finally,” he rasped. “Four years and you’re just now saying it.”

“I’m saying you have a fever, Jake.”

“You can say both.”

“I’m not saying both.” You pressed your wrist to his cheek this time, and he leaned into it slightly — just barely, involuntarily, like his body made the decision before his pride could intervene. “You’re burning up. How long have you felt like this?”

A pause. A long one.

“…Since maybe two.”

“Two in the morning?” You pulled back to look at him properly. “You’ve been up since two in the morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged one shoulder, then immediately looked like he regretted it. “Throat was bothering me. Didn’t want to wake you.”

You looked at him — this insufferably confident man standing in your kitchen in his worn-out t-shirt, quietly running a fever since two in the morning so you could sleep — and felt something enormous and exasperated and tender move through you all at once.

“You know,” you said, keeping your voice very even, “when we moved in together, I was under the impression that included the part where you tell me when something’s wrong.”

He had the decency to look at least somewhat sheepish. “It’s just a sore throat.”

“It’s a fever and a sore throat and you’ve been standing in the kitchen alone for God knows how long instead of waking me up.”

“You looked peaceful.”

“Jake.”

“You did! You make this little…” he gestured vaguely at his own face. “thing when you sleep. I didn’t want to mess with that.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Sit down,” you said finally.

“I really don’t need to—”

“Couch. Now. Please.”

He went.

Getting him horizontal took four minutes of low-grade negotiation. Getting the blanket over him took another two, because he kept insisting he wasn’t cold right up until the moment the fleece settled over him and he went visibly, immediately still — eyes closing briefly like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it.

You didn’t say anything about that.

You got him a glass of water, set it on the coffee table, and disappeared into the bathroom to excavate the medicine cabinet. It took a minute. Your apartment had the particular pharmaceutical chaos of two people who both insisted they’d organize it eventually.

“We have ibuprofen,” you called, “and some throat lozenges — Jake, when did we buy these?”

“Which ones?”

“The honey lemon ones.”

A pause. “…Last winter, maybe?”

“Which winter?”

Silence.

“They’re probably fine,” he said.

“That is not a reassuring answer.” You emerged with the ibuprofen and a glass of water and found him exactly where you’d left him — flat on his back, blanket pulled up to his chest, staring at the ceiling with the vaguely aggrieved expression of a man whose body was refusing to cooperate with his self-image.

You handed him the pills. He took them without a word of protest, which told you everything about how bad he actually felt.

“Thank you,” he said. Quieter than usual. Rough at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the usual morning-voice.

“Don’t thank me yet. We’re having a conversation later about telling me these things.” You sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “Does it hurt to swallow?”

“A little.”

“A little meaning a little, or a little meaning you’ve been white-knuckling it since two a.m. and don’t want to admit it?”

The look he gave you was deeply aggrieved and answered the question completely.

“Okay,” you said. “I’m going to make you tea. Honey, no sugar. And you’re going to lie there and do nothing, which I know is going to be very difficult for you—”

“I can help—”

“Jake. You are not helping. You are sick.”

“I’m barely sick.”

“You have a fever and you winced swallowing water. You are banned from helping.” You stood, squeezed his ankle through the blanket. “Rest. I mean it.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. Then he settled back into the cushions with the long-suffering exhale of a man who knew when he was outmatched.

“Fine,” he said, in that wrecked, gravelly voice. “Fine.”

You made the tea. Then, because you were already in the kitchen and it wasn’t that much more effort, you put a pot of water on for soup and started pulling things from the fridge.

You could hear the TV come on in the living room — low volume, something he wasn’t really watching, just the sound of it — and something about that made your chest feel full in a way you couldn’t entirely explain. The quiet domesticity of it. Him on the couch, you in the kitchen, a Saturday morning that looked nothing like you’d planned and somehow felt completely right anyway.

You brought him the tea. He was on his back with one arm over his face, and he moved it when he heard you coming, blinking up at you with those glassy green eyes.

“Here.” You set it on the coffee table within easy reach. “Let it cool a little first.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” You sat down on the edge of the couch — which left approximately no room — and he shifted without being asked, moving until his head was in your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been doing it for years. Which, to be fair, he had.

Your hand found his hair automatically.

He exhaled slowly, and you felt some of the tension leave him.

“I really didn’t want to wake you,” he said, after a moment.

“I know.”

“You’ve had a long week.”

“So have you.” You combed your fingers gently through his hair, and he made a sound that was almost embarrassingly content for someone still trying to maintain any dignity. “Jake. Next time — you wake me up. Okay? That’s not negotiable.”

A pause.

“Okay,” he said quietly. No deflection. No joke. Just okay.

You looked down at him. His eyes were half-closed, the careful performance of being fine completely dissolved now, and he looked younger like this. Softer. All that easy, practiced confidence melted down into something unguarded and real.

“Try to sleep,” you said.

“Soup first.”

“Soup’s not ready yet.”

“I can smell it from here.”

“It needs another twenty minutes.”

He cracked one eye open. “What kind?”

“Chicken and rice.”

Both eyes opened. He looked up at you with an expression that was so openly, helplessly pleased that it almost made you laugh; this decorated Naval aviator, undone by the prospect of homemade soup on a Saturday morning.

“You’re making that from scratch?” he said.

“It’s not complicated.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Jake. I know.”

He was quiet for a moment. His hand found the hem of your sleeve and held onto it loosely, the way he sometimes did when he was falling asleep — like he wanted the anchor.

“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low and rough and completely sincere in the way he only ever let himself be when he was too tired to be anything else. “I really lucked out with you. You know that?”

You looked down at him.

“Get some sleep, Seresin.”

His mouth curved. Slow and crooked. “Yes ma’am,” he murmured, and his eyes slid shut, and within minutes his breathing had evened out into something deep and slow.

You sat there in the quiet of your apartment, his head warm and heavy in your lap, the soup simmering softly in the kitchen, the TV murmuring low in the background.

You stayed exactly where you were.

You’d turned around. He was looking at his mug with a small, careful smile, like he was pretending he hadn’t done it.

So you whistled it again, with two new notes added at the end.

He looked up. Added three more.

You went back and forth like that for an embarrassing amount of time, the phrase growing and changing and developing a little tail at the end that you both seemed to agree on simultaneously without discussing it, and by the time you’d finished your coffee you had something that was genuinely, structurally, a song.

A small one. Ridiculous, probably. Yours.

The rule — unspoken, never discussed, simply understood — was that the song meant I’m here and I’m glad you’re here too. That was all. It didn’t need to mean anything more complicated than that, and it never tried to.

You’d whistle the first half, and he’d answer with the second, and that was the whole of it. Call and response, like two birds who’d found each other in a large tree and decided to stay.

He started using it to find you.

Not the whole song — just the opening phrase, your half, sent out into the house like a friendly signal. And you’d answer with your half from wherever you were, and that was that, location established, no further communication required.

From the bedroom: the first half, soft and unhurried.

From the kitchen: the answer, back through the wall.

From the garage, loud enough to carry: the first half, a little impatient.

From the backyard: the second half, drawn out, making him wait.

A pause. Then the opening phrase again, with a note at the end that clearly meant I heard that.

You’d laughed into the garden.

What you liked about it — what you’d never said out loud but knew to be true — was that it was completely untranslatable. It didn’t mean dinner’s ready or come help me with this or have you seen my keys. It didn’t carry information. It was purely, simply, the sound of two people who were happy to be in the same house, saying so in the most unnecessary and elaborate way possible.

A whole song just to say hello, I’m here.

A whole song just to say hello, me too.

And then one Saturday afternoon it happened at your own cookout.

It had been Jake’s idea, which meant it had been planned with the same energy he applied to most things — thoroughly, and with strong opinions about the charcoal. The backyard was full — the whole Dagger Squad spread across the lawn and the patio with drinks in hand, conversation overlapping. Payback and Fanboy were locked in some debate near the drinks table. Coyote was laughing at both of them. Rooster had claimed the best chair on the patio with the efficiency of someone who knew how to secure a good position early. Phoenix and Bob were somewhere near the fence, talking the way they always did, unhurried and easy.

You’d slipped inside to grab another tray and gotten distracted looking for the serving tongs, opening and closing drawers with the mild frustration of someone looking for something that was exactly where it always was. When you finally found them you stood at the counter for a moment, tray in hand, looking out the open kitchen window at the backyard full of people.

And then, without thinking — without meaning to — you whistled the first half of your song into the empty kitchen.

Your half. The hello, I’m here of it.

The moment it left you, you went completely still.

Outside, through the open window, the backyard had gone quiet in a way that was very different from the noise it had been a second ago.

You stood at the kitchen counter for several seconds.

Then you picked up the tray, straightened your spine, and walked outside.

Every head had turned.

You felt your face go warm.

You kept walking.

And Jake, standing at the grill with the tongs in his hand, had heard it through the window the same as everyone else. He looked across the yard at you. Took in your face. Took in every single person watching.

And whistled the second half back. Clear and unhurried and completely unashamed, the same as if it were only the two of you in the kitchen on a Sunday morning. Just finishing the song the way it was always meant to be finished.

“Burgers are ready,” Jake said pleasantly, and turned back to the grill.

You crossed the yard and came to stand beside him and he made room for you without looking, his hand finding yours for just a moment at your side — brief and warm and certain — before he let go and handed you a plate.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly, just for him.

He glanced at you sideways. “Do what.”

“Whistle back. In front of everyone.”

He looked at you for a moment with that steady, unhurried expression that meant the answer was obvious and he was giving you a second to arrive at it yourself.

“Yeah I did,” he said simply, and turned back to the grill.

Behind you the squad recovered at various speeds. Some grinned, others chuckled.

You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t need to.

On a night in the middle of winter you were curled up on the couch with Jake, the house quiet and warm around you, outside the wind doing its thing against the windows. Neither of you were talking. Neither of you needed to. His arm was around you, your legs across his, the lamp making everything gold and close.

And then, soft and unhurried, he whistled the first half of your song.

Not for any reason. Not asking anything. Just — offering it into the quiet the way you might say someone’s name simply because they were there and you were glad of it.

You looked up at him.

He wasn’t looking back. Just relaxed, eyes forward, the smallest suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

You whistled the second half back.

He pressed his lips to your hair.

That was the whole exchange. No words. No explanation. Just the song, completed, sitting warm in the room like something that lived there.

Outside the wind moved through the trees and inside the lamp held everything gold and the song settled quietly between you the way it always did — small and private and entirely your own, the sound of two people who had, some time ago and without quite meaning to, learned each other’s frequency.

And liked what they heard.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

His head snapped up. “That obvious?”

“The sunglasses, the confident walk, and the fact that you just got here at closing time like you miscalculated something? Yeah, pretty obvious.” You bagged the tomatoes. “Naval aviator?”

“Guilty.” He pushed the aviators up into his hair, and you got a proper look his green eyes. “Jake Seresin. And for the record, I’m great at calculations. Just not grocery shopping, apparently.”

“Clearly.” You handed him the bag. “Twelve dollars.”

He paid and picked up the tomatoes, but didn’t leave immediately. “You here every Saturday?”

“Most of them.”

“Good to know.” He tapped the bag in a casual salute. “Thanks for saving my dinner plans.”

Six Weeks Later

“You’re here early.”

Jake looked up from where he’d been examining your bell peppers with unnecessary focus. “Figured I’d beat the rush.” He held up two coffee cups. “Also figured I owed you one of these. You know, for all the vegetable advice.”

“I’ve given you vegetable advice?” You took the offered cup, pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be exactly what you’d have ordered.

“Last week you told me to roast the Brussels sprouts instead of boiling them. Changed my life. Well, my dinner at least.”

You laughed, the sound carrying in the early morning quiet of the market setup. “High praise.”

“I’m serious. They were actually edible.” He leaned against your table, looking more relaxed than you’d seen him in his previous visits—less like he was rushing through an errand and more like he wanted to be here. “So, question. Do you actually grow all of this yourself?”

“My family does. We’ve got about ten acres in Ramona.” You gestured at the display. “My grandmother started it. Said she didn’t move all the way to the States to eat sad grocery store tomatoes.”

“I like her already.”

And somehow that turned into a conversation about his own grandmother in Texas, about the garden she’d kept that was more weeds than vegetables but that she’d been fiercely proud of. He talked about growing up in Austin, about how his parents used to argue over whose turn it was to water the garden because neither of them actually wanted to do it.

“Sounds like they had their priorities straight,” you teased.

“Oh, absolutely. My dad always said that anything worth doing was worth doing poorly until you figured out how to do it right. Pretty sure that was his excuse for avoiding yard work.” His smile was a little self-deprecating. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Jake Seresin wasn’t domesticated in six weeks.”

You were still thinking about that smile when he left twenty minutes later, his reusable bag full of vegetables and a promise to come back with a report on how the zucchini turned out.

Three Months In

“Okay, I need your expertise.”

You glanced up from arranging heirloom tomatoes—Jake’s favorites, not that you were keeping track—to find him looking slightly panicked.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Yet. But my parents are coming to visit and apparently my apartment looks like a ‘sad bachelor cave.’” He made air quotes. “My mom’s words, not mine. My dad just laughed and said if I kept it up, they’d start sending care packages with curtains.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “They sound like a team.”

“They really are. Thirty-five years of marriage and they still gang up on me.” He shook his head fondly. “Anyway, I need plants. Something that won’t immediately die from neglect.”

“You want me to help you pick plants that can survive you?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds insulting.”

“Little bit,” you agreed, grinning. “But I can help. What kind of light do you get?”

Twenty minutes later, you’d given him a comprehensive rundown on snake plants, pothos, and succulents. Jake had taken notes on his phone, asking surprisingly thoughtful questions about watering schedules and pot drainage.

“Your parents must be pretty important,” you observed.

Something soft crossed his expression. “They worry. I’m out here in California, they’re back in Texas. My mom likes to make sure I’m eating real food and not just protein bars, and my dad checks that I’m actually living and not just working.” He shrugged. “Plants seem like a good start. Proof of life and all that.”

“Tell you what. Come by the farm this week. I’ll set you up with some starter plants and show you the basics. No charge.”

“I can’t—”

“You can bring coffee as payment. The fancy kind from that place near the beach, not the sad base coffee.”

His smile was bright. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

When he came by the farm on Tuesday, you spent two hours showing him how to pot plants, laughing when he got soil everywhere and somehow managed to water himself more than the succulents. Your parents brought out lemonade and embarrassing stories about your own early gardening attempts, and Jake listened with genuine interest.

As he was leaving, plants carefully arranged in a box, he turned back. “Hey, so, I know this might sound weird, but what kind of flowers do you like? Like, if someone were to hypothetically bring you some, what would make you happy?”

You tilted your head, trying not to read too much into the question. “Honestly? I love wildflowers best. The ones that just grow on their own, all chaotic and free. They’re just… themselves, I guess. No fuss.”

He nodded slowly, something thoughtful in his expression. “Wildflowers. Got it.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he said, but his smile suggested otherwise. “Just curious.”

Four Months In

“So?” You spotted Jake the moment he arrived, earlier than usual and clearly in a good mood.

“They loved it. My mom took about a million pictures of the pothos, and my dad actually called me later to ask what kind of plant it was because he wants one for his office.” He was grinning. “Also they both asked who helped me pick them out.”

You focused very intently on bagging up some cherry tomatoes for another customer. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I told them a friend from the farmers market.” He picked up a peach, tossed it between his hands. “My mom got that look—you know the one—and my dad just smiled and said ‘sounds like a good friend to have.’”

“Smart man, your dad.”

“He has his moments.” Jake set down the peach, and you noticed the way his fingers drummed against the table—nervous energy he was trying to contain. “Look, I know you’re working, and this is probably terrible timing, but would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? Like, not as friends.”

Your heart skipped. “Not as friends?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I really enjoy talking to you. And I’d like to see you on days that aren’t Saturday too, if you’re interested.”

You found yourself smiling. “You know what? I’d like that. Even when you pretend to understand the difference between heirloom and hybrid tomatoes.”

“I absolutely understand the difference.”

“You do not.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” His laugh came out like he’d been holding his breath. “But I’d like the chance to learn over dinner?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

Four and a Half Months In

The sunset painted everything gold as you sat on Jake’s tailgate at the farm, sharing strawberries from the last harvest and comfortable silence. This had become your routine—after market days, you’d show him around the farm, teach him about growing seasons and soil composition, and he’d tell you stories about flying.

“Can I tell you something embarrassing?” Jake asked, bumping your shoulder.

“Always.”

“The tomatoes. That first day.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t actually need them for sauce.”

You turned to stare at him. “What?”

“I was driving by, saw you setting up, and panicked. You were laughing at something your dad said, and I just… blanked.” His ears were pink. “Tomatoes were the first thing I saw on your table.”

“Jake Seresin.” You couldn’t help laughing. “You’ve been coming here for five months because you panicked and bought tomatoes?”

“Well, I kept coming back because you’re smart and funny and you never made me feel like I had to be anyone but myself.” He caught your hand, lacing your fingers together. “And somewhere along the way, this became the best part of my week.”

You squeezed his hand. “For the record? I knew you were lying.”

“You what?”

“You had this look. Like a kid making up homework excuses.” You grinned at his expression. “But you stayed and talked, and you were sweet, so I decided to see what happened.”

Jake groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “We’re both ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” you agreed, turning to press a kiss to his temple. “But I kind of like it.”

His answering smile was soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

Five Months In

You were restocking the tomato display when Jake appeared, and something in his expression made you pause.

“Hey,” you said. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Good.” He was fidgeting with his car keys, which was unusual—Jake was normally so steady. “So, I know we’ve been doing this for a while now, and I’ve met your whole family at this point…”

“Jake, you’re rambling.”

“Right. Sorry.” He took a breath. “I want this to be official. Us. I want to be able to call you my girlfriend without wondering if that’s presumptuous.”

You broke into a smile. “You tell your squadron about me?”

“I tell everyone about you. Pretty sure the guys are sick of hearing about it. My dad called last week and knew your name before I even mentioned you—apparently my mom’s been giving him updates.” He stepped closer, catching your hands. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

You stepped into his space, close enough to see the hope and nervousness in his eyes. “You know what the funny thing is?”

“What?”

“I’ve been calling you my boyfriend in my head for like three weeks. You’re just now catching up.”

The tension melted from his shoulders as he laughed, pulling you into a hug. “So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes.” You pulled back just enough to kiss him. “Though I do have one question.”

“Anything.”

“When you asked about flowers a few weeks ago…” You raised an eyebrow. “Were you planning something?”

His ears went pink again. “Maybe. I wanted to wait for the right moment.”

“Jake Seresin, are you telling me you’ve been planning something?”

“I’m a strategist. It’s kind of my thing.” His smile was a little sheepish. “But now that we’ve established the whole official relationship thing, maybe I should actually follow through?”

“Maybe you should,” you agreed.

Six Months In

Saturday started like any other—you arrived at the market before dawn, helped your parents set up the stall, arranged the vegetables into their usual display. The morning crowd came and went, regulars stopping by for their weekly produce, conversations flowing easy and familiar.

But Jake didn’t show up.

It was unusual. In six months, he’d only missed two Saturdays, both for training exercises he’d warned you about days in advance. You tried not to worry, told yourself he was probably just sleeping in or got called in for something last minute.

You were helping a customer pick out the best squash when you heard someone call your name. You turned to find Jake walking toward the stall, and your breath caught.

He was carrying a basket—a proper woven basket, the kind your grandmother used for gathering vegetables—but instead of produce, it was overflowing with wildflowers. Indian paintbrush in brilliant orange-red, bluebonnets in deep purple-blue, desert marigolds like drops of sunshine, prairie verbena in soft purple, and white prickly poppies with their delicate petals. They spilled over the edges in a chaotic tangle, like they’d been growing together forever.

The market seemed to quiet as Jake stopped in front of your stall. Even your mom had gone still.

“Jake…” you breathed. “What—”

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he started, and you could see his hands weren’t quite steady on the basket handle. “About what you said. About wildflowers just being themselves.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I drove out to Anza-Borrego at four this morning. Did you know there are like a dozen websites about which wildflowers are legally okay to pick? Because I do now. Pretty sure a park ranger thought I was insane.”

A laugh bubbled up through the tightness in your throat.

“But I wanted to get this right,” he continued. “Because you deserve something real. Not store-bought roses that someone else arranged.” He lifted the basket slightly. “These just grow. In rocky soil, barely any water. And they’re still beautiful.”

“Jake—”

“Let me finish.” His smile was a little nervous. “You decided I was worth your time even though I was clearly lying about pasta sauce. You taught me about plants even though I killed that first succulent in under a week—”

“You did,” you confirmed, laughing.

“You introduced me to your family, and you make me laugh, and somewhere in all of this I fell in love with you.” He set the basket down carefully, then took your hands. “So. Wildflowers. Because they reminded me of you, and of us, and I wanted you to know.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as you looked at the basket—hours of work, of him thinking about you in the pre-dawn darkness. The flowers were slightly wilted from the journey, petals a little crushed, and they were perfect.

“You drove two hours into the desert at four in the morning,” you said.

“Two and a half with a stop to triple-check the protected species list.” His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. “Worth it though.”

You pulled him closer, mindful of the customers pretending not to watch, of your parents definitely watching now. “I love you too. This is definitely the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

His smile was bright as he kissed you, soft and sure.

When you pulled apart, you reached for the basket, lifting it carefully. The flowers were even more beautiful up close—each one different, wild and stubbornly alive.

“They’re perfect,” you whispered. “Jake, they’re—” Your voice caught. “Thank you.”

“Hey.” He cupped your face gently, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “You’re worth two and a half hours and a suspicious park ranger.”

Your mom appeared then, pulling Jake into a hug that made him laugh in surprise. “You’re a good man,” she said. “A little crazy, maybe, but good.”

“Thank you?” Jake said, looking at you over her shoulder with amused confusion.

“It’s a compliment,” you assured him, taking his hand again once your mom released him. “Trust me.”

The rest of the market day passed in a blur of knowing looks from other vendors and customers commenting on the beautiful wildflowers at your stall. You kept the basket close, touching the petals occasionally just to make sure they were real.

Jake stayed the entire time, helping pack up at the end like always, but today felt different. Felt like a beginning.

“So,” he said as you loaded the last crate into your parents’ truck. “There’s this restaurant I’ve been meaning to try. Nothing fancy, but they have a patio with string lights and supposedly the best tacos in San Diego.”

“Supposedly?”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for a special occasion. Figured today might qualify.”

You looked at him—rumpled from the early morning drive, dirt under his fingernails from handling the flowers, smiling at you like you hung the moon—and felt warmth spread through your chest.

“Yeah,” you said, linking your arm through his. “Today definitely qualifies.”

As you walked to his truck, the basket of wildflowers cradled carefully in your other arm, Jake leaned down to murmur, “So, scale of one to ten, how did I do?”

You pretended to consider it. “Solid eleven.”

“Yes.” He did a small fist pump, making you laugh. “Seresin for the win.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me anyway.”

“I really do,” you agreed, and meant it.

That night, you’d press some of the flowers to keep—bluebonnets for Texas and new beginnings, Indian paintbrush for early morning courage, desert marigolds for golden Saturday mornings. You’d tuck them between the pages of your grandmother’s old gardening journal, preserving this moment alongside years of family history.