Page 33 of Viking

That’s what gets me. Not the flight suit. Not the muscle. Not the smirk he pulls when he sees me flustered.

It’s this.

And for a moment, I don’t care that we’re in a noisy gym, surrounded by kids and chaos and volunteers. All I see is him, kneeling beside a child, smiling like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Langley AFB

May 13, 2024

0650

Logan

Major Townsend made the decision yesterday afternoon that we weren’t flying home until morning. He said between practices and performances, Ryan and I had logged more than enough flight hours and needed to get some sleep before logging any more.

It’s one of the rare moments where I actually agree with him. As much as I would have loved to go over to Lila’s last night, I would’ve fallen asleep before I got to spend any real time with her. The last few weeks have been a blur of briefing rooms, airspace coordination, and hours in the cockpit. My body’s been running on muscle memory, and my brain feels like it’s two clicks behind. Sleep barely took the edge off, but it’s something.

The squadron building smells faintly of coffee and jet fuel when I walk in to change. The locker room’s mostly empty this early, just the soft patter of showers running and the occasional clank of metal doors shutting. I peel off my flight suit, grab the gym bag I keep in one of the lockers, and swap into a gray athletic shirt and black PT shorts. By the time I lace up my running shoes and fill up my water bottle, Ryan’s already waiting for me in the hallway near the ops desk, leaning against the wall like he’s been there all morning.

“About fucking time,” he says, pushing off the frame. “Thought you were going to put on makeup or something.”

“Funny.” I give him a dry look. “I figured you were trying to find an excuse to skip PT altogether.”

“Me?” Ryan puts a hand to his chest like I’ve hurt him. “You wound me, brother. I’m ready to smoke your ass on that track.”

I snort. “We’ll see.”

Ryan falls in step beside me as we head out, passing a few officers already gathered in the briefing room, their voices low as they prep for a day of simulator time. The usual mix of pilots and maintenance crews cross the halls, busy with morning checks and their own tasks. The base feels alive and steady—like a well-oiled machine.

“So what’s on the docket after PT?” Ryan asks as we step outside, squinting against the sunlight.

“Briefing on the weekend’s flights,” I say. “Then Ghost and I have some mission planning with the ops team. There’s talk of a TDY for Alpha and Charlie. High volume of insurgent activity, and I guess they’re thinking of calling us in for reinforcements. But it’s just a rumor, so until it’s not, I think you’re stuck in academics with Townsend.” Bravo and Echo—the two flights from our squadron that are currently overseas—are due for redeployment soon. Which means we’ll be up.

“Great,” Ryan groans, dragging a hand through his sandy-blond hair. “Can’t wait to spend two hours listening to him talk about sortie reports.”

I grin. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Yeah, like how to take a nap with my eyes open.”

The banter is easy as we make our way to the track near the gym. There’s no escaping PT—it’s built into the schedule, one of the pillars of the job. Keeping our bodies in shape is as critical as keeping our heads sharp.

We hit the track in an easy stride, loosening up. The air feels clean this morning, a light breeze cutting through the heat rising off the pavement. Jets rumble in the distance, probably the first group of Raptors launching for the day. I glance toward the flight line as the shadow of an F-22 passes overhead.

Ryan’s the first to break the silence. “So,” he starts casually, a little too casually, “how’re things with Lila now that you’re working together?”

The question throws me off just enough to trip up my breathing for a step. I recover quickly, keeping my eyes forward. “What?”

He smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You heard me.”

I focus on the pavement, jaw tightening just a little. “They’re good.”

“Good?” he presses, voice laced with amusement. “You’ve been walking around here with a stupid look on your face for the last few weeks, and you’re telling me ‘good’?”

“I don’t have a stupid look.”

Ryan whistles. “Oh, you do. I mean, I get it—Lila’s…” He pauses, clearly trying to come up with the right word. “Your Valhalla. But shit, man, you’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“She’s not…” I start, then stop myself, rubbing the back of my neck as we approach the edge of the track. It’s quiet over here—just a few other airmen doing early-morning laps and workouts, a couple of sergeants with clipboards pacing back and forth.