Page 112 of Viking

But I see it in his expression—the weight of today. The first time flying without Ryan. The first time flying with Wells instead. The first time fully stepping back into this world, after everything.

He jerks his head toward a nearby building, a silent invitation. Without a word, we start walking, our steps naturally falling in sync.

The crowd fades behind us, voices dulling into background noise, and my pulse quickens with every inch we put between ourselves and the rest of the world. I’m hyper-aware of the powerful way he moves beside me

I’m grateful for the white Keds I slipped on this morning instead of the heels I’d normally wear. I don’t think I could walk straight if I’d chosen otherwise. Not with the way I’m burning for him, tuned only to his nearness. Every part of me aches to reach for him. To close the last inch of space. But I wait until we slip into the shadows where no one else can see. Only then do I let my fingertips graze his, a quiet surrender to the gravity that always draws me back to him.

At the smallest touch, Logan exhales, rough and quiet.

I smile. “I’m proud of you.” My voice is soft.

His jaw flexes. I see the struggle flash in his eyes—the instinct to brush it off, to sidestep. But he doesn’t. He just nods, his fingers reaching for mine in return, firmer now. More certain.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I needed to hear that.”

And then he’s kissing me.

There’s no warning. No hesitation.

Just his mouth on mine. Soft, claiming, devastating.

It starts slow, like he’s tasting me for the first time. But then he deepens it, and everything else falls away. He kisses me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this earth. Like if he lets go, he’ll fly apart completely. And God help me, I kiss him back like I need him just as badly. A sound escapes me—soft, needy—and he swallows it with another kiss, one hand sliding to my waist and locking me against him. My fingers fist into his flight suit, gripping tight like I might lose myself otherwise.

I can feel every inch of his solid muscle, restrained power, barely leashed hunger. The way he’s holding back only makes it worse. When he finally pulls away, we’re both breathless.

He brushes his thumb over my cheek, smirking just enough to make me dizzy. “I think I needed that, too.”

I can’t speak yet, so I nod, heart hammering against my ribs, mouth still parted as I try to steady my breathing.

He smiles soft and real.

I lace our fingers together, leading us back into the sunlight, the warmth of his hand grounding me. But as soon as we step into view of the crew, I let go, tucking my hands into the pockets at the cinched waist of my dress like that small act of distance will keep the lines from blurring even more.

We walk toward the signing booth, where a long line of people already snakes around the barricades—families with kids clutching miniature F-22 models, teenagers wearing squadron merch, and older veterans with weathered hands and eyes that shine with pride. The crowd chirps with excitement, the energy palpable, and for a second, I forget the weight of everything else. Because this is why they do it. Why Logan does it. For moments like this.

Wells is already there, leaning back in his chair with his boots crossed on the edge of the table like he owns the place. He tips his head toward us, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as Logan sinks into the chair beside him.

“Nice of you to show up,” Wells says, voice dripping with amusement.

Logan just laughs, shaking out his hand like he’s warming up for a marathon. “Gotta give the people what they want, right?”

Wells snorts, grabbing a Sharpie and twirling it between his fingers. “Yeah, pretty sure they’re all here for you. I’m just the guy sitting next to the star of the show.”

Logan leans back, slouching in his chair with that effortless confidence that makes it impossible not to look at him. “They don’t know what they’re missing, Wells.” He winks at a little girl bouncing on her toes at the front of the line, her eyes wide as she clutches a photo of his jet.

I step back, watching from a distance as the pilots sign posters and pose for pictures, their smiles never wavering. And Logan, he comes alive in this space, the heaviness he carries around seemingly lighter. He crouches down to talk to kids at eye level, trades patches with a young boy, and listens intently when an older man recounts stories from his own days in the cockpit.

I should leave, get back to the logistics tent, but I can’t seem to make myself move. Because it’s here, in the middle of all the noise and chaos, that I see the clearest picture of who Logan really is.

He’s not just the pilot with the call sign Viking. Not just the guy who flirts like it’s his native language or the man whose touch lingers on my skin long after he’s gone. He’s someone who gives pieces of himself away without ever realizing he’s doing it. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much to lose him in the first place—because once you have Logan, you can’t help but want to hold on.

Stuart, Florida

November 9, 2024

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Logan