Page 35 of Viking

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous,” I whisper.

“And you’re stalling.”

Before I can argue, he dips his head and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of my mouth—just enough to tease. My breath catches.

“Logan…”

“Mmm?” He hums against my skin, his hands finding my waist.

“You really should go.” Before I invite you in and make you really late.

“I really should,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move, just nudges my nose with his and murmurs, “Tell me to leave, Lila.”

I can’t.

Instead, I fist the fabric of his flight suit and pull him the rest of the way in. He groans softly—a deep, satisfied sound—and kisses me like he’s been waiting for this. His hands tighten around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I forget, for a second, that he’s about to climb into the cockpit and disappear into the night.

He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against mine. “That should hold me over.”

I arch a brow. “Should?”

His grin is all mischief. “I’ll let you know in a few hours.”

I shove at his chest, laughing, and he steps back, though his fingers linger at my sides.

“I have to go,” he says, but he doesn’t move right away. His eyes stay locked on mine like he’s memorizing something. Then, with one last smirk, he turns for his truck.

“Be safe,” I whisper as I watch him drive away, my lips still tingling from his kiss.

Langley AFB

May 21, 2024

2349

Logan

The night air clings to me, thick with humidity, pressing against my skin like an unseen weight. The floodlights along the flight line cast long, flickering shadows over the waiting jets, their sleek silhouettes standing in perfect, predatory stillness. The familiar scent of jet fuel lingers in the air, grounding me in the moment.

I stretch my neck, trying to release the tension coiled tight in my muscles. My helmet is on, the oxygen mask hanging loose against my chin as I go through my preflight checks. I know this routine inside and out—every screen, every gauge, every step ingrained into my muscle memory. But tonight, my hands feel colder inside my gloves, my grip a little too tight on the controls.

“Viking, you good over there?” Ryan’s voice crackles through the comms, threaded with what sounds like concern.

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring too long at my instruments without actually seeing them. I exhale. “Yeah. Just ready to get in the air.”

“Ghost to Flight, ready for takeoff.” Our current alternate is a few years younger than me and a damn good pilot. He reminds me of someone I used to know. Ryan jokes that whenever the brass gets tired of me, they’re going to give Dalton my slot.

Townsend’s voice filters through my headset, smooth and authoritative as he gives final instructions. I listen, but the words don’t sink in. My heart is beating too fast. Not from nerves, not from anticipation, but from something that feels like lead in my chest. Something I haven’t let myself think about in a long time.

The glow of the screens, the hum of the jet beneath me, the way the darkness stretches out beyond the runway—all of it pulls me back.

Back nine years.

Back to another night, another sortie.

Back to my days flying an F-16.

Back to Reaper.